Murder Most Merry

WHITE LIKE THE SNOW – Dan Stumpf

Lieutenant Mayhew brought one of the rookies upstairs to the detective bureau last week, I guess to show where he could go in a few years if he kept his pants clean. I did my bit to make an impression by hiding the magazine I was reading under a report I closed out six weeks ago. Not for Nicky-New-Guy, you understand, but more for Mayhew’s benefit. Anyway, the kid got to looking at some of the old photos we hang around the place and damn if he didn’t spot an old one of Sergeant Sughrue, smiling at the camera like a clean shotgun, and ask who it was.

“Someone before my time.” Mayhew’s one of the chiefs five-year wonders. He looked at the picture closer, then half turned to me. “How ‘bout it, Jake? You know this guy?”

Yeah, I knew him; time was when half the folks in town lived in mortal fear of Sergeant “Sugar” Sughrue and the rest of us just worried about him a lot. But nobody remembers him much these days, and the picture’d hung there so long I quit seeing it myself. So I said, “That’s just some guy I killed once.” The kid hesitated, laughed; Mayhew laughed, then pushed him down the hall and I got back to my magazine.

Not that I actually did kill Sughrue; that was just hype. Hell, I been here almost twenty years and never even shot anybody very much. But I was there when Sughrue died, and I maybe had something to do with it, so I guess what I told the kid wasn’t too far off the mark at that.

It was Christmas morning, maybe ten years ago, maybe not that long. And it was snowing to beat hell; over a foot since midnight and no end in sight. I was supposed to take care of business in the detective bureau, but there wasn’t much, this being Christmas in the suburbs, so I brought in a portable TV to pass the time. I was lugging it into the station and I passed Dibbs on the way out—he has the cubicle next to mine—and we wished each other “Merry Christmas” kind of automatically.

At least it was automatic for me; Dibbs took it serious, though, and stopped to look sorry for me. “Damn, Jake,” he said, “nothing worse than working Christmas, is there?”

Well, there’s lots of things worse than working Christmas at a suburban police department: young love and getting your foot stuck in a cannon are the two I know most about, but there’s bound to be more. Actually, with not much work to do and all the food folks bring in, it’s not bad at all. But I looked mournful for Dibbs’s sake and went in to goof off for eight hours.

It should have been that simple. I wish it had been, sometimes. I mean, Sughrue was a pain all right, but what I went through was sure a tall price to get rid of him. And on Christmas, too.

I should tell you about Sergeant “Sugar” Sughrue. Lots of folks used to wonder what made him act so mean all the time, but I think he just figured if you got a God-given talent for something, you oughta use it, and he sure as hell had the touch for making folks around him unhappy. If not plain scared. See, Sughrue was big and fast and strong, and he could shoot good. Him and me, we were on the range one time and he put five shots in a playing card fifty feet away while I was still pulling my piece out of the holster and looking for the target. That’s how good he was.

He was smart, too, and he liked to show it off. No one I ever saw at the station ever won an argument with Sughrue. Even if they were right. Sughrue’d just talk and argue and beat on them with words till they gave up. You win arguments that way, but you never convince anybody.

Being dangerous and capable like he was, it’s no wonder Sughrue made sergeant fast. And it’s no wonder he didn’t go any farther. Once he got into a spot where he could give orders and chew folks out on a regular basis, the brass could see how much he liked it, which was way too much. And about that time, talk started about him and the crowd at Smokey’s, and that was pretty much as far as his career ever went.

So that’s all you need to know about Sughrue, except he shouldn’t even have been in that day, sergeants get holidays off unless we call them in for something, and Sughrue being like he was, the building could burn down, no one would call him. But I hadn’t been there more than an hour and in he comes, looking like hell’s own hangover. He didn’t even stop to rag me; just shuffled into his office and shut the door.

Well, it was good I didn’t have to talk to him, but bad, too, because any minute he might come back out, so I couldn’t get too laid back. No idea how long he’d be in there or even what he was doing here on Christmas. If Sughrue came out and saw me having fun, or not looking busy enough, or even just not looking miserable, he’d make sure I got that way in a hurry.

