Death on a Towel

by William Moal

Working for the Ventura County Sheriff's Department had taken Detective Simone Le Saint to a lot of offbeat places but never to the clothing optional Star Beach. All that flesh milling around the perimeter of the crime scene overwhelmed her. As she adapted, the crowd became not just a collection of body parts, but bodies, then people.

Almost everyone wore a hat of some kind. Other items of clothing lightly peppered the group. A shirt, shorts, a sarong, or a towel, but no more than one item per person, and often none. As Le Saint focused on their faces, haircuts and headwear, the group appeared less extraordinary. All ages, shapes, and sizes, they might have been anyone from grandmothers to college students.

She showed her badge, and the crowd parted. The scent of sweat, beer, and suntan lotion overpowered the faint sea breeze as she perspired under black slacks and a white cotton shirt. Being shoulder height to most of the crowd, she might have expected the taller people to provide some shade from the 90 degree heat, but it was one o'clock and the sun shone almost directly overhead. She should have remembered her sunglasses.

The faces appeared friendly and relaxed, although she couldn't fight the feeling of having barged into someone's living room and bedroom at the same time.

In spite of the apparent lack of concern, glancing below their necks as she walked among them felt intrusive. Still, a suspicious death had occurred. One of these people might be a murderer, and one or more could be an accomplice, or a witness. She pulled on her latex gloves and tried to get into hardened cop mode. Every tattoo, body piercing, and every place they shaved told her something about whom she would interview.

The first voice to carry distinctly over the rumbling surf and crowd's murmurs belonged to none other than Dr. Sophie Brown. Being at a large gathering outdoors gave the doctor an even greater opportunity to offend more people. Fun in the bars and brilliant in the lab, the doctor belonged as far from the public as possible.

“C'mon, crew. Just because we're on the beach doesn't mean you get the day of f. Only the victim has an excuse to lay around.”

Le Saint cringed as she ducked under the crime scene tape, not looking back to see if Dr. Brown had inspired the usual shocked and angry stares. The detective pushe d forward to begin what might be her worst day since transferring to homicide.

Her investigation started with the victim, Brad West. He lay face down on a red and black towel with his arms bent above his head as if trying to tan the sides of his torso. Also above his head, a can of Budweiser stood with its lower third entrenched in the sand. His lats were so built up they probably provided a little unwanted shade. It would have made more sense for him to lie face up with his arms in that position. He wore just as much lotion and no more clothing than the rest of the crowd, and displayed a deep tan, no lines. His muscles were huge, and even dead they looked taut. As the detective approached, the odor of the victim's suntan lotion grew stronger.

Dr. Brown spoke from behind, “That's not just baby oil, honey. What smells like overheated spot remover is probably CCl4. You might have noticed the Ben Gay, too.”

“What's that?”

“A topical analgesic that can be absorbed through the skin. People use it for muscle pain.”

“I know what Ben Gay is. The CC…whatever you said.”

“CCl4. Carbon tetrachloride. An aromatic neurotoxin that can also be absorbed through the skin.”

“If he was poisoned he was probably murdered.”

“It looks like it was mixed with sun tan lotion. It couldn't have got there by accident.

“There's only a little bit of vomit on his towel. If he knew he was going to be killed, he may not have eaten much.”

“I'll have to check his stomach contents to be sure. I can't tell just from his vomit, but you may be right.”

“It's a little pink. Something he ate?”

“Blood from mild hemorrhaging. Another symptom of the poison. Its scent is the real give away. It's a wonder the victim didn't smell it.”

“Could the smell of Ben Gay mask the odor of the CCl4?”

Dr. Brown got down on her hands and knees and sniffed around various locations of the victim's body including his legs, back, and shoulders. Finally, she crawled to the victim's head so she was face to face with him and continued sniffing, careful to avoid disturbing the can of beer.

“You're right,” Brown said looking up bright faced. “The analgesic is on the top of the victim's shoulders. When I'm by his face all I can smell is the Ben Gay. The victim would have never known.” As Brown stood up and brushed the sand from her slacks she added, “A very crafty killer.”

“If he was drunk, he might not have felt the symptoms early enough to let anybody know.”

