"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.]
Sunday, October 27, 2019
Chapter 12 - Keep the Hun Out!
Tannehill's rate of ascension in the CCPD was commendable. His ability to keep his mouth buttoned about internal police affairs and to solve crimes attributed to actual perpetrators were skills the department could proudly display. Now they had an officer the public could place their trust in - someone who wouldn't scapegoat the poor of the city in order to beef up a case clearance rate and someone who wouldn't rat out the other officers who'd scapegoat the poor of the city in order to beef up a case clearance rate. Murmurs echoed throughout precinct hallways that he'd make detective, or even skip to detective sergeant, before his fifth anniversary. In a system rife with patronage that kept even well-connected individuals from significant promotions for a decade, this was an impressive accomplishment.
This, however, did not prevent the occasional tedious check-in from his superiors on his progress, as occurred one day in 1917:
"Tannehill, have you been talking to army recruiters?"
"I had to interview one in relation to the soldier who knifed that socialite to death a couple of weeks back. So, yes sir."
"Did you talk to him about joining the military?"
"During a lull in the conversation, I asked him about the situation in Europe and what our government's current position is, specifically since we've just instituted a draft. But, no sir, I did not express a desire to join the military."
[Some gnawing on a cigar and grunting.] "Good."
"If I may be so bold as to indulge my curiosity, sir, why are you asking?"
[More gnawing on a cigar and continued grunting.] "It's department policy that until our government takes an official position, we remain neutral in our outlook toward the conflict in Europe. We're a cosmopolitan city with a diverse population and we need to respect the views of all of our citizens without the appearance of bias."
Strange, Tannehill thought, considering that murder of two German-Americans in the previous month - for the slimmest of reasons related to the war that affronted everyone's personal views in Capital City - was effectively closed. As was the investigation into the arsonist who'd torched one-quarter of Chinatown the previous December. Stranger still that the department heads of the CCPD had contributed funds for arms to support the Easter Rebellion in Ireland the year before - an act most people would consider overtly political and singular in its respective view.
"I understand, sir. I have no interest in forwarding the perception of bias within the department or futhering a misguided opinion that we don't protect and serve all people of the city."
"Good. We know the Germans have committed some atrocities, but those are no less heinous than the acts taken on behalf of the British. It would be wrong to choose sides without weighing all the facts."
"Yes, sir. The Irish neighborhood I grew up in always prided itself on being a pillar of the surrounding community and contributing to the city's welfare as a whole."
[Final grunting.] "I think we understand each other, Tannehill, and, more importantly, what's best for the department."
"Yes, sir. I believe we do."
---
"Funny, I had a similar conversation with my employer. Except without the ham-handed attempt at propaganda." Spinoza stabbed at his scrambled eggs and salted them a bit more before shoveling in another fork full.
Tannehill hill looked dolefully up from his egg sandwich. "Is there something wrong with wanting to represent all people of the city in an equitable and compassionate fashion?"
"That reminds me. How's the investigation into the Chinatown arsonist going? Is the department any closer to determining it was an accident due to multiple malfunctioning fireworks that exploded simultaneously throughout the quarter as part of a tragic Chinese New Year mishap?" Small bits of scrambled egg plastered the table between them as Spinoza spoke.
"Chinese New Year is in February."
"Ohhhh. Well then, obviously CCPD wouldn't miss a historical detail like that when filing away an investigation. It's probably just the Chinese celebrating our New Year a few weeks early. Or maybe Santa's sleigh malfunctioned during a test run."
Tannehill sighed and let the rebuttal pass without further comment. "My desire to join the army or not may be a moot point now since Washington's instituted a draft."
"You're a public servant vital to the city's interest in law and order. That probably knocks you down lower in the draft order."
"That only means that we're in Class II of the draft."
"And you don't think the brass of your department is going to take care of their Golden Boy?"
"The department may be understaffed and perpetually starved for good publicity, but I'm not that important. If I go under, I'm sure they'll be able to make an equal case for any distinguished member of our canine unit in a pinch. Anyway, you said that you had a similar conversation?"
"I'm not going."
"That's not much of a conversation. Why?"
"Russia isn't exactly a friend to the Jewish people. British policy doesn't align well with our interests either."
"My employers made a case along similar lines, even if the reasoning was a bit more veiled than your take."
"I'm assuming not for the same reasons as mine."
"Your assumption is likely correct."
"So," Spinoza for all of his intellectual ability, had the vicious habit of talking with his mouth full, "what happens if you're drafted?"
Tannehill shrugged, "I go and pray I don't get stuck in a trench. What about you?"
