Boy Scout and The Beast
by B.R. Stateham

“So okay, Turn.  How did he do it?”

A simple question.   Straight forward and unobtrusive.   Demanding a straight forward, unobtrusive answer. 

Except I didn’t have one.  Not yet.  Shoving hands into my slacks I turned and looked at my partner and shrugged.

“Don’t know,” I replied, painting a kind of half-grin, half smirk on my face. “But that’s why we’re here, right?  And besides, why should I be the one to come up with an answer, you big lug.  You’re a homicide detective as well.  And smarter than me on top of that.”

Frank Morales, my partner—and someone who looks like a Neanderthal dressed in slacks and dark sport coat—almost grinned and shook his head no.  The department psychologist has often pointed out to me Frank may be the only guy he knows who has an IQ four digits long. The rectangular, cement-block shaped head topped with stringy, unruly red hair stood facing me with arms folded across his chest and the corners of his lips twitching.  His way of smiling.

“Not this one, buddy. I’m just the doofus-partner along for the ride. This sounds like one of those cases.  And you know how I hate one of those cases.”

We were standing in the middle of a very ritzy, very pricey high-end art gallery in the heart of the downtown district.  When we arrived we found a gallery filled with people dressed in tuxedos and evening gowns drinking very expensive champagne and eating even more expensive caviar.  Two hundred of them.  In the crowd I recognized the mayor, the police commissioner, the chief of detectives, and half a dozen city councilmen.  Along with corporate execs and pricey lawyers.  That kind of a case.  A case where the power brokers of the city and the state were involved.  Meaning whoever became the lead detective on the case had to show some discretion.  Some form of diplomacy handling the situation.  Discretion and diplomacy were not concepts Frank was familiar with.

Grinning, I turned and looked at our victim.  Shot in the back of the head with a large caliber gun.  The victim had been sitting at a desk crammed with papers in a room filled with big wooden crates of opened and unopened ancient Greek and Assyrian artifacts.  There were several Grecian amphoras, about the size of a boy or girl lined up to one side of the room. Several manikins were garbed as Grecian hoplites with large round bronze shields held to the ready and long spears lifted, points up, as they stood silent guard over the crime scene.  Two manikins were garbed as what I thought were Assyrian charioteers. They looked as if they were riding into battle as they stood on a rickety, frail looking wicker made wooden chariot.  The elegantly hand-crafted sign in front of the display said, ‘Hyskos, circa 1650 BCE.’

Old.

So here was the problem.  When we arrived we found a gallery full of very important people.  We also found a burly, square-jawed gentleman dressed in a tuxedo and looking definitely uncomfortable standing in front of the door leading into the crime scene.  His name was Lester.  He was one of the security personnel for the gallery and his job was to keep everyone out of the room where our dead body resided in.  He had been there since the affair started some four hours earlier.

Our dead man was found in a room where there was only one way in and one way out.  Whoever had killed our gallery owner, a small man named Abbot Owens, had to somehow slip by Lester to get in and get out.  Lester assured us no one entered or existed the room after his boss went and in and locked the door behind him.  About half dozen witnesses confirmed Lester’s statement.

Apparently our murderer entered the small gallery room currently under construction for a new exhibition, shot Abbot Owens at close range, and disappeared without a soul seeing him coming or going.

“That should mean our killer is still in the room,” Frank grunted, tilting his head back toward the body.

“Yeah, it should,” I agreed.

But he wasn’t.  We searched.  We opened crates.  We checked the floor for trap doors.  We tapped the walls for any secret entrances.  We went over every inch of the ceiling looking for a way in and a way out.  We looked at the furniture thinking maybe someone could fold themselves into a compartment.  We looked at the amphora.  We looked at the security tapes.  Nothing.

“The amphora, gentlemen, are sealed.  Sealed with a wax and pine resin plug that hasn’t been touched since before the time they sank off the coast of Turkey sometime in 166 BCE.” Edward Yates, the co-owner of the gallery assured us, rolling his hands around nervously as he watched the two of us tap and closely examine a few of the bigger urns.  “Please be careful, detectives!  Each one of those amphora are priceless!  And they’ve already been purchased by a private European museum.  In fact, I have to ship them out tonight.  So it’s imperative they remain unscathed and in pristine condition!”

