Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 9, September 2006
Editor’s Notes
Notorious Stories
by Linda Landrigan
As we’ve reminded you regularly, AHMM is fifty years old this year. As part of our celebration of our golden anniversary, we had invited readers to nominate their favorite stories and authors from throughout the magazine’s history. The response was enthusiastic, and I’m happy to report that many of your favorites are now included in our new anthology, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense, published by Pegasus Books.
This anthology reflects the diversity we strive to bring you in each issue of the magazine: historicals and procedurals, cozies and noirs, humor and suspense. It also documents a half century of great storytelling, with tales drawn from each decade of the magazine’s existence and featuring such writers as Jim Thompson, Donald E. Westlake, Ed McBain, Jan Burke, and Sara Paretsky. And finally, it celebrates our proud tradition of showcasing less familiar writers and cultivating new and up-and-coming talent, so you can also look for the likes of Henry Slesar, Jack Ritchie, and Steven Wasylyk; early stories by Doug Allyn, Rob Kantner, and Martin Limón; and tales by such vigorous mid-career writers as I. J. Parker and Rhys Bowen.
Speaking of reader favorites, we are delighted to welcome back to our pages this month Walter Satterthwait and William Link, both returned after long absences. We have no new authors to introduce this month, but Kevin Prufer is making his second appearance in AHMM, and those of you who wrote in to tell us you enjoyed his first story (“The Body in the Spring,” June 2005) will surely enjoy “The River Market Murders” as well. Meanwhile, O’Neil De Noux’s atmospheric tale, “The Heart Has Reasons,” readily suggested our striking cover. And we welcome back also Susan Oleksiw, Jas. R. Petrin, and Bill Crenshaw, whose Fish Award — winning May 1984 story, “Poor Dumb Mouths,” is our Mystery Classic this month.
Editor’s
The River Market Murders
by Kevin Prufer
By the time Detective Armand arrived it was raining hard. He stood under his umbrella watching it sluice down the dead old woman’s legs and drip from her feet into widening puddles. Her shoes had fallen off in the struggle and her purse was gone. Her finger was broken and lopsided, a wedding ring pulled halfway off and lodged against the knuckle. Postmortem, Armand thought. Some dumb punk had tried to rip it off, but her hands were too swollen and stiff. Not far away, behind the yellow tape, a group of kids gawked and laughed.
The news helicopters had arrived ahead of him and were circling low, their big spotlights sweeping back and forth over the cops, the crowd, and the vic. Armand knew that even now he was on live TV. The rotors made his head hurt.
“I need a little light,” he said to the uniform, whoever she was, a new kid. The uniform brought her big light closer and shone it so Armand could just make out the red burn marks mostly concealed beneath the rope around the old woman’s neck. With a pencil, he tried to move the rope a bit, but she was still garroted tight.
Armand’s head hurt. He’d been asleep in his car, dreaming, when Washington, his partner, called. In the dream, it was his wife calling, the cell phone lost in the woods and ringing continuously as he searched the fallen leaves. Soon she’d hang up and he’d never have a chance to speak to her again, would never hear her voice, and he ran from tree to tree, the phone constantly receding and ringing as the sun went down and the woods grew dark.
And then he woke, his mouth dry as chalk, rain drumming on the car and filling it with damp. He picked the phone from the cup holder, connected. Where was he?
“Armand?” Washington said. A park, he was in a park. Swope Park, he thought, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Armand?”
“Yeah,” Armand said.
“Where the hell are you? C.I.B. has been calling, I’ve been calling.”
“Where do you think? I was asleep. I’ve been working nights.”
“Asleep where?”
“In my bed. What time is it?”
“The hell you were,” Washington said. “I called your house.”
Armand was silent, watching the rain stream down the windows. His head hurt. It was definitely Swope Park, and he’d only meant to close his eyes for a minute. He’d been overtired and off duty, and since his wife died he hadn’t been sleeping well at home.
“It’s eight o’clock. You’re late. We got a stiff,” Washington said after a moment.
“What kind of a stiff?” His mouth tasted like fur, and he fumbled the key into the ignition.
“It’s our boy,” Washington said. “Corner of Oak and Fifth. He got an old lady this time.”
When he bent forward to get a better view, Armand noticed blood on her lip and front teeth. One tooth was chipped. A shiver went up and down his back, like he was being watched.
“Tell you what,” Armand told the uniform beside him. “When I say so, I want you to turn around and sweep that light across the crowd real slow.”
“What for?” the uniform asked.
Armand’s head hurt. “Don’t worry what for,” he told her. Washington was in the unmarked car, making notes. Above, the helicopters guttered low, their spotlights flashing. The coroner’s guys shifted uneasily under black umbrellas, waiting to wrap the stiff in plastic and load her up. “Just do it. Right now.”
The uniform shrugged, turned, and shone the light slowly across the faces of the people in the crowd. A couple of kids laughed and waved from under their umbrellas, an old lady covered her eyes, and a tall, thin man with red hair stood straighter, looking over the heads of the others, directly into the light. He smiled a little, as if he were on TV or something. The guy made Armand’s palms itch.
He waited a respectable moment, then walked over to Washington’s unmarked Caprice and rapped on the window. It slid down. “What?” Washington said, like he had a problem.
“We got one fly in the crowd.”
“Yeah?” Washington made another note. He was filling out forms.
“White guy, about forty. Tall. Red hair.”
“And?”
“Nice umbrella, wooden handle. Black blazer, good cut.”
Washington shrugged.
“And it’s a funny night to be out for a stroll, right here where the neighborhood turns bad. In the rain.”
“I get it. I’ll ID him.” He capped his pen.
“Take all their names. Not just his.”
Washington rolled his eyes, and Armand was sorry he’d said what he’d said. Washington was a good cop, a better cop than Armand.
The redhaired guy said he was Philip Beispiel, a real estate lawyer who lived and worked near the River Market, not far from the scene, just across the border between a rough part of downtown and that area of the city the developers were gentrifying. A good neighborhood, pricey new loft apartments, all that. “Nice fellow,” Washington said. “ID checks out. Said he was just out for a walk.”
“Great night for a walk. Someone’s gonna steal his umbrella,” Armand said.
Armand was driving now. “He wasn’t that far from home. Lives right around the corner practically.” They passed the old Palace Theatre, which was tumbling into ruins, then the Cigar Bar, where Armand saw Donnie Palazzo, his old friend, leaning against the newspaper box, talking to a mean-looking black guy in a white hat.
“Cruising for old ladies in ankle socks?”
Washington laughed, and then he was silent. “Beispiel doesn’t fit anyway,” he said after a moment. “Teabone says the perp’s a short guy, got insecurity issues.”