Instead of the regular writing doodle, I am taking Scott Morse's challenge for Trickster attendees to create a pulp story, prose or comics, in their hotel room each day of Comic Con International. Obviously, being at home, it's a little different for me, but I decided to take this on remotely. I'm taking a little longer with it than I did with my fast fiction, but that's because I am aiming for at least the semblance of a complete story.
Today's piece was actually from a suggestion by Joëlle Jones. I texted and asked what it should be about, and she wrote back, "CSI noir." The result is not exactly that, but it got the ball rolling.
* * *
The
rain stopped at just after 3 a.m. at nearly the exact moment when Police
Detective Tynan’s shoe leather met the pavement at the crime scene. The deluge
had been going on for nearly eight hours. It brought a body with it.
The
victim was facedown on the pavement, his body bent at odd angles. White male,
late 20s, dark hair. Judging by the position of his head, Tynan ascertained
that his neck was broken. Likewise the bones in his limbs, as all four went in
different directions, including ones that weren’t natural. Exposed flesh
appeared bruised. His suit was a cheap knock-off, but tailored to look more
expensive. It was soaked through, and judging by some of the darker stains, not
just with water.
No
one had touched the body yet. They had waited for Tynan to make the scene. The
beat cop who had found the corpse and called it in was standing with his
superior, waiting for a pat on the back most likely. Tynan chewed a toothpick,
as was his wont. The tang of the wood was so familiar now, it stayed on his
tongue even when he was between sticks. It helped him think. Sycophantic
rookies with a need for praise just for doing their basic duty did not.
“I’m
guessing he was thrown from up there.” The beat cop pointed at a fire-escape
landing several stories up, attached to a brick sweatshop where they made and
housed the kind of clothing the dead man wore. It was probably just a
coincidence.
“Not
likely,” Tynan said.
“You
think he came from higher? Or like from the roof or a window?”
“None
of the above.”
The
rookie was confused. “But he’s dead from a fall, ain’t he?”
Tynan
crouched over the body. “Uh-huh. He just didn’t fall in this spot.”
“How
you mean? He’s there, ain’t he?”
“Sure.
But where’s the blood? A drop like that...a body is like a big bag of goo. This
poor schlemiel gets tossed from a height of that kind, he’s gonna pop and there’s
gonna be nastiness all over the stone. Don’t let the puddles fool you. He’s
just sucking up rain water. He bled all over some other street.”
There
was a flash of light on Tynan’s periphery, to his right, and an audible pop.
A
photog’ took the bulb out of his camera housing and replaced it with another.
He lifted his gear to his eye, moving to snap another shot. All he got was the
police detective’s hand.
“You
don’t want to do that, Watson.”
“Gimme
a break, Tynan. You’re not usually one to strongarm the press.”
“It’s
not like that, fella. I’m just looking out for you. This case might strike you
different.”
“How
so?”
“Where’s
your pencil pusher tonight?”
“Joplin?
Not sure. I’m on this solo for the moment.”
Tynan
bent back over the body. “I know where he is,” he said, “but I’d really like to
know where he’s been.”
The
detective gripped the dead man’s hair and lifted his head, showing the broken
and bloodied face to Watson. Even swollen, Tynan could see who the corpse had
been, and he knew the photog’ would, too.
“Oh,
Jesus.” Watson’s complexion turned white, and then green. “What happened?”
Tynan
stood again. He slapped his hands together, wiping off the rainwater and hair
that stuck to his palms. “Right now, your guess may be as good as mine. Was
Joplin working a story?”
“Uh-huh.
Always.”
“What
was it? Did he tell you where he was going tonight?”
Watson
choked back some vomit and turned away from his colleague’s mangled frame. “Believe
it or not, he was interviewing an actor. Clark Flint.”
Tynan
was looking over the particulars of the body, checking the pockets for any
evidence. A matchbook, a stub from a hat check, a handkerchief with long red
hairs on it. Tiny bits of glass were stuck into the cloth of his suit and
pants. “Why was a crime reporter talking to some Hollywood gadabout?”
