"I'm assuming you're not going to tell me he died of old age?" Tannehill leaned forward toward Murphy.
"That would be a correct assumption."
"And he probably didn't fall down the precinct stairs?"
"That would also be correct."
"So, I've exhausted all possible modes of death aware to me and am all ears."
"Remember when we were chatting at the diner a few days back and you surmised it wasn't a jilted lover because the violence was swift and impersonal?"
"Yes."
"Well, while undressing Snell once he made it to the morgue, we found he had massive bruising around his torso. Both sides. Somebody worked him over pretty good. Whatever happened wasn't swift and it's entirely possible he could have died from internal bleeding."
"But other than the blood spatter that resulted from the bullet wound, his shirt and coat didn't look particularly worse for wear. If he received that much punishment, his clothes would be at least partially tattered."
"His undershirt had quite a few snags in it. We're thinking brass knuckles or something similar based on the bruising patterns."
"Why would someone take off his coat and shirt - or allow him to take off his coat and shirt - before beating him?"
Murphy shrugged. "We haven't figured out that piece yet."
Tannehill stared silently at the ceiling for a brief moment. "Are you looking at this from the jealous lover angle based on these developments?"
"It seems plausible."
"I'm not so sure."
"What makes you think different?"
"Well, like you said, the violence wasn't swift but I still think it's impersonal."
Murphy stared at his dead fern and frowned in a bid for sympathy. He turned back to Tannehill. "You don't think that getting beaten to death or nearly beaten to death isn't personal?"
"No, not in this case." Tannehill folded his hands on Murphy's desk and leaned in a bit more. "If this were an act of passion, he'd have a lot more bruising around his face. A jealous lover is going to swing for the first thing he sees. Or he's going to swing for the cause of his jealousy in the first place. And one of those targets is definitely the face. I'm assuming that when you undressed him that you found him, uh, intact?"
"What do you...oh, yeah. His family jewels were still in place."
"There are a couple of possibilities. The first is that this was someone who wasn't simply angry with Snell but so enraged that he decided to plan brutal revenge and took his time doing so. If that's the case, then some of these details fit - the massive bruising around the torso, the meticulous removal of Snell's clothing - for whatever reason - beforehand and, of course, the coup de grâce. But someone planning this type of revenge for this type of reason would've left a calling card. Something to humiliate an illicit lover and show ultimate victory. In this case, though, his nuts were still there and he was killed with a gunshot after being severely knocked around. If someone were going to take the time to work out their anger on Snell like this, they wouldn't finish the job with something so cold and distant as a gunshot.
"So, if you don't think this was revenge, then what was it?"
"An interrogation."
Murphy and the fern frowned skeptically. "An interrogation?"
"Yes, the details fit. Or fit better than the jealous lover."
"In what way?"
"It's calculated. You don't beat someone in such a methodical and unusual way if you're angry with them. In an interrogation, you find ways to exact pain that will make them think it can end if they simply volunteer the appropriate information."
"You seem to know a lot about forceful interrogation methods." The two men locked eyes briefly before Murphy remembered where, exactly, he was making this statement and to whom. He broke Tannehill's gaze and glanced at the fern to come to his aid. The fern, being dead, didn't respond.
Tannehill continued. "And, after extracting the information, his assailants shot him either because he was expendable or a further liability. The gunshot was an afterthought. Whatever they're after, it's important enough that murder is a secondary concern."
"They?"
"Most people don't voluntarily sit in a chair and absorb blow after blow from brass knuckles. There had to be at least two of them in order to secure him to the chair."
"And why bother replacing his clothes after they finished the job if this was a matter-of-fact beating and homicide?"
"Why bother coming up with some fantastical story about tripping down the stairs if an interview with a suspect doesn't go well? There was some motive to do so, well thought out or not." Tannehill chewed on his lip, "Still the order of events is a bit confusing."
"In what way?" Murphy was growing increasingly frustrated that Tannehill and the fern were threading together a coherent timeline before he'd had time to come up with a theory.
"Like I said, the blood spatter on Snell's suit was pretty minimal. If they dressed him after the fact, there would have been a lot more mess - y'know with a gaping fatal head wound and all."
"Maybe they cleaned it up?" The fern wilted in further disappointment to Murphy's response.
"Why bother? They didn't make much effort to clean his brain off my back wall. What's the point of a bit more housekeeping in this case."
"So, let me see if I follow your theory," Murphy began counting points on his fingers. "Snell knows his assailant - or assailants - and expects to meet them. He sends you on an errand because he doesn't want you to know what he's up to."
"I forgot about that. That makes the jilted lover angle less likely too because the whole thing points to premeditation on both parts."
"You leave. His assailants come in, tie him to a chair, strip him to his undershirt and begin to beat him."
"So far, we're on the same page."
"After beating him and extracting the information they need, they dress him."
"Correct. It sounds ridiculous, but that's the likely scenario."
"Then they shoot him in the head."
"Yup."
