The Hollerith Tattoo

INTRODUCTION

As we go along, the skill is building right along with the victim count. In this, Ken’s best mystery to date, there are several of the characters found in the first two books of the series: Requiem for a Character Actor and Infraction—Getting Even. The scene shifts from Chainville, CA into Nevada and Southern California. This one begins as a white-collar crime, preparing readers for the upcoming retirement of the protagonist, Quentin Price, Chief of Police of Chainville, and his son, QP2, who is becoming an outstanding criminalist.

Enjoy the story. We’re sorry we had to leave so many bodies lying about.

Chapter 1

Mary Trimble answered the phone in the hallway of her ground floor apartment. She caught it just before the answering machine kicked in. She’d dashed from the bathroom clad in the large towel wrapped around her body, just out of the shower.

Hello?

Nobody spoke,

Again, she spoke: Hello?

Again, nobody spoke.

Mary got annoyed. If there’s anyone there, speak or I’m going to hang up! she shouted.

I don’t think I’d do that, were I you, said a man’s voice. One she recognized. One she hadn’t heard for several years. One belonging to a person she remembered, but whose name she hadn’t thought of for a long time. We have much to talk about, you and I.

We have nothing to talk about, said Mary.

Oh, I think we do. Your testimony sent me away for ten years. I’m out early because of good behavior. Good behavior. Can you believe that?

Mary Trimble shook from head to foot. Don’t call me again, she shouted and slammed down the receiver.

There was a pause and suddenly the phone began to ring again. Mary stood and watched it ring—twice, three times, four times. On the fifth ring, the answering machine picked up. She heard: You have reached 530-555-2122. I’m not here to take your call. At the tone, please leave a message and I’ll be glad to get back to you as soon as possible.

Mary, Mary. Is that nice? We spent so much time together, you and I. It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen you. Wouldn’t it be courteous of you to spend a little time here on the phone with me? Would you prefer I come to your apartment? I could do that, you know. I know where you lived when I was sent away, and I’ll bet you haven’t moved. I’m not far away. I can see the lights of your apartment from here. Wouldn’t you like to have dinner with me? What would it hurt? We could eat at LaPlaza. I still have that money. They never found it, you know. I paid for that money. Six years I paid. It’s mine now.

Then the tape in the answering machine ceased to record.

Mary quickly shut off the lights of the apartment and went to ensure that the doors were locked. She double-checked the windows and drew the drapes.

Again, the phone rang. Why she hadn’t taken it off the latch, she didn’t know, but it spit out its message and began to record again.

Mary, Mary. Don’t be like that. Talk with me. Turn your lights back on.

She shouted to the phone, There’s nothing to talk about. You stole the money. All I did was discover that you did it. Leave me alone!

He couldn’t hear Mary’s response, as she hadn’t picked up the receiver, so he continued to talk. I spent six years, Mary, just planning what I’d do to people who sent me away. You are next, Mary. It depends on time and opportunity. You know my motive, don’t you, Mary? You know why you must die, don’t you? Don’t you remember—no good deed goes unpunished? It has begun. I’d suggest you tune in to KCCA-TV for the next newscast. It might be revealing.

Chapter 2

The sun had begun to drop beneath the horizon. The temperature was dropping rapidly, as the cold northwesterly wind promised to take it to the teens before midnight. Kathryn Iverson, secretary to the Mayor of Chainville, looked out the window at the graying skies.

Looks as if we’re in for some more snow.

The high tomorrow would be in the thirties, and though spring was coming soon, those who journeyed to their work would continue to be bundled against the icy onslaught of the Northern California wind.

Kathryn and the Mayor, Aaron McGinty, whom many called Mayor McCheese, had worked late today to prepare the city’s annual budget for presentation to the City Council at the end of the week. It had to be done tonight, printed tomorrow, and released to the press.

The Mayor was sweating profusely. The heat was on in the Chainville Municipal Offices, and the facilities people had been unable to regulate the thermostats.

It’ll be fixed by tomorrow, the Mayor had been assured, else we’ll replace the controls. Tomorrow will be more comfortable.

That’ll be a relief, said Kathy. It’s difficult working in a too-hot office and going out into the cold air. I get one cold after another. She placed a folder of recently copied budget reports on the Mayor’s desk. This should be all you need for the presentation to the Council. The original is off to the printer and it’s promised for Thursday afternoon.

Pudgy Aaron McGinty accepted the folder and laid the reports out on the desk before him. Thank you, Kathy. They look nice. He looked up at her and smiled; she returned the smile. I think that’ll do it. Let’s call it a day. He rose, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned his vest. We’ve done well by the citizens for one day. Let’s hope that when Punxatawny Phil pokes his head out of his Pennsylvania burrow tomorrow we’ll see an early spring.

