---

 

---

“Should I turn her over, Chief?” Officer Allen Compton asked.

Alice Hendrix lay face down and naked on her kitchen floor, both arms extended above her head.  Congealed blood formed a lake under her throat.

“Wait for the county coroner, Allen.  And for God’s sake watch where you’re stepping,” Police Chief Tom Petrosky replied.

“Yes, sir.”  Allen blushed and gingerly stepped away from the body.

Tom Petrosky, “Tommy” to most of Marble Hill, a tiny town sixty miles southwest of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, leaned against the kitchen counter, his arms folded over his chest, his legs crossed at the ankles.  Recently, he’d remarked to Allen that things sure were quiet.  He’d said it was a welcome break from the Chicago homicide squad.  Actually, he’d yearned for a little action.  Just a little.  Not necessarily a murder.

“Where’s her husband?” Tom asked.

“Probably at his office.  Reckon I should call him?”

“That’d be a good idea, Allen.”

Tom pushed away from the counter and surveyed the kitchen while Allen dialed Dr. Hendrix.  Deciding there was nothing of interest in the immaculately neat kitchen, Tom followed a smeared trail of blood through a doorway leading to a staircase.  The bloody path continued up the carpeted stairs.  So did he, hugging the railing.

“Allen,” Tom called.

“Yes, sir,” Allen answered from the bottom of the steps, probably standing in the damn blood.

Tom stood outside the master bedroom.  Inside it looked like a small bomb had exploded in a blood bank.

“Call the state police.  Get crime lab personnel out here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tom remained outside the bedroom.  Even so, the stench of human waste hit him like the slap of an angry woman.  He breathed through his mouth.

The bed was unmade, rumpled.  An ocean of blood soaked the formerly white sheets, spattered the beige wall behind the bed, and the carpet to either side.  A white pillow with a black spot in the middle of it lay on the floor.  A small, blue package with black lettering lay on the bed stand.

Why move her, Tom wondered?  He stared at the path of blood from the side of the bed to his feet and beyond.

“Chief, the coroner’s here,” Allen shouted.

“Be right there.”  He sighed heavily and swallowed the bile rising in his throat.  Even after fifteen years of more homicides than he cared to remember, he still felt nauseated.

“Afternoon, Tommy,” Dr. Bruce Brunts, the county coroner said, kneeling by the body.  A shock of white hair stood straight on his small round head.  Everything about the man was round.

“How you doing, Bruce?”  Tom resumed his previous spot against the counter.

With gloved hands Brunts gently rolled Alice over.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Tom said.

Her glazed eyes were frozen open.  A third eye, rimmed with a dark red and black crust had been drilled into the middle of her forehead with a small caliber gun.  Crisscrossed slices riddled her torso, like some demented game of tic-tac-toe.

“Allen, you call the state police yet?” Tom asked.

“Yes, sir.  Lab personnel are on the way.”

“What about Dr. Hendrix?”

On cue a tall, well-built man with thick, peppered hair burst through the kitchen’s side door.

“Alice!  My God.  Alice.  No.”  Dr. Hendrix brusquely shoved Brunts aside and kneeled by his wife.

Tom nodded to Allen, who gently pried Dr. Hendrix away from the corpse.

“Please, sir.  Let Dr. Brunts do his job.”

Hendrix jerked away from Allen and faced Tom.  “Who in God’s name would do this to my wife?”  His face twisted in fury, his lips quivered, his pale eyes bulged.

Tom narrowed his dark eyes and pushed away from the counter, put an arm around Hendrix, and walked him to the living room.  Hendrix was Tom’s height, about six-feet, about Tom’s weight, both in shape but showing their age.  Tom was forty-one, twelve years Hendrix’s junior.  He envied the doctor’s thick hair.

He eased Hendrix onto a cream colored sofa and remained standing himself, brushing his fingers across his mustache, gazing down at the quivering man.

“Allen, get in here,” Tom called.

“Yes, sir.”  The tall, lanky, blond sprinted into the living room.

“Sit with Dr. Hendrix a minute.  I need to talk to Brunts.”

Tom returned to the kitchen.  “What’s it look like?”

Brunts stood, slowly, painfully, knees cracking.  The sixty-eight year old coroner had been doing his job since Tom was a child in Marble Hill.

“Killed sometime last night, most likely.  Shot in the head. Throat slit with a good sized knife.  I’ll know more after a complete autopsy.  Probably have the state lab boys take a look at her, too.”

“Fine.  Take her away,” Tom said, wondering why the hell she was shot and her throat slit.

“Don’t you want me to wait for the state boys?”

“Not necessary.  She was killed in the bedroom.  That’s where they’ll concentrate.  You do the body.  I need to know if she was raped.”

Brunts signaled to two paramedics standing by the kitchen door.  They bent as one and began the process of bagging and transporting the body.

As Brunts walked out the kitchen door, Tom said, “One more thing, Bruce.”  Brunts paused.  “Let me know which hand the killer used to do the cutting.”

“Will do, Tommy.”

Tom cringed.  What did he have to do to get people to stop calling him “Tommy”?  Shaking his head, he returned to the living room.

Dr. Hendrix sobbed softly into his hands.  Allen sat at his side, fidgety, occasionally patting his back.  He donned a worried, motherly expression.

Tom sat in a matching loveseat, between them a polished dark-wood table with a glass top.  On the table were three National Geographics, a small crystal cup with a fragrant candle, and a crystal candy dish, with three lonely M&M’s; red, green, and blue.  Tom plucked the blue one from the dish and popped it in his mouth.

“Dr. Hendrix,” Tom began.  “I need to ask you some questions.  Painful questions.  You may feel I’m being accusatory, but they’re necessary.”

Hendrix pulled his head from his hands and regarded Tom with moist eyes.  “I don’t understand.”

“Your wife was murdered last night.  Where were you?”

“You think I did this?”  Hendrix started to rise.  Allen pulled him back, the young officer hurling a questioning glance at Tom.

“I’m sorry, sir.  But when a woman is murdered in her own home, the most obvious place to start is with the husband.”

Hendrix buried his head in his hands.

Tom pressed on.  “Where were you last night, sir?”

“Chicago.”

Something stirred in Tom’s belly, a gentle longing.  “Why?”

“Medical conference.”

“What airlines?”

“Air Midwest,” Dr. Hendrix softly answered.

“Did you fly into O’Hare or Midway?”

“Midway.”

“When did you get back?”

“About ten this morning.  I drove straight to work.  I...I called Alice when I got in.  No answer.  I figured she’d gone out and would try again later.”

Tom waited.  Allen fidgeted.  Hendrix sobbed.  The grandfather clock in the corner ticked.  Outside, a lone mockingbird sang its repertoire.  Vanilla scented the air from the candle on the table.

Tom plucked the red M&M from the dish and ate it.  Slightly stale, but not bad.

“I...I called again around noon to tell her I was on my way home for lunch.”  Hendrix raised his head.  There were matching tears on each cheek.  “Who found her?”

“Mailman, sir,” Allen softly answered.  “He saw her lying on the floor and went next door to call us.”

“My God.  Who would do this?”

Tom heard footsteps in the kitchen.  “Excuse me, Doctor.  Allen, stay here.”

The young officer nodded.

“You must be Chief Petrosky?  I’m Sergeant Willis.”

A uniformed man, about Tom’s height, wearing a Smokey the Bear hat, extended a hand.  Tom grasped it and squeezed.

“Tom Petrosky.”

“This here is Patricia Johnson and this is Eric Lowenstein.  They’re from our crime lab.  Very capable young officers.”

Tom nodded to both.  Both wore suits, Lowenstein had a tie, Patricia an open collar.  Her suit was dark blue, with a white shirt.  His was a greenish brown, also with a white shirt.  They brushed by, slipping on surgical gloves as they passed.

“Upstairs, master bedroom.  Do your bit, but please leave everything as it is.  Let me know when I can poke around.”

“Yes, sir”, Patricia answered, a little too curtly for Tom’s taste.  She turned her head smartly, her short hair falling into place.  Lowenstein followed her up the stairs, carrying a large medical bag and a camera.

“What do we have here, Chief?” Willis asked.

“Alice Hendrix, fifty-two, wife of Dr. Ken Hendrix.  Murdered last night.  Shot in the head, throat slit.  Dragged down here.”  He described the rest of the known details to the well-built sergeant.

“I understand you used to work homicide in Chicago,” Willis said.

“That I did.”  Tom swallowed hard, a sudden lump in his throat.

“Why’d you come here?”

Good question, Tom thought, but said, “My dad died last year.  Mom needed help selling the livestock.  Just never left.”

“Hmm.  You want us to take this case?”

“Thanks, but no.  We can handle it.  As long as your facilities are at my disposal.”

“Anytime.  I’ll leave my boys in your capable hands.”  Again, he grasped Tom’s hand and shook it once, emphatically.  Tom declined to remind the good sergeant that one of his “boys” was a woman.  Not bad looking at that.

*****

“We’re finished in here for now, sir,” Patricia called from upstairs.
 

