ORCHARD PRESS MYSTERIES, SHORT FICTION & POETRY  

Orchard Press Online Mystery Magazine
April 2002

Camouflage Murder
 a short story
 by Leon Altman

Leon Altman's first story about homicide detectives Aaron Evans and Eddie Logan was The Confession, published online last year in the July/August issue of Plots with Guns, followed by A Bad Neighbor, in the September issue of Nefarious: Tales of Mystery, and The Distraction, in the December issue of The Murder Hole. His homicide detectives continue in Camouflage Murder. Leon insists on accuracy and the use of proper police procedures in his stories, and utilizes the editorial services of an editor for the Police Writers Association.

        The man stood over the body under the white sheet, watched as the EMS men picked it up with the stretcher.  The man was tall, broad shouldered, with a small paunch that protruded over his belt.  His dark hair receded from his brow to the crown of his head, revealing a large widows peak. 

        Eddie Logan’s eyes hop-scotched between the man and the body under the sheet.  Still can’t get used to the sight of a dead body even after two years as a homicide detective, Eddie mused. 

        A train passed on the other side of the tracks; the whistle blared throughout the station.  The stairs were blocked off by yellow tape that was labeled POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS. 

        The man turned, glared at Eddie Logan and his partner, Aaron Evans.  “All right.  All right.  Now what are you two doing standing there?” He demanded.  “That’s my wife over there.  Who are you, anyway?” 

        Eddie looked at the man, pressed his lips together.  “I’m Detective Logan.  This is my partner, Detective Evans.”

        “Well, isn’t that great.” His voice low, harsh, full of sarcasm.  “While you’re here, the man who pushed my wife off the platform is getting away.”

        “You want to tell us what happened Mr…” Aaron asked. 

        “Matz.  Arthur Matz.” 

        “Okay, Mr. Matz.”

        Arthur looked up at Aaron, bit his lower lip.  “My wife and I were standing on this platform when the train was coming.  Next thing we knew, some guy that looked like a homeless person came over, grabbed my wife’s pocketbook and shoved her on to the tracks.”

        Aaron listened, wiped the perspiration on his bald head with the heel of his hand.  He was tall, muscular, with a complexion that was nearly the color of coffee.  “How did you know he was homeless?”  . 

        “Well, he was wearing green army fatigues.  He smelled.  And he talked to himself.” 

        “Was he on the platform when you got here?”  Eddie asked. 

        Arthur shrugged his shoulders, twisted his wedding band with his thumb and forefinger.  “Hey, I don’t know.  I wasn’t paying any attention.  I was talking to my wife.”

        Aaron nodded his head, scratched his chin.  “So, you’re standing here and this guy comes out of nowhere and throws your wife onto the tracks.  Did you go after him?”

        “Did I go after him?”  Arthur put his hands on his hips, formed the letter “o” with his lips.  “My wife was on the tracks.  A train hit her.  It all happened so fast.”

        Aaron studied the steps, wrinkled his forehead in concentration.  “Let’s go talk to the conductor,” he suggested to Eddie.      

        “Forget the conductor.  Find that guy for Christ sake.”

        “Look...” Eddie said

        “No you look.  You guys just do your job and find the killer.”

        “We will,” Eddie replied angrily. 

        Arthur clenched his fists, glared at the detectives.  “What the hell are you guys doing letting deranged homeless people walk the streets like this.  We take care of this in New York.”

        “It’s no different here in Chicago than it is in New York,” Eddie replied patiently.  

        “Well, all I know is that I come here for a vacation and now my wife is murdered.  And you’re standing here questioning me instead of finding that man.” 

        A white van with Channel 7 News painted on the side pulled into a parking spot, the doors opened, and a man came out with a camera, followed by a woman with a microphone.  A group of people gathered around them.  Arthur looked at the truck, walked towards the stairs.  

        Yes, the man has a reason to be upset, Eddie reflected.  After all, his wife was just murdered.  But why didn’t he go after the homeless man?  

        “Very strange,” Aaron said. 

        Eddie stared at Aaron, smiled.  “What is?” Eddie asked.  The wheels were already turning, Eddie mused.  Aaron will probably find this guy before the end of the day. 

        “Mr. Matz jumping to the conclusion that the man was homeless.” 

        “Well, you know how people are.  From the way he described him, most people would think the same thing.”

