Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 35, No. 10, October 1990

Tolley had told the council again and again that the police in the small townships and boroughs were overwhelmed, because those birds and trees and wildflowers and small animals didn’t commit crimes — if you discounted moles destroying lawns and raccoons having a midnight ball with trash, neither of which were covered by the criminal code — and the county had to face up to its new responsibilities.

The politicians always pointed to last year’s statistics and said it really wasn’t all that bad now, was it. To be a politician, Beckett thought, you had to be born looking backward.

But the urbanization of Meridian County hadn’t driven Beckett to the sixteen hour days and sleeping in the office again. That had taken the departure of Toni Ewing — moving, oddly enough, away from peace and quiet to New York, teaching piano now at Juilliard instead of in her living room in the small house down the road from the diva’s estate.

Adding the largest stone of all to the pack on Beckett’s back. The one that had his knees quivering.

Tolley was finishing, about to turn it over to Beckett.

He considered beginning his presentation with, “Now listen, you stupid bastards—” but that just might be unwise. As far as he knew, they were all legitimate.

As the courthouse clock solemnly bonged the end of the working day, Spocker slumped in the chair in Beckett’s office looking like a glassy-eyed victim of too many Chamber of Commerce committee meetings.

“Nelson was vice-president-comptroller at MT. His wife said he left for work as usual, even though he’d been up half the night. He was in his office when his secretary, Miriam Abernathy, arrived at eight thirty. At nine thirty he left, carrying his briefcase — not an attaché, one of those big heavy ones. He didn’t say where he was going. She reminded him he had a company meeting at eleven.”

“So he checked into a motel a half hour later,” said Beckett. “Supposedly for a little relief from strain and tension.”

“Sure. For that he needed the briefcase. Even if that scenario had been handled better, few people at MT would have bought it. They’d seen how he reacted to the short, tight skirts waggling around the office. Never a flicker of interest. To him, a computer printout was more exciting. When he didn’t make the meeting, his secretary’s first thought was automobile accident. Dougherty, on the desk, took her call, but he had no way of knowing, of course, that the dead man in the motel was the one she was looking for.”

They sat silent for a few minutes.

“Something bothering you?” asked Beckett.

“The wife. Held up only long enough for a few questions. Luckily, I talked to the woman next door first and took her with me. The house is set well back, Hoke, but I could still hear her screaming when I reached the street. Not the first time, I know, but it always leaves you feeling you could have handled it better.”

“Anything from Gina?”

“No one noticed anything unusual. I’m not surprised. The men all talk, look, and dress alike, drive the same type car. The women too. Right down to what they wear when they jog before breakfast. To stand out, you’d have to wear a loincloth and have hair to your knees. You know what I mean.”

There had always been some sort of mold for people in a given occupation, but during the last few years, whatever little touches of individuality there once were had all but disappeared.

“That tells you something, anyway. No one heard the shot?”

“The slug is from a .32. Nicholson hasn’t identified the piece yet. No casing in the room, so the odds say it was a revolver. Wasn’t too loud, and if it was fired as a semi went by— The room on one side was empty. The family from Ohio who had the other were out to breakfast.”

“So Gina’s day produced nothing.”

Spocker grinned. “Not exactly. She has so many dinner invitations, she can eat free until Christmas.”

Beckett punched the extension number of Nicholson’s basement lab.

“Anything?” he asked.

“A hole in the man’s tie and shirt, created by the same bullet, and powder residue on his coat lapels.”

In the background, Beckett could hear an organ playing the inevitable Bach, the deep, vibrant notes probably showering dust from the steam pipes.

“If you don’t tell me something I don’t already know, I’m coming down there with the largest, most powerful magnet I can find and pass it over all your tapes.”

“No point in being nasty, Hoke. Were you aware it is impossible to remove a man’s pants without leaving fingerprints on a smooth leather belt? I have what appears to be a partial thumbprint that isn’t his. Not enough to go to the files, and useful only for comparison if you find someone. It is also, I suspect, not feminine. Now leave me alone. I have other things to ponder.”

Beckett told Spocker about the print.

“I still don’t get it,” said Spocker. “We’d have to be stupid not to suspect he was fully dressed when he was killed.”