The 24th Letter

SEVENTY-TWO

A dozen cars were parked on the street outside Sixth Street Gym when O’Brien and Detective Ron Hamilton arrived. Going through the front door, Hamilton said, “Sunday morning, maybe the gym is like attending church for some people.”

O’Brien said, “The body’s a temple…mine’s just a little cracked.”

They walked down the hall and entered the gym, O’Brien scanning every sweaty face to see who was there from last night. He recognized no one. He stood next to a heavy bag and looked. His eyes followed a man skipping rope near the large American flag on the far wall. There was something different.

The flag moved. Just slightly at the left corner where the man fanned the rope. Yesterday, the flag was pulled tight across the door. Now it hung there, the ends next to the floor not secured.

There was a noise that sounded like a saw. O’Brien turned toward a small windowless office away from the speed bags. He said to Hamilton, “That guy, the one with the blender going…he was here last night. He’s got a thick Irish accent.”

They approached the man who was topping off the smoothie he poured from the blender into a large Styrofoam cup. He said, “Good morning, gentlemen. Here for a workout?” To O’Brien he said, “Tell me I should see the other guy.”

“I would, but he’s dead.”

The trainer sipped his drink. No reaction. Then he said, “Guess you don’t need boxing lessons.”

Lowe, Tom

The 24th Letter ((Mystery/Thriller))

“I need a straight answer. What happened to your accent?”

“Pardon me.”

“The Irish accent. You’re dropping it now. Why?”

“Sorry, mate, I don’t have a clue as to what you’re talking about.”

“Like hell you don’t! You’re the one who carried me out of the ring. You were then one who probably finished off Salazar.”

“Ring? Salazar?”

“The fight! Salazar attacked me in front of at least three-dozen cheering, betting witnesses. What’d you do, bus them in and then take them back to their hotels?”

“I think it’s time you two move on.”

Ron Hamilton showed his badge. “I say when it’s time to leave. We’re investigating a murder. And as far as I’m concerned, this is a crime scene. What’s your name? And show me an ID.”

“Michael Killen.”

“Where’s the ring?” asked O’Brien.

“As you can see, we have two rings.”

“Not those. You have another. Intimate seating for your morbid fans.”

The trainer sipped his drink and said, “I haven’t a clue, pal.”

“Oh, really?” said O’Brien. “I can tell you’re lying. You keep your body in shape, but you can’t control the pulse through the carotid artery in the side of your neck. It speaks volumes.” O’Brien turned to walk toward the American flag. “Let’s see what’s behind door number one.”