The Patchwork Mystery

By Stan Cook

The Patchwork Mystery is a very involved murder mystery that will keep you guessing right to the end. Set in the late 1980s it is so involved that it was said to be like sewing a patchwork quilt where all the pieces have to fit together before you get the big picture. Rick Donovan, a writer and Steve Arden, a police Liutenant work together to solve this fasinating mystery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stan Cook
• Release date: Mar 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9780988812628

Stan Cook

Stan Cook was born and raised in Oregon, USA. After graduation he entered the US Navy where he spent 10 years in submarines. After advancement to Chief Warrant Officer he servered 14 months in Vietnam and Armed Forces Courier. He later joined the Honolulu Police Department and retired in 1999.. After 43 years of living in Hawaii he and his wife moved to the Pacific Northwest where they live at this time with plans to return to Hawaii

Book preview

Chapter 1 - Donovan

Rick Donovan had spent an intense afternoon and early evening at his typewriter. He glanced at his watch and was startled to discover he'd worked straight through to a quarter after eight. He'd have to think about something to eat, but just now he was sated with that special satisfaction that comes with a job well done.

Donovan was not a man to wait and let success find him. He went out after it aggressively, stubbornly and, as on this Wednesday, defiantly. Pulling at his pipe, he looked with grim satisfaction at the manuscript neatly stacked before him.

Rewrite, rewrite, rewrite, they had said, nodding sagely to each other like a like damned bald headed tribunal. Chap Four won't do. It would be offensive to our readers. You can suggest--infer--you don't have to lay the whole thing out that way.

In God's name, why not? he had shouted. After all the woman's been mugged, beaten and raped in the street in full view of her helpless brother. How can you infer a thing like that? I know it's not a nice picture.

Tim, trapped in his wheelchair, sees the whole thing as it happened from the window of their third floor flat. There's no way he can help her except to telephone the police and when he does he gets put on hold. He tells it just as it happened, in the seamy Jargon of his Vietnam fracas, which cost him his legs. He's bitter, angry and he himself a victim because he's earthy, blunt--okay, vulgar. The whole plot comes into focus because of what he sees and how he reacts to it. He's got to tell it in his own way or it just won't wash.

In the end they had won of course. Publishers can say, Write it our way or we won't publish it. The author can't say, Publish it my way or I won't write. At least not when you are a first timer like him.

Well, it was finished now. In four long torturous hours, he had bowed to their taste for literary palatability, without sacrificing Tim's basic character. And he had learned how powerful, how vital, the language became when without spelling it out in Tim's own raw street language, he met the challenge of telling her tragic story without defiling her memory. The facts lay stark and cruel and revolting somehow. It's more shocking because he couldn't bring himself to use the explicitly ugly jargon of streets.

Rick was pleased with himself. He knew he'd developed a better writing style this day. No doubt his publishers would still kick, but he was confident they would accept the new version. With a wry grin, he murmured, Sorry, guys, I owe you one.

Wearily, he got up and stretched his tired muscles, poured himself a drink at his makeshift bar and stood silently in the gloom outside the circle of light at his desk to drink his lonely toast to his accomplishment.

Craggy was the word one thought of, looking at Rick. Six foot four, well muscled, he had never slowed enough to put on much weight. The dark, brooding eyes, inherited from his French mother, the mass of unruly brown hair, the angular features that were the legacy of his Irish father--made him fascinating to women; and men found him good to know, a real down-to-earth sort of man.

Still nursing his drink, he walked to the window and looked down into the empty street below. The streetlight was out again, he noticed. The only light came through the window of Dorman's Deli and inside, as if on a stage, he could see old man Dorman himself watching--what was it -chickens roasting and a new gadget to give Mrs. Dorman something to fuss about. Grinning to himself, he shook his head.

What a pair! They would make a couple of good characters for his next book. He grimaced as he thought of going through the whole wonderful, miserable business of writing another--yet he knew he would. He drained his glass and stood turning it thoughtfully in slender, sensitive hands.

