HO! HO! HOMICIDE
             By  James L. Oddie

Cap’s Dilemma


Detective Lieutenant, Cap Peterson, of Homicide Division, pushed his blue Dodgers cap back on his head, put his hands on his desktop, and stood. He walked to the hotplate in the corner of his small, sparsely-appointed office, carefully avoiding the overflowing wastepaper basket and two cardboard cartons on the floor: one empty, the other nearly filled with personal articles and memorabilia. He picked up an aged Silex pot and filled a mug. As he walked back to the desk, inhaling the aroma from the steaming brown liquid, he stopped to look at his image in a small, cracked, wall mirror. It was hung too high for him, so he had to stretch to his full five-foot six-inches. He took off his cap  and frowned. How’d I ever get so damned old so soon? Don’t seem like I’ve been on the job more than ten, twelve years at the most. But looking at the top of his head, where an oasis of shiny skin had replaced his sandy-colored hair, he laughed. I guess I don’t need any other testimonial, do I? He glanced at his image again. Frowning, he tore the mirror from its nail and threw it into a waste basket. It shattered.

He readjusted his cap vigorously, like trying to hide the evidence, and peered down at the top of the desk for a full three minutes. "Damn! Damn! DAMN!" he roared. "I guess it'll never make
any sense."    

The glass-windowed office door opened, causing the tiny bells in the holly wreath to tinkle. A head popped in. "You okay, Lieutenant?”

Surprised, Cap turned and said, “Yeah. Just an accident.”

The head persisted, “You’re sure? Thought I heard something break.”

“Nothing important, Bob. Just cleaning up some crap.”

“Okay. If you’re sure. Well, best of luck.” Closing the door, he stopped, and said, “Just happened
to think–any last words of advice to leave this neophyte before you go, Lieutenant?"    

"That's Cap to you, Bob." He raised his mug, "C'mon in. Have a cup’a joe."

Lieutenant Robert Simms, Cap's replacement on the homicide team, smiled and entered. Cap hadn’t known him long, but his warm smile and firm handshake, along with his admirable record, had spoken well of his future.

Simms took a path clear of the cartons. "Looks like you've got it all boxed and ready."
    
"Yeah, just about. Tell you the truth, I was really surprised at how little I wanted to keep. Don't look as though I'll even need the second carton. Just shows you how lots of things that once seemed so important fade away in time."
After Simms filled a styrofoam cup, he sat and said, "Well, you're sure leaving a legacy it'll be tough for anyone to measure up to–a perfect record of crimes solved– that'll never fade away."

"Where'd you hear that?"

"The Captain said it at your retirement party Saturday night. Guess you didn't hear it."

"Naw, I sure didn't. I guess I got pretty smashed. Wish it were true."

"It ain't?"
    
Cap chuckled. "Buncha bull shit. Haven't you ever heard of the Christmas Tree Murders?"

"No. What were they?"  

"I guess that's right, you weren't here then. It's the only case I wasn't able to wrap up in my thirty-odd years on the force. Still wakes me up at night." He slapped his open palm onto the papers. "I know the answer's here, but I've never been able to find it."

Ruffling the sheets, he continued, "Right here, among this pile of lab reports, newspaper clippings and photographs, is a killer, or killers–shit, coulda been a whole damn regiment of killers for all I know. I've been juggling the facts for seven years and I still can't make heads or tails out of it." He slumped in the chair.

Bob Simms looked at the array on the desk, and said, "What's it all about?"

"You really wanna know?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, hell, maybe telling it to you might help it all make more sense. Bring your chair over here." He handed his empty, stained mug to Simms and asked, "But first, fill my mug, and yours too. You'll probably need it.

"It happened seven years ago.” He glanced at the wall calendar. His bushy eyebrows rose, ”Actually seven years to the day–just three days before Christmas.”