"If you can't fight city hall, then you certainly can't fight the city hall of city halls. I don't think Washington's going to give a damn about my views, and I don't know that I have the fortitude to register as a conscientious objector."
"Look at us, a couple of coffee house ideologues caught up in patriotic fervor. How can we not be future war heroes?"
Spinoza finished his last bite of scrambled egg in agreement and signaled for the check.
[Author's Note: This week's edition was 994 words for a running total of 13149 words in the story. I actually had to throw out the first half of my work this week after doing research on American sentiment for WWI. No department run by staunch Irish nationalists would support entering a war on the side of Britain without strong justification or influence. I did learn quite a bit about American points of view leading up to WWI. Much of the populace was actually against the war for a variety of - generally thoughtful - causes. It was simply the political will of Woodrow Wilson that eventually aligned the country's interests to support the war.]
This, however, did not prevent the occasional tedious check-in from his superiors on his progress, as occurred one day in 1917:
"Tannehill, have you been talking to army recruiters?"
"I had to interview one in relation to the soldier who knifed that socialite to death a couple of weeks back. So, yes sir."
"Did you talk to him about joining the military?"
"During a lull in the conversation, I asked him about the situation in Europe and what our government's current position is, specifically since we've just instituted a draft. But, no sir, I did not express a desire to join the military."
[Some gnawing on a cigar and grunting.] "Good."
"If I may be so bold as to indulge my curiosity, sir, why are you asking?"
[More gnawing on a cigar and continued grunting.] "It's department policy that until our government takes an official position, we remain neutral in our outlook toward the conflict in Europe. We're a cosmopolitan city with a diverse population and we need to respect the views of all of our citizens without the appearance of bias."
Strange, Tannehill thought, considering that murder of two German-Americans in the previous month - for the slimmest of reasons related to the war that affronted everyone's personal views in Capital City - was effectively closed. As was the investigation into the arsonist who'd torched one-quarter of Chinatown the previous December. Stranger still that the department heads of the CCPD had contributed funds for arms to support the Easter Rebellion in Ireland the year before - an act most people would consider overtly political and singular in its respective view.
"I understand, sir. I have no interest in forwarding the perception of bias within the department or futhering a misguided opinion that we don't protect and serve all people of the city."
"Good. We know the Germans have committed some atrocities, but those are no less heinous than the acts taken on behalf of the British. It would be wrong to choose sides without weighing all the facts."
"Yes, sir. The Irish neighborhood I grew up in always prided itself on being a pillar of the surrounding community and contributing to the city's welfare as a whole."
[Final grunting.] "I think we understand each other, Tannehill, and, more importantly, what's best for the department."
"Yes, sir. I believe we do."
---
"Funny, I had a similar conversation with my employer. Except without the ham-handed attempt at propaganda." Spinoza stabbed at his scrambled eggs and salted them a bit more before shoveling in another fork full.
Tannehill hill looked dolefully up from his egg sandwich. "Is there something wrong with wanting to represent all people of the city in an equitable and compassionate fashion?"
"That reminds me. How's the investigation into the Chinatown arsonist going? Is the department any closer to determining it was an accident due to multiple malfunctioning fireworks that exploded simultaneously throughout the quarter as part of a tragic Chinese New Year mishap?" Small bits of scrambled egg plastered the table between them as Spinoza spoke.
"Chinese New Year is in February."
"Ohhhh. Well then, obviously CCPD wouldn't miss a historical detail like that when filing away an investigation. It's probably just the Chinese celebrating our New Year a few weeks early. Or maybe Santa's sleigh malfunctioned during a test run."
Tannehill sighed and let the rebuttal pass without further comment. "My desire to join the army or not may be a moot point now since Washington's instituted a draft."
"You're a public servant vital to the city's interest in law and order. That probably knocks you down lower in the draft order."
"That only means that we're in Class II of the draft."
"And you don't think the brass of your department is going to take care of their Golden Boy?"
"The department may be understaffed and perpetually starved for good publicity, but I'm not that important. If I go under, I'm sure they'll be able to make an equal case for any distinguished member of our canine unit in a pinch. Anyway, you said that you had a similar conversation?"
"I'm not going."
"That's not much of a conversation. Why?"
"Russia isn't exactly a friend to the Jewish people. British policy doesn't align well with our interests either."
"My employers made a case along similar lines, even if the reasoning was a bit more veiled than your take."
"I'm assuming not for the same reasons as mine."
"Your assumption is likely correct."
"So," Spinoza for all of his intellectual ability, had the vicious habit of talking with his mouth full, "what happens if you're drafted?"
