The Lonely Detective, Vol. I: Four Humorous, Politically Incorrect Mysteries Solved by the Lonely Detective

The Smashwords Edition

THE LONELY DETECTIVE, VOL. I

Four Humorous, Politically Incorrect Mysteries Solved by the Lonely Detective

Second edition

Charles E. Schwarz

Copyright © 2001 Charles E. Schwarz

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

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Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction, a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance or similarity to any actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Formatting by Debora Lewis arenapublishing.org

To my wife Emily,

without whose help, encouragement, faith and love

this work would not be.

Contents

The Lonely Wandering Detective and the Bullshit Murder

A story humorously exposing the politically correct inner city charities at the street level. The story unfolds as the Lonely Detective, in trying to solve the street murder of a derelict called Bullshit, wanders through corrupt charities while watching Connie Chung and 60 Minutes doing exposes and being shocked.

The Lonely Invisible Detective and Mrs. Peacock’s Five Abusers

Politically correct activist, elderly Mrs. Peacock is murdered by one of the many innocent people whose lives she ruined through her investigations to uncover child, spouse, animal, environmental abuse. After she is tossed from a tower, her less than caring son-in-law, with the aid of a shifty lawyer, fight over her meager estate and threaten lawsuits.

The Lonely Drinking Detective and the Tasty Cake Murder

Investigating the possible murder of an elderly Tasty Cake delivery man, a tired Lonely Detective sits, eats Tasty Cakes and drinks in the victim’s mansion with the strange widow, sons-in-law, and brother-in-law. Through conversations between drinks and cakes and engaging in humorous conversations over a suicide hotline with psychics and sex therapists, the Lonely Detective solves the murder.

The Lonely Dissed Detective and the Volunteer Murder

Left for dead in a crack house, the initial presumption of a drug overdose is overturned by a few strands of spaghetti and an errant meatball, which initiates a murder investigation and introduces the Lonely Detective into a world of volunteer charity work.

A fast paced who did it mystery where the young, rich, idealistic victim’s innocent volunteer charity work instigates anger, hatred, fear and guilt in a group of interesting diverse characters: a spurious flirtatious grandmother, a money seeking grandfather, a cynical corrupt charity worker, a complaining girl friend, suspiciously prosperous charity board of directors, and a pathetic street thief

About the Author

THE LONELY WANDERING DETECTIVE AND THE BULLSHIT MURDER

Maybe it's some body odor I give off, not the nose kind but some sort of odor, but for some inexplicable reason, people don't respect me. They diss me. Before you think it's because of some character flaw, like being boisterous, loud or gossipy, too shy or too pushy to make friends, it's not. I suffer no gross deformity, my appearance is normal, and I'm conscientious about my personal hygiene, yet people don't respect me and don't include me — in fact, they don't even see me. It's no big deal and I deal with it, but it's tiresome to walk through the precinct station house and not be greeted by anyone. Even if I say a hello loud and clear, no one hears, no one sees. My opinion is never solicited, and if I offer one, it suffers a quick, silent death and passes away unnoticed.

This non-status shows itself in many ways. In my job, for example, it manifests in my homicide assignments. The deaths with easy solutions, or the high-profile cases that lead to promotion are offered to senior detectives. The ones with little chance of a solution go to the rookies.

That's the way it was with my greatest murder case. At first glance, it looked like it couldn't be solved, but I busted my chops to solve it, and it eventually was deemed the murder case of the decade.

After almost thirty years of service, twenty in the homicide division, I had seniority big time. So when an uncomplicated death was reported at the same time that an ugly, unsolvable street murder came in, I expected to be assigned the simple death. It was an obvious suicide that could be officially declared, written up, and cleared in a day's work, and it would look good on my record. A CPA, after conferring with three clients, got up, left them in his conference room, entered his office, and jumped out the window to his death. The only strange note was, several wiretap machines were scattered about his office, and when they were played back, they verified the clients' accounts of the afternoon's events, except for one machine that was tapeless. It was a simple case… talk to the witnesses and write up a suicide report. By seniority, by fairness, by justice, and by decency, this should have been my case.

Because of her lack of seniority, the next officer in line for the ugly case was a glad-handing, back-slapping, well-liked, extremely attractive female rookie named Bobbie Bruster. And it was an ugly, unimportant, unsolvable murder. An unknown, drunken bum was found dead in a dirty gutter. No way would this case be solved. It would end up being tallied as an unsolved case on Bo's record. (She was affectionately called Bo by everyone; I was always McCoppin — not Ed, not Mac, not Mr. McCoppin, as these would suggest acceptance or respect.)

I was invited by a hand wave from my boss, Chief of Detectives Maste, to sit down as I walked into the office to pick up the preliminary reports on the CPA's suicide. McCoppin, I'm assigning the homeless stabbing case to you. He tossed a folder containing a single sheet of paper at me. As it slid off the desk, I had to bend down to catch it.

I was unprepared for this unexpected blow. My mind was blank, my stomach tight. I just stared at the folder.