Tom pushed off the loveseat.  Hendrix still sat on the long sofa, his head married to his hands.

“Allen, go on back.  Take Dr. Hendrix with you.  Get a statement on tape.”

“Sir?”  Allen asked, confusion clouding his sharp features.

Tom motioned the young officer to join him in the kitchen.

“A statement.  On tape.  Is there some word there you don’t understand?”

“But he said--”

“I know what he said.  Ask.  Him.  Again.”

Allen studied the floor, drawing imaginary circles with his shoe.

“You do know how to do an interrogation, right?” Tom asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there some problem with interrogating Dr. Hendrix?”

“His wife just died, sir.  He...he delivered me.  He’s my doctor.”

“And he may have killed his wife.”  Allen looked up, his eyes wide.  “Anymore problems?”

“No, sir.”  The young man steeled his expression and squared his shoulders.

“Good.”  Tom clutched Allen’s upper arm and squeezed reassuringly, then headed upstairs.

“Did you find anything?” Tom asked the pair of forensics experts as he reached the top of the stairs.  The dynamic duo watched him quietly, standing at near attention, flanking the doorway to the bedroom.

“Yes, sir,” Patricia answered.  “We’ll have a report for you first thing tomorrow morning, sir.”

“That’s great, Officer Johnson.”  She was definitely not thin, but not chunky either.  Well rounded, he thought.  A bit of a stomach, but who was he to complain?  A cute face, cheeks a tad puffy with tiny dimples, wide eyes, thin brows, and straight hair, cut short.  “But how about the highlights now?”  He smiled.  Her face remained set in concrete.

“Of course, sir.  Several--”

“You were both in the military, weren’t you?” Tom asked.

“Yes, sir!” the pair answered in unison.

“Thought so.  Continue Johnson.”  He squeezed past them and walked into the bedroom.  The pair folded in behind him.

“What about you, sir?” Patricia inquired.

“Nope.  Too young for Vietnam.”

“I see.  Anyway, sir, we found several sets of prints.  Fresh, good quality,” Patricia started.

The bedroom was decorated in a Southwestern style.  A large Navajo pot stood in one corner, desert landscapes hung on three walls, and rust colored carpet blanketed the room.

“The shooter used a pillow, that one on the floor,” Patricia continued.

“He was left handed,” Tom added.  Silence.  He turned and stared at two gaping mouths.  “Look at the pillow.”  Both heads bent.  “See the impression?”  Both nodded.  “Notice the pattern?”  Tom squatted and outlined the vague handprint.  “The killer used his right hand to hold the pillow, shooting with his left.  More than likely, left handed.”

A look close to awe crossed Patricia’s face.  Tom made the most of the opportunity.

“Care to join me for dinner tomorrow night, Officer Johnson?”

“Um, well, excuse me, sir?”

“Dinner.  Tomorrow.  You know, you sit down, shove food in your mouth?”

Lowenstein snickered.

“I appreciate the offer, sir.  But, well, I’m not sure--”

“A simple yes or no will suffice.”

“No, sir.  I can’t.”

“Understood.  Red is a very becoming color on you, Patricia.”

“But I’m wearing blue, sir.”

“Your face.”

Again, Lowenstein snickered.  Patricia lowered her head.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to embarrass you.”  Tom winked at Lowenstein who stifled a laugh.

“Hair and fiber?” Tom asked.

“What, sir?” Patricia answered, still crimson.

“Yes, sir,” Lowenstein answered.  He was well built with coal black hair.  His body was hard, but his face soft.  He probably shaved only once a week.  “Quite a bit of hair on the bed, both head hair and body hair.  We’ll examine the victim’s body for skin samples.  In case she put up a fight.”

“She didn’t,” Tom said.

Lowenstein raised his brows, but Tom offered no explanation.

“Blood samples?” Tom asked.

“We took several from the bed, the carpet here in the bedroom, and the carpet on the stairs.”

“How about from the cat?” Tom asked.

The two officers gawked at Tom, then followed his gaze and watched a cat as luminescent as a full moon saunter into the bedroom.  Splotches of matted, dark red fur speckled its otherwise flawless coat.  It stopped and warily regarded the trio.

Quietly, Lowenstein reached into his bag, produced a pair of tweezers, a small pair of scissors, and a paper envelope.  He handed the tweezers and scissors to Patricia.  Slowly, he set his bag on the floor, then hunched over and scooted toward the cat.  The feline looked over its shoulder, then out the door, then walked toward Lowenstein’s outstretched hand.  Swiftly and smoothly, Lowenstein scooped up the cat and presented it to Patricia.  She grabbed a clump of red fur with the tweezers, and snipped.  Lowenstein released the cat, who scampered out of the bedroom without a clue as to what had just transpired.  Patricia deposited the bloody fur in the envelope held open by Lowenstein.

“Impressive,” Tom mumbled, then examined the bed stand.  Other than the latest Stephen King and a reading lamp, the only other items were the blue foil package Tom had noticed earlier and an overturned photo frame.

“Tweezers.”

Patricia handed Tom the tweezers.  He gingerly picked up the package.  “Did you find the condom?”

“No, sir,” both answered.

“Did you check the toilet?” Tom asked.

“Yes, sir,” Patricia answered, back in the lead.

Tom ran a finger inside the package, still moist.  “Evidence bag.”

Lowenstein reached into his medical bag and extracted another paper envelope.  Tom deposited the condom in the envelope.

“Dust it for prints in the lab.  Include it in your report.”

“Yes, sir,” Patricia answered.

“Murder weapons?”

“No, sir.  We searched the drawers, the closet.  Nothing, sir,” Patricia replied.

“You sure about dinner?” Tom asked, as he gingerly tipped up the picture frame.  It showed Alice and Ken Hendrix in a loving embrace, smiling at the camera.

“Yes, sir.  Thank you.”

“Maybe another time?”

“Maybe, sir.”

He thought, though, an entire night of listening to this bright-eyed young woman call him “sir” might not be worth it.  He continued his inspection of the bedroom, the pair keeping a watchful eye on him, answering various questions Tom hurled at them.  After half an hour he was satisfied there was nothing immediately important.

“You’ll have the report tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Patricia answered.

“Seal the place.  Good job you two.  Call me first thing the report is ready.”

“Will do, sir.  And thank you.” Patricia said.

“For?”

“The invitation, sir.  I’m flattered.”

“I’m disappointed.  But you’re welcome.”  Again, Lowenstein snickered.  This time Patricia elbowed him in the gut and Tom chuckled.

In the hall, outside the bedroom, Tom stopped and stared at the floor. The carpet fringing the bloody trail seemed lighter.  He returned to the bedroom.  There he found no discernible differences in the carpet.  On the stairs, there was too little light to tell.  He stored the tidbit away for recall if it became relevant.

*****

“How’s it going, Allen?  Dr. Hendrix?”  Tom strolled into the conference room at Marble Hill’s tiny police station.  The building was sandwiched between Merv’s Diner and the Quick and Ready Food Mart.  It was easy to walk by without realizing it existed.

Allen and Dr. Hendrix sat on opposite sides of a small wooden table, only big enough to accommodate four chairs, but barely small enough to fit in the square room.  Dr. Hendrix frowned.  His eyes were dry, his head bowed.  Allen had a pained expression on his tanned face.

“Afternoon, Chief.  We were just finishing.”  Allen slid a form and pen across the table.  Hendrix grasped the pen with his right hand and signed at the bottom of the form, then slid it back to Allen.  The officer gathered his yellow legal pad, the form, and the pen, then stood.

“Stay for a bit, Allen.”  Tom slid a chair out and sat.  Allen also sat.  Tom tipped his chair back and leaned against the wall, studying Dr. Hendrix.  No one said anything.  Dr. Hendrix kept his head bowed, his hands in his lap.

Tom hated the good doctor’s perfect hair.  His tailored suit wasn’t bad either.  However, Tom preferred his jeans, cotton shirt, and sports jacket, even in the heat of August.  The sports jacket was a habit acquired in Chicago, to hide his .45.  He preferred a shoulder holster, and even after returning to his hometown, where a crime involving a weapon had not happened since Bonnie and Clyde robbed the bank, until now, he still carried his gun; it was just a part of him.

Growing tired of Allen’s fidgeting, Tom asked, “Dr. Hendrix, was your wife having an affair?”

“What?”  The doctor’s head snapped up.  “I...what...just what the hell are you talking about?  Of course not.”

Allen made to speak.  Tom held up a hand and studied Dr. Hendrix.

“I mean, not that I know of.  Is there something I should know about?” Hendrix asked.

Tom didn’t answer.  Again, Allen tried to speak.  Tom flashed him a sharp look and the young officer clamped his mouth shut.

“So, as far as you know, she wasn’t?” Tom finally asked.

“That’s right.  I...I...I mean we had our problems...but she’d never do that.”  His bottom lip quivered.  His eyes pleaded.  He turned to Allen.  “You knew Alice.  She’d never cheat on me, would she?”  Allen remained silent.
Tom felt proud of him.

