Struck Out

Struck Out

         Detective "Smitty" Smith tipped the body of the dead man forward, looking for a wound. "Jeez, here it is," he told the forensic investigator standing behind him.

         "Stop doing my job, Smitty," Bob Gibson said jovially, elbowing Smith aside.

         "Doesn't take an expert to see that Mr. Bill Milton here caught a slug between the shoulder blades. Forty-five or larger, I'd say."

         Gibson nodded. "The slug probably angled to the left, bursting the guy's heart. He never knew what hit him. Who first noticed he was dead?"

         Smith pointed his chin toward the covered deck at the top of the steps. "His wife. She'd gone to the bathroom when the storm rolled in. The officials called a rain delay when the sky opened up. The spectators beat it up the steps and beneath the deck. All except one, that is. Our victim stood out like a three-legged mule in a Shriner's parade, sitting in the deluge. His wife saw him, and came down to check on him."

         "Think his wife . . ."

         Smith screwed his lips into an unappealing moue, then shook his head. "Alibied. Three women say she was in the bathroom line for twenty minutes before the storm hit. And people around her husband say he was still alive when the rain started. Fifty thousand people, but no witness."

         "Bad deal," Gibson said. "And the rain will have washed away any trace evidence."

         "Do what you can," Smith sighed. "I'm going to talk to his wife again.

         Angela Milton stood leaning against a girder, staring at the ground. A beautiful woman, Smith noted. Built -- and the shorts and halter she wore accentuated every curve. Probably ten to fifteen years younger than her deceased spouse. "Mrs. Milton, I've asked you everything I need for now. Do you have a way home?"

         She sniffed, and brushed a strand of damp blond hair away from her eyes. "Yes. My brother- in-law, Tony, is coming for me. I didn't want to drive." Peering over Smith's shoulder, she said, "Here he is now."

         Mrs. Milton stepped into the man's open arms, burying her face against his shoulder. He patted her back and cooed reassurances as Smith introduced himself and they shook hands. A moment later, the pair headed toward the exit.

         Smith, even from three feet away, caught the odor of beer. The brother-in-law smelled like he'd been doing the backstroke in a vat at the local brewery. "Excuse me, Mr. Milton," Smith called out, "If you've been drinking, I can get a patrol car to take both of you home."

         Milton turned to face Smith. "I don't know what you mean, Detective . . . I don't drink."

         Smith shrugged, and pounded down the steps again. Gibson and another man were zipping Mr. Milton into an ever-fashionable, shiny black body bag. "Damn, noisy!" Gibson said. "You sound like a herd of longhorns clomping down those steps."

         "Light-footed me?" Smith replied. Then, turning serious, "How loud would several thousand people, running to get out of the rain, be, Bob? Combined with hoots and hollers and maybe some thunder?"

         "Dunno. Why?"

         Gibson saw Smith do that terrible thing with his lips again before the detective spoke. "Loud enough to cover up a gunshot, I'd bet."

         Before Gibson could respond, Smith huffed his way back up the steps. He made his way to the media skybox from which the announcers gave their play-by-play of the games. Although the game was canceled due to the rain, the news crew was still around, gathering up their equipment. Smith flashed his badge.

************

         An hour later, armed with a search warrant and backed up by two patrolmen, Smith hammered the front door of Angela Milton's home with his big fist. The woman opened the door, holding a gown together over her breasts, her hair a sexy tangle.

         Smith presented the warrant and pushed by the woman. He found Tony Milton keeping his dead brother's side of the marriage bed warm.

         Smith discovered the apron, cap and I.D. tag stolen from the beer vendor's locker at The Ballpark in the bedroom closet -- along with a .45 caliber pistol and, as a bonus, a tiny glass vial containing a drop of amber liquid.

         Taking the evidence to the living room, where the patrolmen watched over the suspects, Smith waved the evidence. "You want to tell me about murdering your husband, Mrs. Milton?"

         "I don't know what you're talking about," she growled.

         "Fine. I'll tell you. You and Tony wanted your husband dead. You poisoned his beer, then went to the bathroom and hung around long enough to have an alibi. As a backup plan, Tony was posing as a beer vendor, awaiting an opportunity to shoot his brother if the poison failed. That's why he smelled of beer."

         Angela Milton's forehead furrowed, but she said nothing. Tony's eyes darted left and right. Smith concentrated on him. "Would you like to know how I know all this?"

         To the detective's delight, Tony nodded.

         Smith smiled. "You made the mistake of having a very attractive accomplice, Tony. The news and film crew let me review the various crowd shots of the game. One of the cameramen took a liking to Angela, and kept panning back to her. In one sequence, while her husband was looking away, we clearly see Angela tipping something into his beer. Shortly thereafter, the cameraman watched Angela walk up the steps on the way to the bathroom. Can't say I blame him.

         "The rain began. Your brother was about to join the crowd in their stampede for cover, his beer untouched. That's when you took advantage of the rush and noise and slipped up behind your brother and shot him. That same cameraman, hoping for another look at Angela, has a shot of you wincing as you pulled the trigger, and your brother's face frozen in surprise and pain."

         Smith addressed the patrolmen, "Cuff'em and stuff'em, men. This team just struck out."

The End

Winner of the July 10, 2003 edition of "The Writer's Cramp" 
Using the prompt:
A baseball game in the middle of a rain delay, a dead spectator, and (choose one as a possible murder weapon) poisoned soft drink in souvenir
cup, .45 caliber hand gun, or a knife.

DMM