I called the county sheriff's department from Mick's studio.I wrap the mic in a handkerchief and try not to touch anything else.The guy who answered the phone sounded like a tape recording and he took my name and Mick's address and told me to wait where I was, someone would be here in twenty minutes.Before I could say thank you, he hung up the phone.His voice was very excited. It is estimated that homicides do not happen often here, and this homicide will become the big news of this week.Pretty big news.
I hesitated to give Eberhart a call and update him, but it was too early to do so.Mick's death might get Denzel out of trouble, but it might not.It is too early to draw conclusions.Maybe Mick committed suicide, maybe he left a note somewhere saying he did it because he couldn't get away with Frank Colodny's death.If that's the case, the whole thing ends nicely and cleanly.But the problem is, Mick didn't commit suicide.A suicidal person doesn't lock himself in a cabin and split his head with an axe.No, it was either an accident—an accident too well-placed for me to accept—or murder.If it's murder, the whole thing either becomes straightforward or more complicated.It all depends on whether there are mitigating circumstances, on the evidence that the local police find.
Or depending on the evidence I can find, I thought to myself.
Now, I am alone in the studio, doing nothing, waiting for the police to arrive.I could go outside and wait for them, but it's too cold.I'm not supposed to touch anything here, but I don't have to touch anything—not with my hands, anyway.Didn't say I couldn't sniff like an old hound?Didn't you say I can't see with my eyes?
I went to the screen door, looked out, made sure the backyard was still empty, then turned around and took another look at the mess.At this time, I suddenly realized that the mess in the house might not have been caused by Mick himself, and maybe this place had been searched again.If you look carefully, that's what's going on, it's not obvious, there are no rickety furniture items, but the room is very messy, more than the general mess.The only thing that hasn't been rummaged is the stack of pulp fiction magazines in the corner.
If this place has been turned over and entered, what is the reason?What did Mick have that attracted others to him?
That pile of popular novels says nothing.It's all magazines from the late forties, except for one or two uncovered Westerns from the thirties, all westerns.Painting and fishing gear can't explain anything either.I looked carefully at the scattered papers, most of which fell from sketchbooks of various sizes, various unfinished paintings, or copies of letters from several years ago.All were from contacts connected to Meek's commercial work, and none of the letters were addressed to anyone I knew, nor were members of the Pulp Fiction Gang mentioned.
There are two maps spread out on a table, one half-opened and one fully opened.The half-opened one was a map of San Francisco, marked with a circled X with a black marker, where the Continental Hotel was located.The fully opened map is the entire state of Arizona.
There is also a circled X marked on it, in the southeast of Tucson City, within the territory of Cochise County.I bent down and took a closer look. The area where X was located was blank, with no towns, roads, railways, rivers or lakes.This means that there is a wilderness, it may be a desert, or it may be hills.The nearest town in the vicinity was a place called Vickerstaff, at least ten miles from X's location.
Why would Mick mark a piece of bad land on a map of Arizona?There's an answer: Frank Colodney is said to own a dead city in Arizona called Colodney City.Maybe that part of the map isn't desolate at all.Often even the most detailed state maps have very few dead cities on them.
I got up and stood upright, and that's when I noticed another marker, hidden in a crease on the map, in the blank space in the lower right corner.I leaned down and kept my eyes on the map, and I could see the names of two people scrawled there, up and down, with a circle around the outside, like a lover's name written inside a heart shape.There are several emphatic lines drawn under the name below, and a question mark next to it.
The name above is Frank Colodeny; the name below with a question mark next to it is Sybil Wade.
As previously informed, officers from the County Police Department arrived twenty minutes later.I was outside by then, sitting in the car running with the heat on all the way, trying to drive away the bone-chilling chill.In the first car were two patrol officers, and in the second car that followed was a deputy named Jerry Enczyk.Jerry Enczyk will be in charge until the detectives from the County Sheriff's Department arrive from Rio Vista.
I took them to the cabin and showed them the body from the window.Jereen Zeke asked me a few questions, and I answered them all.I also told him about several references, including Eberhart, but he had no particular reaction.He was neither unfriendly nor skeptical, merely displaying the caution expected of a police officer investigating a murder.
Then I was sent back to my car, which was fine.Jereen Zeke and two others began to pry open the windows of the cabin with iron bars.A long time has passed.I keep a small travel bag in the trunk in case I suddenly need to run errands out of town.There were two pulp magazines in the bag, and now I took one out and wanted to read a John K. Butler story, but my mind was elsewhere.From time to time, Mick's body in the log cabin flashed through my mind, his body was stiff, his posture was twisted, his head was split in half, and it was full of blood.I also kept thinking about the two names on that Arizona map, Colodney and Sybil Wade, that Mick should have written on it.