He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “About five a.m. I got a call from headquarters–some hysterical cleaning woman in an office building in the Wilshire district had called 911. All they could make out at first over her blubbering was that Santa Claus was dead. But finally they got the name of the building and the suite number: nine-oh-nine."
"Seems pretty normal to me," said Simms, grinning.

Cap opened his eyes, took another drink, and looked at the younger man. "Hold on. Haven't even got started yet.

"When I arrived on the scene, the poor woman, Nell something-or-other, even though she'd been given a sedative, was still screamin’ about Christmas ghosts and bloody banshees. I read the scribblings of the officer who’d done the best he could to translate her ravings, and went directly to the crime scene on the ninth floor. On the polished double doors were brass letters spelling out Hacker and Behrens, Investment Counselors."

"Wait, I do remember something about that. Some guy and his partner were killed. . . “

“You’ve got it.”

Simms continued, “In some weird way."

Cap bobbed his head, "You can say that again. But let me go on." He dug into the pile on the desk, bringing out a small black notebook. "Here are my initial notes at the scene."

Cap continued, referring occasionally to the book, "An officer had been posted in the hall. Carbajal, I think. He was sitting bent over with his head between his hands. I spoke to him, I asked if he had found them. He said, yes, but he wished he hadn’t.

“I lifted the yellow security tape and entered the double doors. I remember the first sensations I had: revulsion and nausea, caused by a fetid odor that reminded me of when I leave the steaks too long on the brazier. Couldn't account for it at the time.

"The office was large, about twenty by twenty, deeply carpeted and elegantly furnished. My eye was immediately drawn to a huge mahogany desk in front of a  glass window: it held a single lamp, which was the only illumination in the room, an intercom, and a multi-lined speakerphone. In back of the desk, a black, leather-covered office chair, and on the near side, two chairs, exact copies of the first. Am I going too fast?”

“Nah. I’m with you.”

“Good. The wall on my left was lined with bookcases. The wall on the right had a mirrored wet bar, a settee covered in what looked like a rich, brocaded fabric and, at the farthest end, a connecting door to the adjoining office." He stopped and dug out a photo. Holding it out for Simms to see, he said, "One other item you'll notice, right here, between the wet bar and the double doors to the hallway, is this flocked, decorated Christmas tree.”

"Yeah," said Simms, "big white one. Looks like it almost touched the ceiling.” He pointed, “What are these dark brown, burned-looking areas?"

Ignoring the question, Cap continued, "Back to the desk chair. Here's where I found one partner, Gerald Hacker." He pulled a photo from the stack. "He was seated. And, as you can see, wearing a Santa Claus suit, complete with the cap and the beard. But only one glove–his left hand was bare.”

"Why?"

With a shrug, Cap said, "Don't know. Never figured that out either."

"Looks alive."

"He looked alive all right, but believe me, he wasn't. Found out later he'd  been shot four times; twice with a nine millimeter, and twice with a thirty-two. The lab report said the thirty-two slugs were spaced a half-inch apart, and had gone through a silencer. Found the casings about five feet in from the double doors."

"Half-inch apart from about 12 feet, with a silencer? Sounds like a professional hit to me."

Cap nodded, "That's what I thought at the time. Seemed like a lock when I learned later that in Hacker's will he’d left ten thousand bucks to a Rhonda Farinelli. Thought at first maybe she might have killed him for the ten gees.”

“Yeah. Cherché la moolah, as the French say.”

“Good try, Bob. But she couldn't have, because she was admitted to the hospital earlier in the evening with a broken nose and multiple bruises. Turned out she was the wife of a known hit man wanted by the Feds.” He glanced at his notes, “Guido Farinelli.”

"Whoa!" exclaimed Simms, "there's your case. It's the same old story: cuckolded hubby blasts the guy who'd banged his wife. Did you bust this Guido?"

"Didn't get a chance. Sent a team over to bring him in, but the guy got killed in a drive-by shooting two days before. Couldn’t tie it into this crime. Guy had an arsenal on him–but no thirty-two. And, think about it, if he'd just come over for vengeance against Hacker, why kill Behrens?"

