COOL
DEATH
By
Bruce Harris Roberta
Stone, part-time reporter
for the Eliot Courier, turned off the
Rambler’s car radio in disgust. A lifelong Boston Red Sox fan, she just
heard
the announcer call Mickey Mantle’s second homerun of the game. Roger
Maris hit
one in the first inning. Her beloved Red Sox weren’t coming back in
this game,
trailing by six runs in the seventh inning, with Whitey Ford on the
mound for
the Yankees. A
baking sun bathed yellow police
tape. Stretched across a paved parking lot, yards of the plastic ribbon
restricted access to the Oasis Hotel. Roberta Stone showed her
credentials,
made her way to room number 12. Inside, despite the central air
conditioning’s
maximum setting, hotel manager Matthew Prolly mopped sweat beads off an
expansive
forehead with a damp handkerchief. “What’s
that yellow stuff
outside?” asked Roberta Stone, pointing to the cordoned off areas. Prolly
ignored her. “This is
terrible. Awful. This kind of thing has never happened here. Horrible.
And now
of all times! The middle of the summer, when everyone and their
brothers and
sisters vacation in York and my hotel is shut down. This is going to
kill my
business.” The
cop on the scene looked up
from his notepad. “Good pun, but you’re wrong about that. Probably
increase
customers. As for the yellow tape, ma’am, I know it looks like we’ve
strewn a
load of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit wrappers around, but it’s the newest
thing in
keeping crowds away. First time ever we got to try it out. What’ll they
think
of next?” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a stick of Blackjack
gum,
unwrapped it and jammed it into his mouth. “Just
my luck,” chirped Prolly.
“Yellow tape that screams, dead man at my hotel!” “Sure.
People get off on others’
misery. You’d be surprised how much interest and new customers this’ll
bring.
Morbid curiosity. People can’t stay away. I guarantee it. Before long,
you’ll
be thanking this stiff.” Roberta
Stone gave the young
patrolman a stern look. It silenced the officer. Stone, two short days
away
from retirement, showed concern. First, she didn’t like the patrolman’s
cavalier demeanor. Imagine wisecracking in the presence of a dead body
back in
the day. Second, she didn’t like the looks of the corpse. Not that she
could
have identified the face, scattered worse than a half-eaten helping of
Waffle
House hash browns. The room’s bloody interior reminded Stone of the
Bates Motel’s
shower in Psycho. She recognized
the
victim from his left ring finger, or more accurately, lack thereof.
Ernie
McDaniel, epitome of tragedy, sat slumped over a desk in room number 12
of a
lousy two-story hotel in downtown York, Maine wearing death like a pair
of
custom-made L.L. Bean boots. Once,
McDaniel had a promising
career on the small but proud Biddeford police force. A rising star,
his
promotion from patrol cop to detective was meteoric. Roberta Stone, an
infrequent reporter covering business and the local crime scene, knew
McDaniel
well. She also knew about McDaniel’s darker side, one that kept his
elbow
greased and exercised. One too many for the road, that’s what had set
in motion
McDaniel’s current state. No doubt about McDaniel’s identity. He lost
his ring
finger as a young man slicing off more than salami at a deli counter.
McDaniel
often joked that no woman would marry him because he lacked the finger
on which
to place a wedding band. That occurred a long time ago. More recently,
McDaniel
had served a 15-year manslaughter sentence for the drunk driving
vehicular
homicide of his then partner Sheldon Jackson. The two were off duty,
shooting
pool and drinking in a small New Hampshire tavern. McDaniel assured
everyone he
was fit to drive, but he lied. He drove his DeSoto into a tree.
McDaniel
suffered only minor injuries, but his passenger and partner, Sheldon
Jackson
wasn’t as fortunate. Unrestrained, Jackson careened head first through
the
windshield. The glass split his scalp. The tree trunk yielded not an
inch,
shattering Jackson’s skull. Sheldon Jackson left behind his wife, Elyse
and a
young son, Will. McDaniel, contrite and psychologically damaged,
listened as a
judge sentenced him to the maximum 15 years for drunk driving vehicular
manslaughter.
McDaniel was released with little fanfare from incarceration less than
a week
ago. Now, just as dead as the man he had killed, Ernie McDaniel’s
obituary
would be Roberta Stone’s final typewritten story. Eddie
Weber, the young patrolman,
broke the silence. “Open and shut case. Suicide. It don’t take no
Sergeant Joe
Friday to figure that fact out.” “It
doesn’t take a Sergeant Joe
Friday,” she corrected him. “You’re sure?” questioned Stone. Both
Weber and the hotel manager
Prolly stared at the reporter. Weber grinned. “You’re joking, right?” “There’s
a dead man in this room.