Tannehill shrugged, "I go and pray I don't get stuck in a trench. What about you?"
"If you can't fight city hall, then you certainly can't fight the city hall of city halls. I don't think Washington's going to give a damn about my views, and I don't know that I have the fortitude to register as a conscientious objector."
"Look at us, a couple of coffee house ideologues caught up in patriotic fervor. How can we not be future war heroes?"
Spinoza finished his last bite of scrambled egg in agreement and signaled for the check.
[Author's Note: This week's edition was 994 words for a running total of 13149 words in the story. I actually had to throw out the first half of my work this week after doing research on American sentiment for WWI. No department run by staunch Irish nationalists would support entering a war on the side of Britain without strong justification or influence. I did learn quite a bit about American points of view leading up to WWI. Much of the populace was actually against the war for a variety of - generally thoughtful - causes. It was simply the political will of Woodrow Wilson that eventually aligned the country's interests to support the war.]
Sunday, October 20, 2019
Chapter 11 - The Devil's Note
Tannehill and Vera arrived reached The Tritone at the very jazz-reasonable hour of midnight. They descended to the entrance ten steps below street level in an alley dotted with numerous broken cobblestones. Tannehill wore the same suit he'd been wearing for the last two days. Vera's pencil was replaced with a modest hairpin. She wore short-heeled monk straps with a slender black dress. The shoes were mildly scuffed and there was no noticeable wear on the heels, while the dress had been rehemmed. In the darkness of a jazz club, though, neither would draw attention. The puffiness under her eyes disappeared with the excitement of a new adventure and her eyes shone radiantly even in the late evening, further pulling potential gazes away from her second-hand ensemble.
The pair were simultaneously assaulted by flat notes from the brass section and a waitress slinging gin-heavy martinis upon arrival. They accepted the waitress's proposal and sat shoulder to shoulder with other patrons at a table for two identical to every other set up in the room.
15 minutes after their arrival, mumble, mumble "...we're going to take a short break." The crowd clapped enthusiastically with a few loud, high-pitched whistles scattered among the room. In front of the stage, a solitary figure stood up, clapping enthusiastically, her eyes following the band off stage.
Vera nudged Tannehill in the ribs "silhouette look familiar?" Tannehill nodded. The klieg lights at the front of the stage illuminated enough of the figure that both of them could make out a statuesque blonde with shoulder-length hair curling gently at the ends. She was dressed in a form-fitting emerald taffeta dress and her head continued to follow the arc of the band as they headed for the bar. Once they alighted, she headed stage right along with numerous other women in the room.
"I'm going to powder my nose." Vera followed the woman into the ladies' room.
She jostled her way to a sink adjacent to the blonde and began poking at the remnants of the puffiness under her eyes. "Some set, huh?"
The blonde responded. "Yes, certainly. I like the group quite a bit. I'm happy they're playing more extravagant parts for a guitar than just a simple four-to-the-beat rhythm progression." Her accent had a clipped pronunciation Vera couldn't place.
"Have you heard of Django Reinhardt? What he can do with a guitar is simply amazing."
"I've actually seen Django play in Paris." She smiled warmly, "he's not bad for a two-fingered gypsy." She winked at this last phrase and extended a hand. "Most of the people I meet around here are casual fans out for a fun evening, but you seem to be a bit more involved, Miss...?"
"Oh,Vera. You can just call me Vera" Vera returned a hand and the two shook. "It's no mystery. I had access to a piano when I was younger and I loved working through ragtime pieces. I've been hooked ever since."
"Yes, the music and the people who make it have such a..." the blonde paused for a searching second, "...passion. Don't you think?"
"Certainly. The history of the music is amazing too. It helps color the backstory of the pieces."
"Yes," the blonde winked again, "color. Exactly." Vera was beginning to wonder if her counterpart had a facial twitch.
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name and I don't want to let an opportunity to make the acquaintance of a fellow aficionado pass by."
The blonde put a hand to her breast. "No, I'm sorry, the fault is all mine. Where are my manners? I'm Emily. Emily Brunner."
"Nice to meet you. Hope to see you again soon" Vera turned to walk away.
Emily placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, "if you don't mind me asking, where are you sitting?"
"At the back with a friend of mine who has no clue about anything going on here."
"I'd be delighted if you and your friend would sit upfront with me. I'm by myself and can easily find another chair for a third."
Vera shrugged nonchalantly, keenly aware that her plans for the evening had gone from soaking her feet in Epsom salts to sitting stage-side at one of the most popular clubs in the city. "Certainly. We'll meet you in a few minutes."
