Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 29, No. 4, September 1971

Cops Work on Holidays by Max Van Derveer

Many men had wanted her, a few had possessed her. Now she lay waiting for her last, pale lover — stark Murder!

Sam Champagne had pounded concrete for six years and four months, got blisters on his feet, rode a patrol car for three years and seven months, got blisters on his posterior, then made detective.

The only trouble was somebody forgot to tell Sam Champagne that when you’re among the rookies on the detective team you draw all of the holiday tricks. Like this quiet, stiffling Fourth of July Friday afternoon, a very lazy afternoon on which to commit murder.

Ben Martin, another rookie detective, caught the call. At first, he did not believe it. Murder in the middle of the afternoon on the Fourth of July? That’s crank stuff. Which is exactly what Ben Martin figured he had until the guy on the other end of the line demanded superiors.

The guy on the other end of the line sounded like a man who was used to demanding high echelon people — and got them. This disturbed Martin. Who needs a superior jarred from his cold beer on a steamy holiday afternoon? So Martin finally put the crank stuff aside and said the detectives would be right out to 7000 Apple Drive. The address didn’t sound like crank territory, anyway. 7000 Apple Drive was plush terrain.

Which is what Randy Howell, a third rookie detective, thought too. Howell put on his shoes and knotted laces.

“Apple Drive is Honeysuckle Row,” he said. “I mean nobody on Apple Drive worries about when he’s gonna buy his next Rolls. These days it’s just who’s gonna make the thing?”

The girl lay in a fetal position beside a large pool table. She lay on a black tile floor of a game room in a fancy air-conditioned two-story brick and stone palace out in a neighborhood where the Fourth of July celebrations began the Wednesday before.

She lay naked in body flesh that had been tanned by many suns, except for the snow-white strip across her hips and a tiny pencil mark across her back. Her flesh was smooth and unmarked and looked good enough to touch, even in death. No telltale puncture marks on this doll. The narc had not been her banana. The lone blemish was a bruise along her jaw line.

She lay with gold hair down to her shoulders and the top of a purple bikini twisted around her neck. Her mouth was open, a bloody tongue stuck out between clamped teeth, and her eyes bugged. She also had bled from the nose, rather profusely. Most important, someone had garroted her.

Her name was Tina Polk. Until a killer had whipped the purple bikini top around her neck she probably had been a beautiful and vital girl, the kind of girl cops only dream about. She certainly had had the facial and body lines. True, she wasn’t so damned attractive now, not biting into a protruding tongue and with her eyes popped.

“Sam?”

He stood at one of the several long windows in the game room wall looking out on a large swimming pool and surrounding apron. There were people out there, perhaps fifteen people, attired in varied swim togs, including a striking, long-legged girl in white blouse and green shorts and with a small camera dangling from a neck strap.

She sat in a cluster of three, and Sam Champagne thought she was extremely attractive. An hour ago the girl and the others had been raising hell, he figured, in the water and at the portable bar across the way. Now they were huddled, subdued, not sure of what to do or where to go. Even the bar had closed.

Down at the far end of the pool and off the apron, a lanky Negro boy in yellow shirt and tan slacks sat on the grass. He was staring, unmoving, at the house, as much ignoring the party crowd as they were ignoring him.

“Sam, what do we do now?”

He glanced at the door to his left. It was closed, but it opened on to the pool apron. He turned back into the room. Martin and Howell were squatted on the other side of the girl. They looked as if they were staring on moon rock. They moved around to the back side of the girl.

“Where’s her bottoms?” Howell asked. “I thought bikinis always came in two strips.”

“Maybe the killer wanted a souvenir of his handiwork,” said Martin. “Sam, what’s the make on her? You get anything out of those three guys out there in the other room, the welcoming committee?”

The “three guys out there in the other room” had been waiting for the detectives when they had arrived at 7000 Apple Drive. Sam had had a brief, unorganized exchange with them. The preliminary make on the girl was: she had been wealthy, married, divorced, married again, widowed and spumed (in that order). At twenty-six, she was sort of a sock-it-to-me kind of girl who had collected plenty of lumps.

“Zowie,” breathed Howell.

“A swinger,” said Martin.

“I’m going to talk to them again,” said Sam. “Howell, how about if you stick with the girl, guide the technicians when they get here? Ben, take that crowd at the pool. We need names, addresses, whatever anyone can give you.”

Sam went into the next room, a den. The trio was not where he had left them. He went on toward the front of the house, found them in a vast living room.

