Murphy's Law

MURPHY'S LAW

         County Medical Examiner, Roscoe Sloan, knelt beside the body. The elderly victim wore only faded blue boxer shorts and lay on his side in a dark pool of congealing blood. An ugly black entry wound stood out in stark relief against his pale chest.

         Chief of Police, James Murphy, over six feet tall and so lean he barely cast a shadow, peered down at the top of Sloan's balding head. "What killed him, Doc...and how long's he been dead?"

         Sloan examined the wound with a magnifying glass. "Puncture wound to the heart, for sure. Appears to be about the diameter of a nickel. Irregular shape, like a screwdriver, maybe...or a piece of rebar. Not a knife wound. And, judging by the body temperature," Sloan said, squinting at the thermometer he withdrew from the victim's armpit, "I'd say he's been dead between sixteen and twenty-four hours. I'll know more after the autopsy. Can I have him, yet?"

         Murphy heard Sloan's knees pop audibly as he stood up. "In a while, Doc. Barnes is on his way for the crime scene work-up. He'll call you when he's finished."

         "Talk to you later, then," the M.E. said, closing his age-cracked medical bag with a snap.

         "Yeah. I'll call you. Would you ask Bobby Lee to come in on your way out, Doc?"

         Sloan nodded and left the small apartment.

         Murphy continued his search. The place was neat and orderly except for a shattered dish and coffee mug on the hardwood kitchen floor and an overturned chair near the kitchen table and the body. The bathroom was clean except for two small mounds of dog excrement on the linoleum.

         "You want me, Chief?"

         Murphy turned to see his young officer, Bobby Lee Gibson, holding the victim's tiny black poodle in his arms.

         "Yeah. Run through your story again, Bobby Lee."

         "Like I said, dispatch called me about a barking dog report. A neighbor complained that it had been yipping all morning. No one answered when I knocked, but this little guy was barking like crazy," Bobby Lee said, scratching the dog's curly head. "I looked in the window, saw the body and tried all the doors and windows but found them locked. I finally busted the glass in the window there with my nightstick, reached in, unlatched it and crawled in. I checked for a pulse, but knew he was dead...all that blood. Then I called you from the car so I wouldn't disturb anything," Bobby Lee recited, his eyes continually drawn back to the corpse.

         "And you're sure the windows and doors were locked from the inside?"

         "Yes, Sir. Peculiar, huh? Wonder how the killer got out, leaving everything locked from inside?"

         Murphy shrugged and ran his long fingers through his thick shock of gray hair. "Find a place for the pooch and get some crime scene tape up around the perimeter. I'll start questioning neighbors," Murphy instructed.

         "There's a chain out front where Mr. Thurman...I recognize him from church...must have chained the dog."

         Outside, Bobby Lee chained the animal. It began to bark annoyingly at high volume.

         Though barely 8 A.M., the temperature was inching toward eighty and the glaring yellow sun hanging in the eastern sky promised another scorcher. Murphy kneaded his right shoulder with his left hand, both aching with arthritis despite the hot dryness of Sun Mesa, Arizona. He started down the sidewalk.

         The powder-blue Cadillac whipped up next to him and squealed to a stop, its tires painting the curb black. Murphy sighed. Doyle Skillman, City Manager of Sun Mesa, wriggled his bulk out of the automobile, slammed the door and waddled over to Murphy. "I hear there's been a murder. What are you doing about it? Any suspects? When can I expect an arrest?" Skillman sputtered.

         "Whoa, Doyle. We just found out about it an hour ago. Cut us some slack, here."

         Skillman squinted up at Murphy. "Slack? You know what this could do to our city? We're the finest retirement community in Arizona. You think these old fogies will want to call this home if we allow them to be murdered in their sleep?"

         The Chief took a step backward. Skillman was a spit and finger speaker. He wagged his finger in a person's face and sprayed a fine mist of saliva with every third word. "We don't have anything yet, Doyle. Mr. Thurman was apparently stabbed and, somehow, the killer left every door and window latched from the inside. I was just on my way to talk to the neighbors . . . see if anybody saw or heard anything suspicious."