"That’s right! There were two murdered."

“Yeah.” said Cap, “His partner Beherns. He was shot with a 9mm. Walther.”

“Huh? Doesn’t make sense. Why. . .”

“I know. If Farinelli shot Hacker with the thirty-two, why didn’t he use it on Behrens? And the guy who killed Behrens knew exactly who he was killing–you'll understand later." Cap grabbed the Dodgers cap from his head and slapped it down on the papers. It’s stained, shredded band attested to years of use and abuse. “See what I mean? It’s all nuts.”
 
Simms put the photograph down and said, "Just seems to get worse and worse." He went over and refilled his cup. When he returned, he picked up the photo of Hacker. "Why's he so rigid? And why is his hand propped up on books?"

Cap shrugged. "Coroner said he'd been shot with the nine millimeter first. Then
sometime during the next two hours, his body, including his neck, was tied into the chair with twine. And if you can tell me what his propped up hand was pointing to, if it was, I'll be forever grateful. As near as I could figure, it was just pointing at the door."

"That’s it?"

"Wish it had been," moaned Cap. “In back of the desk I found the other partner's blood-stained clothes.” He replaced his cap and referred to his notes. “In his left coat pocket were seven live nine-millimeter cartridges, and a box of nine-millimeter blanks, with seven missing–even found the sales receipt dated that day. Also found a chromed, thirty-eight caliber Smith and Wesson revolver. It was fully loaded, but had never been fired. Wasn’t registered. Only prints on it were those of Hacker and Behrens.”

He pushed his cap back and took another sip of the now-cool coffee. He picked up an envelope from the top of the filled carton, opened it, and brought out a Christmas card. He tossed it to his successor.

As Simms opened the card, a small, colored photo fell into his lap. He saw a thin, dark-haired man and an attractive blonde woman standing in front of some horses. "Who're they?"

"That's Kristine Behrens, or Krissy as she likes to be called, and her new husband, the former mystic and swami to the stars, Brihaspati al-Obed–real name Gregory Almann from the Bronx. They send me a card every year from their 20-acre ranch in Montana. They bought it with the three million she got from the partners' insurance policy when it was ascertained Hacker was the first to die."

"Three mil? Man that's one hell of a motive. Could they have done it?"
    
"Not unless the great swami was into physical telepathic transportation, or whatever, which I doubt. He, and the then Mrs. Ross Behrens, were surrounded by seven others, conducting a seance lasting until way after midnight. Seems she desperately wanted to talk to her little boy who had died the year before."

"So she made out alright. I'm glad something good came of all this. Anything else you haven't told me?"

"You've only got a part of it. On the carpet, about halfway between the desk and the doors to the hall, I found the nine-millimeter Walther. Turned out to be the one that shot Hacker and Behrens. Damndest thing is the only prints found on it were those of the corpses–just like the thirty-eight. And if everything else hasn't driven you nuts by now, the damned automatic's clip was filled with nothing but blanks. Seven damned blanks! But it had been fired. For awhile I wondered if maybe someone had taken out the clip and filled it with blanks, thinking it was harmless–not knowing  there was still a live cartridge in the chamber."

Simms looked at the photos. “You haven’t told me about Behrens. Where was he?”    

Cap walked over and partially filled his mug. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of brandy. "Want a little something in your joe?"

When Simms declined, Cap poured a generous amount of the liquor into his own mug. He took a long drink and said, "Well, I'm gonna need it.”

Once again seated, he continued, “I opened the door to the smaller office and looked in. Nothing. So I went to the double doors and called to Officer Jennings. Told him I thought there were supposed to be two stiffs. He stepped inside and pointed to the Christmas tree. I went around behind the tree and there was the other one—Behrens." He pointed to the dark areas on the tree. "You asked about this side of the tree with the burned spots?"