You think I’d joke at a time like this? I asked you a question. You’re
sure it
was suicide?” Thirty-plus years reporting for local newspapers had
thickened
her skin. Despite
Stone’s tone, the
uniformed cop still had a hard time taking this woman seriously. He
looked at
Prolly. The man shrugged his broad shoulders as if to say, “Don’t ask
me.”
Weber took a step closer to the deceased. “First off, there’s the
suicide
note.” Weber pointed a tanned finger, careful not to touch the paper.
He bent
closer and read the short note. My
irresponsible actions those many years ago can never be forgiven. It is
not
right for me to live while my partner, Sheldon Jackson perished. I am
solely
responsible for his death. This is long overdue. <Signed>
Ernest McDaniel Weber
straightened up and looked
at Stone but got no response. He continued. “I’m no handwriting expert,
but
I’ll bet donuts, make that chocolate glazed donuts to dollars,” he
hesitated,
hoping for a reaction from either Stone or Prolly. When none came, he
continued. “This note was written by a left-handed person. You can tell
by the
backhand slant of the letters.” He stopped. “Go
on,” commanded Stone. Weber
cleared his throat.
“Obviously, the deceased man here is, I should say was, left-handed.
“I’m no
medical examiner,” again Weber paused, waiting for a reaction that
never
materialized. After an awkward moment, “But if I was a doc, I’d say the
bullet
entered the left side of the dead man’s head. Self-inflicted wound. The
gun is
still inches from his left hand.” Prolly
lost patience. The death
scene had taken its toll. “Why are you playing games, Roberta? It has
to be
suicide. There’s no other explanation.” Prolly and Roberta Stone became
friends
decades prior after Stone wrote a feature story about the then new
Oasis Hotel,
its harbor view, fine pool, color television in the office, modern
amenities
and of course the rarest of birds for New England motels and hotels,
central
air conditioning. Roberta
Stone walked over to the
door, bent down and picked up a hacksaw. “This is the saw you used to
cut the
door chain?” The chain, two separate pieces, dangled from the wall and
the slot
on the inside door. “Tell us how you came upon the body, Matthew.
Please, make
it quick, before the rest of the police officers come in.” Garbled
voices
coming from police radios and much closer, louder, and clearer voices
were
heard outside the hotel room’s door. Matthew
Prolly licked dry lips.
He wanted a glass of water or something sweet, like a bottle of Coke
from the
outside vending machine, but was afraid to move about and possibly
alter the
room in any way. “As I told the officer before, Mr. McDaniel checked
into this
room on Monday. He said at the time he planned to stay one night. By
Wednesday,
neither the maid nor I had seen him. The ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hung on
the
outside doorknob. Wednesday afternoon I knocked on the door. Nothing. I
have a
key to all the rooms. I figured he took off, but when I tried to open
the door,
I discovered the inside door chain had been engaged. Locked by the
chain, the
door jerked open an inch, but no more. I called out to Mr. McDaniel,
but got no
answer. That’s when I decided that maybe he’d become sick or
incapacitated in
some way. I ran back to the office, got the hacksaw and cut the chain.
That’s
when I saw the body and called the police.” Eddie
Weber engaged his inner
Perry Mason. As if he miraculously procured a Harvard law degree, he
pontificated. “So, Mr. Prolly, you are saying that the deceased man
here,” he
pointed toward the prostrate body, “Was found dead in this very room
with a
single gunshot wound to his head. A gun that had been fired lay near
his hand.
A suicide note written by what appears to be a left-handed individual,
with the
windows locked, and the door not only locked, but also chained shut
from the
inside?” The
hotel manager wiped the area
underneath his Jello-like chin. “Yes.” The
cop stared at Prolly’s face.
“In your opinion, would you say this man committed suicide?” Again
the one-word response,
“Yes.” Weber
turned and faced Stone.
“Open and shut case, ma’am. I’m no Jimmy Olson, but…” “Knock
it off, Officer Weber.
Show some respect.” The
young policeman ignored the
reporter. “I’m no Jimmy Olson, but if I were writing this story, I’d
begin
with…” Roberta
Stone forced retirement
thoughts out of her brain and again stopped the obnoxious Weber in
mid-word.
“You’re not writing anything. This case is open and shut. I agree one
hundred
percent. However, this man was murdered.” Prolly’s
dropped jaw caused
exaggerated ripples cascading down his soft double chin. “What?”
questioned
Prolly. “I know you’ve frequently been able to see things the rest of
us
mortals don’t, kind of like you look through lenses freshly cleaned by
an
optometrist.” Stone
adjusted her eyeglass
frames. “Maybe it’s because I was born on February 29? I guess I have
the
vision of a 15-year old.” Patrolman
Weber lost his
professionalism, blurted out, “Do you have some screws loose?” He
gathered
himself, trying to recover. “I mean, how can you say this is murder? It
appears
as though suicide is the only answer.” “Appearances
deceive,” said a
stoic Stone. “But,
no one could have gotten
in, murdered McDaniel, locked and chained the door from the inside and
gotten
out. Remember, the air conditioning was also running and the windows
were
closed and locked. Houdini couldn’t have done it. It’s impossible.” Roberta
Stone interrupted. “I
know what it looks like, but this is murder. Ernie McDaniel and I go
way back.
