text: C. M. Albrecht The Sand Bluff Murders 
   
   
   Chapter One: The Body in the Alley  
   
   M 
   y name is Jonas McCleary. When I came to Sand Bluff I was just thirty so I still hoped 
  to have a future. 
  A few years earlier I saw an opportunity to become a police officer in a small northern 
  California city. 
  I get a kick out of the tests all these officious agencies give out. A written test has next to 
  nothing to do with the real-life job you're seeking. Worse, some people who are possibly 
  well suited to the job lose out because they're simply terrible at taking written tests. 
  Luckily, for me, written tests come pretty easy and I breeze through them without much 
  difficulty at all. 
  Out of about fifty applicants, I came in second and the guy who came in first was well 
  over forty. Someone there told me a man his age didn't stand a chance because within a 
  year he'd be out on workman's comp or going on disability. 
  Next came the physical. I've always been on the lean side — well, make that practically 
  skinny — and I was just short of making the weight. The doctor, kindly soul that he was, 
  told me to go out and drink all the water I could hold and then come back. I did, and just 
  made the weight. Then I went to the restroom and peed for five minutes straight. After 
  that came the police academy where I learned why police officers never hit what they're 
  aiming at. 
  Being a cop isn't bad. Most people give you respect, at least to your face. You often get 
  free coffee and occasional other perks that can be considered legitimate. Women seem to 
  admire a man in a uniform. 
  Mostly my work was small stuff; arresting drunks, breaking up domestic fights, an 
  occasional small drug bust. During my five years in the department no one ever hit me, I 
  never hit anyone and God forbid I should ever draw my duty weapon. Bad as most of the 
  other cops were, I was still the laughing stock of the pistol range. 
  When the opportunity to apply for a detective job in Sand Bluff came along, I decided to 
  go for it. The thought of wearing plainclothes and playing detective sounded pretty good 
  to me, and the pay would be a little better. I figured what could be so tough about 
  working in a one-horse town like Sand Bluff? I even ordered a snappy dark gray fedora 
  on line and a shoulder holster so I'd look like a real detective. 
  As usual, I flew through the written test and came out on top of some seven or eight 
  applicants. Also as usual, I only guessed at most of the answers, but when you have three 
  to choose from, and one is patently ridiculous, you end up with a fifty-fifty chance of 
  guessing right. Add to that a bit of judicious thought and it isn't so difficult. 
  That's how I ended up being the Chief Detective (okay…the only detective), in Sand 
  Bluff, California. 
  My third day on the job I got hit with the big one. Murder. 
  My boss, Chief Raymond Castillo, a short dark overweight man with the look of an 
  eighth month pregnancy about him, called me into his little office. His thick black hair 
  and mustache, both threaded with white impressed me. He had the look of a man who 
  knew where he was going and what to do when he got there. He favored a silver belly 
  western hat and big bone-handled forty-five Colt 1911 automatic worn at half-cock, 
  which I thought was pretty flashy. It impressed me too. 
  "Yes Chief," I said. "You wanted to see me?" 
  "We got a serious problem here, son," he told me in his deep soft voice. He sat behind his 
  old oak desk with the window behind him. Chiefs like that because it puts their faces 
  more in the shadow. I think it gives them a feeling of being more in control or something, 
  like wearing mirrored glasses. 
  I'm thinking: so we have a serious problem. In sleepy Sand Bluff. Okay, have a joke on 
  the new guy. Story of my life. 
  I sat down on one of the straight chairs before his desk, prepared to listen to a windy 
  account of some sort of misdemeanor. By this, my third day on the job, I was already 
  familiar with Chief Castillo's rambling fashion of talking. 
  "Early this morning," he said, "while you were still sleeping I'm sure, Officer Ackers, on 
  night patrol, came across a corpse in the alley back of the Blu Lite Bar." 
  "A corpse?” I smiled. Like a dead body? Oh yeah! I was supposed to take this shit 
  seriously? Only things people killed around Sand Bluff were lots of bottles of beer and 
  the occasional careless cat that got in the way of a speeding pickup. I checked out the 
  town's reputation before I ever applied for the job. This was supposed to be a cool job 
  with a badge, easy money and little authority in a small town where nothing ever happens 
  — that's what I signed on for. Okay, let him have his little joke. Maybe this was a sort of 
  initiation or something. 
  While I sat and politely half-listened to the chief's lengthy and involved story, a part of 
  me considered what I knew of Officer Harold Ackers. 
  Harold Ackers was about twenty-five I think. Decent fellow who hadn't been on the force 
  more than a month before I came on. That's why he was working the night shift. That's 
  where all the fresh meat starts in Sand Bluff — and in most other places I suspect. Being 
  the town's one and only detective, naturally I had what we nominally called a day watch, 
  but in actuality, I'd be expected to work night and day if anything serious ever came up. 
  At the time of my initial get-acquainted talk, I was thinking: like that's ever going to 
  happen. 
