Dollars to Doughnuts

Dollars to Doughnuts. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Episode 14 of Witt Kepler, Private Eye

Witt didn’t need to look at his watch, he could feel the ticking movement of the second hand competing with his own pulse, marking time.

Time.

Every detective’s nemesis. A faceless enemy that never stops taunting. A seemingly limited commodity yet with unlimited supply. Witt understood both the value of having enough time and the curse of letting too much time pass. Given enough time, he could solve any crime. After a certain (and unknown) amount of it, the odds of his success would diminish exponentially.

“How many hours of security feed do we need to search?”

Witt looked at his partner. He knew a thorough investigation would require a slow, methodical examination of every minute going back at least twelve hours before the murder. He also knew the murderer had a timetable where half a day was a luxury, almost a ticket to freedom.

“Well, my guess is the murderer set everything up in advance, but who knows how much before. With luck we might spot the chief walking by, but the trick will be to find someone following him. Not going to be easy since the restaurant door is so close by. If we start at dinner time – that’s a lot of potential suspects.”

Guthrie looked at his partner. “If it were you, if you were going to kill someone – what would you do?”

“Thinking like a scumbag. I think you are on to something, Guthrie. I think I would have probably checked in a day or two before, just to get used to the surroundings. Once enough people had seen me wandering around enough, I would fade from their memory as a concern and pretty much blend into the background. Anonymous. I would need to become anonymous.”

“Even with a cane? And heavy suitcases?”

“It can be done. It’s like those big brown delivery trucks. No one ever thinks about the fact that some sort of delivery truck is always pulling in or just leaving. Sometimes every few minutes. The delivery guy can come and go and no one will ever recall seeing him.”

“Interesting…if our murderer is a delivery guy driving a big brown truck, which I don’t think is the case. So now we must return back to my original query of  how much footage are we going to subject ourselves to?”

Witt lit a Lucky Strike, blowing a smoke ring toward the bank of hotel security monitors. Seeing no ashtray, he set the cigarette on the lip of an abandoned soda can. “I think the killer, being new to the game, would want to set things up in advance, like I said, but then stay as close to the marks as possible, fearful something might go wrong. We’ll start at 5:00 pm and see who walks by the restaurant.”

Guthrie maneuvered the computer mouse around the screen, adjusting the digital playback to the 5:00 pm. After pressing the triangular “Play” icon at the bottom of the screen, Guthrie started to open his notebook.

Slapping his hand down, closing the notebook,  Witt  said “Let’s not write anything yet. Too great a chance we would miss something. Watch the video and picture yourself in the hallway, just like a cop on the beat. Use your detective skills, young man.”

The two sat motionless for two and a half hours. The only sound other than the whirr of the spinning hard drives of the security system was the subtle plinking of Witt’s cigarettes on the aluminum edge of the can. He and Guthrie watched the hallway outside the restaurant from 5:00 pm until 9:00 pm, then backed the video up to 4:00 pm and tried again. The crowds tended to come and go in cycles so Witt was, at times, able to speed the video up to save viewing time.

Guthrie was watching Witt more so than the video, waiting for some nonverbal expression of recognition.

In the video, there were police officers, in and out of uniform, clearly there for the convention. Some had wives, others had just their peers for drinking buddy duty. Nothing out of the ordinary. Interspersed with the sea of blue and gold were regular people, civilians as the police would say. There were other meetings going on at the hotel, a wedding, at least one business conference. The only people who could be easily deemed “different” were the members of what could only be described as the world’s worst dressed garage band, probably there to perform at the wedding.

Finally, after thrice viewing the same group of people moving from left to right across the small screen, Witt stopped the video, pointing to the suspect.

“There, you see? Behind the large man smoking the cigar.”

Guthrie squinted, trying to get a better look. “All I see is a cop that needs to go on a remedial fitness program.”

“The cane. It’s there. You can’t see her, but you can’t mistake the cane. If you look carefully you can see the quick flash of gold from the handle as it appears in front of her body. It’s the only one we’ve seen so far.”

Guthrie leaned into the screen of the video monitor. “Damn. Look now – it’s the chief with the woman, going into the restaurant. And the killer just stopped in front of them, looks like she is checking her nail polish.  At least she didn’t kill him right there. Too many witnesses, thank God.”

Witt nodded, saying “I told you, she’s smart, this one. It takes moxie to follow someone from in front. Let’s see what happens after dinner.”

Guthrie continued the video feed. As Witt expected, an hour later the police chief, after consuming what would be his last meal, left the restaurant with his date. The killer was long gone.

“Hey!” Guthrie exclaimed. “I know that woman. That’s…that’s… yes, that’s the woman in your kitchen, Witt. What’s going on here…partner?”

Witt then explained the history of Kamianka, the gin, the note and her version of events in the hotel room. He was able to diminish Guthrie’s ire by promising to put a good word in for him, hopefully resulting in a night out for the two of them, sans Witt.

“Okay,” Witt said. “Move the video forward to about 11:00 pm. By this time, the murder should have just occurred. Maybe we will see our cane-wielding senior citizen coming back out.”

The video continued. Just as Witt was about to light his last cigarette, the woman returned from the right side of the screen, this time her image in full view. Guthrie stopped the feed as she was centered in the screen.

