Outside the Box

by Gary Clifton

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

Saint’s Liquor was wedged in among several storefronts on Greenville Avenue north of Mockingbird Lane. “How can I help Dallas’ finest today?” Harry St. Clair smiled thinly. He was husky, thirtyish, with thick glasses. He looked tough enough to eat a rubber dog.

“Inquiring about the home invasion of the residence of Donnie Gale Norman. Wife murdered, Norman’s in Parkland.”

Harry grinned uneasily. “Heard on the news. Hope that Norman sumbitch dies.”

“You acquainted with him?” I asked.

“Well, he’s my ex-wife’s boss. Sucker stole her right outta my bed.”

“They were seeing each other before your divorce?”

“Yep. Somebody finally got tired of his crap.” His hostility radiated across the counter. “But it ain’t me, guys. Buddy was in the trick box. Wife, Eleanor, wouldn’t give him a divorce. Holdin’ out for a better settlement, I suppose. Y’all do know Melony and Eleanor were cousins? That’s how Buddy met Melony.”

Harper said, “Well, hell, keepin’ it in the family. Seems normal to me.”

I asked, “How did Melony’s subbing in for Eleanor work out?”

“As far I knew, Eleanor wanted rid of Buddy. Melony sorta filled a void.”

“Melony ever have trouble with the law?”

“Yeah, matter o’ fact. Got a second DWI, good for a year in jail. Buddy got her off.”

“How’d you know they were—?”

“Suspected some grab-ass. Bar down the street. I knew she hung there. Drove down and checked, and they was suckin’ lips at a rear table.”

“Before your divorce?”

“It wasn’t final, but we’d already split. Hadda let it lay. Besides I had a visit by a couple of goons in purple shirts who never really made threats but told me Melony was now hands off. I considered tossing both out on their asses but could see the Molotov crashing through my front glass. I listened to their half-assed Bogart imitation and let them walk away.”

Harper asked, “You sure Buddy had promised your ex he’d marry up with her? Cousin pushing out a cousin ain’t so weird, but violence following damned sure is.”

“Yeah, Melony told me that synonymously with ‘kiss off, loser’. Looks like Buddy’s loss is Melony’s gain times ten or so. Losing Eleanor makes it more like twenty. And by the way, Cardiff, the lawyer jerkoff who runs the Cadillac outfit, represented Melony in the divorce. Melony was just a classy-looking cocktail waitress and, overnight, she was some kinda executive assistant in a Mafia-owned car operation.”

“Where were you between four and five this morning?” I asked.

“In bed asleep. Alone, thanks to Buddy Norman.”

Harper asked, “Was Eleanor still living... and sleeping with Buddy?”

“Naw, hell, no way. There was some pretty heavy friction there. No tellin’ how they were in bed together.”

As we walked out, I could feel St. Clair’s eyes burning into my back. He was one ticked off ex. Angry enough to try to murder his ex-wife’s lover? I’d seen stranger scenarios. We’d need to see where Melony was between four and five.

* * *

I drove out to my apartment, had a couple of beers and a scrumptious TV dinner. I could go back to being an AA’er tomorrow. At dark-thirty, I climbed into my old GMC and drove in the residual drizzle to the residence of Buddy Norman, now mob-connected automobile dealer dignitary.

I parked a block down from the darkened, hopefully empty house. The rain tended to deaden footsteps or any noise I might make. I kept to the bushes and avoided the marked squad car posted in front, hoping the uniform didn’t wake up and shoot my ass.

I stepped under the yellow crime scene tape and, by pencil flashlight, found the window where the intruder had entered. I examined the damage to the screen, the window, and the flower box which was hung by metal brackets from the window ledge.

I yanked the entire box free, walked softly back to my pickup, tossed it on the passenger seat, and headed back to my apartment. Ten minutes with a kitchen spoon and I found gold amidst the pansies.

* * *

The rain had given way to a typical Dallas springtime sunburst morning when the guards opened the door of the Southwest Institute of Forensic Sciences at eight. The lab guys started arriving shortly after. By nine-thirty, armed with some excellent evidence, I’d assembled fellow stalwart Dead Bin inhabitants Maggs Wilson and Red Harper in the lobby of the Parkland Hospital complex. Time to have a little come to Jesus meeting in Buddy Norman’s presence.

When we appeared, Buddy grabbed his cellular and dialed for the cavalry. Maggs, Harper and I found the cafeteria. Harper and I gorged on grease and eggs while Maggs picked at a wilted salad which should have been funeralized weeks earlier.

