Christopher Gooch has published over 35 short stories. His flash fiction has appeared, or is scheduled to appear, at Flashshots, Anotherealm, and Spring Mystical Tales, a forthcoming anthology.

A member of the Short Mystery Fiction Society, his monthly mystery ezine can be found at http://www.christophergooch.com.

Direct correspondence to Christopher Gooch or Editor.

             My partner and I arrived on the scene within minutes of the first officers. The husband was found, stabbed, face down, on his own front lawn. The house was a beauty — a two story, in the modern style, with a lovely garden and lawn — except where the dead man lay, which was stained dark red.

             Anyway, the two officers had first felt for a pulse (though that seemed unnecessary) then, on finding none, they secured the scene by wrapping the yellow tape around a tree, the porch railing, and staking out two more corners in the middle of the yard. They had stepped as nimbly as possible around the body, but the scene was already contaminated.

             But, even from a distance (and behind the tape — the crime scene people were particular), I could tell he’d been stabbed. My partner, Detective Herb Ridley, talked to the woman, Mrs. Latiski, for a few moments and found out that they had just discovered the body minutes ago (around seven o’clock), and evidently it was the body of an Anthony Latiski.

             We arrived at about seven-oh-seven, then. The ME (medical examiner) was on his way, as well as the crime scene people and the forensic investigator. The officers had now secured the scene of the crime, and one of them was making a security log and asked me if I wanted to go in. I shook my head. I’m not a doctor, and I didn’t want to disturb the scene.

             Anyway, I asked the second officer to keep the scene secure until the crime scene unit got there. Luckily, the front lawn was not small-and the house was back a good distance from the street. If it hadn’t, we would have had to deal with curious pedestrians and the like. As it was, the officer with the security log stood inside the cordoned-off scene, and the other officer kept the occasional pedestrian away.

             When the ME got there, he examined the body closely together with the forensic investigator. About this time, the criminalists (a fancy name the crime scene people like to be called) arrived on the scene. The two crime scene investigators got an overall perspective of the scene, and walked an increasingly bigger spiral pattern around the body, extending out into the lawn. Then both of them whipped out notebooks and started furiously scribbling notes. Their job was not something I envied — they’d probably remain on the scene for at least two more hours, mapping it out, measuring everything, taking pictures, fingerprinting (we had no “latent print examiner”  — or fingerprint specialist), and so on. Grueling, tedious, but necessary work.

             The ME, Dr. Halestead, was a succinct, older man. He walked over to my partner and me and declared, "Been dead for hours, around six to eight, I’d say — not officially yet, of course. Rigor mortis has set considerably. But this isn’t a normal case — body was left out all night in the cool breezes."

             I nodded.

             "Cause of death, you probably know, was the stabbing slightly to the left of his spine. Blade went into the heart. Mechanism of death was, best I can say probably exsanguination."

             Ridley looked blankly at the ME. "What’s that?"

             "Bleeding to death,” he replied."

             "Oh!" Herb said suddenly.

             "I understand, Doc," I said. "When would you place his death at?"

             He looked at his watch for a moment. "Six to eight hours, like I said. Somewhere between eleven and one, last night. Sorry I can't be more precise. Hard to tell more exactly when he’s been dead so long."

             Ridley asked, "Would the killer have to use much force to stab him?"

             "Enough to knock him over, I’d say. But not much — he was stabbed from behind. Never saw what was coming." He paused. "It wouldn't have taken much strength at all — it was a sharp knife. No, even a child could've done it."

             "Thanks," I said.

             "I'll give you a more thorough report when my people are done here," he added.

             I thanked him. By now, the knife — actually a dagger — had been gingerly removed and they had sealed it in a clear plastic bag. It was brought over to Herb and me for our brief examination. It was a sharp, short and small dagger. Generic — nothing to distinguish it from hundreds of other daggers available through mail-order catalogs. I had no expectations of clean (or any) prints on it, though.

             The case was mine—and Herb’s—because we were the first detectives on the scene. The town was small, though and the murders few. We were lucky enough that we could actually handle our own murders — if we were any smaller, the state would take over. In fact, I had never actually had a murder case before. Sure, I had been involved in plenty more than one through my years in the force, but I had only recently been promoted to a detective, and even more lately become a lieutenant. All the relatively few murders that had occurred after I became a detective were someone else's cases.