It seemed just yesterday, rather than nine long months ago, that he had walked into Smitty's office at the Clarion, with his final story on the police beat.

You'll have to make this one last, Smitty, he had said, tossing it on the desk.

I still think you're nuts, Rick. You've got a solid place on this rag. You're in the catbird seat down at police headquarters. Why in Hell do you have to quit now?

Can't help it--I'm full of a book and I have to get it out of my system. You knew that, Smitty. So don't lay a guilt thing on me. When the Atherton case went down, I knew it was the foundation for my book. It was just a matter of time. I won't be any good for the paper or to myself until I get that job done.

Smitty sighed deeply, Well, give'm hell son. Meantime, you need anything from us and it's yours. His gravelly voice gave away emotion that startled both of them, as he added, Now get out of here. Some of us have to work for a 1iving.

So he'd turned in his press card-just till you're ready to pick it up again, Smitty had said--picked up his paycheck and came to live on this street where the kind of people he liked to write about lived. Once again his eyes sought the circle of light behind him and fastened on the neatly stacked manuscript. Well, he had done it and already was planning the next.

Hooked, he said aloud and with a satisfied half-smile, turned to refill his glass.

Returning to the window, he noticed that a man was peering in at the deli's roasting chickens. Hunched against the constant wind from the river, he looked forlorn, but when he nervously scanned the empty street, the image seemed somehow threatening.

Watching, Rick felt a flash of concern for his lonely friend in the little shop and was conscious of a sense of relief when the solitary figure moved on into the darkness. That bugged him, sometimes the tingle of something not just right, a static electricity reaction almost. His eyes searched the street again. Everything seemed normal.

Rick yawned widely. Ah, there came Jim's upper-crust customer--in furs yet! When she had gone again, the old boy would close up. He drained his glass and went to rinse it in his tiny kitchen. Feeling hunger pangs, he opened the refrigerator and eyed its contents with disaffection. With a sigh, he began unbuttoning his shirt, still peering into the box in hopes of seeing some forgotten snack.

Abruptly he straightened, grinning happily. Jim's chicken! With a bottle of chill white wine--that would be the ticket to celebrate finishing the novel! Hastily, he re-buttoned his shirt, grabbed up a jacket and was nearly to the door, when he heard the shots.

The weird acoustics of the man-made canyon that was this street brought the sounds crashing about him as if they emanated from this very room. He knew that sound--how well he knew it! Six years of reporting on the police beat had made it all too familiar. For a moment, he stood tensely listening--then rushed to the window.

Up the street, toward the alley, a flurry of motion caught his peripheral vision, but when he looked that way, he could see nothing.

With a feeling of dread, he brought his attention to the Deli. The lights were still on, but with the door blind down, narrowing his field of vision, the shop seemed empty. Then he saw what appeared to be Jim's back move into view. He was kneeling beside something--or someone--on the floor.

Rick raced out his door, took the stairs in giant leaps and ran across the street. People were already leaning out of windows, or huddling on doorsteps, neighbor calling to neighbor in worried query.

Old Mrs. Nolan, huddled in her gray bathrobe, called from her steps, Was that shots, Mr. Donovan? What's happened?

I don't know, I don't know. His voice was big in the night. Go back inside--all of you--there may be danger. She scurried back indoors.

Chapter 2 - Aftershock

Donovan rushed into the shop to where he found Jim crouched over the sprawled body of the woman wearing furs.

What happened, Jim? My God, what happened?

I-I don't know. Dorman raised shaking hands to either side of his head. It all happened so fast, Rick. This man, he came in--and he just shot her--I think she's dead!

What man, Jim? Rick was checking for some spark of life and finding none. On the still white fingers, diamonds flashed a brilliant life of their own, almost obscene on the slim, lifeless hand. Rick shook his head, took a shaky breath and helped Dorman to stand.

Come now, Jim. She's gone. Brace up, man. Did you notice where the person who shot her went?

Outside, I guess. I just don't know. I just don't know.

