Posts Tagged With: Meg Brown

It’s Here! It’s Here! The NaNo has arrived – Week One

For a few weeks now I’ve been building up to this NaNo thing, right? Telling you all about my prep or lack thereof – in lurid and exaggerated detail and all that stuff. I’m sure it was very amusing and stuff. But all that fun aside it is now upon us. Bam. Just like that. Did i panic? Did i lose my marbles and go screaming into the night? Did I hide under the covers? Nay! I did not. I stood tall and proud and joined the fray like a true damned hero.

Okay. So I may have peed my pants just a little.

NaNo launched at Midnight last thursday. If you were up at that hour you probably felt the furious tapping of hundreds of thousands of keyboards all over the world. It probably sounded like a herd of pygmy goats. I was up. One of those little tappings was my own. Mine. My precious. I did 2000 words that first night which is off to a pretty nifty start if i do say so myself. And yes i did panic just a wee bit in the small hours before kickoff. I got that little nervous jitter in my chest that niggled at me and filled me with self-doubt. But then it started and it was all like “you got this?” and the steely eyed missile man inside glared down and said in his best Clint Eastwood impression: “Yeah. I got this.”Clint

Three days later and I’ve crested the 10,000 mark and things are still going strong. I think. Honestly, I wouldn’t know as I’m terrified of looking back at what I’ve already written. It feels like its working pretty well but almost immediately something popped up in the story that I didn’t expect: Meg sorta fell for the Los Angeles Cop she met in the opening chapter. It had been in my mind that that might happen, but I figured ‘it’s Meg, we’re talking about. The chances of that are fairly slim.’ and then it happened. That’s characters for you. You never can quite tell what they’re going to do until they do it and Meg is particularly that way. I love her a lot but it’s a ride writing her. Most of the time i just feel like I’m following along.

And once again I’m struck with what a weird magical mystery writing is and that’s what NaNo is really all about in my opinion. If there is one thing I want all NaNo participants to find it’s that word count doesn’t matter. Yeah, it’s great to have goals. It’s a moment of great joy when you hit that 50,000 and kick on the Queen and go strutting around your minuscule monastic cell but that’s secondary to all the moments in between. LIke everything else in life the journey is the destination. Don’t forget the little things. Like when you’re just writing along, grinding away and suddenly the giant puzzle pieces drop out of the sky and fill the landscape and you have that first gasp that everything might actually work out. Or that moment when you suddenly see your scene so well that you can hear the seagulls in the air and feel the breeze. You might not be able to write it but you know it and you know it’s there when you need it.

Those are the great moments. That’s why this is a blast and why NaNo is so cool. Not everyone is going to have those moments. You can’t engineer or create them. They just happen. You can read every pro writer tip out there and soak in hundreds of hours worth of boring lectures and never have that moment. But then one day you’ll be writing along – maybe in the middle of a word sprint and BAM! Like you just ran into something with your face and liked it.

I’ve been hearing an awful lot lately about how hard writing is and how you need to respect it and how it’s hard work and it will twist you into knots and no true writer can say they are a true writer until they learn to hate it just a little. Personally I think that’s bullshit. You’ve caught someone trying to make themselves sound more respectable because ‘who doesn’t hate their job a little every now and then? I’d be an asshole if I said the truth – that this is the only damned thing I have ever wanted to do and when it’s working its like angels singing.’ Are there rough times? Sure. But whatever.

Let’s put it this way: I remember the playgrounds of my youth. I remember transforming a pile of old tires into a tank, or a horse out on the open plain, the swings were like flying, that weird collection of splintery beams and chains was a pirate ship, or the back of a dragon. I remember nothing being what it was. Everything changed dramatically with the power of invention and imagination. Writing is the playground. A piece of paper or a blank screen turning into forests, space dragons, the Santa Monica Pier, the bridge of a starship. It’s the place where your own personal memory meets the kid in the adult – your imagination makes alchemy happen and it’s magic. But in order to let that magic happen, in order for NaNo to really live up to its full potential – you need to get that ego out of the way and just learn to surf the resurgent wave that is that resurrected little kid fighting it’s way back into the adult.

Anyway. That’s Day three of Nano. Now i’m heading back at it. Rig and Meg are about to interview an elderly criminal. This is going to be fun.

Post Script – Last week i wrote a teleplay involving Castle working through NaNo while trying to solve a case. As soon as i figure out a way to share it here i will. In the mean time, drop a line and ask about it or share ideas on how i might be able to share it. Cuz i’ve got nothing.




Categories: Meg Brown Mysteries, Mystery, Writing | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Meg Brown Hostage Crisis is Over

Well it’s finally over. Okay, in fact it’s been over for weeks now. Boy I’m a terrific journalist aren’t I? Kindle KDP has decided that the Meg Stories are mine and mine alone Muahahahaha! Well… Insofar as I’ve, y’know, shared them with you guys. Whoever you are. Wherever you are.

I’m only writing about it now because I’ve been incredibly lazy and right now I have a choice to be social or to write a blog entry on my phone and of course I’m going to choose to write a blog entry. I mean – no brainer right?

What this means to you fans of Meg is that you can now go back to the original Meg’s and read them all over again. And tell your friends how wonderful they are. And nudge them into buying copies themselves and if they refuse to be nudged you can threaten them with bodily harm.

But they are now available again. And as soon as I get done with sitting around this beautiful lake on a beautiful day while beautifully evading my social responsibilities I will get on the task of seeing what to do with the next meg story. That’s number five if your counting. Which you really should be. It’s been finished for months now. But I’m trying to put a bit more oomph into it – a cover for one thing. I would also like to push it to more devices or even *gasp* a real book format. I know. I’ve been saying this stuff for a while. Let’s be honest – its a seriously daunting task and to accomplish it I sort of hafta face terror.

Well that’s it. Thems the story so far. More to come I swear.

Categories: Meg Brown Mysteries | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

Too Much Peace of Mind – A Meg Brown Mystery

Something about the interior of the plane to Phoenix reminded her of images she once saw of an indian bus clinging precariously to the thinnest possible ribbon of remaining road above a beautiful river chasm. It made for a lovely view, particularly when it was destined to be your last. But then again, the desperately impassive faces of her co-passengers were not a lovely image.

Meg had never felt right about planes. She’d never been able to get over the feeling that they were little more than distended Campbell’s Soup Cans with creatively dissembled labels that made up the wings. She couldn’t get over the speed of them, skipping rapidly over millions of sedentary ordinary lives. In the time it took to listen to a fragment of a song on an ipod you’d skipped blissfully over the commutes that those below would be bitching about hours later. In the time it took to type a quick message on twitter you’d blasted past thousands of people heading in the same direction.

And yet she’d done worse. She’d flown to Iraq and back twice. She’d ridden in Armored Personnel carriers under fire with small arms fire pinging against the side. She’d clung to sandbags as artillery rounds stole the air from her chest. She’d taken a shotgun blast in her vest at close range. But in the end it was planes she feared. Planes which horrified her straight down to some untapped icy core under her ribs.

As the plane lurched again she raised a hand at the stewardess. She was pretty in the way that make men brutal, stupid and dangerous and women much the same but for different reasons. She had blond hair capping a gorgeous but severe face that was perched atop long legs whose shape could be, and were, appraised by most of the male coach passengers in spite of the unattractive uniform she sported. She was also, very clearly, a sadist in the way her eyes grazed vapidly over Meg’s desperate, outstretched arm. She would have liked to say she’d shot people for less, but it wouldn’t have been true. Every person she’d shot, and there really hadn’t been that many, had completely deserved it.

“Have you looked over the case file yet?” Nudged her partner, Albert Riggins. The nudge made her jump a little which made her feel foolish. She brought her arm down quickly with a curse that settled gently over the entire situation.

