Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

As he stepped out, the rain fell even harder, hammering with painful force on his head and shoulders. The world was a blur, and he stumbled, to be caught and held up by a strong hand.

“Careful, mashai.” Chauhan made sure Mohit was upright, then let go. They looked at each other for a moment. Finally Mohit nodded, once. Chauhan stepped past, up to Farid’s door, followed by several of his men. None had any more attention for Mohit.

You are still young, Chauhan had said.

Mohit walked away, not looking back, into the darkening rain and his life, to start over.

Identity Crisis by Maynard Allington

Born and raised in California, Maynard Allington joined the air force after high school and served two tours in Vietnam. Later, he earned a degree in law enforcement, but for many years now he has devoted himself to writing both magazine articles and fiction. His three novels, The Grey Wolf, The Fox in the Field, and The Court of Blue Shadows were all published to acclaim, with the New York Times calling the last “a powerful examination of humanity at its worst and at its best.”

* * *

Around four A.M. I put on a beach shirt and bathing trunks and took the fire stairs down to the hotel pool. A breeze off the Atlantic stirred the fronds of palm trees lining the deck and I could feel the night dying overhead on the dimmed circuits of stars.

Even before I dropped into a deck chair, a sense that something wasn’t right crawled into my nerves and wouldn’t let go. For one thing, the pool light was out, leaving a logjam of shadows on the dark pit of water. I spotted a shape trapped among them at the deep end, like an abandoned pool toy, except they don’t make pool toys in human form. I swung out of the chair, looking around for the pool lamp switch. The instant I clicked it on, my nerves absorbed a shock.

The little girl, fully clothed in a pink pinafore, floated facedown in the clear light flooding the green water. Her long hair, yellow as sun on straw, fanned out on the surface, and her arms were spread out in a swan dive of arrested motion. Ribbons of blood lay suspended in the marine sparkle from the underwater floodlight, and in one horrific second I saw that they ran like party streamers from a cut throat. She was stone dead, and not by drowning.

The poolside swarmed with activity — police, a fire rescue unit, exploding flashbulbs. A handful of hotel staff stood behind police tape, and faces peered down from windows. While the paramedics used a gaff to drag the victim in close, a homicide detective showed up to take charge.

The rescue team lifted the child, dripping, out of the floodlit glare. As they turned the body faceup, the group around it drew back. I saw that the figure wasn’t human, but a stunningly perfect replica of a little girl. Even the flesh tones and artificial skin were an eerie likeness. Where the throat had been slashed open, wires and circuitry extruded in a red froth. One of the cops let out a nervous chuckle, more of relief than amusement.

Above the puffed sleeves and lace collar of the pinafore, the girl’s features looked vaguely familiar. Finally it hit me. I’d seen them on a poster in the lobby — a nightclub act featuring a ventriloquist named Karen Palmer and her “protege,” Sara Jane. Both were pictured on the playbill, and the dummy could have been a child-sized clone of the live performer. Gone, I remember thinking, were the days of stringed puppets with hinged jaws and varnished faces. This one was a marvel of robotics engineering. Even the blue eyes, sapped of power, had the vacancy of death counterfeited into them.

“Looks like you got a case of vandalism, and maybe theft,” the homicide detective told the night manager. “Not murder.”

“Then where did the blood come from?”

The detective lacked only a trenchcoat to be a ringer for Robert Mitchum, the actor from those old noir films of the Forties. He sported the same half-lidded stare, and a dent in the chin like a meteor hit. I watched him pick up an object near the chromed pool ladder and hold it up in the light. It was a vial of what looked to be red food dye.

“There’s your blood.” His smile had a wry shadow of contempt, which carried over into his next question. “Who reported the crime?”

“I did.” I gave him my name, Tom Irons, and told him what I knew.

From the start, the vibes were bad between us. He kept staring off to one side and wasn’t concealing his annoyance at being called out at this hour to a bogus crime scene.