Hotline to Murder

CHAPTER 12

Tony arrived at the Hotline before Shahla. She had signed up to work every shift he worked. Although he knew she had done it only because she hoped that he could help solve Joy’s murder, he felt good about it, because it meant she trusted him more than the other men and boys on the Hotline. Still, there was the possibility that he wouldn’t meet her expectations. Again. He thought back to his encounter with the Chameleon.

A boy and girl were working the four-to-seven shift. Tony said hello to them but didn’t bother to introduce himself. They left before Shahla arrived, so she didn’t get the opportunity to quiz them about what they had been doing the night Joy was killed. Tony was glad, because he became embarrassed when she did that. He guessed he wasn’t cut out to be a detective.

He signed in and took the good seat by the window. No sooner had he sat down than the phone rang. He answered it with his usual greeting: “Central Hotline. This is Tony.”

“I’m fifteen, and I’m a runaway.”

There was nothing like being smacked in the face by the first pitch. It was a girl’s voice. Tony thought fast. He said, “Are you safe where you are right now?”

“I’m at a phone booth.” She named an intersection in Santa Monica. “And I’m not going back home.”

Tony decided not to ask her reasons. It wasn’t his job to judge her. It was his job to make sure she was safe. Shahla had just come in through the door he had left unlocked for her. He put the call on the speaker and looked out the window. The sun was setting. He didn’t want the girl to be out there alone in the dark.

“Do you have any friends or relatives who can help you?” Tony asked.

“Not here. Not nearby.”

She sounded frightened. She may be having second thoughts, but whatever crisis impelled her to leave home must outweigh her fear. Tony was frantically leafing through the directory of available services in Southern California. He said, “There are shelters you can go to. Some of them will pick you up.”

At that moment, his eyes focused on such a shelter with a Santa Monica address. Thank God. “I’ve got a number for you. Do you have money so you can call the number or do you want me to call it for you? Oh, they take collect calls.”

“I’ve got some money.”

“Do you have a pencil and paper?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, write this down.” He gave her the number. “Call it immediately. If they can’t help you, call us back. Okay?”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“And call us back to let us know that you’re all right.”

She promised and hung up. Tony hated to lose the connection. The chances were that she wouldn’t call back.

“She’ll be okay.”

Tony looked up into Shahla’s dark eyes.

She said, “That’s a tough call because we probably won’t find out what happened. But you did the best you could.”

What if that wasn’t good enough? Tony continued to brood about it.

“I see you grabbed the good seat.”

Shahla feigned being upset and sat down at another table.

He had to shake himself out of his depression. “You snooze, you lose.”

“I had to take my mom to her class. It was the only way I could get the car.”

Apparently, they were a one-car family. Unusual for Bonita Beach. But with her father dead… She had a tough road to travel with only one parent.

Shahla went to the snack room and came back with her usual plate of chips. She said, “Have you thought over what I told you about Martha?”

He had not told her he was going to talk to Martha. He was hoping that as a result of their meeting he could report that she had an ironclad alibi and couldn’t possibly be a suspect. Unfortunately, it hadn’t turned out that way. Martha’s alibi was clad in a light mist that could be blown away by a gentle breeze. However, Detective Croyden also knew that.

Tony wanted to keep Shahla out of it. He didn’t believe Martha had a motive for murdering Joy, even though Shahla might not agree. If Shahla was jealous of Martha’s relationship with Joy, she might do something she would regret.

“I think Detective Croyden has already talked to her. I understand he talked to all the members of the volleyball team.”

“Who told you that?”

Who told him that? “I can’t remember. Maybe Croyden did.”

“But he hasn’t talked to all the members of the Hotline.”

“There are a lot more of us. And I think he’s talked to everybody who knew Joy.”

“How does he know who knew Joy?”

Tony didn’t like getting the third degree. He said, “Let’s work on that poem. Have you thought of anybody else who might have written it?”

“No. And before we start speculating, shouldn’t we find out if there were any fingerprints on it?”

“How are we going to do that? I know. I’ll call our Indian buddy and see if he’ll tell us.”

“Our Indian buddy?”

“Crooked Nose.” Tony took out his cell phone and then extracted Detective Croyden’s card from his wallet. Croyden had been working late on Friday. Maybe he was working the afternoon-evening shift to give him a better opportunity to talk to people who might have knowledge of Joy’s murder.

“Tony, it’s Native American, not Indian.”

“Sorry. When I went to school they were still Indians.” Tony called the number on the card. He could picture it being answered by the officer on the desk. He asked for Detective Croyden.

“Croyden.”

“Hi Detective Croyden, this is Tony Schmidt.”