He made a mistake, a bad one. But, anyone who knows, or knew him is
aware that
he is not left-handed.” “But
the note,” interjected
Weber. “I’m certain it was written by a lefty. And the gun? He shot
himself in
the left temple with his left hand. How do you explain that?” “But
how do you explain the
gunshot wound to his left temple? And, the locked room?” asked Officer
Weber. After
a few seconds silence,
Stone answered, “McDaniel didn’t fire the gun. The murderer did and
made the
fatal mistake of assuming, because McDaniel wrote with his left hand,
that he
was left-hand dominant. As for the locked room, I haven’t an answer
yet.” “You’ve
got some screwy ideas,”
blurted Matthew Prolly. “No disrespect intended Roberta, but I don’t
think you
are on the right track. The room was locked from the inside! Remember?
The door
chain was fastened. I had to cut it to gain entrance into the room.
It’s not
possible that…” “Thank
you, Mr. Prolly!” Roberta
Stone rubbed her hands together. “Thanks to you and Weber here, I now
know how
the murderer did it and got away.” “Yes.
It’s clear now. I have my
suspicions as to Mr. McDaniel’s killer, but I need evidence. And, with
your
help Matthew, I expect to obtain that proof.” The
hotel manager cleared his
throat. “Of course, I will do anything in my power to help. I really
need to
get the hotel open for business again. I just don’t see how…” Three
days later, Matthew Prolly
sat in his office in good spirits. A Viceroy smoldered in a chipped
orange
colored kidney-shaped ashtray. The police tape had been removed from
the Oasis
Hotel. He stood and greeted Roberta Stone. The two shook hands.
“Business is
coming back. So, are you ready to write the story, Roberta?” Stone
didn’t bother correcting
Prolly. The Eliot Courier no longer
employed her. Officially retired,
her
reporting days were over. “You can help me, Matthew.” Stone handed
Prolly a
slip of paper. “That’s my phone number. The minute someone asks to book
room
12, call me. Don’t wait. Call me.” Prolly
looked puzzled. “Call you
and give him or her the room? I’m not sure what you are asking me to
do.” Again,
Stone didn’t mention the
fact that she was now retired and no longer affiliated with any
newspaper. “I’m
asking you to contact me right away if someone asks for that room. Do
not,
under any circumstances, give the person access to room 12. Is that
clear?” “Just
tell them the room is
occupied, or reserved. Anything, just don’t give the room without
notifying me
first.” A
serious expression crossed
Prolly’s fleshy face. “Yes. I’ll contact you first.” “Good,”
said Stone. “Don’t
forget, it’s very important.” Less
than a week later, Roberta
Stone’s phone rang. She recognized Matthew Prolly’s voice. “Roberta,”
he
whispered, “There’s a man here says he wants to stay in room 12. I
remember you
telling me that…” “Excellent,
Matthew. You did right
to call me. Tell the man in no uncertain terms that the room is
occupied, but
that you have other, better rooms available. Is that clear?” “Yes,
ma’am,” came the obedient
response. “Good.
I’m certain this man will
decline your offer and wait for room 12 to become available. Okay?” “Yes.
Go on,” said an eager
Prolly. “Tell
him the room will be
available the following day after the current guest checks out and that
you
will reserve it for him. Got it?” Matthew
Prolly repeated Stone’s
instructions into the phone. The
following morning, retired
part-time newspaper reporter Roberta Stone sat in the cold
air-conditioned air
on a soft, musty-smelling red faux velvet chair facing the front door
of room
12. She expected the murderer to insert a room key into the doorknob
and she
was correct. The man who entered flicked on the light out of habit
rather than
necessity and shut the door. He was thin and short in stature. “Hi
Will. I’ve expected you.” Will
Jackson froze. “What? Who’s
that? What are you doing here?” The
years had taken a toll on the
younger Jackson. Growing up without a father is tough, and it appeared
as
though Will had not adjusted well. The lizard-like skin, creased with
years of
unasked for and undeserved burden belied his time on earth. “Guess
you’re
screwed,” laughed Stone. She couldn’t help herself. Jackson didn’t see
the
humor and remained silent. “Truth is Will, this is your lucky day.” The
young man showed teeth. “What
do you want?” “A
confession.” “Confession?