The dead girl was the subject of a heated discussion. He could feel the charged atmosphere. The small ashen man in bright yellow swim trunks was pacing. The ruddy father type whose sun-pinked belly hung over flowered trunks, fiddled with an unlighted cigar. The Mexican-American, dressed in blue blazer and bell bottom gray trousers, sat scowling in a barrel chair. None acknowledged Sam’s arrival.

“Tina was drinking too much lately,” said the ashen man, moving back and forth in a short path near a window. “She needed clinical assistance. I attempted to help her.”

“She had reason to drink,” said the ruddy man. “Roger’s death was a severe blow.”

“Hell, she was an alcoholic,” snapped the athletic Mexican-American.

“She wouldn’t have been if she had listened to me,” said the ashen man, shooting a piercing glance at the Mexican-American. “No one understood her like I did.”

“Then how come she divorced you, doctor, and married Roger?” countered Ruddy, chomping on the cigar.

“She didn’t know where she was going. She never knew where she was going, or why,” said the Mexican-American.

It earned him two piercing looks this time. Then the ashen man pushed on: “It had to be a sexual attack.”

“What I can’t figure,” said Ruddy, “is why we didn’t hear her scream. We were just outside.”

“She didn’t scream,” said the Mexican-American. “She was probably enjoying—”

“Damn it, Ramirez,” flared the ashen man, “you’re flogging a dead girl! You were to marry her! Remember?”

“That was her idea,” said the Mexican-American sourly. “Not mine.”

“Gentlemen,” put in Sam Champagne, “may I take it from here?” The trio went silent. They stared at him as if he was an unwanted intruder. The ashen man was sad-eyed, the ruddy man defiant-eyed, the Mexican-American hostile-eyed. From this friendly little group Sam already had learned:

(1) That the ashen man was Dr. James Franklin Benz, surgeon, once married to Tina nee Polk — she preferred her maiden name after the divorce. He currently was residing in this brick and stone house, had been for the last four and a half months, give or take a day or two. He had been even though he no longer was married to said Tina Polk, now deceased. Dr. James Franklin Benz was “still very much in love,” as it were, with one Tina Polk, did in fact and deed still own this plush barrier against the natural environment, and had returned to the nest and taken a room following the death of Tina Polk’s second husband, a stock broker named Roger Caldwell Jr.

Caldwell had plunged into a Colorado mountain top in his own private plane six months and six days after marrying the divorcee Tina Polk. Tragic. Yes, the death of Roger Caldwell Jr. had been tragic. And Tina had needed help in those dark days, needed someone in the house to comfort and support and lift her. Thus the return of the doctor.

But just what had Tina Polk had to say about this return? Well, she had been receptive, perhaps not enthusiastic. She hadn’t held open the door while the doctor had hauled clothing and posessions up to what had once been a guest bedroom on the second floor. But she hadn’t shut the door either. She hadn’t argued one way or the other. If the doctor wanted to room in this fancy brick and stone abode, well, the doctor could take a room. Just don’t be toodling after her all the time, like a little boy. She hated little boys. She hated children.

Sam Champagne also had learned:

(2) That the ruddy man with the hanging pink belly was Roger Caldwell Sr., insurance executive and father of Roger Caldwell Jr., now deceased, who, along with Mrs. Caldwell Sr. had during Roger Caldwell Jr.’s brief marriage to Tina Polk come to know and adore Tina Polk Caldwell, and had retained that kinship since Roger Caldwell Jr.’s untimely demise, even though the friendship may have paled slightly.

After all, Roger hadn’t been around lately, so naturally, the attraction had been perhaps infinitesimally less. Roger Caldwell Sr., insurance executive, ex-father-in-law, adoring friend, also had been the guy who had discovered the body and called the cops.

Sam Champagne further had learned:

(3) That the Mexican-American was Richard Ramirez, professional at the Racquet Club, a very exclusive club with semiannual dues that made it prohibitive for the poor, the middle class, and the upper middle class to belong and which further barred Jews, Negroes, Puerto Ricans, Cubans, Indians, rebels, freethinkers, dissenters, demonstrators, protesters, anti-Americans, not necessarily in that order. But had hired a Mexican-American to teach tennis because said Mexican-American probably was one of the best damn tennis players and tennis teachers in the world today.

The tennis player also happened to be a very special friend of one Tina Polk, who was not only a member of the Racquet Club, but was a vice president and on the board that made ethnic decisions and who had found Richard Ramirez on the professional tennis tour one day and had immediately professed to fall in love with his athletic body and dark complexion and charming manners.