After a while, another police car drove up, and two plainclothes police officers and a guy with a medical kit got out of it.The young plainclothes cop was carrying a field lab kit and a camera.The three walked to the house where an officer stood and led them to the back of the house.Ten minutes later, the older plainclothes came back alone and walked straight to my car.
He was around my age and had a small piece missing on the outside of his right ear, as if he had been bitten.His name was Loomis, and he was so polite that I almost wondered if he was acting.He called me "sir" every second sentence and apologized twice for having to keep me here.However, he also copied all the information on my detective license, as well as the names, addresses and phone numbers of the witnesses I provided, and asked me to say twice why I came here today, how I came here, How Mick's body was found.
It was nearly two o'clock when our conversation ended when an off-road ambulance pulled up the drive.Loomis thanked me again for my cooperation, touched his hat like John Wayne in the "Three Beans" movies of the 1930s - I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes - and turned Take the two medical staff to the cabin.I am alone again.I got out of the car, circled the car twice like a dog, and got back in the car, staring at the ad on the back of the popular fiction magazine "You Can Be a Detective, Too."
Another twenty minutes passed silently.At this moment, the figures of Loomis and Jereen Zeke came into my eyes.They came toward me, followed by paramedics, carrying a stretcher with Mick's body on it, covered with a sheet.The doctor or coroner's assistant was also nearby.I jumped out of the car again and stood with Loomis and Jereen Zeke as the paramedics loaded the body into the ambulance.
"Well, that's it," Jerry Enczyk said.
Loomis nodded and looked at me. "Sir, you can go now. However, we would appreciate it if you would stop by the police station in Rio Vista and sign an affidavit. Indispensable in accidental death cases."
"Accidental Death?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are you sure it was an accident?"
"Pretty sure," Jereen Zeke replied. "He was standing on a ladder, picking nails in the wall, and then he slipped, or the ladder fell over. He had an ax in his hand, or maybe the ax was On the ground, anyway, he fell right on the ax and split his head in two. It happens sometimes. A curious accident."
"Then why did he lock the door?"
Loomis said, "Sir?"
"Why does a person go to such a small wooden house in his own house and lock the door behind him before climbing up the ladder? It doesn't make sense."
Jereen Zeke shrugged: "Sometimes people do do weird things. Quirks. Maybe he's paranoid about security."
"The studio door is unlocked," I said, "so I can go in and use the phone inside."
"You seem to think he was murdered," Loomis asked mildly. "Why?"
"As I told you earlier, he was involved in a murder that happened in San Francisco over the weekend. It's a curious coincidence that he himself died in a bizarre accident two days later."
"You said he was 'connected' to the killing in San Francisco. If that's the case, why didn't the police detain him?"
"I also explained this, the police arrested other people."
"But you feel that person is innocent."
"Yes, I think so."
"But you don't have any proof that Mr. Meek has committed any wrongdoing, just reasoning. Right, sir?"
"Unless you find something related to the blackmail incident in Mick's files."
"We didn't find anything," Loomis said. "We didn't find anything in his files that was related to the crime."
"Besides," said Jereen Zeke, "he couldn't have been murdered in the cabin. The door was locked and both windows were shut. It took us five minutes to pry open one of them." , go into the house."
"There are all kinds of secret chambers," I said.
He looked at me suspiciously: "For example?"
"I can't think of it right now. I'm not John Dickson Carr."
"Who is John Dickson Carr?"
"Well, you see, there is a way. This cabin is very small. Assuming the walls of the room are not firmly fixed to the floor, assuming there is a way to tilt the whole room - get two strong supports so that a man can kill another man in the house, go out, let the hut tip, re-enter the house from below, lock the door, climb out again, and push the house upright, over the corpse."
Loomis and Jerry Enczyk said nothing.They looked at me as if wondering if I was crazy.
"Of course that's a stretch," I said. "I don't believe there's such a thing. But it's a type of secret room I'm talking about, doing things to make murder seem impossible."
"That doesn't happen here," Loomis said.His voice is still patient, and his eyes show that he really doesn't mind standing here, chatting to a goofy private eye from San Francisco, "This cabin is solid from head to toe. No one can make it go sideways, Unless with a crane."
"I never doubted that. You see, that was just an example..."
"There's nothing wrong with it," Jerry Enzik said. "The door is locked, with a key on it. You saw it yourself from the window, right? There are two very clear fingerprints on the key, both of the deceased. This shows what?"
"He used the key," I said, "but he wasn't necessarily the one who locked the door. The murderer could have been wearing gloves, wasn't he?"
Loomis sighed and said patiently, "How did your murderer get out of the house?"
"Perhaps no one was in the house when he locked the door."
"You mean he's already outside?"
"yes."
"Then how did he lock the door from the inside?"