         Skillman's usually florid face turned a couple of degrees redder. "I want results, Murphy, not excuses. You know the only reason you have this job is because the City Council was impressed with your record from back east. Well, you may have been a hot-shot cop in your younger days, but you aren't young any more. In fact, you're almost as old as the geezers who come out here to die. I don't like you, and you need to remember that, as City Manager, I can fire your butt if you can't handle the job."

         Now Murphy flushed. "The City Council hired me because I'm good at what I do. You've had no problems with me for the past two years...just efficient police work," Murphy flared, leaning forward like a predatory bird eyeing a fat, tasty mouse, towering over the diminutive City Manager. "So don't threaten me, you..."

         Murphy literally bit his tongue before he went too far. The truth was, he needed the job. How could he have guessed that his police pension, Social Security and his life savings wouldn't amount to enough to live on once he retired? It had come as a shock, for sure, and the job of Chief he landed was necessary to make ends meet. "Listen, Doyle, I'll do everything I can to solve this case. The forensics guy, Barnes, is on his way. Maybe after he finishes his investigation, and Doc Sloan does the autopsy, I'll have something for you. I'll keep you informed," Murphy promised.

         "You have twenty-four hours. Find the killer or you're history. And shut that damned dog up!" Skillman fairly shouted, lumbering back to his car. He squeezed his girth behind the steering wheel and Murphy watched the vehicle's frame dip deeply from the man's weight. The Cadillac leaped away from the curb in a "poot" of black exhaust.

         "Bobby Lee, call the pound and have 'em come pick up the pooch," Murphy ordered, walking stiffly toward the first of many apartments he would visit before the morning was over. His knees hurt.

         Three hours later he hobbled back to Thurman's apartment. As expected, no one had seen or heard anything, although one blue-haired octogenarian suggested it could have been vampires. Murphy noted the Anne Rice novel on the parlor table and thanked the lady for her help. Another neighbor volunteered that Mr. Thurman had a son who lived in Phoenix, and he thought the boy was a locksmith by trade--though he couldn't remember why he thought that.

         Bobby Lee was just finishing boarding up the window he broke to gain access to the apartment when Murphy approached. "Anything?" Bobby Lee asked, wiping perspiration from his brow with a worn handkerchief.

         "Only that Thurman may have a son in Phoenix who's a locksmith. Check with the apartment manager. See if he has a next of kin listed on the lease and see what you can come up with on the son. If you find him, tell him about his father and get him down here to talk to us."

         "Check, Chief. Barnes is still inside. I'll report in when I have something," Bobby Lee said, heading for his patrol car, the back of his black uniform shirt wet with sweat.

         Cody Barnes, the County's one-man Forensics Team, impeccably dressed in dark suit and tie; shoes shined to a gloss, nearly backed into Murphy as the Chief stepped inside the apartment. "Hi, Chief. I was just on my way out."

         "Tell me you solved this for me," Murphy exhaled, easing into a straight-backed chair near the door. His swollen feet throbbed inside his imitation alligator-skin boots.

         "Sorry. Some prints, hair and fibers. Nothing under the victim's fingernails. No weapon. The over-turned chair and busted china are the only signs of a struggle. Trash can in the kitchen contained some empty cans... corn and beans, and butcher paper from Harper's Grocery. Probably the man's last meal," Barnes shrugged. "I also found a receipt from Doctor Griffin and a bottle of antibiotics, both dated yesterday, in the bedroom. I called Griffin's office. Mr. Thurman was in at nine A.M. They squeezed him in without an appointment. Nothing serious, just an inner-ear infection Thurman had trouble with periodically. The prescription was filled at the pharmacy in the same building where Dr. Griffin has his office. So, if nothing else, I can tell you that Thurman was still alive at noon yesterday. That help?"

         "Can't hurt," Murphy said, rubbing his temples with the thumb and middle finger of his right hand. "I'm at square one on this and Skillman is being...well, he's being Skillman."

