= A CLEAN VIEW ON MURDER
  by Patricia Harrington

Published on the Web by About.com's MysteryBooks
http://mysterybooks.about.com/


You wouldn't believe the things you see washing windows.

Like murder. 

Can you believe it?  I actually saw this guy bonk his brother over the head with a golf trophy.  Then cool as you please, he looks at me through the window, tightens his raincoat belt and walks out of the office.  It should have been easy to identify him.

But it wasn't.

I knew the dead guy was a brother.  You see, he was one of three.  Triplets!   Identical, leastwise, they seemed that way to me. 

Over five years, I've seen the three of them together a lot.  Even met them once at a building Christmas party.  Usually, though, I was looking at them through safety glass ten stories up.

I told the wife at dinner one time, "They look alike, they comb their hair the same way, got those same skinny, gold rimmed wire glasses, too.  You'd think being grown men, they'd want to have their own identity.  But, nope, they wear the same blue suits, same coats. About the only difference is that one of the Hallstroms--Bob--has a limp; I think one leg's shorter than the other. Oh, yeah, he's a lefty, too."

The wife passed the potatoes and frowned. "I expect their mother took fertility drugs.  You know they cause birth defects." 

* * *

The trouble between the brothers was over a young woman with a figure that would make any man sit up and take notice.  She had blonde hair and a pretty face.  Knew how to use the whole kit and caboodle, she did.  She was the mail clerk and pushed a cart with envelopes and packages in it.  Sometimes she carried a wire basket instead.  I saw her deliver a lot of mail and files to those Hallstrom triplets.

The one with the office at the far end was Dan.  He used to rub his chin while he read his paperwork and had a nervous way of pacing.  He acted like an absentminded professor in an old black and white movie.  He sure focused quick, though, when it was mail delivery time.  Blondie would come in, and he would grin like a ten year-old kid. 

Bob had the middle office.  He liked to lean back in his chair, tapping a pencil on the desk top like he was thinking.  He didn't seem to do much work, though.  But when that pretty mail clerk walked in he always stood up.  He was Mr. Polite.  He'd stand until she left, then limp over to the door and touch the knob like he could still feel her warm hand on it. 

The last brother, Tom, was the one who had his head cracked like a gourd.  He kept a string of golfing trophies on a table under the window.  He had all kinds of awards on one wall, too.  His brothers just had pictures.  Most of the time, he hardly seemed to give Blondie the time of day.  But I spotted him secretly watching her backfield in motion.  A couple of times, she caught him staring, too, and smiled.  She didn't tell him off, that's for sure.

The you-know-what hit the fan before lunch.  I was hurrying because the forecast said rain showers in the afternoon.  I was doing Tom's window and Blondie was in his office with her little basket.  Tom sat at his desk, and she leaned over him.  Real close.  Happened as natural as two birds on a spring day.  He put his hand behind her head and pulled her down.  She didn't struggle none.  She sat in his lap and was giving as good as she got when the door opened and the brothers walked in.

Well, Blondie jumped up, clutching her blouse and tugging on her skirt.  She grabbed her basket and ran out of the office. 

Whew-ee!  Did those three men get into it. 

They pointed and jabbed fingers at each other--yelling.  I could almost hear them.  Finally, Tom edges the other two toward the door.  Dan twisted around in the doorway before he stormed out the door.  He had pure hate on his face.  Bob stood there for a moment, hangdog, like he'd lost his best friend. Tom had gone back to his desk and sat with his back to me.  Bob shook his head at his brother, and I could read his lips. "How could you?"  Then he limped out of that office like he was never going to come back.

* * *

First thing I did after the trophy made a mess of Tom's head was call my dispatcher to get building security and the cops.  And pronto.  As soon as I made my way down, a cop grabbed me, and we rode the elevator up to where the police were taking statements.

We stepped out of the elevator and pulled up short by the mail chute because the two brothers were having a donnybrook in the hall.  Dan said, "You fool, she wasn't worth it.  Did you think she'd want a cripple like you?"

Bob looked to come apart, and shook his fist.  "You're the stupid one.  You wouldn't have known how to give her a good time with a guide book."

When the two began throwing punches, the cops hustled them down the hall to separate rooms.  Bob's limp seemed a whole lot worse from the aggravation.

Detective Gilmer took me into a conference room and we sat across from each other.

"Call me Jonesy," I said.  "Everybody does."

The detective had a nice smile. She said, "Okay, Jonesy.  From the beginning.  What did you see?"

"Tom had come back early from lunch.  He was standing behind his desk with his coat and gloves on, looking at a trophy left on his desk.  His brother came in and the two started arguing.  Tom started sorting papers on his desk, sort of dusting off his brother.  At any rate, the brother picks up the trophy with both hands and brings it down on Tom like he's chopping wood. It didn't bother the man none that I was watching.  He just walked out of there."

"The brothers are accusing each other," Gilmer said. 

I brushed my buzz cut, thinking hard, and said, "All three had trench coats like the one Humphrey Bogart wore in Casablanca."

The detective raised an eyebrow.

Seeing her expression, I said, "The wife likes old movies."

Gilmer sighed.  "Well, the fingerprints on the trophy will tell us which brother it was."

"Don't think so.  He wore gloves.  All three triplets wore gloves and their coats when they went to lunch.  After calling dispatch, I moved my rig right away so I could see into the other brothers' offices.  Thought maybe I'd find the guilty one having the shakes after what he'd done.  But Dan was at his desk calm as could be, and Bob was leaving his office with a manila envelope under his arm."

Gilmer ticked off a list.  "We have no prints.  And the bad guy used a two handed slam dunk, so we can't tell if he was right- or left-handed.  Did  he limp?"

"Nope.

"That leaves Dan," Gilmer said.

"Maybe, Maybe not," I said.  "But I know a way to make sure," and explained my plan.

The brothers weren't happy campers when the cops brought them and their coats into the conference room.  Gilmer had them put on their coats and tie their belts.

She turned to me.  "Satisfied?"

I nodded, and Gilmer sent them away.

I said, "The wife tells me, 'the devil's in the details'.  Did you see how Bob tied and knotted his belt, flipping the left side over the right?  Dan did the opposite 'cause he's right- handed.  The brother who clobbered Tom was left-handed, had a left-handed knot in his belt"

Gilmer said, "It's slim pickings, but you're our only witness.  Now, what about the limp?  You said the killer walked out easy as pie."

"Yeah.  I figure Bob wanted to make it look like his brother did it, so he made sure I took in the whole scene.  Only way I can see Bob walking without a limp is with shoe lifts."

Gilmer exclaimed.  "Shoe lifts, Jonesy?"

I nodded, again.  "Bet he took them off in his office and stuck the lifts in the manila envelope he was carrying.  He probably put it in the letter drop by the elevator doors.  He sure wouldn't want Blondie to pick up his mail and ask why he was sending a letter to himself."


PATRICIA HARRINGTON is a grant writer of drug- and gang-elimination programs, as well as a mystery writer.  She is currently a member of Sisters in Crime and an associate member of Mystery Writers of America. 

Copyright (c) 2000 Patricia Harrington