Where's Ella, Jim?

In Connecticut with the kids. Thank God, she isn't here. Rick, what am I going to do?

Just come back here and sit in your chair, Jim. Try to get hold of yourself. I'll take care of things and then we'll talk.

The older man was led to his chair like a child. He slumped into it as if bereft of all vitality.

Rick dialed the phone swiftly, Detective Lieutenant Arden?  We have an emergency Steve.  This is Rick Donovan. There's serious trouble, Steve. Dorman's Deli--you know the place right?  It's a half a block off the park. A woman has been shot here. She's dead.... Of course I'm sure.... I don't know--unidentified male. He's gone.... Yes, I'm here with the owner of the place. He's in pretty poor shape.... Oh, no. He wasn't shot. Just feels terrible. Sure, I'll stay right here.

He turned back to his stricken friend. They'll be along soon. There's nothing else we can do now. Had you ever seen this man before?

Yes.

You know him?

No, no, I didn't know him. He was at the window before. That's when I first saw him. But he went away, I think. I can't seem to-- Rick realized that he was going to get extremely little out of this bewildered man at present. That shadowy figure at the window could he be the one? Had he returned to do this terrible thing?

Tell you what, Jim. You write down everything you remember about him on this paper. It will help when the police get here. Dorman nodded listlessly and picked up a pencil.

Glancing outside, Rick noted that the crowd was growing out on the sidewalk and street, curious faces peering through the window. His eyes came back to the crumpled figure on the floor. Her staring eyes unnerved him. You never get used to it, he thought; it never seems real. He took a clean starched apron from the neat stack under the counter and covered her gently. Someone outside tapped on the glass.

Drawing a deep breath, he went out to them, ignoring the questions that came from every direction.

Now listen a minute. Listen! A hush fell over the group. You people are doing no good here. A woman has been killed in there--

A shriek split the air. Did you hear that? Mr. Dorman has killed a woman. Is it Ella? Did he do in his wife? The voice was eager and the nasty, thrill-seeking vindictiveness of it sickened him.

"Good Lord, no! I didn't say any such thing and no, it isn't Mrs. Dorman. Now quiet down and listen to me. If any of you saw anything, a stranger around this evening, or noticed something that seemed odd to you, tell me so now.

The police will contact you. It may be extremely important. If you didn't, get home. There's nothing you can do here, except possibly get yourselves killed too. The killer may be right here in the neighborhood. The police are on the way and they'll talk with any of you who have information to offer, later."

Some sensible left, but the others drew a few steps back and held their ground. One heavy-set woman came forward, clutching a dark shawl around her shoulders.

I don't know if it's important, but when I opened my window after I heard the shots, something odd happened. I live there, where the streetlight is out and I heard a funny metallic sound and someone swear. I couldn't see anybody, but then I heard-- she hesitated as if embarrassed.

What did you hear, Ma'am? Please, it might be important.

Well, it sounded like someone crying--a man crying, kind of gasping-like. And then I heard running footsteps, only they were uneven, like he was limping.

Quickly Rick gave her his card. Stay right here until the police arrive and give this to any of them and say you have information. And thank you for coming forward, Mrs. Carpenter," she said.

Distant sirens were screaming the approach of authority. Rick went back inside.

You all right, Jim? Those are fools out there, those morbid fools! Anger tore at him, but the sight of the sagging despair of his friend brought him back.

Gently he took the paper from the nerveless fingers. Only a few scratches, half-words were on it. Jim looked at him with misery-filled eyes and groaned, I can't seem to write it, Rick. I can't seem to understand. Why would he or anyone want to shoot poor Mrs. Bell? Or even me? But he didn't seem to care about me and didn't even seem mad I didn't have more money.

He robbed you? You didn't mention that.

It was only about $20--I paid cash for that chicken machine and Ella needed cash for her trip, so I was short. He made me put what I had in a bag and throw it to him. I tried to walk around the counter, so I could get between him and Mrs. Bell and he wouldn't let me--just kept waving that gun between her and me.

