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  ALFRED HITCHCOCK MYSTERY MAGAZINE

  July-August 2007

  Vol. 52, Nos. 7 and 8

  Dell Magazines

  New York

  Cover by Currier and Ives/Getty

  CONTENTS

  FICTION

  DOWN ON THE PONTCHARTRAIN by O'Neil De Noux

  MY LIFE IN CRIME by Janice Law

  PANDORA'S JOURNEY by Gilbert M. Stack

  DEATH AT MY DOOR by Percy Spurlark Parker

  MURDER: A USER'S GUIBE by Neil Schofield

  A PRISONER OF MEMORY by Robert S. Levinson

  GERMAN JOHNSON AND THE LOST HORIZON by L. A. Wilson, Jr.

  SCHOOL FOR BURGLARS by Melodie Campbell

  THE WEIGHT by Tim Maleeny

  COUNTRY MANNERS by Brendan DuBois

  THE PALACE ROXY by Jas. R. Petrin

  UNTYING THE KNOT by Barry Baldwin

  INCIDENT AT LONELY ROCKS by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  DEPARTMENTS

  EDITOR'S NOTES

  CONVERSATION with O'Neil De Noux

  REEL CRIME by Steve Hockensmith

  THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose

  BOOKED & PRINTED

  THE STORY THAT WON

  Click a Link for Easy Navigation

  CONTENTS

  EDITOR'S NOTES: Details, details by Linda Landrigan

  DOWN ON THE PONTCHARTRAIN by O'Neil De Noux

  MY LIFE IN CRIME by Janice Law

  REEL CRIME by Steve Hockensmith

  PANDORA'S JOURNEY by Gilbert M. Stack

  THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose

  DEATH AT MY DOOR by Percy Spurlark Parker

  MURDER: A USER'S GUIBE by Neil Schofield

  A PRISONER OF MEMORY by Robert S. Levinson

  GERMAN JOHNSON AND THE LOST HORIZON by L. A. Wilson, Jr.

  SCHOOL FOR BURGLARS by Melodie Campbell

  BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  THE WEIGHT by Tim Maleeny

  COUNTRY MANNERS by Brendan Dubois

  THE PALACE ROXY by Jas. R. Petrin

  HOW TO SOLVE ANACROSTIC

  UNTYING THE KNOT by Barry Baldwin

  INCIDENT AT LONELY ROCKS by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  COMING IN SEPTEMBER 2007

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  EDITOR'S NOTES: Details, details by Linda Landrigan

  The devil, as they say, is in the details.

  Short stories depend on the effective employment of well-chosen details, the details that reveal a place, a character, or an era.

  For O'Neil De Noux, those details often concern the city of New Orleans, which he once again masterly evokes in his latest John Raven Beau story, “Down on the Pontchartrain.” His depiction of the city is all the more poignant in this story, which occurs B.K.—before Hurricane Katrina wreaked its destruction. In the subsequent Conversation, Mr. De Noux talks a bit about his own connection to the Crescent City and the effect Katrina has had on his life.

  Not all series are rooted in the same locale. Gilbert M. Stack selects just the right details to establish a new setting for each tale of his peripatetic trio: bare-knuckle boxer Corey Callaghan, his trainer Patrick O'Sullivan, and the lady gambler Pandora Parson. In “Pandora's Journey,” the confines of a train make for a tight, tense crime drama.

  Robert S. Levinson and Percy Spurlock Parker each place their characters in glamorous, deftly evoked locales, Hollywood and Vegas, respectively, and each shows us the more unsavory hazards of fame and fortune. In Mr. Levinson's “A Prisoner of Memory,” an aging movie star is convinced she is being stalked. In Mr. Parker's new Trevor Oaks story “Death at My Door,” the naïve granddaughter of a late mobster is blackmailed.

  Jas. R. Petrin has established a thoroughly realized setting in his fictional End of Main stories, where the town's retired police chief, Robideau, has now turned reluctant private eye. In “The Palace Roxy,” Robideau turns to the sundry and colorful characters of the Netley tavern to learn the secrets of a rundown movie theater.