“What’s to look at?” She snapped as she shoved the proffered file back at him with her elbow. “We’re not going to crack it. It’s already cracked. Just like this stewardesses head is going to be if she doesn’t take my drink order.” The stewardess turned again in her direction toting a minuscule pillow that she seemed to have pulled from the stale air. She handed the pillow to a man in the second row who fought to get it adequately behind his neck. Meg’s arm shot up again. The plane lurched again and again the stewardesses fluttering lashes fell on Meg’s outstretched hand and fluttered away.

“Flight Attendant.” Riggin’s corrected. He had no excuse to correct her – being twenty years her elder and of an age where stewardesses still wore skirts.

“Can I shoot her?” She snatched the file from him.


“What if I said I thought she was a terrorist?”

“I don’t think you’re even allowed to say terrorist much less call her a stewardess.”

Meg blew her hair from her face in disgust which only made it settle more completely in her eye.

“It was just the once.” She said, opening the file. “I didn’t know they were so touchy. I hope her boyfriend dismembered her cabbage patch kid before he was locked up. And what’s more I bet I could make a drug bust out of her. She’s clearly carrying some coke somewhere.”

“How do you figure her boyfriends in jail?”

“Well covered bruise on her wrist and another older one above her right temple. Tattoo on her left arm.”

“You can’t even see her tattoos. If she has any.”

“She raised her arm to get the pillow. I just caught a little glimpse of it. Bad quality. Looked homemade – prison ink style. She’s a tagged woman.”

Riggins was used to this sort of thing. His eyes followed the Flight Attendant as she disappeared behind the curtain into the first class compartment. They’d followed her there before but now they were looking for something else though he knew he would never see what Meg saw as quickly. He never would admit it but Meg Brown was the best thing to happen to his homicide squad in the entire time he’d been there but it hadn’t been easy. She was contentious, adamant, opinionated, direct, and worse – usually right. She’d seen more action than anyone else, knew more about seemingly everything, and drew connections between things the way a master draws a line, or an expert bluegrass fiddler plays a bridge. For the first time in almost ten years he saw the scope of his impending retirement with a panoramic and restful view that only came with a near perfect peace of mind.

Meg turned the pages to the pictures of the homicide and laid it open on the anemic fold out table that the airline provided to make a mockery of function. Across the aisle she heard a gasp.

“Nasty isn’t it?” She said to the woman who gasped. Under typical circumstances it would have been easy to imagine the forty year old woman with a pleasant, though simple laugh but here her kind and florid face gaped open and goggled at the crime scene photos. The woman’s tiny eyes zipped from the picture to Meg’s face and back again like some fast insect uncertain of the safety of it’s landing zone.

“Oh yeah. Head bashed in.” Meg added. “I’ve seen worse of course. Hell, I’ve done worse. But this one’s special.”

She pushed the pictures as close to the edge of the fold out as she could so the horrified passenger could get a better look at what she pretended not to want to.

“You know what the killer used? This will make you laugh. You won’t believe it. Guess.”

“I don’t… I can’t imagine…” The woman spluttered.

“Come on. Guess.”

“A baseball bat?” She whispered.

“No no no. Everybody uses a baseball bat. A cucumber. A frozen fucking cucumber. Do you believe it? I mean I’ve seen everything – Bat’s, axes. Axes make a big mess. Brains and bone everywhere. Pipes, concrete, stop signs. You name it but I have never seen anyone killed with a vegetable before. It takes a special kind of weird to think up the homicidal uses for produce.”

The woman looked at her. All the shock of seeing a body drained out of her with the unmistakable sensation that she was being made fun of.

“I’m totally serious. You don’t believe me. Okay. I’m partially lying. The cucumber was used to knock him out. It was one of those big kind with the big bulb at the end. They must have sapped him just right. See? You can see it in the picture.”

She pointed at the vegetable in the close up photo. It was taken not long after the first responder showed up so there was still a pretty rind of white frost covering it like fine fur mixed with a sharp dark stain of blood.

“Then they stabbed him twenty three times.”

“With a cucumber?”

“No. Standard kitchen knife. Which was a bitch and a half I’ll tell you. You know the thing about kitchen knives? They get slippery when you stab someone with them. So when you’re investigating and you see a kitchen knife you sort of cheer because whoever did it cut the royal shit out of themselves while they were doing it. So at first I gave a nice ‘yippee’. But that’s the pisser of it. Nothing. Stabbed twenty three times in twenty seconds or so and didn’t so much as knick a finger. And of course didn’t leave any prints. But then they almost never do.”

The woman seemed better knowing that a knife had been used. Order, in her world, was restored for the moment. She leaned in closer to Meg on one of her thick, porcine arms and smiled at her conspiratorially. Meg decided that she liked her. She was a good midwestern girl looking forward to turning pink in the much hyped Arizona sun.

“Did you catch them?”

Megan cracked her brightest farm girl grin and pushed more of her wayward hair out of her face.

“Well… yes and no.”

From behind the first class curtain the stewardess revealed herself like the conniving understudy in a broadway musical. Megan launched her arm again but this time her enthusiasm caused a sudden waterfall of gory images to pour from the folder and onto the floor. The stewardess saw the spill and Megan saw her rosy lips peel back into a satisfied smirk. It was probably the closest approximation she could make to a genuine smile.

“Terrorist.” She muttered as the smirk sank back behind the curtain. “The DA had us arrest someone. Prints found at the scene. Motive. Opportunity. You know – the usual bullshit they like. But he didn’t do it.”

“I thought you said they didn’t find any prints?”

“They didn’t find any on the knife. But there are always prints around.”

“But he didn’t do it?”

“Nope. It was one of those things you probably see on the TV all the time. Discovered the cucumber. That sort of thing.”

“But you arrested him?”

“Had to. The DA had his guy. Dead to rights too. I mean it’s really the perfect thing for a DA. The whole story, laid out like an episode of TV. Easiest thing to sell to any jury.”

“But then… who did it? Do you know?”

Meg smiled at her.

“Girlfriend. But of course she has an ironclad alibi. Made of the sort of iron you could blow your nose into or wipe your ass with. She said she was playing ‘hostess’ at an illegal poker game. 10 disreputable lying jackasses have her giving out lap dances that night. And to make matters worse we have a logged witness statement from her regarding a weapons charge 10 minutes after the body was discovered. It’s all garbage of course. She killed him. I know it. She knows it. The guy she was sleeping with knows it. She knows I know it and she knows I know she knows.”

Meg sighed at the drink she should have been holding but wasn’t and looked up at the woman smiling brightly.

“She’ll snap someday. Probably sooner than later. When she does I’ll be there to break her smug little jaw and enjoy the lamentation of the woman.”

The older woman stared at her vacantly. At first the expression was endearing, even amusing, but Meg was beginning to wonder if it was the only one in her repertoire. She blinked at her from above her silly grin. When the first blink failed to provoke the change she tried it again. It took a few seconds for the blinks to take effect.

“But…But…what about the guy who got arrested. Isn’t he going to Jail?”

“Of course. But I wouldn’t worry about it. He’s a scumbag anyway. And he’ll eventually be released, probably sue the city, win, and then you’ll hear all about the prosecutorial misconduct and blah blah blah all the while this fuckjob will be spending your tax money on a new supply of dope.”

“But he’s innocent!” The woman protested, her cheeks flushing brightly with the indignity of it.

“He’s not innocent. Trust me. Not by a long shot. He’s just innocent of this.”

“So how do you know it was the girlfriend, I mean, for sure?”

“The more complete the story, the bigger the lie. Like I said this one is perfect. It even has a cop on her side. And it’s just vague enough on certain details to be barely credible. Which is how I know it’s complete junk.”