“Well, well, well. Here we have a woman, short gray hair, dark brown cane with a gold plated handle, seen very clearly now. She has a penchant for wearing haute couture, including matching headwear.” Witt was studying the image, thinking beyond what he was seeing.

Guthrie added “And there, my friend, is the missing suitcase on wheels. No bell hop needed now. This case is as good as solved.”

Witt chuckled. “It’s never as easy as it looks, my fine Canadian friend. We have, yes, learned quite a bit. The killer may be elderly, but she does not need a cane. And she is indeed a woman, that much I am certain. And dollars to doughnuts, she’s left handed. That should narrow down the suspects immensely.”

“Did we see the same movie? How on earth did you determine all of that?”

“Let’s go back and see what Kamianka has cooked for dinner. We’ll play one room school house for dessert.”

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Politicians, Writers and Morals – oh, my…

Fiction and Truth - Balanced? (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As fiction writers, we tend to think we can write anything without too much care. I mean, really, we are making it all up, right? However, it helps to check our facts on occasion, as I discovered the other day when I mislabeled the RCMP. A kind reader caught the error and let me know about it in a very gracious way (thanks btw!)  Of course, we need to stay away from libel issues, too. Getting too personal in our writing is a slippery slope and I, frankly, don’t have the money for bail, let alone a decent solicitor.

Here in the States, we are in the throes of an election year. In countless commercials, facts are twisted, statements are taken out of context, and some things are probably outright invented, all in the name of proving one candidate is good and the other evil. Who writes these commercials? And how is this different from my concerns about truth and accuracy?

So what responsibility do we have, as fiction writers at least, in portraying our characters in a truthful way? Let me explain. In Witt Kepler, the main character is an alcohol-fueled, nicotine addicted private detective. His female acquaintance makes her living as a prostitute. Another character’s sexual orientation will cause misunderstanding and personal turmoil. And these are just the good guys.

While it would be easy to play off the addictions and such using stereotypes, is this really, morally, what we as writers should be doing?

I think exploring the issues  by seeing how the characters deal with their problems will only enhance the characterization. How many of my readers have had problems with alcohol or cigarettes? Or know someone who has had those problems? While I do not have first hand experience with the sex trade industry, I have it on good authority that it is an awful place to find oneself, with brutality, inhumanity and hopelessness at every turn. Is it fair, or more accurately stated, morally correct to ignore these issues in my “fiction” writing?

Heavy subjects for a Saturday night, but it has been a heavy kind of week.

What think you?

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The Killer Mocks Us In Plain Sight

Episode 13 of Witt Kepler, Private Eye

Private eye Witt Kepler and his partner Guthrie Oaks of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police approached the front desk clerk at the Townsend Hotel. Their goal was to discover who was occupying the room next door to the recently deceased chief from the Westborough Police Department. Witt knew the staff would have been ordered to keep quiet “to save the reputation of the finest hotel in Metro” so a subtle ruse would be in order.

Setting the trap…

“Excuse me, we are looking for the detectives investigating the murder in your hotel last night, could you tell me what room they are in?”

“605, sir. But I doubt they will let you in. We were told no onlookers would be permitted entry. I’m very sorry, but that is all I can tell you. If you would like more information, you will have to leave a message for the hotel manager. He will get back to you as soon as he is able.”

“Of course, privacy must be of the utmost importance, as I would expect in a top shelf hotel as the Townsend. Strange, though… I had heard the murder occurred in 603. I must have gotten my numbers mixed up. Are you sure there wasn’t a murder in 603?”

“Of course I am sure. Señora Abril Rimeiro was staying in 603 and I saw her myself, this morning at breakfast.”

The bait is placed…

“Rimeiro?  A younger woman, correct? With long black hair, down to about here?” Witt placed his hand at about chest level to indicate the señora’s hair length.

“Oh no, sir. The señora is an elderly woman with short gray hair. She is one of our regulars, everyone knows her. Can’t miss her with her cane and all. She was in 603. In fact, the manager stopped by her table this morning to make sure she was alright.”

The trap is sprung…

Guthrie looked on with amazement as his partner played the desk clerk like a Stradivarius. Witt continued.

“Oh, one more question if I may. The señora, her middle initial wouldn’t happen to be “P” would it?”

The desk clerk tapped a few clicks on his computer, then looked up with a quizzical expression. “Why, yes. How did you know?”

Caught.

“Just a hunch. But no matter. As long as she is alright, that’s what is important. Can’t be too careful with a murderer on the loose, can we? Thanks for your help.  We’ll be off now.”

As the two men walked away from the front desk toward the security office, Guthrie stopped for a moment to interrogate his partner.

“Well, obviously you had a plan back there. Care to let me in on what “we” found?”

Witt raised one eyebrow, tilting his head slightly. “Sgt Oaks, it was very clearly stated – we have our murderer.”

“The little old Spanish lady? I hardly think so. Besides, she’s a regular patron here. I wouldn’t expect her to have an attitude bad enough to kill someone, unless they cancelled her bingo game or something.”

Witt replied, saying “Don’t dismiss our aging baby boomers, Guthrie, they were tough cookies back in the day and most still are. Besides, this woman, if she is indeed a woman, has given herself away.”