             Herb, on the other hand, was fresh from patrol. So much for our experience.

             Anyway, I was in charge of and responsible for this case — and my first murder case, so to speak—because Herb was really under me. Naturally, all the suspects and witnesses had to be isolated, interviewed and questioned (and the suspects had to remain isolated — so they couldn’t concoct some story). Unfortunately, early in a case it’s pretty impossible to discern which are suspects and which are witnesses. But it really doesn’t matter, because they all have to be questioned anyway.

             So, we decided to start with Anne Latiski — Mrs. Latiski — who hadn’t yet recovered from the shock of having to identify the body.

             I approached her. "Mrs. Latiski, I’m Lieutenant Smalley and this is my partner Detective Ridley. Mrs. Latiski, would you mind answering a few routine questions in connection with this? We just have to get a few things straight."

             I had to wait a few more minutes for her to stop sobbing, because I didn’t think she heard me the first time. Gosh, I thought, it’s only her husband. The woman cried like it was the end of the world. After she was finished flooding the house with her tears, I repeated myself.

             "Anthony’s dead!" she kept murmuring after I’d asked her if she wanted to ask some questions. "He’s dead — oh gosh! I can’t take this!"

             Of course he’s dead, I thought. What does she think he is? A monkey’s uncle?

             "It's all right, Mrs. Latiski," I said soothingly just the same. But that didn’t really work either, because she just started sobbing all over again. Herb looked kinda annoyed (I was too), and so I stood up and decided to interview her later. We started to leave, but then she burst out, "Wait — come back!" More sobbing.

             Oh gosh, I thought, I’m not gonna stay here all day. Finally she continued, "Anthony — oh gosh! Ask me questions — ask me anything you want — so long as it helps catch the dirty crooks who murdered him!"

             If I had been really paying attention, I would have caught the "crooks" bit there. But I wasn’t.

             She led us into the kitchen, where we sat down, and Herb brought out his notepad.

             Mrs. Latiski was a round, plump woman in her early fifties. Her face was still slightly flushed and her eyes more than just moist.

             "This is so terrible, she said softly, and out came another fresh bunch of tears. "Anthony…dead like that. Oh gosh! I can’t take it!"

             "Just calm down and take a deep breath, Mrs. Latiski," I said. "If you can answer these questions, maybe it will help us catch the murderer."

             "Oh gosh! Anthony!" she sobbed, "dead! And murdered too. You always hear about things like murder in the paper and such, but you never really think about what it would be like if it really happened. My Anthony…dead…murdered!" she started sobbing again. I rolled my eyes, but Herb was a little more sympathetic.

             "Don’t worry, ma’am, it’ll be okay," he said and patted her on the back.

             "He was murdered…" she wiped a tear from her eye.

             I looked at her sympathetically. "I know. Murder’s never nice." I glanced at my sheet of scribbled potential questions. "How did you happen to find your husband’s body?"

             "Oh! It was terrible, you know." She looked like she would burst out crying again, but luckily for me she didn’t. "I usually wake up early, you see, and then I can’t go back to sleep. Well, this morning when I woke up, Anthony wasn’t in bed, so I thought he might’ve had a hangover — he’d been gambling and playing cards with his friends last night — and was in the shower or something and was already up. But I couldn’t find him anywhere. Emmaline — she’s my daughter, you know — I had to get Emmaline up, and we ran through the house calling for him, and then I decided that perhaps he might’ve gone somewhere — he doesn’t go to work until nine, you understand — so we went outside to check. And that’s when…Emmaline found…him…" her voice trailed off. "Emmaline almost stepped on his body… Oh gosh! Anthony — my husband — dead…murdered! It’s awful…" she sobbed softly.

             I pretended to ignore the sobbing. "What time was it when you first noticed that he wasn’t in bed?"

             She paused and collected herself. "I don’t usually look at the clock all the time, but I should say it was probably around six forty-five or something like that." She paused for a moment to and her face flushed again as she continued, "Murdered…just like that. The people who did it should be hanged…" she murmured.

             My ears prickled slightly, and I recalled how she had used the plural form of crooks earlier. "How are you so certain that some more than one person killed him?"

             "Why I know it was those awful men, of course!"

             "What men?"