“He
had gotten word that Flint was the hub for distributing drugs to his movie
buddies. Jazz cigarettes, morphine, that kind of stuff. Flint was doing the
rounds for that new flicker of his, the one where he plays a Canadian mountie.
Joplin talked the gal who normally does this stuff into letting him take point
this time around. Sold her a story about being a big fan of Flint’s pirate
movies.”
The
matchbook was for a swank hotel downtown. Tynan didn’t need three guesses where
Flint had been staying.
*
The
night clerk told Tynan that Flint had a wake-up call for 7 a.m. Tynan told him
to cancel it. Unless he hadn’t come back out. If that were the case, call the
desk sergeant at the precinct and wake him up instead.
Clark
Flint was a B-list actor who had one major success in a World War I picture
where he played a reformed coward who makes good in No Man’s Land. His other
movies were largely action pieces, and he was said to do his own stunts. Lots
of jumping around in funny costumes from what the police detective had seen,
but he liked the movies fine enough. They were certainly better off-duty
distractions than all the weepy dramas and brother-can-you-spare-a-dime hoo-ha
that was popular these days. Tynan actually preferred westerns, but Flint had
only been in a couple of cavalry pictures. He hadn’t made any true cowboy
movies.
Tynan’s
theories about maybe the actor knocking the reporter out of his hotel window
after Joplin pushed a few too many touchy questions quickly evaporated when he
found out Flint wasn’t staying in the hotel proper. Instead, he was in one of
the high-price private bungalows out back, on the other side of the pool. The
swimming hole had overflowed due to the rain. It caused such a mess, a pair of
janitors were out there at this hour with brooms pushing the excess up and down
the sidewalk, cleaning up any post-storm debris.
When Tynan got to the bungalow, the
lights were on. He wasn’t waking up Flint at all. The beat cop had come along,
and the ranking officer told him to take a position out of sight before he
knocked on the door. The actor came out in a bathrobe, smoking a cigarette.
Tynan showed him his badge. “You the house detective?” Flint asked. “Because
it’s not me that’s been making that noise. Chaplin’s got his floozy in the
bungalow next door. She throws hissies like clockwork.”
“Look again,” Tynan said, pushing
his tin star closer. “That’s city, not private.”
Flint’s eyes got wide, making it
clearer to Tynan how much smaller
his pupils were by comparison. “Who did she wake up to get you down
here?”
“No one. Now, you mind if I come
in?” Tynan pushed past the actor without waiting for an answer. The room was
disheveled, but nothing to indicate violence. All chairs were upright and in
one piece. The mess was mainly empty glasses, towels, some wet bathing suits on
the floor. There was a blonde boy with tan skin asleep on his stomach on the
couch. He was naked. A strategically placed pillow covered his rear. Flint was
probably nude under the robe. “You and your friend been swimming in this
storm?”
“You’d be surprised how freeing it
is. Water above and below.”
“It’ s a good way to get struck by
lightning. Cooked goose for Christmas.”
Flint crossed to the table in the
center of the room and took a cigarette out of a gold case. It looked normal
enough, and when he lit it, the smell confirmed for Tynan that it was just
tobacco. “I’m sorry,” Flint said. “Why are you here again?”
“You
have a reporter over here to your rabbit warren earlier tonight?”
“No.”
“So
you didn’t get interviewed for that mountie movie?”
“I
didn’t say that. I did meet with a newspaper guy, but not in my bungalow. We
met in the hotel nightclub.”
Theories
were solidifying again. “The one on the top floor of the hotel?”
“That’s
the one.”
“Anyone
see you there?”
“Everyone
saw me there. I don’t go out to places like that unnoticed.”
“When
was that?”
“He
showed up around 10:00.”
“And
when he left, was it through a door?”
“Come
again.”
“It’s
simple, Flint. Was he walking on his own two feet or was he flying?”
“Whoa,
hang on,” Flint said. “Did something happen?”
Tynan
got up in his face. The actor had a good three inches on him, but Tynan had
enough experience to use that to his advantage. You get under a taller man’s
vision, make him back up. The point of his toothpick nearly poked Flint in the
chin--which did not go unnoticed.