For what? I don’t
know why I’m even talking to you.” Stone
stood. “Murder. Ernie
McDaniel’s murder.” “You’re
craz…” “Save
it, Will. I know you killed
him. And do you know how I know?” The now retired reporter didn’t wait
for an
answer. “Because you have four screws in your pocket.” Unconsciously,
Will grabbed his
front pants pocket. Stone continued, “And a screwdriver. Am I right?” Through
slit eyes and tight lips
Will said, “What do you know?” “Everything
now. You want to tell
me, or do you want me to tell you what took place in this room a little
over a
week ago?” Will
Jackson displayed defiance.
“You’re so smart. You tell me.” Roberta
Stone moved toward the
room’s air conditioning vent. “This,” she pointed, “Is how you did it.”
Jackson
stood stone-like. “You never got over the fact that Ernie McDaniel’s
reckless
and careless behavior those many years ago caused the death of your
father.
Frankly, I can’t blame you. I’m not sure how I would have reacted
myself had I
been placed in your tragic situation. I’m not excusing your behavior. I
just
said that I understand it. You probably read somewhere about McDaniel’s
prison
release. He checked into this room and you entered it. How you gained
entrance
is irrelevant. I’m sure you knocked on the door and said ‘room service’
or
something as clever. How am I doing so far?” “Go
on,” answered Jackson. “Once
inside, you pulled a gun on
McDaniel and forced him to write that fake suicide note. The problem
for you,
Will, is that McDaniel complied. He wrote and signed the note with his
left hand.
That undid you.” A blank look consumed Jackson. “You see,” continued
Stone,
“Ernie McDaniel wrote with his left hand, but he was right-handed for
everything else. Had he shot himself, he would have used his right hand
to hold
the gun and pull the trigger.” “Damn!”
“After
he wrote the note you shot
him, unfortunately for you in his left temple. You then locked and
chained the
door. You came prepared. With a screwdriver, no doubt the same one you
have
now, you unscrewed the air conditioning duct vent, removed it, and
crawled
through the ductwork and onto the roof to safety. Two stories up, you
jumped to
freedom. Prior to snaking your way up to the roof, you secured the vent
from
the inside with some sort of glue.” By
Jackson’s expression, Stone
knew she was correct. “It was just a matter of time, sooner rather than
later I
figured that you would come back into this room and reattach the vent
with the
screws. I asked Mr. Prolly, the hotel manager, to alert me as soon as
someone
requested this room.” Jackson
looked surprised. “But,
how’d you know?” “I
didn’t at first. Let me put it
this way. I suspected murder from the start. I knew McDaniel; familiar
enough
to know he was right-handed. I couldn’t figure out how you exited the
room with
the door chain fastened and the windows locked shut.” “Right,”
said Jackson. “How’d you
figure that out?” “Luck.
First, the responding
police officer suggested that I had a few screws loose for suggesting
McDaniel’s death was murder rather than suicide. Second, the hotel
manager, Mr.
Prolly concurred. He told me I had some screwy ideas. That’s when I
noticed the
air conditioning vent. It was fastened to the wall, but the screws were
missing. I have a good eye for detail.” “I
suppose I’m under arrest?” a
resigned Will Jackson asked, emptying his pockets of four large screws
and a
screwdriver. Roberta
Stone waited and then
spoke. “First of all, I’m not a cop. You came to finish a job, I
suggest you
complete it and move forward with your life. I plan to enjoy my
retirement.” On
her way to the parking lot,
Roberta Stone stopped at the hotel’s now shabby office. The color
television
hadn’t been used in years. It was hidden behind stacks of cardboard
boxes
containing old Life, Look, Reader’s
Digest, and the Saturday Evening
Post
magazines. “Why
don’t you clean this place?”
Stone asked. Prolly
looked up from a
newspaper, looked around. “Why? What’s not clean? So tell me, how’d it
go with
that fellow just now?” “I
hope that’s a copy of the Eliot Courier
you’re reading.” Prolly
looked down and grinned. Stone continued, “Not good. I can see
tomorrow’s
headline, MURDER AT THE OASIS HOTEL GOES UNSOLVED. IS THE KILLER STILL
LURKING
AMONG THE HOTEL’S GUESTS?” Prolly looked sick. “What? You wouldn’t. Roberta, you…” Bruce
Harris
is the author of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson: ABout
Type. Several
of his short stories have appeared
in omdb! including “Room With A View”
(September, 2018), “Murder
Aboard the Number Eight Bus” (June, 2018),
“50,000
Witnesses to Murder” (October, 2015),
“Where’s Olive?” (March,
2015), “Time to Think”
(October, 2014), “Heads
or Tails?” (July, 2014), and “Written Out” (June, 2012). Copyright © 2020 Bruce Harris. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part in any form or medium without express written permission of the author is prohibited. OMDB! and OMDB! logos are trademarks of Over My Dead Body! Return
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