She walked back to a waiting Tannehill. "I'm pretty sure the dame in the ladies' is your girl. What's her name?"
"Emi--"
"It's her. She invited us up to her table for the rest of the show." She extended the crook of her elbow. "Shall we?" Tannehill threaded his arm through hers and pushed his way into the crowd. Two minutes later they were facing a seated, smiling Emily Brunner. Tannehill noticed her eyes widen a bit when his face appeared in the klieg lights.
"Welcome, Vera and friend." She patted the seated nearest to her and motioned for Vera to sit. Tannehill followed after and sat next to Vera.
"So, I hear from Vera that you don't know much about modern music?"
"Modern, ancient, I don't know much about either genre."
"Well then, this will be a treat to guide you through. Jazz is quite a complex form."
"Huh," Tannehill leaned back a bit. He gazed at her quizzically. "You're not originally from Capital City, are you?"
"Quite perceptive even in this," she circled a bored hand around the room, "commotion. But, no, I'm not. My mother is English and my father is German. I've spent significant time in both locations before settling in the US."
English and German. Emily and Brunner. It fit. "Well, pleasure to meet such an eclectic world traveler. I look forward to learning a bit more about at least one mode of music." At this Vera patted his arm playfully and shushed him as the musicians took the stage again.
For the next hour, Emily graciously and enthusiastically explained the broader points of jazz - the use of syncopation, the role each of the players in the ensemble had, the spirit of innovation that captured the genre. At 1:30 AM, with the band still showing no sign of slowing down, Vera leaned between the two of them.
"My apologies, but I need to work an early shift in the morning and it's a loooong way back home."
Tannehill leaned in to respond, "I suppose it would be impolite of me to allow the lady to travel home unaccompanied."
"Certainly. I understand. Thank you both for being gracious guests at my table. If it's not too forward, please accept cab fare from me for keeping you past your appointed hour."
"Thanks very much," Vera extended her hand to receive the gift, "it will make the ride home much easier."
"Well, then, I certainly do hope to see you both again soon. Goodnight Vera. Goodnight CH." Emily turned toward the band again, smiled, and nodded in time to the music.
Vera grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him through the still-packed room, annoyed at his glances back toward Emily that impeded their egress. "What?"
"I never told her my name."
[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1182 words for a running total of 12155. I laid off some of the finer points of jazz in order to overwhelm the reader too much. And if you're interested in how I had any idea about what type of footwear Vera would be likely to don, check out this article. I originally wanted her to wear flats, but, at least according to article, that would be anachronistic.]
The pair were simultaneously assaulted by flat notes from the brass section and a waitress slinging gin-heavy martinis upon arrival. They accepted the waitress's proposal and sat shoulder to shoulder with other patrons at a table for two identical to every other set up in the room.
15 minutes after their arrival, mumble, mumble "...we're going to take a short break." The crowd clapped enthusiastically with a few loud, high-pitched whistles scattered among the room. In front of the stage, a solitary figure stood up, clapping enthusiastically, her eyes following the band off stage.
Vera nudged Tannehill in the ribs "silhouette look familiar?" Tannehill nodded. The klieg lights at the front of the stage illuminated enough of the figure that both of them could make out a statuesque blonde with shoulder-length hair curling gently at the ends. She was dressed in a form-fitting emerald taffeta dress and her head continued to follow the arc of the band as they headed for the bar. Once they alighted, she headed stage right along with numerous other women in the room.
"I'm going to powder my nose." Vera followed the woman into the ladies' room.
She jostled her way to a sink adjacent to the blonde and began poking at the remnants of the puffiness under her eyes. "Some set, huh?"
The blonde responded. "Yes, certainly. I like the group quite a bit. I'm happy they're playing more extravagant parts for a guitar than just a simple four-to-the-beat rhythm progression." Her accent had a clipped pronunciation Vera couldn't place.
"Have you heard of Django Reinhardt? What he can do with a guitar is simply amazing."
"I've actually seen Django play in Paris." She smiled warmly, "he's not bad for a two-fingered gypsy." She winked at this last phrase and extended a hand. "Most of the people I meet around here are casual fans out for a fun evening, but you seem to be a bit more involved, Miss...?"
"Oh,Vera. You can just call me Vera" Vera returned a hand and the two shook. "It's no mystery. I had access to a piano when I was younger and I loved working through ragtime pieces. I've been hooked ever since."
"Yes, the music and the people who make it have such a..." the blonde paused for a searching second, "...passion. Don't you think?"
