Death in Big D: A Harry Calhoun Mystery

By Dick Avery

Harry Calhoun, a private detective with a booze problem, is trying to get some sleep after a festive evening with several glasses of scotch at his favorite bar in Dallas, Texas. His dreams are usually the same. Visits by ghosts from his Army experience in Vietnam.

He is rousted from his nightmares by his across the hall neighbor, building manager and occasional lover, Miriam. She is in near hysteria. A resident of the apartment building has been murdered and she wants Harry to solve the crime. Shaking off the images of the ghosts, he refers her to the police, but she can't be dissuaded. He reluctantly agrees to "look into it."

The police, who are investigating the case, threaten Harry with jail if he doesn't cease and desist.

More murders occur. The only connection among the victims is the method of death: execution style, one shot between the eyes, another to the throat.

Friends of the victims are brought together in their desire for Harry to solve the crimes.

So Harry is swept up in a battle of wits with a killer who's sole objective is to execute the victims. No theft of valuables, no mutilation, no vandalism.

Follow Harry on his quest to stop the killer while avoiding jail.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483587790

Book preview

Janet

Chapter One

When I woke up, I was lying face down in an alley by a dumpster in a pool of cold rainwater. My head throbbed with pain. I rolled over and tried to get up. Something wet was running down my face, blinding my right eye. I rubbed the eye with the back of my hand. It came away red. Blood was dribbling from a gash in my scalp. I pulled myself into a sitting position and used my handkerchief to apply pressure on the wound. Using the side of the dumpster for support, I hauled myself up and tried to get oriented.

Fully dressed in yesterday’s clothing, now soggy from rain, I ached all over. My muscles felt as if they had been beaten with a rubber mallet. The last thing I remember was sipping Johnny Walker Black at The Mirage Club. I did an inventory. Watch, wallet, cell phone, .357 Ruger pistol, keys and pocket change all gone. I was in for a long, painful two-mile hike. Fortunately, I had spare keys in the apartment.

Off I went, stagger-walking, pulling the suit jacket around me as close as I could, as much for warmth as to hide my appearance. Still, I got more than a few stares from the morning rush hour foot traffic along Colorado Blvd. The electric clock on the bank marquee read 45 degrees. My teeth chattered and my gait was slow and unsteady.

A half hour later I made it to my apartment building. A flight of stairs that looked like they were a hundred feet high took me to my digs, which I sarcastically call Xanadu. I retrieved the spare door key from under the door mat. Once in, I peeled off my sodden duds, clapped a washrag on my head wound, put on a pot of coffee and took a hot shower. The water loosened the kinks and brought me back to the land of the living. I dried off, threw on some clean clothes with one hand and kept pressure on the head wound with the other. I took a glass from the cupboard, pulled out the bottle of Johnnie Walker Black I kept under the sink, poured a couple of fingers of the scotch into the glass and took a couple of swigs of the hair of the dog. Thus refreshed, I retrieved some of my emergency funds, stumbled downstairs and hailed a cab. I gave directions to the local doc-in-a-box emergency surgical center a couple of miles away.

The center was practically empty, so I was attended to almost immediately. The washrag had done its duty but was totally soaked. The on-duty doctor shot me full of painkillers and sewed up a four-inch gash in my head. He said it appeared to be a blunt instrument blow from a pipe or club. To my relief, further examination didn’t reveal a concussion. He wrapped my head with enough gauze to stop a ruptured artery. Looking in the mirror, I saw a guy who had been caught in a civil riot. Handing me more painkillers, he said I should avoid alcohol while taking them. I told him I’d try.

In the cab on the return trip, exhaustion caught up with me. I paid the driver, drug myself up to my apartment, peeled off my duds and prepared to embrace my bed like a lover.

There was a light, rapid knock at the door. It could only be one person, but just in case, I fished out my Glock 17 9mm pistol from under my pillow, snapped off the safety, cocked it, held it down and slightly behind my right leg and stood to the right of the doorjamb.

Chapter Two

Yeah?

Harry, open up. It’s Miriam. It’s an emergency.

Miriam was my across-the-hall neighbor and manager of the building’s apartments. She was a chatterbox and a bit of a ditz but had a zaftig, Rubenesque body I couldn’t resist. We had been lovers for over a year in an on-again off-again affair. She wanted to keep the relationship at the love-buddy level with separate but convenient living arrangements, which was fine with me.

OK, give me a minute. I threw on a shirt and a pair of pants, set the safety on the Glock, stuck it back under the pillow and opened the door. She was dressed, as usual, in her robe, which hugged her body like a drunken uncle at a family reunion. No make-up, her hair a mess, her face screwed up with anxiety and breathing heavily, she burst in.

What happened to you? she said.

And a good morning to you, too, Miriam. I was rolled last night near The Mirage Club. Pointing to my turban, I said, They left this little remembrance. Want some coffee?"

Harry, a terrible thing has happened! You know the young girl who lives down in 2B?

I nodded and smiled. Willow Stephenson, tall and beautiful.

Well, she’s dead! Someone killed her.

What?

I knocked on her door a few minutes ago. The door was unlocked, so I walked in. I mean, who leaves their door unlocked in this neighborhood? She was lying there right in the middle of the living room.

Did you feel her pulse or something? How do you know she’s dead?

Harry, goddammit, I know when somebody’s dead. She’s been shot.

OK, give me a second to get dressed and we’ll take a look.

Willow Stephenson was sprawled on her back in the middle of the living room on a large, cheap area rug. A small circular table with two bar chairs in a corner served as the dining area. The flimsy curtains on the two windows were drawn. The apartment was plain and minimally decorated, but neat and orderly. There were a few prints of landscape scenes on the wall of the kind you see in dentist office waiting rooms. There was no sign of ransacking.