I sighed, turned off my TV, and went to the dispatch room to find a magazine I could hide under a report; old tricks are still the best.

It was quiet in there, too. Sometimes phones ring and guys yammer on the radio all the time, but this being Christmas, no one was doing much. Ed Rosemont turned from the radio console when I came in; his big swivel chair groaning under him made the only noise in the room. I gave him a look and jerked my thumb at Sughrue’s office. “The hell’s he doing here?”

“I will be damned if I know.” Rosey’s got one of those big. rich, pear-shaped voices, and a body to match—the kind I been working on all my life but never could get just right. Always struck me funny, hearing him swear in that important-sounding voice. “He said he had paperwork to catch up. What do you think?”

“Whoever he’s sleeping with sobered up and kicked him out, is my theory,” I said. Sughrue always had a reputation for acting nasty, but he never had any trouble getting women. Just keeping them. “Where’s he hang his pants lately, anyway?”

Turned out neither me nor Rosey knew who Sughrue was jumping with since his last divorce. But that didn’t keep us from tossing ideas around, and that led to a lively discussion about who else might be sleeping with who else, and what with one thing and another, we went on for nearly half an hour. Which is how I came to be there when we got the call. And saw Rosey’s face go from polite to serious to scared as he sat upright and started jotting stuff down on the pad.

“Hold on the line.” he said finally, and keyed the mike to alert the guys who were probably damn near asleep in their cars by now. “Eighteen and Twenty-Seven.” He pushed each word slow and distinct, even for him. “Code Fifty-two—that’s Code Five-two—at Smokey’s—that’s Smokey’s—Seventy-seven Village Street. See Bob Gates, standing by in front.”

“Damn,” I said. “A stiff at Smokey’s.” It looked like I was going to have to go out in all that weather and act busy; double damn. But I didn’t know the worst of it yet.

“Wuzzit?” I asked. “Some wino fall asleep in the door?” Smokey’s is in a part of town where that happens some, so maybe I wouldn’t have to do much besides take pictures.

But my life just ain’t that pretty. Rosey looked up at me with no look at all in his eyes and said, “It is Mr. Smollett, Jake. And Bob says he was shot.”

That was worth a whistle, and I gave it one. If you believe some folks. Fred “Smokey” Smollett just ran a real busy bar at the edge of town, where we border up on the city. If you believe others, he ran everything out of that bar that would run for money: games, women, drugs, and the occasional bit of stolen property. If you believe still other people, he paid us for the privilege.

Mind you, he never paid me anything. I never got that high up the ladder. Never even got high enough to know for certain he was paying off. But there was lots of talk, and it don’t pay not to listen.

“Tell ‘em just to hold the scene.” If this was what it sounded like, I was going to have to get off my ass and do some detective work. But not much; once the brass learned who it was and what it was. they’d fall all over each other to get to Smokey’s. “Call the lieutenant and see if we can get a real photographer out there. See if he’ll let us call Dibbs.” Dibbs wouldn’t much like that after working all night, but he’d been to more evidence schools than me, so he was the man for an important job. And this was one. Talk was, Smollett had his hooks in some pretty major people here in the department, and that would include—

“What’s up?” Sergeant Sughrue was leaning on the doorframe, still looking bad hungover but talking casual. Rosey told him and he nodded, still leaning, still talking casual. “Cancel those calls.” he said. “Marley and me can take a look and see what has to be done before we go dragging everyone out on Christmas overtime.” He turned to me. “Fetch the car, Jake; I’ll get the kit.” And he slouched off.

Rosey and I traded looks. We both of us knew I was a bad photographer and even worse handling evidence. Any other day of the year, there’d be brass hats enough around the place to make sure a job like this got handled by the best—or carefulest—we had. But this was Merry-dammit-Christmas, the brass was at home, and Sergeant Sughrue had just handed us a direct order. Rosey sure as hell wasn’t going to cross him.