             "The men who were onto him, of course! Who else would have killed him?” she asked, matter-of-factly. I was baffled, and Ridley probably would have been if he wasn’t so intent on jotting down notes. “Didn’t you know?" She cocked her head as if trying to think, then shook her head. “No,” she said at last, “I guess not all the police would know."  A pause, then she continued, "You police are so thickheaded sometimes, it’s quite annoying, you know."

             "What the heck are you talking about, Mrs. Latiski?” If I had been only baffled before, now I was fuming.

             "Well, Anthony, I guess he’d been acting rather strange the past few weeks. Always looking over his shoulder when in town — his eyes on the rearview mirror when he was driving, and locking the door the moment he was home. He insisted that all the windows be shut and locked and — he even started locking the bedroom door before going to sleep. Naturally, I could see that he was afraid of someone (or something) — and I asked him about it, you see. Well, he sat down and he told me that they were out to get him. And, well, Anthony distinctively told me not to go to the police about it, but I was worried for him. You always read in the papers about some body being found with a knife in the heart —"

             She shuddered involuntarily. "You see, I just couldn’t stand the thought of Anthony being killed like that — and by them, I mean — and so I went and reported it to a policeman at the station — without telling Anthony, of course. But sometimes, you know, you police are so thickheaded. I told the man all about what Anthony had told me, and his manner and all that, but he dismissed it easily — just some joke he was thinking, no doubt. You can’t say I didn’t warn you," she added, as if I had been the one she had told.

             "Now hold on,” I interrupted. “Your husband said that they were out to get him. Who were they, and what were they out to get him for?"

             "That’s just it, you see. He didn’t tell me anything about them — anything about it at all. He was really very secretive. He just told me that they were out to get him — they were after him, he said. I personally —"

             I held up my hand. "And he didn’t tell you anything else, did he?"

             She shook her head emphatically. "I personally think it’s a few of his gambling friends. I don’t like to speak badly of the dead, but, you know, in a case like murder, you really need to tell everything. Anthony used to play cards with some — how should I put it? — well, shady men, you see. They played every week, I think — gambling, drinking and all that. They’re all dishonest, crooked people. I always told him they weren’t worth his company, but Anthony never listened to me. If he had listened to me he wouldn’t have been…murdered." She paused and started crying again.

             I rolled my eyes, but then she continued. "Goodness! It almost slipped my mind! He was gambling with his friends last night."

             "Hmmmm," I said. I looked at Ridley thoughtfully. "He didn’t say anything about how he knew they were after him?"

             "Well, no. I suppose it was some kind of a letter or something — you know how it is in the detective novels. The victim always gets some threatening notes and then gets killed — that sort of thing. But this — this was real." She shook her head sadly. "My Anthony…murdered."

             "Did he tell you about this letter — or did he show it to you?"

             "Oh! — no. I just assumed, you see, that it was a letter. Or, perhaps a phone call — though I really don’t recall Anthony getting a suspicious one or anything."

             I looked at the woman before me. “Was there anything your husband had done that might make someone — or some people — particularly angry? Did he have any enemies?"

             She cocked her head and shifted in her seat. "Anthony? He was the pleasantest person on earth, you know, and he’d never have any enemies. He may have been stubborn, but he didn’t have any enemies. I tell you, I’m fairly certain it was his crooked gambling friends, because, you see, they’re the only probable ones."

             "Well, it’s hard to say for sure, but I think he regularly drove home by twelve or one."

             "Can you tell me anything about your husband, Mrs. Latiski?"

             "Anthony?" She paused. "He was, you know, a bit excitable, especially when he’d had too much to drink, which wasn’t too often. But he was a sweet man — so kind, you know." Then, suddenly she burst out, "Why did he have to be murdered? He didn’t deserve it! My goodness, what this world is coming to! — it frightens me to think about it."

             "Yes, I’m sure," I said, hardly listening to her last remarks. "Thank you, Mrs. Latiski, thank you very much."

             "We left the room with Mrs. Latiski, and Herb drove the three of us to the station to take down a written and formal statement from Mrs. Latiski. But before we did, I told one of the officers there to do a door-to-door and find out what the people knew about when the victim came home"

             In the interrogation room, Mrs. Latiski sat across the table from me, and Herb started recording. She signed a written statement and told us the same stuff — only this time it was recorded. Then Herb drove us back to her house.