“Are you having an affair, Dr. Hendrix?” Tom asked.

Hendrix pushed back in his chair, banging into the wall, and stood.  “What the hell kind of question is that?  Just who do you think you are?”

“Just a simple yes or no will suffice.”

“Of course not.  I’d never.”  He slammed the chair under the table and grumbled incoherently.  Then he said,
"Are you through with me, Chief Petrosky?”

“For now.”  Tom stood and opened the door for Hendrix.
On the way out, Hendrix stopped and looked Tom in the eyes.  “Am I a suspect in my own wife’s death?”

Not flinching, Tom replied, “Absolutely.”

“Unsympathetic bastard,” Hendrix muttered as he walked out of the station and into the blistering Iowa heat.

Tom shrugged and turned around.  Allen’s mouth hung open, his bushy brows were scrunched, and his eyes narrowed.

“What’s the matter with you?” Tom asked.

“Um, don’t you think you were a little harsh on Dr. Hendrix?  I mean--”

“Let me tell you something, Allen.”  Tom leaned on the table.  “Alice Hendrix had sex just before dying, probably with her killer.  That means one of two people killed her.”

“Who?” Allen asked weakly.

“Either her husband or her lover.”  Tom pushed off the table and left the room.

*****
 

Tom waded through the evening humidity and climbed into his Jeep Cherokee.  He waited for a break in traffic; one car, probably the first fifteen minutes.  Rush hour.  Tom backed out and drove west through town.

Marble Hill had been built to allow inhabitants to avoid left turns.  Downtown consisted of two gas stations, one on each side of County Road G13, two diners, one on each side, two banks, Farmer’s Bank and Merchant’s Bank, one on each side, and two taverns, one on each side.  There was also two professional buildings, one on each side of the street, each with a handful of doctors, lawyers, accountants, and insurance people, and of course two dentists, one in each building.  North, toward Interstate 80 there was a spattering of fast food joints, another gas station, one small motel, and another tavern.

At the edge of town, the paving ended and the gravel began.  Tom drove through one of the two residential sections, this one on the left side, then turned off G13 onto an unmarked gravel road, drove another mile then turned into the former pig farm, parking outside the whitewashed garage.

“Thomas, is that you?” Tom’s mother called as he walked through the unlocked front door.  His mother was the only one who called him “Thomas”.

“Yeah, Ma.  It’s me.”  He turned into the family room, flipped on the television, and changed to WGN in time to catch the Chicago evening news.  As he plopped down in the worn, dark brown sofa, he heard the squeaking of his mother’s wheelchair as she rolled in to join him.  She remained just out of his vision and sat silently as Tom watched a news story about a shooting in Naperville, his fingers drumming the arm of the sofa.

“You ever think of selling this old place, Ma?” Tom asked, shifting in the sofa to see her.

A once slim woman, now thick in the middle after ten years in a wheelchair, she wore a baggy flower patterned dress, heavy tan shoes, and a frown.  Her thin gray hair was pulled straight back and tied in a short ponytail, not the usual ‘do for an elderly woman, but his mother was not the usual elderly woman.

“For land’s sakes, no.  I’ve lived her forty years, Thomas.  Why should I sell now?”

“It’s difficult to keep up, that’s all.”  He turned back to the news and watched two more stories in silence.  He knew his mother knew he wanted her to come back to Chicago with him, but neither came out and said anything about it.

“I heard Alice Hendrix was killed in her own home,” his mother said when a commercial started.  “That’s simply awful.  In her own home.”

Tom rose from the sofa.  “It wasn’t a pretty sight.”

“Have you caught the perp yet?”

Tom smiled and said, “No, Ma.  Not yet.  We will, though.”

“Jenny Anderson from the farm across the way called.  She said she heard from Marge that you think Dr. Hendrix killed his own wife.  She was appalled to think her doctor was a killer.  Is that true?”

“He’s a suspect, Ma.  I don’t necessarily think he’s the killer, though.  You can tell Jenny not to worry.  What’s for dinner?”

“Fried chicken.”

“Yours or the Colonel’s?”

“I beg your pardon,” she said, looking at him with disapproval.

“Just checking.”  He walked into the kitchen, laughing softly to himself, his mother following.  He’d only once made the mistake of attempting to help by pushing her wheelchair.  Never again.

After dinner he called a detective buddy of his in Chicago.

“Tom, how the hell are you?” Arny Wojciechowski, Tom’s former partner asked.

“Not bad, Arny.  How’s things up there?”

“Damn zoo.  Caseload’s piled to the ceiling.  Lieutenant’s on my butt, as usual.  Same old crap.  You’re not missing much.”

I’m not so sure, Tom thought, but answered, “Was quiet here.  But we had a murder last night.”

“That right?  What’s the name of your town, Mole Hill?”

“Marble Hill.”

“Oh, yeah.  Why the hell’s it called that?”

Tom told Arny, for the tenth time, about the marble quarry at the west end of town.  When the town was first settled, it had been a mining town.  But as the hill was whittled down, and the marble extracted from the ground until all that remained was a gaping, ugly hole, the town gradually shifted from mining to farming, and quickly shrank from over fifteen thousand to around five thousand people.  Now, the Marble Hill quarry was the source for most of the calls to the police station during the summer.  Every year at least one kid from a neighboring town drowned, or nearly drowned in the deep pool at the bottom.

“Anyway, Arny.  I need a favor.”

“Sure, buddy.  Anything.”

“I need you to check with Midway and find out if a Dr. Ken Hendrix flew out of there last night.  It was on Air Midwest.  Also, check and see if he attended the Midwest Association of Internal Medicine’s conference downtown.”

“Can do, buddy.  Say when you coming back for a visit?”

“Not sure.  Soon, I hope.  See ya, Arny.”

Tom hung up and plunked onto the sofa.  He heard dishes rattling in the kitchen and thought briefly about helping.  He knew, though, his mother would shoo him away.

*****

“Good morning, Officer Johnson,” Tom said.  Patricia stood in the doorway of his office.  “Pull up a chair.”

“Yes, sir.”

She tentatively stepped in and sat in one of the folding chairs opposite Tom’s desk.  Whereas yesterday her hair had been straight, pretty much dead, today it was animated, pulled back behind her ears and curled.  Quite cute.  Yesterday she’d worn an ultra-conservative pants suit and flats.  Today she was dressed in knee-length tan shorts, tan heels, and a breezy, light colored blouse, with the obligatory jacket to hide her weapon.  She clutched a strapless brown handbag in one hand, and a thick manila folder in the other.

“You look great,” he said.

She nodded curtly and muttered, “Thank you, sir.”

Tom admired her muscular legs.  What he’d mistaken yesterday for plumpness turned out to be hard bulk.  He decided an evening of being called “sir” might after all be worth it.

“Change your mind about dinner tonight?” he asked.

She blushed, looked at the folder cradled in her lap, and said, “I really can’t tonight, sir.  But...um maybe tomorrow?”  She looked up and her lips twitched at the corners.

“Was that a smile?”

She looked down again, her cheeks flaming.

“I’d be delighted.  Tomorrow night.”  Tom rubbed his hands together.  “How about dinner at my house?”

Her head snapped up and she raised her brows.

“My mother’s a wonderful cook.”

“You live with your mother, sir?”

Tom frowned.

“I’m...sorry, sir.  I didn’t mean it that way.  You just don’t look like the type to live with your mother.”

He explained about his father’s death and how he’d come home to care for his mother.  “Of course, all she lets me do is yard work.  If I even lift a finger inside, she smacks me with a broom handle.”

“Really, sir?” she asked with wide eyes.

He smiled heartily and said, “One thing, Patricia.”

“Yes, sir.”  She straightened in her chair.

“If we’re going to date, no more ‘sir’.  Understood?”

“Yes, s...Tom.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it.  What have you got?”

She nearly vibrated with excitement as soon as her report was mentioned.  Scooting to the edge of her chair, she opened the folder and set it on the desk.  “The blood on the bed, the bedroom floor, the stairs, and the kitchen floor matched the victim’s.  Type A positive.”

“And on the cat?” Tom asked.

“Pardon me?”  She frowned.

“The blood on the cat.  Did it match the victim?”

Patricia rifled through her report.  “Um...Darn.  Eric did the blood work.  He must have missed that.  Sorry.”  She looked at him, her expression devastated.  “I’ll get on him as soon as I get back.”

He nodded, tapping a pencil on his desk.  “Go on.”

“Two sets of prints identified, the victim’s and her husband’s.”

“On the condom package?”

She blushed, cleared her throat and answered, “The victim’s print only.”

“Sex?”

“Sir?”

“Did the victim have sex?  And don’t call me sir.”

“Sorry.  Yes.  But rape is unlikely.  No bruises, penetration seemed unforced.  No semen, though.  But we can DNA type from the hair samples.”

“What do you think happened?” Tom asked.

She sat back and steepled her hands.  “It’s hard to tell.  Have you questioned the victim’s husband?”