“How? You saw the wheel tracks in the carpet up there. That suitcase had to be extremely heavy. She wouldn’t be physically able to carry it!”

Witt laughed. “And that, my dear Mountie, is the beauty of it. She’s an old lady, and a well known customer. I imagine she tips the bellhops well to cart her bags around. Ask one of them and I bet they will remember her unusually heavy bag, but her being an elderly woman, they would have been hesitant to say anything about it for fear of losing a generous gratuity.”

“As you are want to say, I have one more question before we go stare at drab security tapes for hours on end. How on God’s green earth did you know the lady’s middle initial?”

“P was the only letter that made sense. You see, she isn’t playing the part of a Spanish matron, rather from Portugal.  Her first name, Abril, translated from Portuguese into the Queen’s English is the word “April,” as in the month of.  Her last name is Rimeiro, which is not a word in any language to my knowledge. Add the letter P, however, and you get the word primeiro.”

“Which means?”

“Primeiro means first. Our culprit is masquerading as an old Portuguese woman, and is using a nom du plum translating to April First, or as the day is more commonly known – April Fools day.”

“So she, or maybe it’s a he, is having a little word fun at our expense,” Guthrie stated.

“No, sir. The killer is mocking us in plain sight.”

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We Have A Suspect Now?

Varenyky (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Episode 12 of Witt Kepler, Private Eye

The savory smell of bread dough frying in hot butter permeated Chez Keppler. Witt and Guthrie stopped in the foyer, taking a minute to inhale deeply, in wonderment of the tasty treat awaiting. Witt had been contemplating leftover pizza for lunch; this plan had obviously been replaced.

Guthrie, like Witt a single gentleman, survived on a similar diet of frozen meals heated in a microwave oven. Anything home-cooked would be a feast for the Canadian. His salivary glands working overtime by now, he asked “Did you go off and hire a chef, Witt? Whatever’s cooking might just be better than a box of timbits.”

“You speaking Canadian on me again, Guthrie? Stick with English, please. Just what the heck is a timbit?”

“Sorry, lad. Doughnut holes. It’s a long story. But the point is – something is being fried and it smells great. You have to agree, eh?”

Witt started walking into the living room, calling to the chef. “Kamianka? I’m hoping that’s you in the kitchen. Yes?”

A familiar female voice answered somewhat mockingly. “Yes, daaahling. I am making some varenyky for us. Did you bring us a lunch guest?” It was, indeed, Kamianka, playing up her Eastern European accent.

Witt and Guthrie entered the kitchen. From the looks of the wreckage, Kamianka had done some serious cooking while Witt was away. On the stove was a large cast iron skillet filled with over a dozen small dough balls, gently turning brown in a sea of hot, liquid butter.

“This is my partner, Guthrie Oaks. He’s on loan to the Metro PD from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”

“Of course, the uniform – it gives you away, Mountie. Have you ever had varenyky? There is plenty for all of us if you are staying for a while.”

Guthrie smiled at his new acquaintance, somewhat stunned by her beauty. “I’m not sure what varenyky is, exactly, but they smell great. You must love to cook,” he said.

“Sometimes. These are what you might call potato dumplings, steamed then fried in butter. My grandmother’s recipe. The best comfort food ever. I tend to cook them when I am stressed out, and lately, well, I have been quite stressed. Thank goodness Witt is going to help me.”

Witt joined the conversation again, saying “Guthrie’s helping out with your case, too.” Suddenly, the private detective stopped. Taking a step back into the doorway, he surveyed the kitchen, then glanced back at Guthrie and Kamianka, who were standing in close proximity to each other. “Kamianka, would you mind, after lunch of course, if Guthrie and I worked without any distraction?”

“You mean the female type of distraction, yes?”

“Exactly, my dear. It shouldn’t take us more than an hour. You can relax in the study if you like. Plenty of books to read, there’s a television as well. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not. I know when I am not wanted,” she said jokingly.

After the fine meal, Kamianka excused herself to the study. The last thing Witt wanted was for Kamianka to see herself on the security video. Given the subject matter, it would be difficult enough to keep Guthrie in line during the second viewing of the day.

“Are we going to view the entire video again?” Guthrie asked, hoping for an affirmative answer.

“No,” Witt replied. “Something isn’t quite right with the end of the video and I think if we watch the first part, then skip to the end, we may be able to figure it out.”

Witt started the video again, with both the police chief and Kamianka entering the room. He finally pushed the pause button on his remote control. “Okay, take a good look at the room. What do we have here?”

Guthrie walked up to the video screen. Pointing with his finger, he said “Well, we have the two people in question here, in the bed. We have a pile of his clothes here on the left, and her clothes here on the right. That’s about it, really. Do you see something else?”

“That’s the obvious stuff. Here, let me take a stab at it. No pun intended, of course.”

Witt approached the screen, saying “First off, who took the video? A typical security camera would have been mounted high up on the ceiling, probably in a corner to get the entire room in the picture. This one is straight on, aimed at the bed.”

“Maybe he set up his own little camera system, like a peeping Tom spying on himself,” Guthrie offered.