        Aaron folded his arms across his chest, gnawed at his lower lip.  “I find it interesting that this homeless man ran down that long flight of stairs.  Must have been in good shape.” 

        Eddie gazed at the steps, narrowed his eyes.  “Interesting thought.  Hey, there’s Joe Russo.  Let’s see what he has to say.” 

        Eddie followed Aaron, let his eyes flicker from Aaron to Joe.  Joe was shorter than Aaron and his arms bulged out of his blue uniform.  He looked more like a wrestler than a cop.  “This is sickening, isn’t it,” Joe said. 

        “Yeah.  You talk to people on the platform?”  Eddie asked. 

        Joe raked his hand through his sandy hair, gazed at Eddie.  “Weren’t that many people around.  Actually, Mr. Matz and his wife were pretty far away from the others so no one else really saw anything until it was too late.”

        Aaron rolled his tongue around the inside of his cheek, nodded his head.  “Tourists in a strange city.  And they stay away from the crowd.  Did anyone go after the homeless person when he ran down the stairs?”

        Joe shook his head.  “No.  No one was really paying any attention.  It all happened in a few seconds.  Then he was gone.” 

        “You talk to the conductor?” Eddie asked. 

        “Not yet.  He’s right behind you.”   

        Eddie turned, saw the conductor sitting on a bench.  His dark hair was cut above his ears.  His hollow cheeks were complemented by his olive complexion.  His whole body was shaking.  Eddie walked toward him, heard Aaron’s footsteps behind him.  “You okay?” 

        “I guess so.”  His voice was deep, with a heavy Spanish accent.  “It was horrible.  I wanted to stop but it happened so fast.  I mean, I always blow my horn if I see anyone leaning over the platform.  But that guy came out and pushed the woman over.” 

        “You see him go down the stairs?” Aaron inquired. 

        The conductor wiped his mustache with his forefinger, sighed.  “Yeah.  Must have taken them two at a time.  He ran real fast.” 

        Eddie nodded, patted him on the shoulder.  “Try to take it easy.” 

        The conductor took a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, opened it, put one to his lips, lit it.   “I’ve been on this job for 10 years.  Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”

        Eddie pointed to Joe Russo.  “See that man over there.  He needs to take your statement down at headquarters.

        The man drew deeply on his cigarette, blew smoke through his nostrils. “Okay.”  He rose to his feet, walked over to Joe. 

        Eddie gazed at Arthur Matz next to the news truck.  The reporter was holding a microphone towards his mouth.  “Now what?” 

        “Let’s go downstairs.  Look around the area.”   

        “Okay.” 

        Eddie walked to the steps, held the yellow tape up for Aaron, watched Aaron duck under it, followed him down the stairs.  Eddie reached the bottom first, looked at the houses across the street.  A red headed woman tended to her row of flowers that surrounded her green ranch styled house.  Aaron put his hands on his hips, smiled.  “Let’s see if she knows anything.” 

        “Aaron, her back is to us.  And how long could she have been out here.  All she’s doing is planting flowers.” 

        “But there are a lot of flowers, aren’t there.  And she seems like she takes good care of them.” 

        Eddie watched Aaron cross the street, fell in behind him.  The woman turned, crimped her eyebrows, stood up.  Her red hair was parted in the center, allowed to flow down over her shoulders and on to her black tee shirt, framing her hazel eyes and freckles.  “Can I help you?” 

        Aaron flashed his badge, introduced himself and Eddie.  “We were hoping you could help us.  Have you been out here long?”

        “I’ve been here about an hour. Why?”  

        “We’re looking for a man who ran down the stairs from the train tracks.  He was wearing green army fatigues.  Did you see him?”  Aaron asked.

        The woman brushed a wisp of red hair from her face, wiped the perspiration from her forehead.  “Yes.  I saw him.  What’s this all about?” 

        “The man grabbed a woman’s pocketbook and threw her down the tracks,” Eddie answered.  “She was hit by the train.”

        “Oh my god.”  The woman raised her hand, bit her knuckle.  “How horrible.” 

        “Is the woman...”

        “Yes,” Aaron replied.  “Look, did you see which way the man went?”

        “Well, he turned left, started to run, slipped and fell into those garbage cans over there. Then he got up, ran to the corner, got into a van, and drove off.” 

        “He jumped into a van?” Eddie asked.