“Yup.  Claims he was in Chicago at a conference.  I’m having it checked out.  Didn’t appear to be any marks on him.  But he was wearing a suit.  There didn’t seem to any signs of a struggle, anyway.  What about her wounds?  What did Brunts say?  Was the cutter left handed?”

She leaned forward again and answered, “Brunts couldn’t tell, but I was able to ascertain the cut on the throat was done with the right hand, from behind.”

Tom raised his brows.  She smiled sheepishly, then cleared her throat.  “Anyway, deeper penetration on the left side of the victim’s throat.  The other cuts, across the body, hard to tell.”  She leaned back, a thin smile on her full lips.  “One thing I found odd.”

“And that was?”

“It appears the cuts on the victim were made at least two hours after the gun shot wound.”

“Really?”

She nodded.

“Excellent job, Patricia.”

Finally, a genuine full-fledged smile unfurled on her face.  A moment of silence hung between them.  She studied the office, what little there was.  He followed her gaze to a picture on the wall of him, two other uniformed officers, and the mayor of Chicago.  His first successful homicide case, a proud moment, a high profile case.  Unfortunately the killer was back on the street in less than three years.

“So why’d you change your mind?” Tom asked pulling his attention from the picture, avoiding the trap of memories.

She hesitated, then said, “Just a hunch you’re a nice guy.”

“Thanks.  Want me to pick you up, say around five-thirty?”

“I live in Oskaloosa.  I can meet you here.”

“That’ll work.”  He stood and walked around the desk.  She also stood and grasped his hand firmly.  “See you tomorrow evening, or sooner should something break.”

She smiled, lowered her head and left the room.  He watched her walk out the door into the already stifling morning heat, then returned to his desk, grabbing the folder with the report.  He quickly flipped through the neatly typed pages, skimming the subheadings.  At the back of the folder were photos of the murder scene.  He chose a picture of the condom package from the bedroom and studied it briefly, then picked up his phone.  He asked his dispatcher, Carolyn, to find a phone number for him.

“Aztec Products Incorporated,” a pleasant female voice answered when Tom called the company listed on the condom package.

“Yes, may I speak to someone in charge of distribution of your condoms?”

A pause.  The woman said, “Hold on.”

Another series of rings, then another woman answered, “This is Liz, can I help you?”

“Yes, this is Police Chief Tom Petrosky of Marble Hill.  If I give you a lot number off a condom package, can you tell me what store sold it?”

“Probably,” Liz answered, hesitantly.  “At least we’d be able to tell you what distributor it went to.  And if the distributor keeps good records, they’d be able to say where it went from there.  May I ask why?”

“We found a package at a crime scene.  We’d like to find out who purchased it.”

“Okay.  Give me the brand and lot number, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Tom rattled off the brand name and a twelve digit number, then said thanks, and hung up.

An hour and a half later, while Tom was reading the lab report, the phone buzzed.

“This is Tom Petrosky.”

“Yes, Chief, this is Liz from Aztec Products.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“About that condom package you found.  Where is Marble Hill?”

“Iowa, ma’am.”

“Then you’d probably be most interested in the cases we sent to our Des Moines distributor.  We recently shipped fifteen.  And you’re in luck.  They have a sophisticated tracking system.  You know one of those new bar code reader systems.  They have these guns--”

“And?” Tom said, barely masking his impatience.

“And?  Oh.  They sent six cases to a pharmacy in Sioux City, six to Waterloo, and three to Oskaloosa.”

“Bingo.  What was the name of the pharmacy in Oskaloosa?”

“Um.  Let me see.  Ben’s Pharmacy on River Drive.”

“Thank you very much, Liz.”  He hung up and left his office.

*****

The drive to Oskaloosa took thirty minutes; a half an hour of endless corn fields broken only by an occasional intersection.  At least traffic was light.  In Oskaloosa it took Tom another fifteen minutes to find Ben’s Pharmacy, a neighborhood drug store, nestled in a strip mall on the west side of town.

He walked down the first aisle, past the hair dyes, hair spray, shampoo, and conditioner to the back of the store.  The first thing he noticed was the surveillance camera in the corner, pointing toward him, watching him.  He lingered around the condom packages hanging on hooks below the service counter, chuckling at the warrior names like Trojan, Ramses, and Sheik.  And finally, Aztec, the brand Sacrifice.  Slipping a package of ten off the hook, he wondered if he’d need any tomorrow night.  As his gaze wandered past the condoms and to the counter, he met the disapproving stare of a bespectacled young woman.

“Can I help you?” she asked haughtily.  She wore a white smock with her name in script over one breast;
"Stephanie”.

Tom smiled sheepishly and set the package of condoms on the counter.  “I hope so.”  He fished his badge from his jacket and showed it to the woman.  “I’d like to speak to the pharmacist.”

Stephanie regarded him indignantly and said, “That’s me.”

She looked barely eighteen.  He shrugged and told her he wanted to see the video tapes from the surveillance camera for the past two weeks.  A bar code gun lay on the counter so he also asked if they kept a record of date and time of each purchase.

“I don’t think each purchase is recorded,” she answered, “I believe the inventory is decremented, that’s all.”  She opened the door at the end of the pharmacy and walked out, turning away from Tom, beckoning him to follow.  As she led him into the back, he admired her shapely legs.

“Here you go,” she said, pointing to a rack of video tapes and a single monitor.  “We were robbed about four years ago.  After that the owner installed this system.  You’re in luck, we rotate the tapes bi-weekly.  Have at it.”

She brushed by him and he said, “Sorry about not thinking you were the pharmacist.  I must be getting old, you look so young.  How long have you been here?”  He smiled his most gracious smile.

“About a year.  My first job after graduation.”  Flashing a coy grin, she walked away.

After a couple hours of watching most of the residents of Oskaloosa purchasing drugs, or so it seemed, Tom had narrowed it down to four tapes which showed four men who each rummaged around below the service counter then set what looked like a condom package on the counter.  He scooped up the four tapes and walked into the main store.

“Mind if I take these with me?  I’ll return them within a week,” he asked Stephanie, who was filling a small plastic bottle with two-tone blue capsules.

“Yeah, I suppose that’ll be all right.  Nobody checks them anyway.”

He nodded and walked away.

*****

Next stop, the State Police lab, south branch in Ottumwa, a thirty-five minute drive.  Tom’s future date was in.

“Afternoon, Officer Johnson,” he said, walking into the main laboratory.

“Tom.  What a pleasant surprise.  And you brought movies.”

“No Academy Award performances here.”  He set the videos on the lab bench.  Patricia sat on a stool, a microscope in front of her.  She wore a lab coat.  Must be my day for people in white coats, he thought.
"Where’s your partner in crime?”

“Lowenstein?  He’s in the field.  Found an abandoned car on Interstate 80, blood on the seat.  Probably nothing, but...”  She shrugged.

“Got a VCR?”

“Sure.”  She pushed away from the bench and led Tom to a small room with two walls full of video equipment.  She switched on a television and slid a tape in.  Together they watched a fair haired man buy a package at the pharmacy counter.

“Suspect number one.  Each tape is positioned at a man buying what looks like a package of condoms.”  She looked down, cheeks aflame.  Her chagrin amused him, but he also found it charming.  “Anyway, see what you can do with them.  Hopefully enlarge the image enough to read the package.  If you find one with Aztec, print it out.  Can I wait?”

“Take me about an hour, but sure.  There’s coffee in the lobby, and magazines.  Old, but...”  She shrugged.
 Tom left the room, wondering if the coffee or the magazines were old.  A little less than an hour later Patricia burst into the lobby.

“Tom!  We got him!”

He smiled thinly, containing his excitement.  It wasn’t that difficult.  “Let’s see.”

Patricia handed him a computer enhanced picture of a man with tightly curled, black hair and a bushy mustache smothering his upper lip.  Plainly visible was the word “Aztec” on the box he’d set on the counter.

“It’s a start.  Make another copy and run it through your computer and the FBI, would you?”

“A start!?”  Her dark eyes danced.  He almost kissed her, then he almost slapped her.  “A start, we’ve got the bastard.  This is him.  Has to be.  Same brand.”

Calmly Tom said, “Okay, it’s a good start.  Let me know what you find out.”  He leaned over and pecked her on the cheek.  That shut her up.  “See you tomorrow evening.”

On the way out the door, he stopped and asked over his shoulder, “What about the cat?”

Patricia, who had started for the lab, paused and said, “What cat?”

He said nothing and narrowed his eyes.

“Oh, the cat.  Eric said he’d do it as soon as he returned.”  She shrugged.  He nodded and left.

*****

“Little Tommy Petrosky,” Beatrice Crown crooned as he walked into the beauty shop.  A little bell above the door announced his arrival.  He swore if she pinched his cheeks, like when he was young, he’d smack her.  But she didn’t.  “Come for a makeover?”  Two blue-haired ladies sitting under silent hair dryers snickered.  Beatrice’s neon dress vibrated when she chuckled as well.  Tom smiled, wondering briefly why the blue-haired ladies were under hair dryers that weren’t drying hair.

