Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 41, No. 4, October 1977

A Matter of Inches by Philip Segal

The detective who came to take Jim to the courthouse, where he was to testify in a murder case, carried every qualification — except for one.

Jim sat at the kitchen table, eating his breakfast of scrambled eggs and coffee. As he ate, he scanned the news in the morning paper.

Across the top of page one was the headline murder trial starts today. Grocery-store robber to face trial in storekeeper slaying.

Further down the page were the usual accident and fire stories, an article on a proposed tax increase, the beginning of a new feature series on China.

But what caught Jim’s eye was the story headed WOMEN’S GROUP TO SUE CITY — CHARGES DISCRIMINATION.

Speaking for a local women’s group Ms Diana Greerson charged that by requiring police and fire officers to be five feet eight inches or taller, women and some minority groups are systematically discriminated against.

As he reached for his coffee, his son Mike came-running in from the living room, basketball in hand.

“Dad, this year I’m going to try out for the junior high team.”

“You’ve certainly grown tall enough for it, Mike. Let’s check your height against last year’s.”

Mike went to the back door while Jim got his pocket knife from the cabinet drawer. He then went to the door. Mike already had his back to the frame. Notched into it were the irregular nicks Jim had been cutting over the years to record Mike’s growth.

Now he cut another notch and remarked, “I’ll get a ruler. You must be almost five-six already.”

“Five-seven, Dad. The coach measured me last week.”

“At that rate, you’ll be tall enough to stuff the basket by next year.”

“I hope so, Dad. Well, I’ve got to get to school now. Don’t worry about the trial today. I’m sure it’ll be all right.”

“I am, too. Have a good day.”

Jim returned to his breakfast, thinking now about what he must do. He didn’t like the idea of testifying in court. He was afraid that if they didn’t get a conviction, he would be in for some real trouble. When he picked the suspect out of the line-up at Police Headquarters, the man had threatened him.

Yet it was his duty to testify. He had been in the market when the thief came in with a shotgun. Like the other customers, he had lain on the floor while the storekeeper got the money from the register. He had watched as the robber, nervous, demanded more, from the safe. He had watched as the storekeeper reached for a pistol in the drawer under the cash register, and had watched as the storekeeper was shot twice, at close range, by both barrels.

He had been too scared to move, afraid to do anything but watch the killer run — get into a blue sedan and speed off.

Later, he made a statement, clearly describing the killer. That night, they arrested the suspect and Jim picked him out of the line-up. Then came the threat.

“You’ll never live if you testify. My family will get you. I’ll get you!” the killer screamed as he was taken out of the line-up room.

Jim finished his eggs just as a knock came at the back door.

“Who is it?”

“Detective Jordan of the city police.”

“Come in. The door’s open. What can I do for you?”

As Jordan entered, he showed his badge, saying, “The prossecutor sent me over. He wants to make sure you get to court safely.”

“I appreciate that. Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Jim got a cup of coffee for the detective and another for himself. As they drank their coffee, they talked.

The detective had his back to the door. He was heavyset, with a muscular look that gave the impression of strength. Though not very tall, he seemed athletic.

“Have you been with the police very long?”

“About fifteen years.”

“Do you like being a detective?”

“It’s okay. Mostly routine.”

While they talked, Jim felt himself becoming uneasy, but wasn’t sure why. He suggested they leave for the courthouse.

The detective turned to depart. Just as he went through the door, he stopped to adjust his belt. He drew himself up to his full height. The top of his head fell below the new notch on the door frame.

Jim stopped. “Detective Jordan, would you mind waiting a minute while I use the john?”

“Not at all.”

Jim climbed the stairs. He picked up the bedroom phone and carried it into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He pressed the digits nine-one-one and waited.

The phone rang once. “Emergency services. Can we help you?”

“Yes, this is Jim Wilson. I live at Forty-two Linden Lane. I’m supposed to testify in a murder trial today, and there’s a man here who, I think, wants to kill me. Could you send a patrol car?”

“They’ll be right there.”

Within five minutes, the blue and white patrol car was at 42 Linden. They surprised the detective as he was starting the engine of his blue sedan.

Jim came out and told the first uniformed officer, a tall young man, about twenty-six, to arrest the detective. The officer was skeptical.

“What makes you think he wants to kill you?”

“I’m supposed to testify today in a murder trial. He said the prosecutor sent him to escort me to the courthouse. But he’s an impostor.”

At that, Jordan drew his gun and aimed it at Jim. But the nearer officer grabbed the gun.

After reading the prisoner his rights and searching him, they asked him why he had pretended to be a detective.

“That’s my cousin on trial. I don’t want him going to prison. Not for a lousy storekeeper.”

As they put him into the back of the patrol car, the officer asked Him, “How did you know he was phoney?”

“Well,” Jim replied, “he’s only five-six, and city police have to be at least five-eight.”

While the patrol car pulled away, Jim got into his own car.