Kathy Iverson had been the Mayor’s secretary for the two terms he’d held the office. She was a pretty and well-proportioned woman, liked by everybody at City Hall. She was married to Barry Iverson, head of the Chainville Water Department. A woman in her late forties, Kathy had a single child—a daughter—and had plunged into her secretarial career. Her daughter was now planning her wedding, and Kathy’s personal life was busy.

McGinty had his choice of secretarial assistance when he took office nearly eight years before. Barry had been instrumental in his wife’s new position, largely because he knew things about the incoming Mayor that McGinty preferred his wife not to know. Further, Kathy was tired of the life of the accounting spreadsheet and her job in the accounting department of the Pelican National Bank.

Thanks, boss, said Kathy. I need to get home. Barry is taking me out tonight. Since Sally announced her engagement, her father and I have been right out straight with wedding plans. It’ll be nice to take tonight to relax.

La Plaza?

Chainville is still a small city. La Plaza is the one fancy place to eat—expensive, but fancy. One of these days we’ll have that Holiday Inn here and have some alternatives.

Nobody is to know about negotiations with Holiday Inn, I remind you. McGinty was planning to run again in the spring and developing a large commercial property would bring accolades—but he didn’t wish to place it there until it could do him the most good.

Right. She’d put on her coat and hat, and was winding a scarf around her neck. I won’t need to wear the boots, she said, as she picked them up off the floor. The snow is just starting. From here to the car will be no problem, and I can drive right into my garage.

Have a good dinner with Barry.

Kathy smiled back as she passed through the door into the hallway and signaled for the elevator. When the car arrived at the seventh floor, she entered and pushed the button for the top level of the garage, in the basement of the municipal building. She always parked on G-1, even before she had a reserved parking space, because it would be a shorter walk should the power go out and she’d have to walk the stairs.

In seconds, the elevator completed its journey and the doors opened on the garage, where she met Smitty, a guard hired to oversee the parking facility during the off hours. Smitty entered the elevator as Kathy got off. Hi, Smitty, what’s up?

*****

John Smith, Smitty to everyone who knew him, had been a fixture in the municipal building as far back as Kathy could recall. He wasn’t employed by the City of Chainville itself. He was assigned by a local detective agency, but had grown—and aged—in the job. He was armed with a nightstick and carried handcuffs. The Chief of Police, Quentin Price, had objected to the man’s carrying a sidearm and had won his point before the City Council.

Despite that, Smith, in his mid-50s, was physically strong and had been able to arrest a few people in the decade or so he’d worked there. In that time, he’d developed a personal connection with each worker in the building. Widowed, he carried on a steady repartee with all the single women in the building about running off to Las Vegas, where they could register as Mr. and Mrs. John Smith. He always said it with a smile on his face. Nobody thought he was serious, and he always responded to comments of you wish with politeness, courtesy, and an impish smile.

He tipped his hat and entered the elevator, leaving her standing there as the doors closed. Secure in her safety, Kathy began to walk toward her car. Hearing a noise, she stopped to listen. Who’s there? she shouted. As quickly as she could move, she ran to her car. It was a mistake—she should have run up the ramp to the street—there was no time to wait for the elevator and the door that dumped out onto G-1 was kept locked. Because she’d not had presence of mind to have her keys ready, she stood beside her car and rummaged in her purse.

That’s all it took. The noise became a shadow. The shadow became a man. The man was suddenly and silently beside her.

Can I help you, Ma’am? he asked. He was dressed in black pants, a black jacket, and a dark-colored watch cap. She noted that he was wearing vinyl gloves; the type of gloves hospital workers wore.

Kathy Iverson smiled a nervous smile as she retrieved the keys from her purse and put them into the car door. She looked furtively back at the elevator doors that had closed on the security guard and around at the few remaining vehicles in the garage. It was after closing time, and the cars left belonged to people who, like her, had worked late. She inserted the key into the lock and opened the door.

He held the door for her, as she sat in the driver’s seat, placing her purse on the passenger seat and removing her scarf. As she got in, she thanked the man for his courtesy, and closed the door. Once settled, she started the car, looked out the window to find the man still standing there, and opened the window to again thank her benefactor. Her gratitude was met by an arm that came through the open window, reached around the front of her face, and drew a sharp instrument—one couldn’t call it a knife—you wouldn’t butter bread with it—across her throat in one swift motion, right to left. The incision cut both jugulars. The sudden rush of blood from the severed arteries covered his arm, sprayed across the inside of the car, and nearly everywhere until the pressure in her system had diminished. Kathy’s head rolled backward, nearly severed from her neck, yet held in place.

He’d used the left-handed instrument today, and after he’d wiped it on the sleeve of the jacket he wore, he fit it back into its holster and put it back into his left pants pocket.

