Joan Hess - Poisoned Pins

He came to the sidewalk, where I had a better view of his wet, slack mouth and a better whiff of his indifference to personal hygiene. “I don’t know what all’s going on back there,” he continued. “It most likely has to do with the body in the middle of the alley, but with the cops, you can’t ever be sure what they’re up to.” He winked at me, although it seemed to require more than minimal effort. “I guess my appointment is canceled, so how about a little drink, Senator?”

I jammed my hands in my pockets before I lost my resolve and punched him in the nose. “You know damn well that I’m not a senator. Just drop it and explain what you said about a body in the alley.”

“It’s not a pretty sight,” he said, shaking his head. “Come to think of it, Washington Weekly will be on before too long. Tonight’s topic is the impact of the trade agreements with Japan on the American auto industry, which happens to be of particular interest to me. Helluva show, doncha think, Senator?”

“Arnie,” I said with all the venom I could muster, “let’s get this straight once and-”

“Smile!” He whipped a camera from behind his back. The flash exploded in my eyes, and for a brief moment all I could see were ragged red and purple circles. They’d not yet faded completely as he scuttled past me, climbed into his truck, and drove away, his taillights blinking farewell long before I could concoct a response.

Arnie’s repeated avowals of my political position arose from an incident in the past, when he’d been assigned to drive a state senator and a local beauty queen in the Thurberfest parade. He’d shown up drunk and obligated me, the very unwilling assistant pageant director, to play chauffeur (while dodging bullets). In his alcoholic haze he’d decided I was the senator rather than the beauty queen-a politically correct yet mildly insulting assumption. When Caron had lured me into investigating a pet-theft ring, Arnie’d nearly managed to have me arrested for harboring a fugitive, and shortly thereafter he’d come close to watching me chewed to bits by a trio of enraged pit bulls. All in all, he was not a dear friend. Given the chance, I would have driven a stake through his heart. Cheerfully.

In the alley, the blue lights continued to rotate and the radios to crackle. More car doors slammed, and the beam of a flashlight bobbled on the foliage. There was like1y to be an iota of truth in Arnie’s statement, I thought as I hesitated on the sidewalk and tried to discern what was happening. The alley ran behind several Greek communes, of both the imposing and the marginally renovated varieties, and it was a handy shortcut from the bastions of academia to the bars of Thurber Street. Although I had to drive a short distance on it to park in the basement garage of my duplex, I rarely promenaded down it, being as averse to miasmatic garbage dumpsters as I was to sweat-and to Arnie.

I finally went past my house, turned at the corner, and turned again at the north end of the alley. There were three police cars parked behind the Kappa house, their lights flashing mutely, and spotlights had been placed to illuminate what I assumed was the cause of the official presence.

An engraved invitation was not likely, nor would I be welcomed into the group and offered details. I knew from experience that officers at the scene of the crime could be blustery and indignant over the presence of a civic-minded citizen who was eager to share her insights into the heinous deed. Peter Rosen, for example, could be quite adamant about what he considered meddlesome intrusions.

There was more going on than a case of a cat flattened by a garbage truck, however, and I was determined to find out what it was. I approached tentatively, pausing every step to scan the crowd for Peter or his minion, Jorgeson. I wasn’t at all sure if I’d have more success with them or without them, and I was decidedly ambivalent when I caught a glimpse of Peter’s curly black hair as he beckoned at an ambulance creeping toward the scene from the opposite direction.

“Okay,” I heard him snap, “where’s the medical examiner? You called him-when? Ten minutes ago? Unlike this poor girl, we don’t have all night!”

Jorgeson appeared, consulting his watch, and pulled Peter aside to converse. I was keeping an eye on them as I edged forward, and therefore yelped when a flashlight caught me in the face and an unfamiliar voice said, “Hey, Lieutenant, we got a sightseer You want I should sell her a ticket-or does she already have a season pass?”

This did not amuse Lieutenant Peter Rosen, who shook off Jorgeson’s hand and stalked to the edge of the lights. “Claire,” he said with petulance rather than the enthusiasm for which I’d hoped, “what are you doing here? Just go to your apartment and wait, okay? I’ve got enough problems as it is, and the last thing I need is a nosy neighbor lurking nearby.”

“I never lurk,” I said. “I am merely taking an interest in a crime committed not more than twenty feet from my back door. For all I know, the murderer is lurking in my kitchen.”

“No one said anything about murder,” he growled.

“You and the gang didn’t come out to investigate the theft of a dumpster, did you?” I shaded my eyes and permitted myself a small grimace. “My eyes have been subject to enough abuse tonight. Would you please ask your pyrotechnical expert to give me a break?”

Peter gestured at the officer, then came over to me and gave me a look meant to intimidate me into flight into the nearest haven. “Civilians are not allowed at the scene of a crime,” he said in his steeliest cop voice. “We’ve got the weapon, and in any case, it’s unlikely you could be run down in your kitchen by a 1973 Buick. Please, this one time, let me do my job without your assistance. When I can get away, I’ll come by and tell you what happened.”

“Was it one of the girls from the Kappa Theta Eta house?”

He bit down on his lip in a manner I found incredibly virile, but I left it unspoken. He said, “We don’t have a positive ID yet. If she was carrying a purse, the impact knocked it into the brush or it was taken from the scene.” He glowered at me. “You don’t know them, do you?”

“Yes, I do. I had dinner at the house in the middle of the week, and am capable of identifying any one of them. However, I sense that I’m interrupting, so I’ll run along home and have a nice cup of tea while you and the boys get back to business.” I took a couple of steps backward to prove I wasn’t bluffing. “Call me when you can.”

“We’re not going to find her purse tonight, Lieutenant,” a uniformed officer called. “The undergrowth’s a damn jungle. Maybe it’ll turn up tomorrow when we can see what we’re doing.”

Peter was now biting down on his lip hard enough to draw blood, and I could see it took an effort on his part to relent and mutter, “See if you recognize her.”

I allowed myself to be escorted between two police cars, and then forced myself to look down at the body sprawled on the eroded asphalt surface. Once I was sure, I spun away and bent over the hood of one of the cars struggling not to lose the beer I’d imbibed. I squeezed my eyes closed, but the image of the lifeless face and ribbons of blood seemed all the more intense, more vivid than the reality.

Peter rested his hand on my back. “Is she one of the girls from this sorority house?”

I gulped back the bitterness that rose in my throat, and stood up. “Her name was Jean Hall. She was…“ I harshly rubbed my temples as if my fingers could erase the image. “She was planning to attend law school at Yale in the fall. She was enrolled in one course this summer, and also worked for the dean of the law school here.” I moved out of the light and kept my eyes locked on Peter’s face. “What happened to her? She looks as though she’d been run down by a fleet of buses.”