The only trouble being she had not discovered until recently that he, Richard Ramirez, was not so hot on marrying one Tina Polk until Tina Polk agreed to give up the doctor’s house; give up the doctor; give up drinking; give up the Racquet Club; have kids. Dick Ramirez liked kids. He wanted a houseful of kids and a mother to brood over them.

Sam Champagne got down to the nitty-gritty. He asked, “Gentlemen, who killed Tina Polk and why?”

The response was titanic. None of the trio said a word. Which is a cop’s lot sometimes.

Sam turned methodical. “I want to have a little talk with each of you individually. I’ll begin with you, doctor, if you other two gentlemen will excuse us.”

The other two gentlemen left the room. Slowly. Reluctantly. Caldwell seemed to want to listen. Ramirez may have taken personal affront at the temporary dismissal. It was difficult for Sam to tell.

He faced the ashen man. “Doctor, I find this relationship between you and an ex-wife to be a rather — well, shall we say different communion?”

Benz shrugged. He was near total baldness and he obviously had not spent much time in the sun. You could guess him at forty or fifty years of age. Sam took forty.

“Roger Caldwell’s death upset Tina terribly,” he said. “I’ve been attempting to be salve.”

“And perhaps re-establish your one-time marital relationship?”

“That too,” he nodded. “I don’t deny it. I love — loved her.”

“You seem a bit older than—”

“I am.”

Benz suddenly was defiant. Some color crept into his face. And Sam immediately decided to get off the age kick. He didn’t know anything about age in relationship to marriage. Hell, he didn’t know anything about marriage. He’d never been in love.

“There are domestics in the house, I believe,” he said.

“Two. Roscoe and Amelia Bales. I employed them shortly after Tina and I married. They’ve been with Tina since.” He hesitated, chewed his lower lip.

“Yes?” Sam prodded.

Benz clipped the words. “And there is the boy. Oliver Johnson. He has been chauffeuring Tina the past two months. She lost her driver’s license. Too many speeding tickets.”

“Oliver Johnson was not employed by you?”

“He was not.”

“He was employed by Miss Polk.”

“He was.”

“Doctor, I have the impression you do not like Oliver Johnson, nor the idea of him chauffeuring your—”

“Let’s just say I would not have employed him, sergeant, and let it go at that.”

“Why wouldn’t you have employed him, doctor?”

“He’s a Negro.”

The color in Benz’ cheeks was high now. And Sam took a flyer: “And Richard Ramirez is a Mexican-American. Is that why you dislike him?”

“One of the reasons.”

“Another being he and your former wife apparently were contemplating marriage.”

“She has been under the influence of alcohol, in one form or another, since the death of Roger Caldwell. She was in no mental or emotional condition to discuss anything.”

“But did she intend to marry Ramirez?”

“She was infatuated with him, no more.”

“From his remark of a moment ago, I gather he hasn’t been so hep on this possible wedding.”

“It’s his attitude now.”

“You mean—”

“I mean Tina is dead! If she were alive, you’d see Mr. Ramirez purring all over her. It was sickening.”

“Why would he change so quickly?”

“Defense. He doesn’t want to be involved. I’m surprised he hasn’t already bolted. Mr. Ramirez is a fair weather lover, sergeant, a fair weather man. When the ship is rocked, he likes to be on shore. He became trapped this time.”

“Trapped?”

“Poor selection of word. He was here when murder was committed. If he had had a choice I’m sure he would have been far away.”

“Perhaps he is the murderer.”

“Perhaps. He could have killed Tina, I suppose. It would have been an emotional thing, of course. She was an independently wealthy girl and Ramirez had an eye on that wealth, I’m sure, so if he did kill her the act probably was emotionally triggered. Maybe she came to her senses, told him to get lost. That would have angered him. Yes, that could have happened.”

“Earlier I heard you say something about this being a sex killing. Do you have evidence, doctor?”

“No. I saw her naked there on the floor, the swim suit stripped from her...”

“Of course, committing a violent sex act so close to the other guests does seem a bit far fetched. For instance, I assume anyone could have opened the door from the pool to the game room at any given moment and walked in.”

“The door was locked. From the inside.”

“Oh?”