“How are you Mrs. Crown?”  He nodded to the other ladies and said, “Mrs. Ghertner, Mrs. Perine.  Hot out isn’t it?”  They only nodded, still snickering, hands over lipsticked mouths.

Beatrice Crown had been, still was, and would always be the know everyone, know everything of Marble Hill.  She had an information network the CIA would envy.  If someone was screwing around, Beatrice knew about it.

Tom shoved the picture of the condom buying suspect under her ample nose.  “Ever seen this man before, Mrs. Crown?”

“Why let me take a look.  Ooo, handsome devil.  Why I believe he looks...yes could be...oh, but I can’t be sure.”

Tom waited patiently.  Beatrice showed the picture to her customers, who only nodded.

“You know, Tommy, this looks a lot like that man who hung around with Alice Hendrix, God rest her soul.”  All three ladies crossed themselves in unison; none of them were Catholic.

“Could you define ‘hung around’?”  Now, Tom felt excited, and glad Patricia wasn’t there.  She’d have caused a scene.

“Oh, you know.”  She winked and the other pair snickered again.

“She was having an affair?” Tom asked.

“Well, now, you didn’t hear it from me.  But they sure looked lovey dovey.  Can’t say that I blame the poor dear, either.”

“How’s that?” he asked.

Beatrice put her hand to her mouth.  “You didn’t know?  About Dr. Hendrix?”

“Please.  Enlighten me.”

“Well.”  She moved closer to him, the scent of rose nearly knocking him over.  “Dr. Hendrix has been messing around with this little trollop over in Barnes City.  Cute little thing, but young.  The nerve of that man.”

“Do you know her name?”

“My word no.  I only heard this from Betty Harris, who heard from Mable Kraft, who heard from her cousin’s daughter in Barnes City.”

Even fourth hand, her information was more reliable than CNN.

“You’ve been a terrific help, Mrs. Crown.  And your hair looks fantastic.”  She blushed and swatted him on the shoulder.

“Oh, you always were a charmer.”  She started recounting a tale of his youth to the dryer ladies, but Tom slipped out into the stifling heat and walked the three blocks to the station.

*****

The phone buzzed.  When he answered, Doris, the evening dispatcher, said, “An Officer Johnson from the state police, Chief.”

“Thanks, Doris.”

“His name is Jimmy Cheevers and he has a criminal record,” Patricia said before he even had a chance to say hello.

“Slow down, Patricia.  Take a deep breath.”

In an icy tone, she said, “Are you patronizing me?”

“Hardly.  I’d just like coherent information.”

He heard an audible breath.  “Sorry.  His name is Jimmy Cheevers.  He came up in our computer.  Was arrested for assault in 1990.  Spent four years in Anamosa.  Currently lives in Oskaloosa.  I did some checking.  He was employed at the Sun Mart grocery store, but was fired seven months ago.  No job since.”  She gave his address, which Tom wrote down.

“And he’s been having an affair with Alice Hendrix,” Tom added.

Dead silence.  Then an awed, “Wow.  How did you find that out?”

“I have my sources.  Great work Patricia.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“What?  Wait.  Aren’t we going to go get him?”

“Not tonight.”

“But...”

“If he hasn’t skipped town, he’ll be there tomorrow.  By the way, did Lowenstein run the blood on the cat?”

More silence.  “Uh, no.  Not yet.  We had another call, and Eric had to--”

“Tomorrow will be fine.  Bye.”  He hung up and went home.

*****

“What’s the matter, couldn’t wait till tonight?” Tom asked.  Patricia entered the lobby of the shabby apartment building where Jimmy Cheevers lived.  The early morning sun filtered through the filthy glass door.

“Can’t let you have all the fun,” she answered.  Back to being plain-Jane, she wore another conservative pants suit, this one dark green with a cream colored blouse.  Tom had his usual, jeans, cotton shirt, sports jacket, and cowboy boots.

“Did you get a warrant?” she asked.

He nodded, then shut the mail slot and walked down the poorly lighted hall to room four, inserted a key, and opened the door.

“What if he’s home?”  Patricia flattened herself against the wall and reached inside her jacket.

“He’s not.  Hasn’t been here since the murder.”  Tom held up a pile of envelopes.  “Mail from the last several days.”

Patricia exhaled audibly and followed him in.

The apartment was nothing remarkable.  Mismatched, worn out furniture and the typical bachelor clutter.  They quickly searched the living room, the kitchen, which still had crusted dishes piled in the sink, and the one bedroom.  All the drawers of a splotchy wood dresser were full of clothes.  No gaps in the shirts and pants hanging in the closet.

“You think he’s left town?” Patricia asked.

While Tom rifled through the middle drawer of a roll-top desk, the only piece of decent furniture in the place, he replied, “Probably.”

“Doesn’t look like he took much.”

Tom pulled a checkbook from a desk drawer and flipped through the pages.  He whistled.  “Look at this.”
 Patricia scooted over to him and leaned in to see the checkbook.  He moved it a little, so she’d have to lean further.

“Stop that, Tom.”

He grinned, but adjusted the checkbook.  One week before the murder, Cheevers had made a deposit of $9,500.

“Now where do you think that came from?” he asked.  She shrugged.

An idea clicked.  A terrible idea, one hidden in the back of his mind.  One he hoped would be proven wrong.  Briefly, a memory of a case several years ago surfaced.  A case he’d solved in Chicago where a man purchased a huge life insurance policy on his wife, then hired a low life scum bucket to whack her.  The husband had skated on a technicality.  Both revulsion and longing surged through him.  Revulsion at the number of domestic cases he’d worked, and longing for the excitement, the thrill, Chicago.

He shed the memory and said, “What d’ya say we check Dr. Hendrix’s bank statement?”

“You think?”

What he thought was this case probably would not fall into place as easy as the one in Chicago, but hopefully, when solved, would stick.

*****

“Damn, Tommy.  You realize Dr. Hendrix is on the town council?” Judge Walker asked, narrowing his red-rimmed eyes.

Tom nodded slowly and said, “Yes, sir.”

“You sure you have reasonable suspicion?” Judge Walker, asked, his wrinkled face scrunched as he read the request for a subpoena.

“Mostly a hunch, sir.  But I have to check all avenues.”

“But it was his wife.”

“I realize that, sir.”  It had been so much easier in Chicago.  No one knew anyone else.  Everyone so dispassionate.

“Damn, I don’t like this.”  The judge scrawled his name on the signature line.  “This will not look good if you’re wrong.  Does the mayor know?”

“No, sir.  He’s in Des Moines for a meeting.”

The judge shook his head and handed Tom the subpoena.  He was still shaking his head when Tom left.

*****

As Tom walked into the station, clutching six months of Hendrix’s bank statements from Merchant’s Bank, Carolyn said, “Chief, I’ve got an Arny Woji-something on the line.  From Chicago.”

“Thanks, Carolyn.”

He hurried into his office and scooped up the phone.  “Arny, how’s the big city?”

“Hotter than Billy blue blazes and going nuts as usual.  How’s the small town?” Arny Wojciechowski asked.

“Getting a little more interesting.  What’s up?”

“Looked into your doctor friend.  He was here, buddy.  He checked into his hotel Sunday night, had breakfast, lunch, and dinner on Monday and Tuesday at the hotel.  Flew out of Midway early Wednesday morning.”

“Uh huh.  Anything else?”

“He spoke at the conference both Monday and Tuesday.”

“Hmm.  Oh well.  Thanks for the help, Arny.”

“No problem.  Anytime bud.  Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

“Thanks.”  Tom hung up and stared at the yellowing ceiling tiles, formulating his theory, distasteful as it was.  However, his mind drifted from the current case to cruising Rush Street, rousting hookers, pimps, and pushers.  To having a burger for lunch at Blackies on the corner of Clark and Polk with his buddies.  To after work, tearing the town down, starting at Kaz’s Restaurant and Bar, attached to the Avenue Motel, overlooking Grant Park.  He vowed he’d get back to Chicago before the summer disappeared, at least to see a couple Cubs games.

With a heavy sigh, he fell back to the present.  He quickly browsed the bank statements.  Nothing jumped out at him, so he went through them more carefully.  He found no withdrawals even close to $9,500.  There was a cash withdrawal for $800, three days after Jimmy Cheevers had deposited $9,500.  In disgust, he shoved the statements in the folder holding Patricia’s report.

Three insurance agents have offices in Marble Hill.  Tom called all three.  None of them had recently sold a large policy to Dr. Hendrix on his wife Alice.  None of them had sold a policy on Alice Hendrix to anyone, for that matter.  Given the hefty bank balance and the regular deposits, money did not appear to be the motive for Alice’s murder.  Strike greed.  Check on jealousy.

*****

“Wow,” Tom said when Patricia walked into the office at five-twenty-five.  She wore a tight, black knit short-sleeved blouse, black and yellow flower patterned pleated skirt that ended at the knees, black heels, and a shy smile that melted his accelerated heart.

“You look fantastic,” he said.

“Thanks,” she muttered, looking at the floor, her hands interlocked, hanging in front of her, thumbs wrestling each other.