And me neither, I guess. I cursed the bones of old Kris Kringle and went out to get the car.

Traffic was light, and a good thing, too. because the streets were godawful. We saw just one snow plow on our way across town, slumping through the snow drifts like a whipped dog. The rest of the way, it was find the road and try to stay on it.

After a while, though. I got into the tracks made by the cruisers already on the scene ahead of us. and I figured this might be my chance. Now that I could drive with one hand, I reached out and got the radio mike.

“I’ll just make sure Rosey called the lieutenant—”

That was as far as I got with it before Sughrue’s big left hand jerked out and knocked the mike clean from my fingers.

That was a funny moment, right then. I mean, Sughrue had a temper, all right, and he was fast and mean and looked to be hungover bad, but hitting my hand like that was past the edge, even for him. I looked over—real quick because I had to pay attention to the road—and just for a second he was bent over, his face screwed up like he was mad as hell. Then his eyes opened up and locked on mine.

It couldn’t have been more than a quarter of a second, that glance, because I had to look right back at the road, but it was long enough for something to pass between us. Something really ugly.

“I’ll call him from Smokey’s.” Sughrue slumped back in the seat, his voice softer than I expected. I thought he was going to say more, and I think he thought so. too, but we were both quiet the rest of the way.

And that thing that passed between us. whatever it was. kept biting my butt.

I wasn’t long figuring it out, either. It didn’t take a real educated nose to smell the stink around this business pretty quick, and by the time we got to Smokey’s. I’d pretty much put it together.

I saw it like this: Smollett, who probably has more dirt on the department in general and Sughrue in particular than was safe for anyone, gets shot dead. And it happens on Christmas, when the senior detectives and the brass hats are all at home with the kiddies. And here’s Sughrue, he just comes tripping into work on Christmas morning looking like slime on a shingle and insisting him and me are going to investigate this all by ourselves—him that supposedly Smollett was paying off, and me...

Some folks say I became a cop because I’m too lazy to work and not smart enough to steal, but they’re only half right. I could see this one coming down Main Street. And I was getting scared, because when Sughrue knocked that mike out of my hand and we looked at each other, I could tell he didn’t want anyone at that crime scene who’d act like he gave a damn. And maybe in my eyes he saw I’d figured that out. And if he did see it. my life wasn’t worth dryer lint, because Sughrue was that much faster and stronger and meaner than me that if he got worried about me giving him up. and decided to do something about it, I was damn sure to finish second.

That’s what I was thinking when we walked into Smokey’s that Christmas day, and it was pretty damn grim, if you ask me. Of course, Sughrue’s dead now, and maybe I killed him. and I for sure didn’t have it all figured out like I thought I did. But you can understand, maybe, why I was sweating like a crack-head when Sughrue told the uniforms at the scene to secure the area and take a statement from old Bob Gates, who used to sweep up the place, while he and I went into the office where Smollett was laying around dead.

It looked like the office of every bar everywhere. Maybe bigger than some, but with the same battered desk, cheap paneling, and old steel safe you see in all of them. Only here the safe hung open: a dead man sat behind the desk, white like the snow, leaning way back in his chair, with a raunchy cigar still clenched in his teeth: and there was blood all over.

And I mean. There Was Blood All Over: it was on the wall behind Smollett’s body in big splash patterns, it was soaked into the carpet under his chair, it was spritzed across the top of his desk, and it dribbled from his private toilet—a closet-sized deal off to one side—clear to the front of the desk.

“Let’s check out the bathroom,” Sughrue said, and I followed him quick. It wasn’t quite as gross as the rest of the place, but there was plenty of blood on the floor by the sink, and like I said, the trail of drops to the front of the desk.

“This is where it started,” Sughrue said when we’d looked around a little. “Smollett got shot here, went to his desk, tried to call for help, then fell back in his chair and bled to death. I’ll call the coroner.” He took a couple of slow steps back to the office and dialed the dead man’s phone.