"Yeah."

Cap pulled out another photo and gave it to Simms.

"Good God," gasped Simms. He dropped the picture and said, "What in the . . .? I've never seen such . . . "

Cap took another long drink. "Yeah, that's how I felt. That’s where the case got its name. And it’s the part that still gives me chills. You see why I said  whoever killed that poor bastard knew what he was doing. Somebody really hated his ass, I'll tell you. I was damned glad I hadn't had time to eat breakfast."

Simms picked up the photo and studied it as Cap continued, "Somebody shot him, stripped him naked, then dragged his body over to the Christmas tree."

Simms inhaled sharply.

"Then, while his victim bled to death, the cold-blooded bastard apparently unplugged the tree lights. He tore off one of the bulb sockets, and after he carefully pulled the insulation off the ends of the wires, he shoved one into Behrens mouth and wound the other bare end around his genitals. Then he plugged the light string back into the wall outlet, shorting out the circuit and burning those brown spots on the tree. Damndest thing is–"

As Simms leaned forward, Cap continued in a whisper."The coroner thinks the guy was still alive when the lights were plugged in."

Simms reached out, poured some brandy into his cup, and downed it in one gulp. Still staring at the photo, he said, "Jeez, what a way to go. Ever find out what he'd done to deserve a finish like that?"

"Nope, but I figure it's all here in this stack. It’s like a poker game, and we’ve got all the cards. He started counting off on his fingers: A guy in a Santa suit with four holes in him from two different guns, tied to a chair with his gloved, propped-up hand pointing to nothing; another guy shot with one of the same guns, while he had a pocket full of live ammunition and a box nearly full of blanks for the same gun he was shot with–then some fiend fries him like a shish-kebob."

He stopped and took another drink–this time directly from the bottle. Simms was still mesmerized by the photo of Behrens' corpse as Cap continued, "The gun that shot them both was eight feet away on the floor, and about five feet inside the door were the two empty thirty-two-caliber shell casings from the bullets that were fired into the already dead Hacker–presumably by the hit man–from a mystery gun that was never found."

He held both hands palms out with the fingers extended, and in a voice  increasing in volume, said, "That's ten unanswered questions. Ten of 'em. And I'd be happy just to get the answer to any one."

Lieutenant Robert Simms sat silent.

Cap suddenly sat upright and slapped the arm of his chair. He picked up the empty carton and put it on the desk. He scooped up the assemblage of clippings, photos, and documents, and dropped them all in.

He stood, and said, "When you came in, you asked if I had anything to leave you. Yes, I know what I'll leave you, not just words, no sage advice. He picked up the box and dropped it onto Simms’ lap. “No, I'll leave you a legacy–my own ghost of Christmas Past. Maybe you can solve the damned thing–if it doesn't drive you bonkers first."

As Cap spoke, he lifted his jacket from the back of the chair. When it was on, he picked up the carton of personal effects, put it under his left arm, and walked to the door. He stopped, whirled, and returned to the desk. He raised the partially full bottle of brandy into the air as a salute, drank it empty, and tossed it into the waste basket, breaking the mirror into even smaller pieces.

He opened the door and stood for a moment looking at the austere office he was seeing for the last time. "Well, so long, Lieutenant Simms."

Before he closed the door softly behind him, a wry smile came to his face. He turned and said, "And...Merry Christmas."
             


Epilogue

Seven years earlier...

Ross Behrens, junior partner of Hacker and Behrens, Investment Counselors, looked at his watch and said, “Damn!” Though he couldn’t hear every word through the closed door, the woman’s shrill voice was too distracting. He threw his pen across the room and closed his notebook with a slap.
    
The woman’s screaming and pleading continued: “. . . but you must give our money back. . . our life’s savings. . . I trusted you! . . . And. . .“

A man’s voice interrupted, ”Look, how many times do you . . . I’m sorry. . . warned you more than. . .”