“I suppose that could be correct. If he did set up his own camera, it would still be there, unless the police investigators found it. But how would the flash drive with the video end up at Ludlow’s office? A dead police chief can’t pull that one off without some help, and I doubt the girl sent it.” Witt referred to the woman in general terms, since he wasn’t sure if his lunch guest had put two and two together yet, realizing that Kamianka was the star of the pornographic video.

“Okay, you have a good point. Someone must have taken the video, perhaps using one of those miniature spy cameras, hidden in a painting on the wall.”

“Too high. I am guessing either a plant on a desk, or perhaps hidden in a low AC vent. We should take a look at the room first, I suppose.”

Witt then pointed to the left side of the bed. “Here is something interesting, a blue suitcase. Not too big, but big enough for someone traveling to a convention for a few days. I don’t recall seeing it at the end of the video.”

Guthrie was now thinking more critically. “And the mirror. Look – you can see the reflection of the television. Looks like a show I have seen before, too.”

“Nice work, Guthrie. Now let us see what the room looks like after the woman returns.”

They advanced the video to the point where Kamianka is returning from her shower. Witt stops the video one more time.

“Look – the suitcase – it’s now gone. And the television show, it’s changed, too.”

Guthrie checked the time stamp on the video. “According to the time on the video, that show shouldn’t be on for another ten minutes. Someone doctored this video!”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Witt said. “We need to find out what was in that suitcase. This could be the motive for murder! Some perfect crime. Like I always say – no such thing.”

Feeling pretty smug, the two stopped by the study to tell Kamianka they were leaving. On the way out, Witt picked up a bottle of talcum powder and grabbed a broom. Guthrie decided he would not ask why.

Once at the hotel, Witt and Guthrie met the police detectives working the case. “Any leads, detective?”

“Not really. We are checking the hotel security video but there was a huge convention here at the time, too many people for anything concrete. The inside of the room was clean, no prints at all. This was a professional hit, if you ask me.”

“Maybe you should go over the chief’s old cases, looking for anyone he put away that might be out now. Revenge is always a good motive,” Guthrie added.

“We’re doing that, but it will take some time. The chief had been working for years at Westborough. That means a lot of filing cabinets.”

Witt saw the opportunity open up. “You know, the DA wants us to help. Maybe we could lend a hand reviewing those files?” Witt knew that of all the duties police officers had to pull, paperwork was the least favorite. Going through someone else’s paperwork ranked worse.

“You guys are awesome. I am sure there will be plenty left for you by the time you get there. His office is about an hour away by car.”

Witt peered inside the room. “Mind if we take a look around first?”

The detective nodded them in, saying “Nothing here, we already checked everything from fingerprints to DNA samples on the sheets. But be my guest.”

Witt and Guthrie looked around, patiently waiting for the last official investigator to leave. Once they were alone, Witt opened his bottle of talcum powder, shaking it onto the carpet, near the left side of the bed.

“Hand me that broom, will you?” he asked of his Canadian counterpart.

“What in the world are you doing? Thinking of becoming a janitor?”

Witt started gently sweeping the carpet, from the edge of the bed away towards the wall. After just a few strokes, the wheel tracks from the suitcase became clearly visible. The tracks ran from the bedside to the door leading into the adjoining room.

“As I suspected, someone from the room next door took the suitcase while the woman was in the restroom,” Witt said.

“Must have been a heavy suitcase to make tracks deep enough to stay indented like this,” Guthrie replied.

Witt agreed. Moving toward the adjoining room, he tried to open the door. It was locked. “I imagine we will find either the culprit had a key or they used something to block the mechanism. Duct tape would be my preference.”

“So you are saying the murderer waited for the woman to use the washroom, then snuck in through the side door, stabbed the man with the heroin while he slept, and then took the suitcase and left? How would she have relocked the door from the other side?”

“Another mystery, Guthrie, another mystery. But let’s take a look at this planter by the door. Perhaps the murderer was in such a hurry, they left their camera.”

“How do you know the planter contained the camera?”

“Because that is where I would have put it,” Witt said. “No one notices fake plants used as décor. They are everywhere, but most people just don’t think about them. The same as the side door. No one ever checks the adjoining room door. We always assume it is locked. This one is a clever one. Smarter than average.”

“Smarter than Vetski?” Guthrie asked.

“Yes, I believe so, and that has me worried.”

“Goodness, something has the great Witt Kepler worried? I’ve heard everything now.”

Witt reached into the clump of green plastic ferns potted in the off-orange ceramic floor planter. He quickly produced a black pencil-like camera that had been stuck in the dirt, carefully hidden amongst the fern leaves. “Here you are, one nanny cam…with…a small transmitter. Guthrie – our murderer was watching this play out in real time.”

“That’s how he knew when it was safe to enter the room?” Guthrie exclaimed.

“Exactly. Like I said, not the average killer we are dealing with here.”

“What’s our next move?”

“Well, we should visit the front desk to find out who was staying in the next room, then stop by the Westborough station to help out with those files. After that, we should have enough information to visit the number one suspect.”

Guthrie pondered the last statement for a few seconds. “We have a suspect now? We haven’t even identified the prostitute yet. Who do you suspect, Witt?”

“When a police chief dies under mysterious circumstances, who is the number one suspect, regardless of the facts?”