  I swallowed as Chief Castillo talked. I began to feel maybe he wasn't joking after all. 
  Okay, I'd go along with a body, but anyone can drop dead anyplace at just about any 
  time. Maybe the decedent had a bad heart or something. So what? But I couched my 
  remarks more professionally: "Does Ackers know what happened?" 
  Chief Castillo stroked his mustache and smiled grimly. "Our Officer Ackers didn't even 
  know the guy was dead. Officer Ackers thought the stiff was just drunk. He dragged the 
  body to his patrol car and brought him in to sober up." Chief Castillo splayed both dark 
  hands on the desk. "In doing so of course he totally fucked up the scene and manhandled 
  the body, so I'd say you've got your work cut out for you." 
  "My work? Are you saying this is a homicide?" 
  "By God, you are sharp. I can see you're going to make a good detective, son. Yes, when 
  we get a body with two bullet holes in the back of his head, even here in Sand Bluff, we 
  know it's a homicide. The blood was pretty matted, so poor Ackers didn't realize he had 
  blood all over him till he got back here to the station." 
  I groaned. Evidently this wasn't a joke after all. What a way to start a new job. A murder 
  case on my third day! And the crime scene essentially destroyed before I could even look 
  at it. My very first murder case and I didn't have a clue. Working a murder was way out 
  of my scope. I didn't even know my way around yet, although considering the size of 
  Sand Bluff, that part wouldn't take long. But still…I almost told Chief Castillo not to be 
  so hasty in his decision to call me a good detective. I mean passing a written test is one 
  thing. This was going to be real. 
  Well, I thought, on the other hand I'm probably as good at this as anyone else in town. 
  Maybe I'm the best they've got. 
  "Okay," I said. "Maybe first I should go talk to Ackers. Did he go home?" 
  Chief Castillo nodded. "Either that, or more likely, he's down at Mattie's eating baked 
  doughnuts Yeah, go talk to Ackers." 
  I stood up to go. 
  "I like your hat," Chief Castillo mentioned. 
  "Thanks," I said. He probably thought his was better, but I wasn't as cowboy as Chief 
  Castillo. My hat was dark gray with a two-inch snap-brim. I tried to wear it cocked 
  slightly to one side, but it didn't want to stay that way. 
  I got Ackers' address from Regina Montes, our receptionist. Regina was a very attractive, 
  if slightly frumpy, brunette. She looked about twenty-five, but I had an idea she was older 
  than that. Three kids and no husband. My understanding was that she lived with her 
  mother who babysat the kids. I knew Regina was born in Sand Bluff but she still carried 
  that faint trace of Old Mexico in her manner of talking. I thought it was very nice, 
  actually. I also thought she liked my looks, but maybe she was just looking for a husband. 
  The thought of marrying into three kids kind of jarred against my idea of Miss Right. But 
  I'll get to Miss Right in a jiffy. 
  "Thanks Reggie," I said. She had already told me she didn't like that name, but when I 
  think I'm being clever I can be agonizingly perverse. 
  I could have used a city vehicle, but I liked my old seventy-two Chevy half ton with her 
  four-speed tranny. She was old when I bought her, but that thing was a tank. She could 
  handle just about anything. And the six-cylinder engine wasn't too bad on gas either. I 
  liked the old-fashioned bench seat. Very comfy when you get a girl in there. 
  Mattie's Cafe was closer than Ackers' apartment, so I stopped there first. 
  Against my better judgment I'd already tried Mattie's baked doughnuts, but to each his 
  own. She had some kind of handy tabletop machine, something like a waffle iron for 
  doughnuts — made me think of an 'As seen on TV' product. Mattie's place smelled 
  strongly of frying onions. Didn't matter whether you came in early or late, it always 
  smelled of onions. The onion smell was a lot easier to deal with than the baked 
  doughnuts. 
  Sure enough, there sat Ackers alongside Sand Bluff's other cop, Carson Mohr. Mohr was 
  a stocky dude with crew-cut blond hair and pale blue eyes. I don't normally take a dislike 
  to people until I give them a chance to mess up, but with Mohr I made an exception. 
  There was just something about his attitude, the way he always stood in that 'cop stance', 
  his superior 'I'm in charge' attitude and his belligerent way of getting a lot of insinuation 
  into everything he said or did. I bet he even wore his mirrored sunglasses to bed at night. 
  He was the kind that pulls over a car for a minor violation and demands, 'When was the 
  last time you were arrested?' 
  The cops sat there with their elbows on the pink Formica counter while a fair-skinned 
  black woman named Subira entertained them with her sass. Subira looked to be twenty 
  and I already had noticed there were always men sitting at the counter trying to look 
  suave or whatever it is guys do when they want to impress a chick. Ackers and Mohr 
  were no exception, but I couldn't really blame them. Everything about Subira was hot 
  except that she was only too aware of it, and came with attitude. Lots of attitude. 
