The Sand Bluff Murders, C. M. Albrecht [simple e reader .TXT] 📗

M

y name is Jonas McCleary. When I came to Sand Bluff I was just thirty so I still hoped
to have a future.
A few years earlier I saw an opportunity to become a police officer in a small northern
California city.
I get a kick out of the tests all these officious agencies give out. A written test has next to
nothing to do with the real-life job you're seeking. Worse, some people who are possibly
well suited to the job lose out because they're simply terrible at taking written tests.
Luckily, for me, written tests come pretty easy and I breeze through them without much
difficulty at all.
Out of about fifty applicants, I came in second and the guy who came in first was well
over forty. Someone there told me a man his age didn't stand a chance because within a
year he'd be out on workman's comp or going on disability.
Next came the physical. I've always been on the lean side — well, make that practically
skinny — and I was just short of making the weight. The doctor, kindly soul that he was,
told me to go out and drink all the water I could hold and then come back. I did, and just
made the weight. Then I went to the restroom and peed for five minutes straight. After
that came the police academy where I learned why police officers never hit what they're
aiming at.
Being a cop isn't bad. Most people give you respect, at least to your face. You often get
free coffee and occasional other perks that can be considered legitimate. Women seem to
admire a man in a uniform.
Mostly my work was small stuff; arresting drunks, breaking up domestic fights, an
occasional small drug bust. During my five years in the department no one ever hit me, I
never hit anyone and God forbid I should ever draw my duty weapon. Bad as most of the
other cops were, I was still the laughing stock of the pistol range.
When the opportunity to apply for a detective job in Sand Bluff came along, I decided to
go for it. The thought of wearing plainclothes and playing detective sounded pretty good
to me, and the pay would be a little better. I figured what could be so tough about
working in a one-horse town like Sand Bluff? I even ordered a snappy dark gray fedora
on line and a shoulder holster so I'd look like a real detective.
As usual, I flew through the written test and came out on top of some seven or eight
applicants. Also as usual, I only guessed at most of the answers, but when you have three
to choose from, and one is patently ridiculous, you end up with a fifty-fifty chance of
guessing right. Add to that a bit of judicious thought and it isn't so difficult.
That's how I ended up being the Chief Detective (okay…the only detective), in Sand
Bluff, California.
My third day on the job I got hit with the big one. Murder.
My boss, Chief Raymond Castillo, a short dark overweight man with the look of an
eighth month pregnancy about him, called me into his little office. His thick black hair
and mustache, both threaded with white impressed me. He had the look of a man who
knew where he was going and what to do when he got there. He favored a silver belly
western hat and big bone-handled forty-five Colt 1911 automatic worn at half-cock,
which I thought was pretty flashy. It impressed me too.
"Yes Chief," I said. "You wanted to see me?"
"We got a serious problem here, son," he told me in his deep soft voice. He sat behind his
old oak desk with the window behind him. Chiefs like that because it puts their faces
more in the shadow. I think it gives them a feeling of being more in control or something,
like wearing mirrored glasses.
I'm thinking: so we have a serious problem. In sleepy Sand Bluff. Okay, have a joke on
the new guy. Story of my life.
I sat down on one of the straight chairs before his desk, prepared to listen to a windy
account of some sort of misdemeanor. By this, my third day on the job, I was already
familiar with Chief Castillo's rambling fashion of talking.
"Early this morning," he said, "while you were still sleeping I'm sure, Officer Ackers, on
night patrol, came across a corpse in the alley back of the Blu Lite Bar."
"A corpse?” I smiled. Like a dead body? Oh yeah! I was supposed to take this shit
seriously? Only things people killed around Sand Bluff were lots of bottles of beer and
the occasional careless cat that got in the way of a speeding pickup. I checked out the
town's reputation before I ever applied for the job. This was supposed to be a cool job
with a badge, easy money and little authority in a small town where nothing ever happens
— that's what I signed on for. Okay, let him have his little joke. Maybe this was a sort of
initiation or something.
While I sat and politely half-listened to the chief's lengthy and involved story, a part of
me considered what I knew of Officer Harold Ackers.
Harold Ackers was about twenty-five I think. Decent fellow who hadn't been on the force
more than a month before I came on. That's why he was working the night shift. That's
where all the fresh meat starts in Sand Bluff — and in most other places I suspect. Being
the town's one and only detective, naturally I had what we nominally called a day watch,
but in actuality, I'd be expected to work night and day if anything serious ever came up.
At the time of my initial get-acquainted talk, I was thinking: like that's ever going to
happen.
I swallowed as Chief Castillo talked. I began to feel maybe he wasn't joking after all.
