The Sketching Detective

By Jack McCormac

The Sketching Detective, by Jack McCormac, is a detective novel for the twenty-first century, full of surprises, wit, and intelligence. Jack McKay, a university professor, is going to put his unlikely detective skills to use once again after solving the case of the murdered showgirland almost ending his marriage. This time, the doubting police chief, Fat Joe, asks for Jacks help in uncovering the murderer of Sam Campbell, a grouchy, miserly neighbor of Jacks. Jack wants to refuse to help the police on this case because of the trouble working on the previous case caused him but his wife, the lovely and feisty Fiona, demands that Jack help the police, if for no other reason than to clear her brother, Bob, of the mounting suspicion against him. In an effort to win Fiona back, or at least get her to move back into their home, Jack puts all his efforts into solving Sams murder and clearing Bobs name. Jack and Fionas whole neighborhood tries to get in on to finding the murderer too, causing a number of mishaps, and even more surprises. After navigating the many twists and turns of the plot of the sketching detective and discovering the truth behind Sams dark past, Jack uncovers, using his unlikely sketching ability and a fair share dumb luck and charm, the true identity of the murdererand it could not be more surprising. Readers of all ages will delight in the wonderfully intelligent, devilishly, charming, and delightfully intriguing adventures of Jack McKay.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499058222

Jack McCormac

Jack McCormac, a native of South Carolina, is an emeritus professor of civil engineering at Clemson University. He is the author of a number of well-known civil engineering textbooks. These texts have been used at over five hundred universities around the world for required courses and have been translated into quite a few languages. Engineering News Record, working in collaboration with the engineering and architectural societies of the United States and Europe, selected Jack for their list of the 125 greatest engineers and architects in the world for their contributions to the construction industry over the last 125 years.

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Copyright © 2014, 2015 by Jack McCormac.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014913818

ISBN:          Hardcover          978-1-4990-5820-8

                    Softcover            978-1-4990-5821-5

                    eBook                  978-1-4990-5822-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Cover Illustration By: Kersly Miñoza

Rev. date: 01/02/2015

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1   Fiona

Chapter 2   A Lesson in Sketching

Chapter 3   The Scottish Connection

Chapter 4   The Break In

Chapter 5   Delores

Chapter 6   A Box Within a Box

Chapter 7   The Strange Circles

Chapter 8   The Murder Weapon?

Chapter 9   A Warning Letter

Chapter 10 A Puffin on Loch Puffin?

Chapter 11 Another Searcher

Chapter 12 Another Victim

Chapter 13 A Ruse

Chapter 14 A Hit-and-Run Case

Chapter 15 Was the Braining Accidental?

Chapter 16 I’m Not Guilty

Chapter 17 A Visit to Sakes Alive

Chapter 18 Another Wild-Goose Chase

Chapter 19 Fiona Says She Knows the Name of the Killer

Chapter 20 Second Sight

Chapter 21 Intersecting Circles

Chapter 22 The Clown

Chapter 23 The Dog Trials

Chapter 24 Lots of Puffins

Chapter 25 Conclusion

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my niece Lyn McMaster Sheffield not only for her careful proofreading and typing of the manuscript but also for her excellent suggestions.

Chapter 1

Fiona

I f, after reading the title of this book, you think you are going to learn something about art, you will be badly mistaken. If I have a sharp pencil, a good eraser, and a straight edge, I can draw a straight line most of the time. Although this just about sums up my artistic ability, I can at least make some very rough sketches.

I never intended to become involved in another police investigation, much less a murder case, after I stumbled into the solution of the killing of a fan dancer named Babs Ryland. I almost lost my life in that case, and Fiona, my lovely wife of two years, left me.

As a necessary part of the earlier investigation, I had to have several interviews with Babs’s dancing associates. They were quite friendly and cooperative in the interviews and, to be completely honest with you (but not with Fiona), I admit that I interviewed them just a few more times than was absolutely necessary. Several of those wonderful girls gave me photographs of themselves in their professional attire. These pictures apparently initiated my troubles with Fiona. They were signed with notes such as Love and kisses, Come back to see me again, and Yours always. Fiona is a wonderful woman, but confidentially, she has always been somewhat narrow-minded as to my interest in what might be referred to as the animate arts.