  Kristine Kathryn Rusch sets her latest tale on the beautiful Oregon coast, but what makes many of her stories distinctive is her attention to the details of her characters’ daily jobs. In “Incident at Lonely Rocks,” Oscar, in the course of doing his job, comes across a grisly crime scene.

  L.A. Wilson, Jr., also expertly captures his characters in their daily lives, just at the moment when events conspire to upset the delicate harmony. “German Johnson and the Lost Horizon” takes place in post-World War II New York, where racism and evil have descended from the world stage to a small table in a restaurant in Harlem. The Post-War era may likewise be the setting for Barry Baldwin's meditative tale, “Untying the Knot,” but it is very much a post-9/11 story as well.

  Anyone who's ever tried to decipher an instruction manual will appreciate the telling details of Neil Schofield's cautionary tale “Murder: A User's Guibe.” But if you're inclined to be an overly empathetic reader, well, you've been warned.

  We welcome two new authors this month, Tim Maleeny and Melodie Campbell. Mr. Maleeny ("The Weight"), an advertising executive in San Franscico, is the author of the recently published novel Stealing the Dragon, from Midnight Ink. His second novel in that series, “Beating the Babushka,” comes out later this year. The author of “School for Burglars,” Melodie Campbell, of Oakville, Ontario, is a “director of marketing by day, crime writer by night.” She's published numerous short stories and humor articles in Canada and the U.S. and also teaches humor and fiction writing at Sheridan College.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  DOWN ON THE PONTCHARTRAIN by O'Neil De Noux

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  Anthony Mullen

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  MONDAY, 22 AUGUST 2005

  The call comes over my portable police radio just as I step aboard Sad Lisa—Headquarters calling for Homicide ... a signal thirty ... parking lot ... West End Park. I can't help thinking this is what I get for trying to knock off early on my squad's last night before we switch from the midnight shift.

  Moving to the side of my houseboat, I look across the 17th Street Canal at West End Park. Don't see much beyond the low seawall except the rear of the elevated wooden restaurants and the tops of oak trees bathed in soft yellow streetlight. I glance at my watch on the way back to my unmarked Chevy parked on Orpheum Avenue alongside Sad Lisa. It's five A.M. exactly. I lock my briefcase in the trunk but only after taking out my notepad and ballpoint pen, tucking them into the pocket of my navy blue suit coat. The night air is still clammy, still hot from the day's heat.

  My sergeant calls me on the radio as I start across the new pedestrian bridge connecting Bucktown, where Sad Lisa is permanently moored, to Orleans Parish. I tell him I'll be at West End Park in two minutes. You see, it's my turn. I'm up for the next murder.

  The new bridge is red brick with an iron railing painted dark green, about fifteen feet wide and maybe forty yards long, rising in the center to allow small boats from Lake Pontchartrain. A brisk breeze blows from the lake, and I watch waves slap against the rocky shoreline. They're not rocks, actually, but large concrete blocks lying at odd angles, keeping the lake from eating away the land. I lick the
salty mist from my lips. A large orange cat perched on the bridge railing near the base of the bridge glares at me with yellow eyes as I pass.

  Can't miss the crime scene. Two New Orleans police cars, red and blue lights flashing, headlights illuminating figures standing next to a large live oak and a figure on the ground. Three other police cars are also there, Levee Board cops and a Jefferson Parish Sheriff's unit, drawn to the crime scene like bugs to a lightbulb.

  Stepping up, I recognize the big cop just as he turns his flashlight my way and announces, “Well, it's Sioux time, ladies and gents!"

  I shake my head as I move through the assembled officers.

  Sidney Tilghman, a sergeant now, continues my introduction. “This here's Homicide Detective John Raven Beau whose daddy hailed from the swamps of Vermilion Bay and his mama from the Dakotas. Don't remember which one.” Tilghman sidles next to me as I ease to the right to let the dim streetlight illuminate the body. “How you been, old buddy?” he asks. “See you're still skinny.” Tilghman has put on a few pounds, more than a few in a couple years. We're both thirty, but he looks more than a couple years older, with a hint of gray in his curly hair.

