The Lonely Detective Gets Angry and Other Nasty Mysteries

By Charles Schwarz

Are you bored with characters who are too good or too evil to believe, tired of plots about threats to the world by sinister evil gangs, tired of the obligatory sex scenes? Welcome to 13 everyday nasty type people talking hypocritically and doing despicable things leading to murder. Can you solve these 'who done it' murders, given sufficient clues?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Schwarz
• Release date: Jul 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463623343

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The Smashwords Edition

THE LONELY DETECTIVE GETS ANGRY

AND OTHER NASTY MYSTERIES

13 New Hilarious Nasty ‘Who Done Its’

Charles E. Schwarz

Copyright © 2018 Charles E. Schwarz

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

Smashwords License Notes

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* * * * *

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction, a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance or similarity to any actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Formatting and cover by Debora Lewis arenapublishing.org

Cover photo courtesy Canstock.com

To My Grandsons Matthew and Alex:

May they read this volume to see their past.

and so climb up to their future.

CONTENTS

THE DEATH OF THE ANGER MANAGEMENT COUNSELOR

A Lonely Detective Mystery

In the Institute for Counseling, one counselor is killed, and in a satirical and humorous account of the modern guidance business, the Lonely Detective must determine whether one of the bevy of counselors lost control of his anger and used Freud to silence his counselor.

THE CRIPPLE AND THE MARGINAL MAN

A death for a thief, two winos who fight each other for tourist change, a widow who can’t keep her hands off the marginal man, an arson, a hit and run, a blackmailer, a suit too small, and locker keys to empty lockers are all entwined to create for the marginal man the one night he became real.

THE CODE OF PLAYFAIR AND THE DIARY OF FREAKS MYSTERY

An Ed Debbs Mystery

In a story ridiculing TV talk shows, people attempting to gain possession of the diary of the freaks is the motive for Playfair’s murder in his brownstone office. A what if analysis of conflicting statements narrows and pairs the suspects, while translation of mysterious arithmetic symbols found under dead Playfair’s hand says who did it, and where the valuable freaks’ diary is hidden. The hero, under suspicion for being found thrice alone with the body, escapes conviction but loses out to a successful syndicated talk show host who rivals Oprah.

THE COLORED BALLOONS MURDER

A Lonely Detective Mystery

Published by Electronic Writers’ Group

A who did it with humorous satirical references to political correctness and bumbling bureaucratic interference.

On a spring afternoon, a woman in a negligee is thrown out an expensive NYC condo window and lands on the mayor’s limo as he is addressing a NOW meeting. The promiscuous victim has several lovers. Did one of them kill her? And what role did the colored balloons she purchased play in her death?

A HURRICANE’S SUNRISE MYSTERY

An Ed Debbs Mystery

Published in EWG Presents/Without a Clue

In searching for an armed robber and murderer and hoping to collect the fifty thousand dollar bounty, P.I. Ed Debbs ends up in a Florida motel in the middle of a hurricane, playing poker with the murderer. The problem is the third person with them. Desperately trying to find out which of the two card players is the murderer, Ed goes down the murderer’s verbal description seeking to determine which of the two men is the killer. Finally, to catch him, Ed uses a stratagem to force the killer to reveal himself, but Ed loses him to the third player.

THE CASE OF MURDER AMONG THE DETECTIVES

An Ed Debbs Mystery

As the dead auditor, grasping an adding machine tape that added up to an incorrect sum, lies dead in the middle of a maze of offices in a world famous detective corporation, the executives argue over liability, lawyers and homophobia, while the courier/mail man/receptionist/detective trainee desperately deciphers the number code and explains how missing antacid pills and mysterious phone calls allowed the killer to indicate everyone who was eating in the executive dining room. A murder mystery where everyone ends up happy except the dead auditor and the mailman.

THE MYSTERIOUS ASSAULTS ON PINKY LOVE

A Lonely Detective Mystery

A mystery of buried treasure, a gay family inn, a family riddle, burglary and assaults where the reader has to decipher the Pinky Love riddle to find the treasure and the criminal.

CRIME SCENE PROTECTED AND THE BANKER MURDER

You viewed realistic crime scene investigators on TV programs. Now read about crime scene procedures gone wild in protecting the murdered banker’s crime scene. Are terrorists involved? Do bombs abound? These are questions CSI, FBI, CIA, and NSA wrestle with while fighting each other and the news media.

DIPLOMACY MURDER

An Ed Debbs Mystery

At a convention where men battle in simulation against each other with intensity, a German diplomat dies and suspicion falls on those made rich with spit and snot.