“I would make other arrangements, Mister Yates,” I began, shaking my head. “All of this is part of a crime scene.  It has to stay until the case is closed.  So I would . . . “

“Hahn.”

Like a gunshot.  Coming from behind me.  A harsh voice filled with power and a personal dislike for me.  A voice I recognized immediately.  Smiling, glancing at my partner, I turned and nodded to the Chief of Detectives, Horace Bloom.  And to the man standing beside him.

“Chief.  Mayor,” I said, the smile still on my lips. “My compliments to each of you.  Surprisingly you both look quite elegant tonight in your tuxes.  Lost some weight, have you, chief?”

“We’ll take Edward’s word and release the amphora,” the big, heavy set black man with the balding head and tiny little dark eyes grunted, nodding toward Yates. “We’re talking about a three million dollar shipment here, Hahn.  They don’t leave tonight the deal’s off.  And the gallery has to close.”

Horace Bloom and I don’t like each other.  Never have.  Didn’t like the man when he was a captain of detectives at the Downtown precinct.  Didn’t like him when he became chief.  Had nothing to do with the man’s skin color.  But it had a lot to do with being an honest cop.  Something Frank and I were convinced Horace Bloom was not.

“Sure, chief.  Whatever you say,” I answered politely, shrugging. “But you won’t mind, will you, if we get Joe Weiser down here with some of his lab boys and go over the amphora again?  We might find something interesting.”

The look on Edward Yates face, when I mentioned instruments, was priceless.  Probably the face of man just before he realized he was having a heart attack.  Bloom saw the look and shook his head no.

“They’re sealed, Hahn.  Been that way for two thousand years or more.  I think we can rule out the amphora.”

Frank, standing behind me, started to open his mouth and say something.   Bloom—who detests Frank as much as he detests me—lifted eyes toward the big man, set the muscles on his face as he knew he was going to get into a verbal fire fight, and waited.  But lifting a hand up I motioned Frank to keep quiet.

“Joe’s out with the instruments, then” I said, nodding and smiling politely. “You’re calling the shots, chief.”

“Damn right I am,” Bloom nodded, frowning as he took a step toward me and tapped me on my sternum with a boney finger.  “Now get to work.  Find the guy who pulled the trigger and get this mess under control before the press starts snooping around.  If you can’t give me results in the next twenty-four hours I know two detectives who can.”

One more jab into my chest, just for emphasis, and Bloom turned and moved back toward the crowd.  The mayor, a tall, thin man by the name of Niles Nilsson, stepped aside to let his chief of detectives leave.  Turning back toward us the tall man removed his glasses, found a kerchief in one pocket, grinned and started cleaning them.

“So you two are Turner Hahn and Frank Morales,” he said in surprisingly firm, deep voice.  “I’ve heard a lot of stories about you two.  A lot. Some good.  Some not so good. You know they call you, Sergeant Hahn?  The Boy Scout.  And you Morales, you’re the The Beast.  Boy Scout and The Beast.  Apropos, I would say.  Wouldn’t you?   Listen.  Find whoever is behind this.  Don’t get behind Bloom’s eight ball any deeper than you two already are.  Get the job done.”

With that he nodded, grinned, and slipping glasses back over shinning pale blue eyes, turned and followed after Bloom.

“Sonofabitch, what was that all about?” Frank grunted from behind me. “Sounds like the mayor almost likes us.”

I nodded, agreeing.  In a town filled with dishonest politicians and dishonest bureaucrats, you didn’t know who to trust.  We hadn’t any line on the mayor.  He was relatively new on office.

I turned and glanced at Frank, reaching inside my coat pocket for the cell phone.

“Joe?  This is Turner,” I said, winking at my partner. “I got a job for you and few of your boys.”

Flipping the phone closed after my instructions to one of the best forensics scientist I had ever seen I glanced at my partner.

“So you still think our killer is in here somewhere.”

“I do.  But for now our hands our tied.  So we go to Plan B.”

“And Plan B would be?”