         Barnes chuckled in understanding. "Why did the Council hire him? He's just a notch above being a moron. I understand that he has the retirees convinced he knows what he's doing. If they knew how he really feels about them they wouldn't be so charitable," Barnes observed.

         "Oh, almost forgot. I found this lockbox in the dresser drawer. It wasn't locked," Barnes said, handing Murphy a shoebox-sized, blue metal box from the top of a bookshelf. "Doc Sloan's people picked the body up about an hour ago. I should have something for you by the time you get the autopsy results. I'll call you."

         "Appreciate it, Cody. You go on. I'm going to poke around some more."

         "Okay, Chief. Here are the keys. They were on Thurman's dresser," Barnes said, tossing the keys and the key-chain they were attached to.

         Murphy reached, juggled them for a second, then cursed as they fell in a jangling heap at his feet. "Damned bifocals!"

         After Barnes left, Murphy satisfied himself that the apartment was indeed sealed from inside. Maybe the old lady was right--maybe it was a vampire. Or a locksmith, Murphy thought.

         The lockbox contained a car title, paid-up burial policy, a few buffalo nickels and wheat pennies, and an insurance policy on the deceased in the face amount of fifty-thousand dollars--payable to one Robert Thurman, relationship, son, Murphy read. People were killed for a lot less. Murphy was eager to question Robert Thurman.

         A short time later, back in his tiny office located in the basement of the old, red brick courthouse, Murphy telephoned Doc Sloan. "Medical Examiner," Sloan answered.

         "Murphy, Doc. Tell me something."

         "Slim pickings, Chief. The weapon was five to six inches in length, tapered to a point, broader at the base. Kind of diamond- shaped. Barely punctured the heart, but enough to cause the vic to bleed out. No other signs of violence."

         Murphy heard papers rustling, then Sloan continued. "Stomach contents were corn, red beans and meat, probably beef. Digestion wasn't very far along when death occurred. Traces of grease on the palm and fingers of his right hand. He may have been eating when he was killed. Time of death, say, six P.M. yesterday, give or take an hour or two."

         "Thanks, Doc. First homicide this year. I was beginning to think we might get through the summer without one," Murphy complained.

         "Figured out how the killer locked up after leaving?"

         "Nope. Nothing I could figure. Umm, could the victim have locked the door after he was stabbed?"

         "No way. He died where he fell," the M.E. said.

         "Then I'm clueless. Bobby Lee is investigating a report that Thurman's son is a locksmith. If we can place him at the scene..."

         "Interesting. Call me at home if you turn up anything else," Sloan said.

         "Will do, Doc. Thanks," Murphy said, breaking the connection.

         The telephone barely touched the cradle when it rang in Murphy's hand. He listened to Doyle Skillman rant and rave and threaten for ten minutes before the City Manager hung up on him. How pleasant it would be to choke Skillman until his porcine face shaded to purple, Murphy daydreamed.

         Skillman had no reason to complain about the police force--all six members, counting Murphy and a female dispatcher. Sun Mesa's population was just over ten thousand residents; the majority elderly or infirm. Crime wasn't a big problem. Traffic violations, petty theft, domestic disputes and an occasional fist- fight at the bingo parlor accounted for most of the police responses. Murphy was proud of his people and the job they did.

         His years with the Philadelphia Police Department, from foot patrol to Captain of Detectives, had been, since day one, a bone of contention between Murphy and Skillman. Skillman seemed threatened by Murphy's credentials. Whatever the reason, Skillman was against him from the start. Now it seemed the City Manager was out for Murphy's head.

         Murphy's stomach rolled and grumbled. He walked up to the first floor snack bar and got a sweet roll and a carton of milk from the vending machines there. He ate seated at a red, plastic table and read the sports section from someone's discarded newspaper.

         A half hour later he returned to find his office crowded with people.

         Bobby Lee, Skillman and a man the Chief didn't recognize, were all talking at once. Bobby Lee's face was flushed and his thick, dark eyebrows were knit together in obvious irritation.