        “Yes.  “It was a blue van.  The engine was running.  I just thought that the man was in a rush to get home.  Yet I couldn’t understand why the van was at the corner.” 

        “Did you see a license plate?” Eddie pressed.

        “No.  The van was too far away.  But the man put his hands to his chest.  I think he may have dropped something when he fell into the garbage cans.” 

        “Let’s go check it out,” Aaron said anxiously.  “Thank you.” 

        “You’re welcome.  I hope you catch him.” 

        Aaron ran across the street, stopped by the garbage cans.  Eddie strolled over, shook his head.  “If the guy who did this was homeless, it seems pretty strange that a van would be waiting for him.”

        “That’s true,” Aaron answered.  He crouched down, looked at a silver cigarette lighter, dug into his pocket, came out with a pair of latex gloves, put them on.  Then he took out a zip-lock bag, picked up the cigarette lighter, put in the bag, sealed it, labeled it.  “This may be what the man was looking for.  Let’s bring it to forensics.  Maybe they can get a fingerprint from it.”

        Two hours later, Eddie sat at his desk in the 29^th precinct, filled out his homicide report.  His thoughts turned to the homeless man.  Why was that van waiting for him?  Did the man plan to throw a woman on to the tracks, run off with her pocketbook and have an escape vehicle waiting?

        Aaron sat a few feet away, drummed his fingers on his desk, held the phone to his ear.  He leaned back in his chair, arched his eyebrows.  After a few minutes, he said “Thanks Marvin.”  He dropped the receiver on the hook, looked at his partner.  “Well, this gets more interesting by the minute.” 

        “How so?”  Eddie asked. 

        Aaron sipped his coffee from a foam cup, set it back on the desk.  “That was a friend of mine from homicide in New York.  He told me that last month, Mrs. Matz was walking through Central Park on her lunch hour when someone mugged her.  Stabbed her in the back with a knife.  She was lucky to be alive.”

        Eddie propped an elbow on his desk, rested his chin on his palm.  “You’re not going to tell me that it was a homeless person.” 

        “Edward.  Of course not.  That would make our job too easy.  It was a woman.”

        “A woman.” 

        “Yes.”

        “Anyone get a good look at her?”

        Aaron put the coffee to his lips, drained it, tossed it in the garbage pail.  “Nope.  Wearing dark pants, sweater, and dark glasses.” 

        Eddie leaned back, laced his hands behind his head, saw Archie Griffin, head of the forensics unit, walking toward him.  Archie shook his tousled red hair, held a sheet of paper in his right hand.  “Well, I have good news and bad news.  Which do you want to hear first?” 

        “Good news,” Eddie said.

        “We got a print off the cigarette lighter.  Name is Bob Harper.  Been in and out of jail.  Last time it was for assault and robbery.” 

        “That’s great,” Aaron replied.  “What could the bad news be?” 

        “Last known address is about six months old.  Hasn’t been there for a while.  Bob is a drifter.  He could be anywhere now.  It’s gonna be hard to find him.”  Archie held the paper up, showed the photo of Bob Harper to the homicide detectives, placed it on the desk between them.   

        Eddie drew a deep breath, clicked his teeth together.  “Great.” 

        “I’ll tell you something else.  This is all over the news.  Mrs. Matz owned an art gallery in New York.  She’s rich.  And so is her husband.  He’s on the news demanding that you guys go to all the homeless shelters to track the guy down.” 

        “Does he know about Bob Harper?”  Aaron asked. 

        “Not yet.  Hasn’t even called.  He’s just yelling and screaming that we gotta do something about the homeless people.” 

        “Great,” Eddie added.  “So that’s what we’re going to do?”

        “Well, before we do, I’d like to go to some car rental places first,” Aaron suggested. 

        Eddie quirked an eyebrow, chewed the inside of his cheek.  “Why?” 

        “Just a hunch.” 

        “Aaron, the guy’s not a tourist,” Archie said.  “He’s a drifter.  He doesn’t even have an address.”  

        Aaron picked up the picture of Bob Harper, studied the black and white photo.  “Just the same, let’s go to Romero’s.  I saw the car rental place as we drove to the train station.  They’re about 15 minutes away.” 

        An hour later, Eddie walked into Romero’s, saw a woman at a computer terminal.  Aaron flashed his badge, showed her the picture of Bob Harper, told her what he wanted.  The woman at the counter stared at her computer terminal, ran her hand through her auburn hair, started typing.