I know that the pictures of the dancers, particularly those sans clothing, infuriated Fiona. She didn’t seem to understand that the photos were evidence in a serious murder investigation. Surely there must have been something else to cause her to leave. Since her departure I have had only two desires: to get her back and to continue my work at the university.

My involvement in the fan dancer case began one night last year. Flunking Smith and his wife invited Fiona and me over to dinner at their house along with several other people. Flunking is a history professor who has honestly earned the name bestowed on him by his students. My students don’t think I know what they call me. It’s One Suit because I used to frequently wear a dark blue suit (along with a red tie). Fiona often made derogatory remarks concerning my wonderful suit. One day, much to my distress, the suit and my red tie disappeared from the face of this earth, and I have always suspected that Fiona had something to do with it. (Perhaps this shrewd deduction will begin to give you an idea of my detective abilities.)

Our fair city’s police chief, Fat Joe Reynolds, was one of the other guests at Flunking’s dinner. During the evening, he was asked if any progress had been made in the investigation of the murder of Babs Ryland. He said rather shamefacedly, that his department had been unable to solve the case despite using the most modern and up-to-date methods.

It was at that moment that I opened my big fat mouth, having drunk three glasses of Flunking’s watered-down wine, and asked why the police didn’t try to solve the crime by making sketches of the data.

Although Fat Joe had no idea what I was talking about, he called my bluff by saying, Be my guest. He was smirking behind his napkin, clearly thinking, This is going to be fun watching this college professor type come out into the real world and fall flat on his face.

After several trips to Fat Joe’s office and to Babs’ former place of employment to obtain as much information as possible, I began making sketches and, by golly, after umpteen attempts, I identified the killer. No one could have been more surprised than I was, except possibly Fat Joe. He was dumbfounded.

My thoughts at the time were that I should retreat back to my ivory tower never to venture forth again into the real police world. Now, however, there was another murder—one much closer to home.

Fat Joe was stumped again and he must have been at the end of his rope because he came dragging into my office, hat in hand, early one morning to ask me to work on the case. My answer was, Absolutely not. Never again. You know as well as I do that I lucked into the solution for the other case. It also cost me my wife, Fiona. I could see by the expression on his face that he agreed with my comment about the luck. I admit this didn’t sit too well with me, as I was trying to be modest and I actually thought I had demonstrated a great deal of detective ability in the case. Anyway, Fat Joe repeated his request for my participation in this new investigation, but I stuck to my guns.

The next day, our mayor Charles Monteith phoned. After praising my work on the earlier case for several minutes in flowery terms, he asked if I would try to solve the case. He admitted that the police didn’t have a clue as to the guilty party. He even hinted at a monetary reward and went on to say that if the case wasn’t solved soon, he and Fat Joe might be seeking employment elsewhere. Keeping my thoughts regarding this rather promising possibility to myself, I refused again. The mayor then said he thought it was my civic duty to help the police of our wonderful community. I told him I felt I had done my civic duty in the last case and that I never again intended to try to solve a crime.

Despite my bravado in declining the job, there is a chink in my armor the size of a football field. I don’t imagine Fiona would like to be referred to as a chink, particularly one of such proportions, but in any case, she can talk me into anything. I’ve often wondered who was clever enough, Fat Joe or the mayor, to discover my Achilles heel.

After Fiona left me, she continued her architecture practice over in the city. She moved in with her brother, Bob McEwan, who lives about a block from my (our) house. The morning after the mayor’s phone call, Fiona called to ask if I would meet her for lunch at Maverise’s Spaghetti House. This was one of our old rendezvous spots during our courtship and marriage. Hoping there might be a chance of moving her things back into our house, I enthusiastically agreed. For such a meeting, I would have run the four miles to the restaurant barefooted if necessary.

I rushed home from the office, shaved and showered (that made two times already that morning), put on my best suit (not blue) and, without much regard for the speed limit, drove to the restaurant. On the way, I said a silent but fervent prayer asking for her return. Sadly, my prayer was not to be answered on that day.

Fiona was already there, wearing a lovely green outfit. When I spotted her, my heart performed its usual athletic feat of jumping up into my throat. I had great difficulty trying to breathe in a normal manner—an endeavor in which I was completely unsuccessful. I also had to summon great restraint to keep from leaning across the table and kissing the tip of her wonderful freckled nose.