             As soon as we got there, the ME walked over to talk to us.

             "I was right," he said. "Death was from the stab. Mechanism was exsanguination, like I said. Victim was walking — not running — when the perp stabbed him. If he’d been running, legs, calves and ankles would’ve become stiff with rigor mortis first — but they didn’t.

             "Time of death was six to eight hours — that’s as good as I can do from medical standpoint. Crime scene people have searched the grounds — and found nothing. Dagger has no prints."

             "I didn’t expect that, though."

             "Guess that’s it, from my end."

             "Thanks." I then found the patrol officer who I’d asked to find out what the people in the houses around knew about Latiski and when he came home last night. He said that one lady remembered him drive in his driveway around twelve-fifteen, and someone else had put it around twelve-ten.

             I asked Mrs. Latiski if she would mind if we sealed off Latiski’s study, so we could come back and search it later.

             "We simply must find those men," she wailed, "by all means, seal the room! Turn the house upside down if you must, but find those horrible murderers!"

             I took that as a yes, and had the patrol officer seal the study door and windows.

             Ridley and I went out in search of Emmaline, who we found at last in the living room curled up on the couch. Emmaline was a pretty young woman with an almost pale white complexion. Shy, honest, and observant. At least she looked honest — perhaps that was merely a facade, or maybe she really was honest — after you got to know her. A good witness if anything of use could be gotten from her.

             "I’m Lieutenant Smalley," I said boldly, and she looked at me with her reddish, teary eyes, "and this is my partner Detective Herb Ridley. Would you mind answering a couple of routine questions?"

             She had no choice, so she said quietly, "Yes, sir," got up and followed us to the kitchen.

             Emmaline, her complexion paling even more out of nervousness, sat down. Herb picked up his notebook and pen, and I started.

             "Well," I began, "how did you find your father’s body?"

             "It was on the front lawn, sir," she said timidly. "Mother had woken me up when she couldn’t find him, and we went around the house looking for him. Finally Mother suggested we look out front for his car — and there he was."

             "What time would you say that you found the body?"

             Her eyes went up to the ceiling, as if she could find the answer there. (Though I had learned in psychology class that people tend to look upwards when recalling visual information.) "It would have been around seven o’clock, sir."

             "Did you notice anything strange in your father’s behavior over the past few weeks?"

             "No, sir, I don’t think so," she said softly. "But with the classes I’m taking at the junior college, I’m not around all the time, and when I am, I often study." she added.

             "Could it be possible that he was acting more nervous lately?"

             "Yes, sir," she said quietly, "but I don’t know for sure."

             "Can you tell me anything about the men that he gambled with?"

             She began, slowly, "They weren’t very good men, sir. They were the type to get involved in shady deals, perhaps, and maybe petty theft. I shouldn’t think they should kill anyone, though."

             Of course she didn’t! She had never dealt with crime before. I — I was a cop, and I know human nature. Anyone can murder!

             "Do you think your dad could have been involved in any of these shady deals?"

             "Well — I don’t know — perhaps, maybe if his friends convinced him. He wasn’t a shady person to begin with."

             "But he could have been?"

             "Yes, sir."

             I glanced at my list of scribbled questions again. "What time did he get home last night?"

             She shrugged. 'Twelve, maybe one?"

             "You didn’t hear or see him come home?"

             "N—no, sir."

             "When did you go to bed?"

             "About eleven, sir."

             "Was your dad’s car in the driveway then?"

             "I don’t know for certain," she replied timidly, then, "no — no it wasn’t. The streetlight in front of our house was quite bright, and as I was adjusting my curtain, I saw our cat come darting up our driveway, and Father’s car wasn’t there."

             "This was when, exactly?"

             "I had been trying to sleep for a few minutes, but the light bothered me. Perhaps eleven-ten, sir."

             "What kind of a person was your father?"

             "He was — well — stubborn, yet kind. When I was younger, Mother used to act in plays — she’s a wonderful actress — and Father always insisted on seeing every one of her performances. Mother always said that it made her more nervous when Dad was watching, but Father — well, he was terribly stubborn. But he was nice, too."

             "Who do you think murdered your dad?"

             "I — I don’t — I don’t know."