Murphy shrugged. "I'm not certain it makes less sense than the lover theory, but there are certainly some oddities, as you say."
Tannehill shrugged in return. "Isn't every investigation filled with oddities until you have the context?"
"Well then, any idea on who the assailants are?"
"I'm betting on the Brunner broad. She wasn't shy about tipping her hand that she knew me and her timing in all of this would be too coincidental."
"There's just one problem with that."
"Yeah?"
"You and she were in the same spot while your partner was getting his head blown off," The fern let a frond fall to the floor in acknowledgment of its officemate's first astute observation of the morning.
[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1157 words for a running total of 17554 words. Ferns are among the world's oldest plants and pre-date dinosaurs by about 120 million years.]
Sunday, November 24, 2019
Sunday, November 17, 2019
Chapter 15 - We Won't Come Back...
Shortly after their conversation in the diner both Spinoza and Tannehill were drafted. Spinoza's college education placed him in a staff position for a battalion commander in the army and he shipped out immediately. Tannehill was assigned to the infantry and followed Spinoza a few months later.
Both had similar experiences on the way over. After a stultifying 3000-mile railway trip from coast-to-coast, they were stuffed in the bowels of cargo liners in New York and shipped across the North Atlantic.
Every knock or creak in the night as they swung precariously in their hammocks below deck signaled imminent danger from a u-boat's torpedo or another angry iceberg intent on making a name for itself after its sibling wrecked RMS Titanic a few years prior.
Spinoza, who grew up on the shores of Lake Michigan with easy access to sailing equipment, was able to adjust to the sawblade movement of the ocean even when he was stuffed below the waterline with no access to an outside view.
Tannehill, who grew up near the stockyards with easy access to cattle and swine, had a tougher time. Originally assigned a top hammock, his bunkmates shortly grew frustrated with his un-seaworthy stomach and the consequences that his bottom bunkmate faced as a result. Subsequently, he was often relegated to sleeping on the floor. He spent his first few nights in his new quarters avoiding the sloshing detritus from other soldiers who hadn't found their sea legs either but quickly succumbed to exhaustion and simply took every opportunity he could to shower, regardless of water temperature to remove the day's vomit.
After a brief stint docking in Liverpool, Spinoza was ushered across Britain and landed in France in March 1918. As a member of the battalion staff, he was stashed safely behind the front and was rarely exposed to the Triple Entente's trenches. The horrors of No Man's Land were a distant threat to him.
However, he was not assured of escaping from the horrors that funneled back from the front and No Man's Land. The battalion staff tent abutted the evacuation route back to the medical facilities. During his first month, as weary medics deposited their cargo next to the tent for a brief respite, Spinoza honed the rudimentary French he picked up in school to soothe and entertain the wounded troops even if it was only for their final few moments of existence. He used his natural talents for mimicry to keep the British and American troops morale up by imitating their regional accents.
But, after the first month, the stream of wounded and dead proved too overwhelming to sustain his self-imposed humanitarian mission and he concentrated on the mundane tasks at hand to drown out the moaning and screaming around him. What seemed like a relatively safe two-mile buffer from the trenches soon became a time-delayed harbinger of dread as the swirling planes and distant staccato booms indicated a fresh delivery of medical monstrosities would be passing by shortly.
By the end of the summer, Spinoza was beginning to worry that his enforced apathy was draining the humanity out of him. To counteract this void in his soul, during lulls in his work, he'd chat with the wounded as he did before.
In September he encountered a soldier who, despite his literary background and broad vocabulary, Spinoza could only describe - optimistically - as a quarter of a human being. The man, knowing that he had at most an hour or two left before dying, asked Spinoza for a cigarette as a small mercy. Spinoza obliged and lit a cigarette for the soldier. The new flora of the Continent had caused his hay fever to reach its peak, though, and he didn't pick up on the faint odor of gasoline emanating from the soldier's clothes.
As Spinoza walked back toward the tent, content that he could give a dying man some succor however small, the soldier burst into flames, writhing in even more pain than he'd been in moments before. Spinoza rushed back, panicking and searching for some method to smother the flames.
A nearby officer spotted his anguish, walked over, unholstered his sidearm and shot the dying man in the head. He reholstered his weapon and silently placed a hand on Spinoza's shoulder before walking away.
Spinoza sobbed for an hour at his desk afterward and then returned to charting maps for the battalion. He didn't speak to another wounded soldier until Armistice Day.
Once Armistice Day arrived, Spinoza prepared to head back to the States with the other soldiers and to put his time in the tent behind him. A day before he was due to embark he received a telegram. Its brevity briefly made him gape in disbelief, but a reconfirmation of the source - a close family friend - unmasked the shock of his original reading:
ALL SIBLINGS DEAD OF INFLUENZA.
FATHER SUFFERED HEART ATTACK IN GRIEF. DEAD.
MOTHER INCONSOLABLE BUT ALIVE.
Upon receiving this news, Spinoza decided to alter his plans and responded with a telegram of his own to his mother:
COME TO NICE. ITS NICE.