“You have me stumped,” Guthrie replied.

“Mrs. Police Chief, of course.”

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On Indie-Publishing, with a side of Naan

 

Tandoori Chicken, Mumbai (Photo credit: kspoddar / Wikipedia)

I am “thrilled” so many companies want to make me and my book famous, for a fee. And since they surely will be helpful, timely and responsive to my needs and questions,  I should be on the best seller list in no time with so much support. After all, with 24/7/365 assistance from editors, copy writers, cover designers and marketing strategists, how could I go wrong?

What? No, I am not on drugs. You say I am mistaken?

Maybe this is a case of choosing the least of all evils. I don’t know. But I have taken a cursory tour of the more well-known options and have found that Penguin’s Book Country has received some negative press recently, regarding excessive fees and unpopular royalty rates. I was a second gen beta tester on Book Country and the site looked friendly and collaborative. Maybe things have changed. I don’t know, I didn’t stay with them.

I see many peers like to indie publish using CreateSpace and Smashwords. I am liking Smash more than Create, but I shan’t espouse my personal bias here, lest the solicitors render me a cease and desist letter.

Authonomy, sponsored by Harper Collins, looks like it has potential. I still have to research the facts there. At least I have not seen anything negative yet. And believe it or not, Harlequin‘s Carina Press has a pretty good marketing program, and they are strictly ebook. This doesn’t really qualify as indie-publishing, but it is definitely not the traditional path. The cool thing about Carina is that they have branched out past romances. It may be worth a query just to get into their marketing stream, with exposure to all those readers who purchase romance novels. Hmmm.

Thoughts? Preferences? Should I just buy an old wine press and pretend I’m Gutenberg?  (Maybe I should buy one anyway, and a ton of grapes?)

I’ll keep pondering. But first, it’s off to Good Friday services, then dinner with the number one son and his girl. Tonight’s menu is Indian food, as in naan, curry and tasty things cooked in tandoor ovens. I may be on the wrong blog. Check Exploding Potatoes later…

In the meantime, let me hear your opinion on publishing platforms. And don’t rule the wine press out!

I’ll follow up on my Facebook page. If you haven’t “liked” it yet, just look to the right and up a bit and you should see a link to press. Go for it! It’s free!!!

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Writing with Direction?

You may not have won the big Mega Millions lottery, but you are so very lucky. I just erased the third draft of my diatribe concerning publishing houses and accusations of collusion and price-fixing. On to more pleasant subjects.

Where, exactly, is Witt Kepler going?  Well, a new story arc outline has been completed.  I have also thought of new concepts for future arcs. Overall character goal determined: keep Witt wanting to be the hard-boiled detective, while forcing him to be the modern man. Spoiler alert: you may not agree with some of Witt’s choices in future episodes, but it will be okay, really. Long term goal: produce a podcast of each episode, complete with theme music and sound effects.

That should keep me out of the bars at night.

Thanks to all my subscribers. We have over 50 now! And the Facebook page is starting to generate interest. I must admit, even I am surprised at that one.

Enjoy your weekend. Happy Easter, too, a few days early!

And when you start writing tomorrow, ask yourself – where am I going with this?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Problem with Leaping

…is that you assume you know where you are landing.  Sure, it may look like solid ground, but what if a wary trapper has dug a tiger pit and carefully camouflaged the opening?  Perhaps you will land in quicksand, with no Tarzan to pull you out.  For you Fringe fans, you could always land on a portal into the alternate (Walternate) universe. Worst-case scenario, though, you could land in another social network.

Yes, people, you guessed it – I have moved past the era of straight gin martinis and pretzel sticks by leaping onto Facebook with an author page.

Not to worry, my stories will still be posted here, as will random posts about writing, writers, and the pursuit of happiness.

The Facebook page will just allow me to post short updates, in a more efficient (read: quicker) fashion.

Stop by using the link above. It should be an interesting ride. Did anyone see where I parked my blimp?

M class blimp (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

One Past Get-the-Hell-Out Street

Episode 11 of Witt Kepler, Private Eye.  After learning one of his favorite female acquaintances was being set up for a murder one rap, Witt decides to take the case.

The next morning, Witt met with Assistant District Attorney Thurman Ludlow and Canadian at-large, Sgt Guthrie Oaks of the RCMP. The goal was to receive payment for services rendered in the banishment of one Ivan Vetski.

“Well, Thurman, it looks like our loss will be Canada’s gain, so to speak. We lose a loser and Canada gains one. Two, if Vetski keeps my ex-wife with him. But then again, even a mobster like Vetski has a pain threshold.  What do you think, Guthrie?”

The red-uniformed sergeant straightened his patent leather belt, saying “With luck, a polar bear will get him. As for the woman, even bear have standards.”

After a good chuckle, Witt sat down, instinctively reaching for a Lucky Strike cigarette.

“None of that inside the building, Witt. You know the rules,” Thurman said. Everyone knew smoking had not been allowed in government buildings for several years, Witt especially. He had been a young boot, a rookie cop, when the smoking ban took effect. Drawing the short straw, which was probably planned the more he thought about it, Witt was required to go around to the old veteran’s offices, removing the ashtrays. It would be a long time before anyone did him a favor, or even said hello.