“It shouldn’t have been,” Benz continued with a wave of his hand. “It wasn’t earlier. There is a bath off the game room, the only bath near the pool. So the game room door was never locked when we had guests. But today, when Caldwell attempted to open the door, he found it locked. It puzzled him, so he looked in a window, thinking there might be someone inside who had inadvertently locked the door. That’s when he saw Tina.”

“Do you think she might have locked the door? Perhaps she entered the house with someone and did not wish to be disturbed.”

“I don’t like that inference, sergeant,” Benz snapped.

“I have to consider all possibilities, doctor. I believe I heard someone say no one outside heard a scream, therefore, I must consider the possibility that Tina Polk was in the game room with someone who did not frighten her. Incidentally, do you think one of the women guests could have killed her?”

“I sincerely doubt it. Few women have the strength to strangle another person, especially if the intended victim is struggling.”

“And you’re assuming Tina Polk struggled. There is very little evidence of a struggle.”

“She struggled,” Benz said flatly. “Was she intoxicated this afternoon?”

“Not that intoxicated.”

“Well, there’s a bruise along her jawline. I’m going to guess a little and say that she was struck with a fist, perhaps knocked unconscious, then strangled. Of course, she could have been bruised in the fall to the floor.”

“Either could have happened.”

“She could’ve been struck without warning. This could be the reason no one outside heard a scream or any noise of a struggle. It could be the reason there was no struggle.”

“A possibility, yes,” Benz nodded.

“I believe you said you were sitting in a lounge chair at pool-side when Caldwell discovered the body.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t keeping a checklist of the comings and goings of the guests. I doubt that anyone was. People drift at these kind of parties, sergeant.”

“I see you have a knack for anticipation, doctor. I thought you might have been keeping a special eye on Tina Polk. You once were married to her, you profess love for her, you have been living in this house with her. Under those conditions I thought you might have noticed when she left the pool area, who might have accompanied her — or if someone later entered the house.”

“There are four entries to this house, sergeant, and only one is in sight of anyone in the pool area. But the other doors are easily entered. Also someone could already have been inside the house.”

“Where were the domestics working this afternoon?”

“Bales was tending bar at the pool. Mrs. Bales was keeping the snack trays filled from the kitchen. People can be in the house and Mrs. Bales would not be aware of them, the kitchen is that isolated. It’s in the left wing, and there is a direct exit to the outside.”

Sam again was acutely aware of the doctor’s anticipation. Then Benz surprised him. He said, “If I have to pick potential killers, sergeant, I will name Richard Ramirez, Oliver Johnson and/or Walter Shanks. Ramirez could have been triggered by frustration or anger. With Johnson and Shanks, it would have been lust. Both lusted for Tina.

“As to opportunity, I recall that Ramirez was not at the pool for a long spell this afternoon, Walter Shanks departed from the grounds early, and the Negro boy, of course, knew he was to remain in his quarters over the garage unless called for. Of course, this does not mean he was chained there.”

“And who,” Sam asked, “is Walter Shanks?”

“A rather ugly young man — in physical appearance, in attitude, and in manner. But wealthy, a bachelor, and a ladies’ man. Walter Shanks lusts, sergeant. And he attains. In Tina’s case, however, he was still lusting.”

It was Sam’s turn to surprise, he figured. “Well, doctor, you really didn’t have to volunteer. I wasn’t going to ask for your nominations. But thanks anyway. And now if you will be good enough to tell Mr. Caldwell I’d like to talk to him—”

Roger Caldwell Sr. never in his life had smoked. Smoking was dangerous to health: “Take it from an insurance man, one who insures lives.” But he liked to fondle and chew on cigars. It gave off a certain impression, and Roger Caldwell Sr. liked to impress; it was good for business. On the other hand, he did not wear a blindfold, he was not easily impressed — or hoodwinked. It was a talent, he admitted grandly, but it did allow him to categorize people.

And just how had he sized up a few of the people at this July 4th blast?

Well, the doctor had the reputation of being one hell of a surgeon, a man in demand, and he was wealthy, no doubt about that. He was also popular, apparently enjoyed good health, and seemed stable enough on the surface.

But the guy had tumbled out of his tree over Tina Polk.

Ramirez? Ramirez was a slick. Ramirez had moved in swiftly after the death of Roger Caldwell Jr., caught Tina Polk in an extremely emotional period in her life, knocked her off balance, and had kept her off balance. Ramirez should not have done that. Ramirez was not one of Roger Caldwell Sr.’s favorite people. Now, who else did the sergeant want an opinion on?

“Walter Shanks.”

“A professional seducer.”