             "Thank you," I said as kindly as I could. "Now if you would come with us to the station so we could get a written statement…" She did.

             While Herb was driving us to the station, I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was getting mixed up with a Mafia-like group. I shuddered. Murder is one thing, but the Mafia? I hoped fervently that I wouldn’t end up being the next on the Mafia’s hit list. Then, as an afterthought, and a weak attempt at self-encouragement, I reasoned that these were probably petty criminals from what Mrs. Latiski had said. Anyway, I had no evidence whatsoever against them, and I couldn’t be certain.

             Herb and I led her to the interrogation room, where I switched on the light and Herb started the recording. She told us basically the same stuff again, then we got the written statement.

             Herb switched off the recording, I the light, and we proceeded back to the car. Herb drove us back.

             By the time we got there, the crime scene people were starting to clear out, the body had been removed, either by the ME or the forensic investigator. The crime scene people had vacuumed the whole yard around the body, sealing the whole filter and all its contents in a bag for them to sort through later for evidence.

             It was still only barely ten o’clock, though.

             The lawyer had arrived, and when he saw Ridley and me, he wanted to talk to us. He was not a dull, precise lawyer now. He was excited now — his client had actually been murdered. Maybe the Latiski guy had always annoyed him. I don’t know. Anyways, the lawyer was pretty happy.

             "The victim," he said, enthusiastically using our terms, "had a will which left almost everything to the wife, and a small legacy for the daughter. It also had a few thousand dollars to a man named Jose Lopez."

             I thanked him politely. Who was this Jose Lopez?

             I asked Emmaline if she knew who the men her dad gambled with were.

             "No, sir. I’ve only seen them a couple of times."

             Then Ridley and I, with Emmaline’s express permission, entered the house and broke the seal on the study. There was no use calling in the crime scene people — all I wanted were some specific papers — the possible letter Mrs. Latiski had mentioned, and anything regarding shady deals or enemies Latiski had.

             We didn’t have to look very far. We didn’t find it on his desk (which was piled high with papers); it was lying on his chair, as if it was, perhaps, the last thing he read. It was a note made out of cut up newspaper letters that said:

             "Better watch out, Latiski.  You still owe us. Your days are numbered."   It was signed with a skull and cross bones.

             "That’s it, then," Herb said with some finality. "It was them after all."

             "We don’t know that for sure."

             "Whaddya mean?"

             "Well, it could be another them, for instance. Or perhaps only one person. Anyway, I have to go ask Mrs. Latiski if she knows who the people he gambled with were. Stay here and search through his papers — see if you can find anything else of use."

             I went to go ask Mrs. Latiski a couple of informal questions. I found her in the living room.

             "Mrs. Latiski, do you happen to know a Jose Lopez?"

             "Oh yes! He’s one of those awful crooks my husband used to play cards with.

             "What are the names of the other people he gambled with?"

             "Why — I believe it might be — let me think here — Larry! One of them is Larry. Larry — Grunt, no, Grant. Larry Grant. The other one is Chambers — Dan Chambers? No, no…Doug Chambers, that’s it. And then there’s Jose Lopez."

             I carefully scribbled it down.

             On my way back to the study, I called the station on my cell. "I want the records division, please."

             One of the records people got on the line. "Yes?" a female voice said.

             "This is Lieutenant Smalley. I want to know if we have anything on a Jose Lopez, a…" I consulted my notes temporarily, "Larry Grant, and a Doug Chambers. Call me back when you get it."

             By this time I had arrived in the study. Herb said jubilantly, "I found another one, Lieutenant!"

             Thankfully Herb had remembered to handle the letter with his fingertips, so as not to mess up any fingerprints there may be.

             The letter inside was a duplicate of the other one — with the same skull and cross bones at the bottom.

             I sealed both of them in a plastic bag and labeled them, then gave them to the crime scene people.

             Herb had finished looking through the desk by then, and I helped him replace everything. Then the records people called me back.

             "Jose Lopez has a few cases of petty larceny on his record, but nothing more."

             I jotted it down on my notepad. "What about the others?"

             "I have nothing on Larry Grant, and an assault and battery on Doug Chambers. Chambers served eight months, then was released."

             "That’s it?"

             "That’s all I have."

             "Thanks. One more thing," I said, while writing it down, "could you give me their addresses?"