“It would have taken about a half hour to be absorbed by the skin. Since alcohol accelerates the effects of this compound,” continued Dr. Brown walking to the detective's side, “he may have been dead before he became suspicious of the symptoms.”

“Why is he positioned like that?”

“Probably because he tried to push of f the ground to retch into the sand. It must've been a pretty strong dose to kill him so quickly.” Dr. Brown shook her head. “These barebutts are crazy.”

“You think a nudist did this?”

“What else do you see?”

“Before this, have you ever heard of a murder on this beach?” Dr. Brown couldn't be argued with head on, but she could be reasoned with.

“No.”

“That's way less than the average beach. Do you hear about many fights?

“No.”

“Don't you think a non-nudist could have chosen this location to allay suspicion?” The detective was making her point. Dr. Brown would say something reasonable. She just knew it.

“These people are freaks. They probably eat the bodies. That's why nobody reports the murder.”

“The killer could have come down from the trail on the cliff above.” She pointed to the forward edges of the cliffs that wrapped around the beach and tapered off into the ocean. “If he didn't mind getting wet, he could have walked from either of the neighboring beaches around the rocks into the shallow waves.” The detective would forever wonder what offended Dr. Brown about these people. They populated the most crime free beach in the county.

“Can't the wrinkled ones put some clothes on? And the fat ones?” the doctor whined.

“You said he may not have eaten in a day, yet I doubt he was on a diet. He might have been upset about something.”

“His fiancée and Mr. Greek God seem friendly. One of them might have a motive.” Dr. Brown nodded in the direction of the other side of the sagging crime scene tape. A svelte blonde woman cried on the shoulder of a well-built man whose short cropped brown hair flashed blond highlights. The man wore nothing but brown tinted sunglasses.

“The victim's fiancée?”

“Her name is Roxanne Wyler. I don't know who the hunk is.”

The woman stood about five foot seven, three inches taller than Detective Le Saint. Ms. Wyler appeared to be the same age as the victim. Mid-twenties. Her lotion glued a few strands of her hair against her shoulder blades and some to her friend's chest. No part of the woman jiggled that shouldn't. The parts that did move must've hypnotized every male on the beach. Her tan lines indicated she normally wore a thong bikini. A butterfly tattoo on the dimple of her lower butt cheek flapped its wings as Ms. Wyler pushed off the balls of her feet to bury her head against the man's chest then lowered her heels when she backed away to look into his eyes.

If the detective spent all day at a spa working out and getting mud baths, she'd be just as stunning. At least Le Saint was cute, everybody says so. And she spoke in a soothing alto not a nasally whine like Ms. Wyler.

“I can't believe it. I shook him, but he wouldn't wake up.” The woman sobbed against the man's chest.

Mr. Greek God held Roxanne steady with one hand and rubbed her back with the other. Like all the principal characters in this tragedie au naturale, he worked out. Not so much in the style of a body builder who wants to impress with power, but in a way that showed he valued beauty. Each time he patted the woman, his oiled forearm muscles made shiny ripples as he pressed his fingers against her. He could have just floated down from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Dr. Brown had a point. They did make a handsome couple.

“If he squeezes her any tighter, she'll slip out,” whispered Dr. Brown standing beside the detective while looking at the couple. “Maybe he's the one who poisoned the victim. To get to that pretty butterfly.”

“Or maybe he's just comforting her,” said Le Saint. “He looks like the nurturing type.” The gap between Brown's eyes and sunglasses afforded Le Saint a chance to see the pathologist's gaze drift down to the Greek god's waist.

“They're naked, and they're hugging,” said Brown

“They're not going to get dressed just to embrace.”

“If their rings lock together, we'll have to call the fire department to unhook‘em.”

Detective Le Saint turned away so Dr. Brown couldn't see her expression crinkle into a repressed smile. Getting back her game face, she walked up to the crying woman. “Ms. Wyler, I'm sorry about your fiancé.”

The woman lifted her head. Tears ran in irregular patterns around the tanning lotion on her face. She gave the investigator a shiny, blue-eyed, unfocused stare. “Who are you?”

“Detective Simone Le Saint. I hate to bother you right now, but I need you to step away from the crowd so I can ask a few questions.”

“Can Trev come, too? I don't feel very strong.” The woman looked up to the man. He opened his mouth slightly and closed it while widening his eyes just a little.