Chief Maste, deciding to fill the silence and push me out, continued. If there is nothing else, I've got a desk piled with work, he said as he indicated his uncluttered, glass-covered desk. One folder lay in the corner next to his elbow. It was the CPA suicide case, my case, now apparently Bo's case.

I didn't respond. Numb with surprise, I was incapable of even a response to my own pain.

Maste, the bastard, prompted, I guess you want to get started. He opened his desk drawer and peered down at neat arrays of pencils and pens.

Damn him. I spoke up. Bo can have the bum's murder. I believe the CPA case is mine.

While his fingers ran idly up and down rows of pencils, and with his eyes still lowered, he growled, I'm chief here and I'll decide who gets what case.

Surprisingly, his authoritarian approach didn't intimidate me. Not this time. It only irritated me. I was being shafted, and him getting on his high horse wasn't going to make me cower. Seniority dictates that the CPA case is mine. We always follow seniority in case assignment.

I scored. He retreated to the massaging the sucker's ego approach, spreading a little bullshit over me. Look, McCoppin, you're a seasoned veteran; if anyone can solve a street murder, it's a man of your experience and street smarts. Bo doesn't have a chance on that case.

I want the CPA case.

It would be a feather in your cap to solve the street murder. We all know how difficult these cases are.

The CPA case, by rights, is mine.

He tried the look at it from my point of view approach. Sure, sure. But look at it from my point of view. (And if you do, you're a sucker.) I've got many detectives here, and trying to keep all of them happy is one tough job. Everybody wants the choice jobs; no one wants the dirty, hard cases. Sometimes I have to hurt someone, but I try to be fair and spread out the bad assignments so no one gets more than his share.

I had more than my share, especially when I was a rookie. In fact—

Sensing I was getting up a head of steam, Maste interrupted and tried the deferred reward approach. Look, take this one, and he pointed to the folder I had tossed back on his desk, and I'll make sure you won't be sorry. You can trust me to make it up to you.

None of his bullshit would work. Not this time. In my mind, I drew a line in the sand. It's my turn for an easy case.

There are no easy cases, he moralized, scoring an easy point, then went to the buddy's approach. Look, Ed (Ed, not McCoppin), we go back a long time, and I'm asking you as a friend (since when?) to help me out here. Be a little flexible for the good of the department; take this case, and you have my word, the next… er, case will be yours. He got up and extended his hand, so we could shake on it. I kept my seat and my hand. He was using the reflex to be polite gambit. He stands, you stand. He offers to shake, and to be polite, you shake. Before you know it, you're in the hallway.

It's not right, Chief. The CPA case is mine, and I want it.

Easily we moved into the be big, be charitable, be the Good Samaritan approach. Look, Eddy (not Ed, not McCoppin), Bo has had a string of really tough cases and has run up an undeserved bad score. What say you give the rookie this one? Be generous. For good measure, he added the don't be petty and small accusation approach.

Let the other senior members be generous and big. I want that case, pointing to the other folder on his desk.

When managerial bullshit doesn't work, they drop to the bottom line — power — the I'm nice, you're bad, your ass is mine approach. Damn it, McCoppin (not Eddy, not Ed). I'm trying to be nice, to be reasonable with you. I said I'd give you the next easy case. I told you it would help the department, how it would be nice to help a rookie… but if you're going to be selfish about this, I've got no choice but to order you to take the case I'm assigning to you.

He continued with more self-justification. Damn it, detectives can't pick and choose which cases they'll investigate. Not while I run this office. You go out and investigate this homeless murder, and do a professional job. There are no favorites, no prima donna investigators here. I will not have favoritism in this office. Now get out of here before I order your transfer to traffic. It's always best when delivering the shaft to someone, to accuse the shaftee of being a bastard.

I left and passed Bo on the way in.

Damn, what is it about me that I get no respect? Is it an odor, undetectable yet able to communicate its poison to people's unconscious?

Well, I took the case. It wasn't right and I was being shafted, but I had no real options.

As for the case itself, I had three options: do the usual pedestrian job and file it as another of my unsolved murder cases, do nothing on it and file it away, or solve it by doing one hell of a superior job and throw it back into their faces. Being mad, damn mad, I took the last choice. I was going to work this case as if it were the Kennedy Assassination.

On the way to the morgue, I stopped at the crime scene. Forget about yards of yellow tape and scores of uniforms keeping television cameras and bystanders at bay to protect the integrity of the crime scene. As I drove up in a ten year old, unmarked police car, all that marked the scene was a cop leaning against an abandoned car, smoking and sipping coffee, and a McDonald's bag covering a small amount of blood. Forget about all that chalk and body outline stuff, police photographers, and guys tape measuring and recording distances. Bo would get that and possibly evening television news coverage. I got a cop who didn't put his cigarette butt out nor stand straight when I approached. Leaning, dragging, and sipping, he nodded at the bag and said that the body had been found at seven in the morning by a transit bus driver.