“What was he doing here?”

“I suppose he was invited by Tina, but perhaps he came uninvited. Shanks does those kind of things.”

“I understand he left the party early. Did you happen to notice him leave?”

“I did.”

“Any idea what time it might have been?”

“Not the foggiest. But you could ask Connie Lennon. She’s out at the pool. I was at the bar with Miss Lennon, she was developing a headache, and Benz came along. She asked for medication, he volunteered something. It was while he was gone that Miss Lennon and I saw Shanks drive away. He squealed tires all the way down the drive. Anyway, Miss Lennon might remember the approximate time.”

“Was Tina Polk at the pool when Shanks left?”

“I think she was. Well, I’m really not sure, now that you ask. She could have been, or she might not have been. I don’t know, sergeant. There was a crowd out there this afternoon, a good number of people moving around.”

“How long was this before you discovered the body?”

“Say twenty minutes, maybe thirty.”

“Why did you try to enter the house?”

“A human function, young man. And when I found the locked door, it irritated me. I looked through a window to see if there was someone inside who could open the door.”

“And saw the body. Who do you think killed her, Mr. Caldwell?”

His face darkened. He stared at the cigar. “I wish I knew. I’d be tempted to kill him.”

“Because you still consider Tina Polk to be your daughter-in-law?”

“Because,” he said flatly.

“Do you think Walter Shanks might have killed her?”

“I don’t think Walter Shanks would kill any woman. He lives on them.”

“How about this Oliver Johnson, the house boy?”

Caldwell looked startled. “Wow, Doc really unloaded on you, didn’t he?”

“He wears his bigotry, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean.”

“This thing could be a sex crime, Mr. Caldwell. We’re going to know for sure in a few hours.”

Caldwell shook his head. “Not the Johnson boy.”

“All right, then. Would Benz kill her?”

“My God, man, he was living here with her. If he wanted to kill her why would he pick the middle of a day when guests are all around?”

“It’d be better than doing it some night when he was alone in the house with her. We’d have him for sure then, wouldn’t we? Incidentally, how did your son happen to meet and marry Tina Polk?”

“They met through Connie Lennon. Roger and Connie were dating at the time. After Tina divorced Benz, she began to circulate among the younger people again. She and Roger met, fell in love, were married. Innocent enough?”

“Seems to be. Then enters Richard Ramirez into Tina’s life?”

“After Roger’s death.”

“And Tina fell in love again.”

“Unfortunately, she seemed to be captivated by Ramirez, yes.”

“She intended to marry him?”

“So she said.”

“But he was hedging.”

“I’m not sure about that. Something wasn’t clicking just right between them, but—”

“Perhaps Ramirez killed her to get out of what he considered to be a tight spot.”

“You’d have to ask Ramirez about that.”

Sam waned to ask Richard Ramirez several questions. He was too late. Ramirez had disappeared from the house and grounds.

When detectives blow one they wish they were motor pool mechanics and their only problems were leaky transmission seals. Ben Martin stood ruffling his red hair, Randy Howell stared in disgust, the technicians departed with the body, and Sam Champagne put out a pickup for Richard Ramirez.

Martin finally said, “What about all of those people outside, Sam? Some want to cut. They’re beginning to grumble.”

“I’d like to talk to a girl named Connie Lennon. Which one is she?”

“The girl with the camera dangling against her front.”

“The others can go, I guess.”

Connie Lennon impressed Sam. At a distance, she had been striking. In close proximity, inside the air-conditioned house, out of the stinking heat of the afternoon, she was blood-stirring, collected, alert and totally sober.

Connie Lennon did not drink. She also was terribly puzzled about the death by violence of Tina Polk. Connie Lennon did not like violence. She was gentle by nature.

Yes, she had known Tina most of her life. Yes, she had introduced Tina to Roger Caldwell Jr. No, the marriage of Tina and Roger had not disturbed her; she, Connie Lennon, was not the marrying kind. She preferred independence. To date she had not met a man she thought she could live with the rest of her life.

Well, Tina Polk obviously had been the marrying kind.

Tina had needed people. Alone she was a zero, her nerve ends clanged warning signals, all kinds of bad things could happen to her when she was alone, so she had turned to husbands.

And clubs, and pool parties and—

And?

Something was haywire here. Tina Polk had had a first husband, a man who still was very much alive and proclaimed to be very much in love, a man of wealth, prominence, stature, a man — it would seem on the surface — who had much to offer a woman.

