The Bedtime Tales of Be287m

An Anonymous Death

�He�s dead, Jim.�

I winced. I�d told my partner not to use that line, but Len said he couldn�t help himself. I suppose as a fanatic science fiction fan, he probably couldn�t.

�I can see that,� I said. �The question is, what killed him?�

�Probably bled out,� Len said. The victim, lying face down on the hotel bed and wearing only a red shirt, had massive cuts around his anal region. Large shards of a wine bottle clustered around him, some of them covered in blood. I flipped one over that still had the label attached. Some winery in Texas I�d never heard of.

�Looks like he was sodomized,� Len said, �and then the bottle broke.�

�Yeah,� I said. �Except there are no other marks. No sign of a struggle. I can�t imagine this guy consented to this.�

Len shrugged. �There are some pretty kinky people out there. I mean, look at this.� He gestured to stacks on the nightstand. �Smut stories, printed from the internet.� He bent over to look at them more closely. �By some guy named Africanus. It says the story�s about some family that visits a nudist camp for swingers.�

�An entire family?� I asked. �That�s pretty sick stuff.�

Len nodded.

I turned to the forensics tech that�d been standing quietly by the door. �Any sign of forced entry?�

He shook his head. �The desk clerk says he checked in alone and his key�s on top of the TV.�

�So either it�s someone on the staff or he invited the killer in,� I mused. �Have the uniforms interview the staff. See if any of them saw anything. Check their alibis too.�

The tech nodded and departed.

�I don�t think it�s the staff,� Len said.

�Yeah?�

�Nothing�s missing. His wallet, watch, luggage�none of it�s been touched. Robbery wasn�t the motive.�

�You said wallet�does he have an ID?�

�No. And the desk clerk said he didn�t give a name when he checked in.�

�Great. Another anonymous death.�

Len nodded. Then he bent over on the far side of the bed. �Here�s something.� He straightened up, holding a flyer. �It fell off the nightstand.� He read the title aloud.

�The amazing Jay Strick, magician and master hypnotist. Appearing at The Jazz Club.� Len looked over at me. �The show was last night and again tonight.�

I sighed. �That�s our next stop. Let�s go see if anyone remembers this guy.�

It was still early when we got to The Jazz Club. That didn�t seem to matter to the woman who unlocked the door for us. Dressed in a deep blue dress more suitable for the evening, she was a knockout. I sighed after quickly glancing at her left hand. Taken, just like all the good ones were.

�Can I help you?� she asked.

We flashed our badges. �There was a guy here last night wearing a red shirt. We want to talk to anyone who remembers him.

The woman frowned. �There were some interesting characters, but I don�t remember anyone in a red shirt. Of course, I was in the office most of the night.�

�Interesting characters?� Len asked.

She nodded. �There was a big ugly truck driver named Earl, and a goat farmer from Nebraska. A bunch of others. Not our usual crowd.�

Len and I glanced at each other and shrugged.

�Maybe we could talk to Jay Strick,� I suggested.

�Sure. He�s backstage.�

We found Mr. Strick eating shrimp and red beans over a barrel among the various stage props. The smell of pepper saturated the vicinity.

�Mr. Strick?� I asked. �We�re with the police. We�d like to ask you a few questions.�

He gulped. �Sure, what I�d do?�

�Probably nothing,� Len said. �We�re wondering if you saw a guy in a red shirt last night.�

Mr. Strick sighed in relief. �Him? You bet I did. He nearly ruined my show!�

�So what happened?� I asked.

�Well, I do some hypnosis as part of my act,� he began. �Nothing too embarrassing, though. I get a volunteer and, once they�re under, give them a few suggestions of things to do. Then I ask them about what they really want to do. Usually, it�s something funny, like the retiree who always wanted to take naked pictures of women in the English countryside.�

�Doesn�t sound that funny to me,� Len said, frowning. I suddenly had an idea where his next vacation was going to be.

�Well,� Mr. Strick continued, �the fun is usually when I snap them out of it and they realize what they said. They�re usually amazed that they were willing to admit that�s what they really wanted to do.�

�Okay,� I said. �So about this guy in red�.�

�Yeah, him. So I asked him what he wants most, and he jumps off the stage and runs over to this corner table with two guys before I can say anything. He starts yelling at one of them. The say something back, and he grabs a wine bottle off the table and dashes out the door! I have to wing it to finish the act. And I never did bring that guy out of hypnosis.�

�So he was still susceptible to suggestions?�

�Absolutely.�

I shook my head. �Any idea what these guys looked like?�

One was big and burly�wore an Italian suit. The other guy was wiry�like a wrestler. Except he was dressed like a nerd.

�Thanks for your help, Mr. Strick.�

He nodded and went back to his lunch.

We tracked down the lady in blue again and asked her about the two men.

�The guy in the suit is Big Ed,� she said. �He comes in here almost every night, around eight. I don�t know the other guy.�

I looked at Len. He was checking his watch and frowning. I sighed. Tonight was another Battlestar Galactica episode.

�I�ll wait for him,� I said.

Len smiled, thanked me, and took off to see his show.

I hung out at a back table for the rest of the afternoon. The place started to fill up after dinner, with people drinking and laughing. Jay Strick�s act was due to start at 8:30 and, at 8:00 sharp, a big guy walked in and took the corner table. I ambled over.

�You Big Ed?� �I asked.

�Who wants to know?�

�Me.� I flashed my badge and his eyes narrowed. �I understand you had words with a guy in a red shirt yesterday.�

He snorted. �Him.�

�Yeah, him. What happened?�

He studied me for a moment, and I could see the moment he decided to tell me the truth.

�I was sitting with my friend, who�s a writer. This anonymous guy came running off the stage. He said he recognizes my friend as �Africanus.� My friend tried to ignore him, but finally nodded. Then the guy started ranting about when he�s going to start writing Book Four. And how Africanus had promised to release Book Four in the middle of this year. And how Africanus had broken his promises.�

�So what happened then?�

�My friend told him he was a fuckwit and he should go fuck himself. The guy got this weird look on his face, grabbed the wine bottle, and took off.�

I closed my eyes. �Did you know he was still under hypnosis?� I finally asked.

�Nah. My friend and I weren�t watching the show. We were too busy talking about skiing in Vermont.�

�Thank you, Big Ed.�

�No problem.�

I stood up and headed for the door. I knew there�d be no charges in this case. Despite the hypnosis, the facts were clear. By badgering an author about his release schedule, this anonymous guy had clearly committed suicide.

-fin-

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