“Tony Schmidt. What have you got for me?”

“A question. Were there any fingerprints on that envelope Shahla and I brought in?”

“Your fingerprints were on it.”

“Okay, but were there any other prints?”

“I suppose you’ll bug me until I tell you. No. There were no other prints on the envelope or on the paper inside. Whoever sent it was probably wearing gloves. They shouldn’t show those damn police shows on TV. They make the perps too smart.”

“One more question. What was in the envelope?”

“I don’t have to tell you that. You already know.”

“How would I know?”

“You’re going to play dumb, is that it? Okay, no games. It was a poem.”

“Written by the killer?”

“Either that or it’s a prank.”

“May I have a copy of the poem?”

“Go flog yourself.”

Croyden hung up. Shahla was on a call. As soon as she saw that Tony was free, she put the call on the speaker. The voice sounded like a woman with a cold.

“…stare at me when I go out without wearing a bra. I think they can see my nipples. It makes me very uncomfortable.”

Shahla pressed the Mute button and said, “It’s the Chameleon.”

The Chameleon? Oh, yes, he sometimes imitated women. “How do you know?”

“Because I’ve heard him use this voice before.”

The breathy voice was saying, “What do you think I should do?”

Tony said, “Try to find out if he wrote the poem.”

Shahla cancelled the Mute and said, “So, do you wear tops with spaghetti straps?”

“Spaghetti straps. I love to wear spaghetti straps. Do you like to wear spaghetti straps?”

“Sometimes. But we have to wear bras in school. Do you know that the assistant principal has the job of bra-snapper?” Shahla winked at Tony. “It’s his job to make sure all the girls are wearing bras. I don’t like it when he checks from the front-and his hand slips. On purpose.”

“It’s so…when men have their hands all over you.” The Chameleon dragged this out, making it sound as if the hands were at work on him.

“He’s masturbating,” Shahla mouthed.

“Hang up,” Tony mouthed back.

Shahla shook her head.

“I don’t like to wear a bra,” the Chameleon said in a breathy monotone. “I like my tits to be free of restraint. It makes me feel so…free.”

“I know a poem about spaghetti straps,” Shahla said.

“Men shouldn’t be allowed to make us feel uncomfortable. We should be able to wear what we want.”

“She wears a summer dress, spaghetti straps to hold it up…”

“I love spaghetti straps. I could wear them every day.”

“You and I have a lot in common. Let’s get together. What do you think?”

There was a click.

“I think you violated just about every Hotline listening rule,” Tony said. “Again.” He was relieved that the Chameleon had hung up.

“Just following orders, General.”

“But I didn’t ask you to try to meet him again.”

“Cold feet? I thought we were in this together.”

“Anyway, you scared him off. It’s probably just as well. And he didn’t pick up on the poem.”

“I guess I was a little abrupt. But I don’t think he wrote the poem. He’s about as poetic as a mud fence. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t the killer.”

“Okay, but let’s let Croyden handle him. Fill out a call report, and we’ll leave it for Nancy to give to him. But don’t mention the poem.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Shahla gave an imitation of a salute. “I don’t know what you think of me, but I’m not really a bad person. I get good grades. I don’t smoke, drink, or do drugs. And if I listen to dirty talk, it’s because it’s part of my job.”

Tony was taken aback for a moment. She was fishing for a compliment. He was not great at giving compliments. “I-I think you’re doing a super job. Just don’t do anything risky.”

Shahla held his eyes. “Do you care what happens to me?”

“Of course I care what happens to you.”

Shahla seemed satisfied with that. She filled out the report while Tony took a call from somebody who wanted a referral to a therapist. When he hung up, Shahla was on another call. It wasn’t until an hour later that they were both free at the same time. Tony still figured that their best bet to help the investigation was to try to track down the writer of the poem, especially since Croyden didn’t have any leads there.

He looked up the information on Paul the Poet. The page in the Green Book said that Paul still lived at home, even though he was in his late twenties. He apparently had a job and girlfriends, so he wasn’t completely stunted. That he lived at home didn’t square with his claim of having been abused by his parents. But he did admit to sleeping with a teddy bear and a night-light.

“It’s funny,” Shahla said as they read it. “When you talk to him, he brings up this abuse issue, but then if you ask him where he lives, he says he lives at home. I asked him once who paid his phone bill. He didn’t give a straight answer. And I think he has a job. It doesn’t all make sense.”

“I’ve discovered that our callers don’t always make sense. How often have you talked to this guy?”

“Many times.” Shahla spun her chair around to face him. “He’s one of our more intelligent callers, in spite of the contradictions. We actually had some good conversations about poetry. He read a few of his poems to me.”