“. . . but you don’t understand . . . my husband found out and . . . money back or  . . . kill you. . ..”

His partner, Gerald Hacker, had been carrying on the conversation on his speaker phone for nearly half-an-hour. It had begun in normal tones, but had risen in volume until it was like a scream-a-thon. And behind the yelling, the incessant electronic tinkling of the bells on the Christmas tree.

Ross opened the connecting door as Hacker,  whose normally pallid face was livid, yelled, "I’ve told you for the last time, I only followed your wishes. Now go to hell, and take your husband with you," and slammed the handset down.

Hacker, seeing Ross, stretched out his arms, hands palms up, and asked, "God, how do they get so dumb? I told the stupid broad  the buy was risky—couldn't guarantee results, Now she's all pissed off because the bottom fell out of the damned thing. She's lost her 25,000 bucks and says her husband's gonna kill me."
 
"Is that wise?" Ross asked, "Getting them riled up like that? You don't know what her husband might do."

"Him? Guy named Alex Whiffle? How'd you like to go through life with a name
like that? Never saw the guy, but he's probably some five-foot-four wimp–have to be to have a crybaby wife like that."

Hacker pushed his chair back from the desk and opened the right top drawer. He reached in and took out a small black semi-automatic pistol. Holding it out for Ross to see, he said, "Ain't big, but this 9mm Walther'll do the job. That stupid wimp of a husband come to kill ol' Gerr and he's in for one damned big surprise." He held the gun in both hands and aimed it at the door. "Bang!" he yelled.

Smiling, he offered the gun to Ross, "Here, give it a feel."

"No. Revolvers are my choice, never fired any other kind."

Hacker shrugged, and said, "They taught me to kill in 'Nam, and I sure won't mind doin' it again." He dropped the gun onto the desk, leaned back, and lit one of his foul-smelling cigars. "They never learn do they? All of them right there for the fleecing. You'd think for that kind of money they'd check into it. They deserve to get screwed."

"What do ya mean, 'deserve to get screwed'? How could anyone know that stock would take a nose dive?"

Hacker spoke as though he were teaching a small child how to add two and two. "Ross, life's a merry-go-round: When you see a gold ring, you've got to grab it. I knew for months that stock would take a fall. But she kept saying that her brother—supposed to be some Wall Street wizard, according to her—told her it was going to skyrocket. Hell, I told her, if he's such a genius why come to me? But she insisted—cut her own throat."

On two occasions, Ross had a suspicion Hacker had walked a fine tightrope between the straight and the crooked, but he never had any proof. He, himself, had made a few deals that were a little shady, but none as blatant as this. If his partner had actually stolen from this client, how many others had he cheated?

Hacker looked at his watch and snuffed out his cigar butt. He took his coat from the back of the chair and walked to the outer door, saying, "It's only a little after four, but I'm doin' the Santa scene for Rhonda tonight. She says beards and the color red really turn her on. "

"Who's Rhonda?"

"She's a new bit of fluff I met last month. Gonna take her to dinner, then up to her place (he winked at Ross) for a little dessert. Santa suit and all."    

Ross didn't respond, so Hacker continued, "Okay, so she's a lot younger than me, and maybe out for my money, but she's one hot tamale, and if I gotta go, I can't think of a better way. But her husband's due in from Cleveland late tonight, so I'll break it off early."

"I'm heading home early too," answered Ross, "Krissy's having some of her friends over for a Holiday seance. Bunch of weirdos if you ask me, but she gets a kick out of it. And since little Johnnie died, she's needed something to get her mind off him."

Hacker, now in his overcoat, stood next to the white-flocked tree. It rose nearly to the ceiling, and was lavishly trimmed with ornaments. Multi-colored lights blinked in unison with the Christmas tunes.