"Certainly. The history of the music is amazing too. It helps color the backstory of the pieces."
"Yes," the blonde winked again, "color. Exactly." Vera was beginning to wonder if her counterpart had a facial twitch.
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name and I don't want to let an opportunity to make the acquaintance of a fellow aficionado pass by."
The blonde put a hand to her breast. "No, I'm sorry, the fault is all mine. Where are my manners? I'm Emily. Emily Brunner."
"Nice to meet you. Hope to see you again soon" Vera turned to walk away.
Emily placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, "if you don't mind me asking, where are you sitting?"
"At the back with a friend of mine who has no clue about anything going on here."
"I'd be delighted if you and your friend would sit upfront with me. I'm by myself and can easily find another chair for a third."
Vera shrugged nonchalantly, keenly aware that her plans for the evening had gone from soaking her feet in Epsom salts to sitting stage-side at one of the most popular clubs in the city. "Certainly. We'll meet you in a few minutes."
She walked back to a waiting Tannehill. "I'm pretty sure the dame in the ladies' is your girl. What's her name?"
"Emi--"
"It's her. She invited us up to her table for the rest of the show." She extended the crook of her elbow. "Shall we?" Tannehill threaded his arm through hers and pushed his way into the crowd. Two minutes later they were facing a seated, smiling Emily Brunner. Tannehill noticed her eyes widen a bit when his face appeared in the klieg lights.
"Welcome, Vera and friend." She patted the seated nearest to her and motioned for Vera to sit. Tannehill followed after and sat next to Vera.
"So, I hear from Vera that you don't know much about modern music?"
"Modern, ancient, I don't know much about either genre."
"Well then, this will be a treat to guide you through. Jazz is quite a complex form."
"Huh," Tannehill leaned back a bit. He gazed at her quizzically. "You're not originally from Capital City, are you?"
"Quite perceptive even in this," she circled a bored hand around the room, "commotion. But, no, I'm not. My mother is English and my father is German. I've spent significant time in both locations before settling in the US."
English and German. Emily and Brunner. It fit. "Well, pleasure to meet such an eclectic world traveler. I look forward to learning a bit more about at least one mode of music." At this Vera patted his arm playfully and shushed him as the musicians took the stage again.
For the next hour, Emily graciously and enthusiastically explained the broader points of jazz - the use of syncopation, the role each of the players in the ensemble had, the spirit of innovation that captured the genre. At 1:30 AM, with the band still showing no sign of slowing down, Vera leaned between the two of them.
"My apologies, but I need to work an early shift in the morning and it's a loooong way back home."
Tannehill leaned in to respond, "I suppose it would be impolite of me to allow the lady to travel home unaccompanied."
"Certainly. I understand. Thank you both for being gracious guests at my table. If it's not too forward, please accept cab fare from me for keeping you past your appointed hour."
"Thanks very much," Vera extended her hand to receive the gift, "it will make the ride home much easier."
"Well, then, I certainly do hope to see you both again soon. Goodnight Vera. Goodnight CH." Emily turned toward the band again, smiled, and nodded in time to the music.
Vera grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him through the still-packed room, annoyed at his glances back toward Emily that impeded their egress. "What?"
"I never told her my name."
[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1182 words for a running total of 12155. I laid off some of the finer points of jazz in order to overwhelm the reader too much. And if you're interested in how I had any idea about what type of footwear Vera would be likely to don, check out this article. I originally wanted her to wear flats, but, at least according to article, that would be anachronistic.]
Sunday, October 13, 2019
Chapter 10 - Of Seagulls and Smut
Tannehill sat on a bench next to the inner bay throwing someone else's discarded stale to the gathering crowd of seagulls. They squawked in protest of their breakfast offering, demanding both more and better.
His gaze focused loosely on the suburbs across the bay and he felt the acid of the orange juice begin to settle uncomfortably in his chest.
"Why bother? Why not let the police do their job -or not- and move on? He wasn't worth a damn as a partner - sloppy in his methods, sloppy in his choice of clients, spending more time convincing me why he deserved a 55/45 split of any proceeds because he was the 'face of the business.'"
"He wasn't worth much as a human being, either. How many marriages had he ruined either in pursuit of his own amorous needs or the desire for a quick buck? How many crimes - petty or otherwise - had he committed? Tannehill coughed up some of the orange juice while a seagull next to him shat in protest at breakfast's early closing time."
Human, though. He was human. I let this one go, then it's just another voice silenced without any reason. Then I'm no less sloppy than he was, abandoning a case because it wasn't convenient to see through to the end. Whatever the guy's moral composition, he was a man and deserves some dignity in death even if he didn't choose to pursue it in life.
