The Fruitcake Murders. Ace Collins
his back was to Tiffany, he quietly asked, “What should I look for?”
“If you’re asking about a weapon, nothing conventional. The damage to his head was done by something with a curved edge. It was likely red as I found a few flecks of paint in Elrod’s hair. Beyond that I have no idea. Never seen anything like this before. It might help if I knew where he was when he cashed it in.”
Picking up the phone and walking closer to the French doors, Walker quietly elaborated. “He was at his desk when the maid found him. He had the phone in his hand.”
“Then that rules out an accident,” the ME explained. “I thought he might have taken some drugs to help him sleep, then, as he was getting into bed, passed out and fallen against something, but not now.”
“Why not?” Walker whispered, “He could have gotten up after the fall, realized he was hurt and was trying to make a call for help when he passed out.”
“No,” the doctor explained, “a blow of this type would have caused him to immediately lose consciousness. So, he couldn’t have fallen, gotten up, and found his way back into his desk chair. If he was in the chair, he either had to have been struck while seated or been placed in the chair after he was struck. Either way it spells murder to me, and the knife played no part in his death.”
“Got it,” a confused Walker quietly replied as he rubbed his brow. This case had just become the criminal equivalent of buying a toy that required “some assembly.” What had once seemed so simple was proving to be very complex. “Could you call the boys and tell them to get back down here? We’ll now have to go over this house from top to bottom.”
“No problem, Lane. I’ve got two more rush jobs, so I’m going to be here the rest of the night. Let me know what you discover, and I’ll see if it matches the damage I found.”
“Thanks,” the homicide detective replied. “I will.”
Turning, he walked across the room to the end table. After returning the phone to its place, his eyes involuntarily went to the large oak door leading to the Elrods’ study. As they did, the reporter looked up from the magazine and smiled.
“So, the knife was not the murder weapon. And don’t try to deny it, my ears are much better than you could ever imagine. I heard everything Mitch Morelli said. Elrod was drugged and then knocked over the head by an unknown object.”
“Then you know as much as I do,” Lane complained. “So why don’t you run back to your newspaper and beat everyone else to the story. You might even earn a Christmas bonus for this scoop. You could use the extra cash to take a week off and explore the job markets in New York or Cleveland or anywhere but Chicago.”
“Very funny,” she laughed. “You always crack me up with your wit. I’m not leaving this house until I have a look at the murder room and don’t even try to keep me out.”
The city normally gave the press access to crime scenes and, if the story broke, five dailies would likely soon be here and each of their reporters would be shooting questions at him, so there was no reason to keep Tiffany from seeing the study. Besides, as she was working on the story about the bogus Santas and had written about the Delono operation, she might actually have a lead on who was behind this murder. Maybe this time the beautiful little pest could actually help him. That would be a first.
“Come on,” he grudgingly announced, walking slowly toward the door, “but don’t touch anything.”
“My hands will stay in my pockets,” she assured him as she rose from the couch.
Moving across the room, Lane pulled a handkerchief from his pants and twisted the brass knob. He used that same handkerchief to flip the wall switch connected to the overhead light. He then stood in the doorway, with the woman just to his right, and studied the room.
Across the back wall was a built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled with everything from law books to novels. To the right was a double door leading to a patio overlooking the estate’s polo-ground-size side yard. On the opposite wall, were two large red leather chairs separated by a huge wooden globe. Elrod’s desk was in front of the bookshelf. It was ten feet wide and five feet deep and constructed of tiger oak. On it was a phone, a green-shaded brass lamp, a calendar, a legal pad, two recent issues of Time magazine, one declaring James F. Byrnes “Man of the Year,” an address book, a well-worn Bible, and a half-empty cup of coffee.
“Well, the knockout drug was likely in the coffee,” Tiffany noted, as the cop continued to survey the study. “Now, what do you think was used as the murder weapon?”
“Not sure,” Lane admitted, his gaze moving from the desk back to the bookshelf. “But I do know this, what I need to find is not hiding in plain sight.”
As the cop slowly moved further into the room, the reporter asked, “How about giving me a hint as to what’s on your mind? Oh, wait, your mind is always a blank.”
Ignoring the woman, he again used the handkerchief, this time to pick up the phone and study both the base and receiver. They both had round edges but were clean. Besides, Bakelite might be a hard material, but if it was used as a weapon there should have been a crack. There wasn’t. After setting the phone back on the desk, he examined the metal wastebasket. It looked much too perfect. If it had been used to strike the DA the sides would have been dented. Obviously, the books with their square edges were not employed in this crime either. Perhaps the murderer took the murder weapon with him.
Taking a seat in the chair where Elrod’s life had slipped away, Lane again used the handkerchief to carefully open each of the desk’s nine drawers. Once more, he struck out. None of the many objects he found could have made a rounded wound.
Tiffany, now seated in a chair just to the right of the large wooden globe, said nothing until the cop closed the final desk drawer. “I might be able to help. I’ve got a nose for this kind of thing.”
Ignoring her, he leaned back and examined the paintings and awards hanging on the wall. Nothing was out of place and nothing was missing. Besides, once again, there were no round edges.
“Listen, Flatfoot,” the reporter whined, “I know he was murdered with something round and red. I heard that part of the phone conversation. There’s nothing like that in this room, so the murderer must have taken it with him.”
She was likely right, but the last thing he wanted to admit to Tiffany was that he was drawing a blank. Getting up from behind the desk, he strolled back into the living room and took a quick inventory. Nothing jumped out that could have been used in the crime. In fact, there was nothing red or round in the room. Strolling back into the study he moved toward the patio. Flipping a switch beside the door, he unlocked and pushed the entry open, then stepped out into the cold night air. There were impressions in the snow. He expected them to lead out to the yard, but they didn’t. Instead, they turned to the right and disappeared along the side of the enormous gray-stone mansion. Lane pulled a small flashlight from his suit pocket and shined its beam where the porch light faded.
“Still cold,” Tiffany observed as she stepped out and joined him. “Do you have something or you just trying to put some distance between us? Which, don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind.”
“I may have something,” Lane explained. “Look at the footsteps in the snow. They show that a man walked quickly to the area around that bush and for some reason he stopped there. Note how he shuffled back and forth. Look at those prints over there.” He pointed to where this flashlight was shining. “A few of those impressions indicate he was on his toes for a while. Then you’ll note by the length of his strides, he must have sprinted around the house, across the back drive, and probably to the street. With the erratic nature of the prints and the fact they hang close to the house, I’ll bet this wasn’t Elrod. Besides, a man of his age wouldn’t have raced. I mean, look at those long strides; our mystery man was running.”
“Couldn’t it have been one of your cops?” she suggested. “I mean, didn’t you and your men explore this area?”
“No,”