The only trouble being Doctor Benz, because of this wealth, prominence, stature and work, was absent too often from home and wife. Wife hears clanging bells again, panics, divorces.

Enters Roger Caldwell Jr.

Tina and Roger had fallen in love with each other, it’s still possible. Roger’s death was true tragedy for Tina.

So Tina began to drink heavily.

Yes.

And the doctor moved back into the house.

Tina was reaching for any straw that might blow past in those dark days.

Did Connie Lennon think Richard Ramirez to be a passing straw for Tina Polk?

In a sense. Connie Lennon did not think Tina Polk was in love with Richard Ramirez, not like she had been in love with Roger Caldwell. They argued too often. They had argued this very afternoon, for instance. Tina Polk wanted to announce to the party that she and Richard were to marry. Richard had refused. The announcement would come in due time and in the proper manner. Thus an argument. Richard had gone off some place on the grounds to brood and Tina had taken her anger into the house.

Connie Lennon seemed well informed.

Connie Lennon and Tina Polk had been close, often confided in one another. Women need some outlet; perhaps a police sergeant didn’t know that.

Yes. Well now, had this argument taken place before or after she, Connie Lennon, had developed a headache — while standing at the pool bar with Roger Caldwell Sr., that is.

Hmm. The police sergeant seemed informed too. The argument had taken place before the headache.

And was Tina Polk intoxicated?

She had been drinking.

Had Connie Lennon seen Tina Polk go into the house, and had Tina Polk gone alone?

Tina Polk had been alone when she entered the game room and closed the door behind her.

Had anyone trailed Tina Polk, say a few minutes later?

If anyone had, Connie Lennon had not noticed — and she was quite sure she would have noticed, since she was a bit disturbed by Tina Polk’s mood, Tina having just confided that Richard Ramirez was being an obstinate animal this afternoon and that she, Tina Polk, was terribly angry with one Richard Ramirez.

Said Richard Ramirez having by this time gone off some place to brood?

Yes.

Was Miss Lennon currently aware that Richard Ramirez had disappeared again, left the grounds?

Miss Lennon was not. Why would he do that?

“Perhaps he is frightened and running,” Sam said.

Connie Lennon frowned. “By inference, sergeant, I think you are saying that Richard may have killed Tina. I find that difficult to believe.”

“Then you pick out a killer for me, Miss Lennon.”

“I find that difficult to do.”

“Well, try a man named Walter Shanks. It is my understanding that Mr. Shanks may have had a physical interest in Tina Polk.”

“No more than in any other woman. Walter Shanks is a chaser.”

“He also was observed driving away from the house this afternoon at a high rate of speed. In fact, I’m told you were one of the observers. Now, I must also consider that this quick departure seems to have taken place some time after Tina Polk had entered the house.”

“Well, yes, it did.”

“So perhaps Walter Shanks is frightened and running, too. Are you a photography buff, Miss Lennon?”

“I dabble. I have a darkroom. Why?”

“And you’ve been taking pictures this afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“When they are printed, I’d like to have a set of those you took here.”

She frowned prettily again.

Sam grinned suddenly and plunged. “I’d like to see the pictures tonight. There’ll be compensation, of course. I’ll take you to a movie some time.”

Connie Lennon seemed mildly startled; then she laughed softly. “I assume the city will reimburse you for the cost of the movie.”

“Naw, I’ll stand it.”

“We could go Dutch, of course.”

“I hadn’t considered that,” Sam said thoughtfully.

Connie Lennon, leaving a phone number, went off to develop and print her pictures, and Sam, briefly lighthearted over the only good thing to happen to him this muggy holiday day, came back to earth when Ben Martin appeared and said, “There’s a Negro boy outside, Sam, who wants to talk to us. He won’t come into the house.”

Oliver Johnson was nervous and worried. He knew Tina Polk was dead, but no one would tell him more, no one would even talk to him. What had happened? Why were the cops called to the house?

The cops explained and Oliver Johnson found what they told him difficult to believe. Wow, this was strictly a bad trip! Oliver Johnson suddenly had to see Mr. Caldwell.

And why did Oliver Johnson suddenly have to see Mr. Caldwell?

Well, maybe Mr. Caldwell should tell the cops about that.

The cops preferred to get it from Oliver Johnson.