The plane lurched yet again. In the Marines this would be the time in the flight she would stare around at all the pleasant sleeping faces of her platoon and think seriously about trying to knock herself out with the pommel of her Ka-Bar. Knives weren’t permitted on domestic flights, however and she was left with throwing her arm in the air at the suddenly reappearing stewardess.

Once again she peered around the cabin like a long neck, leggy periscope but this time her disinterested eyes clicked on her outstretched hand – it being the only one up. The expression she gave it was not one to inspire a budding friendship and the speed she explored the aisle with could have been measured only by rock strata in desert canyons. Meg made sure she had on her friendliest smile when she finally came up.

“Oh, Thank you thank you Miss Stewardess.” She said and then nearly choked on it. “Could I get a whiskey sour tall, please?”

“We don’t do talls, Miss.”

Meg almost corrected her with ‘missus’ but then mentally squirmed with the all too recent memory. It was enough discomfort that it didn’t go unnoticed in the Flight Attendant whose rosy lips perked at one corner.

“Fine.” Meg relented sullenly. “A short one will do if you double it.”

The hateful woman took her crooked grin with her back up the aisle she’d come from, stopping to smile more brightly at the business man in the very nice suit who sat alone in his row. He adjusted the collar of his suit coat a little which had been ruffled by the tiny pillow. The sunlight from the open porthole window glinted off of his very expensive watch which he was trying to impress her with. They smiled pleasantly at each other for a moment and laughed at something she couldn’t quite hear. Negotiations concluded, he fished in his inside breast pocket for the money he owed her for whatever he was drinking. She took it meaningfully, her thumb stroking his as it exchanged hands. It was the kind of thing that lately had Meg either wanting to puke or unleash bullets.

“I’m not a good flyer either.” The woman smiled at her. It was a smile with no lips – the smile of a frog. Meg pulled herself away from her revulsion to address it.

“So. Do you want to know who the Air Marshall on the flight is?”

“I thought they were supposed to be secret?”

“Supposed to be, but I’m good like that.”

“What do you mean?”

Meg sat up straight and turned slightly to the woman giving her a quick once over.

“You’re what jackasses dismiss as a Soccer mom. You’re taking a trip to visit your sister in Arizona who you haven’t seen in five or six years. But it isn’t a strained sort of relationship. It’s just sort of the way life carries you. Your mother died recently or some other close female relative – I’d guess mother though. And you’re unhappily happily married – worried that your husband is on the prowl for a fling but oddly hopeful that if he does it it will cure him of whatever it is that’s been ailing him lately. Oh and one of your kids is a juvenile delinquent.”

The woman listened, and then lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Apparently her expression could change. It went from vacant and attentive to vaguely motherly with a soupcon of tired bemusement. Something about it made Meg think of a lump of anxiously expectant unused clay. After a little while her mouth dropped open and said the expected thing.


“Of course. You have several layers of grass stains on your shoes and they’re nice shoes. Work shoes. Not the sort of thing you’d wear in the garden – which means you work and pick up the kids from practice. Your necklace has a broach or locket at the end. I saw it earlier when you helped me pick up the pictures earlier when that evil ayatollah bitch ignored me.”

As if on cue the understudy appeared from behind the curtain, pushing the drink cart before her like Sisyphus, stopping first at the gentleman with the suit. They exchanged much less pleasantries but the gentleman must have forgotten something as he dipped again into his breast pocket for money, which she happily took without saying anything.

“Then there’s the bracelet.” Meg said, watching the slow progress her drink made through the aisle. “It’s old too. Like the necklace. An heirloom type thing. I figured one or the other was meant to be a gift for a sister.”

The stewardess had lodged the freighter of drinks conveniently between them. Meg looked at it – laden with sodas and little bottles of alcohol and peanuts and the kind of food you chewed once and forgot about it. Her drink, at least the one she presumed was hers, was sloshing about on top next to another. The Flight Attendant handed it to her with a superficial salesman’s smile.

“That’ll be ten dollars, miss.”

“Not only are you a Nazi sadist, you’re a fricking money grubbing whore to boot.” Meg said icily.

“Do you want me to report you?”

“To who?” Meg was careful to show her badge as she got her money out of her jacket. “The police?”

The flight attendant made a sudden face that drifted uncertainly between disgust and something else unpleasant which was followed by a noise from somewhere in her throat that  stood in for something worse. She looked away and pushed the drink freighter past them and down the aisle.

“God what a whore.” She exclaimed when she was a little more out of earshot. “Where was I? Oh yeah. Your wedding ring. Is well worn. Older. The design suggests something that was made in the eighties or early 90s. You know how they were always overdoing it back then. No offense. The stone looks real and expensive, which suggests your husband puts more value on what he can get quick without a lot of consideration. Now I can’t tell you if he’s actually cheating but I’d put odds on him thinking about it more than once because, well, what guy hasn’t?”

“I haven’t.” Riggins said suddenly. She hadn’t thought he’d been listening.

“You don’t count. You’re a cop. Cops aren’t real men.”

“How do you figure that? That’s not right.” He replied.

“Well, most guys live in a constant state of neurosis, evaluating and reevaluating personal priorities in relation to preconceived constructions of self which are based off of static cultural stereotypes they’ve adopted. To most guys this is a vague, personal understanding of their subjective identity in terms of their masculinity. But cops are different. There is a static identity of ‘cop’ that provides a much more solid foundation to their psyches. It’s a lot like being a Marine. Once you’re a Marine you’re always going to be a Marine in one way or another even if it was a big mistake. Once you’re a cop you’re always going to be a cop. Guys have to constantly check with themselves that their still guys and they’re neurotic about it. Constantly.”

“Cops cheat on their wives all the time.” Riggins insisted. “I’ve seen it.”

“Yeah but that’s BECAUSE they’re cops. Not because they’re men. Men cheat to prove to themselves that they’re still men. Cops cheat because of other reasons – a dynamic relation with the criminality of cheating. But, that’s not… You know… What we’re talking about.”

Riggins turned towards the back of the chair in front of him. One of his thin shoulders wiggled up and down thoughtfully, suggesting that he was at least partially convinced, which was pretty good in her book – particularly when she’d made it all up on the spot.

“And what about the Juvenile delinquent?” Said the woman in a voice that told Meg she’d nailed it.

“Oh. That’s easy. Most families have at least one juvenile delinquent of some sort or another so it could have just been a guess. But in this case… I don’t know how to say this… But you have a little bit of bud stuck to your sock. I wouldn’t worry about it though. No one gives a shit about weed any more.”

“How do you know it’s not mine?” The woman said, her lips thinning and her eyes darkening.

“Well… To be honest I couldn’t tell until just now. If it had been yours you wouldn’t have gotten pissed. You would have gotten defensive. You probably would have plucked it off your sock.”

“That little shit. I’m going to fucking kill him.”

“Oh. Don’t worry about it. You should just be happy there weren’t drug dogs at the airport. You’d be shocked at how prevalent it is. Your conservative neighbor with all the Viking flags, the conservative bumper stickers, etcetera – your local pastor, your kids history teacher, it’s really not that big of a deal.”

“It’s against the law.” She said with venom, as if trying to butter the cop with her moral rectitude.

“Come on. I’m going to guess you chiefed a few times in the good old days, am I right? There’s just a little part of you, even now, curious about how the new stuff stacks up against the old days. There’s a piece of you that wants to be baked out of your gourd when your wayward husband comes home late one night looking for his bottle of beer and the remote control after you’ve corralled the kids into the van, listened to the tales of shoes you can’t afford but your daughter needs for some unearthly reason. But instead you have wine. You buy it because your husband wouldn’t know a decent wine if it bit him on the ass. He’d buy top shelf expensive swill that tasted like it was brewed in a french garbage can.”

The woman looked at her suspiciously. It was a look Meg knew well and it generally meant she’d done her job. Here it just meant she’d been a bit of an ass to someone who didn’t deserve it. Meg looked at her drink and swished it around in it’s glass a little.