             I wrote those down, too, then I had Herb reseal the room (just in case), and we got back in the car. We drove to Jose Lopez’s house first.

             I knocked on the door and then explained that Latiski had been murdered and we wanted to know anything Lopez knew about him.

             Jose Lopez was a round man with a black mustache and a kind heart. "Come in, come in. Would you like something to drink, sirs?"

             We shook our heads and sat down at his table. "When was the last time you saw Anthony Latiski?"

             "It was last night. We play cards every week and we played last night, sirs. Are you sure you don’t want anything to drink?"

             I shook my head. "Thanks, but no. Where did you play cards with him?"

             "Oh no! It wasn’t just me — it was the group of us — Larry, Doug, Tony and me. Usually we play at Larry’s house, but last night we played here."

             "Did you notice anything unusual about Latiski?"

             "Well he didn’t win for once! Actually, sirs, there was nothing strange about him."

             "He wasn’t, for example, acting as if someone was chasing him?"

             "No, no, no — Tony, he was as happy as ever last night. No reserves, if you know what I mean."

             "Was he ever in debt to you, Larry or Doug?"

             "Oh! — That? I do not know. I don’t really think so, though. Tony, he had money."

             "Did he ever mention receiving a note demanding he pay back a debt, with a crude drawing of a skull and cross bones?"

             "Oh no, sirs! I would have told you if he ever did. No, no — Tony, he was his usual last night."

             "What time did he leave last night?"

             "I don’t know. Probably around midnight."

             "How did you know him?".

             "Tony? Oh, we’re old friends. I met him in college, see, and I’ve known him ever since."

             "Were you aware that he left you some money in his will?"

             "Oh my! No, no, I had no idea. He is far too kind."

             "Would you mind coming to the station with us so we can get a written statement from you?"

             "Certainly, my friends."

             Herb drove us back to the station, where Jose gave essentially the same statement. Then we dropped Jose off back at his house, and Herb started driving to Larry Grant’s house.

             "I just don’t get it," Herb said slowly.

             "You don’t get it? How do you think I feel? I’m a lieutenant, I’m supposed to get it.” I said, exasperated. “The murder was a straightforward thing—somebody who’s been in the force as long as I have should have gotten the perp long before now."

             "Lieut, it’s only three in the afternoon. And, neither of us has ever been on a murder before.”
“Maybe that’s the problem."

             "Maybe that’s the problem."

             He pulled in front of the suspect’s house, we got out and I rang the doorbell. A man with the build of a football player opened the door with a look of infinite irritation. "What do you want?"

             I said that we were there to ask him some questions.

             "Go away — I’m busy."

             I was about to yank Herb down the steps and go away, because I didn’t want to know what happened when a man of his size got mad. But as a last resort, I said Anthony Latiski had been murdered last night.

             The guy almost fainted. It was a good thing he didn’t, because Herb and I would have been crushed if he did.

             Anyway, his face turned sheet-white, and he quickly let us in. We sat down at his kitchen table, after I asked if his wife could please leave the room. She did.

             "When was the last time you saw Anthony Latiski?"

             He gulped. "Last night."

             "Where?"

             "Jose’s house. We were playing cards."

             "Did he seem disturbed or abnormal?"

             "I don’t think so."

             "Did he ever owe you, Jose, or Doug any money?"

             "I don’t know. I always thought he had plenty of money."

             "Did he ever mention receiving a note demanding that he repay someone with a skull and crossbones on the bottom?"

             "What?" he exclaimed. "No, never. It wasn’t the Mafia, was it?"

             I shrugged. "We don’t know yet."

             "What time did he leave last night?"

             "Midnight."

             "How did you know him?"

             "Work. I met him a couple years ago."

             "Could you come to the station with us and give us a written statement?"

             He nodded. (What else could he do? "Uhhhh…no…I…ahhh….don’t really feel like it."  Then we’d probably just arrest him for…uhhh…well, anyways, he had to go.)

             Again Herb drove us back to the station, where he gave us the same stuff, only in a more formal setting. Then we dropped him off at his house and went to Doug Chambers house.

             Doug Chambers was the most unlikely person to have an assault and battery on his record. He was short, balding and excessively humble.