Le Saint didn't know if the woman could lie or not, but the man had no poker face. She might learn more by interviewing them together. If the motive was romance, she'd know by how intimately they acted together. If they had any kind of rapport beyond the closeness death can bring to friends, it would come across as they interact with each other under the pressure of questioning. Dr. Brown's abrasiveness might add some unpredictability and put a little more pressure on Ms. Wyler and the mystery man.

“What's your name?” Detective Le Saint asked.

“I'm Trevor Salad. A friend of Brad's.”

Le Saint nodded and wrote it down.

“I'd shake your hand, but mine are coved with lotion.” Salad smiled apologetically. Le Saint let out her breath unaware until then she was holding it. She had no desire to shake hands with a naked man she'd just met.

“This way, please.” The detective glanced first at Salad then Ms. Wyler, then Dr. Brown then led them out of earshot from the crowd to the cliffs that separated Star from a city beach. Le Saint then positioned herself so that she could look up to both her suspects faces without having the sun in her eyes and asked Salad to take off his sunglasses.

“Ms. Wyler, I'm afraid someone mixed poison with your fiancé's baby oil. He absorbed it through the skin.”

“Oh!” Ms. Wyler buried her face against the man's chest again.

“You'll get through this. You're strong,” said the man in a warm yet delicate bassoon-like voice.

“Do you know what happened?” the detective asked Salad.

“Roxie came up from swimming and told Brad she was back, but he didn't answer. Even after shaking him, he didn't wake up. So she ran over to my towel and told me he was dead.”

“Did you swim with her?”

“No, I read a book.”

“What did you read?”

“A text book. I have a mid-term coming up.” He tightened his jaw a little as if holding something back.

“He's reading a book on poisons,” said Dr. Brown. I saw it on his towel by the crime scene.

“I'm studying to be a pathologist,” countered Salad. “Besides, the textbook doesn't even cover carbon tetrachloride.”

“Then how'd you identify the poison?”

“You told me and everybody in the crowd. Do you know how much your voice carries?” He stared at Dr. Brown and all the muscles in his body tightened. “And by the way, we're not wrinkled freaks.”

For the first time he was on the attack, and more aggressive than Le Saint realized. He had the anger a killer would need.

“Search his things,” said Dr. Brown

“You can't!” Ms. Wyler stood up straight and arched her back. “He knows his rights.”

“Your boyfriend killed your fiancée, tramp!”

“Trev doesn't have anything in his backpack, you just want to harass him.” Roxie threw eye daggers at Dr. Brown.

“Prove me wrong!”

“He's not afraid of you.” Ms. Wyler stopped staring at the pathologist and gave Salad a soft gaze.

“What are you saying?” Salad frowned.

“If you've got nothing to hide,” Detective Le Saint calmly addressed Salad, “then you won't mind.”

“He doesn't mind.” Ms. Wyler stood more defiantly than before. “Show him Bra…I mean Trev.”

“I don't see you volunteering to have your tote bag searched.” Salad's jaw set.

“Fine,” said Ms. Wyler after a barely perceptible moment of calculation, “search my tote bag.”

“Mine, too.” Salad's tan grew visibly lighter.

“Dr. Brown could you bring me any bags they may have brought with them?”

“Didn't I tell you?” Dr. Brown said on her way over to collect the evidence.

“Do you think anyone could vouch for your reading the whole time that Ms. Wyler swam?”

“Who would notice me?” he asked while extending a well muscled forearm.”

“Trev lost his best friend and I just lost my fiancé, how can you ask such questions.” said Roxie. She acted very familiar with him, noted the detective, yet he seemed distant from her.

Le Saint asked a few questions about his knowledge of poisons then turned around to see Dr. Brown carrying a blue nylon backpack and an off-white canvas tote bag with the initials CK on them.

“Is this yours?” Dr. Brown held up the pack with a gloved right hand.

Salad nodded.

Dr. Brown held up the tote bag with her left hand and looked at Ms. Wyler.

“Of course it's mine.”

The pathologist opened the backpack to reveal a plastic bag containing a bottle of baby oil and a pair of used latex gloves, both smelling of poison..

“I don't believe it!” Ms. Wyler let go of Salad, screaming.