THE LAST NASTY POKER PARTY MURDER MYSTERY

A Lonely Detective Mystery

Having lost their jobs, furniture salesmen gather for their ritual Friday night poker party. The party of good friends ends in nasty revelations, ugly suspicions, and hatred that not only destroys years of friendship but results in the murder of one of the players.

MYSTERIOUS RETURN OF THE HOME RUN BALL

An Ed Debbs Mystery

Which of the three beautiful women in the life of a wealthy real estate agent invited to his bon voyage party in secret hated him enough to seriously hurt him? And who would collect the reward?

THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL ARTS AND CRAFTS MURDER

An Ed Debbs Mystery

A Lonely Detective Mystery

The incompetent grammar school arts and crafts teacher is killed between classes while holding scissors and crayons like a cigar store Indian. Police and school administrators run amok up and down the school’s corridors while the key diary with its list of suspects lies on a bloody desk soaked in red. With a son who steals, an ex-wife who belittles, and with legs that cramp up, the father reads the victim’s cipher clue and sends the police after the correct suspect.

THE RAVEN CLOCK MYSTERY

An Ed Debbs Mystery

Did a burglar kill the rich old Fascist munitions manufacturer to steal Roosevelt’s Franco’s raven clock, or was it the grand daughter’s boyfriend, or a grandson cursed with the name of Benito Himmler? Will the hero move from being Daisy’s Sunday date to being her Saturday date and will Mother Rose help and will blue Bruno ever be buried?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

THE DEATH OF THE ANGER MANAGEMENT COUNSELOR

A Lonely Detective Mystery

When Doctor of Anger Management (DAM) Tyrone Crux’s murdered body was found in his private consulting room in the Institute for Counseling building, suspicion immediately centered on the patient he had been treating at the time of his murder.

Watching Crux’s bulky remains being carried out, Detective Ed McCoppin, perused the doctor’s appointment book, thinking it was going to be an easy case. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. The murder had occurred during patient Albert Russo’s 8 to 9 p.m. appointment with Crux for counseling in managing his anger. Given that the victim’s head had been bashed in with a heavy brass bust of Buddha, it was obvious Al Russo didn’t manage his anger.

After putting out an all-points bulletin for Russo, McCoppin allowed the CSI people, led by a haughty turbaned Indian speaking halting, fractured English, to process the late Crux’s counseling room. Meanwhile McCoppin thumbed through Crux’s patients’ personal files until he found his own folder. It reported excellent progress was being made and Crux’s prognosis was optimistic for total recovery. Thankfully McCoppin didn’t have to edit the report, but only added the recommendation that he take a month off for stress. The fact that McCoppin’s appointment was at 9 p.m., right after Russo’s, enabled him to find the body and become the investigative detective. McCoppin’s superiors had ordered him to take anger management counseling classes after he suffered an unpleasant incident with a drug dealer with an attitude, an ‘in-you’re your-face-,’ spitting type person who got very personal. The upshot was a reprimand in McCoppin’s folder and an order to attend anger management classes.

His classes with Crux were just so much BS. The marrow of Crux’s counseling was that getting mad was childish and wrong; that he never should take things personally; that he must realize that no one could make him lose his temper and that only he could lose control of himself; that if he felt himself getting angry he was to say his personal mantra’—I’m above my anger, I’m stronger than my anger, I can control my anger’; and that if all that didn’t work, he should count to ten.

It was all wrapped up in psycho babble and probing into what had happened in McCoppin’s childhood to make him an angry white man, as if contemporary America was not enough.

A cursory glance at Al Russo’s folder showed he also was in total control of his anger, and that tonight would have been his last session.

Through his cell phone, McCoppin, in bad hip-hop English, received information from communication central on his all-points alert. With difficulty, he was able to piece together certain facts. Russo had been either arrested for or the victim of domestic violence. He was in jail, but for what purpose was unclear. Either he or his neighbor had been caught kissing either each other or someone’s wife, but a fight had ensued and some were hospitalized and some were in jail.

Either hospitalized or jailed Russo had an alibi for the hour of Crux’s murder, but someone lost control of his anger and McCoppin suspected Russo was the person who’d lost it. The net effect of the garbled English was that Russo had missed his appointment with Crux.

Frustrated, McCoppin asked for a supervisor. She came on and said, Apparently either Russo came home from work or was leaving for work. Ya know what I’m saying? When a male came out, and his wife denied everything. Ya know what I’m saying? Beating the neighbor with his mantra, his wife was slammed.