Fiona is an average-sized girl with red hair, a beautiful figure, and a face full of enchanting freckles. Her friends say she looks like she swallowed a ten-dollar bill and broke out in pennies. Fortunately, she is one of those freckled women who is absolutely lovely. Even lovelier than her looks is the fact that she doesn’t seem to know she is lovely. What nicer thing can you say about a woman than this? I guess when she looks in the mirror, all she can see is what seem to her to be a million awful freckles.

One time I read in the newspaper that blondes have an estimated 145,000 hairs on their heads, that brunettes have about 120,000, while redheads only have approximately 90,000. In Fiona’s case, each of her 90,000 hairs is so magnificent that I don’t believe I could stand it if she had any more.

Unfortunately, Fiona’s temper is not exactly a thing of beauty, unless you are referring to its magnitude. She is a real spitfire. Maybe redheaded girls are supposed to be that way. However, despite her fireball temper, she has an amazingly kind heart. Not only children but also dogs, cats, and other pets, seem to immediately recognize a kindred soul when they first see her. The same situation seems to occur with sick and elderly persons.

The owner of the restaurant, Joe Maverise, is an old friend of mine. He came to our table with a cordial greeting and said he hadn’t seen us for quite a while. Apparently he was unaware of our separation because he said to Fiona, I remember the first time you came into my restaurant with Jack. He came over to me and said, ‘Now, Joe, I want you to take a good look at this girl. She looks like a girl ought to look.’ I could not have agreed more.

Fiona’s rather feisty response to Joe’s recollection was, Unfortunately, Jack says that sort of thing about all of his girlfriends. Joe, recognizing the way the wind was blowing, quickly retreated to his cash register.

After we placed our orders with the waiter, my thoughts immediately jumped to my dream of moving her things back into our house. However, her thoughts were entirely different. She quickly got to the point, Why don’t you try your sketching methods on this murder case? Unlike most of us, you professors have summers off, so it’s not like you are busy.

Fiona seemingly can read my thoughts before I express them out loud. I was just about to refuse, when she reached over and took one of my hands in hers, looked at me with those big green eyes, and while I was melting, asked if I would help poor little helpless her (She is about as helpless as a bulldozer.) She said that if I would take on the case and solve it, the mayor would see she was selected as the architect for a new school that is to be constructed in our neighborhood. In addition, if I could successfully handle this investigation, Fiona would also be given the work for several other buildings the city was planning.

I was surprised that Fiona would allow a city official to talk her into approaching me on this matter. There seemed to be something wrong because it’s not like her to kowtow to anyone (most of all to me). Her normal reaction would be to respond to any attempted bribe with Go jump in the lake and take a concrete life preserver, you big fat toadie. I wouldn’t beg that husband of mine to work on this case for ten jobs like this one and all the gold in Fort Knox. There had to be more to this than met the eye. Nevertheless, my resistance and what little common sense I might have had were gone, and I agreed against all of my better judgment to give the problem a try.

Fiona thanked me very politely, then with her lunch only half eaten, said she had to get back to her office to meet with a client. I was extremely disappointed, as I had been dreaming of a long leisurely lunch with glasses of wine and romantic conversation. All that bathing, shaving, two applications of shaving lotion and deodorant, and wearing of my best suit—and she was leaving to talk with a client about some stupid building.

I have always thought that a reasonably competent woman in a profession such as architecture, dentistry, medicine, engineering, and so on would have a large number of male clients if she was beautiful. I feel this way even though most men, most of all me, are frightened to death by beautiful women. I sure am frightened of Fiona. In any case, Fiona is usually swamped with work.

Before she got away, I said, Fiona, I’m disappointed that you have not been cashing the monthly checks I’ve been sending you.

Rather indignantly she replied, I would rather pay my own way than take any money from a snake in the grass like you. You are probably also sending checks to those fan dancing sweethearts of yours. Then she added, I hope you are sending them enough money so they can buy some more clothes.

Fiona continued, My grandmother always told me never to marry a man who squeezed the toothpaste from the middle of the tube or my marriage would be in real trouble. Boy, was she right, but how was I to know your personal habits before we were married?