Tannehill sighed, stretched, brushed the bread crumbs from his jacket and looked at his watch. 10:37. Nearly another two and a half hours before his photos would be processed.
---
Tannehill spent the next two hours wandering downtown admiring the mix of new art deco buildings and tenements while listening to the echo of traumatized seagulls who were quickly wasting away to nothing throughout the city.
He appeared at the main entrance of The Daily Courier promptly at 1 PM where Spinoza was waiting for him with a sealed manila packet.
"You weren't lying about those photos," Spinoza handed the packet to Tannehill.
"Nope."
"That broad would be some looker even with all of her clothes on."
"Yup."
"Gee, you're chatty this afternoon."
"You eat lunch yet?"
"Nope," now it was Spinoza's turn for verbal tennis.
"C'mon, I know this place around the corner with the world's best egg sandwich. My treat."
"You're just killing time until I get off and can drive you back home rather than take the jigsaw puzzle that is our municipal bus system."
Tannehill shrugged. "At least you get a free lunch out of it."
"Curious turn of phrase, don't you think? By the way, when are you getting your car back?"
Tannehill shrugged again. "Hard to say. When a car goes into the bay, it can take a while to repair it. Good thing it didn't go into the ocean. The added salt would've been killer on the paint job."
"You got any leads on this thing?" Spinoza pointed to the packet.
Shrug. "Your sexy socialite's name and a very surly doorman."
"From terse to cryptic in one fell swoop. I assume you're going to explain these things to me?"
"Sure, if you come with me to get that egg sandwich. I'd also recommend the orange juice."
"OK," Spinoza sighed, "but I'm not leaving the office until 4 PM. And that's assuming I don't get called to a crime scene."
Tannehill crossed his finger of his heart, "I promise that no crime will occur in Capital City until you've safely deposited me back home."
---
Spinoza dropped Tannehill off in front of his office and then sped away to brood silently at a neighborhood bar or moonlight as a cabaret singer - two options Tannehill always assumed were equally likely.
Tannehill opened the door to his office and was instantly confronted with the overpowering smell of bleach. Less than 24 hours after the violent death of his associate, the CCPD had inspected the crime scene, removed the body and cleaned every potential shred of material evidence at the scene. Whatever else citizens assumed about the CCPD, the department was efficient. If they bothered to solve this particular crime, they'd likely have a suspect caught within the next 24 hours and executed another 24 hours after that.
He swapped his chair for Snell's and sat at his desk, digging through his bottom drawer for his rye. He took the final pull from the bottle before acknowledging the realization that the smell of bleach wouldn't do much to facilitate his concentration, so he got up and left.
He found his way to The Happy Hour Diner and sat in the previous night's booth, unwrapping the cord on the photo envelope and flipping through the pictures.
The waitress from the previous night appeared behind him. "Is that why you drink so much coffee? So that you can look at smut all night?"
He didn't alter his gaze. "I produce it too. These are my original creations."
She peered over his shoulder and squinted, "never imagined we had an artist in the neighborhood." She whistled low, "that's some dame. Looks and acrobatics all in one package."
Tannehill turned to face her. She was taller than the average woman but attractive. Her light brown hair was pulled back and fastened with a pencil. The escaping wisps messily framing her face. Faint freckles spreading from the bridge of her nose complimented her green eyes. The eyes had some puffiness, which he assumed was due to long, late shifts at The Happy Hour. Her even greener dress was complimented with faint grease stains spreading across her breast. Tannehill guessed her to be in her late teens or early twenties.
"None of this scares you off?"
"I've been around long enough to know what men are capable of and this isn't a capital offense. Besides, you don't strike me as a trenchcoat and smile type of guy, if you catch my drift." She sat down in the booth across from Tannehill.
Tannehill looked around the diner to see who she might be neglecting but only spotted a blue-collar at the end of the counter nursing a meatloaf and staring ahead. "I do. I'm a PI. This is a job I'm working on."
"Ooh, exciting," she opened and closed her palm rapidly, "hand them over. What are you trying to solve, whether or not she or her paramour is bustier?"
"No, the death of my partner."
She stopped browsing and looked at him, "I'm sorry."
Tannehill shrugged, "we weren't close."
"What are you looking for in these photos?"
"Any clue that connects my partner to either of the two people in the photo."
"I don't know about any clue, but she's got good taste in music."
Tannehill cocked an eyebrow, remembering Mrs. Sugarbaker's comment earlier about jazz. "How do you figure?"