  We were on the same platoon back in the Second District, the uptown police, both patrolmen before he made sergeant and I moved to the land of murder, suicide, and other negligent homicides. I shrug and turn to the other officer, a tall, thin woman with coal black skin, large brown eyes, and hair parted in cornrows. Her nameplate reads S. PANOLA.

  At six two, I'm a good four inches taller than Officer Panola. I nod toward the body and ask her, “Shine your light on it, okay?"

  She nods and focuses her bright flashlight on the dead woman lying on her side beneath an oak at the edge of the parking lot. The victim's skin glows pallid white. Over the radio, I hear a crime lab tech is en route, as well as another homicide detective.

  I list the victim's vital stats in my notes: white female, about thirty, tallish, maybe five ten, thin build, light brown hair styled short, brown eyes, tattoo of pearls around her neck, tattoo of a heart on left forearm. Body pierced with four earring holes in each ear. I describe the silver- and gold-colored earrings as well as the stainless steel rod piercing the right side of her nose. Clothing: green tie-dyed blouse ripped in front, long tan skirt, brown sandals.

  "He looks even more Sioux from the side,” Tilghman tells the Levee Board cops. “You know. The profile.” He starts talking about my hawk nose and slightly protruding brow, next will be my straight brown Sioux hair and how a former girlfriend told the guys, outside the district station, of all places, how she liked to trace her fingernails along my square jawline.

  "Don't you have anything better to do?” I snap.

  "Not really."

  I turn to Officer Panola and ask, “No purse?"

  She points to a red Nissan parked just beyond the police cars. “In her car."

  "You still carry that bowie knife?” Tilghman asks.

  "It isn't a bowie knife,” I tell him, then ask Panola, “Who found the body?"

  "It's big as a bowie knife.” Tilghman again.

  Officer Panola tells me a coworker found the body and points to her police car, where I see a figure seated in the back seat. “Both start working at five. They clean the restaurant before the cooks come in.” She's looking at her notes now. “Victim is Monique Lewis, spelled like Meriwether Lewis. Witness is Shameka Johnson.” She spells out Shameka for me. “When Shameka arrived, she saw Monique's car but couldn't find her in the restaurant, so she stepped out, figuring Monique was taking a smoke, and found her. Didn't see anyone else around. Went back in and called 911."

  Panola looks up at me, and I ask, “Where's your partner?” NOPD beat units are usually two-man cars. I look over as another NOPD car joins us.

  "He went home sick. Sarge came along in his unit."

  Tilghman puts a friendly hand on my shoulder. “Come on. They don't believe you carry a backup knife instead of a pistol.” He nods toward the Levee Board cops and the two JPs.

  Jesus! I reach under my coat to the scabbard and pull out my black obsidian hunting knife, sharpened on one side only, like the true plains warriors of my ancestry. I slap the buffalo bone handle in Tilghman's open hand. “Don't drop it."

  While the men gather around like kids leering at a new toy, I ease Panola closer to the body and ask her to focus her flashlight on the victim's neck. We both go down on our haunches.

  Red marks ring her throat, bluish bruises across her larynx. Her neck seems distorted, swollen, her tongue purple and protruding, a line of blood seeping from her mouth. Death by strangulation. Three of her fingernails, painted light purple, are broken. I find one a couple feet from her, the other a little farther away. Can't find the third. Looking closely, I see they are real fingernails, not the glue-on type.

  "She put up a fight. Probably scratched him."

  I stand and Panola follows and wavers, so I take her elbow.

  "You all right?” I whisper.

  She nods.

  "No ligature,” I tell her as she stands more erect, and I let go of her elbow.

  "Huh?"

  "No ligature mark. A rope or like instrument wasn't used. Someone used their hands to strangle her."

  "Damn."

  "Exactly."

  I step back and snatch my knife from one of the Levee Board cops who's trying to cut a strand of hair with it. Two pair of headlights close in on us, a crime lab van and another unmarked Chevy. I slip my knife back into its scabbard.

  "She's a granola girl,” Tilghman announces, looking at the victim again.

  "Granola?"

  "Yeah. Tie-dyed blouse. Tattoos. Body piercings. West Coast Oregon sandals. She's a New Age hippie."