I replied, If that’s your only problem, I’ll brush my teeth for the rest of my life with baking soda. Her response to this noble gesture was to sharply remark that my problems were much deeper than the toothpaste issue, but that the toothpaste behavior clearly signaled the presence of a deadbeat from way back.

At that moment, to my extreme embarrassment, Fiona jumped out of her chair, threw a ten-dollar bill on the table for her part of the lunch, and with fire in her eyes, flounced out of the restaurant, holding her head high and stamping her high heels on the hardwood floor. This was done to the considerable amusement of the other customers. I slunk out of the restaurant, walking softly with my head down.

On the way back to my office, my normally slow-moving brain, having lived up to its past behavior, began to think of the things I should have said to her. For instance, why in the world didn’t I try to bargain with her, agreeing to work on the case only if she would come back to me if I solved the mystery? Thus, as soon as I reached my office, I called her and said exactly those words. Her answer was, You have already promised to work on this case and I will not come back to you, you two-timer, three-timer, or whatever you are. Furthermore, if you go back on your word and don’t give the case your best efforts, I’ll come over and scratch out your eyes. These words were rather frightening to me, because when she says she’s going to do something, she does it. I am also rather fond of my pretty blue eyes.

I responded to her accusations by starting to say I had never been anything but a one-timer and that was with her, but before I could finish she slammed down the phone.

Chapter 2

A Lesson in Sketching

W ell, it looks like I’m going to have to work on this case after all. As a result, I guess I had better explain my theory of sketching as it might be applied to solving crimes.

I got involved in the other case because I talked too much. I made the mistake of repeating something my own engineering professors had taught me. They said that if you were baffled by a particular problem, you should make a careful sketch of the information available, including any applicable notes. Then you should reappraise the problem while looking at the sketch and notes.

Your comment concerning the use of a sketch to solve a crime will probably be baloney, but I would like to present an illustration of this method to prove to you that sketching can on many occasions be helpful in solving various types of problems, including crimes.

Have you ever had a problem or puzzle presented to you that had so much information given that you couldn’t see the forest for the trees? The well-known puzzle set forth below fits into this category. There are too many facts for the average person to keep in his or her mind and consider simultaneously.

I have been advised not to include the problem here because it may be too difficult for the average person to solve. That, however, is exactly the reason I want it here—to demonstrate that if you sketch the information given, the solution may become as easy as pie, no matter how difficult the particular problem.

Problem

A train is running between Detroit and Chicago, with three businessmen on board. Their names are Mr. Smith, Mr. Jones, and Mr. Robinson. The train has three crewmen—a brakeman, a fireman, and an engineer. Their names are Smith, Jones, and Robinson, but we don’t know which one is which. From the following information, we would like to learn the engineer’s name:

1. Mr. Robinson lives in Detroit;

2. The brakeman lives in a town called Midway, which is halfway between Detroit and Chicago;

3. Mr. Jones earns $80,000 per year;

4. Smith beat the fireman at ping pong;

5. The brakeman’s nearest neighbor, who is one of the businessmen, earns exactly three times as much as the brakeman, who earns $25,000 per year; and,

6. The businessman, whose last name is the same as the brakeman, lives in Chicago.

Most people who attempt to solve this problem throw their hands up in disgust and say, This is too much for me. Yet, if they would make rough sketches showing the information given, the solution would become obvious. This is demonstrated below.

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If we examine this second sketch we will easily be able to identify the train crewmen. The brakeman has the same name as the businessman who lives in Chicago; thus, his name is Jones. Since Smith beat the fireman at ping-pong, the fireman can’t be Smith, nor can he be Jones who is the brakeman. The fireman must be Robinson. Obviously, the engineer is Smith.

Chapter 3

The Scottish Connection

I live on the outskirts of our town in a development called Bonnie Glen. Almost everything possible has been done to make it a replica of a section of old Scotland. The creeks are called burns, the man-made lakes are called lochs (incorrectly, as true Scottish lochs were formed by the scouring action of glaciers), and our one little hill is named Ben Nevis after the tallest mountain in Scotland. The golf course, which is named St. Andrews and referred to as the Old Course, has its fairways lined with heather and gorse (the latter frequently called Scotch Broom), and has nasty bunkers located in the seemingly most unlikely and unfair spots possible.

The original bunkers found on Scottish coastal courses were hollowed out by sheep to protect