“Alright.” The woman said finally. “My turn.”

Meg’s eyebrows shot up on their own.

“Nuh uh. No way.”

“Oh come on, Brown. Give her a chance.” Riggin’s said, enjoying himself. “What are you afraid of? Except that she might be right?”

Meg looked at him balefully, or she thought balefully. She never knew for sure if she was getting the look right or not.

“Alright.” She said, carefully expelling the air from her lungs. “I’m ready. Go.”

The large womans face shaded red in spots again getting more vibrant as she concentrated. Meg sat still and patient, considering the drink.

“Okay. Umm…You’re not married and never have been because you’re committed to your job. Other cops don’t like you much because you’re too good at it and make them look foolish. You don’t take much time for socializing. You love what you do but there’s an artistic bent of some sort. I would guess drawing. You have no kids and don’t want any. You take great pride in your shoe collection even though you don’t think of yourself as very fashionable. You don’t get along with your father and your mother is dead – recently I think. Like me. Because you have a certain sadness that you try to hide but it still comes out in your eyes. You grew up in the city and you’re a city girl through and through and you’re father is some sort of academic, thats why you don’t like him. An academic with a penchant for younger women. Right? I’m so sorry about your mother, though…”

Meg brushed the air casually with one hand then used it to perch her chin on.

“And you’re a dog person. How did I do?”

“Well, judge?” Meg turned to Riggins. He leaned over to the woman with a large and pleasant smile that tried to suggest she’d done well. It was a variant of his ‘breaking bad news’ look but it usually had much worse information to impart.

“What’s your name, Misses?” He said.


“Let’s just be polite and say whatever you do for a living you should stick to that.”

“Did I get anything right?”

“My mom is dead. But it wasn’t recent. I was eleven. See what you did wasn’t deduction. It was projection and as such it actually tells me a lot more about you, none of which I’ll bore you with now.”

“Why not?”

“Well, earlier I offered to point out the air marshall on the flight. Not every flight has one you know.” She looked carefully around the cabin as if searching for him. Of course she and Riggins had been introduced to him prior to boarding but she was having some fun enhancing the mystique. She made it a point to look as though she was scrutinizing the faces.

Just at the point she was about to call him out the gentleman in question breezed between them very quickly – moving towards the first class area.

“Well…” Meg said slowly. “That was him.”

“Oh dear.” Said Monica, watching him go. “I hope there isn’t something wrong.”

Megan turned to Riggins, who had seen it too. He had a look of mild curiosity, but not much more.

“Would you excuse me for a moment?” She asked both of them as the cabin intercom came to life.

“This is your captain speaking. At this point in our flight we would like to ask the passengers if there is a registered physician on board. We assure you that there is nothing to be alarmed about. One of the passengers in First class seems to be experiencing a medical emergency which may require rerouting the flight to Denver. If there is a physician on board, I’d appreciate it if you’d offer your services to one of our flight attendants or simply proceed directly to first class.”

No one in Coach moved. Which made sense to Meg. What would a registered physician be doing slumming it in coach? Which also meant that there wasn’t one in First Class and therefore none on the plane and therefore the guy in question was screwed, if he was even still alive. Which she doubted.

She pushed herself out of her seat.

“Brown…” Riggins muttered at her. “It’s none of our business.” She couldn’t help herself around corpses though. She turned and raised her drink at him in a toast, complete with goofy mischievous grin. The only thing missing was the tarnished halo and the dingy wings.

But Megan didn’t push through the curtains into First Class with her badge raised as he expected. Instead she swung into an open seat next to a guy in a nice suit, careful not to spill a drop of her drink.

“Hi. I’m Meg Brown, and you are?”

“Excuse me?” Said the man in the suit. “I’m afraid that seat is spoken for.”

“Yes. It is. By me.” She fished around in the breast pocket of her jacket. It was sometimes astounding to her just what she could discover in her own pockets.

“Miss, am I going to have to report you?” He said a little more sternly. “I know that seat is taken.”

Another thing that occasionally astounded her was the lack of observational skills in people. She would have figured that, by now, almost everyone on the flight knew she was a cop but apparently this one didn’t as it still took him by surprise when she started reading him his rights. When she finished she looked at him with just a little resigned disappointment.

“Come on, man. Didn’t your friend tell you I was a cop?” She watched his crystal blue iris narrow on her but the muscles around his eyes didn’t flex at all. It was the sort of expression guilty men used to express their guilt when they thought they were doing the opposite. “Well she wouldn’t would she? She doesn’t trust you, which figures, really, with the way you jammed up her boyfriend. Still, I guess it would have worked out for him in the end if things had gone alright. But that’s why she wanted half payment up front. Big mistake really. Who pays for drinks on a plane before the cart’s even rolled out?”

She put her drink on his open tray table, right next to the one he’d been having which was almost empty.

“How much was it by the way?” She tapped the side of his drink while staring into his dead looking eyes. They hadn’t yet fluttered once. “Ooh! Let me guess. You used a twenty to blind three thousand. Kind of tricky getting those kinds of bills which would make you a banker. Tricky – but stupid. But then if murderers weren’t so stupid I wouldn’t be so danged good at what I do.”

“Someone was murdered? On this plane?” He tried shock this time. It was like ticking off a list of guilty facial expressions.

“Now you’re just being insulting.” She said kindly. “No need to be rude.”

“Alright then.” He settled as easily as possible into his seat, mistaking it for the First Class seat he was used to. It didn’t work and he became annoyed at it. Meg had to stifle a giggle at his expense. It wouldn’t have gone over well. Misunderstandings between arresting officers and the arrested could sometimes lead to trouble as she well knew and had been recently acquainted with. But, of course, that had been a little different. In that case the guy never had any intention of going quietly, in this he’d never had any intention of getting caught.

“Who do you suppose I murdered?”

“Well that remains to be seen. It’s not often I catch the killer before I even see the victim, but if I were to guess I’d have to say business partner, co-worker, something like that. All I can say for certain is that they didn’t much care for your relationship with drug dealers. I guess we’ll find out in a little bit.”

“Exactly how am I supposed to have killed anyone? I haven’t gotten out of my seat for the entire flight and it’s a little difficult to manuever that sort of thing. I mean it’s not like it’s easy to bring a weapon on board.”

She smiled and swatted at his arm like a lady sharing the neighborhood gossip.

“Oh I know. You wouldn’t believe what I had to go through just to bring my badge and gun on board. There’s a couple of things I need your help on before we land though. Why would a guy with a three thousand dollar wristwatch buy up two seats in Coach instead of just getting a seat in First Class – or better yet, why would you even get on the same plane as your victim? I mean – I can understand not getting a seat in first class because you don’t want him to see you but shit, man. Make something up. Or is it really that bad? Are you really in so deep that this is the last move? But, being honest? Seriously? Getting two seats is just stupid. I mean really stupid. I suppose you can get on and off and not be seen, right?”

He grinned at her. Finally. It was the smile of the guilty man who thought he’d been clever. Like the kid who rigged up the Rube Goldberg device to filch cookies without being noticed only to be amused when it all goes wrong.

“Alright. Fine. We’ll play it that way. It’ll come out, you know. But here’s the thing. You got the extra seat because you didn’t want to worry about anyone seeing your little secret. The way you passed the money to the stewardess, the way you fluffed your pillow to get the poison out from under your jacket collar. It took you two times to get it. Made you sweat a little, didn’t it? It’s funny how the little things throw you off. It made you fuck up the dosage. Which is why we’re now heading to Denver and not Phoenix. He was supposed to die on the ground. Not on the plane. But you panicked. You altered the plan because it had to happen. You had to know it happened. Like getting two seats. It was peace of mind. And yet, if you’d stuck to the one tab we’d be on our way to Phoenix. Your partner would be just as dead but wouldn’t know it yet and I wouldn’t be sitting here. I still would have been suspicious but there would be nothing I could do about it.”