         Murphy shouldered his way through the men and dropped his lanky frame into the chair behind his scarred desk. "Gentlemen, is there a problem?"

         Bobby Lee jacked his thumb at the stranger standing close to Skillman. "Chief, Skillman wants me to tell him and this guy about our investigation in the Thurman case."

         The stranger with Skillman was of medium height, seventy pounds overweight, and had droopy jowls like Skillman's own facial saddlebags. Oily-looking black hair hung down in an unkempt curtain over his sloping forehead. He looked at Skillman like a devoted puppy.

         "I told him I couldn't divulge information without your okay," Bobby Lee said.

         Pleased by Bobby Lee's loyalty to procedure, Murphy turned in his chair, icy blue eyes peering through the upper section of his bifocals. "Skillman, until such time as you release me from duty as Chief of Police, I would appreciate you staying out of my business and stop harassing my people. We're doing all we can to find Mr. Thurman's killer, and you pestering us doesn't help matters."

         Skillman's face puffed up like a stepped-on bullfrog. He pushed the stranger toward Murphy. "This is Bubba Cheney...from over in Pima County. I insist you fill him in and give him a chance to help on this case. He has a background in law enforcement, and I'll take full responsibility for him."

         Cheney nodded, a vapid smile on his too-full lips.

         Murphy nodded in return and leaned back in his chair. He laced his large, bony hands behind his head and plopped his booted feet on the ancient desk. "Doyle, understand that I don't have to tell you anything, and don't have much to tell, but here it is," Murphy said, relating the details of the case up to that point.

         "Uh, Chief, Cody Barnes called. Said to tell you all he found was some dust and dog hairs. The only fingerprints were Thurman's. The place had been dusted and the furniture polished recently," Bobby Lee added.

         "You learn anything, Bobby Lee?"

         Bobby Lee shifted from one foot to the other and stuffed his hands in his pants pockets. Speaking directly to Murphy, ignoring Skillman and Cheney, he said, "I found the landlord of Thurman's apartment. He checked the lease and there was a person to contact in the event of an emergency. A son, Robert Thurman. He lives in Phoenix. The landlord had a work telephone number for the son. I called him. He was real broke up to hear about his dad. He's gonna drive down. Should be here in about an hour. And, Chief, he is a locksmith. Girl at his office answered the telephone 'Robert's Locks'."

         Cheney, probing his left nostril with a thick forefinger, said, "Sounds like an open and shut case to me."

         "I agree. When he arrives, arrest him," Skillman ordered.

         "Look, Doyle, I think I know a damn sight more about police procedure than you do. If, after questioning Robert Thurman, I feel there's reason to hold him, I'll do so. But not otherwise," Murphy said firmly. "Now...get the hell out of my office"

         "Enjoy it while you can, Murphy," Skillman snarled, exiting the office with Cheney close behind.

         The smell of spicy cologne and fat men lingered.

         Bobby Lee sat on the corner of Murphy's desk, grinning. "Now what, Chief?"

         Murphy tossed two antacid tablets in his mouth, chewing the chalky medicine briefly before swallowing. Tiny bits of the vile stuff wedged between his teeth; hung on the back of his tongue. "Where'd you tell Thurman to meet us?"

         "Here. I didn't think he should see the apartment. It needs to be cleaned up first...you know," Bobby Lee said, wrinkling his nose.

         Death was still new to the boy, Murphy remembered. "Yeah, you're right. I'll stay here and wait for him. You see what you can scare up on Bubba Cheney. What his previous law enforcement history might be. By the way, Bobby Lee, good work."

         The young officer snapped Murphy a three-fingered Boy Scout salute on the way out.

         Murphy punched the number "1" on his speed-dialer. His wife of thirty-five years, Laura, answered on the third ring. He told her about the case, as he had every case over the years. Her insights and intuition sometimes proved invaluable. Not this time, however.

         "It certainly sounds like the son had motive and maybe opportunity," Laura said. "I'm sure you'll find out when you talk to him, Dear. Just don't let Skillman get to you, Jimmy. You know how your stomach is. I'll keep dinner warm."