“I don't know how they got there.” Salad looked first into Roxie's eyes then Le Saint's, unable to hide his desperation to convince somebody.

“You should search Ms. Wyler's tote bag as well,” the detective ordered Dr. Brown.

“But we found the evidence.”

“If she's innocent, she accidentally exposed herself to the poison when she shook Brad. When I told her how her fiancé had died, she would have asked for the antidote. She lied when she told us she shook him. She had already applied the poison and knew he was dead.”

“What are you saying?” Roxie burst into tears again.

“She must have waited until Mr. Salad left his towel to take a pit stop or something, and planted the evidence. Besides, who is more likely to put suntan lotion on a man, her or Mr. Salad?”

“Oh, my god,” screamed Roxie. “You and Brad?”

Salad and Roxie back ed farther away from each other.

Dr. Brown went through the woman's tote bag and pulled out two pair of unused latex gloves.

“Probably backup,” said the detective sensing Roxie would break her façade with just a little more bluffing, “when the lab checks the inside of the contaminated gloves, they'll find Ms. Wyler's prints not Mr. Salad's.” If they weren't smudged.

Roxie stopped crying and screaming. She tore the tote bag from Dr. Brown's grasp with one hand and pushed her hard in the chest with the other. The pathologist grabbed the woman, but her oily wrist slipped out of Brown's hands as the doctor fell away. Wyler ran for the cliff leading to the city beach.

Le Saint made a flat footed leap and tripped Ms. Wyler. Moving quickly, she grabbed Wyler's arm with one hand and pressed down on the small of her oily back with the other. Ms. Wyler's free arm flailed trying to reach the hand that pinned her down. She kicked the sand and squirmed with a vengeance. Every time Le Saint had the right spot for leverage the butterfly girl would squirm one way or another and almost wriggle free.

Just as Ms. Wyler's hand slipped out of the detective's grip, a deputy dropped to his knees on the opposite side and took the killer's other arm. Le Saint grabbed the arm closest to her again, while the deputy pressed his hand against the killer's back. With no more wiggle room, she let the law enforcement of ficial wipe of f the oil from her wrists and cuff her. Two female deputy sheriffs rushed up to relieve the male of his charge. He did look relieved.

“He molested me,” shouted Ms. Wyler spitting out sand. It clung to every part of her. “Did you see that everybody? He molested me!”

“See I told you those barebutts are crazy.” Dr. Brown wouldn't let up.

“See her tan lines. She's not a nudist.”

“She's naked.” Dr. Brown plodded away from Le Saint probably trying to stride off triumphantly, but she had trouble getting her footing in the sand.

“You don't get tan lines if you're always naked,” yelled Le Saint then realized she been suckered into shouting so loudly. Dr. Brown shook her head and snickered.

At the same time the detective Le Saint smelled cocoanut oil, she felt a gentle, but firm grip on her shoulder, and a small tingle ran down her spine as she heard Trevor's bassoon-like voice.

“Thanks for thinking so quickly. Roxie might have framed me.”

“You should choose your friends more carefully.” By now the sun had moved closer to the ocean. To keep from squinting, Le Saint had to shield her eyes by lifting her hand to the side of her face.

“She's just a friend of a friend. Brad and I have been lifting together for years.”

“How do you think she knew how to use CCl4?”

“She's a pharmacist. Understanding a book on poisons would be no problem.

“Why do you think she killed him?” asked Le Saint keeping steady eye contact, not letting her gaze travel south.

“It could have been money. A life insurance policy naming Roxie as beneficiary just took effect.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Brad told me. He was so excited he couldn't eat all day. He said he felt like they were already married.” Trevor smiled revealing the same presence as when he defended himself against the frame up. He was as compassionate about his friends as himself.

Looking more beautiful than when she first saw him, Salad shifted his weight from one foot to the next, and looked down to her left hand then directly into her eyes. “I noticed you're not wearing a ring.”

His voice carried her from the sand to a cloud. Without having to look down, she, too, recalled he didn't wear a ring. Not on his finger, anyway. A fleck of gold in his green eyes held her attention. She was floating and falling at the same time waiting for his next words.

“You really saved my bacon,” said Trevor. “Could I thank you by taking you out for something to eat when you're not busy?”

Before Le Saint could answer, she had to stop biting her lower lip.