From his jacket pocket he took a black Magic Marker, took off the cap, and with his left hand marked on Kathy’s lifeless forehead two numbers, separated by a dash—12 and 3.

Because the engine of Kathy’s car was now running, turning the steering wheel was easy, so he pointed the car toward the opposite end of the parking garage, reached in across Kathy’s torso, put the car into gear, and backed away. By the time the car collided with the wall or another car at the opposite end, he’d be at street level and walking away.

He moved toward the stairway, on a run, intent on getting out of sight of anyone responding to the crash. As he moved, he removed the latex gloves and put them into his jacket pocket. He removed the jacket, a summer weight cloth jacket he’d used for the purpose, and folded it inside out. He’d burn it later when he went to the job. There were rags back in the truck that he’d use to clean his exposed skin.

The car, now driven by a corpse, moved along the driveway, bouncing off several parked vehicles and into the wall, but he did not see it. The sound of the crash would summon people, and the impact shook the building briefly. By that time, he’d ascended the stairs to street level. Fearing that the parking areas on the street beside Chainville City Hall might be covered by building cameras, he’d parked a block away and walked to the garage that was beneath the building. Now, despite the oncoming darkness, he pulled the watch cap down over his ears and put on the dark glasses he carried in his shirt pocket. If he were observed, they would be hard pressed to identify him. A double check of his covering, and he was out on the street beside City Hall, headed for the truck with its little trailer, parked in a vacant lot halfway up Main Street.

Chapter 3

The noise of the collision did, indeed, summon people. When the car collided with the concrete wall, part of the building shook, and while that vibration wasn’t felt above the second floor, the guard—Smitty—had heard the noise, and would later describe it as similar to a mortar attack he’d endured in Vietnam. Smith didn’t wait for the elevator this time. He’d gone down to G-3 on his rounds, and bounded up the two flights of stairs as if he were again an Army platoon leader.

By the time he arrived at G-1, several people were just leaving the elevator, heading for their cars. Smith spotted the secretary’s BMW against the inside of the exterior wall of the garage. The collision had set off the BMW’s horn, and the echo rang loud throughout the building.

Call an ambulance, he commanded, as he ran toward the car at the end of the driveway. Someone accepted that responsibility and again entered the elevator. He’d forgotten that he was carrying a two-way radio that would allow him communication with the Police Department dispatcher.

On a run, Smith sprinted toward the car. Quickly he overtook the wreck, people running behind him. The recognition was instantaneous. He’d seen headless people before—in ‘Nam after a mortar attack had made a direct hit on a foxhole. He’d long ago upchucked his guts at the sight, but that didn’t make it any easier. Quickly he turned back towards people running toward him.

She’s dead, he shouted, holding his hands in the air to arrest their forward progress. Stand back.

He now remembered his radio, picked it out of its holster, and squeezed the send button.

Dispatch. Smith here.

Go ahead, Smitty. Problems on your rounds?

Dispatch, we have a crash on G-1. A car has collided with the exterior wall. The driver—Mrs. Iverson—is dead. An ambulance has been called. We need help here.

Acknowledge. Are you sure she’s dead?

Quite sure. Better get a black and white over here, notify the Chief, and get your crime scene people here. This is no traffic accident.

Before he turned the volume down, everybody standing there heard the dispatcher call for help.

Units 22 and 36. Go to City Hall level G-1. See the guard. Detectives Collins and Rinehart, go to City Hall level G-1. See the guard. Possible homicide. After she’d put out those messages on the radio, she picked up the phone and notified Chief Quentin Price.

Chief, look’s like we have a homicide at City Hall, garage level G-1.

*****

The person who had gone to summon the ambulance also summoned the Mayor, who in turn alerted Kathy’s husband, Barry.

You’d better come. The word is that she was involved in an accident, the Mayor told him. I’m on the way down to the garage now.

Everybody in the building knew Kathy Iverson, and all knew her car. When he heard, the Mayor caught the elevator and descended to

G-1. As he and several others were coming from the elevator, two black and whites were coming into the garage. They pulled up to where people were and parked between them and the wrecked car, blocking the way. They took control of the scene immediately.

The Mayor tried to break through the line, but the patrolmen prevented it. My God—Kathy! Kathy! He turned to the guard. What happened? The guard had difficulty hearing the other man over the noise of the horn.

Guard John Smith took the Mayor by the arm and led him to the side where they could not be overheard.

Mrs. Iverson is dead, Mr. Mayor.

How is that possible? She just left work. She couldn’t have been going fast when she hit that wall. Has an ambulance been called? Why aren’t you giving first aid? See here, Smith. You’re trained to do that!

"Mister Mayor, no amount of first aid is going to help