“Sorry. Habit. Bad habit, I guess. My neighbor has a plan to help me quit. I’ll have to give her a call sometime.”

“Witt, are we sure that Vetski went to Canada?” Guthrie asked.

“I think so. He could be laying low, I suppose, but I think the allure of diamonds and gold will be too great to resist. If we don’t see him around the next few days, I would say he has gone. Plus, look how many crimes were reported last night. Very few. Without Vetski paying cash money, thugs don’t seem as interested in causing trouble.”

Thurman smiled, saying “Yes, but with our luck, they will all file for unemployment benefits.  The city can’t win for losing, I guess. But you two earned your money; the diamond merchants have already called, thanking me for getting rid of the strong-arm gangs.”

Taking the envelope being offered, Witt felt the weight of it, as if he could count the cash without looking.

“Meets with your satisfaction?” Thurman asked.

“Definitely. I might stop by the store and buy some extra groceries now. Maybe even a ten dollar bottle of wine instead of the usual quinine additive.”

“Quinine?” the Mountie asked.

“Isn’t Canada part of the Empire? Come on, Guthrie. Quinine – it’s in the tonic water. Helps prevent malaria I hear. Pairs well with gin…from what people tell me.”

“Got it. For a private detective, you seem to have amassed quite the impressive vocabulary. You must read voraciously.”

“Actually, I saw it in an old movie. Don’t care much for books. Too many words.”

As the odd couple of unofficial law enforcement started to leave the office, the assistant DA motioned for them to stay. He turned his computer monitor on, then sat down in his own black leather chair, leaning back.

“Before you leave, I’d like to show you a little video clip. Something I received anonymously this morning. It’s a bit racy, so you might want to ask your parents if you can watch.”

The DA clicked his mouse, starting what was very obviously a security video from inside a hotel room. The trio watched as a man and woman enter the room, quickly removing their clothes, and then proceeding to the queen-sized bed.  The activity was so graphic, so intense that all three men blushed. Witt realized that his partner and Ludlow were slightly embarrassed by the unexpected porno flick, thusly causing their red-faced countenance. He, however, was blushing because he immediately recognized the woman. It was his house guest, Kamianka.

“Here is where is gets really interesting,” the assistant DA said.

“What? Does another woman come into the picture?” Guthrie asked, hoping for a juicy story to tell the boys back north.

“No. Just watch… right about…now.”

The silent movie vixen quickly jumped out of bed, moving out the picture frame, toward the bathroom. The star of the show remained in bed, motionless.

“I guess he had his fun, then hit the snooze button. Man, that happens to me all the time,” Guthrie remarked.

“You may want to think twice about that next time, Sgt Oaks. Check out what happens next.”

The female moved back in front of the camera, blocking the view of her partner. When she moved to the side of the bed, bending over to pick up her clothes, all three voyeurs made audible gasps. Witt looked around, making sure no one saw them acting like college boys.

Thurman continued. “Show’s over, boys. Now, look at the man’s neck. See the syringe? I think she stabbed him while he was sleeping.”

Witt started tapping his cigarette on Thurman’s desk. His other hand was itching to flip open the Zippo.  Once Witt’s private detective brain started churning, there was no stopping him.

“So where’s this guy? If he’s dead, surely we must have found him, right?” Witt had no intention of  dropping a dime the size of a manhole cover on his friend, Kamianka. Still, he needed to play along with the DA’s office, which he figured just might help keep her out of jail, or at least off of the electric chair.

“We received a report an hour ago from the Townsend Hotel. Dead guy is actually one of the good guys. He’s a police chief here for the big law enforcement convention.”

Witt put the cigarette in his mouth.

“Sticking a cop. That takes some guts. Any clues yet?”

“Preliminary tests show he died from heroin overdose, probably the stuff in that syringe, but the ME is running a full screen, plus the usual autopsy will be completed. It’s way too early to tell anything conclusive.”

“Other than a police officer being murdered,” Guthrie said. “ I would guess that once word gets out to the others in the convention, there will be no stone left unturned until the killer is found.”

“You are absolutely right, Mountie. This killer’s days are numbered,” Thurman replied.

“I am sure you are right,” Witt said, “but can I have a copy of this video? Something isn’t adding up here, but I can’t tell you what it is yet. I think we may have ourselves a new mastermind in town.”

“You think someone, a woman, this woman, has seized the opportunity to replace Ivan Vetski as Metro’s newest crime kingpin?” The assistant DA was starting to fidget, rolling his number two yellow pencil back and forth on his desk.

Witt slammed his hand down on the pencil, stopping it in its tracks. “I don’t know what we have yet, sir, but if you want to hire me and my Canadian friend here, we will find out.”

Guthrie spoke up. “Um, I’m already on the pay-“

“Done deal, for the usual fare,” Thurman replied. He put his pencil back into the coffee cup he kept on his desk. He carefully positioned it so the pencil fell into the right order, by height, with the other writing instruments.

“Great. Guthrie, old man? Let us repair to the nearest pub and see what we have so far.”

“Witt,” the Canadian replied, “It’s only ten o’clock in the morning.”