         Murphy hung up and chewed two more antacids.

         Shortly after four, Bobby Lee sauntered into Murphy's office wearing a smug expression. "What?" Murphy asked.

         "Cheney's previous 'law enforcement' experience consists of installing burglar alarm systems," Bobby Lee snickered. "He had to give it up after he got so heavy he fell through a couple of ceilings."

         Murphy laughed. "Sounds like he's qualified to be Chief of Police to me !"

         Just then, a man in his early forties appeared in the doorway. His blonde hair was long in back and puffed up Liberace style in front. He wore a pink, silk shirt, open to his navel, and incredibly tight white slacks. A thick gold necklace hung from his neck. "Is this the Police Chief's office? I'm supposed to meet him," the man said.

         Momentarily at a loss for words, Murphy coughed and came from behind his desk. He extended his hand. "I'm Chief Murphy. What can I do for you?"

         "I'm Robert Thurman. Some nice boy called and told me my father passed away," he sighed, shaking Murphy's hand with a vague, boneless grasp.

         "I'm afraid he didn't just die, Mr. Thurman. It appears he was murdered."

         "Oh, my. Murdered! May I sit down, please?" Thurman asked, the blood draining from his face. His body swayed dangerously.

         Bobby Lee took the man's elbow and lowered him into a wooden chair by the water cooler. Murphy filled a paper cup with cold water and offered it to the stricken man. Thurman raised the cup to his lips with trembling hands.

         "You okay?" Murphy asked.

         "Yes, I-I think so. How did . . . how was my father . . ."

         "Stabbed. Sometime yesterday."

         Thurman's chest heaved. "I was here three days ago to visit him. He was doing so well."

         "May I ask where you were yesterday, Mr. Thurman?" Murphy queried.

         "I was in the shop most of the day. It was very busy."

         "Let's say between four and eight yesterday evening?"

         Thurman opened his mouth, then clamped it shut with a soft "pop". He frowned at Murphy. "Am I a suspect, Chief Murphy?"

         "We have to ask. Everyone is a suspect until the killer is caught."

         "Well, I can't say exactly where I was at that time," Thurman said petulantly.

         Murphy exhaled loudly. "Are you aware that your father named you as beneficiary on a sizable insurance policy?"

         "No. I didn't know . . ."

         From the hallway, where they had been eavesdropping, Skillman and Cheney squeezed into the office. "That's all I needed to hear," Skillman boomed. "You didn't tell me about the insurance, Murphy." Turning to Thurman, Skillman spat, "You're under arrest. Take him to a cell, Bubba."

         "You have no authority to arrest anyone, Skillman," Murphy said, amazed at the man's audacity.

         "Call it a citizen's arrest, if you like. Take him, Bubba," Skillman ordered.

         Cheney hoisted Thurman up from his chair, roughly twisting the man's arm back and up. Thurman winced in pain and stood on his toes to lessen the pressure on his shoulder.

         Murphy stepped forward and grabbed Cheney's meaty forearm. "Let go of him you stupid sonofa..."

         Cheney pulled away abruptly, causing Murphy to lose his grip and fall back painfully against his desk.

         Bobby Lee moved toward Cheney.

         Skillman stopped him in his tracks. "You interfere, Bobby Lee, and you'll be looking for a job, too."

         "Do as he says, Bobby Lee. Don't make trouble for yourself," Murphy advised, glaring at Skillman and Cheney.

         Skillman stood aside as Cheney marched Thurman out the door and down the narrow hall leading to the two jail cells.

         "That man isn't a murderer, Skillman. You're making a big mistake," Murphy warned. "You can't make yourself go pale and get that unfocused look in your eyes like Thurman did when I told him his father had been murdered. I've been in this business a long time and believe me, no one is that good an actor."

         "Mister Murphy, I'll take your badge. You're fired. Get out of here and don't come back," Skillman said, holding out his hand.