The grin, the stoicism, the calm arrogance all had been removed and replaced with a cool rage she could see darkening his fine blue eyes. She supposed it would have been a good time to stop smiling smugly at him but she found it impossible. She pulled her handcuffs from her front jacket pocket and handed them to him. They sat on the tray table in front of him along with his finished drink and her untouched one. He looked at the cuffs with a lot of fight left in him but when he finally put them on it was all gone, drained out as if it had been tapped.

“I’m not saying anything else until I speak with my lawyer.”

“You didn’t say much to begin with. But I’d stick with that plan. It’s a good one. Just one question: did that conniving bitch poison my drink too?”

He didn’t say anything. He just turned to stare glumly at the back of the seat in front of him. Every now and then he stared out at the open sky and the miles and miles of ground seen majestically from the window of the plane. Eventually the plane descended into Denver and the expanse of ground became smaller and smaller until they came to a stop. When it did she thought he might be sick.

Meg sighed deeply as she turned the Flight Attendant and the Man With The Nice Watch – whose name turned out to be Robert – over to the Air Marshall and the Denver Police Department. They took charge of the remaining tabs of poison she’d taken from under his collar. She saw Monica only once again, as she climbed off the plane and into the arms of her sister who looked a lot like her, only thinner and browner. She watched them cry at each other and hug and then Monica started talking animatedly as the sister led her away. Something about the scene made her miss her dog.

Categories: Meg Brown Mysteries | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

The Short Man

A perfect warm autumn breeze blew over the still idling car where the body of the parking checker was found. A few birds circled happily overhead, enjoying the last gasp of a waning summer. Pretty young girls and boys wandered around the grounds of the midwestern college campus, book bags full of life yet to be grasped. They looked to the police cars, the meandering directionless patrol officers, the detectives with their notepads and found nothing they needed to concern themselves with and moved on. Life was short for other people. Theirs would be brilliant and long and successful and certainly not end with a gunshot to the temple while employed as a parking checker.

Megan Brown looked down from the extended arm of the corpse to the pool of blood gathered under the door of the tiny vehicle. Prancing away from the pool were the distinct bloody footprints of a squirrel, bounding off in the direction of a robins egg blue house with a brilliant and impeccable green lawn, as if it were groomed constantly to keep out the predations of the brilliantly colored leaves that swirled around it. It was the sort of house that you could easily picture the welcome mat – cheery, with faux grass and a picture of a grass skirted girl from Borneo providing welcome.

She looked to one of the nearby officers who didn’t seem to know quite what to do with themselves.

“Officer?” He was a young lad – a rookie with a bright and eager to please but inattentive face.

“Yes, ma’am?” At 37 she truly hated it being called ‘ma’am’. She smiled pleasantly at him.

“I’d like you to track down that squirrel and arrest him.” He blinked stupidly at her. “Chop chop! Pronto! Get a move on. Fugitive on the loose!”

“Better do it, kid.” Her partner, Detective Riggins chimed in. “She is a superior officer.”

The unlit cigarette in Riggins mouth bobbed as he said it. He was older by almost twenty years and had just managed to quit smoking three weeks before. Brown’s clothes still hadn’t been washed enough to get rid of the smell, but then she didn’t quite clean them with the necessary regularity either.

The boy was cute. He looked around to his partner with a puzzled and hurt expression but his partner was trying too hard not to crack up. The older one managed to pull it together just long enough to offer a shrug at him.

“Are you serious ma’am?”

“Yep.” She waved a dismissive hand off in the direction of the perfect lawn. “Stick to this side of the street though. Those squirrels over there are simply bystanders.” She pointed at the wide wooded expanse in front of the University Art building where hundreds of the little gray things bounded aimlessly around searching for their winter war chest.

“And look for the red pawed one. If nothing else we can get him on fleeing the scene.”

The young officer looked one more time to help from his partner. But the partner was wandering off to direct traffic – pretending to pay no attention. He walked off slowly, shoulders slumped, head to the ground tracking the bloody footprints. When he was far enough away the Partner started to laugh as hard as he dared.

Megan shrugged.

“He might need smaller cuffs.” She said.

“Do we have the owner of the other car yet?” Riggins asked no one in particular which made the non-response he got understandable. The parking checker had been leaning out to issue a ticket when the bullet got him which meant that the car he was ticketing was now parked in and would remain so for a while. Megan glanced at the other car and then went back to circling the parking checker without saying anything.

“What are you thinking?” Riggins asked. Technically, he was her superior. A thirty year decorated officer with twelve in homicide to her three, but he’d been happy to take a back seat to her instincts for a while now.

“I’m thinking heart attack.” She said, straightening up and trying to put a serious expression on. The inside of the car was a nightmarish painting of red. Three chunks of something pinkish sat on a stack of unwritten tickets. Part of the man was out the window, arm outstretched with the computer generated ticket still pinched in his thick and short sausage fingers. The rest of him – and there was a lot – seemed to have been poured into the drivers seat like a thickened cake batter.

Megan pointed to a box of donuts underneath the stack of unprinted tickets. Underneath the viscera coagulating down his front appeared to be the remains of yet another donut – what would prove to be his last meal.

“The driver of the car got pissed because he had a heart attack and couldn’t move.” She continued. “So he shot him. And now he still can’t move. It’s that or I was right the first time. The squirrel did it.”

“I like your first theory, Brown. If junior can’t catch him I’ll put out an APB on a small furry rodent, bloody paws, bushy tail.” Riggins added.

“May have stolen some nuts. Very dangerous. Carrying a flash suppressed .308. ”

“Any distinguishing characteristics?”

“Tattoo of an acorn on his left shoulder.”

“You really think it was a .308?”

She nodded.

“Blood spatter is pretty wide. Maybe a hollow point. Took off most of his head. It looks like a regular sniper round or hunting rifle. And whoever did this was doing him a favor.”

“How do you figure?”

“He was diabetic. You can tell by the marks on the finger from where he did his testing. I bet if we dug around we’d find some insulin but he’s also had a heart attack, maybe more than one.” She pointed at a bottle of regular aspirin sitting on the dashboard.

“He couldn’t just use that for headaches?”

“When was the last time you took regular aspirin for a hangover, Rig?”

“Anything else there, Sherlock?”

Brown squeezed between the two parked cars and peeked her head carefully through what would have been the passenger side window of the parking enforcement vehicle. She reached in and turned the key, finally shutting the car off. She turned the dead mans hands over.

“Victim was an aficionado of some stringed instrument – either stand up bass or Banjo. I’m leaning towards Banjo. He was recently divorced, has an older child – daughter – who he hasn’t seen in a while.”

She pulled herself out and looked into the window of the other parked car whose window was open a crack so that the car would keep cool in the warm autumn sun. She stuck her nose to the crack in the window, pulling out a second later.

“Owner of this car isn’t a student. He’s probably a teacher, more likely a full professor.”

“How do you know it’s a he? The car’s pretty clean.”

“Recently clean.” She said. “No scent. Gals would have a scent – makeup, prolonged use of perfume, hair spray. He’s tall and probably works in literature, archaeology or philosophy. More likely archaeology. He’s probably also divorced and it was a bad one. This car is a recently purchased used POS. Those paper mud mats are still in the back. I’m guessing he’s paying out of his ass in alimony which is why he’s driving this hunk of shit. Which also leads me to believe that he has a wandering eye and wandering fingers. Whoever he is though he had nothing to do with it.”

Riggins stared vacantly at her and rolled his unlit cigarette around in his mouth. He’d long ago gotten used to Brown’s ridiculous powers of observation but even in spite of his experience he still couldn’t twist as much of what he saw into the conclusions she did.