  "Oregon sandals?” I shake my head.

  "Birkenstocks,” Panola tells me.

  I've heard of that brand name.

  "Granola girl,” Tilghman repeats. “Eats roots and stuff. Granola."

  "Can you do me a real favor?” I ask my old friend.

  "Sure."

  "Go canvass. Take those two with you.” I point at the two newly arrived NOPD guys. “Check if any of these restaurants have outdoor surveillance cameras, but leave Panola with me. I'll need her and her flashlight. Go see who's out there, maybe saw something.” I wave at the line of restaurants, the dark parking lot, and the park beyond. “Keep an eye out for a broken purple fingernail."

  "A what?"

  The second homicide detective moves through the cops. Mike Borgo, a rookie detective without a permanent partner at the moment, came to our squad earlier this week. He'd been bouncing from scene to scene to get a grasp of what we do. He nods at me, and I ask him to get the names of all these cops—which will run the JPs off pretty quickly.

  Then I give Borgo the rundown on the body and the witness in the car. Borgo's in a black suit, stands about five ten, husky, a big-boned Sicilian with brown eyes even lighter than mine, a thick mane of blackish hair, and a matching mustache.

  "Damn,” he says. “Strangled by hand. See this often?"

  "Nope."

  Panola gives me a weak smile.

  "Which restaurant?” I ask.

  She points to the nearest, Maxim's Crab Claw Restaurant. The crime lab tech arrives with his camera case and evidence bag. I nod to the body, telling him about the fingernails, and then point to the victim's red Nissan. Borgo will assist him with the measurements, triangulating the body's position to fixed objects, the oak tree, light posts, while Panola and I go speak with our witness.

  Shameka Johnson is twenty-two, five four, one-twenty pounds, brown and brown with caramel-colored skin. She wears a dark green sweat suit and jogging shoes as she sits with her feet up on the seat, knees pressed to her chest, arms holding them close. In a wavering voice she tells me how her boyfriend Eddie dropped her off at Maxim's and drove away right after. I get his name and contact information for follow-up. They live together on Mazant Street.

  The restaurant was locked, but Shameka saw
Monique's car so she went in but didn't see her inside, so she came back out and found her. No, she saw no one in the area. She knows very little about Monique except she was single, liked boys all right, toked an occasional joint. She knows no one who would have done something like this and no suspicious people in the area. Both had been working for Maxim's for only a few months. Monique about three months. I list the name of the boss, cooks, everyone she can name.

  "What now?” Borgo asks as the strobe from the crime lab's camera flashes behind us.

  I point to the car just arriving. “Those'll be the cooks for Maxim's. You know what to do.” I remind him anyway to get their IDs, alibis, check for scratches, how well they knew the victim, if they know who would've done this, suspicious people in the area, the usual.

  I stretch the kinks in my back as the sky is now purple and pink in the east. Two brown pelicans glide over the lake, dipping toward the water beyond Maxim's. Standing next to me, Panola tells me she's part Choctaw, on her father's side.

  I nod and say, “Panola means cotton in Choctaw, doesn't it?"

  She's surprised and gives me a shaky smile. “It sure does."

  We go back to make certain the crime lab tech photographed the fingernails before dusting them for prints (partials more likely) and that he doesn't leave them by mistake. As the crime lab finishes, the coroner's van arrives and the coroner's investigator pulls on a pair of rubber gloves to touch the body.

  "Doesn't appear to be a sex crime,” Panola says. “Maybe he knew her."

  "Could be a sex crime,” I tell her. “Whatever enraged the killer could be sexual. A sexual hatred. He might have been interrupted before finishing. We have no idea if he knew her. Not yet."

  "Only he knows why,” Borgo adds.

  I go on, “We don't focus on why she was killed. We establish what happened, when, where, and most importantly, who. Who is she and who did this. Sometimes we find out why. Sometimes we don't."

  After the tech dusts the Nissan for prints, we pull out Monique Lewis's purse, securing her driver's license for the coroner for identification purposes before they take her body. We also secure her apartment keys. Monique lived on First Street, right in my old beat in the Second District.