And if I had any doubts about the smell around this thing, I stopped having them right then. Because we never call the coroner till we’re completely through gathering evidence. Last thing we want is those guys coming in with their jumpsuits and body bags, stepping all over everything. But here Sughrue calls them first thing.

I didn’t say a word, though. No sense letting on I knew any more than he already thought I did. Just stay quiet, act dumb, and maybe you’ll get out of this better than Smollett did, I told myself.

So I took pictures, knowing that no better than I am, and in this light, they’d be worthless. I got shots of Smollett in his chair, supposedly showing how he’d sat down, leaned back against the wall where his blood was spattered, and bled to death. I took pictures of the empty safe, thinking whoever shot him also took all the incriminating records (that ‘s how long ago this was: nowadays there’d be computer disks and backup files and all but back then, if it wasn’t on paper, it wasn’t there, period), and just as the guys from the coroner’s came clomping in, I got pictures of the blood on Smollett’s desk and the drips running from his toilet into the office. And like I say, I knew every damn one of them was worthless: The way I handled a camera, no one’d even recognize it was Smollett unless they saw the cigar stuck in his mouth, and the other shots would be too light or too dark, or just not pointed right to show which way the blood was splattered—

So maybe I’m not bright, after all. It took me all the while they were moving Smollett to figure out what that blood was telling me. And to tie it in with how Sughrue was sitting heavy in a spare seat off to one side while the coroner’s boys made their haul. But by the time they left, I was almost curious about all this.

“You collect, Marley,” Sughrue sighed. “I’ll tag. Start in the toilet where it started, and work out to the desk.”

The toilet where it started? Well, that was one theory. Of course, it wouldn’t explain how so much of Smollett got splattered back against the wall behind his chair, or why there wasn’t more of him spilled over the desk he supposedly leaned across. It wouldn’t even account for why the blood drops on the carpet were in front of the desk, and trailed toward the toilet, not away from it. No, the only story that would explain all that was one where Smollett and whoever killed him got up in each other’s face over his desk and one of them pulled a gun but didn’t do it quick enough to keep the other one from shooting him. Or shooting him back.

But I had a feeling that wasn’t how Sughrue wanted things to look, and they damn well weren’t going to look like that when we left. Well, I sure as hell wasn’t going to stick my foot in his story just now. I got down on my knees—not much fun for a guy of my build—and started scraping half-dried blood from the floor onto little sterile pieces of paper that went into little sterile envelopes for Sughrue to put labels on.

Sughrue didn’t get up. Just sat there with his pen out and wrote down what part of the room each envelope came from before putting it carefully in the kit.

That’s another thing shows how long ago this was: Nowadays you can get DNA identification from a blood smear and know whose it was and what he ate last Thursday. But back then, all you could get was blood type. So if Sughrue was fiddling with the envelopes like I thought he was. all the blood that got to the lab would be from behind the desk. The envelopes might say this sample or that sample was from the toilet or the front of the desk, but...

Then I thought of one other thing, and it almost got me killed right there. Which shows where thinking will get you. I was picking up blood from behind the desk, and when I got up I sort of routinely opened and closed the desk drawers. There was the usual clutter of coin wrappers, old receipts, and business cards, but “No gun,” I said, and then kicked myself for saying it, because Sughrue turned to me real fast—fast like when he’d knocked the mike out of my fingers—and I couldn’t see where his right hand was, which scared me so that I tried to cover.

“I mean” —I said it slow and dumb-like— “I was thinking there’d be one. Guess not, though; I never heard of him to pack.” Fact is. you could look in a million back-room offices in bars like this and find a gun in every one of them. It’s like bar owners think they’re supposed to have one. or maybe they come with the liquor license or something. And considering Smollett’s reputation, it was damn funny there wasn’t one here. Maybe it was with the records gone from the safe. But I could see I wasn’t going to get much older by saying that in front of Sughrue. so I just stood there looking stupid till he finally untensed and moved his hand out where I could see it empty.