Harper said through a mouthful, “We’re about to upset Buddy’s Day, I hope.”

When we revisited Buddy’s room, Cardiff and Melony were waiting, both armed with game face. They were collectively wound like steel, inescapable traps. But remember: rock covers metal. Harper was lugging the flower box I’d hoarded in a larger cardboard box since the night before.

“What the hell is this intrusion?” Cardiff demanded, eyeing the box. “A call to your boss will be y’all’s asses.”

I ignored Cardiff. “Buddy, you always were a dumb ass, draggin’ the sack on the edge of some serious trouble. Now, sport, you’ve found it.”

He spat, “Tough talk for a loser stuck in the basement of DPD Headquarters. I ain’t did nuthin’.”

Cardiff snorted, but despite all odds, remained silent.

I continued. “Killers should always study the murder manual. It’s an inexact bidness. Some basic mistakes can get a careless murderer the three-needle cocktail. Buddy, you oughta know that.”

Melony appeared horrified.

I said, “It’s room deodorizers and flower boxes, Buddy, plus a tidbit or two.”

Cardiff said incredulously, “Deodorizers, flower boxes. I expect nothing less from a lummox like you, McCoy.”

“My, my, such rancor.” I motioned Harper to set the cardboard box on Buddy’s bed. He pulled out the window box.

I asked, “Buddy, I suppose burying the .38 in the dirt of the flower box was not the only alternative, although dumber than a day-old porcupine.”

Buddy flashed his “I ain’t did squat” face. “Flower box? Me?”

“Murder by .38. A common legal tactic and very effective... if you don’t get caught. Your fingerprints were all over the .38.”

Cardiff blurted, “Mr. Norman owned the gun. His prints would be—”

“Evidence squints always find secret stuff, just like on TV. Well, we found a .38 buried in that little flower box, just not so quickly. Everyone should know mud and water can spoil fingerprints but doesn’t always.”

“What the hell’s the point?” Cardiff snapped.

I asked, “Buddy, you got an explanation why Eleanor, a hostile party in a knockdown, drag-out divorce, was in your bed? A romantic interlude on a rainy night doesn’t quite fit.”

Buddy looked perplexed. “Dunno. Our long-time next-door neighbors were having a silver anniversary wine-tasting party. Eleanor called and persuaded me to attend... for old times’ sake, she said. We got tanked up and, next thing I knew, we were rolling around on our old bed. Like I already tol’ y’all, I heard glass tinkle, then somebody shot hell outta both of us. I couldn’t find my .38 and like a damned fool, chased somebody down the stairs in pitch darkness. Lucky, I didn’t stop another bullet.”

“Buddy, your final Internal Affairs Investigation said you’d fixed a DWI case for Melony St. Clair, a lonesome wife who happened to be your wife Eleanor’s cousin. Soon, Melony left her husband and became your main squeeze in a cousin-for-cousin swap. Melony had already wriggled her way into the mob. A member in good standing. She vouched for you. They took her word you were a standup guy. You weren’t.”

“Fairy tale, McCoy.”

“Then you accommodated Cardiff by nixing a dope case for Kimberly Forsythe, Cardiff’s niece. He made the same mistake; he helped you get fixed up with your current bosses. You compounded the problem by demanding a promotion in the car business, using info from your prior cop knowledge as leverage. It got you a new Caddie rag top and maybe a corner office. Dude, you can sleep with Melony and Eleanor, and even Kimberly Forsythe, but Buddy, you can’t screw Westtex, not no time, not never. They exist solely to laundry money for the mob. After they got a grip on the real Buddy, chances are one hundred percent that the mob has you on the ‘featured in coming disappearances’ file. But I believe you already know that.”

“All crap, McCoy.”

“There’s a whole other other here. The mob is a vindictive bunch. Melony and Cardiff suddenly became expendable, in that order. The onus was on them, particularly Melony, to help hasten Buddy to Hell. But offing you failed, and now Melony and Cardiff are in deep trouble.”

Cardiff scoffed.

I continued, “Lab squints say the .38 we recovered from the flower box was used to shoot Buddy and Eleanor. The gun was stashed exactly where Buddy shoulda hid it after he chased a shooter down the stairs: in the flower box. He was shot, it was raining to beat hell, and the flower box was the only real place to stash the murder weapon.