The waitress pointed to a poster on the wall behind the lovers. "That's The Tritone. It's an old-speakeasy that's a jazz club for local musicians now. It's on Lafayette. Never been, but I've heard a lot of good things."
Lafayette was a couple of blocks west of Highwater street downtown, so likely close to Emily Brunner's apartment. If she liked jazz, had a poster of a jazz club on her wall, and lived near it, she was likely to be a frequent patron. It'd be easier to approach her at a jazz club rather than stalking her outside of her apartment or finding one dumb excuse after another to get past the doorman.
"Do you want to go?"
"Are you asking me out on a date?"
"Er, uh," Tannehill colored, "no. I just thought if I'd go, I'd better take someone who appreciates jazz and you said you've never been..."
"When?"
"Tonight."
She whistled again, "you're a fast operator." She paused and turned her head in thought. "I get off at 10. I'm Vera by the way." She extended her hand.
Tannehill took it. "Charles. Everyone calls me CH, though."
"Alright. I'm in. How could I not trust someone claiming to be a PI while looking at pornography in a diner. And don't worry, I'll change. I've got this exact same outfit except in a lovely powdered blue." She stood up from the booth, smirked and curtseyed. "I'm assuming you want something to eat?"
"A cheeseburger with fries, please. You don't happen to have access to a car do you?"
"My, you really know how to butter a girl up. No, sorry, but I can probably show some leg and get us the front seat of the bus." She turned and headed back toward the counter.
Tannehill looked down at the pictures again, muttering. "The things we do for love." He took comfort in the fact that his new aviary friends would likely approve of his dinner choice for the evening.
[Author's Note: This week's edition is 1469 words. The running total is 10973. I didn't originally intend for Vera to be so quick-witted (only that she'd make the connection to the jazz club) but realized that if she doesn't mind a diner patron looking at porn, she'd need to have a personality to match Tannehill's.]
His gaze focused loosely on the suburbs across the bay and he felt the acid of the orange juice begin to settle uncomfortably in his chest.
"Why bother? Why not let the police do their job -or not- and move on? He wasn't worth a damn as a partner - sloppy in his methods, sloppy in his choice of clients, spending more time convincing me why he deserved a 55/45 split of any proceeds because he was the 'face of the business.'"
"He wasn't worth much as a human being, either. How many marriages had he ruined either in pursuit of his own amorous needs or the desire for a quick buck? How many crimes - petty or otherwise - had he committed? Tannehill coughed up some of the orange juice while a seagull next to him shat in protest at breakfast's early closing time."
Human, though. He was human. I let this one go, then it's just another voice silenced without any reason. Then I'm no less sloppy than he was, abandoning a case because it wasn't convenient to see through to the end. Whatever the guy's moral composition, he was a man and deserves some dignity in death even if he didn't choose to pursue it in life.
Tannehill sighed, stretched, brushed the bread crumbs from his jacket and looked at his watch. 10:37. Nearly another two and a half hours before his photos would be processed.
---
Tannehill spent the next two hours wandering downtown admiring the mix of new art deco buildings and tenements while listening to the echo of traumatized seagulls who were quickly wasting away to nothing throughout the city.
He appeared at the main entrance of The Daily Courier promptly at 1 PM where Spinoza was waiting for him with a sealed manila packet.
"You weren't lying about those photos," Spinoza handed the packet to Tannehill.
"Nope."
"That broad would be some looker even with all of her clothes on."
"Yup."
"Gee, you're chatty this afternoon."
"You eat lunch yet?"
"Nope," now it was Spinoza's turn for verbal tennis.
"C'mon, I know this place around the corner with the world's best egg sandwich. My treat."
"You're just killing time until I get off and can drive you back home rather than take the jigsaw puzzle that is our municipal bus system."
Tannehill shrugged. "At least you get a free lunch out of it."
"Curious turn of phrase, don't you think? By the way, when are you getting your car back?"
Tannehill shrugged again. "Hard to say. When a car goes into the bay, it can take a while to repair it. Good thing it didn't go into the ocean. The added salt would've been killer on the paint job."
"You got any leads on this thing?" Spinoza pointed to the packet.
Shrug. "Your sexy socialite's name and a very surly doorman."
"From terse to cryptic in one fell swoop. I assume you're going to explain these things to me?"
"Sure, if you come with me to get that egg sandwich. I'd also recommend the orange juice."
"OK," Spinoza sighed, "but I'm not leaving the office until 4 PM. And that's assuming I don't get called to a crime scene."
Tannehill crossed his finger of his heart, "I promise that no crime will occur in Capital City until you've safely deposited me back home."