“Alright.” He said. “I’ll bite. How are you reaching these magical conclusions this time?”

Brown pointed at the three story Art Building and started walking across the busy street to it.

“I’ll talk while we walk. In addition to the pinpricks for the diabetic testing, the victim had callouses. On both hands. If he’d played guitar the callouses would be more pronounced on his fret hand. Also, because of the way the callouses were on his fingers I figured it was a banjo. Not that that matters at all. He’s divorced – the usual ring finger mark but it’s pretty old – more like an impression than the customary tan line which some people – particularly large people – get when they’ve been wearing a ring for a very long time. I’d bet he had to have the ring cut off his finger when it went.”

The front of the building looked old and academic with two large double doors at the top of cracking and neglected concrete steps that had probably been initially poured when Megans mom was young. She looked at the empty space on her own ring finger as she grabbed for the polished brass bar of the door. She panicked for a careless moment, thinking that she’d lost it and then remembered the truth with a pain in her chest she could actually feel.

The wind kicked her hair into her face again and she pulled it behind an ear for a moment as they walked in. It wouldn’t stay there. It never did.

The inside of the building was oddly quiet for being so cavernous. Tall ceilings echoed their footfalls. Sunlight from the large windows made reflections of wall notices on the polished composite marble floor. Sound from a class for african dance bounced off the walls and down stairwells from one of the floors above them.

“As for the other driver. Who cares?” She lowered her voice to reflect the acoustics of the building.

“You don’t actually know, do you?” He liked to challenge her, even though he was certain she did.

“Alright. Fine. There were some rock chunks on the back seat that seemed to have been worked chert pieces. As for his divorce and the other stuff… well… he’s a college professor. It just sort of goes without saying.”

“What exactly are chert pieces?”

“Its a type of rock good for making arrowheads and spearpoints.”

“And how do you know this?”

Her eyes narrowed at him which reshuffled the landscape of her forehead into something less than pleased. It was the sort of expression that told him everything he needed to know while keeping it all a well guarded secret.

“So what are we doing here?”

“We need roof access. Got to find a janitor.”

“Custodial engineer.” He corrected. “The shooter could have fired from one of the windows.”

“In the middle of the day? During classes? Come on. You’re not old enough to be getting soft in the skull on me.”

Riggins shrugged a bit. Old enough or not he certainly felt old in comparison with her energy and quick brain.

It wasn’t easy finding a janitor. The building was pretty large to begin with. Three stories formed into a vast square. In some ways it was deceptively vast. From the outside it was big but inside it seemed even larger and designed in some obscure academic era where getting lost in the halls was part of the education. They checked each available bathroom and janitors closet and came up with nothing. Once Riggins thought he heard a lugubrious voice intoning some personal janitorial tragedy through the medium of a walkie talkie but – with the bizarre sound characteristics of the architecture – by the time he thought he found the source it was long gone.

When they finally made it to the roof it was under the care and guidance of a harry and half drunk maintenance technician whose terrible cloying cologne smelled of apples long left to rot mixed with turpentine and vodka. Both Riggins and Brown caught the wild burning sage undercurrent of recently smoked weed that seemed to have been soaked into the mans clothes. He made a quick exit after unlocking the door to the roof.

Megan strode directly to the edge of the roof, her dishwater blond strands freeing themselves in the breeze.

“Well our shooter is short.” She said. “Real short.”

“How do you figure that?” She pointed at the little half wall at the edge of the rooftop. It was no larger than a foot and a half tall. If anyone had tried to use it as a rest for a rifle it would have been very problematic – too tall to lie prone but still too small to kneel, unless you were very short.

“There’s also the footprints.” She said pointing them out. It was hard to tell what they were from his perspective. Just impressions in the drainage gravel. “I’d figure about 5 foot, maybe five – two.”

“So a dwarf?”

“Not a dwarf. Or little person seeing as we’re in the mood to correct people. Someone with dwarfism would have a different and wider gait. This is normal. So just a really short man. And he’s calm. Confident. There’s no marks on the edge from a rifle tripod and no sign of skipping when the gun went off so he was holding it steady freehand when he fired.”

“He could have used a photographers tripod. We are in the art building.”

“There would be marks in the gravel for that.”

Megan took a few steps toward the stairs to the third floor from which they’d just come. The rooftop continued a long way to the north pointing at the tall building that was devoted to the humanities – english, history, philosophy. Beyond that was the communications building. At the far end was another access point to the rooftop. She walked a little ways in that direction and then stopped suddenly and bent over something.

“He’s a flashy guy. He’s got money and likes to show it off. What you or I would generally refer to as a dick.” She called back to him. “He likes to be thought of as a big man even though he isn’t so he’ll be driving something nice. Something really special.” She looked over the rooftop to the line of parked cars across the street that ended in the double parked tragedy now ringed in yellow police tape. “It would be expensive and expensive looking. I’m guessing a sports coupe or a nice sedan like an audi or BMW.”

But there was nothing parked on the street of that description. It was a commuter college with serious parking issues so there were tons of cars parked on the street, but none of them of the sort that screamed ‘rob me’ as the shooter’s most certainly would. The only thing close was a bright shiny yellow Hummer or ‘Hate Vehicle’ as she liked to call them.

“Now you’re just making shit up.”

Meg gave him her patented patient and innocent look that suggested she knew exactly what she was talking about but there was a distinct possibility she was full of shit. It was often confused for her long suffering partner look because it was basically the same except for the emotion behind it.

Riggins nodded and looked at the parked cars.

“There’s the nice Hummer.”

“You would think it’s nice because your a fascist. No. This is a guy who likes to be taken seriously, remember? Anything ginormous like that would make him look ridiculous. His car would be a symbol of himself. You know how guys get. Well it’s like that only serious. Like a personal totem. It represents what he thinks about himself. My guess is the shooter took offense to the Checker getting between him and his totem.”

“Oh. You think?” Riggins asked sarcastically as his phone rang.

“Shut up. Sarcasm isn’t your thing. It’s not something simple. It’s not just a parking ticket.”

Meg’s hand radio crackled to life from her jacket pocket and she snatched at it.

‘…Report of a parking enforcement vehicle stalled on the north end of campus near the dorms…” it said.

“That’s not our car.” She said.

“No.” He said, the lines of his face merging to become serious. Riggins keyed the button on his own radio and spoke into it. “This is Detective Sergeant Riggins on top of the Arts building. Repeat last.”

“Copy.” Crackled the dispatch voice. “Report of a stalled and idling parking enforcement vehicle near the corner of Maryland and Edgewood near the campus dormitories. Campus police are responding. Over.”

“Dispatch. Confirm location of call. Over.”

“Vicinity of Edgewood and Maryland near the dorms. Over.”

“Roger. Relay radio traffic from Campus Police to this device. Over.” Riggins looked at her quickly. “You don’t think it could be another one?”

“Oh yeah.” Meg grinned. “Didn’t I mention he’s not done?”

“I’m going to try to get Parking Enforcement out of here and get Swat down here.”

“Good luck.” Meg said, rubbing her finger where her ring once was. “Tell Garvey I said…” Just the mention of SWAT filled her fond memories of laughing and post raid gambling debts she still owed, the weight of gear, the sound of flashbangs, her old MP5 she’d named Curtis. She wondered if Curtis missed her. She wondered if he fired as true, if the new guy that replaced her had altered the sights. It made her nauseous to think she’d given that up. And for what? Still… Homicide was good. It could have been worse. She could have been transferred to Narcotics or Vice.

Riggins waited for her to finish her sentence but she chewed on it instead.

“Don’t tell him anything. In fact, don’t mention I’m here. In fact, if he shows up, hide me. I think I owe him fifty bucks on the superbowl.”

“Garvey says hi!” Riggins said behind her as she passed through the open door of the roof access.