Doris and Officer Ted, “don’t call me Theodore”, Edmunds watched the pair leave, both with stupid grins on their faces, for Doris a rarity.

“Don’t wait up,” Tom said over his shoulder as he and Patricia left the station.

Tom tried to concentrate on driving during the ten minute trip, but his eyes slid sideways to catch glimpses of Patricia’s striking profile.  She offered little conversation.  Traffic was non-existent.

As Tom turned onto the gravel road leading to his mother’s house, he said, “Bank statements revealed nothing.”

“Oh?”

“No matching withdrawal to account for Cheevers’ deposit.”

“Oh.”  She shrugged.

He pulled the Cherokee into the driveway, climbed out, ran around to Patricia’s side, and helped her down, lightly taking her hand, noticing how cold it was, even though the temperature still hovered above ninety.  His stomach churned and his ears burned.  The pair strolled along the cobblestone path to the front porch.

“One word of warning, whatever you do, don’t offer to help my mother.  No matter what.”

“Why?”

“Trust me.  Just don’t ask.”  He put his hand on the screen door handle and turned.  “Oh, and don’t worry too much about conversation.  She’ll do most of the talking.”

They walked in.  The conditioned air met them with a blast of cool.

“I’m in here, Thomas,” his mother called from the kitchen.  Then she appeared at the doorway, her eyes jumping with excitement.  She wore one of her three church dresses, and her hair had been recently done, no doubt a Beatrice Crown house call.  “And you must be Patricia.”  She maneuvered toward them and extended her hand to Patricia.  “My you are lovely.  And young.  My my.”

“Mother.”

“Oh hush, now.  Women liked to be called young.  Isn’t that right, dear?  You know Thomas hasn’t had a date in over a year, not since coming here.  And who knows what kind of women he hung around with in Chicago.”

Patricia smiled end to end, showing wonderfully bright, straight teeth.

“Mother, please.”

His mother only grinned and said, “Come, come.”  She wheeled around and rolled into the kitchen, talking the entire time.  “You’re with the state police, I understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Patricia answered.

“Oh, please, call me Edna.  That must be exciting work.  You know my Thomas used to work for the Chicago police department.  Homicide.  Chased killers all day and night.  I worried so for him.  And now this murder here.  Poor Alice Hendrix...” and on and on.

“Mother, what is this?” Tom asked as they stepped into the kitchen.

The dining table was decorated with a fine lace tablecloth.  Two tall lit candles in polished silver candleholders sat at each end of the table.  His mother’s fine china and best silverware, recently polished, adorned the table.

“There’s only two places,” he said.

“Oh, I’ll eat in my room.  Go on you two, sit.  I’ll get everything.  But of course if you’re not ready to eat yet...”

Patricia walked to the table and said, “It’s simply lovely, Edna.  And the pork roast smells wonderful.  I’m starving.”  His mother beamed.

Dinner lasted much too short of a time.  The conversation stayed neutral, nothing about work, nothing too personal, mostly about Tom’s childhood in Marble Hill, and about the town itself.

After dinner, Patricia asked about taking the dishes to the sink and Tom said, “You’re in her good graces.  Don’t blow it now.”

They walked onto the porch and sat in the old swing, a fixture in the house for as long as Tom could remember.  He could almost smell the sweet aroma of his pa’s pipe and hear the rustle of his ma’s magazine.  He’d spent many a summer evening sandwiched between them.

After a few moments of gently rocking and staring into the growing darkness, Patricia said, “So, you haven’t had a date in over a year, huh?”

He glanced at her, but she gazed out at the still night.  “Nope.”

“How come?”

“There’s not exactly an over abundance of eligible women in Marble Hill.  Especially my age.”

“I’m not your age.”

“Go ahead, rub it in.”

She giggled, “I’m sorry.  That was a low blow.”

“What about you?  Fighting off the men?”

She shrugged, cradled her hands in her lap, and said, “I’ve haven’t had a serious relationship in a couple years.”

“Define serious.”

“More than a single date.”

“What?”  It came out a little louder than he’d intended.  She looked at him sharply.

“Why does that surprise you so much?” she asked, frowning.

“Well, you’re very attractive and very sweet.”  He met her gaze and held it.

She looked away and muttered, “Thanks.”

“I just can’t believe they’re not lined up for you.”

Silent, she again gazed out into the darkness.  A night hawk screamed.  A bull frog belched.  The still air carried a hint of rotting corn.

“It’s...I don’t know.  It’s hard to explain,” she said, even though he’d not asked for an explanation.  “Men my age seem to be after only one thing.  And once they attain that lofty goal, well you know.”  She shrugged.

He watched her, trying desperately to keep the lust from his eyes.

“God I must sound like a spinster church lady.”

Tom said nothing, but moved a little closer.  As if they’d known each other for years, not days, she laid her head on his shoulder.

“So you’re looking for a mature man?” he asked.

“I guess.”

“I think I qualify, then,” he said.

“I’d say.  I noticed you’re reading MODERN MATURITY.”

“That’s my mothers.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Tom squeezed her knee, just above the kneecap.  Patricia yelped and kicked out.  He then concentrated his attack on her sides, tickling her mercilessly.

“I’ll show you mature, little miss smarty pants.”

“Stop...oh God...don’t.”  She slid to the far end of the swing, choking with laughter, but Tom wouldn’t let up.

After a moment of relentless tickling he stopped and found himself nearly on top of her, their faces inches apart.  She smiled sweetly, then gently closed her eyes and parted her lips.  She smelled wonderful, reminding him of a gentle spring breeze across a field of wildflowers.  He kissed her, tentatively at first, then boldly.

“Now what do we do?” Patricia asked when Tom pushed away and sat up.

He sighed deeply and said, “As difficult as it will be, I believe I should take you back to town.  I’ll call you tomorrow.  Maybe we can get together Sunday?”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder again.

Two hours later, after little additional conversation, Tom unfolded his arm from around Patricia and took her back to town.  Outside the station, they faced each other, holding hands.  Plastered against the station window were the faces of Ted and Doris.  Tom shot them a lethal glance and then kissed Patricia.  She melted into his body.  His heart vibrated against his ribs.  Reluctantly, they parted.  She climbed into her car.  He watched until the taillights were only a memory.  Giving another lethal stare at the pair in the window, he got into his Cherokee and drove home.

*****

At precisely 7:35 on Saturday morning the phone on the night stand rang.  It was only inches from Tom’s ear.  He snatched the receiver off its stand, his eyes still glued shut.

“Hello,” he mumbled, forcing open his right eye.

“The blood on the cat is different from the victim’s blood,” Patricia blurted.

“That’s nice,” Tom replied, finally able to get both eyes open.

“Tom, are you awake?”

“Nope.”  He sat up, stretching his free arm above his head, groaning at the cracking in his shoulder.

Saying her words slowly, like speaking to a foreigner, Patricia said, “The blood on the cat is type O.  It does not match the victim’s blood.”

“Oh,” Tom replied.

“Yes.  O,” Patricia said.

Tom shook his head.  “I thought you were going to take the day off,” he said, slipping out of bed, cradling the phone between ear and shoulder, pulling on a pair of jeans.

“I remembered last night that Eric hadn’t run the blood.  So I went in and did it myself.”

“How conscientious of you.”  He wiped his face with his free hand, breathing deeply, hearing his mother stir in her bedroom across the hall.

“Don’t you think we should determine Jimmy Cheever’s blood type?” Patricia asked, her words spinning like an old 78.

“Good idea.  You handle that.  Then meet me at the Hendrix house around eleven.  Let’s take another look around.”

“Okay, see you then,” she said, a little too chipper for Tom that early on a Saturday morning.

*****

Tom plodded into the station around 9:00, swept his gaze over the office, then asked Carolyn, “Where’s Allen?  Doesn’t he work this weekend?”

“With Dr. Hendrix.”  She glanced up from filing her nails.  “He’s helping him move into his temporary apartment.”

“Well ain’t that wonderful.  Cavorting with a suspect.  For Christ’s sake.  Get him on the radio.”  He added as an afterthought, “Please.”  He went into his office.

“Got him, Chief,” Carolyn called a moment later, before Tom could even sit down.

He walked to the radio.  Carolyn wheeled her chair to the corner, resuming her nail filing, a business law text book balanced in her lap.

“Allen, since you’re with Dr. Hendrix anyway, ask him what his blood type is,” Tom said into the microphone.

After a staticy pause, Allen said, “He wants to know why, Chief.”

“Because I don’t want to get a subpoena for his medical records.  That’s why.”

“B negative, Chief.”

“Thank you, Allen.  By the way, I’m not finished with the crime scene yet.”

“Sir?” Allen asked.

“Don’t allow Hendrix to take or move anything from his house except clothes and toiletries.  Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.  Sorry, sir.  I thought--”

Tom clicked off, sighed, and tramped back to his office, all four steps.  At the door he stopped and called over his shoulder, “Carolyn, draw up a subpoena for Dr. Hendrix’s medical records.”  Something still bothered him.

“You bet, Chief.”