He said, "I tell you, Ross, Krissy's a sweet kid, but she runs all over you. You gotta take hold of the reins, here, and at home. You've got the gift, but you've gotta make the moves. Then you'll make the big bucks. This is a dog-eat-dog world–and it’s the lead dog that makes the kill.” He leaned forward and raised his voice, “And remember our deal, you’ve only got two more months to produce, or you’re out of here."    

When Ross didn't answer, Hacker sighed, "Just as I thought, no balls. Well, so long. I'll be back in tonight about ten.” Just before he closed the door with a bang, he said, “Gotta have the Anderson portfolio ready for the meeting in the morning."

As Ross walked over to turn off the monotonous bells, he thought, Anderson account? That was my client! That ‘s the second one he’s taken.

He fumed, God, if I’d only known what a crook he is. . .. But I guess what he said is true: I don't push my clients hard enough, I’m not making the commissions I should, and I have pampered Krissy too long.

After their son's death, Krissy, depressed, had gone on shopping sprees and run their meager savings into the ground. "I have to do something to get my mind off the baby," she had cried. "You're at the office all day, you probably don't even miss him, but I do."

Ross knew what Krissy said was true. He had tried to soothe her, saying, "Of course I miss him. But he's gone. We've got to go on. Why don't you join a women's club, or take up a hobby to get him off your mind?"  

But as suddenly as it had begun, the shopping stopped. The bills from the department stores no longer arrived. Krissy had taken up a hobby. She’d met some swami with a fancy name who held seances and promised her she could talk to little Johnnie again. Ross didn't believe any of it, but it had stopped Krissy's exorbitant spending. He soon found, however, he had been better off with the shopping bills. He hadn't considered what this swami with his mystical mutterings would cost.     

He mused, And what in the hell am I gonna do about Hacker? The bastard’s taking my accounts . . . and I’ve only got two more months to produce some results.  

When Hacker had offered Ross the six-month, trial partnership, it had strings attached: Ross to put up $100,000, non-refundable, and bring his established client list. When Ross hesitated, Hacker had sweetened the partnership–a $3,000,000 life insurance policy to the surviving partner at the death of the other.

Because of the funeral expenses and Krissy’s extravagances, Ross had taken out a second mortgage on their home. And, like Hacker loved to remind him, he had just two months left to save his home, and probably his marriage. What a fool I was. But how the hell could I know the guy had built his successful reputation by screwing his clients? God, what can I do?

Ross, seated at Hacker’s desk, closed his eyes, and spread his arms in a plaintive gesture. His right hand fell upon something hard and cool. He opened his eyes: Hacker’s pistol.

Slowly a plan formed in his mind. I have all the elements I need—a wife who'd been swindled, an enraged husband, a partner who’ll probably get me into prison. It’s like cards in a poker game . If he could just deal them out the right way, he'd win the $3,000,000 pot.

Just as darkness began to creep in the windows, he stood, and said aloud, "Okay, dear partner, you want balls? I'll show you balls!"

Ross wrapped his handkerchief around his hand and picked up the black pistol. He clumsily slipped the clip out of the handle, used his thumb nail to push one cartridge into his left hand and dropped it into his coat pocket. As he put the gun back into the drawer, he noticed a bank deposit slip for $25,000 dated three weeks prior. Here was the proof he needed, Hacker had not bought the stock with the woman's money—he had put it into his own account.   

He returned to his own desk, picked up the phone and punched in a number. When he heard a familiar voice answer, he said, "Krissy, I'm going to be working late. I know, but it can't be helped . . . You don't need me home for the seance anyhow . . . No, I can't, I'm sorry. I'll be home later. Good luck with the seance." His wife was still protesting when he hung up.

There was a resolute manner in his stride as he opened the office door, and as he stepped into the deserted hallway, still absorbed in thought, he didn’t realize he was whistling Santa Claus is Coming to Town.

After a quick meal at a pizza joint, he bought some plastic gloves and dark-colored twine, and made one more stop at a sporting goods store, all in a part of town he had never gone to before.

