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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