“That’s enough,” he said. What with pictures and samples and the coroner’s boys, we’d been there maybe two hours. “Let’s get this to the station and ready for the lab.” He got to his feet, slow, wincing a little.

So here I was with a guy who I thought had done the murder we were investigating, a guy who was also maybe roping me in as his accomplice, and who might just put me out of my misery if he thought I’d figured that out. And all I could think was, I wonder how he plans to keep anyone else from looking over the scene and reading it right. And I never did find that out.

Funny how your mind works. I mean, I should’ve been thinking a lot of other stuff, about Smollett and Sughrue, and if my guesses were right—about both of them—and whether Sughrue thought I was going along with whatever his plans were, and what ideas he might have about my future. But what I remember most was worrying about how he was going to keep everyone else from seeing what I saw in the back room there at Smokey’s.

So this next part nobody believes. I must’ve told it a hundred times in the week after it happened and never got anything but funny looks, but it’s true just like I’m going to say: We were walking out the back of Smokey’s, to the car. And the snow hadn’t let up a bit, but it’d been packed down by the uniforms standing around holding the scene for us. So as I followed Sughrue out the back door, onto the little landing there, I stepped onto that smooth-packed snow and my foot slid out from under me, and I lurched up to keep from falling and bumped into Sughrue, and he went down. Hard. Into the snow.

And he yelped.

Like I say, most folks don’t think it happened that way. I could see on their faces when I got to that part, they all figured I pushed Sughrue on purpose. But it ain’t so; I was there, I seen it, and it was pure luck, good or bad.

Anyway, Sughrue hit the snow and he yelped and laid there. After a second, I reached down to help him up. but he kind of half swung at me so I pulled back.

He rolled over then and got to his feet, but it wasn’t like anything I ever saw before. You know how sometimes you get hurt and feel like you’re moving in slow motion? Well, now I saw just that. Sughrue moving in slow motion. It was almost like he floated onto his side, holding his coat shut real tight, then got to his knees, then his feet, and I swear I wouldn’t have been surprised if he drifted up into the falling snow and vanished in the gray clouds.

He might as well have.

We looked at each other again. We both knew now that he’d got shot last night, and I knew that the guy who’d done it just went to the morgue. And Sughrue knew I knew, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it but walk back to the car with me.

And I mean to tell you, that ride back was weird. We had this thing between us now, and we both knew what it was, and neither one of us said a word all the way back to the station. I wasn’t worried about Sughrue anymore, I wasn’t even thinking what I should do about this sorry mess. I just kept trying to remember a word I read in a book once about something the Greeks call it, when fear turns to pity.

I never did think of that word. I don’t think I had one other clear thought in my head all the time I fought the car through the snow-drifted streets. I parked and followed Sughrue across the parking lot to the station, seeing his steps get stiff and lurchy. And slow. I followed him up the stairs to the second floor even slower, hearing his breath get loud and raspy as he pulled himself up the steps one at a time, and I mean, One. At. A. Time.

I never saw his face again. Not while he was alive, anyway. I stood there at the top of the stairs and watched the back of him ooze down the hall to his office and get the door closed. Then I figured it was safe and I told Rosey to call the lieutenant.

Lieutenant Franklin retired a few years back, then died or something. So no one but me remembers pushing open the door to Sughrue’s office and seeing him sprawled back in his chair, white like Smollett was, white like the snow, with his coat hanging open and red blood spread all over his shirt and down on the floor. The same blood that was trailed from the front of Smollett’s desk into the bathroom where last night he’d gone to stop the bleeding and thought he had till he went down in the snow and opened up the wound again.

But all that was a long time ago. and nobody remembers Sughrue much anymore, and us who were there reported what we had to and covered up the rest and never talked about it after. In a few years it was like it never happened at all. Like I say. I’d even quit seeing Sughrue’s picture on the wall till the new kid made a point of it.

And even though I looked at it again on the way out that night, it didn’t mean much to me; just some guy I killed once, that’s all.