Forty-five minutes later, after disturbing first a judge and then a doctor on a Saturday, neither appreciating the intrusion, Tom sought the sanctity of his office to review Hendrix’s medical records.  The good doctor’s blood type was B-negative.  Also, Tom learned that Dr. Hendrix had had a vasectomy in 1994.  For that reason, Tom concluded, the condom had not belonged to Hendrix.  Not really a news flash, he thought.

*****

Tom stood in Hendrix’s kitchen staring at the floor, his eyes wandering along the dried trail of blood.  He heard the back door open and before he could turn, Patricia said, “They matched.  Cheever’s blood type is O.”

Tom wheeled around.  Patricia walked quickly toward him, her face screwed up in concentration.  He wondered if he should hug her or something, but the act seemed inappropriate at a murder scene, so he only smiled.  She frowned, looking past Tom into the kitchen.  Her brows were scrunched, her eyes in motion.

“Something wrong?” he asked, wondering if he’d made a mistake by not hugging her.

“Huh?”  She looked up, smiled briefly and said, “You mean with us?”

He nodded.

“No, no, no.  I had a hard time sleeping.  Two things kept bothering me about the case.”

“Oh.  I thought maybe...”

She lightly touched him on the arm, then said, “And I kept thinking about you.”  His knees nearly gave out.

Tom breathed deeply and returned his gaze to the kitchen.  “Cheever’s blood was on the cat?”

“Um hm,” she mumbled, shaking her head slightly, hand caressing her chin.

“So what’s bothering you?” he asked.

“If Alice Hendrix was shot in the head, why was she cut up later?  And why was she dragged into the kitchen?”

“Notice anything odd?” he asked, sweeping his arm to indicate the kitchen floor.

After a moment, Patricia said, “There’s a discoloration in front of the sink area and the refrigerator.  Like...”

“Like a rug used to be there?”

“Yeah.”

She walked around the lighter area, a rectangle measuring about eight feet long and six feet wide, a pool of crusted blood in the middle.  Suddenly she stopped and looked at Tom.

“My God.  Someone killed Jimmy Cheevers, dragged him down here, rolled him up in a rug and disposed of the body.  Then they dragged Alice Hendrix down to cover up the blood.”

“Scrubbed the carpet and floor first, then cut her up to make sure she’d bleed enough, hoping Cheevers’ blood would not be detected,” he finished for her.  “Only he missed the cat.”

“Dr. Hendrix?”  Her eyes lit up like a marquee on Broadway.

Tom shrugged.  “He has a solid alibi.”  He told her about the call from his friend in Chicago.

“Darn.  Then who?”

“That’s the next order of business.  I’m going to take another look around.  There’s another question we need answered.  Why?”

*****

Later that afternoon, Tom sat in his mother’s 1984 Oldsmobile Delta 88, outside an apartment complex where Dr. Hendrix had rented a room while his house remained a crime scene.  Allen apparently had returned to work as his cruiser was no where in sight.  Patricia had gone home saying she’d see him Monday, but with a warning that if anything broke, he’d better call her.  He said he’d call her anyway.

They’d found three interesting pieces of evidence in the house upon further search.  In the kitchen pantry, shoved behind Tupperware containers of flour and sugar, on the topmost shelf was a carving knife set, with one of the larger knives missing.

In the upstairs den, in a locked desk drawer that Patricia had jimmied, (a woman with many talents) they found a file folder with ten mutual fund statements from ten different funds.  The only thing Tom had seen unusual about them was that five had been reduced from over one-hundred thousand each to an even thousand, and the other five had been recently opened with a little over a hundred thousand each.  Upon a cursory study, it seemed a natural set of transactions, as the first five were all higher risk funds and the new ones were bond funds providing more security and a steady income.  The thousand being left in the higher risk funds to retain them as open, thus allowing movement if conditions should warrant.

Finally, Patricia had found, tucked under pairs of panties in a dresser drawer, a business card for a lawyer in Oskaloosa.  Across the bottom of the card had been the words, “We specialize in divorce and custody cases”.  The “why”, while still hazy, began to take form.

Dr. Hendrix appeared at the entrance to the complex, walked to his car, glanced around the parking lot, and climbed in.  Tom followed him out of the parking lot.  Saturday was a busy day in Marble Hill, so the traffic was heavier than usual, at least five or six cars.  Tom had no problem avoiding detection until they left town.  When Hendrix started toward Barnes City, on the gravel road, Tom began to worry.

Fortunately, it had not rained for over a week and the gravel was bone dry.  Clouds of dust billowed behind Hendrix’s Cadillac Seville, easily cloaking Tom’s presence.  In Barnes City, Hendrix rolled to a stop outside a small bungalow badly in need of paint.  Tom drove by, turned down the next block, circled around, and approached the house from the other direction.

Parked across the street, he had a clear view of the occupant’s car, an older model Honda, parked in the driveway of the tiny house.  He radioed the station on his hand-held and gave Allen the license number telling him to find out who the car belonged to.  Fifteen hot minutes later, Allen radioed back giving Tom the name Sissy Senters, a twenty-three year old, single woman, currently employed at Oskaloosa General Hospital as a licensed practical nurse.

An hour later, with his powder blue cotton shirt stained a darker blue from rivers of sweat, Tom gave up on the good doctor and returned home.  He had part of the answer as to why, but it didn’t seem enough to murder.  Plus, he still had a granite-hard alibi to crack.

*****

Tom and Patricia spent Sunday on Lake Red Rock, about ten miles west of Pella.  One of Tom’s childhood friends lent them a nice sized Bayliner and Tom taught Patricia how to water-ski.

On Monday, with the lake spray still fresh in his memory, he picked up his office phone and dialed the lawyer on the card found in Alice Hendrix’s underwear drawer.

“Cofman, Nissenholtz, Townsley, and Weinstein, may I help you?” a pleasant female voice answered.

“This is Police Chief Tom Petrosky of Marble Hill.  I need to talk to the attorney handling Alice Hendrix’s divorce.”

“One moment please.”

“This is Sheldon Nissenholtz.”

“Mr. Nissenholtz, this is Police Chief Tom Petrosky of Marble Hill.  Have you heard about your client, Alice Hendrix?”

A brief pause, then, “Yes.  I heard.  Terrible news.  She deserved better.”

“Most people do, sir.  Anyway, can you answer a few questions?”

“Certainly.  I’ll do what I can,” Nissenholtz answered.  His voice had a nasal quality, probably from having to pronounce his last name all his life.

“I assume Mrs. Hendrix was going to file for divorce?”

“Yes.”

“On what grounds?” Tom asked.

“Her husband had been unfaithful to her.”

“Did you know she had an affair as well?”

“No I didn’t.  But I can’t blame her.  She said her husband had been having an affair with some nurse in Barnes City for over two years.  She also said she had evidence.”

“Really?”  Tom straightened in his chair.  “Did she say what?”

“No.  But Chief Petrosky?”

“Yes.”

“Alice Hendrix was a very bitter woman.  Over the time I knew her, about three months, she’d worked herself into a state of complete hatred.  She wanted to take her husband for all he had.”

“Like?”

“They had investments totaling over half a million.  She wanted all of it.”

Tom reached for the case folder and flipped it open, quickly finding the mutual fund statements.  “Did she give you the names of the investments?  Were they mutual funds?”

“Yes.  Just a moment, I’ll need to get the file.”  Canned music floated over the line, a catchy jazz ensemble.  When the attorney returned to the phone, he read off five mutual fund names.  The five that had been nearly cleaned out.

Tom thanked the attorney and said he’d call back if he needed more information.  After setting the phone down he studied the fund statements more closely.

He slapped the heel of his hand to his forehead.  “Of course, I should have noticed this earlier.”  The five funds that had been depleted had both Ken and Alice Hendrix listed as investors.  The five new funds had only the name Ken Hendrix and the beneficiary as Sissy Senters.  Back to motive number one -- money.

The phone buzzed.

“Yes, Carolyn.”

“Your girlfriend’s on the line,” Carolyn answered in a juvenile sing-song voice.

Tom ignored her and pushed the button for line one.  “Good morning, Patricia.”

“Tom, I found our connection between Dr. Hendrix and Cheevers,” Patricia said.

“Yes?”

“Jimmy Cheevers is the cousin of Sissy Senters.”  He’d given her Sissy’s name to check out on Sunday.  “By the way, I had a great time Sunday.”

“Me too.  That certainly gives us the connection.”

“You don’t seem too excited.  Boy, I nearly jumped out of my chair when I read that on the computer.”

I can imagine, he thought, but said “Sorry, Patricia.  This type of murder case is the kind that makes me wish I’d never become a cop.  Had way too many of these cases in Chicago.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When it’s random violence, or some psycho, a cop can distance himself.  Chalk it up to bad genetics or something.  But when a man kills his wife, or in this case has his wife killed, it puts the human race in a different light, a dark light.”

Silence.  “So you think Dr. Hendrix is responsible?” she asked, her excitement only slightly diminished by his maudlin mood.

