Murder One - No Salad
by Timothy Sheard
Copyright © 2001



My partner and I pulled up to Luther's Steak and Ale just as the sun was going into hiding. We'd spent the whole day chasing down a bunch of bozos who'd gotten drunk at the Puerto Rican Day parade and molested a dozen women. Those sexist pigs really get under my skin. I hate 'em more than I hate cold-blooded killers. I don't know why - another one of my character flaws, I guess. 

Luther's is a diner in DUMBO. That stands for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. It's an old industrial section, with lots of brick warehouses and cracked sidewalks. Lately, a bunch of artists and writers and computer jocks have moved in. I don't mind the artysy-fartsy types, I just don't want DUMBO to get all pricey and snobby, the way Soho did over in Manhattan. 

We went inside and filled our lungs with the aroma of charbroiled steaks and cigarette smoke. Sure, there's an ordinance that makes smoking in public restaurants a misdemeanor offense, but no cop is gonna enforce it at Luther's. Where else can a man smoke a cigarette, and when he's done, put it out in a side of mashed potatoes and gravy? 

Luther himself is an ex cop. He's big and tough, and nobody's stepped over the line in his place since '87. That was when a pimp threatened one of the independent hookers, thinking he could rope her into his stable. Luther held the guy's face down on the grill. Legend has it, the smell was worse than the screaming. The cops in the place just kept chewing their steaks and chewing the fat. 

On this night, my partner and I slid into a booth and ordered the Murder One. That's a T-bone, bloody, with lumpy mashed potatoes and string beans, no salad. Salads are for pansies. 

My partner was complaining about the mayor. He said Giuliani was going soft. 

"Ever since the prostate thing, he's lost his edge," he said. 

To Tommy, everything has to have an edge. 

I said, "Give the poor bastard a break. He's staring at his fucking mortality, for Christ's sake." 

As we tasted our appetizers, I heard the woman in the booth next to ours urge her companion to have the charbroiled steak. "It's the best cut in Manhattan, dear. Really it is." 

She was young enough to be his daughter, but I knew right away she was either the girlfriend or the trophy wife. No rock on her left hand, but maybe she didn't like wearing it down in DUMBO. 

"Bridgett," said the older guy, "you know I'm supposed to get my cholesterol down. Every since the heart attack, I'm supposed to stick to fish and poultry." 

The guy looked like he needed a heart transplant, not a change of diet. I'm no medic, but his skin was pasty looking, and his eyes bulged, like something was stuck in his throat all the time. 

"The steak is famous," she went on, "and it's charbroiled on a mesquite grill. Go ahead, treat yourself." 

Just like a dame to lead a man astray, even at the dinner table. 

In the end he ordered the steak, rare. They grew quiet, and I half-listened to Tommy talk about his vacation plans. He was gonna go big game hunting "up north." I hope he didn't mean upstate, because New York is kind of low on bears. 

I was savoring a mouthful of Luther's mashed potatoes, when the man with the culinary girlfriend started gasping for breath. His companion leaned across the booth and said, "Are you all right, honey?" 

He was making a rasping sound in his chest. His eyes were nearly bulging out of his face. 

Before I could reach the poor guy, a tall guy in a charcoal gray suit came out of nowhere and bent over the stricken diner. 

"I'm a doctor, let me help," he said. 

He asked the fellow could he breathe? The man shook his head. His lips were starting to turn purple. 

The doctor looked at the man's dinner plate. "It's the steak. His airway is obstructed." Looking toward the counter, he said loudly, "Call 911. Tell them you have a choking victim!" 

He pried open the stricken mans mouth and pushed his hand inside. "I can't reach it!" 

He turned the man in the booth, grabbed him from behind and clasped his hands across the fellow's belly, then he jerked inward. The stricken man opened his mouth, but neither sound nor meat came out. 

The doctor performed several more Heimlich maneuver, but the guy got bluer and bluer, and then his head lolled onto his chest. 

Tommy and I helped the doctor lower the unconscious man to the floor. The physician straddled the victim, pinched his nose and blew into the mouth. His cheeks puffed out with the effort. 

"He's still obstructed!" the doc announced. 

I went to press on the man's chest - New York Detectives are trained in CPR - but he waived me off. 

"Without adequate air entry there's no point circulating the blood." 

I was getting antsy watching the doctor work and not being able to help, but what was I gonna do? He was the professional. 

When the paramedics arrived, they slapped the heart monitor on him. No beep-beep-beep. He was flat line. Reaching into his mouth with a long metal pincer, the paramedic pulled out a big chunk of meat. He dropped it onto a bread dish. 