         Murphy calmly unpinned the badge from his shirt. He stepped toward Skillman. Very deliberately, he slapped the badge into the City Manager's pudgy palm -- pin down. The straightened pin pierced to a depth of an inch or better.

         "Aiieee!" Skillman screeched, but only briefly before Murphy's gnarled right fist smashed into the exact center of Skillman's deeply dimpled chin. Skillman collapsed in a limp-legged crash that seemed to shake the floor.

         Murphy stepped over the City Manager's bulk and walked purposely down the hall, his limp forgotten.

         Bubba Cheney had tossed Robert Thurman into a cell and was just turning the key in the lock when Murphy sidled up behind him. Murphy slipped his big Colt revolver from his holster and tapped the barrel lightly against the base of Cheney's skull.

         Cheney swung around, serving only to align the muzzle of the gun with a point just below his broad, flat nose. His eyes crossed, peering at the weapon.

         "Go take care of Skillman, Bubba. He seems to have fallen down."

         Cheney looked past Murphy, saw Skillman in a lump on the linoleum, and called out, "Uncle Doyle...did he hurt you?"

         "Shut up, you idiot," Skillman hissed, getting to his knees.

         "Uncle, huh? Close family resemblance, Bubba. Get him out of here...right now...unless you want to see what a pistol-whipped fat boy looks like, up close and personal," Murphy warned, standing aside. "And tell him I'll be out of here as soon as I clean out my desk and finish some business. Not before."

         Cheney hurriedly helped Skillman to his feet and the two men disappeared up the short staircase leading from the basement.

         In the cell, Robert Thurman sat shaking on the tiny cot, his face buried in his hands. "Mr. Thurman, you probably heard everything that happened here. I'm no longer Chief of Police. You've been arrested by the City Manager and his nephew who, I assume, may soon take my place. Before I leave, though, I want to ask you again if you have an alibi for yesterday evening. Will you talk to me? Please," Murphy cajoled.

         Robert Thurman sobbed softly. Slowly, painfully, he looked up and nodded.

         An hour later, Murphy let himself in the front door of his modest, ranch-style home. Laura met him in the hallway, stood on tip-toes to give him a welcome home kiss, then slipped her arm around his waist and led him to the spotless kitchen. Strange, Murphy thought, walking beside his wife. She still looks the same to me as she did those many years ago when we first met. In his eyes he saw a vivacious, red- haired vixen, barely five-foot tall, maybe a hundred and ten pounds. The most beautiful woman he had ever known.

         In reality, Laura was as silver-haired as Murphy and sported a full, yet still shapely, hundred and forty-five pounds. Her face bore the wrinkles and creases gained from being a cop's wife for thirty-five years. But she was still vivacious--and in love with Murphy as much as he was with her.

         He decided to keep the news of his dismissal to himself until after dinner so as not to upset her. The small box of personal effects from the office had been left in his aging Pontiac and, even though he had learned much from his talk with Robert Thurman, the fact remained-- Murphy was unemployed. If only he could solve the case, he thought. Well, regardless, tomorrow he would go by the K-Mart. Perhaps they needed an experienced security guard. If not, perhaps one of the warehouses in Sun Mesa could use a night watchman. Something would come up, and food would be kept on the table, of that Murphy was sure.

         "What's on the menu tonight, Sugar?" Murphy asked, sitting down at the table.

         "Your favorite, Jimmy. As long as you have your own teeth you may as well enjoy yourself," Laura joked, setting a plate, warm from the oven in front of Murphy.

         "We inherit some money?" Murphy asked, looking down at the plate, then up at Laura.

         "No, silly. Harper's was having a sale yesterday and I stocked up. Just hush, and eat."

         Murphy dug in enthusiastically. Always a fast eater, he was finished in a matter of minutes. He sipped his third cup of coffee of the day--all his doctor would allow--and brought Laura up-to-speed on the Thurman case. He omitted his final confrontation with Skillman.

         "Quite a mystery. What will happen to the little dog?" Laura asked, typically concerned for all living things except spiders and scorpions.