You see, Oliver Johnson was a college boy, that is, he had completed one year at JC here in the city. He was going back to school in the fall, but there was the summer, see, and he hadn’t had a job and, well, he needed the bread and this job driving for Tina Polk had sorta dropped in his lap—

Aw, hell, tell it like it was. Oliver Johnson had nothing to hide, not really, not when Tina Polk had been murdered. Roger Caldwell Sr. was on the college board of trustees and one day he had gone through the files at school and found a Negro boy who needed work and he had approached Oliver Johnson with the offer to drive for Tina Polk.

Oliver Johnson had grabbed. but then, it developed, Roger Caldwell Sr. wanted a little footsie work done on the side, he wanted Oliver Johnson to sort of be a spy for him, keep an eye on Tina Polk, tell him who she went out with, where they went, that kind of jazz, for which Roger Caldwell Sr. had paid extra. And Oliver Johnson, needing bread bad, had sort of gone along with the plan, even though it made him feel down sometimes.

That is, Oliver Johnson occasionally got the blues when he let himself think about how he wasn’t being square with Tina Polk, because Tina Polk was an all right cat, man, none of that looking down the nose jazz, not like the doctor. The doctor was bad, bad news. Oliver Johnson was low in this moment. He thought he would go back to his garage quarters and pack and cut, if it was all right with the cops.

The cutting, however, did not meet with the approval of the cops. The cops liked to keep everyone nice and available while they were investigating a murder. The cops got funny notions about people who cut and disappeared, especially when they might have a sex crime on their collective hands.

Sex crime? Oh-oh. Bad news! The cops were all of a sudden scaring hell out of a Negro boy.

Did the boy have reason to be frightened?

Not this boy, man! Ollie Johnson was clean, except maybe for that footsie bit for Caldwell. Oh, how had Ollie Johnson got himself into that one?

Well, Tina Polk had been an attractive woman.

Get off that, man! Ollie was in his quarters all afternoon, not paying any attention to the party folks, let ’em ball in the hot sun, who cared? No siree, Ollie Johnson had not left his quarters until he heard all the commotion at the pool and knew that something had happened. Ollie Johnson had figured maybe somebody had drowned. Only then had he ventured outside.

Ollie, said the cops, we’re gonna give it to you straight. No extra bread this time around, but we want to know about the men Tina Polk has been seeing since your employment.

One man, man. The tennis man.

No play on the side?

No play.

Well, maybe somebody has been coming to her door in the middle of the night. Of course, the doctor has been in the house; he probably would shoo off anyone who came to the door.

With a cannon, man.

The doctor owned a gun? The doctor was a man leaning to violence?

No, no, man. Ollie Johnson didn’t say that. Cannon, man, that’s an expression. Ollie Johnson didn’t know about any gun or the doctor’s temperament toward strangers in the night. Ollie Johnson stayed as far away from the doctor as he could. In fact, that’s why Ollie Johnson would like to cut now.

The cops returned to the downtown squadroom in thoughtful states of mind. They had sandwiches brought in and they got coffee in paper cups from the vending machine. Ben Martin was hot on Richard Ramirez as the killer since Ramirez had bolted. But Sam wanted to know why Ramirez had waited until the cops were on the premises and then bolted, it seemed to Sam that Ramirez could have killed and run.

“Well, maybe he, Ramirez, was going to fake it out with us at first but things got piling up too high in his mind and so he took the second opportunity to fly,” Ben Martin said.

“Possible,” Sam admitted.

Randy Howell wanted to talk to Walter Shanks. Had Shanks been inside the house when Tina Polk entered, had he moved in on her, been rebuffed, killed her in frustration? Even under attack, Tina Polk might not have cried out for help. Randy Howell had the impression that Tina Polk had figured she could handle her own problems — if she considered a sexual advance a problem at all.

Sam Champagne grunted and said they also could theorize that Tina had set up a rendezvous with someone — almost any male — at the party. Someone had locked the game room door — perhaps it was Tina — consented to a little horseplay, then found the horseplay going too far, attempted to back out, had been smacked down, raped and killed.

A spontaneous killing, nothing planned. So maybe what the cops needed to do was pick out males who had not been at the pool when Tina Polk was inside the house and speculate on motive, although it seemed no one really wanted Tina Polk dead, everyone wanted her alive.

However, the cops might as well begin with the male absences they knew about. There was Ramirez, who had had an argument with Tina over a marriage announcement, there was Shanks who supposedly lusted, there was Oliver Johnson who may have lusted too and who professed to have been in his garage quarters.

A technician entered the squad-room, carrying the preliminary lab report on the deceased. Tina Polk had not been sexually attacked, even if she had lost the bottom of her purple bikini.