“What
about you, thespian? Were you
flying?”
Flint
laughed. He flapped his arms up and down. “These are just flesh, inspector. No
feathers.”
“You’re
flying now, and we both know it. I bet if I get a doctor down here, he’ll tell
me your plaything on the couch is packed with dope, too, that he’s not sleeping
the sleep of the just over there. He got an ID to prove he’s even legal?”
“Let’s
not get hasty. We can make arrangements--”
“Save
it for the papers. Because if Joplin was right about you, and you did to him
what I think you did, they’re going to have a lot to write up.”
Panic
was setting in. “Now wait. I’m going to cooperate with you, but you have to
believe me, I left that scribe up top as soon as he started making accusations,
and he was alive and enjoying his cups when I did.”
“On
the level, was he right about you? You dealing narco?”
“I just pick up for others, I don’t
up-sell. I swear.”
Tynan
studied the man’s face. He was stoned, but not so stoned that he was dumb
enough to lie. He had gauged the temperature of the hot water he was in and
decided not to drown. The cop pat the actor on his cheek, and then he crossed
back to the door. He opened it up and whistled for the rookie.
The
uniformed officer came over to the entrance. Tynan put a hand on his shoulder
and positioned him so he was visible through the opening. He pointed at Flint.
“Recognize that fellow?” he asked, but then stopped his junior before he could
answer. “Doesn’t matter. Memorize that face. If you see it try to leave, shoot
it.”
“But
my shift--”
“Is
over when I tell you that you can go home. Capiche?”
Dawn
was approaching and the sky was growing lighter as storm clouds parted. Tynan
passed one of the janitors--a black man--and noticed he was rinsing his push broom.
The runoff from the bristles was red.
“What
do you have there?”
“Someone
made a real mess out here,” he said. “I don’t know what it was. Glass and
somesuch. Like they spilled a case of wine or something.”
More
theories flashed in Tynan’s mind. “Stop what you’re doing!” he said. He showed
his badge. “That broom is police evidence now.”
“I
didn’t have anything to do with whatever it was.” The janitor looked scared.
“I
know, pal. Don’t worry. Just hold on to that for me, don’t wash it anymore. Put
a bag over it if you can and wait for me right here. I’ll square whatever time
on the clock with your boss.”
Tynan
stepped back and looked up the face of the hotel. There were no immediate signs
of murder, no visible broken windows, but it was hard to see all the way up.
The building was facing East, and the rising sun was already reflecting off the
glass and blinding his vision. Tynan would have to take a closer look from the
inside.
*
As
Tynan rode the elevator to the top floor, he worked on the math. Accepting
Flint’s account of events as fact, he met Joplin for drinks just after 10:00.
He talked to the reporter for a bit, maybe an hour, and then left when Joplin
revealed his true intentions. Joplin stayed. At some point, Joplin had to
leave, and it looked more and more like he had exited via the outside of the
building. The glass on his clothes suggested he was definitely pushed through a
window, so there had to be some evidence of a struggle somewhere, even if it
was a sign of a freshly installed window pane. Joplin went splat just outside
the pool and then ended up in the garment district sometime before 2:30 a.m.
when the beat cop found his body.
“Excuse
me.” Tynan was talking to the elevator operator. “What time does the nightclub
close?”
“1:00
every morning.”
Tynan
nodded. That could give folks time to move the body. The rainstorm was likely
already providing cover in terms of the mess Joplin’s dying had made.
The
elevator reached the top floor and the police detective exited. The nightclub
was quiet. Empty. No deductive reasoning required. It was not a “morning club.”
As
he headed inside, Tynan passed a hat check. His mind flashed to the unclaimed
ticket in the dead man’s pocket. The detective pulled it out of his own. He
went into the check area. It was drafty back there, and it made him shiver.
Homicide detectives shouldn’t make room for superstition, but that was a bad
omen. Murder scenes were often as cold as any grave. Tynan started to scan
through the left-behind garments still hanging on the racks. There wasn’t much.