“And were they really good?”

“They weren’t bad. They showed talent.”

“So you think he could have written the poem?”

Shahla hesitated and then said, “He’s the best guess I have right now.”

“So he just happened to be in Southern California. And he just happened to write a poem he wanted to deliver to the Hotline. And somehow, he found out the address of the Hotline.”

“Sounds farfetched, doesn’t it?”

“Especially if he’s going to be a murder suspect. Why would he come all the way here to murder somebody? Did he ever show animosity to you on the phone?”

“No, he was one of the easiest repeat callers to talk to. He was always appreciative. He often thanked me for listening to him.” Shahla kicked the floor with her feet and spun her chair around, a child at play. “I guess we can eliminate him.”

Tony furrowed his brow. “Still, it would be nice to talk to him. Did he ever give any indication of where in Vegas he lives? Or where he works? There’s nothing here.”

“Not that I can remember.”

“Wait. The book gives a last name for him. Vicksburg.”

Shahla shrugged. “Who knows whether that’s correct? Our callers use a lot of aliases.”

“But since we don’t ask for last names, he must have volunteered it. I’m going to Google him.”

Tony went into the office and started up Patty’s computer. It asked him to enter a password. He looked at Shahla, who had followed him.

“The password is ‘m-i-g-i-b,’” Shahla said.

“How do you know that?”

“Patty told me. I helped her with some computer stuff one time.”

“What does it mean?”

“She wouldn’t tell me. But her boyfriend’s name is Marty. So I remember it as, ‘Marty is great in bed.’”

Tony didn’t comment on that. He connected to the Internet and then the Google search engine. He typed in “Paul Vicksburg.” On the first try he got mostly references to pages about Vicksburg, Mississippi, and the Civil War, so he modified his search with the word poet.

“He’s got a website,” Tony told Shahla, who had come in to see what he was doing. “And there’s poetry on it.”

They looked at the pages together. The poems were the kind of plaintive meanderings that had always put Tony to sleep, but he noticed that some of them did rhyme, just like the spaghetti strap poem. They showed the egotistical nature of a person who thought his problems were the most important problems in the world. Still, Tony realized, many people believed that, including some of the Hotline callers. Poets went a step further and put the thought into words.

“Is this the guy?” Tony asked Shahla, after she had read several of the poems.

She reread one of the poems and said, “He recited that poem to me on the phone. I’m sure of it. Does it say where he lives?”

It didn’t, but there was a “Contact me” button. Tony clicked on it and found the poet’s e-mail address. He said, “Let’s say we want to arrange a meeting with him, like you’re always trying to do with your beloved Chameleon. Would he respond better to an e-mail from a man or a woman?”

“A woman. He likes girls. Isn’t this the point when we have to turn the evidence over to Detective Croyden?”

Tony smiled at her imitation of his voice and said, “I haven’t been to Vegas for a while. I just might take a run up there. My car needs the exercise anyway. What’s your e-mail address?” He added, “Keeping in mind that you’re not going to be the one to meet him.”

“Are you sure you want to do this? That’s a long drive for probably nothing.”

“You’re the one who wants to follow up every lead.”

“Yeah, but…”

Tony was surprised at Shahla’s reluctance. It took him several minutes of talking before she agreed that this might be a good idea. But all at once her face lost its frown, and she smiled, like clouds parting to let the sun shine.

She said, “Okay, you’re right. We need to check this out.”

The first part of her e-mail address was “writeon,” which was gender-neutral. Having the word “write” in it didn’t hurt, either. Both of Tony’s addresses, business and personal, had “tony” in them, so they agreed to use Shahla’s. Shahla was able to log into her e-mail from Patty’s computer.

Tony said, “You’re the writer. Compose a note to him that he can’t resist. Tell him you’d like to meet with him on Saturday afternoon. Let him name the place.”

He watched as Shahla worked. She wrote fast and confidently and then made a few changes until she was satisfied: “Hi, Paul. I have read and enjoyed the poems on your website. They have spirituality that I find lacking in today’s poets. As I read them, I am drawn into an ethereal world of promise. I would love to meet you. I heard from another one of your admirers that you live in Las Vegas. Is this true? It so happens that I will be in Las Vegas on Saturday. Can we get together in the afternoon? That would be fantastic. Name the time and place. Yours, Sally.”

“‘Spirituality’ and ‘ethereal world of promise’? What does all that mean?”

“Not a thing,” Shahla said with a smile. “But poets love big words.”

“You’re too smart for your own good. Just remember, if he should happen to reply to this, I’m the one who’s going to meet him, not you.”

“Of course,” Shahla said, her eyes wide with innocence. “I never thought anything else.”