At 8:20, he parked in the office building’s deserted underground garage. He slipped his hands into the plastic gloves, opened the glove compartment and took out the small, chromed, .38 caliber Smith and Wesson revolver he had bought from a street punk last year. He had given it to Krissy for protection while he worked late. He was sure she had never used it, just as he didn't intend to, but he thought  the sight of it would cause the desired reaction. He opened it and assured himself the five chambers were full. When Whiffle got a good look at the gun, he wanted him to know it was fully loaded and dangerous. He closed it, wiped it carefully with his handkerchief, slipped it into his inside coat pocket and exited the car.

Once inside the office, he turned on the single light over Hacker's desk. If this call was ever traced, he wanted it to come from Hacker's phone. He spun the Rolladex, found the number he wanted, and punched it in.

A man's voice answered, "Hello. Whiffle here."

Ross said, "Whiffle, this is Gerald Hacker. Tell that wife of yours to kiss off. I told her no investment's a sure thing. And tell her to stop these damned phone calls, crying and offering me sex to refund her money. Why in hell she'd ever think I'd want to crawl into bed with a scrawny piece of meat like her I can't imagine."

Whiffle had tried to interrupt this diatribe a number of times and when Ross finally stopped, he stammered, "Why you. . . you lying, cheating, filthy-mouthed son of a bitch, you can't talk about my wife that way. She trusted you, you bastard. You never should have sunk the last money we had into that crappy stock. I know where you are, and I'm coming over there.”

Ross had a feeling Gerald was wrong about Mr. Whiffle. He didn't sound like any wimp to him. So much the better. He yelled into the phone, "Yeah, well go to hell! I'll be in my office at midnight tonight. Suite nine-oh-nine. You're welcome to come up and take your best shot, asshole."

Whiffle said, “I don’t need no gun to take care of you. I’ll be there all right–and either you kick back the money and apologize or I'm going kill your ass—slowly and painfully."

Ross heard a dial tone. He put the handset onto its cradle, sat back in the chair and smiled.

Still wearing the plastic gloves, he reopened the drawer, removed the black semi-automatic, and closed the drawer. In his own office, he sat in the dark, listening.

At 10:10, Ross knew Hacker had returned because he heard the tinkling strains of The Little Drummer Boy through the closed door.
 
Five minutes later Ross slowly opened the door. Hacker sat at his desk going over some papers. He still wore the Santa Claus outfit, minus the cap, beard, and gloves, which were on the corner of the desk. Ross could not restrain a laugh.

Hacker dropped his pen and looked up. "What the hell? Why you back here? I thought you were home with sweet cheeks and Mandrake, or whatever. What'd you do, break your chains?"

"No, my testicles dropped, and it's not going to be in your best interest to say the least, old man." He walked to the front of the desk, and as he finished his remarks,  pulled the black pistol out of his pocket and pointed it directly at Hacker.

Hacker's hand went to the top-right desk drawer. "What the hell you doin'?" His hand fumbled inside the drawer, and a puzzled look came to his face.

"Yes, it's your gun, dear partner. I've been thinking about your ethics and my personal situation since we spoke earlier, and there's only one solution that makes sense–for me that is, not you. But think of it rationally, no one's going to miss you, and as you've so kindly told me a number of times, I've got a great future before me."

Beads of perspiration sparkled on Hacker's brow. He forced a laugh and said, "I get it, scare the old bastard so he'll lay off your personal life. Is that it? Hell, I was just trying to help you, you spineless eunuch—trying to get you to fulfill your promise and go after what's out there waiting for you."

"It worked." answered Ross. "Maybe only too well."

Hacker leaned forward and put out a trembling hand. "All right, good buddy, you've made your point. Put the damned gun down and let's shake hands. Bygones-be-bygones and all that shit, okay?"

Ross looked at his watch. He said, "Sorry, old man, can't chit-chat any longer, got a future to take care of. Balls will be balls you know—and you brought it on yourself."