Okay, I'd go along with a body, but anyone can drop dead anyplace at just about any
time. Maybe the decedent had a bad heart or something. So what? But I couched my
remarks more professionally: "Does Ackers know what happened?"
Chief Castillo stroked his mustache and smiled grimly. "Our Officer Ackers didn't even
know the guy was dead. Officer Ackers thought the stiff was just drunk. He dragged the
body to his patrol car and brought him in to sober up." Chief Castillo splayed both dark
hands on the desk. "In doing so of course he totally fucked up the scene and manhandled
the body, so I'd say you've got your work cut out for you."
"My work? Are you saying this is a homicide?"
"By God, you are sharp. I can see you're going to make a good detective, son. Yes, when
we get a body with two bullet holes in the back of his head, even here in Sand Bluff, we
know it's a homicide. The blood was pretty matted, so poor Ackers didn't realize he had
blood all over him till he got back here to the station."
I groaned. Evidently this wasn't a joke after all. What a way to start a new job. A murder
case on my third day! And the crime scene essentially destroyed before I could even look
at it. My very first murder case and I didn't have a clue. Working a murder was way out
of my scope. I didn't even know my way around yet, although considering the size of
Sand Bluff, that part wouldn't take long. But still…I almost told Chief Castillo not to be
so hasty in his decision to call me a good detective. I mean passing a written test is one
thing. This was going to be real.
Well, I thought, on the other hand I'm probably as good at this as anyone else in town.
Maybe I'm the best they've got.
"Okay," I said. "Maybe first I should go talk to Ackers. Did he go home?"
Chief Castillo nodded. "Either that, or more likely, he's down at Mattie's eating baked
doughnuts Yeah, go talk to Ackers."
I stood up to go.
"I like your hat," Chief Castillo mentioned.
"Thanks," I said. He probably thought his was better, but I wasn't as cowboy as Chief
Castillo. My hat was dark gray with a two-inch snap-brim. I tried to wear it cocked
slightly to one side, but it didn't want to stay that way.
I got Ackers' address from Regina Montes, our receptionist. Regina was a very attractive,
if slightly frumpy, brunette. She looked about twenty-five, but I had an idea she was older
than that. Three kids and no husband. My understanding was that she lived with her
mother who babysat the kids. I knew Regina was born in Sand Bluff but she still carried
that faint trace of Old Mexico in her manner of talking. I thought it was very nice,
actually. I also thought she liked my looks, but maybe she was just looking for a husband.
The thought of marrying into three kids kind of jarred against my idea of Miss Right. But
I'll get to Miss Right in a jiffy.
"Thanks Reggie," I said. She had already told me she didn't like that name, but when I
think I'm being clever I can be agonizingly perverse.
I could have used a city vehicle, but I liked my old seventy-two Chevy half ton with her
four-speed tranny. She was old when I bought her, but that thing was a tank. She could
handle just about anything. And the six-cylinder engine wasn't too bad on gas either. I
liked the old-fashioned bench seat. Very comfy when you get a girl in there.
Mattie's Cafe was closer than Ackers' apartment, so I stopped there first.
Against my better judgment I'd already tried Mattie's baked doughnuts, but to each his
own. She had some kind of handy tabletop machine, something like a waffle iron for
doughnuts — made me think of an 'As seen on TV' product. Mattie's place smelled
strongly of frying onions. Didn't matter whether you came in early or late, it always
smelled of onions. The onion smell was a lot easier to deal with than the baked
doughnuts.
Sure enough, there sat Ackers alongside Sand Bluff's other cop, Carson Mohr. Mohr was
a stocky dude with crew-cut blond hair and pale blue eyes. I don't normally take a dislike
to people until I give them a chance to mess up, but with Mohr I made an exception.
There was just something about his attitude, the way he always stood in that 'cop stance',
his superior 'I'm in charge' attitude and his belligerent way of getting a lot of insinuation
into everything he said or did. I bet he even wore his mirrored sunglasses to bed at night.
He was the kind that pulls over a car for a minor violation and demands, 'When was the
last time you were arrested?'
The cops sat there with their elbows on the pink Formica counter while a fair-skinned
black woman named Subira entertained them with her sass. Subira looked to be twenty
and I already had noticed there were always men sitting at the counter trying to look
suave or whatever it is guys do when they want to impress a chick. Ackers and Mohr
were no exception, but I couldn't really blame them. Everything about Subira was hot
except that she was only too aware of it, and came with attitude. Lots of attitude.
Of course, Mohr tried to get in a snappy remark at every opportunity, but Subira wasn't
buying