Rick nodded thoughtfully. Now do you think you can tell me your impressions of the man when he was looking in your window?

He just looked like a skinny guy in that big gale coat with the sheepskin collar--you know the kind? His cap was pulled down, but I could see he had long, light-colored hair, kind of' hanging over that collar.

Could it have been a woman, maybe?

Jim considered, frowning as he fought to get a clear picture in his mind--then shook his head slowly.

I don't think so. The way he slumped, kind of shuffled, it sure didn't seem like a woman to me. Had awfully funny pale colored eyes, too--and they looked--I don't know--sick-like--that's it, scared and sick, like he didn't want to do what he was doing at all. Tell you what, once I found a scrawny rat in the bottom of a garbage can and that thing had the same look. Even when this guy held the gun on us, his hands were shaking and his funny thin gloves looked as if it were sticking because he was sweating.

He had those gloves on the whole time, is that right?

I think so. He closed his eyes, concentrating. Yes, I'm sure he never took them off.

Now, Jim, can you tell me what happened to the gun?

The old man shook his head slowly. I don't remember. I think it hit against something on his way out, but I'm not sure. It all happened so fast, Rick.

"That's okay, Jim. You did well to answer this much, considering the circumstances. It gives us a few facts to start with. Now you go upstairs, freshen up a little and you'll feel better. The police are arriving and I'll handle things for you till you get back. Take your time. The police are on their way. Do you remember my friend Steve Arden from headquarters? He'll be in charge of things.

I know it's tough, but you must try to clear your mind, so you can answer his questions and help catch the man who did this."

Starting up the stairs, Jim faltered and turned back, his eyes brimming with tears. I just can't understand it. She was such a nice lady, Rick, my best customer too. She was a nice quality lady never uppity. Those kids at the settlement house are sure going to miss her. She reads to-- His voice broke. --Read to them, you know. He shook his head sadly and went on upstairs.

Followed by three of his men, Detective Arden entered the shop, muttered greetings to Rick and took in the situation. Do you have a description, Rick?

Right here. It's pretty sketchy though. The shop owner is all shot to hell, Steve. It was all I could do to get this much out of him.

What about the gun? Did the killer take it away with him?

So far as we know. Oh, there was a Mrs. Carpenter outside who--

She gave me your card. Merrill is getting her statement. He turned to the uniformed man beside him. Okay, let's get what we have on the air. We'd better nail him fast. Sounds psycho to me. Get this much out and then add what Merrill comes up with from that witness. Oh and you'd better make that 'armed and dangerous.

His face grim, he walked over to the body and gently turned back the coarse apron, glanced at the dead face and turned to the others. "Go ahead; you first, Snapper. I want you to take shots from all angles. Then you, Doc. Mike might as well forget trying for fingerprints. This place is probably full of fresh ones, but this guy wore gloves.

Right, Lieutenant.

Once again, Rick was conscious of a surge of respect for this long-time friend. He'd heard the story many times, of this man's early struggles to get on the force because of his short stature. But at nineteen, 'thinking tall', he had made it and twenty years later had reached his goal of Detective Lieutenant. He had the confidence of every one of his men.

As he finished his instructions, he added, Oh and give those reporters out there the usual; I have no statement at this time. Use your judgment about pictures. No interviews right now. Okay?

Right, Sir.

Okay. Now, Rick, where's Mr. Dorman?

Upstairs. Want to go up, or shall I get him? He's in a bad way, Steve. I don't know how much he can tell you. Let's go up. First there are a couple of things. No one touched the body?

No.

Who put that cover over her?

I did, but I didn't touch anything.

How did you happen to be here anyway, Rick?

I live across the street--moved here when I quit the paper.

Did you know the victim?

Not really. She's a regular customer of Jim's--last name Bell. Lives on the Avenue around the corner.

The little man raised his eyebrows. "What in thunder was she doing here? Woman like that doesn't frequent a place like this. Sends her maid or someone, right? And what about that plastic bag of stuff,