             He let us in and took us to the kitchen, where he insisted that Herb and I have the best (and most padded) chairs, while he take the crummy one. But when I told him that Latiski had been murdered, the poor guy started sobbing. It was a while before he calmed down, but when he did, I began.

             "When was the last time you saw him?"

             "It was last night — at Jose’s house. The four of us were playing cards there."

             "Did he appear to be disturbed or do anything unusual?"

             "Tony? I don’t really think so, I think — and this is only my opinion — everything was like usual."

             "Did he ever owe you, Doug, or Jose money?"

             "I don’t think so — Tony always seemed to have lots of money."

             "Did he ever mention receiving a threatening note with a skull and crossbones on the bottom demanding he repay someone?"

             "I really don’t think so—I think I would have remembered that."

             "What time did he leave last night?"

             "I think — I’m not sure — but maybe around midnight."

             "How did you know him?"

             "I’m a friend of Larry’s, and we started playing cards together a year or so ago."

             "Would you mind coming with us to give a written statement at the station?"

             "Certainly."

             We took him there and did it. Then we returned him to his house.

             "It was about six pm, by then, and I was hungry. We went out to a Denny’s, ordered some burgers and fries, then sat back and discussed.

             "It’s just too fantastic,” Herb said, “it’s almost unbelievable."

             I sighed ruefully. “And it’s our case."

             "It almost seems like the three of them went in together and killed him. They didn’t have anyone else to witness it."

             "That’s just it! We only have their testimony. Sure, it coincides, but that doesn’t mean that they aren’t all lying."

             "But why would they wait until he’d left to kill him?"

             "They didn’t want to be suspected?"

             "They would have been suspected either way. But if they’d killed him while they were playing cards, they could have poisoned him and made up some fantastic story and all been in the clear."

             "Let’s take a step back," I said, "and start from the assumption that they were telling the truth. Then who would these men have been?"

             "Illegal loan people?"

             "Yeah. Maybe he got into some real gambling and needed a huge loan to pay it off. That could be."

             Herb nodded. "But if they were telling the truth, then why didn’t they notice anything unusual about his behavior?"

             "And why didn’t the daughter notice it either?"

             Then it hit me. "How do we know Mrs. Latiski is telling the truth about this whole thing, Herb?"

             "I guess, well, we just don’t — we can’t, because no one corroborated her story."

             Then something else hit me. It felt like I was run over by a rhino. "What if she killed him? She had ample motive — she got the bulk of his estate."

             "What about those notes, though?"

             "She wrote them herself."

             Herb swore.

             I jumped out of the booth with Herb following. I threw a wad of cash at the lady behind the cash register, and continued out the door.

             "Sorry! Gotta run!" Herb shouted.

             We floored it to the Latiski’s house, where we brought Mrs. Latiski into the kitchen. "Could you draw a skull and crossbones for us?" I gave her a piece of paper.

             If she said no, then we’d know for sure that she probably did it, so she really had no choice. She took her time, but in the end we had a drawing like the one on the notes. I thanked her, and hurried back to the station, to the crime scene lab — really, an impossibly small room in the back. I gave the list to our handwriting expert (and one of a handful of crime scene people), and asked him to compare that with the skull and crossbones on the notes.

             Herb and I waited. We weren’t patient (at least I wasn’t), but we waited. Fortunately, it didn’t take him long, and he was able to say, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they were the same.

             Then we went back to Mrs. Latiski’s house. We got there just in time. She was throwing a suitcase into the trunk of her car. She was going to make a break for it — she knew we were on to her. Fortunately, she hadn’t left yet.

             We asked her to come into the kitchen with us. She did.

             Herb snapped the handcuffs on her and read her rights. "You have the right to remain silent," he said, "the right to stop answering questions whenever you want, and the right to a lawyer. If you don’t have enough money for one, a lawyer will be provided for you."

             Herb drove us to the station again, and then we took her into the interrogation room.

             "You wrote those notes, Mrs. Latiski, didn’t you?" I asked softly.

             Suddenly she started sobbing. "Yes," she cried, "I did."

             "And you murdered your husband, didn’t you?"

             "Yes," she cried again, "I did."

             Thankfully, Herb had recorded that on his notepad and the tape — and that was that. I solved the case and was a great hero and lived happily ever after. Well, not really. But I did solve the case.

copyright 2005 by Christopher Gooch