Flipping open the old Zippo, Witt lit his Lucky Strike, saying “Your point will be taken under advisement. We’ll have the receptionist be our designated driver.”

As the two preeminent ratiocinators bounded down the hallway, the receptionist held up her hand like a crossing guard outside an elementary school.

“This is a school zone, gentlemen. No running. Keep your hands inside your own bus and remember – your stop is down the hall, one past get-the-hell-out street.”

Witt laughed. “Don’t worry, Guthrie. I’ve got some fine gin at home, and if we are lucky, your next ex-wife might be there.”

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Could this be a Polygraph 3?

(I have spent this past week celebrating our 25th anniversary, hence no posts lately -  not even witty replies or comments to everyone’s fine work. But I will catch up.)

While touring the absolutely amazing botanical environs of Pierre S. du Pont’s estate, known as Longwood Gardens, I came across some very unexpected items, particularly while wandering through the estate house. The 9-foot, walnut veneer Steinway piano stood out, as did the poster of du Pont meeting John Philip Sousa.

But what was really interesting, from a writer’s standpoint, was the office inside the estate house. Sitting unfortunately too far away for close inspection was an old typewriter, complete with wooden case. I took the picture and then did the research later, trying to confirm the model.

It appears that Pierre S. du Pont may have used a German typewriter, a Polygraph 3. Not many around from what I can tell. Next time I am there, I will see if I can get permission to have a closer look.

What does this have to do with writing? Not much, really, at face value, since du Pont was known more for his skill as a chemist and industrialist than as a writer. Of course, there are those who traipse the globe looking for rare antique machines, so this find would qualify as a “triple woot!” For me, after seeing a type writing machine that was probably a century in age, or more, I can only imagine the giants of old, clacking away, churning out classics.

If only it were that easy!

The vacation travel is over now, so once I get through tagging and cropping photos, I will get back to it, most likely on my netbook. Not quite a Polygraph 3, but a hundred years from now, who knows how my little device will be viewed.

Next up: the next episode of Witt Kepler, estimated posting on 1 April.

 

 

 

The Perfect Crime

Witt's drink of choice - straight up. (Image via Wikipedia)

Episode 10 of Witt Kepler, Private Eye

Still full from dinner, and apple pie in hand, Witt Kepler slowly walked up the wooden steps of his back deck, intending on using the kitchen door.  After all, it was his house, and there was no reason to be formal.  His puppy, Lord Nelson, was more than ready for a nap on the overstuffed sofa.  However, as Witt inserted the key into the lock, he froze.

The private eye then quickly pivoted about, flattening himself against the gray, vinyl siding next to the sliding glass door.  The black label on the bottle of Tanqueray Mallaca Gin he observed sitting on the kitchen’s island was clearly out of place.  Out of place not because Witt had forgotten to put it away earlier but out of place because he had never purchased it to begin with.

Despite being a connoisseur of fine gin, Witt was usually unable to afford anything exquisite.  In fact, the private eye normally shopped for his spirits at the local convenience store.  He reveled in the fact that he could get a lottery ticket, a half pint bottle of Beefeaters and an apple bear claw for just under ten dollars. The rare Tanqueray?  Clearly not in his budget.

Someone had broken into the house.  Witt put down the pie and gave Lord Nelson a look telling the pup not to indulge, then drew his .38 Police Special.  Most of the cops used the newer 9 mil semiautomatics, the Glock being the preferred flavor these days, but Witt was a traditionalist who liked the old-school feel of a revolver.  He bought this one the day after he left the force, in case Vetski wanted to dance one more time.

Over time, paranoia made the private eye look for something with more stopping power, thusly, the .45 in the bedroom.  Always thinking of the worst case scenario, Witt decided he should be able to stop getaway cars, as well, so one more trip to the armory resulted in a Desert Eagle, at the time the world’s most powerful handgun, which he kept locked away in a floor vault.  But for now, the cocked revolver would suffice.  If someone was still inside the house, the high muzzle velocity of the .38 special round, combined with such short range, would be more than enough to pull a spleen out of the intruder’s midsection.

Witt leaned over the deck railing, trying to get a glance into the living room.  The floor lamp was now lit, albeit on the lowest setting.  A coffee cup was resting comfortably on the end table, steam rising from the hot liquid inside.  Damn, this guy has a set.  He breaks into my house and makes coffee while he waits to kill me?  Talk about overconfident.

“Don’t shoot.  It’s just me.”

Witt instinctively dropped to the deck, rolled to the side, coming up to a kneeling position facing the kitchen door, his firearm aimed at the intruder’s center mass.

The figure stiffened, expecting the worst.  Then Witt recognized who had spoken.

“Crap, Kamianka.  I could have killed you right there.  What in the world are you doing here?”

Witt’s pre-paid paramour had returned, though this time without the bravado and self-assuredness as before.  She was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt; nothing to accentuate her “assets.”  Witt could tell by the timbre of her voice that she was not here on business.

“Can we go inside?  I need help, your kind of help.  I even brought you some decent gin as payment.”

“The Mallaca hasn’t been sold in years.  Where’d you get it?”

The femme fatale rode her fingers through her hair. Her movements were disjointed.  Witt could see the frustration in the body language.  Very uncharacteristic for a thousand dollar an hour call girl.