The bum was found in the street at a bus stop close to the rear of a stripped, twelve year old Buick. With the toe of his shoe, the uniform drew a line a couple of feet past the abandoned car's missing gas cap. The bum's feet were there. Then, flicking his cigarette butt towards the curb, he said, Head about there, and he was on his back.

Under a nearby underpass, a drunk was relieving himself against a concrete arch. Slowly walking over to him, not wanting to interrupt or see his personal business, I asked him if he knew the guy who got killed.

After taking a long kiss from the mouth of a bottle dressed tightly to the neck in brown paper, he gallantly extended it for me to kiss. I refused. To keep the bottle from feeling slighted, he lightly kissed it again.

Wiping his mouth (he was a sloppy kisser), he said, Bullshit.

Bullshit?

Yeah, Bullshit. The guy who got killed. That was his name.

His street name?

No, idiot. He was baptized Bullshit.

I didn't take offense. It was stupid of me. Why Bullshit?

Because he always said 'bullshit,' so he got known on the street as Bullshit.

How long was he on the street?

Couldn't say, but he was a homeless wino when I came into the area and that was, here he paused to wrinkle a dirty forehead, squint runny red eyes, and search for a memory in a brain floating in a vat of wine. Shit, he finally said. It's been five… er six… look, what year is it?

Ninety-nine.

Huh, ninety-nine? Shit, time really slips by on the streets. I hit these streets in ninety, or eighty nine — well, around there anyway. After such tiring mental work, he refreshed himself with a long, sensuous, satisfying kiss from his mistress.

Did he get into a lot of fights?

Bullshit was easy going, except he never believed what you said. Hell, he didn't believe I drank because of Reagan's Trickle down Economics and that I was a casualty of the greedy eighties. The company I worked for was taken over by a corporate raider and I was fired.

What was your job?

Gas jockey. Pumped gas, and was damn good at it. Should have made station manager. Bullshit always said 'bullshit' when I told my story. Not nasty, not mean like, just laughingly he would say 'bullshit.'

You don't know his actual name?

On the streets we have street names. Me, I'm Sunny. He was Bullshit.

Did he have any enemies on the street?

Well, you can't say 'bullshit' to a lot of people and not get people riled, especially if they're mean drunks, or angry sober.

Where were you last night?

Haven't the slightest idea. My welfare check came in and — well, you've got to celebrate.

Turning, I saw the beat cop had left and a stray dog was lifting his leg on the McDonald's bag. Own a knife?

Did, but traded it for a pint.

I left Sunny necking with his love bottle and drove over to the morgue. So far I had nothing except a nickname and a possible suspect called Sunny.

On the way to the morgue I reflected: If Sunny had done it and was convicted, he probably would live longer on death row eating good food and living in sanitary conditions than he would on the street.

At the morgue I saw Bo standing at the suicide's brightly lit table along with the head coroner and five assistants, all working very professionally on the CPA's corpse. An intern trainee in a dark corner was chopping mine.

What's the story? I asked, looking down at a surprisingly well-fed, well-built corpse. If it weren't for his death grin, the holes in his chest, and one eye staring unblinkingly straight at the florescent light while the other contemplated his toes, I'd have said hello and extended a hand to help him up.

The intern was up to his elbows in the guy's stomach, Liver's shot, but kidney and heart are in good shape… had a good meal, roast beef, mashed potatoes, some greenish vegetable, three, maybe four hours before being shot.

Looks pretty clean for a street bum.

Thank goodness. The lice, the odors, the shit and pee on some of these guys turns your stomach. Oh, the bullets are over there. Five thirty-twos from the torso.

I picked them up. From a Smith and Wesson. Thought he was knifed.

Nah, shot from maybe five feet, five times in the chest. Died instantly. Bled just a little and his clothes absorbed most of it. They're over there. He pointed to a plastic garbage bag.

Putting on plastic gloves, I rummaged, picking up each piece with a thumb and forefinger. The clothes were clean, cheap and relatively new. Salvation Army giveaways, I guessed. Nothing in the pockets except a ten spot and some change. I pulled out his worn sneakers and, with some trepidation, reached down into the toes and pulled out two twenties and a ten. In the other sneaker was his crumpled Social Security card and a card saying to call A. Hearn at 425-8231 in case of emergency.

Well, well — a street bum gets killed in a street fight, but he wears clean clothes, eats roast beef dinners, carries around as much cash as I do, and recently had a bath. If some street bum killed him, he didn't bother to search his sneakers, the place where every bum carries whatever money he has, and he even passed up an easy ten spot in his pocket.

Suddenly an actual shiver ran down my vertebrae to my butt, then turned around and jogged back up. Smith and Wesson, five shots. What bum walks around with a Smith and Wesson? It would have been pawned or sold the first morning he had the shakes and didn't have the price of a pint. Knife, yes; gun, never. A fellow drunk didn’t kill Bullshit. Maybe some kids trying to get thrills killed him. Given the body's location, Bullshit was crossing