         "Animal control picked him up. Poor mutt," Murphy sympathized, idly pushing food scraps around on his plate with his fork.

         Suddenly he straightened in his chair. A broad smile crept across his lips and he was instantly up and headed toward the hall telephone. He jabbed the buttons and stood tapping his foot restlessly until Doc Sloan answered. "Doc? Can you meet me in twenty minutes at Thurman's place? I'll explain when we get there. Uh, also, do you think you could call the City Councilmen and ask them to meet us there, too? Just tell them it's important. Okay? Hey, Doc -- thanks," Murphy said, breaking the connection, and turning to find Laura standing behind him, drying her hands on the faded apron she wore. He kissed her soundly on the lips.

         Laura caught his arm as he turned to leave. "I know that look, Murphy. What's going on?"

         "Tell you later, Sweetheart. Thanks for dinner. It was just what I needed."

         Exactly twenty minutes had ticked by when Murphy ushered Doc Sloan, the four City Councilmen and, unexpectedly, Skillman and Bubba Cheney inside Thurman's apartment. One of the Councilmen must have included Skillman.

         "What's so urgent you have to pull me away from watching 'Quincy' reruns?" Doc Sloan chided good-naturedly.

         Murphy walked to the blood stain on the floor. He looked around, as if he were seeing things the other men could not see. He nodded his head. The wheels were turning. Age had not yet rusted his mental mechanisms. "Listen up, gentlemen. I'm going to give you a hypothesis. See if you agree," Murphy said, tapping his chin with his slim, right index finger. "Thurman had dinner. Corn and beans and beef, you said, Doc. And Barnes found trash to substantiate that. The beef was steak. When Thurman finished eating he offered the bone from his steak to his dog...accounting for the grease found on his hand."

         Murphy picked up the over-turned chair and sat down in it. "Thurman bent from the waist to give his dog the bone. When he bent over he got dizzy...you know...vertigo, from an inner-ear infection he had. He lost his balance and pitched forward, over-turning the chair and knocking the china to the floor. He fell..."

         "This is all very entertaining," Doyle Skillman interrupted. "But why are you wasting..."

         "Excuse me, Skillman," Murphy said, his eyes drilling holes in Skillman's head. "As I was saying, Thurman fell on his own hand. The one holding the bone. The bone pierced his chest, and his heart. He lived long enough to roll onto his side," Murphy detailed, falling from the chair to demonstrate. "He wasn't murdered. It was an accident."

         The M.E.'s mouth hung open. "What kind of bone, Chief? And where is it?"

         "A T-bone, Doc. That's what solved it for me. Laura fed me a huge T-bone steak for dinner tonight. Harper's Grocery had 'em on sale, so she bought me a few. While I was eating she just happened to mention Thurman's dog. Dog. Bone. Click, click, click. It all fell into place. I remembered that Barnes said the butcher paper in Thurman's trash had Harper's Grocery on it, too."

         Murphy looked at his audience. The M.E. and the Council members were nodding their heads. Skillman, wearing a bandage around his punctured hand and bearing a colorful bruise on his jaw, was frowning.

         Doc Sloan scratched his ear. "I still don't understand. Where's the bone?"

         Murphy grinned. "The dog, Doc. He either took it from Thurman's dying hand, or tugged it from the wound. I'm betting on two things: One, that the butcher will verify selling Mr. Thurman a nice, big T-bone and, two, that when Barnes examines the dog feces in the bathroom there, he's going to find the bone fragments," Murphy concluded.

         Charles Taylor, the oldest and most respected of the Councilmen, clapped Murphy on the back. "Great job, Chief."

         "Well, actually, I'm not your Chief. Skillman fired me this afternoon."

         Taylor and the other Councilmen turned to glare at the City Manager and Cheney.

         "Hold on a minute," Skillman sputtered, raising his palm like an Indian in the old westerns saying "How". "His explanation is only one possibility. We have a prisoner in custody...Thurman's son. He has no alibi for the time of the murder, he stands to gain fifty-thousand dollars from his father's insurance policy and..." Skillman paused for dramatic effect, "...he's a locksmith. He could easily have rigged a way to have the door lock from the outside and appear to be locked from the inside."