Tom sighed.  “Yes.  But we’ve got to prove it.  Thanks for the info.  Let me know if you find anything else.”  He hung up and stared at the ceiling tiles, slowly shaking his head.

He decided to check the Hendrix house one more time, to try and find the evidence Alice Hendrix had that her husband was cheating on her.  Before leaving, though, he did some calculations, which strengthened the link between Dr. Hendrix and Jimmy Cheevers.  The difference between the money taken out of the first five mutual funds and that put into the new ones was ten thousand dollars.

*****

“I knew you’d come back here again,” Patricia said.  Tom was rummaging through the kitchen cabinets looking for something Alice Hendrix may have hidden.  He stopped his rummaging and smiled at her.  “What are we looking for this time?” she asked.

He told her about his conversation with the lawyer.

“A video tape,” she said.

He climbed off the counter and stared at her.

“The best evidence you could have would be a video tape,” she repeated.

“You’re a brilliant woman, Officer Johnson.”

She beamed.

Tom started for the living room where a large collection of video tapes were stored in a wood grain cabinet.  Patricia stopped him.

“It wouldn’t be there.  She’d have it hidden.  Have you checked her car?”

After half an hour they’d thoroughly searched the car and come up empty.  They stood in the driveway and stared across the lawn toward a distant cornfield, the relentless sun washing the color away.

“What about the basement?” Tom asked.

“We’ve searched their before.  I don’t recall seeing a video tape.”

“Where would Alice Hendrix put something that her husband would be unlikely to frequent?” he asked.

“The laundry room,” Patricia blurted.

“Rather a sexist thing to say.”

She arched her brows and shrugged.

Fifteen minutes later, Tom pulled a video tape off the back of the washing machine where it had been taped.  The video was of Dr. Hendrix and Sissy Senters having sex.  At least ten instances had been recorded, with dates and times on the screen.

Later, fingerprint analysis revealed Dr. Hendrix’s prints on the tape.  He knew about it.

*****

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”  Dr. Hendrix burst from his apartment complex and yelled at the four people gathered around his car.  Tom had found a spare set of keys in the Hendrix household, so had opened the trunk for Patricia and Lowenstein to do their stuff.  Allen stood watch, keeping passersby away, a pained expression on his face, not happy about his assignment.

Tom shoved a warrant in the good doctor’s face, a warrant that had not been easy to get.  Judge Walker was an unhappy camper when Tom left his office.  This time the mayor had been consulted, but when presented with the evidence, neither one could balk.

“This is a warrant to search your car, Hendrix.  Now please stay back.”

The doctor stopped in his tracks and watched with burning eyes.  Patricia motioned Tom to the car.

“We’ve found traces of blood and carpet fibers different from the car’s.”  Then, in an insistent whisper, she said,
"Are you going to arrest him?”

“Not yet.  I’m still missing one piece.”

Tom ordered Allen to keep an eye on Dr. Hendrix and if he tried to leave town, to arrest him.  The young man grimaced, but acquiesced.

Tom drove to Cedar Rapids.

On his way back, his car phone beeped.  It was Patricia who told him analysis of the blood found in Hendrix’s car revealed type O positive, matching both Cheevers and the blood on the cat.

After clicking off his car phone, he snatched the radio microphone from the dashboard.  “Allen, this is Tom.  Where are you?”

“Sitting outside Dr. Hendrix’s apartment.  He hasn’t come out all afternoon.”

“Whose watching the back?”

“I called in Ted, like you said.”

“Good job.  Get Ted and arrest Dr. Hendrix.  I’ll be there in about ten minutes.  Book him on murder and accessory to murder.  Call the county attorney.  Try to delay Hendrix from calling his lawyer until I get there.”

“But sir...”

“But what, Allen?  Just do it.”

“Yes, sir.”

*****

“I was in Chicago.  This is ridiculous.  How could I kill anyone?”  Dr. Hendrix sat in the tiny conference room.  Patricia sat across from him.  Tom leaned against the wall, arms and ankles crossed.

“Where’s the body, Dr. Hendrix?” Tom asked.

“What body?  What are you talking about?”  His gaze bounced from Patricia to Tom.

“The body of Jimmy Cheevers, the man you hired to kill your wife.  The man you then killed yourself.”

“I killed?” he whined.  “I was in Chicago.  Check with the hotel, the airlines.”

Tom stepped toward Hendrix, pulling a chair with him.  He sat close and looked Hendrix square in the eyes.  “I did check,” he said calmly.  “I also checked with the Cedar Rapids airport.  Air Midwest specifically.  Guess what, Doctor?”  Hendrix looked down, his hands clasped together on the table, his forearms taut.

“Melissa Andrews,” Tom continued, “a stewardess on Air Midwest remembers you flying from Chicago to Cedar Rapids on Tuesday night.”  He paused to allow his words to sink in.  Hendrix flashed a brief glance.  “A ticketing agent named George Summers remembers you flying back to Chicago, six hours later.  Under the name of Henry Kendall.”

Again, Hendrix looked from Tom to Patricia and back.  His mouth quivered.  He wrung his hands together.

“All right, I killed the bastard.  He was having an affair with my wife.  My wife.  My God, in my own bed.  And he killed her.  When he saw me, he killed her.”  He broke down and cried.  In between sobs he said, “I...I had suspected it for some time, so I came back to try and catch her.  When he saw me, he...he panicked and...killed her.  Came after me too, but I had a knife.  I killed him.”

Tom forced himself not to vomit all over the good doctor.  Before he could question him further, though, Hendrix’s lawyer stepped into the station.

*****

Six years ago in Chicago, a small woman, five-feet two, no more than ninety-three pounds, reached her breaking point.  Her husband back-handed her like a tennis ball once too often.  She attacked him with a butter knife, opening a wide gash across his forearm.  The husband picked the woman up and threw her into a glass paneled wall, shattering the glass, splitting the woman’s head.  He then lifted her and flung her into the television, breaking her neck.  But he wasn’t through, he kicked her across the living room like a Hackysack until she was barely recognizable.

Tom had stood in the prosecuting attorney’s office on a blistering August day in 1991 nauseated by the inner workings of the justice system.  They plea bargained down to manslaughter; a sentence of seven years.  When Tom vehemently protested, the assistant prosecutor handling the case said they were lucky the man pled.  It could have been construed as self-defense.  The spritely woman’s husband was six-four, two-hundred and seventy pounds.  Self-defense.  Yeah, right.

The scene, like a grossly misinterpreted Shakespearean tragedy with a skip, had played throughout Tom’s career over and over.  The curtain rose yet once again.

“You’ve got to be kidding.  We’ve got him dead to rights.  First degree.  Planned all the way,” Tom loudly said, pacing the modest office of the county attorney.  His stomach burned.  His head pounded so fiercely his eyes ached.

“It’s all circumstantial, Chief.  He’s admitted to killing Cheevers.  We have no proof he set it up,” the county attorney, a man in his forties, balding, with thick rimmed glasses calmly replied.  “Let’s take what we can get.”

“No proof!”  Tom stopped pacing, feeling as if steam shot from his ears.  Patricia laid a hand on his upper arm.

“Tom, calm down,” she softly said.

He shook her off, started toward the county attorney, who backed away behind his county issue, cluttered desk.

“We have ten-thousand dollars Dr. Hendrix can’t account for.”

“He claims he purchased a cabin in Lake of the Ozarks.  Which he did,” the prosecutor replied, his eyes flitting nervously to Patricia, begging her to restrain Tom.

“I just can’t believe this.  You buy his cock-and-bull story?” Tom asked.

“I don’t buy anything,” the attorney whined.  “But to prove it.  It’s all circumstantial.  The jury will have a hard time believing he paid for his wife’s murder.  And even if they do, she was having an affair with an obviously violent man.”

“He was having an affair, too.  We have it on video tape, for God’s sake.”

The county attorney’s secretary stuck her head in the door, her eyes wide, obviously checking to see everything was okay.  The county attorney waved her away.  Tom shut his eyes tight, breathed in deep, tilted his head back, and exhaled nosily.

“Screw it.  Come on Officer Johnson.  We’ve done all we can.”

*****

“And today, Dr. Kenneth Hendrix of Marble Hill was sentenced to seven years after pleading guilty to voluntary manslaughter.  In a bizarre case, Dr. Hendrix came home unexpectedly and found his wife in bed with another man.  The other man, Jimmy Cheevers of Oskaloosa, then killed Alice Hendrix and turned his gun on Dr. Hendrix...”

Tom sighed long and deep as he watched the news broadcast.  His mother wheeled herself into the living room and sat quietly.

When a commercial started, she said, “That was Patricia on the phone.  She’ll be here in half an hour.  Want me to make you dinner?”

“No thanks, Ma.  We’re going out tonight.”  He turned and smiled at her.  She fidgeted with her dress, wrapping a white cloth belt around her fingers.

“You know, Thomas, if you really want to, I’ll move to Chicago with you.”

He smiled wider.  “It’s a local channel, Ma.  No more WGN.”
 
 

Copyright 1999, Brian Lawrence