Rick Ricochet: The Case of the Drowning Doorman

RICK RICOCHET #2: THE CASE OF THE DROWNING DOORMAN

by Justin Swartz 

Detective Rick Ricochet frowned at the body of Hank Sturgeon, lying face up on the floor of the Speedy Service Hotel.  Sturgeon had drowned when rain water filled the hotel elevator.

"What do you make of it, Rick?" Drake Derringer, Ricochet's longtime partner, asked.

"Well, he's wet," Ricochet observed dryly.  "What did he do here at the hotel?"

Before Derringer could say anything, an aquiline man approached the detectives and spit out the details in a torrent.

"Hank was our doorman, Mister Ricochet," he began.  "He was coming back from his break when the elevator doors opened and all this rain water came gushing into the lobby.  I checked Hank's body, and when I saw he wasn't breathing, I dialed nine-one-one."  He made a point of throwing his arms up in the air.  "It's going to take all night to dry this carpet out, and with this rain we've been having, the carpet cleaners won't get here until tomorrow afternoon!"

"That's Detective Ricochet," Ricochet informed him.  "And you are...?"

"Frederick Lymangood, the hotel manager," the man said, shaking Ricochet's hand.  He had one of those limp fish handshakes.  Ricochet caught a whiff of Lymangood's strong cologne as he pulled away.

"Have you had any leaks because of the rain?" Derringer asked.

"Leaks?  Leaks?!" Lymangood gestured to the parade of buckets and trash cans that filled the lobby.  "It's raining as much inside as it is outside!"

Ricochet stepped over Sturgeon's body and into the elevator.  A few drops of water plunked against his fedora.  He looked up to find the emergency door in the ceiling had been left open.  He hoisted himself through it and looked around the elevator shaft.  More water dripped onto his fedora and trench coat.  Ricochet looked straight up the shaft, receiving a drop of water directly in his eyes.

Ricochet had seen enough.  He climbed back down into the elevator to find another individual speaking with Drake Derringer.  He was older than Lymangood, considerably shorter, and dressed in mechanic's overalls and a white shirt.  Ricochet noticed a lipstick smear on the man's collar.

"This is Gus Jones," Derringer said as Ricochet entered.  "He's the maintenance man for the hotel.  He also services the elevators."

"What can you tell me about rain water leaking into an elevator car?" Ricochet asked Jones.

"It's impossible, Mister Ricochet," Jones replied.  This drew a look of alarm from Lymangood.  "Elevators are designed so that if they filled with water, it would drain out of them while they're in transit.  There's no way a person could drown inside an elevator car."

"That's Detective Ricochet," Ricochet corrected.  He made thinking noises and looked down at Sturgeon.  The man had drowned, all right...but if not in the elevator, then where?

A trim woman in gym clothes approached them.  She was drying her hair with a towel as she extended her hand to Ricochet.  "Evening, Mister Ricochet.  I'm Roberta Roscoe, the hotel detective."  Ricochet could smell Lymangood's cologne on her.  "You'll forgive my appearance; I just finished working out in the gym."

Derringer's eyes lit up.  He snapped his fingers, dashing toward the main desk for one of the hotel brochures.

"It's Detective Ricochet," Ricochet told Roberta.  "Did you ever have any issues with Mister Sturgeon?"

"Not at all," Roberta replied.  "He was a fine employee, and his background check came back clean as a whistle.  He also passed all the mandatory drug tests with flying colors."

Derringer returned and lit into Roberta as he said "Miss Roscoe, you said you just came from the gym, but Speedy Service hotels don't have gyms, pools, jacuzzis, or spas, as indicated on the brochure in the lobby!"  Derringer pointed a finger at Roberta's chest.  "Why did you kill Hank Sturgeon?"

"She didn't kill him!" Jones interjected. "I did!"

"Gus is lying!" Lymangood shouted.  ”I killed Mister Sturgeon!"

"All of you did," Ricochet said calmly.  "All three of you killed Hank Sturgeon...and I can prove it."

"You can't prove a single thing!" Lymangood said.

"You've got no evidence!" Jones said.

"And besides that, it was an accident!" Roberta said.

"Boy, this is a screwy bunch, isn't it?" Derringer whispered to Ricochet.  "First they confess to it and then they deny it!"

"I've got it under control, partner," Ricochet said.  "Watch me work."

Ricochet turned his attention to the three hotel employees and said, "Mister Jones, you told me that nobody can drown inside an elevator."

"That's correct," Jones said.