She appeared smaller than when I had last seen her. Death seemed to have hollowed her out. Her expression was one of total surprise. A small hole in her forehead ringed with powder burns and extensive cranial damage marred a beautiful face. Brain matter as thick as oatmeal pooled around her ruined head which was ringed with a halo of blood and skull fragments. Another small hole in her throat leaked blood on her Southern Methodist University T-shirt and had dribbled onto the carpet. It smelled like burnt copper.

I squatted down and looked her over. No obvious cuts or bruises. The powder burns and the cranial damage indicated she had been shot at close range. Her eyes were open; her top teeth were bared and protruded over her lower lip in the manner of a slaughtered animal. The absence of lividity --- the purple stripes of pooled blood -- indicated she had been dead only a few hours. I took out my penlight and shined it in her eyes. She stared back with eyes of wax. Call the police. Now, I said.

Can’t you do something? You’re a detective, aren’t you?

"I am a private detective, Miriam. A crime has been committed here. This is a job for the boys in blue. I have zero authority here. Call the police, give the dispatcher exact directions to this location, go back to your place, lock the door and wait. When they arrive, they’ll want to talk to you about the details of your discovery. Try to remember as much as you can. Leave nothing out, no matter how trivial." She nodded assent and left me alone with Willow.

I looked into the other rooms. They were neat and orderly, nothing out of place. No signs of forcible entry into the apartment. She had been taken by surprise and knew her killer.

Chapter Three

I went back to my apartment, stripped down and flopped on the bed.

I was drifting off to sleep when a couple of loud knocks banged on the door. Couldn’t be Miriam. Not her knocking style. Somebody impatient.

I pulled myself up, put on shirt and pants and went to the door. Looking through the peephole, I saw a couple of guys in business suits with somber expressions staring back at me. I yelled, Just a minute, ran back to my bedroom and grabbed the Glock. As with greeting Miriam earlier, I stood to the right of the door jam, popped the safety off, opened the door a crack with my left hand and held the gun in my right.

Yeah?

They showed their badges indicating they were detectives. The younger of the two said, Dallas Police Department. We’d like to ask you a few questions. May we come in?

I let them in and indicated the only two good chairs. I sat on my ancient couch. The older of the two wore a dark rumpled suit that had seen better days, his shirt unbuttoned at the neck. He sported a tie that was in style in the 1950s and cop shoes. Dark, plain-toed lace-ups that had forgotten how long it had been since they had seen shoe polish. With his clothes from a low-end secondhand store, he was straight out of central casting for a burnt-out case cop in a Sidney Lumet movie. The younger officer looked like he had graduated from the Police Academy last week. Regulation from top to toe. Detective Spic and Span.

The older cop opened the conversation. We’re looking into the death of the young woman in the apartment downstairs, but before we begin, do you have a license for the Glock and why are you packing it now?

I had put the gun on the couch beside me within arm’s reach. "A, yeah; B, I always keep it close when a couple of guys I don’t know bang on my door; and C, as you know, Penal Code 46.15 says I can carry a weapon without a permit in the privacy of my home."

The lady across the hall, a Miriam Roth, says you’re a detective. What department are you in?

None, Detective. I’m private. Miriam is a lovely lady, but she doesn’t know the difference.

What qualifies you as a detective?

I was first in my class in the ‘private detective’ correspondence course. His annoying attitude brought out my smart-ass.

Funny man, huh? OK, lemme see your license. Doing the Tough Cop routine. Blunt questions, radiating skepticism. Right out of Interrogation 101. I wonder if Spic and Span gets to do nice cop?

Don’t have it. I was rolled last night and they took everything in my pockets. I’m going to get a replacement copy of my license ASAP.

Uh---huh. Well, until you do, don’t take on any jobs and don’t carry in public. I suppose you don’t have any other ID.

Nope. They got the wallet and everything in it, including thirty-five of my hard-earned dollars. I got drunk at The Mirage Club. About 3 am, I paid my tab and drug myself out to the street to catch a taxi and I don’t remember much after that. I woke up in an alley behind the Club this morning with my head spilt open. That’s how I got this charming turban. It was either a vagrant or some kid on the loose. A pro wouldn’t have bothered with the pocket change and would’ve gone after someone who looked like they had some money. I got in a couple of hours ago.

OK, we’ll check that out. What do you know about the girl downstairs? Tough Cop said.

Not much. I’ve seen her from time to time coming and going. She was pleasant, personable and quite beautiful. I saw her shortly after she was killed. It happened recently. It was obviously a pro hit by someone she knew.

How do you know that? Spic and Span said.

Well, no lividity for one thing. That tells me she was shot within the last few hours. The powder burns on her forehead and throat wounds plus the cranial damage suggest the shots came from a pistol fired at close range. The killer had to be known to her; she let him in. There were no signs of a struggle or burglary. He put her down with the headshot, then added the throat shot as insurance.

Tough Cop grumbled disapproval during my remarks, looking at me through slitted eyes. I swallowed my urge to tell him to go fuck himself and tried to keep my composure.

Did you examine the body? he said.

I gritted my teeth and answered evenly, No, Detective, that’s the job of the Medical Examiner. If I had, it would have been obvious. Neither Miriam nor I touched anything, and right now you can take your sarcasm and stick it up your ass.

We’ll be checking you out, smart guy, he snorted as he rose from his chair. Don’t leave town.

Don’t leave town? Don’t leave town? What’s that, detective, number 47 in the police cliché manual? What’s next, ‘book ‘im, Dano?’

They stormed out. Spic and Span looked perplexed. What, we didn’t get any leads from this guy?

I locked the door behind them, collected Johnnie-under-the-sink, kicked back on the couch and took a long pull.

A couple of pulls later, I hauled myself off the