Total Sarcasm
by
Dan Ames
Death by Sarcasm
(Mary Cooper Mystery #1)
by
Dan Ames
Sarcasm is the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded.
Sarcasm is the language of the devil.
There’s a fine line between fishing and standing on the shore looking like an idiot.
Chapter One
Instead of the local rats, a team of crime scene technicians scurried around the grimy alley, popping flashbulbs and taking notes. Occasionally, blue and red lights flashed on the cinderblock walls, courtesy of the black-and-whites blocking each end of the alley.
Mary Cooper stood next to her uncle’s body. The large pool of blood — to her it looked like a Snow Angel from Hell — had already thickened, turning darker as if its purity had been contaminated by the lingering sins of the alley’s sordid past. And even though the club was just a few blocks from the Pacific, the air held a thick pall of L.A.’s favorite aromatherapy scents: rotting garbage, human piss, and death.
Mary had said nothing upon her arrival. Now, several minutes later, the uniforms were starting to sneak glances at her, wondering how long she planned to maintain her silent vigil. They unconsciously positioned themselves closer to her, just in case her grief and rage exploded and they needed to restrain her in order to protect the sanctity of the crime scene.
In the alley behind some two-bit comedy bar called the Leg Pull, Brent Cooper had been shot in the head. A large, deep cut had been made across his belly. The knife, a long, bone handled stiletto was then thrust into the body; its perfect verticality looked like an exclamation point to Mary. And the knife held in place a note.
The words on the paper were in thick block letters, probably from a Magic Marker.
Bust a gut.
Mary tore her eyes away from her uncle and glanced up at the officer now standing directly in front of her, watching her. His eyes seemed to implore her to express her emotions, but in a calm, measured way. She could guess what he was thinking. That maybe she would tell him a cute little story about how her uncle used to swing her in the air and threaten to withhold ice cream if she screamed. Or maybe she would tell him how her uncle used to insist on reading ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas every year in front of a crackling fireplace near the twinkling tree. But Mary offered no tidbits. For one thing, Mary had no such stories. Nobody would ever confuse their family with the Cleavers. And while there was definitely grief, and an abundance of rage, she had used the time observing her dead uncle to unclench her fists. To slow her racing heartbeat, and to gather her thoughts. She pushed aside her own feelings and coolly observed the crime scene. Took in the facts of the murder. But at some point, she knew she had to say something to the uniforms.
So then, at last, she turned to them and spoke.
“Are you sure he’s not just asleep?”
Chapter Two
Detective Jacob Cornell emerged from a dark section of the alley and nodded to the uniform guarding the crime scene. Cornell was a big man, with a considerable physique, and a handsome-ish face. Not the kind that would land him on the cover of GQ, but certainly could find him a place in a Walmart flyer modeling $7.99 flannel shirts. Now, he wore a sportcoat that camouflaged his powerful upper body, and khakis that hid the ankle gun Mary knew he always wore.
“Jesus Christ, Mary, he’s your uncle…was your uncle,” he said, his voice a whisper. “I mean, I called you here because I thought you would want to know. I mean, I know it’s not my place, but, a little respect, a little decorum…” His voice trailed off.
Mary nodded in agreement, as if she was glad she’d been properly admonished.
“True, true,” she said. “That’s a very, very good point, Jake.” She paused. “It’s just that he was always such a heavy sleeper. It runs in the family.” She cut her eyes over at him, winked, and said, “You know that.”
Jacob Cornell closed his eyes and held them shut for a beat. And then when he opened them, he looked at her with a sideways glance. “This is not the time and it certainly isn’t the place,” he said, his voice soft.
Mary felt warmed by his indignity. A little pissed that he was judging her, but she was used to that by now. Nobody would ever liken her to an open book. But still, despite his many faults, an overly developed sensitivity chief among them, Mary didn’t mind knowing someone like Jake. So good. So nice. So friggin’ cute.
“I’m not sure why you’re focusing on me, instead of my dead uncle lying over there in repose,” Mary said. “But since you’re questioning me, I ought to remind you that he was a comedian, Jake,” she said. “Believe me, if the roles were reversed, he’d be standing right here saying, ‘What’s the big deal? I’ve died hundreds of times at comedy clubs — but it was always on stage.’” She pantomimed a rim shot. “Boom ch,” she said.
One of the crime scene technicians looked up from his notepad at Mary. She caught his gaze and held it until he looked back down. Jake pulled out a notepad and tried to hide the guilty look on his face.
“Come on,” she said to him. They walked to the end of the alley and Mary looked west, toward the ocean. She couldn’t see anything. Just a vast darkness. She turned and caught her reflection in the store window. Did she look like a woman who’d just identified the corpse of a family member? She studied herself, saw a lean woman with a strong face wearing an expression that was open to interpretation. Just the way Mary liked it.
Jake broke into her thoughts. “A waitress on her smoke break found him,” he said, still speaking softly. “She ran back in and…”
“Was he already dead?”
Jake hesitated, then said, “She thinks he may have been…twitching a little.”
Mary nodded. Her hands involuntarily formed themselves into fists. She forced them back open, willed them to relax.
“So she runs in, calls 911, then finds the manager and they go out together,” Jake continued. “By then, he’s definitely dead.”
“Had they seen him inside? Before?”
“We’re talking to everyone now,” he said. “A few people thought they saw him at the bar, having a drink. A couple others thought he might have done a couple minutes on stage. But no one knows if he left with someone or by himself.”
“Who was on stage when he was there? Who was performing?”
Jake looked at her, his face blank. “Umm…I’ll have someone check on that.”
“Might be worth looking into,” Mary said. “Maybe he came specifically for the show. He’d been around comedy clubs for a long time. Maybe he knew the headliner — ”
“Oh, shit,” Jake said, his breath going out of him with a rush. The pen froze above his notepad. He looked directly behind Mary, over her shoulder.
“I’m sorry to hear about your loss,” a voice said. Mary felt the chill of recognition and her stomach turned sour. She turned and came face to face with Jacob Cornell’s superior. Mary should have known the woman would show up.
“Sergeant Davies,” Mary said, her voice calmer and more in control than she would have thought possible. “I almost didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”