        “Yeah, I remember them,” she said.  “Name was Bob Harper.  A woman was with him.  Kept calling her Helen.  They argued about who was going to leave ID but in the end, he agreed.  He’s staying at the Chester Hotel.” 

        Eddie thanked her, walked out of the office.  Aaron followed, pulled out his radio.

        “I remember the Chester Hotel.  It’s a real fleabag,” Aaron said. 

        An hour later, Eddie walked into The Chester Hotel, showed his badge to a heavyset clerk with long dark hair that flowed over his shoulders.  He looked at Aaron, told him that Bob Harper was on the third floor in room 300.  Eddie and Aaron walked into the elevator, rode it to the third floor, stepped out together.  Eddie spotted Bob Harper in the hallway, looked him over, the scar above his eye, his large arms, and the tattoos that covered his forearms. 

        “You Bob Harper?” Eddie asked.

         “Yeah.”  His voice was low, gravelly. 

        “I’m Detective Logan.  This is Detective Evans.  We’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

        Bob opened the door, pointed inside.  “After you.” Eddie brushed past Bob, looked in the room.  Then Bob shoved Eddie inside, watched him crash into a coffee table. 

        Bob turned, licked his lips, lunged towards Aaron.  Aaron chopped viciously at Bob’s nose, heard him gasp.  As Bob started to fall to the ground, Aaron grabbed him by the shoulders, sank a left into his stomach, threw a right to his jaw.  Bob staggered back into a chest of drawers, slumped to the floor, sat.  Eddie stood up angrily, brushed his pants off.  “Sorry about that.”

        “No big deal.  You didn’t expect it.  I’m surprised he tried that.” 

        A woman with ash blond hair appeared in the doorway.  She was tall, slender.  Her black tee shirt couldn’t stop her breasts from moving up and down.  Her black shorts accentuated her long, tapering legs.  “What the hell is going on here?” She yelled.  “I’m calling the cops.” 

        “You Helen?”  Eddie asked. 

        “Yeah.” 

        “Good.  We are the police.  Like to ask you a few questions about Margaret Matz’s murder.” 

        Her eyes widened, she started to run.  Eddie ran after her, grabbed her by the waist with both hands, threw her on the floor.  He drew her arms behind her back, put the cuffs on her wrists.  She screamed, “Let me go, let me go.”  Aaron stood at the doorway, chuckled.  “Now why do you get the easy ones?”

        “Cause you’re bigger.”

        “Oh.”  Aaron gazed at Bob, shook his head.  “You really make me sick, you know that.” 

        “Shut up Bob.  Don’t you say anything,” Helen shrilled. 

        “He doesn’t need to say anything,” Aaron replied somberly.  “I know what’s going on.”

        “Care to tell me?”

        Aaron nodded, explained his theory to Eddie.  Eddie listened, felt a wave of nausea in his stomach.   

        An hour later, Aaron pushed through the door that led to the bar of the Marriott Hotel.  Eddie trailed behind him.  Aaron spotted Arthur Matz at the bar, noticed that he swirled the liquor in his drink.  Arthur glanced at the homicide detectives, forced a smile.  “Well. Well.  Well.  Chicago’s finest.  Okay.  What are you doing here?” 

        “We thought you’d like to know how things are going,” Aaron said. 

         Arthur rose from his stool, nodded his head anxiously.  “I do.  Talk to me.”

        “Okay,” Aaron replied.  “You and your girlfriend, Helen Peters, hired Bob Harper to kill your wife.  You had hired Helen to kill Margaret about a month ago in Central Park but she failed.  She admitted that you were her lover and that you were going to collect a life insurance policy on your wife’s death for about $500,000.  And of course, you would inherit Margaret’s money as well.”

        Eddie walked over, slipped the cuffs on Arthur’s wrists. “It took Bob about 15 minutes to tell us that you paid him  $20,000 to impersonate a homeless man and push your wife over the platform.  That was a really rotten thing to do, Arthur.”

        “I can’t believe this,” Arthur replied.  “How did you know?” 

        “I was suspicious of you from the moment I met you,” Aaron answered.  “You didn’t act like a man who loved his wife.  If it were me, I would have gone after the homeless person.”          

Contact the Author - laltman4@nyc.rr.com

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