She passed into the aura of the same janitor’s oderific toxicity at the bottom of the narrow stairs. His eyes were bloodshot and the smile he gave her didn’t meet them. There was a mop in his hands attached to an empty bucket on wheels and he leaned against it as if to do otherwise would cause him to puddle on the ground. Her eyes drifted over his name tag before coming back to the smile.

“All done up there, officer?” He leered, scratching a blurry and indistinct tattoo that crawled out of the neck of his work shirt.

“Almost. Detective Riggins is on his way down. But leave it open. We’re going to need to come back.”

“You bet.” He replied in the traditional stoner inflection that made it unclear whether anything she said had been heard. The custodian gazed away over her head down the much more busy hallway. Doors swung open emitting streams of students but no bell had rung. In seconds it was full of noisy kids flinging book bags over their shoulders, rushing quickly to make it to the next class.

Meg joined the stream. Most of the students headed south out of their classes, flowing quickly around a sharp corner and on to the west, then down a flight of stairs then another to the bottom floor then again to the west. Small tributaries of traffic flowed into other rooms or out the great double doors to the southern exit but most continued west. Emboldened by other joining streams of students they surged through the western exit and outside into a common area where they were joined by more currents from other buildings all of which meandered towards the Student Union.

Few, if any, of the students seemed to know about the double tragedies that just occurred on either end of the campus. Some seemed wary and huddled against buildings but for the most part the world carried on as it always had. Blissfully unaware students wandered casually past her, careless nomadic academics sped to the next lecture, the next piece of useless knowledge. Girls, like the one she once was, smiled happily and fetchingly at the pretty and confident boys who they hoped to grow tired of before the reverse happened. It was a universe buzzing with the potential energy of heartbreak – academic, artistic, romantic, economic, spiritual, political.

She pushed on in the energy of this stream, into the food court of the commons with it’s artificial stink of artificial sizzle mingling with perfumes, colognes, hairsprays, books, computers. The stream made a quick route into the Union where all the streams from across the academic universe went to pool collectively, but here she followed a tributary out into the large open air common area outside.

It was a large central square between several buildings and further bounded by some raised gardens and planters upon which dreamy undergraduates struck romantic studious tableaus, books in hand, cigarettes in mouth. She stopped halfway through the commons. Directly before her was the giant, shapeless brick sprawl of the university library. Once the glue that drew all the disparate segments of scholastics together, now the tomb where books went to be ignored and mourned. It was very tall and divided the campus from the more rustic student residences situated across a street on its other side. At the far end of those residential dorms was their second victim.

The library was actually two large buildings connected by a third at the top. It was five or six stories with a terrific view of the dormitories and the long expanse of walkway that led towards the school and it had a great unobstructed view of the commons. Through the archway formed by the third building she watched an african american pilot her small Parking Enforcement vehicle nervously down the street to the west. Hopefully she was heading home.

Meg looked around. It had only been a few minutes since leaving the Art building but already the sudden surge of students had trickled to just a few stragglers who had no where to go quickly. She checked her watch and looked up and around.

A tallish frizzy haired boy drifted by, enjoying the last of the warmish weather in a light colored checkered short sleeved shirt which she just managed to grab with her fingertips before he completely passed by. With her other hand she grabbed the radio from her coat pocket. The boy swung back as if on a rubber band.

“What the fuck lady?” He said before his eyes went wider at the sight of her sidearm and badge. The look of instant panic that came over him told her if she looked hard enough she’d find a small, well wrapped bag of herbs on him.

“Does your mother pay you to use that mouth at school?” He didn’t try to shake her off. Another good indicator that he wanted to be cooperative and give her no reason to search. “What’s that building right there?” She pointed to her left which was a long, squat two story thing made in the middle of the past century of brick and windows.

“Criminal Justice, Poli Sci, shit like that.” He said much more brightly. She let him go but he stood there a moment, curious.

“Got any weed on you?” He turned his body away a little to the right, towards the library. Right pocket then, she thought.


“Right front jeans pocket.” She said smiling. He gave her a resigned and terrified look as though he would shortly release whatever was in his bladder and then he started to put his hand in his pocket as though he about to hand it over but she managed to stop him. “Christ kid. Don’t show it to me. I’d have to arrest you. Get the hell out of here and don’t be stupid. Put it in your shoe next time.”

She keyed the button on the radio.

“What the fuck Meg?” She heard Riggins say. He didn’t sound happy.

“Open radio, Rig.” She warned. “Is Garvey on?” She waited a second.

“Go for Garvey.” Her old boss had a much higher voice than one would expect for a SWAT officer for which he got an enormous amount of shit.

“You need to get a sniper team up on top of that big white building on the north side of the Library.”

“Roger that. Got Tim and Cheshire heading there now.”

“Put your team on the south side of that building, facing the library.”

“But the north side has a cleaner line of sight on the road, longer time on target. And what about the other building? The LIberal Arts building?”

“He’s not going to go for that one. If he gets up there at all it will be on the library. Trust me. And Rig? You’re going to want to have some plainclothes guys covering the roof access to the library.”

“Roger. What are you going to do?”

“Try to make sure he never gets there.” She said. “I’m going radio silent for a bit. Out.”

“Negative, Brown. Stay on this channel. Over.”

She turned left towards the Poli Sci building. It seemed to fit. She pushed through the glass doors into the two story building. It was quiet and darker than she expected but that was only because the school was raining gold and treasure on the chancellor’s staff and the business school that it could no longer afford to repair the light fixtures on the ‘lesser’ colleges. The sounds of muffled lectures behind thick doors came out to her from all sides but she checked the doorways anyway, one hand resting on the butt of her pistol.

When she got to the end of the hall she found what she was looking for: a building directory. She scanned the list quickly and jabbed the nearby ‘up’ button on the elevator which proved as efficient in operation as the light fixtures. The button lit up but no elevator appeared and no motors for it sparked to life.

She took the stairs.

The upstairs hallway was a long racetrack lined inside and outside with faculty offices and department offices. A beautiful, subtle scent of books, sharpened pencils and learning wafted pleasantly through the cool and darkened hallway, mingling here and there with more pungent odors, burning coffee, rancid fruit or incense.

She made her way to the department offices of the Criminal Justice department, passing the closed doors of the faculty. Once or twice one of the doors was open allowing her a quick look inside. They were tiny things. Barely enough room for a desk and a chair and some of them were shockingly spartan – like something that would serve better as an interrogation room than an office. Some, however, were very creative. They crammed high utilitarian bookshelves, posters, ornaments, knickknacks. Through the open window of one she saw a huge rattan wall partition dividing a few feet inside the door from what must have been just a few feet on the other side, colored light like a tiki lounge could be made out on the other side. At another office door she stooped to look through the plain vertical blinds at an interior that was silhouetted against the sunlight outside. From what she could see of it it was upscale, nice. An expensive leather executive chair sat behind a mahogany, well ordered desk upon which a very nice laptop computer sat open. She checked the name on the door and moved on.

She’d turned down the radio to barely a whisper but in the relative silence of the nearly monastic setting she heard it just fine. It was Garvey again.

“Brown. Got the team on the History building, north of the library. Copy?”

She keyed the button on the radio to confirm receipt. The next voice she heard was Riggins.

“Two detectives inside the library and officers covering roof access. And we’re at the second scene. Male victim. 36 years of age. Parking enforcement. Looks like he took the shot from one of the dorm rooms. I’m there now. No casings. No perch like the last. Clear footprint in what looks like a puddle of beer. Copy?”

She keyed the button again.

“Brown. Give location. Over.” She didn’t respond to that. Instead she turned into the department office and smiled brightly at the receptionist behind the desk who smiled brightly back. When the smiling was over she shot a quick check of her watch. She had less than fifteen minutes left.

