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!

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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."