“It doesn’t matter right now.  What does matter is that I will be arrested tomorrow, morning most likely, for murder in the first degree.”

Witt put his gun back into the holster.  Picking up the plastic tub of pie, he whistled for his trusty Spaniel to go inside.  “That’s good for some serious time in the graybar hotel, for sure.  So why did you kill someone?”

“That’s the problem.  I didn’t kill anyone.  The guy just died on me.”

Once inside, Witt locked the kitchen door and turned off the outside light.  The two moved to the living room where they could continue the conversation.

“What exactly do you mean, he just died?  Did he have a heart attack or something?  And where were you when this happened?”

“I told you.  He just died…on me.  We were, you know…”

Witt nodded.  Now it made sense.  The man must have been one of her clients, meeting his demise whilst in the throes of passion.

“Well now.  An autopsy will show natural causes.  You might get a ticket for pandering, but without evidence of contractual agreement, probably not even that.  You should be fine.”

“Can we have the gin now?  It gets worse.”

“Olive?”

“Onion if you have one.”

“I never figured you for a Gibson girl.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.  Can we get on with it?”

Witt returned with a straight up martini for himself, with two olives on a swizzle stick and a pearl onion drowning in 8 year old gin for the woman.  He slowly sat down across from his guest, eyeballing her, trying to figure out what her true motivation was.  He hated being played and this might just be such.  Still, there was something about the whole situation, the abrupt loss in confidence, the desperation in the voice.  Something was not quite right.

“So the client died.  Where did all this take place?”

“The Townsend.  He had a nice room, a suite really, reserved through a conference he was attending.  At least he left his wife at home.”

“And you know this how?”

“I checked with the desk clerk to see what I could find out before I went up. I told him I was expecting a package and thought it may have already been sent up to my room. He couldn’t find any record of a delivery, naturally, and then commented on how nice it was my husband finally brought me on a business trip. I don’t know, maybe he always buys companionship when he is in Metro. At least the widow will have life insurance to help with the grief, and the police officer’s benevolent fund should kick in a few thousand, too.”

Witt put down his drink. “Police officer’s benevolent fund?  This guy was a cop?”

“Chief, Westborough PD.”

“Here for the law enforcement symposium tomorrow. I read about it in the paper.”  Witt had figured Vetski would make his final move at the Miss Metro Classic so he could leave town as most of the state’s police brass were inbound.  He still couldn’t determine why Kamianka was being set up.  If – she was being set up.

“You said it got worse.  Was that it?  The guy’s a cop.  Just because someone has a badge doesn’t mean they are above buying a little love for the evening. I am surprised he could afford you, though. Westborough must pay the blue pretty well.”

“This was a private contract, just like yours. Except in your case I knew Vetski was paying the tab. This one was anonymous. I got a plain white envelope with ten Benjamins, and a business card from the Townsend.  It had a date, time and room number written on the back of it.”

“Still, the guy died of natural causes. I don’t see your concern.”

The woman slugged down her martini, spitting the pearl onion back into the glass. “Look, I told you it got worse.  Once I realized he had passed, I moved out from under him.  I panicked. The last thing I wanted was a dead body touching me so I made sure the door was locked, then I took a shower.  When I was done, I wiped my prints off of everything I touched in the bathroom. Why make it easy, right?  Well, once I walked back into the bedroom, I picked up my clothes and got dressed.  That is when I noticed the syringe sticking out of his neck.”

“What – someone shoots him up with heroin?  He was already dead.  Any decent coroner would find this as postmortem.  Your still off the hook for murder one.  Abusing a corpse, maybe, but not murder one.”

“You would think so, except, and I don’t know how this happened, now his pupils were pin points.  The only way that could have happened was if the smack had made it into his blood stream. I don’t know, I thought he was dead.  I checked for a pulse.  I listened for any sound of breathing for, damn, at least two full minutes.  The guy was dead.  And he wasn’t coming back.”

Witt reached for a Lucky Strike.  “Hmmm.  How does a dead police chief manage to shoot up and then overdose?  You are right, that is worse.”

“No.  Here is where it really gets worse.  I wipe the place clean.  I leave no evidence other than trace amounts of my DNA.  And I’m not in anyone’s database so until I am caught, not even Interpol will find me as a match.  No, the real problem is when I get back to my place.”

Witt was now looking for his Zippo.

“What happened there,” he asked.

The woman looked him straight in the eye, leaning in just a bit.  “I found this bottle of gin sitting on my table. There was another envelope.  This time, however, there was no stack of bills. Just a card.”

“And on the card?”

She pulled the card from her jeans pocket.  She read it out loud.  “Don’t take it personally. I had to pull off the perfect crime and you made it all possible. Thanks.  P.S. I’ll pay your rent while you are in jail.”

Witt read the card out loud a few times.  He looked up, pronouncing “No such animal as a perfect crime.”

“Maybe not, but it sounds like he tipped off the police. And as a favor, he is going to pay my rent while I am in jail?”

Witt flipped open the Zippo, the smell of the burning butane filling the air as he lit his filter-less cigarette.

“So you’ll take the case?”

The gauntlet had been thrown. And how could he resist a woman who knew what a Gibson was?

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