WILL BE IN FRANCE INDEFINITELY.
A month later she met him in Nice. They stayed for a year enjoying the creamy combination of cheese and eggs in Niçoise toasts before moving north to Paris. They both remained in Paris until 1921 as two members of two lost generations until his mother passed away from a chronic broken heart. Spinoza remained in France for another two years before heading back to Capital City and resuming his career as a crime beat reporter covering the Shining City That Shows Prohibition Works.
[Author's Note: Today's edition is 940 words for a total of 16397. I had to do some research on American troop arrival dates in WWI. Unlike WWII, where American engagement lasted for years, total time in Europe during the First World War was only about a year and combat didn't really start until about six months before the end of the war.]
Both had similar experiences on the way over. After a stultifying 3000-mile railway trip from coast-to-coast, they were stuffed in the bowels of cargo liners in New York and shipped across the North Atlantic.
Every knock or creak in the night as they swung precariously in their hammocks below deck signaled imminent danger from a u-boat's torpedo or another angry iceberg intent on making a name for itself after its sibling wrecked RMS Titanic a few years prior.
Spinoza, who grew up on the shores of Lake Michigan with easy access to sailing equipment, was able to adjust to the sawblade movement of the ocean even when he was stuffed below the waterline with no access to an outside view.
Tannehill, who grew up near the stockyards with easy access to cattle and swine, had a tougher time. Originally assigned a top hammock, his bunkmates shortly grew frustrated with his un-seaworthy stomach and the consequences that his bottom bunkmate faced as a result. Subsequently, he was often relegated to sleeping on the floor. He spent his first few nights in his new quarters avoiding the sloshing detritus from other soldiers who hadn't found their sea legs either but quickly succumbed to exhaustion and simply took every opportunity he could to shower, regardless of water temperature to remove the day's vomit.
After a brief stint docking in Liverpool, Spinoza was ushered across Britain and landed in France in March 1918. As a member of the battalion staff, he was stashed safely behind the front and was rarely exposed to the Triple Entente's trenches. The horrors of No Man's Land were a distant threat to him.
However, he was not assured of escaping from the horrors that funneled back from the front and No Man's Land. The battalion staff tent abutted the evacuation route back to the medical facilities. During his first month, as weary medics deposited their cargo next to the tent for a brief respite, Spinoza honed the rudimentary French he picked up in school to soothe and entertain the wounded troops even if it was only for their final few moments of existence. He used his natural talents for mimicry to keep the British and American troops morale up by imitating their regional accents.
But, after the first month, the stream of wounded and dead proved too overwhelming to sustain his self-imposed humanitarian mission and he concentrated on the mundane tasks at hand to drown out the moaning and screaming around him. What seemed like a relatively safe two-mile buffer from the trenches soon became a time-delayed harbinger of dread as the swirling planes and distant staccato booms indicated a fresh delivery of medical monstrosities would be passing by shortly.
By the end of the summer, Spinoza was beginning to worry that his enforced apathy was draining the humanity out of him. To counteract this void in his soul, during lulls in his work, he'd chat with the wounded as he did before.
In September he encountered a soldier who, despite his literary background and broad vocabulary, Spinoza could only describe - optimistically - as a quarter of a human being. The man, knowing that he had at most an hour or two left before dying, asked Spinoza for a cigarette as a small mercy. Spinoza obliged and lit a cigarette for the soldier. The new flora of the Continent had caused his hay fever to reach its peak, though, and he didn't pick up on the faint odor of gasoline emanating from the soldier's clothes.
As Spinoza walked back toward the tent, content that he could give a dying man some succor however small, the soldier burst into flames, writhing in even more pain than he'd been in moments before. Spinoza rushed back, panicking and searching for some method to smother the flames.
A nearby officer spotted his anguish, walked over, unholstered his sidearm and shot the dying man in the head. He reholstered his weapon and silently placed a hand on Spinoza's shoulder before walking away.
Spinoza sobbed for an hour at his desk afterward and then returned to charting maps for the battalion. He didn't speak to another wounded soldier until Armistice Day.
Once Armistice Day arrived, Spinoza prepared to head back to the States with the other soldiers and to put his time in the tent behind him. A day before he was due to embark he received a telegram. Its brevity briefly made him gape in disbelief, but a reconfirmation of the source - a close family friend - unmasked the shock of his original reading:
ALL SIBLINGS DEAD OF INFLUENZA.
FATHER SUFFERED HEART ATTACK IN GRIEF. DEAD.
MOTHER INCONSOLABLE BUT ALIVE.
Upon receiving this news, Spinoza decided to alter his plans and responded with a telegram of his own to his mother:
COME TO NICE. ITS NICE.
WILL BE IN FRANCE INDEFINITELY.
A month later she met him in Nice. They stayed for a year enjoying the creamy combination of cheese and eggs in Niçoise toasts before moving north to Paris. They both remained in Paris until 1921 as two members of two lost generations until his mother passed away from a chronic broken heart. Spinoza remained in France for another two years before heading back to Capital City and resuming his career as a crime beat reporter covering the Shining City That Shows Prohibition Works.