“Motive,” I said turning to look at the shocked, quiet crowd of VIP’s milling about like lost sheep in the other room.  “Let’s ask some questions.   See if anyone’s got any idea why a mousey little gallery owner would need have his brains blown out so openly and with a crowd near by.”

Talking to the guests took half the night.  It was well past two in the morning before we released the crowd and allowed them to go home.  By the time we rolled back to South Side and trudged upstairs to our desks on the second floor of the precinct house we were a little further into the investigation.  Just a little.

“This three million dollar deal to that European museum was going to save the gallery’s butts,” Frank sighed, throwing himself into the squeaky wooden office chair and sighing. “But the real mystery is why the gallery was in such financial straights to begin with.  Our victim was supposed to have been like a P.T. Barnum.  He could sell and con buyers into dropping millions anytime he wanted to.  So the gallery should have been rolling in dough.”

I nodded and rubbed my aching eyes.  Glancing at the small digital clock on my desk I saw it was a quarter past two in the morning.  Way past my bedtime.

“Let’s get out of here, buddy.  Time to go home and get some rest.  I’ll pick you up around a quarter after five tomorrow afternoon and we’ll hit this case hard.”

Sleep, boys and girls, has amazing recuperative powers on an aching body and tired, fried out brain.  Add a hot shower and a half dozen eggs before climbing into the sack and you’ll be surprised just how good you can feel.  I know.  Just ask me.

Solving a murder nothing more than asking the right question.  Or turning over the right rock to peer underneath.  The more questions you ask—the more rocks you overturn—and eventually you get results.  So it was with this case.  The rock we overturned which gave us a first hint as to what was going on was some videotape Joe and his forensics boys made for us.

“It comes at the 0414 hrs on the clock, guys,” Joe said, chewing the wad of gum he always had in his shaggy haired, grinning face. “Just catch a glimpse.  Nothing more.  There!  There—did you see it?”

We were watching a TV monitor in one of the interrogation rooms at South Side with Joe standing beside the monitor and pointing the moment the dark blip showed up. 

“Run it again, Joe,” Frank growled, leaning forward in his chair for a better glimpse.

It wasn’t much.  Just the dark form of a person sliding out of a window which faced an alley behind the gallery. A second floor window.  A very small form—not much bigger than a young boy or girl.  The figure was dressed in black with a black ski mask concealing their face.  They come out of the window, grab a gutter pipe which came down from the building’s roof and emptied into the alley and slid down with an athlete’s ease to the alley.  Into the darkness they disappear.

“Funny thing is, boys—when I went back to the museum earlier this afternoon and looked at the tapes and alarms for this time frame—nothing.  The alarm system says no window was opened.”

“That window is wired into the alarm system?”

“Sure, Turn.” Joe answered, nodding and popping his gum a couple of times. “Every window and door in the place is wired.  Inside there are motion detectors and heat sensors everywhere.  Anything bigger than a pregnant sewer rat and all kinds of alarms go apeshit-crazy.”

“This was on the second floor?”  I asked.

“Yep, second floor bathroom,” Joe answered, grinning suddenly like someone who was about to claim a winning ticket at a lottery. “And guess what’s right beside the second floor bathroom.”

“The room where they keep their security alarms and monitors,” Frank grunted, turning to glance at me.  “An inside job, Turn.  They disarm all the alarms and program it with a pre-recorded tape to make it look like nothing happens.  The killer hides until every one leaves and then he goes upstairs to the security office and fixes the alarm system back to normal.”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” I nodded, agreeing and turning back to Joe.  “So who is in charge of the security cameras?”

“From what I’m told only two people and one of them is dead.  The owners of the gallery,” Joe answered, gum bulging from one cheek.

“And look at this, Turn.”

Eyes went back to Frank and then at the set of bank records he tossed on my desk.

“Been looking these over since we arrived.  Bank records for the gallery.  In the last three months there’s been some sizeable withdrawls from the gallery’s checking account.  No wonder the gallery was on wobbly legs financially.”

In three months close to a million dollars had disappeared.  Written off as bad investments but written off—by Edward Yates.

“Something tells me we should go talk to little Eddie,” Frank said, almost grinning.