McCoppin gathered that Russo was in jail, had an alibi for this murder, and faced at least twenty additional torturous hours in anger management. Alas, not with Tyrone Crux, DAM.

Disappointed, McCoppin made a quick phone call to the security guards at the building’s entrance. In a combination consisting of broken English and Mexican Spanish they told him the disheartening information that no angry soul in need of management and a personal mantra had entered or left the building since eight. In fact, no one had entered the Institute since 7:40.

Someone had crushed Crux’s head, and since Buddha couldn’t have done it by himself, McCoppin decided to gather up Crux’s colleagues in this Institute for Counseling and question them.

The first office opposite Crux’s was devoted to counseling sex-addicted personalities and was run by Dr. Roberta Heinz, DSA, Doctor for Sex Addiction, a forty year old motherly type edging into the grandmother look. Peering at a group session of sex-addicted people, McCoppin counted six men and four women. In one corner a woman was showing her pierced belly button jewelry to a couple of guys who, while asking if they could touch it (belly or jewelry?), kept repeating their sex mantra: ‘I feel no sexual arousal.’

Another woman was sharing, in graphic detail, her experiences with a group of enthralled men about how she, on being date raped by a college fraternity, discovered she liked group sex and now practiced group sex. Acknowledging the danger of her past proclivities, she planned to stay away from group sex encounters. Several men were suggesting they all go to her house to continue their group sharing and therapy.

Near McCoppin was a couple. The girl, a blonde college type, was saying she couldn’t say ‘no’. The man, possibly out of disbelief, kept saying, No! In a far corner an elderly man was relating to a buxom forty year old woman about how he brought six women simultaneously to multiple orgasms to her repeated No! Obviously the group session reached the step of sharing past personal experiences on their road to healing.

Dr. Heinz was telling a street prostitute she shouldn’t feel depraved, given she was supporting six children, her drug habit, and her pimp. Heinz’s advice was that she should carry protection: a knife and condoms. The woman, obviously in the ten to twenty dollar class, complained she needed to work the streets as welfare didn’t pay enough.

Upon learning of Crux’s murder, Dr. Heinz immediately canceled the class to a chorus of ‘no’s. As the patients were leaving, Dr. Heinz stood by the door and handed out sheets of paper with names and telephone numbers. She told the patients that if anyone felt tempted to have sex, was feeling sexual tension, and was in need of help from a fellow addict to talk them down, he or she could contact a classmate to come over.

For solely investigative purposes, McCoppin snagged a copy as the pert college type ‘who couldn’t say no’ offered it to him. To refuse wouldn’t be polite. In fact it was disrespectful, sort of indicating that sex addiction wasn’t really nice, that it’s sort of nasty and dirty, which everyone in America knows it isn’t.

Dr. Heinz suggested the use of the faculty conference lounge. Agreeing, McCoppin said he wanted all the counselors present, and went off to gather the rest.

Peering into the next private counseling room, he was shocked to see two naked, sweaty bodies writhing on the bed while a woman was taking notes, and a white-smocked man assiduously videoing the action was making lascivious suggestions and explicit instructions to the sweaty couple.

Given that in liberal contemporary America porn is legal, McCoppin could do nothing but walk into the middle of the action and announce himself. His announcement that he was a police detective stopped the female note taker but had little affect on the writhing or filming. Announcing Dr. Crux’s murder stopped the videoing, but the writhing just picked up speed, which went to new levels of contortions. When McCoppin asked what the hell was going on, the video operator introduced himself as Dr. Harry Kinsey, DIST, Doctor in Sex Therapy. Pointing to the serious note taker, he said she was the wife of the writhing male, explaining, She and her husband are experiencing a dysfunctional sexual life. I’m showing her how she could pleasure her husband. The best way to learn is to see the correct techniques performed by a professional.

Suddenly the husband loudly exclaimed, Oh wow! Yes Honey! Yes! Yes, don’t stop!

Did you see that? Dr. Kinsey asked the wife. Did you make note of that highly complicated sexual technique?

Turning to McCoppin, Kinsey pointed to the female writher and proudly said, That’s Honey, our resident PPST, Professional Practitioner for Sex Therapy. She’s one of the top PPST’s in the city, and my clinic is lucky to have her services.

No doubt, McCoppin said. He informed Kinsey about the murder, and asked him to go to the faculty lounge to be interviewed.