[Author's Note: Today's edition is 940 words for a total of 16397. I had to do some research on American troop arrival dates in WWI. Unlike WWII, where American engagement lasted for years, total time in Europe during the First World War was only about a year and combat didn't really start until about six months before the end of the war.]
Sunday, November 10, 2019
Chapter 14 - It's Good To Be King
"Who?"
*Sigh*,"Murph."
"Murph?"
"You know who I'm talking about, Shorty. Lt. Murphy." Tannehill glared at the desk sergeant, who, with an additional foot of height provided by the desk pedestal, was able to glare back down at Tannehill with a height advantage of about two feet.
"Oh! Lt. Murphy. It can get confusing here sometimes," Shorty rolled his wrist vaguely a few times in the direction of the precinct. "We recruit heavily from families of Irish descent and Murphy is a common surname."
"I'm aware," Tannehill paused. "I'm not the one who scheduled this appointment, so if you want to keep Lew-ten-ent Murph-ee waiting, I've got all day."
"You sure it's Lt. Murphy you want and not Sgt. Murphy," Shorty continued undaunted, "they're both detectives and civilians often get them confused." Lt. Murphy's sudden appearance through the precinct door prevented the desk sergeant from continuing to stake out his bureaucratic territory.
"Let's head back to my office, CH," Murphy glanced sideways at Shorty and nodded while holding the door open for Tannehill. "Can I get you anything? Need a coffee?"
"I'm fine, thanks," Tannehill walked past Shorty and caught the desk sergeant smiling in triumphant defiance. Once the door closed, he continued. "Good thing you've got him up front. Nothing's gonna get past him be it wild-eyed criminal or long-held grudge."
"He's just doing his job."
"Making me list every possible Murphy in the department?"
"Ensuring the precinct operates in an efficient and orderly manner without any unwanted trespassers."
"Gee, thanks."
"You know what I meant."
"I'm flattered that he still holds a special glee in keeping me frustrated." They continued walking past a short row of desks.
Tannehill whistled, "nice digs," as the two men arrived at an office with Detective Lt. D. Murphy stenciled on the open door. Cramped into the tiny space was a small wooden desk fraying at the edges with a large dent near the center, a swivel chair behind it rivaling Tannehill's for comfort, two squat industrial chairs in front - one with a hole exposing its internal padding - and a three-shelf bookcase off to the side crowned with a dead fern.
"It's hard to avoid the trappings of luxury when you're as important as I am. Please. Have a seat."
Tannehill chose the industrial chair with the exposed padding. "Certainly an upgrade from my office. With the exception of the overwhelming smell of bleach that adds that nostalgic touch of home, of course."
Murphy grunted. "So, what have you heard?"
"What have I heard?" Tannehill was confused. "Aren't you the detective investigating the case? Don't you have anything to tell me?"
"We'll get to that. I assume you haven't been sitting idly by."
"You assume correctly."
"Well?"
"Do you remember the other night at the diner when you asked if I thought the case I was working earlier in the day was connected to the job on Snell?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah. Well. I was non-committal at the time, but I'm less non-committal now."
"Please. Do explain." Murphy pulled a note pad and pencil from his coat pocket.
"I was able to get that name you wanted for follow up. It's Bruner. Emily Bruner. I canvassed her apartment building for a while yesterday and, as fortune decided to favor me, I was able to discover her identity."
"Ok," Murphy jotted the name down, "it's a name. Why do you think she has any connection to this noise?"
"Well, as fortune continued to favor me, I encountered her at a jazz club and we had a chance to chat."
"Oh, I see," Murphy paused and chuckled. "Was this one of your regular jazz clubs or a new one you were trying out? Did you have a chance to sit in on a set or two and play piano?"
"Knock it off, wise guy. Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?"
"Ok, ok. So, somehow, you inexplicably (a) went to a jazz club and (b) encountered this dame at the same jazz club?"
"Yup."
"And immediately upon meeting you she copped to your partner's murder and threw herself at your mercy?"
"Yup. She also informed me that it was she, not Leopold and Loeb, who murdered little Bobby Franks. You get her for this and that and they just might promote you to mayor."
"Alright, alright, point taken. I'll stop. Go on."
"Well, after chatting with her, she wished me a fond farewell by name."
"That's not all that unusual. It's what people normally do in social circumstances."
"Except I didn't tell her my name."
"You sure?"
"I'm a pretty astute observer of determining when my own name passes by my own lips."
"So, based on this evidence, you're ready to send her to the hangman? That she knows your name?"
"I said it made me less non-committal about her involvement. Rather than egging me on, why don't you take a step back and look at the angles for a second? Is it possible that she may have heard my name somewhere else? Certainly. For all I know she's had a secret crush on me and picked just the right time to stoke my interest."