“Gunpowder residue proves the gun was fired and buried by someone wearing gloves. But there’s a big problem: the shooter, obviously inexperienced, held the pistol in both hands, trapping a fragment of the cloth thumb webbing and human skin in the hammer mechanism, a common revolver accident. We have a positive mitochondrial DNA match from that snippet of glove and skin.”

Buddy wailed, “Damn, you’re gonna try to frame me.”

I sighed, “Buddy, try shuttin’ up.”

Melony sobbed, “Michael.”

Cardiff said, not so enthusiastically this time, “I think you got nuthin’, copper.”

I said, “The shooter ran down the stairs and climbed out that window with Buddy in hot pursuit. Shoulda gone out the door, but panic is a powerful motivator. Contact with the flower box dragged off plenty of pansy dust. It’s smeared in the mud of the box.” I pointed to the muddy box on Buddy’s bed. “We have a gaggle of cops serving a search warrant on the shooter’s apartment as we speak. Wanna bet plenty of that dust remains on the clothes tossed on the bathroom floor, awaiting the maid? And burying the .38 in the flower box? Somebody — I nominate Melony — returned and planted it. It was meant to frame Buddy when the shooter realized Buddy had survived the shooting.”

Cardiff barked, “This is nuts!”

“Cardiff, I suspect you have more knowledge of this caper than we can prove. The mob was bound to dump both Melony and you in the landfill, but you were too much the wimp to take action. But Melony and Eleanor had the juice to off Buddy. Like I said, somebody shoulda studied the murder manual.”

Melony sobbed and slumped on Buddy’s bed. Buddy roared in pain. Cardiff looked as if he might break for the door.

“Note, Cardiff, the little nick in the web of Melony’s left hand. Wanna bet that matches the lab sample from the glove. An amateur goes to a gunfight, and it backfired, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

Melony dissolved in tears.

I said, “Melony, you forgot that the residue from your perfume would hang on the air for hours. The scene wasn’t heavy with room deodorizer. It was your perfume. From prior trips to that bedroom, you thought you knew which side of the bed Buddy favored.

“Both Cousin Eleanor and you, for different reasons, wanted Buddy planted below the grass. A little contrived love affair to guarantee Buddy was present would’ve worked fine if Buddy had cooperated and slept in his usual place. Betcha Buddy will confirm he was on the wrong side. You put three in Eleanor by mistake and caught ol’ Buddy with a lucky round. Shoulda carried a flashlight. And, ma’am, you damn sure pulled the trigger, ’cuz the DNA we pulled from the cloth glove fragment is yours, yours, yours.”

Cardiff shouted, “This is insane!”

“Yup, sure is. Melony had visited Buddy’s bedroom often enough to know how the alarm worked, open the window to fake a burglar entering, find the pistol, then shoot Buddy... or at least shoot the spot where Buddy should have been.”

Cardiff stood, finally speechless.

I said, “Melony St. Clair, you’re under arrest for the murder of Eleanor Norman and attempted murder of her husband. Now if we can only keep you alive inside the jailhouse, we’ll try and arrange a trip to death row.”

Cardiff, still standing, said, “You got nuthin’ on me, McCoy.”

“Cardiff, unless Melony provides information sufficient to indict you, you’re free.”

They looked like a trio of sick iguanas. Couldn’t blame them, Melony had fumbled in the end zone and, in mob parlance, Cardiff was the receiver’s coach. Melony would be the finest looking inhabitant of death row. Cardiff would try, unsuccessfully I’d wager, to try to become invisible. It wasn’t going to work.

Buddy blurted, “This mean I’m free?”

“Buddy, no matter how far you run, the mob will find you and advise they no longer need you. But dude, we do need you. We’ve already arranged to keep you in indefinite protective custody. I’ll recommend solitary so some Alpha con doesn’t make you his wife.”

Cardiff snarled triumphantly, “I’m gone, folks.”

I said, “Probably true, Cardiff. But a couple of problems. I betcha you’re parked in that lot across Harry Hines where Buddy’s shiny red Caddy convertible conspicuously awaits. Those two carloads of goons parked along the fence probably have two jobs today: one to repo Buddy’s ride and the second to haul you off to the memory hole.”

“Oh my God!” Cardiff gasped.

“I believe you should call on help from somebody a little closer, Cardiff. Otherwise, make a run for it, dude. You might try Tibet. I bet they have car dealerships there.”

Both Buddy and Cardiff joined Melony’s crying symphony like they were presiding at their own funerals. Come to think of it, those tears might have been a reliable premonition of coming attractions.