---
Spinoza dropped Tannehill off in front of his office and then sped away to brood silently at a neighborhood bar or moonlight as a cabaret singer - two options Tannehill always assumed were equally likely.
Tannehill opened the door to his office and was instantly confronted with the overpowering smell of bleach. Less than 24 hours after the violent death of his associate, the CCPD had inspected the crime scene, removed the body and cleaned every potential shred of material evidence at the scene. Whatever else citizens assumed about the CCPD, the department was efficient. If they bothered to solve this particular crime, they'd likely have a suspect caught within the next 24 hours and executed another 24 hours after that.
He swapped his chair for Snell's and sat at his desk, digging through his bottom drawer for his rye. He took the final pull from the bottle before acknowledging the realization that the smell of bleach wouldn't do much to facilitate his concentration, so he got up and left.
He found his way to The Happy Hour Diner and sat in the previous night's booth, unwrapping the cord on the photo envelope and flipping through the pictures.
The waitress from the previous night appeared behind him. "Is that why you drink so much coffee? So that you can look at smut all night?"
He didn't alter his gaze. "I produce it too. These are my original creations."
She peered over his shoulder and squinted, "never imagined we had an artist in the neighborhood." She whistled low, "that's some dame. Looks and acrobatics all in one package."
Tannehill turned to face her. She was taller than the average woman but attractive. Her light brown hair was pulled back and fastened with a pencil. The escaping wisps messily framing her face. Faint freckles spreading from the bridge of her nose complimented her green eyes. The eyes had some puffiness, which he assumed was due to long, late shifts at The Happy Hour. Her even greener dress was complimented with faint grease stains spreading across her breast. Tannehill guessed her to be in her late teens or early twenties.
"None of this scares you off?"
"I've been around long enough to know what men are capable of and this isn't a capital offense. Besides, you don't strike me as a trenchcoat and smile type of guy, if you catch my drift." She sat down in the booth across from Tannehill.
Tannehill looked around the diner to see who she might be neglecting but only spotted a blue-collar at the end of the counter nursing a meatloaf and staring ahead. "I do. I'm a PI. This is a job I'm working on."
"Ooh, exciting," she opened and closed her palm rapidly, "hand them over. What are you trying to solve, whether or not she or her paramour is bustier?"
"No, the death of my partner."
She stopped browsing and looked at him, "I'm sorry."
Tannehill shrugged, "we weren't close."
"What are you looking for in these photos?"
"Any clue that connects my partner to either of the two people in the photo."
"I don't know about any clue, but she's got good taste in music."
Tannehill cocked an eyebrow, remembering Mrs. Sugarbaker's comment earlier about jazz. "How do you figure?"
The waitress pointed to a poster on the wall behind the lovers. "That's The Tritone. It's an old-speakeasy that's a jazz club for local musicians now. It's on Lafayette. Never been, but I've heard a lot of good things."
Lafayette was a couple of blocks west of Highwater street downtown, so likely close to Emily Brunner's apartment. If she liked jazz, had a poster of a jazz club on her wall, and lived near it, she was likely to be a frequent patron. It'd be easier to approach her at a jazz club rather than stalking her outside of her apartment or finding one dumb excuse after another to get past the doorman.
"Do you want to go?"
"Are you asking me out on a date?"
"Er, uh," Tannehill colored, "no. I just thought if I'd go, I'd better take someone who appreciates jazz and you said you've never been..."
"When?"
"Tonight."
She whistled again, "you're a fast operator." She paused and turned her head in thought. "I get off at 10. I'm Vera by the way." She extended her hand.
Tannehill took it. "Charles. Everyone calls me CH, though."
"Alright. I'm in. How could I not trust someone claiming to be a PI while looking at pornography in a diner. And don't worry, I'll change. I've got this exact same outfit except in a lovely powdered blue." She stood up from the booth, smirked and curtseyed. "I'm assuming you want something to eat?"
"A cheeseburger with fries, please. You don't happen to have access to a car do you?"
"My, you really know how to butter a girl up. No, sorry, but I can probably show some leg and get us the front seat of the bus." She turned and headed back toward the counter.
Tannehill looked down at the pictures again, muttering. "The things we do for love." He took comfort in the fact that his new aviary friends would likely approve of his dinner choice for the evening.
[Author's Note: This week's edition is 1469 words. The running total is 10973. I didn't originally intend for Vera to be so quick-witted (only that she'd make the connection to the jazz club) but realized that if she doesn't mind a diner patron looking at porn, she'd need to have a personality to match Tannehill's.]
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