"But, this is also the same woman I was casing at the same time my partner was getting offed. Coincidence?" Tannehill shrugged exaggeratedly. "Sure, why not, but that's a lot of coincidence. Like I said, I don't know what her involvement is here. For all I know, Snell fed her a description of me and the two planned an elaborate joke to act like she knew me if I ever met her. Hell, she may not even know Snell's dead and thinks he'll get a kick out of the joke when they see each other again."
"Still, unless coincidence really does come into play here, whatever her involvement, her impromptu introduction ties her in with Snell somehow."
Murphy was chewing on his pencil, "you've got a point."
"Yes, I've got a point," Tannehill snorted.
"Hey," Murphy put up his hands in defense, "don't get bent out of shape. I didn't say the dots you're connecting don't make sense. But I can't just go up to her and arrest her because she knows your name. I need to figure out how to play this."
"Play this? You're a detective lieutenant for god's sake. Far be it for me to tell you how to do your job, but I do have a few suggestions based on previous experience. Why don't you look her up and ask her about the night in question? We know she has an alibi because it's the same as mine, but maybe something shakes loose during your chat that piques your interest."
"We could do that."
"You could do that?" Tannehill leaned back heavily in his chair, "Murph, you're a good cop. I've worked with you for a long time. I recommended you for promotion. But are you going to let department apathy settle in and drop a promising lead because you need to find a way to 'play this'? Why not just state what you really think and declare the case closed so that your dinner plans aren't interrupted? It's what everyone else around here does."
Murphy's voice dropped ominously. "Watch it CH. You're not exactly playing in friendly territory right now," he growled. "I promise you, we'll follow up on this, but it has to be in a time and a manner of my choosing so I don't randomly bully citizens simply for knowing someone's name."
"Fine." The two men stared at each other for an eternity. "That's all I have at the moment. You said you have something to share with me?"
Murphy's voice loosened and he started gnawing on his pencil again. "Well, now. This is where things get interesting. We're not certain that Snell died of a gunshot wound."
[Author's note: This edition breaks records at 1309 words for a running total of 15457. I was originally going to discuss Murphy's finding in this chapter, but it looks like that'll fit nicely in a chapter of its own. When I first wrote Shorty, I made his nickname literal. I decided to make it ironic to show that Tannehill isn't afraid (or lacks the common sense to avoid) to battle someone who's significantly taller than he is.]
*Sigh*,"Murph."
"Murph?"
"You know who I'm talking about, Shorty. Lt. Murphy." Tannehill glared at the desk sergeant, who, with an additional foot of height provided by the desk pedestal, was able to glare back down at Tannehill with a height advantage of about two feet.
"Oh! Lt. Murphy. It can get confusing here sometimes," Shorty rolled his wrist vaguely a few times in the direction of the precinct. "We recruit heavily from families of Irish descent and Murphy is a common surname."
"I'm aware," Tannehill paused. "I'm not the one who scheduled this appointment, so if you want to keep Lew-ten-ent Murph-ee waiting, I've got all day."
"You sure it's Lt. Murphy you want and not Sgt. Murphy," Shorty continued undaunted, "they're both detectives and civilians often get them confused." Lt. Murphy's sudden appearance through the precinct door prevented the desk sergeant from continuing to stake out his bureaucratic territory.
"Let's head back to my office, CH," Murphy glanced sideways at Shorty and nodded while holding the door open for Tannehill. "Can I get you anything? Need a coffee?"
"I'm fine, thanks," Tannehill walked past Shorty and caught the desk sergeant smiling in triumphant defiance. Once the door closed, he continued. "Good thing you've got him up front. Nothing's gonna get past him be it wild-eyed criminal or long-held grudge."
"He's just doing his job."
"Making me list every possible Murphy in the department?"
"Ensuring the precinct operates in an efficient and orderly manner without any unwanted trespassers."
"Gee, thanks."
"You know what I meant."
"I'm flattered that he still holds a special glee in keeping me frustrated." They continued walking past a short row of desks.
Tannehill whistled, "nice digs," as the two men arrived at an office with Detective Lt. D. Murphy stenciled on the open door. Cramped into the tiny space was a small wooden desk fraying at the edges with a large dent near the center, a swivel chair behind it rivaling Tannehill's for comfort, two squat industrial chairs in front - one with a hole exposing its internal padding - and a three-shelf bookcase off to the side crowned with a dead fern.
"It's hard to avoid the trappings of luxury when you're as important as I am. Please. Have a seat."
Tannehill chose the industrial chair with the exposed padding. "Certainly an upgrade from my office. With the exception of the overwhelming smell of bleach that adds that nostalgic touch of home, of course."
Murphy grunted. "So, what have you heard?"
"What have I heard?" Tannehill was confused. "Aren't you the detective investigating the case? Don't you have anything to tell me?"
"We'll get to that. I assume you haven't been sitting idly by."
"You assume correctly."
"Well?"
"Do you remember the other night at the diner when you asked if I thought the case I was working earlier in the day was connected to the job on Snell?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah. Well. I was non-committal at the time, but I'm less non-committal now."