"Maybe he used some rope. It's a very old trick: put the rope around the key, make a slipknot, and pass both ends of the rope under the door; then close the door and use the rope to pull the key to lock the door. When it's done Give the rope a hard tug, undo the slipknot, and pull the rope out from under the door."
"Interesting idea," says Jerry Enzeke, who doesn't sound like he thinks so.
"There's a piece of fishing line near the door of the cabin, in the grass. I noticed it, and you must have noticed it too."
"We noticed, yes, sir," Loomis said.
"Perhaps the murderer used this thread to lock the door according to the method I said, and left the thread there afterwards."
"No, I'm afraid not. No one can lock the cabin door with a fishing line."
"why?"
"Because the key on the door lock is hard to turn," Loomis said. "I turned it a few times myself, so I know. No one can turn that key with a fishing line. Not even with a clothesline or thick rope. A slipknot, and pulling from under the door won't work. No, sir, that key can only be turned by hand."
That was the end of the idea, and he dismissed it cleanly.But I still asked, "I don't think there's any evidence in the house that would suggest a possible murder?"
He shook his head. "No signs of a struggle, nothing extraneous to suggest that other people were there—nothing like that."
"How long has Mick been dead?"
"Several hours. Rigidity has developed."
"What happened this morning?"
"This morning, yes."
"Are there any other marks on the body?"
"There was a bruise on the chin and cuts on the right index finger and left elbow which the assistant coroner said were the result of a fall."
"Is it possible that the bruise on the chin was caused by some other blow? A fist, or some other weapon?"
"It's possible, but no," Jerry Enzeke said, not as patient as Loomis, and it sounded like he was getting impatient, "Why do you have to insist on it, can't you let it go? Mr. Meek is dead By a weird accident, that's all."
"You know, he's right," Loomis said. "You can't invent malicious crimes that don't exist. Please come with me to Rio Vista, sign your testimony, go home, and put Forget about it."
What else can I do?I followed him to Rio Vista, signed the affidavit, and went home.But I'd be damned if I had to forget about it.No matter what Loomis and Jerry Enczyk say, no matter what the evidence looks like, I still firmly believe that Ozzie Meek was murdered.
It was past seven o'clock when I returned to my residence, and San Francisco was filled with thick yellow fog.I opened a can of beer, took it into the bedroom, and called Eberhardt home.No one answered.I called the High Court again, but he wasn't there either.A homicide officer told me Eb was off today.I left him a message asking him to call me tomorrow morning when he gets home.Maybe he went out and tried a one night stand.Well, so what if he did?He has the right to do so, doesn't he?
I'm sitting there, drinking a beer, looking at the phone.I had reached out to Kelly on a pay phone while in Rio Vista.I told her about Mick and told her we couldn't have dinner tonight.She agreed, but behind her calm voice, I could hear her fear.There have been two murders - will there be more?Are her parents in danger?Maybe she was worried about me too, anyway, I like to think so.I'd love to see her tonight, but meeting her mother is even more important right now.I didn't tell her about it, just that I was late back in the city; I didn't tell her about the map of Arizona in Mick's studio and the names written in marker.
After a while, I picked up the phone, dialed the Continental Hotel, and was transferred to the Wade couple's room.I called once when we were at Rio Vista, but Sybil and Ivan were out.I left a message for Sybil, telling her I needed to speak to her, it was urgent, and that I would call her again around 7:30.
The phone rang five times, and she answered it: "Hello?"
I told her who I was, and asked, "Are you alone, Mrs. Wade? Is it easy to talk?"
"What's the matter, yes. Ivan's been out all day, at a party organized by the local amateur magicians. What's your business?"
"I don't think we should talk about this on the phone," I said, "Can I meet with you tonight?"
"About the death of Frank Colodny?"
"Yes. And now there's another murder: Ozzy Meek was killed today."
There was a gasp from the phone.There was six or seven seconds of silence, and then there was an "Oh my God," far louder than a whisper.
"I can meet you in the hotel lobby in thirty minutes," I said.
"No, not there. You don't live far, do you? Kelly said, Pacific Heights or something..."
"You want to come here?"
"if you do not mind."
"Of course I don't mind," I told her the address, "when can I see you?"
"Right away. As soon as I can get a cab."
I hung up the phone, stood up, and went to the living room with a beer.I feel very worried.It would be pointless to deny that Sybill Wade seemed to be a pivotal figure in this mess.I had to sit down and talk to her and ask some pretty tough questions.I kept avoiding her because she was Kylie's mom.But now that Mick is dead, he still has that mark on the map of Arizona.Dencer remains in police custody and is charged with murder.It's time to rise to the challenge.
I rummaged through my collection of Midnight Detectives and found an issue with a Samuel Leatherman novel.Then I sat on the couch and had a moment of commiseration with Max Roof, waiting for his creator to come to me and tell me a true story, not fiction.
Notes:
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