"But let's suppose that the elevator wasn't in transit. Let's suppose that it was on the bottom floor, and let's say that the water had no place to go.  Couldn't someone drown inside an elevator then?"

Jones looked uncomfortable.  "I suppose, yeah..."

"I looked at the elevator," Ricochet continued.  "The emergency door is open and water's dripping down from up in the shaft.  The problem is that it's not rain water.  It's water from the fire hose in the shaft, which is used in the event of a fire in the elevator.

"What I'm suggesting is that Miss Roscoe used her feminine wiles on Hank Sturgeon, distracting him long enough so you, Mister Jones, could turn on the fire hose and use it to fill the elevator car with water.  The only other thing you needed was someone to watch the lobby...and that job fell squarely on your shoulders, Mister Lymangood."

"But what reason would I have for killing Hank?" Lymangood asked haughtily.  "What reason would any of us have for killing him?" 

"I suspect it has something to do with your cologne being on Miss Roscoe," Ricochet said to Lymangood, "and Miss Roscoe's lipstick being on Mister Jones's collar."

Lymangood and Jones exchanged a glance, giving each other the once-over.

"You didn't...!" Lymangood said.

"You wouldn't...!" Jones shot back.

The two men turned to Roberta, who had her hand over her face in exasperation.  "We may as well tell him the truth," she said with a sigh.  "He's figured out the rest of it."

Lymangood frowned.  "I'm not admitting anything."

Jones glared at Roberta.  "And neither am I!"

"You two are impossible," Roberta muttered, shaking her head.  "You were right that all three of us had a hand in murdering Hank Sturgeon, Detective Ricochet.  He stumbled into the break room while Gus and I were having a...intimate moment...and threatened to report us to management."

"But you had that angle covered," Ricochet pointed out, "because you had Lymangood in your pocket."

Roberta nodded.  "When Frederick heard Hank's report, he decided that we'd have to come up with some way to get rid of him, in case he decided to report us to corporate management."

"I still don't see what the problem is," Derringer said.  "What's so wrong about you sleeping with Jones?"

Lymangood supplied the answer from his corner.  "Because, boy, Speedy Service corporate policy dictates that no Speedy Service employee shall engage in an intimate relationship with another Speedy Service employee at any time, or risk termination of their employment."

"So you three cooked up this scheme to take Sturgeon for a swim in the elevator," Ricochet said.  "That's why you were drying your hair when you came in, Miss Roscoe--you came out of the elevator the same time he did...only you held your breath."

Roberta gave him a small nod.  It was all the confirmation Ricochet needed.  He and Derringer removed their handcuffs and slapped them onto each employee's wrists.  Ricochet read them their Miranda rights and handed them over to Derringer, who led them outside to his car.

Ricochet stepped outside as the car holding Hank Sturgeon's killers pulled away.  A pair of uniformed officers approached him a few moments later.

"What do you want us to do now, Detective?" one of them asked.

"Nothing," Ricochet said, smiling a little.  "Consider this case closed."

Rick Ricochet: The Case of the Broken Broker

Here's an experiment: post whatever writing you do that gets rejected on this blog and see what people think of it.  Sound good?  Sound scary?  Then you're in for a real surprise!

###

RICK RICOCHET #1: THE CASE OF THE BROKEN BROKER

by Justin Swartz

Detective Rick Ricochet stepped around the dead body on the floor of Madison Clark's apartment.  The body belonged to her husband, Roger Clark, who had taken six bullets right in the heart.

"What do you make of it, Rick?" Drake Derringer asked.  He was Ricochet's longtime partner.

"Well, he's dead," Ricochet said dryly.  "Where's the gun?"

Derringer kneeled by Clark's left foot and pointed to a Comanche .38 Special.  "Looks just like the ones we carry."  He then pointed to the casings in front of Ricochet.  "Those are the six casings that match the six slugs he took."

Ricochet made thinking noises and surveyed the apartment.  A sliding glass door led to a balcony, where two uniformed officers were interviewing Madison Clark.  The glass was broken, but there were no bits and pieces of it on the apartment floor.

"What's the widow's story, Drake?" Ricochet asked.

"Says a guy climbed onto the balcony and used a rock to bust the glass," Derringer explained, reading from his notepad.  "She came rushing in from the bathroom to find a stranger in black pumping her husband full of lead."

"I take it she fought him off?"

"After he emptied the gun into Mr. Clark, she says he left through the front door and took the stairs."

"Is that when she called the police?"

"You got it."

"What did Mr. Clark do for a living?"

Derringer flipped through his notes.  "Seems he was a stock broker."

Ricochet cringed.  The man had probably lost millions when the economy went down the toilet.  "Anything else I should know, Drake?"