"Please. Do explain." Murphy pulled a note pad and pencil from his coat pocket.
"I was able to get that name you wanted for follow up. It's Bruner. Emily Bruner. I canvassed her apartment building for a while yesterday and, as fortune decided to favor me, I was able to discover her identity."
"Ok," Murphy jotted the name down, "it's a name. Why do you think she has any connection to this noise?"
"Well, as fortune continued to favor me, I encountered her at a jazz club and we had a chance to chat."
"Oh, I see," Murphy paused and chuckled. "Was this one of your regular jazz clubs or a new one you were trying out? Did you have a chance to sit in on a set or two and play piano?"
"Knock it off, wise guy. Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?"
"Ok, ok. So, somehow, you inexplicably (a) went to a jazz club and (b) encountered this dame at the same jazz club?"
"Yup."
"And immediately upon meeting you she copped to your partner's murder and threw herself at your mercy?"
"Yup. She also informed me that it was she, not Leopold and Loeb, who murdered little Bobby Franks. You get her for this and that and they just might promote you to mayor."
"Alright, alright, point taken. I'll stop. Go on."
"Well, after chatting with her, she wished me a fond farewell by name."
"That's not all that unusual. It's what people normally do in social circumstances."
"Except I didn't tell her my name."
"You sure?"
"I'm a pretty astute observer of determining when my own name passes by my own lips."
"So, based on this evidence, you're ready to send her to the hangman? That she knows your name?"
"I said it made me less non-committal about her involvement. Rather than egging me on, why don't you take a step back and look at the angles for a second? Is it possible that she may have heard my name somewhere else? Certainly. For all I know she's had a secret crush on me and picked just the right time to stoke my interest."
"But, this is also the same woman I was casing at the same time my partner was getting offed. Coincidence?" Tannehill shrugged exaggeratedly. "Sure, why not, but that's a lot of coincidence. Like I said, I don't know what her involvement is here. For all I know, Snell fed her a description of me and the two planned an elaborate joke to act like she knew me if I ever met her. Hell, she may not even know Snell's dead and thinks he'll get a kick out of the joke when they see each other again."
"Still, unless coincidence really does come into play here, whatever her involvement, her impromptu introduction ties her in with Snell somehow."
Murphy was chewing on his pencil, "you've got a point."
"Yes, I've got a point," Tannehill snorted.
"Hey," Murphy put up his hands in defense, "don't get bent out of shape. I didn't say the dots you're connecting don't make sense. But I can't just go up to her and arrest her because she knows your name. I need to figure out how to play this."
"Play this? You're a detective lieutenant for god's sake. Far be it for me to tell you how to do your job, but I do have a few suggestions based on previous experience. Why don't you look her up and ask her about the night in question? We know she has an alibi because it's the same as mine, but maybe something shakes loose during your chat that piques your interest."
"We could do that."
"You could do that?" Tannehill leaned back heavily in his chair, "Murph, you're a good cop. I've worked with you for a long time. I recommended you for promotion. But are you going to let department apathy settle in and drop a promising lead because you need to find a way to 'play this'? Why not just state what you really think and declare the case closed so that your dinner plans aren't interrupted? It's what everyone else around here does."
Murphy's voice dropped ominously. "Watch it CH. You're not exactly playing in friendly territory right now," he growled. "I promise you, we'll follow up on this, but it has to be in a time and a manner of my choosing so I don't randomly bully citizens simply for knowing someone's name."
"Fine." The two men stared at each other for an eternity. "That's all I have at the moment. You said you have something to share with me?"
Murphy's voice loosened and he started gnawing on his pencil again. "Well, now. This is where things get interesting. We're not certain that Snell died of a gunshot wound."
[Author's note: This edition breaks records at 1309 words for a running total of 15457. I was originally going to discuss Murphy's finding in this chapter, but it looks like that'll fit nicely in a chapter of its own. When I first wrote Shorty, I made his nickname literal. I decided to make it ironic to show that Tannehill isn't afraid (or lacks the common sense to avoid) to battle someone who's significantly taller than he is.]
Sunday, November 3, 2019
Chapter 13 - When Wooing a Girl, Make Sure to Tip Her Well
The phone rang mercifully later than it could have the following morning, but not mercifully enough to give Tannehill a full night's sleep.
Tannehill sat upright and blinked, a stubborn cowlick covering one eye. His suit coat was crumpled in a ball next to him.
"Hello?" His voice was still thick with syncopation.
"Hey, CH, how've you been sleeping?" Lt. Murphy's voice blared from the other end of the line.
"Surprisingly well until very recently." Tannehill coughed and cleared the thickness from his voice.
"Great. Do you think you'll have time to meet me at the precinct later? We've got a couple of things to give you a heads up on and a few questions to ask you."
"At the precinct?" He could feel his brain begin to shift into a useful gear. At least this excursion wouldn't require another commute downtown.
"Yup."
"Is this a formal request for my time?"
"Not at all. Like I said, it'll be a bit of show and tell on our end and yours."