Needlessly the doctor told the writhers to continue, and for the wife to pay close attention to what Honey was going to do next as it was going to be something extra special. Then, handing the wife the video told her these training videos are big sellers for other sexual dysfunctional couples who do home study. She promised to continue the videoing as Honey started bitch slapping her husband on his butt.

The next counseling group was for substance abuse, led by Dr. Lois Goody, DAD, Doctor for Addiction to Drugs. Walking in, McCoppin saw a near-death stick figure with sunken eyes and nervous twitches addressing the group, telling them how destructive his last high was. He went into great detail about the rush, how his problems had melted away, and how his energy, sense of power, and sense of peace had all increased because the stuff he was using was really pure.

When someone asked where he purchased this awesome terrible stuff he replied, Smithy, on the corner of 6th Street. A flurry of pencils greeted this information as Dr. Goody thanked him for sharing the excruciating pain his addiction had caused him and his family. Before leaving the podium he told the group, I just want to say how thankful I am that the court ordered me into counseling in lieu of jail time. I’ve certainly learned a lot here.

Amen! and Right On’ and Righteously Heavy! echoed back from the zombies in the group’.

With moist eyes Dr. Lois Goody, DAD, said this was one of the best groups she’s ever had. Then, apropos of nothing, he added in a more somber tone, Now class, I’ve no money, so please don’t ask for any more loans after class, and those to whom I’ve loaned money, please, please, pay me back .

Groans were heard, and to keep the class on an upbeat note she announced a new group member. Turning to her private office door she yelled, Come on in, Smithy.

Smithy was greeted with enthusiastic applause.

Dr. Goody told the class he had been sent to drug abuse counseling by the authorities to get help fighting his addiction because everyone knows street sellers only sell drugs because of their addiction and should be helped, not punished.

Flushed with excitement at being the center of attention and initially nervous, Smithy started to address the group with the unadorned statement, Drugs kill. When the cheers and laughter subsided, with increased confidence he continued. I used drugs. That’s the only reason I sold them.

More laughter as Dr. Lois Goody editorialized. You poor man!

Yeah. I sold cheap to help other addicts who were hurting and couldn’t afford the going street price. I wasn’t in it for the money.

Goody commented, Smithy, you’re a philanthropist and I could just give you a big hug. Oh, when will they make drugs legal and spend more money on treatment and counseling?

Nodding, Smithy solemnly agreed with her nonsense. Then a smiling Smithy continued. Yeah, Goody, whatever. Now I sold pure, safe drugs, not diluted with any dangerous shit that could place poor unfortunate addicts at risk of serious health problems.

Goody gushed. "I certainly think the term humanitarian is appropriate for you, and I’m definitely going to give you a big hug." As Smithy stepped down, not only did she give him an enthusiastic hug, but the entire class gathered around him, cheering and hugging him. So enthusiastic was the class that Smithy agreed to meet with his new-found friends outside, possibly on the corner of 6th Street, to continue their friendship and help each other fight their addiction.

Amazed at what he was seeing, McCoppin let it all play out before going up to Dr. Goody, telling her about Crux’s murder, and requesting her presence in the faculty lounge.

Elated with her group’s successful meeting, she promised to come as soon as Purity, a former addicted street prostitute and recent graduate from both Heinz’s sex counseling class and Goody’s drug counseling program, could hand out her cards to the group so if any were tempted to fall from sobriety they could call her to assist them in beating back the demon drug.

Detective McCoppin heard sobs outside in the corridor loud enough to shake walls and cries anguished enough to rip open your heart. He entered a therapeutic private counseling room entitled Grief Management and found Dr. Wally Grim, DIGM, Doctor in Grief Management, Harvard Institute of Grief Management, counseling a distraught couple. After McCoppin identified himself, Dr. Grim told him to sit in the back and wait till the current session was over.

Are you here to investigate the murder? the husband asked McCoppin.

A puzzled McCoppin answered, Yes.

Dabbing at tears, the wife averred, No punishment is too horrible for the heartless fiend.

Mystified at their grief and anger and wondering how they’d found out about Crux’s murder, McCoppin asked, Excuse me, were you related?

We were the only family he had, the wife said.

The husband added, George’s murderer deserves the death penalty, but unfortunately the current liberal legal system is far too lax towards criminals.

George? McCoppin asked. I thought you were talking about Dr. Tyrone Crux."

Crux has been murdered? cried Dr. Wally Crump.

Who’s Crux? the husband asked.

The wife questioned, What does he have to do with George?

Dr. Wally said he was devastated, shaken to the bone at the news of Crux’s death, and declared he’d have to call Willie, a longtime colleague in Grief Management to help him handle his grief.