  Of course, Mohr tried to get in a snappy remark at every opportunity, but Subira wasn't 
  buying his bull and let her attitude show every time he spoke to her. At least Subira had 
  that in her favor. 
  A half-finished baked doughnut lay on a plate before Ackers alongside an empty coffee 
  mug. 
  "Hi Subira," I greeted. "How about a cup of coffee and I'll buy refills for Sand Bluff's 
  finest too." That was just talk. I already knew that Mattie, surgically attached to the 
  register up front, never charged us for coffee. 
  Smiling and popping her gum, Subira moved indolently over to the coffee station and 
  picked up a coffee pot and a mug. 
  I looked at Ackers as I got up onto the stool next to him. "So I hear you've been out 
  picking up dead meat, Harold." 
  “Yah,” Mohr said. “He goes around scraping stiffs off the street. Nice work, Ackers.” 
  Harold laughed but without mirth. "It's not really funny. Geeze, I didn't even know the 
  guy was dead till — hell, I never saw a dead man before. I've never even been to a 
  funeral." 
  Mohr looked over at me like I was his conspirator in a make fun of Ackers routine. 
  “Where'd this guy find his badge, in a Cracker Jack box?” 
  We both ignored Mohr. 
  "Well, don't feel bad,” I told Harold. “I've never stumbled across any dead guys 
  either...and I've done a lot of stumbling, especially in alleys after the bars close." 
  Mohr snorted but Harold didn't laugh. Instead he muttered, "I don't drink." 
  Subira poured us three coffees. 
  "Doughnut?" she asked, giving me a smart-ass look. 
  "Please, no cops and doughnut jokes so early in the morning." 
  She gave me a supercilious glance and moved off. 
  "So what's the deal on this body you found in the alley, Harold? Tell me everything you 
  know." 
  He looked at me for a minute, then remembering that I was, after all, the town's chief 
  homicide detective, he nodded. "Yeah. Well, the Blu Lite closed at two like always. I was 
  passing by in front just a little before two. A couple of customers were coming out the 
  street door. Everything looked okay. Everything right on track, you know?" He fingered 
  his half-baked doughnut but wisely decided against another bite. "Well, I drove on down 
  to the end of Broadway, past the Quick Stop. 'Course the lights were on at the Quick 
  Stop but there was no action. I kind of keep an eye on the place because if somebody was 
  going to come through town at night looking for easy money, the Quick Stop would be 
  their target, it being the only place in town that never closes." 
  "And that redhead isn't hard to look at either," I said. He saw the twinkle in my eye and 
  grinned. 
  Mohr sipped coffee, snorted under his breath, and gave us a superior look as if he was 
  way ahead of anything we might say or do. 
  "Well, yeah. Okay, I stopped and we talked for a couple of minutes. Nobody came in. 
  Anyways, then I got back in my cruiser and I could see all the way down Broadway. I did 
  notice the time. It was just two sharp. The lights were out at the Blu Lite. There wasn't 
  even a stray cat wandering around, so I cut in back to take a look at the Blu Lite parking 
  lot. I was driving down the alley and that’s when I found him." 
  "So he was just lying in the alley? Right in the middle, off to one side, what?" 
  Harold scratched his head. He had unruly black hair, but kept it so short it didn't seem to 
  cause a problem. "Okay, I think — no, I'm sure. It was lying just to the side, about a foot 
  from the dumpster back of the Blu Lite." 
  "You have any impression of whether it was placed there, knocked there, just fell there or 
  anything at all?" 
  Ackers thought and swallowed more coffee. "No. No, I couldn't say. He was just there. I 
  told you, I didn't know he was dead. I just thought he had too much to drink. I didn't even 
  notice any blood until, you know — later." 
  'What about the parking lot? Any cars?" 
  Harold stared at me. "The parking lot? Well, I guess I didn't really pay any attention. I 
  mean, with that guy on the ground there…I was just looking at him." 
  "Yeah. Listen, after we finish our coffee could you take me over and show me exactly 
  where you found it?" 
  "Sure, of course," Harold said. He seemed to have one oar half out of the water, but the 
  more I talked to him, the more I thought we could get along. On the other hand, as we left 
  Mohr still trying to impress Subira, I had a distinct feeling that sooner or later he and I 
  would have a run-in. 
  On the way out Mattie smiled. “I like your hat,” she said. In the background Mohr 
  snorted again. 
  Harold drove an official Crown Vic. He followed my pickup down the alley to the Blu 
  Light. Only a small sign above the rear door admitted this was the Blu Lite, but since this 
  area offered the best parking, the back door was actually the main entrance. A few steps 
  away from the door stood an open green dumpster just like others that lined the east side 
  of the alley. 
   
  © 2012 by C. M. Albrecht, All rights reserved 
   
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   Text: C. M. Albrecht Editing: Shelley Rodgerson All rights reserved. Publication Date: August 28th 2012 https://www.bookrix.com/-cmalbrecht