Tannehill exhaled trying to blow the cowlick back into place. "OK. What time?"
"Can you make it here by 10 AM?"
"What time is it now?"
"7:45"
"Sure. It'll give me a chance to grab some breakfast and practice various alibis." Tannehill thought he heard Murph smile or grimace on the other end of the line. The two men said their farewells and hung-up.
Tannehill stood, walked to the washbasin and doused his face with soap and cold water. He pulled a fresh shirt and tie from his closet and shook his coat free of its largest wrinkles. He glanced around the room for his fedora and found it hiding in the corner by his kitchenette. He picked it up, gave it a casual dusting, put it on and left.
A few minutes later he was sitting in the Happy Hour Diner.
"Morning. How's my favorite ray of sunshine?"
Tannehill looked at Vera. "I didn't realize you were serious about that outfit in powder blue."
"Yup. I have one in a very bright yellow as well." Vera smiled, "it's one of the many perks of the job." Tannehill noticed the hairpin she'd worn the night before was still in place.
"How are you this animated on so little sleep?"
"I've got fewer miles on me than you do, gumshoe. Also, my paycheck demands it, and he's a tough guy to say no to."
"Huh."
"Huh, indeed. What's your palate in the mood for today?"
"Bacon. Scrambled eggs. Toast."
"...and coffee?"
"Yes, coffee! Definitely, coffee."
Vera headed back to the counter, placed his order and returned with a pot. Pouring, she winked, "this is on me. I mean, what else can I do for a man who treats me to the most elegant bus ride I've ever known?"
Tannehill grunted, "Thanks."
"I understand. You're saving your best material for after 9 AM and for the waitress at the next stop on your diner tour."
"Sorry," Tannehill gulped down half the cup, "the lack of sleep is starting to catch up to me."
"Once it's caught up, what's on your docket for today, then?"
"I'm heading to the police precinct in a couple of hours."
"Ooh," Vera sat down in the booth across from Tannehill, placed her chin in her hands and cooed. "What for?"
"I'm not certain. The police aren't typically forthcoming with their information."
"I didn't think PIs were supposed to be either, but that coffee's already working its magic. I'm surprised you even told me you're going to chat with the police."
"You've helped me out in a couple of spots, so fair's fair. Besides, I don't see you as the type who talks too much in your sewing circle."
"No, we're too busy drinking to talk. Good thing I always wear my thimble, otherwise those drunken needle pricks would be painful."
Tannehill stared at Vera and took a measured sip.
"Any further thoughts about our European friend and her knowledge of your identity?"
"Other than she's got some involvement in my partner's death and it's not something she feels she needs to hide? No."
"Say, what was your partner's name anyway? I don't think you told me last night. I feel like the three of us are getting cozy, and I don't want to refer to him by something so formal as 'partner'"
"Snell. Er, Dick Snell."
"About yay tall," she stretched a hand above her head, "dapper, thin mustache, not afraid of the pomade."
"That's him. Do you - did you know him?"
"Yeah," she lowered her voice in concert with her eyelids, "we were lovers."
Tannehill spit a mouthful of coffee on the table between them.
"Relax, flat foot, I'm joking. He used to come in here and undertip me while overcomplimenting me. It wasn't a winning combination for courtship."
Tannehill wiped the coffee dribbling from his chin, "yeah, that's definitely him."
"So," she used a rag in her apron to wipe up the coffee on the table, "you have no idea why the cops want to talk to you?"
"Well, I'm pretty sure I'm not under suspicion. That means they either want to catch up for old time's sake or ask me some procedural questions. Maybe they think I can help them identify a suspect."
"Do you think you can help them?"
Tannehill took another sip. "If I don't, I'm sure they'll find a suspect soon. That suspect may never have laid eyes on Snell, but..." he shrugged.
A voice from the kitchen boomed out into the seating area, "Vera, we've got customers! Quit yapping and go serve them!"
"Indeed!" Vera retorted. She stood up and smoothed her powder blue uniform. She leaned close to Tannehill and lowered her voice in breathless excitement, "keep me posted, would ya'?" She turned to grab the order ready for pick up on the counter.
Tannehill glanced into his coffee cup and muttered. "Indeed." He drained his remaining coffee and started toward the counter waiting for his breakfast.
[Author's Note - This chapter is 999 words. The running total is 14148 for the story. I wasn't sure if most homes had telephones installed in the 1930s. During the 1920s, most new homes were wired for phone service, but that stopped with the onset of the Great Depression, so the likelihood is a little ambiguous. As a result, I decided to give Tannehill a phone to further my plot without having to rewrite me scene and determine how and when he'd pick up his messages.]
Tannehill sat upright and blinked, a stubborn cowlick covering one eye. His suit coat was crumpled in a ball next to him.
"Hello?" His voice was still thick with syncopation.
"Hey, CH, how've you been sleeping?" Lt. Murphy's voice blared from the other end of the line.
"Surprisingly well until very recently." Tannehill coughed and cleared the thickness from his voice.