Twenty minutes later we were sitting chairs on the opposite side of Edward Yate’s desk facing a very pale and very nervous small man.  Frank didn’t waste any time the moment we arrived at the gallery.  Grabbing the small man by one arm he more or less dragged the small man to his office and pointed to a chair to sit in.  And then tossing a copy of the bank statements onto the desk in front of Yates—Frank, in his own unique style and wit, said, “You been stealing from your own company?  Did your partner find out and accused you of embezzlement?  Motive enough to kill someone I’m thinking.”

“No!  Wait . . . . I, please let me explain!” Yates stammered, throwing both hands out in a gesture to push the monsters back into the night as he stared up at the set mask of Frank in sheer terror. “I did not kill Abbot!  Would never do that!  We’re brothers . . . step-brothers. . . but . . . but brothers nevertheless!  I would never harm a hair on Abbot’s head.”

“How about milking the gallery for a million or more,” I grunted, sitting down in the chair and keeping my eyes on the little man.

“Nor that, either.  Look . . . look . . . I know what the bank records state.  Abbot and I had a big row about this night before last.  He didn’t accuse me of stealing but . . . but he demanded to know where this million dollars disappeared to.  I couldn’t answer him.  I didn’t know.  I still don’t know.”

“The signature is yours, Edward.”

“I know it is!  I know it is!” the frightened little man yelped in a high pitched voice as he stared up at my partner.  “But I didn’t sign off on anything at the bank.  It’s my signature—but . . . but I swear to you—I didn’t withdraw a cent from the bank!  Not one cent!”

At some point in your career as a cop you develop a sixth-sense.  A gut feeling when someone is telling you the truth and when someone is lying.  It comes in handy.  All people lie when they’re in a major jam.  Intentionally or unintentionally.  They wouldn’t call it lying really—just shading the truth some.  Just trying to either protect themselves or someone they love from further aches and pains.  And professional criminals lie all the time.  Lie even if telling the truth would be more beneficial to them.  So sooner or later, if you’re a good cop, you learn how to separate the chaff from the grain.

Edward Yates was telling us the truth.  He wasn’t a killer or an embezzler.

“You got a problem here, Eddy.” Frank grunted, shaking his head and looking almost sympathetic at the little man. “Someone is setting you up as a murderer and an embezzler.  Someone close to you got a copy of your signature and forged it on the withdrawal slips at the bank.  Do you own a gun?”

“A gun,” stammered Yates, blinking big, frightened eyes up at the giant sitting beside me. “Why . . . yes, I do.  A. . . a nine millimeter Beretta.  Why do you ask?”

“We’re thinking your gun will turn out to be the murder weapon,” I answered, shaking my head.  “You poor bastard, if that pans out, there’s enough evidence to send you to the chair.”

“God help me!”

It was a frightened voice—more a squeak of sheer terror which escaped from Yates’s throat as he stared the two of us.  I almost grinned in empathy.  Almost.

“So who has access to your bank account, Eddie? Has access to the codes and security camera gear upstairs,” my partner grunted.

“No one,” the answer came.  “No one here.  Abbot insisted that only he and I have work the security system.  Our six guards are just that.  Guards.  They are not allowed into the monitor room at all.  Not even Lester, my chief of security.  And as to the gallery’s checking account, only me, Abbot, and on very rare occasions our account, could access the account.”

“Who’s your accountant?”

“Catherine Boyles.  A sweet, petite little thing Lester introduced us to about six months ago after the death of our long time friend.  A tragic accident, really.  Died in her sleep from an accidental overdose of sleeping pills.   But I must say Catherine is a whiz with numbers.”

“Lester . . . your chief of security . . . introduced you and your brother to this person?” I asked.

“Oh my, yes.  Apparently the two have a romance going on.  Several times Lester and Catherine have come to a few of our social events as a couple.  Lester is very dashing in his tuxedo and Catherine, for as small as she is, is quite stunning.”

“She is a small woman?” Frank asked.  “How small?”

“Oh my, she barely stands five foot tall.  Perhaps four foot eleven might be more exact.  Quite small but very smart.”

“Lester,” I began, pulling on my ear and thinking something just clicked in the back of my head.  “How long has your chief of security been working for you?”

“Just over a year.   Hmmm . . . yes. . . that’s about right.  A year.”

“You checked his background and references?”