Who’s George? McCoppin asked.

My son, the wife dramatically declared.

You lost your child? McCoppin sympathized.

The joy of our life, the husband said.

While waiting on the phone for Willie to pick up, Wally, their grief counselor, said, George was their toy poodle.

No, not just a poodle, and not just a toy. He was the love of my life, the wife said.

The husband added, A constant companion who understood, and now I’ll have no one to talk to—"

I can’t face the future without George’s kisses, the wife interjected.

Quiet, please, I’m on the phone. Willie, it’s Wally. I’ve got a personal grief emergency. Yes, me. I’m suffering great grief here and need counseling right away. What? You’re currently part of a Grief Counseling team for an elementary school district who just found out their students’ grades were abysmal? Look, I know the gig is easy big bucks, but I’m really hurting. Can’t you squeeze me in during recess?"

Look, said the wife. We’re paying you a lot of money for you to manage our grief, not for you to handle yours.

He glared at her. In a moment. Then he said into the phone, Of course the parents are unhappy, but I need—"

I expect a refund for the telephone time, the husband angrily yelled.

To the husband Wally said, Can’t you see I’m hurting? Then he said to Willie, Of course the school administrators are hysterical and teachers are distraught and parents are devastated and children are crying all over the place, but—"

Both parents yelled they were paying for their grief, not his.

Wally yelled back at them, "Damn it, you lost a dog! I lost a colleague and a good friend. Poor Tyson Crux! Damn it, even doctors get sick!"

His name was Tyrone, McCoppin corrected as Wally shouted over the phone to Willie, The hell with the teachers’ trauma. Can’t you hear my grief? Forget the devastated parents. They’ll get over it and it’s time they faced the truth. ‘I’m facing the death of my closest— What? Full rate! What the hell… no professional discount? What kind of shyster are you? I expected a professional courtesy discount. No!. Well, screw you and don’t expect any more referrals. You should be brought before the professional board. Yes, I know there isn’t one, but there should be one, and just remember, I graduated from Harvard with higher grades than you. Wally angrily slammed the phone down.

What about George’s murder? the wife angrily asked the room.

The husband turned to McCoppin. Do you plan to find George’s murderer? All I get from the police is ‘call the ASPCA.’ Look, hit and run is a crime, and just because George is a dog doesn’t make it any less horrific. Maybe we should get PETA involved in this. They certainly would be more sympathetic and proactive. A Greyhound bit killed him, just ran over him. First the front wheel... then, to make sure, the bastard ran his rear wheel over him and never stopped.

Oh stop! I can’t stand picturing what that bus did to George. All his insides were outside, the tearful wife cried.

I’ll sue the Greyhound people for millions. Not that money can ever take away the pain of George’s loss. But big business must be made to act in a socially responsible manner, and Dr. Grim, I’ll expect your affidavit attesting to my wife’s and my grievous mental suffering so I can forward it to our lawyers.

He was only fourteen and so frisky, his wife added. He had to be scraped from the tar. The cremation cost over three hundred plus the upscale urn, and all the flowers and funeral services. Greyhound is responsible.

Having difficulty coping with all the ‘grief with a straight face, and after telling Dr. Wally Grim to go to the faculty lounge, McCoppin left and slipped, unobserved, into the back of the next therapeutic office, one dealing with families in crisis and run by Dr. Phyllis Clooney, DFCC, Doctor in Family Crisis Counseling. Fortyish and foolishly trying to look twentyish, Dr. Phyllis was anorexic with robin egg breasts. She was currently treating a family in crisis: a mother, Trish Butt, her plump teenage daughter Special, and her twelve-year-old son, Albert. Dr. Phyllis was asking Special whether the fact that her father deserting them had affected her. Wearing tight jeans precariously balanced low on her pelvic bones, and in real danger of slipping to areas where depilatories must be employed, Special grunted, No, flashing a gold ball on her tongue.

And you Albert.... Do you feel your difficulties in school can be traced to a lack of a father figure?

Don’t like school. And call me Slasher.

Do you see what I’ve got to put up with? their mother cried.

McCoppin, sitting quietly in the rear, was eyed with overt appreciation by Dr. Phyllis as she told the family she’d seen many families in similar distress. Then she proceeded to practice her expertise by telling the boy, You know Alb—I mean, Slasher—your mother loves you. She looked at the mother. Don’t you Trish?

She won’t let me get a tattoo, a knife dripping blood.

The mother quickly interjected, "You’re too young. When you’re in high school, if you still want one and