Sure enough, a hat and rain slicker had been left there. There was an old ink
stain over the left breast. A pen had leaked in the interior pocket at some
point. If that wasn’t enough to tell any investigator who’d been around the
block that this coat probably belonged to a reporter, the label on the inside,
indicating the slicker was property of an “Antoine Joplin,” was elementary.
“Can
I help you?”
A
woman was standing at the entrance of the closet. The lady was short and had
red hair. She wore a black dress with white stripes. She looked tough. If she
worked a nightclub, she had to be. She’d have had to contend with her share of
drunks.
Another
flash of his badge. “I’m police detective Tynan. Care to tell me your name?”
“It’s
Jones,” she said. “I run this hat check.”
As
she spoke, Tynan did more math. A simple 1+1. The girl had red hair, and he’d
found red hair on the victim.
“You
work here, then? In this drafty space?”
“What’s
it to you, flatfoot?”
“Oh,
I’m no flatfoot. Your lingo is wrong. I’m a detective. I don’t walk the
streets.”
“Thanks
for the jargon lesson.”
“Seriously,
you feel that? You must. It’s like a breeze.”
“You’re
imagining things. There’s no window, no vents.”
Tynan
looked around. She was right. There was just the back wall, and a bunch of
crates stacked against it. There was sawdust and dirt around them on the floor,
and slide marks, like they’d just been moved there.
“They
make you store stuff back here? What is that?”
“Empty
liquor bottles. And, yes, we make do with what space we have.”
The
detective nodded. “Do you mind?” he asked, pointing to the wooden boxes, and he
moved to them without waiting for an answer. Tynan started to unstack them.
“What
are you doing?” The girl was practically shouting.
The
cold and the wind increased. Because once the boxes were moved, Tynan revealed
a broken window. “Look at that,” Tynan said. “It’s big enough to fit a man
through.”
“Dammnit.”
Now she was whispering.
“Something
tells me, Jones, that you have a story to share that’s far less common than
your name.”
*
The
Jones girl was mum at first, but Clark Flint rolled on her without much
hesitation.
“I
get the drugs from her. I give her my jacket, she fills my pockets with what I
need. Naturally, I saw her on the way out after I left the reporter. He might
have picked up on a vibe, I don’t know. Or she might have gone after him,
because I told her what was happening, told her to watch out if he started
asking questions.”
When
a stash of opiates and marijuana was found in a cubby in the hat check closet,
along with a small pistol, Jones knew the jig was up. Tynan put all the pieces
together for her, showed her the long division. They even had a broom with
blood on it.
“He
didn’t pick up any vibe from Flint. For a journalist, he was just as dumb as
any man. It took a minimum of flirting to get him to come back into the closet.
Once he was inside, I pulled my gun on him and made him move to the back by the
wall, where we wouldn’t be seen. I wanted to know what he knew. If he got close
enough to know Flint was a messenger boy, he might know for whom. He laughed
when I threatened him, he didn’t believe I’d shoot him in public like that. I
tried to tell him that the place was almost empty and suggested he reconsider,
but he tried to push past me. I pushed back, and he stumbled, and that was
that, he went right out the window. The storm covered most of the noise, and I
just pretended that I had broke a martini glass.”
Naturally,
Jones had a couple of thugs on her payroll, and they worked for hotel security.
She got them to bring in the crates and she went with them to cart away the
body. Janitors are low enough on the payroll that she knew they’d do the
clean-up without asking any questions. She had come back early because she was
going to try to get them to fix the window, only to find a cop waiting for her.
Unfortunate timing.
“You
almost could have gotten away with it straight-up,” Tynan told her. “Another
few feet to one side, he’d have landed in the pool. The fall would have still
killed him or at least knocked him out so he’d drown, and who knows? No one might have suspected murder.
Just your bad luck.”
Tynan
didn’t have to tell her. The redhead knew her luck had run out. Her face said
it all.
“Come
on,” Tynan said, “I got a photographer out there who is more than ready to get a
shot at that mug of yours.”
* * *
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