“Certainly.  We are a small gallery but we handle rare antiquities which are very expensive.  So every employee working for us has an extensive background check.  Lester, for instance, just recently retired from the Army.  A twenty-eight year veteran in Criminal Investigation and Counter-Terrorism.  We were quite lucky to hire him.”

“Can we look at his employee records and application?”  I asked.

“Certainly,” Yates nodded, coming out of his chair.  “Let me go upstairs and get them.”

The moment the little man walked out of his office and stepped into an elevator Frank grunted and looked in my direction.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Probably,” I nodded, grinning.  “If you’re thinking burger and fries and a beer for lunch I’d say we’re on the same wave length, buddy.”

“Yeah,” nodded Frank, the corner of his lips twitching.  “That’s what I’m thinking.  Naw, you movie-idol lookalike wannabe . . . about Lester and his girlfriend.  You think they’re our killers?”

“We’re going to find out,” I nodded just as Yates came back into the office with a thick file folder and handed to us.

Frank looks like a Neanderthal.  But people say I look like some movie actor from out of the ‘30’s with my unruly coal black hair, mustache, and a set of dimples that carve deep into my cheeks whenever I smile. And I smile a lot.  I won’t mention the actor’s name.  Don’t want to.  Let the dead rest in peace.

“Look, Turn . . . the guy has a pilot’s license.”

“Is Lester working today?” I asked, glancing from the application Frank was pointing to and up to Yates.  “Oh, wait a minute—don’t tell me.  He called in and said he was taking the day off.”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Let’s go,” I said, closing the file and tossing it onto Yates’ desk as I stood up. 

“I’ll make the phone calls,” Frank grunted, reaching inside his coat for the cell phone.

In this city we have the main commercial airport and three private fields.  Two of the private fields are just big enough to land a Piper or Cessna onto.  But they’re not fields where someone with anything big . . . anything that might require a multi-engine license would use.  Only one—Nickels Field—is big enough to handle larger hardware.  A few phone calls and we found out Lester owned a twin-engine Beech A-60.  And yes, it was scheduled to depart in about thirty minutes.

It took us twenty minutes to drive to Nickels Field.  Another five minutes to find the small hangar Lester used to store his plane in.  Racing across the gassy field I drove the ’67 Shelby Mustang GT directly in front of the open doors of the hangar and slid to a halt.  Inside the hangar Lester and Catherine were sitting in the cockpit of the Beech.  Both engines were revving up.  Being a pilot I knew they were going through the pre-check flight list before pulling the plane out of the hangar.  But they were going no where.  Frank had his nine millimeter Glock in his hand and I had my .45 cal. Kimber semi-auto in mine as we stood in front of the Shelby and just stared at the two.  Behind us, racing across the field, two black and white patrol cars were hurtling toward us, sirens wailing and lights flashing.

It was over.  The two confessed.  Catherine indeed hid in one of the largest amphora.  She sealed herself in with a plug of wax and pine resin.  Knowing the amphora she hid in was going to be shipped out the following day she was confident no one would look too close.  Lester, on his part, told us it was easy to pilfer the access codes to the security system from Yates and make the videotape needed to fool anyone who looked at the tapes later.  He programmed the security system to time itself out for a span of ten minutes at 0410 hrs—giving his girl more than enough time to escape.

Case closed.  But two days later, while Frank and I sat at our desks in the squad room doing the paperwork, we get a phone call.

“Nice work, boys.  Nice work,” the voice of the Niles Nilsson rattled over the speaker as we listened. “Thought you two were good.  Just wanted to call and tell you.  And to let you know I might be talking to you in a few weeks about a project I’ve got in mind.  But for now, my congratulations.”

BIO: B. R. Stateham is a sixty-year old writer who has published in several online mags recently.  His book featuring homicide detectives Turner Hahn and Frank Morales, Murderous Passions¸ can be ordered online from Amazon, Barnes&Noble, or from your favorite bookstore.  The second book in the series, A Taste of Old Revenge, will come out sometime in 2010 by Shadow Line Press.

You can find B.Stateham at his web site at www.brstateham.com or at the Turner Hahn/Frank Morales dedicated site at www.turnerhahnnovels.com