Well, now, there went a bunch of theories into a cocked hat.

“So maybe someone stole Tina Polk’s bottoms to make us think her death was a sex crime,” said Sam. “How many doors does that open, gentlemen?”

The phone rang. Sam scooped it up, identified himself.

“Hey!” said the cheery voice in his ear. “Just the guy I wanted. I heard your name on the radio newscast. Tina Polk has been killed, huh, and you’re the chief honcho investigating? Walter Shanks here. I was at that festival for a while this afternoon, then I had to fly. Had a little business down the street, you know?

“In fact, she’s right here beside me now, cute little thing, too. But tell me, man what’s the scene? Who did that dastardly thing to Tina-baby? Boy, that guy’s gotta be unbalanced! Does he know what he removed from this planet?”

Randy Howell shot like a rocket out to converse with Walter Shanks, who said he wouldn’t move an inch. Among other things, he wasn’t finished with his “business” yet.

Ben Martin went downstairs to see if he could jack up the prowl boys, who supposedly were keeping an eye out for one Richard Ramirez, tennis professional.

Sam Champagne used the phone again, talked briefly with Connie Lennon, and then drove out to Apple Drive thinking that Connie Lennon had a very nice telephone voice too.

A bolt of lightning, in reality, can come out of almost any dark cloud to split a tree. Once in a while, just once in a while, a bolt of lightning can be a rookie detective working a frustrating homicide on a steamy holiday night in the presence of a beautiful young woman he wishes to impress and said rookie detective, slipping through a thick stack of freshly printed photographs taken at a pool party, noticing that one man in several of the photographs seemed to have changed bathing trunks in the middle of the pool party.

The girl said. “Well, yes, he did change. He was wearing red trunks early in the afternoon — the trunks are dark in those prints you’re holding in your left hand, you notice — and yellow trunks after he changed. Look again at those prints in your right hand, his trunks seem white, actually were yellow, but in black and white photography—”

“This is important,” said the detective. “Are you positive that these pictures in my left hand were taken before you developed your headache and these in my right hand were taken after you had received medication?”

“I’m sure,” said the woman, “but look. Can t a man change swim trunks? After all, some people don’t like to sit in wet suits.”

“If that was the reason he changed,” said the detective, “then he has no problem.”

It was almost one o’clock in the morning when Sam Champagne punched the door chimes at the fancy brick and stone mansion at 7000 Apple Drive and found that Doctor James Franklin Benz had not yet retired. In spite of air conditioning, Doctor James Franklin Benz had been reading.

What was so odd about that? Not a thing was odd about a man reading at one o’clock in the morning, Sam conceded. He often could be found reading at one o’clock in the morning. Especially when he was nervous, or upset, or had had a particularly trying day.

“But,” said Sam, “it has come to my attention that you changed bathing suits some time during your pool party this — yesterday afternoon. You were wearing red trunks early in the afternoon and later you were wearing yellow trunks.”

“S-so?” said a shaken Doctor James Franklin Benz.

“So I’d like to see the red trunks,” said Sam. “I want to see if there are blood spots on them.”

“Young man, you are forcing me to ask you to leave this house!”

“Doctor, you’re forcing me to get damned nasty about all of this. I want to see those trunks!”

Doctor James Franklin Benz refused to produce the trunks, whereupon Detective Sam Champagne went upstairs without a search warrant, and found the trunks inside a dirty clothes hamper. There were blood spots on the trunks.

“Your former wife’s blood, doctor?” asked Sam. He felt very triumphant for a rookie detective. “You entered the house, seeking headache medication for a guest. You found your ex alone in the game room. You struck her once, perhaps twice, making her nose bleed. She went down, was unconscious. You took the top of her bathing suit, strangled her. Afterward you stripped off the bottom, anything to make it look as if it had been a sex crime. But why did you kill her, doctor?”

Doctor James Franklin Benz sagged. “S-she... she taunted me.”

“With a pending marriage?”

“She would have had babies, one after another. That’s the way Mexicans are.”

“Doctor,” said Sam Champagne, shaking his head, “I feel sorry for you, and not only because you killed Tina Polk. But you goofed, friend. You should have destroyed these trunks. You were clicking when you killed, you put a couple of curves in our road. Then you drop a bloodied swim suit in a clothes hamper. Stupid.”

“I’m used to having people pick up after me.”

“Yeah? Well, I think those days are finished, doctor.”