         Heads swung back toward Murphy.

         "I took a few minutes to speak with Robert Thurman before leaving the office today. Seems we jumped to some conclusions. He told me, in confidence, that he was with a friend all afternoon. The 'friend' is the husband of one of Robert's female employees. I called the man and he was forthright in telling me he was with Thurman during the time in question, without going into any detail about what they were doing. He corroborated Thurman's alibi."

         "This is bull," Skillman spat. "There's still the money, and the fact that the man is a locksmith is just too coincidental."

         Murphy stood up and moved close to Skillman, invading the man's space, peering down at him. "The money isn't a factor. Robert Thurman is quite well off financially. In fact, he told me he may donate the money to an AIDS hospice in Phoenix. He's lost some friends to the virus. And...he isn't a locksmith. That was a mistake. A neighbor said he thought, for some reason, that old man Thurman's son was a locksmith. Then Bobby Lee called Robert Thurman's place of business and the telephone was answered 'Robert's Locks'. We assumed too much. Mr. Thurman owns a string of fashionable beauty salons. He's a hair stylist. Get it? Locks? Of hair?" Murphy explained.

         "And we have this man in jail?" Councilman Taylor asked, his eyes narrowing.

         Murphy nodded. "He was arrested by Skillman and his nephew there, Bubba Cheney, who Skillman probably intends to make the next Chief of Police. Mr. Thurman wasn't read his Miranda Rights and he was physically and verbally abused during the arrest. He's understandably a little pissed off. Talking about suing the city for false arrest, unlawful imprisonment, assault, police brutality and even civil rights violations."

         A loud murmur arose from the combined council members.

         "However," Murphy drawled, massaging the back of his neck with his fingers. "I talked him out of pursuing any legal action provided the city of Sun Mesa asks for, and receives, City Manager Skillman's immediate resignation. It's up to you, gentlemen."

         Skillman seethed.

         Cheney wore a puzzled expression.

         The councilmen put their heads together for less than a minute, whispering. Councilman Taylor turned to face Skillman. "Have your resignation on my desk by nine tomorrow morning, Skillman. Understood?"

         "I understand. It's time to leave this one-horse little burg, anyhow. Old codgers make me sick...you included, Taylor."

         Councilman Taylor drew himself up to his full height of five-feet, three inches and poked his finger sharply into the pit of Skillman's over-flowing gut. "So that you'll know, Skillman, the Council has been looking into some of your city contracts and purchases. I think you need to leave while you can...before we find proof of the over-charges and kick-backs we suspect. Like that new alarm system you had put in the courthouse. Seemed way too expensive to us."

         Murphy caught the look that passed between Cheney and Skillman. Something there, all right.

         Skillman grabbed Cheney's sleeve and retreated, pulling his nephew in his wake.

         "Murphy," Councilman Taylor said, "I believe I can speak for the entire council when I say we'd like for you to take over as City Manager. Pays better than Chief of Police, and it's something you can do for years to come, if you want."

         Murphy was astounded. "Gosh, Mr. Taylor, I don't have any experience or..."

         "This is a small town, Jim. The best credentials you can have for the job are integrity and honesty. You have both. Hate to lose you as Chief, though."

         Murphy smiled. "You have a perfectly good candidate for Chief, already. Bobby Lee may be young, but he's quick and honest and cares about the people he's paid to serve. And I'll be around to help him if he needs it. But," Murphy said seriously, "For right now, I have an innocent man locked up and I need to go set him free before he changes his mind and sues all of us. And there's a little black poodle at the pound I think Laura will welcome into our home."

         Murphy shook hands all around. A feeling of renewed vigor moved strongly within him. Some men aren't meant to retire, he thought. They just open a new book, turn a new page, and continue being active participants in life.

         Murphy could hardly wait to tell Laura.

The End

DM