"Great. Do you think you'll have time to meet me at the precinct later? We've got a couple of things to give you a heads up on and a few questions to ask you."
"At the precinct?" He could feel his brain begin to shift into a useful gear. At least this excursion wouldn't require another commute downtown.
"Yup."
"Is this a formal request for my time?"
"Not at all. Like I said, it'll be a bit of show and tell on our end and yours."
Tannehill exhaled trying to blow the cowlick back into place. "OK. What time?"
"Can you make it here by 10 AM?"
"What time is it now?"
"7:45"
"Sure. It'll give me a chance to grab some breakfast and practice various alibis." Tannehill thought he heard Murph smile or grimace on the other end of the line. The two men said their farewells and hung-up.
Tannehill stood, walked to the washbasin and doused his face with soap and cold water. He pulled a fresh shirt and tie from his closet and shook his coat free of its largest wrinkles. He glanced around the room for his fedora and found it hiding in the corner by his kitchenette. He picked it up, gave it a casual dusting, put it on and left.
A few minutes later he was sitting in the Happy Hour Diner.
"Morning. How's my favorite ray of sunshine?"
Tannehill looked at Vera. "I didn't realize you were serious about that outfit in powder blue."
"Yup. I have one in a very bright yellow as well." Vera smiled, "it's one of the many perks of the job." Tannehill noticed the hairpin she'd worn the night before was still in place.
"How are you this animated on so little sleep?"
"I've got fewer miles on me than you do, gumshoe. Also, my paycheck demands it, and he's a tough guy to say no to."
"Huh."
"Huh, indeed. What's your palate in the mood for today?"
"Bacon. Scrambled eggs. Toast."
"...and coffee?"
"Yes, coffee! Definitely, coffee."
Vera headed back to the counter, placed his order and returned with a pot. Pouring, she winked, "this is on me. I mean, what else can I do for a man who treats me to the most elegant bus ride I've ever known?"
Tannehill grunted, "Thanks."
"I understand. You're saving your best material for after 9 AM and for the waitress at the next stop on your diner tour."
"Sorry," Tannehill gulped down half the cup, "the lack of sleep is starting to catch up to me."
"Once it's caught up, what's on your docket for today, then?"
"I'm heading to the police precinct in a couple of hours."
"Ooh," Vera sat down in the booth across from Tannehill, placed her chin in her hands and cooed. "What for?"
"I'm not certain. The police aren't typically forthcoming with their information."
"I didn't think PIs were supposed to be either, but that coffee's already working its magic. I'm surprised you even told me you're going to chat with the police."
"You've helped me out in a couple of spots, so fair's fair. Besides, I don't see you as the type who talks too much in your sewing circle."
"No, we're too busy drinking to talk. Good thing I always wear my thimble, otherwise those drunken needle pricks would be painful."
Tannehill stared at Vera and took a measured sip.
"Any further thoughts about our European friend and her knowledge of your identity?"
"Other than she's got some involvement in my partner's death and it's not something she feels she needs to hide? No."
"Say, what was your partner's name anyway? I don't think you told me last night. I feel like the three of us are getting cozy, and I don't want to refer to him by something so formal as 'partner'"
"Snell. Er, Dick Snell."
"About yay tall," she stretched a hand above her head, "dapper, thin mustache, not afraid of the pomade."
"That's him. Do you - did you know him?"
"Yeah," she lowered her voice in concert with her eyelids, "we were lovers."
Tannehill spit a mouthful of coffee on the table between them.
"Relax, flat foot, I'm joking. He used to come in here and undertip me while overcomplimenting me. It wasn't a winning combination for courtship."
Tannehill wiped the coffee dribbling from his chin, "yeah, that's definitely him."
"So," she used a rag in her apron to wipe up the coffee on the table, "you have no idea why the cops want to talk to you?"
"Well, I'm pretty sure I'm not under suspicion. That means they either want to catch up for old time's sake or ask me some procedural questions. Maybe they think I can help them identify a suspect."
"Do you think you can help them?"
Tannehill took another sip. "If I don't, I'm sure they'll find a suspect soon. That suspect may never have laid eyes on Snell, but..." he shrugged.
A voice from the kitchen boomed out into the seating area, "Vera, we've got customers! Quit yapping and go serve them!"
"Indeed!" Vera retorted. She stood up and smoothed her powder blue uniform. She leaned close to Tannehill and lowered her voice in breathless excitement, "keep me posted, would ya'?" She turned to grab the order ready for pick up on the counter.
Tannehill glanced into his coffee cup and muttered. "Indeed." He drained his remaining coffee and started toward the counter waiting for his breakfast.
[Author's Note - This chapter is 999 words. The running total is 14148 for the story. I wasn't sure if most homes had telephones installed in the 1930s. During the 1920s, most new homes were wired for phone service, but that stopped with the onset of the Great Depression, so the likelihood is a little ambiguous. As a result, I decided to give Tannehill a phone to further my plot without having to rewrite me scene and determine how and when he'd pick up his messages.]
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