Ten minutes later, map and class schedule in hand, she pushed through the heavy double doors into a large lecture hall in the history building. The kids were already starting to get restless, stowing pens and notebooks into their back packs. The lecturer stopped in mid sentence at the sound of the door opening. The last thing he said was some disparaging comment about Ptolemy and his inaccurate conclusions about the solar system in it’s relation to deductive reasoning in investigations. Meg had a special place in her heart for Ptolemy – she liked the wonderful simplicity of putting humanity at the center of the universe. Somehow, in spite of all scientific evidence to the contrary, humanity had never quite understood the error and still did it constantly. And somehow it was perversely fitting under these circumstances.

“Can I help you miss?” he asked with a pronounced tone of irritation. The rustling of the students took on a different rhythm as they turned to look at her, some shooting her the scathing look of people who had actually been paying attention, some looking with total disinterest.

“I believe we had an appointment.” She said simply, standing in the aisle between the seats. The professor looked down regretfully at the lectern before him. From her vantage point he seemed like a groomed and primped chimpanzee behind it.

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything in my schedule…” He said as if he were actually looking at his itinerary. She took a few steps down the aisle. He flipped pages of the book in front of him with one hand.

“It’s a recent appointment Professor Gardiner. I believe your office requested it about two hours ago? They must have forgotten to inform you.”

“And your name?” He asked cautiously and with a slight grin.

“I think you know who I am.”

He slowly flipped another page of the notebook on the lectern. He had an almost perfectly square head with what once had been called a lantern jaw. The part of that jaw that contained his mouth peeled back even more into a smile. The rest of the jaw was covered with stubble so uniform in length and consistency it looked like it was airbrushed on. His hand left the lectern and brushed back what appeared to be highly polished hair from his temple, though not a single hair was or even could have been out of place. Even from this distance she could see the thick knuckles of his phalanges. They were like dockworker hands.

“So” He said slowly. “How did you find me?”

All around her she could feel the temper of the room change from annoyance to curiosity. People who had been one step from leaving suddenly found something interesting going on and settled back into their seats to see how it all turned out. Of course there were only two people out of the whole bunch of them that knew this was exactly the wrong attitude to take. But those same two people knew it was too late for anything else.

“I’m not here to give a free lecture on observation in theory and practice, professor. We had an appointment and I expect you’ll honor that.” She said a little more firmly. The game was over. It’s time to take the last step, was what she meant.

“Of course.” He tried pleasantly. “Class is almost over. I’ll be with you in…”

He pulled the gun very fast but she’d been expecting it since she walked through the door. He went out like an angel. Arms outstretched as though plaintively begging for standing in heaven or cursing his onrushing placement in hell. Pistol in one hand. She was surprised to find him left handed. Interesting. The casings would eject into his face. She hadn’t expected that with the way he’d been turning the pages with his right. But of course he couldn’t go out alone. It had been part of his plan the whole time so he fired at the crowd that now pooled out like an extension of the explosions from her gun. Only one of the students fell. Six more bullets followed the first before that happened.

He was still breathing when she climbed up on top of the podium to kick away his pistol. His breath was coming ragged like a tattered flag and he knew it was immanent.

He looked up at her, blood bubbling from his smiling simian lips.

“Thanks for keeping our appointment.” He said before the ragged choking noise in his chest stopped.

Meg looked up. The room was silent except for the groans of the one student who’d been shot. A few huddled uselessly into corners that couldn’t have protected them. She saw one crawl from behind a theatre chair. Another had tried to use the folding writing surface as cover and was still trying to figure it out. Outside she could hear the yelling, the running, the screaming.

She sat down easily on the podium next to the short, dead man and sighed easily.

“Fuck.” She said to the lecture room. The lecture room agreed in it’s own silent way.

The worst thing she could think of was not that he had killed two people but that he’d made her shoot. She’d be off the street for at least a week after that. That meant a weeks worth of terrible jokes she’d have to make about the quality of the coffee, a weeks worth of uncomfortable pats on the back she’d have to endure, a weeks worth of psychological counseling, paperwork, paper shuffling, pencil sharpening, internet searching, email answering, facebook updating, online games playing. Her Farmville farm had died ages ago and she hated knowing it was from neglect, but it was somehow okay as long as she didn’t have to face it.

“Fuck.” She said again and again the room agreed.

She found the rifle in his briefcase before SWAT showed up. She found the spent casings in his pants pocket just after Riggins showed up. In his office she’d found the keys to his Audi along with the sickly sweet smell of rotting apples, turpentine and vodka. It came from a bottle of aftershave and it looked expensive. It smelled worse than death. She’d made a mental note to shoot any guy she dated who wore the stuff.

“Alright.” Riggins said. “How did you figure this one out?”

“Take a whiff.”

Riggins did but his face gave only the slightest recognition. The connection wasn’t fully made.

“He needed access to the roofs. Professors don’t have that.”

“But professor? Was that a guess?”

“Professor, middle management, junior politician, something like that. It fit the profile.”

“Your profile.”

She shrugged.

“Add that to the location. That says professor. I figured criminal Justice or sociology. Criminal Justice was closer and also fit the nests he already used. Its conveniently located between the first and second victims, and as you can see the walk to what would have been the third nest was right across the street.”

“Alright. How did you figure this guy in particular. You couldn’t have searched every faculty office in the Criminal Justice department.”

“The blinds on his door.” She said simply, shrugging again. “They’d been cracked open a little bit to look out and I had to bend down to look inside, which meant the occupant wasn’t tall, and the stuff inside looked all swank and shit. Not professorial, which leads me to the next thing. There’s no way he could afford the stuff he has on his Faculty pay. He’s a drug dealer. When you find his car on the impound lot my guess is the trunk will be well stocked with goodies.”

“Impound lot.” Riggins nodded. “It fits. Do you know it’s on the impound lot or is that just a guess?”

“Just a guess.” She shrugged. “But it fits. And that’s how he got the janitors keys. He hooked him up. Apparently they share a taste for godawful aftershave too. That should be a good enough reason to arrest him.”

“But why? I mean, really – cause this seems a little excessive a response for getting your car towed.”

Meg shrugged again. Publicly she didn’t give a crap about motives. Privately she thought it was because the little man was affronted at the audacity of being tripped up by a parking checker. The guy fancied himself as being altogether, someone to be respected. Towing his totem away with the supply of his drugs in it was the ultimate disrespect and in his mind it demanded satisfaction. Where he could have just gone and paid his fine and gotten his car back had he been normal, in his mind it required an endgame – to go out on top. Whatever it was it would have required a bit of explaining and she’d lost the mood for such longueur.

“It doesn’t really matter does it?” She said.

“I…” Riggins started. He looked around at the podium covered in blood. Every shot had hit home. “I guess not.”

Megan pulled her pistol for the second time that day and handed it over to her partner who took it carefully. They would have to match ballistics from it to the bullets in the professors body so she wouldn’t see it for a while. That was alright. She had more where that came from.

“What?” Riggins started again as she hoisted herself to her feet. “No quips? No comedy?”

She thought for a second and pulled her sunglasses from her inside coat pocket.

“I guess he wanted to be a master criminal.” She paused dramatically. “But came up a little short.” She threw the sunglasses on with a dramatic flourish that backfired badly when she stabbed herself in the eye with the stem.

“Nice one.” Riggins laughed. He had no idea how much it actually hurt.

She wrote it up at headquarters. Boring. She got pats on the back. Boring. The lieutenant congratulated her. She stuck her tongue out at him.

That night she stopped at a bar and picked up the beginning of a wicked hangover and a man she would inaccurately remember as Colin. In all respects he was passable but in some ways, just barely. She kicked him out without ceremony by 1 AM and slept the rest of the night alone in her oversized post divorce bed. She had terrible sad dreams about a wonderful smile she hoped never to see again.

When she woke up she was still crying.

Categories: Meg Brown Mysteries | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

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