"Not really," Derringer replied.  "Mrs. Clark said she had just come out of the shower and was brushing her hair when she heard the gunshot.  I don't know if that helps, but--"

"It does," Ricochet said.  "Thanks, partner."

Ricochet entered the apartment's bathroom and felt the shower head.  It was cold to the touch.  Ricochet then put his hand under the bathtub faucet.  It and the tub were completely dry. 

Ricochet reentered the apartment and picked the revolver up off the floor.  He opened the chamber and found it empty.  Ricochet snapped it closed, a fury building in his eyes.

He stormed past a confused Drake Derringer and stopped at the doorway to the balcony.  A large Tiki god sat on a nearby stand.  Although it was a dark black, Ricochet could see several scratches on its surface.

Ricochet stepped onto the balcony and told the two uniformed officers to get lost.  They shrugged and retreated inside.  One of them crunched a piece of glass under his shoe as he left. 

Ricochet could see from Madison's puffy eyes that she'd been crying, but he couldn't tell whether they were tears of pain or joy.

"Are you a detective?" she said, tugging at her bathrobe. "Please, you have to find the man who did this to my husband."

"I just did," Ricochet told her, "and he ain't no man."

Madison gave Ricochet an alarmed look.  Either she was truly ignorant or she was just good at faking it.

"You murdered your husband in cold blood, Mrs. Clark," Ricochet said, "and I can prove it."

Madison threw her head back in defiance.  "So tell me, Detective--how did I supposedly kill my husband?"

"First off," Ricochet began, "there wasn't any stranger who climbed onto your balcony.  And there wasn't any rock.  If there were, the glass would be on your apartment floor, not on your balcony.  You took that Tiki god and threw it at the glass door after you killed your husband to make it look like someone had broken in, but since you threw it from inside your apartment, the glass landed outside on the balcony, instead of the other way around."

Madison shook her head.  "Glass is glass," she said.  "It still doesn't prove that I killed Roger."

"You're right," Ricochet continued, "but the bullet casings you scattered on the floor do."  Madison frowned at him, but he pressed his advantage as he said, "I checked your husband's revolver.  It was never fired because it wasn't loaded.  And in case you don't know, Mrs. Clark, a revolver doesn't eject bullet casings...but an automatic pistol does."

The widow of Roger Clark made a dismissive sound and waved her hand.  "Details, details."

"You're exactly right, Mrs. Clark--it's all in the details.  Like how you told my partner you'd just gotten out of the shower, but the shower head is still cold and the faucet and tub are still dry.  There's also the fact that your hair is completely dry...and so is that bathrobe.

"You didn't take a shower, Mrs. Clark, and trust me, when we search your apartment, we will find the pistol you used to kill your husband, and it will be minus six bullets."  Ricochet frowned.  "What I don't understand is the why."

Madison's bottom lip quivered for a full moment.  She looked off toward the lights of the city and closed her eyes.

"Roger was drowning in debt," Madison explained.  "The stock market hasn't been the best, in case you haven't noticed."  She opened her eyes and looked at Ricochet.  "I decided it was time to cut my losses and start over...but I wouldn't start over poor."

"You're talking about life insurance," Ricochet interjected.

Madison nodded.  "I thought that if I made it look like a home invasion, the insurance company would pay me the full benefit for Roger's policy."

"And how much was that benefit?" Ricochet asked.

Madison hesitated, hesitated again.  Then she spoke.

"A quarter of a million dollars," she said softly.  She wrapped her arms around herself and sobbed.  "The credit cards, the rent, the price of gas even...I thought I could pay it all off with the insurance money and start over somewhere, anywhere else!"  She sobbed again.  "I'm sorry, Roger...I'm so sorry..."

"Save the theatrics for the jury," Ricochet said.  "You'll need them."

Drake Derringer stepped onto the balcony.  He was holding a Bersa Firestorm .22-caliber pistol.  It fit perfectly into the palm of his hand.

"Look what we found in her underwear drawer, Rick," Derringer said with a smirk.  "I already checked the clip.  It'll hold ten bullets, but there are only four of them left inside."

"I think you'll find the rest of them inside Roger Clark," Ricochet said.  He removed his handcuffs and applied them to Madison Clark's wrists.  He then read Madison her rights and handed her over to Derringer, who led her downstairs to his car.

Ricochet stepped into the apartment again as one of the uniformed officers approached him.

"What do you want us to do now, Detective?" he asked.

"Nothing," Ricochet said, allowing himself a smile.  "Consider this case closed."