The girlfriend/wife stood by the counter crying. Her shoulders jumped like she had the hiccups, and she rubbed her eyes with a paper napkin. 

I went up to her and asked if there was somebody she wanted me to call, and she said, "No, thank you," was all she said. 

The local beat cop took charge of the body. He got the usual statistics from the young woman. Since it was an accidental death, it would go to Medical Examiner's as a matter of routine. 

As the beat cop stood talking with the woman, I glanced down out of professional habit at the piece of meat that had killed the guy. Its surface was uniformly gray, and it was gray all the way through. I idly wondered if the death would hurt Luther's business. I decided he'd probably sell T-shirts that said, "I ate a steak at Luther's and lived to talk about it." Guess I've gotten cynical. 

Returning to my table, I looked around, then I asked Tommy, "Where did the doctor go?" 

"I didn't see him leave. Maybe he's in the bathroom." 

Just then another guy came out of the john. It was a very small toilet, so I knew nobody else could have been in there. 

I pushed my plate away, my mind chewing on the events. I watched as the widow said Good-bye to the beat cop and walked out of the diner. The paramedics had the body on a gurney and were wheeling it out to the ambulance. 

Something was nagging at me, but I couldn't say what it was. 

I went over everything. The couple's conversation, the look of the guy, the choking sounds he had made. Then I had it. 

"It's a homicide, Tommy, let's roll." 

I threw a twenty onto the table and hurried for the door, my partner trailing me. 

Out in the street, Tommy called, 'What do you mean, homicide, it was an accidental death. You saw it yourself." 

I saw the victim's wife two blocks away, turning a corner. 

"Tell you later. I don't want to lose her." 

We jogged the two blocks. As we rounded the corner, I saw the door of a trendy new bar closing. It had to be her. 

Approaching the bar, I looked through the window, saw the woman approaching the doctor, who was standing nonchalantly at the bar. He held two drinks in his hands, gave her one. They chinked their glasses together and drank deeply, their eyes locked on each other. It looked like murder was a turn on for them. 

Tommy and I entered the club. I approached the couple; my partner stood off to the side, watching their hands. 

"Evening," I said. 'Remember me?" 

They stared at me, confusion washing the passion out of their eyes. 

"I was in Luther's when that poor guy died." 

They still stared at me, speechless. 

I took out my badge, held it up so they could get a good look at it. 

"Name's Lieutenant Chambers. N.Y.P.D. I'm arresting you, madam, for the murder of your husband, or companion, whatever he is, at Luther's Steak and Ale. And I'm arresting you, sir, as an accomplice to murder." 

The woman gasped, spilled her drink. "But how did you know?' 

The stoop-shouldered guy muttered, "Shut up! Don't say anything!" 

I pocketed my badge, leaned against the bar, and rattled off a Miranda. 

The woman started hiccuping again. Between sobs, she said, "But it was a perfect plan. How did you know I killed him?" 

Turning to her, I said, "Easy. You gave your husband a drug that got his heart racing or some such cardiac emergency. Then, your boyfriend, pretending to be a doctor, acted like he was reaching in to pull out the piece of steak that was choking him, but really he was stuffing it into the guy's throat. 

"Unfortunately for you, he didn't use the same cut of meat that the victim ordered. The dead man ordered the steak charbroiled, rare. It should have had black streaks from the open fire. But the meat the paramedics pulled out was gray. It was pan roasted, well done. Luther would never serve a piece of meat cooked like that." 

Looking at the man, I said, "The way you puffed your cheeks out pretending to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation was a nice touch, but after I figured out the trick with the meat, I realized it was all for show... Cuff 'em, Tommy." 

While my partner got their hands cuffed behind them, I got out my cell phone and called for the wagon. After I had the couple on their way to the station, I said to Tommy, "We never got dessert. Let's go back and tell Luther what happened." 

"I bet he'll be relieved it wasn't his steak that killed the guy," Tommy said. 

I let that one go. Didn't want to let my partner know what a cynic I was becoming. 

We went to Luther's and ordered dessert - cheesecake, no ice cream, and a double espresso. Luther enjoyed hearing the story, and he didn't even charge us for the food. 

"Poor dumb bastard," said Tommy. "If he'd stuck with the chicken, he'd be alive today." 

"Maybe he'd live another day, but how long could he hold on with a bad ticker and a homicidal girlfriend?" 

"True," my partner said. "It just goes to show, love can really break your heart, you know?" 

"Yeah," I said, sipping my espresso. 

That's how I ended my day - reassured that my partner was still a softie, and that the steak at Luther's was still the best cut in town.