Ross closed his eyes and shot his unbelieving partner twice. When he opened his eyes, Hacker was at once the most comical and most tragic figure he had ever seen. Soundless lips moved in disbelief as Hacker watched the blood ooze from his chest, darkening the red fabric of the costume. As he collapsed onto the desk, Hacker looked like a bizarre blow-up doll, its air escaping.

Ross slipped the gun back into his right pocket and took the twine from his left one. He grasped the body by the collar, pulled it up higher in the chair, and secured it in a sitting position with the twine. He raised the right hand and propped it up with two books. Taking Krissy's chromed revolver from his inside pocket, he wiped it clean with his handkerchief and placed it in the right hand of the dead man. The first time he tried it, the hand loosened its grip and the gun fell onto the desk. Looking about, he saw the discarded costume pieces on the corner of the desk. The gloves! He slipped a white glove onto the hand, propped it up again, and put the revolver in it. This time it stayed. He smiled as he picked up the beard, put the wires over Hacker's ears, and placed the cap on the dead man's head at a rakish angle.

Ross stepped to the outer door and looked back into the office. The room’s  too dark, he thought, The body’s not visible enough. He turned on the tree lights, and along with them, the tinkling music. Nodding with a grim smile, he leaned over the desk and lowered the lamp shade so more light fell on the gun, and less on Hacker's face.

He again pulled the clip from the black automatic. Using his thumb, he pushed the remaining cartridges into his hand and dropped them into his pocket with the one he had taken earlier to use as a sample. He brought out his purchase from the sporting goods store–a box of blank cartridges. He slipped seven of the shiny shells into the clip and reinserted it into the gun, which he placed on the right corner of the desk in the light of the desk lamp.

Ross rechecked the scene: The chromed revolver glistened in the dead man's hand. On the corner of the desk, the black pistol contrasted starkly with the wood grain.

He felt satisfied, yet all sorts of thoughts went through his head. Does Hacker look too comical in that garb? No, he decided. He looks even more ghastly in the flickering light from the tree. Hacker’s body’s ready. I’m ready. I just need to get Whiffle angry enough to shoot Hacker.

He looked at his watch: 11:14. Still time, if I hurry.

Halfway to his office, he stopped and slapped himself on the forehead. He walked back to the desk and turned on Hacker’s intercom.

In his own office, Ross spoke into his own intercom, hearing his voice from the other room. Too loud, he thought. He adjusted the volume and tried again—yeah, that’ll do.
The clock on the desk said 11:23. With a half hour to wait, he leaned back in his chair and was humming to the strains of The Little Drummer Boy when, above the tinkling bells, he heard the sound of the elevator.

He jumped to his feet. Apparently Whiffle was more than prompt, actually thirty minutes early. Ross picked up the intercom unit and walked to the slightly open connecting door.

Through the crack, he saw the outer door of Hacker's office open part way, and the dark silhouette of a head against the dimly lit hallway.

The door opened slowly and a man entered. "Hacker?" he growled.

I was right, Whiffle’s anything but a wimp. He wasn't tall, about five-foot-seven Ross guessed, but he was broad—almost filled the doorway.

Ross spoke into the phone, "Yeah you idiot, it's me, Gerald Hacker. You surprised me, I didn't think you'd have the guts to show up. Most sons of bitches I've ever met with nutty-nympho wives like yours were afraid of their own shadow. So you get brownie points for courage. But now that you're looking down the barrel of this thirty-eight, I guess you've changed your mind about killing me. How was it you put it, Whiffle, 'slowly and painfully'? The elevator's waiting, try not to soil it on the way down."

The dark figure in the doorway, in a voice that reminded Ross of tires rolling over gravel, said, "What in the hell you babbling about, you dumb bastard? I don't know anyone named Whiffle. My name's Guido Farinelli.

"I got back from Cleveland on an early flight and saw you coming outta my apartment. After I slapped Rhonda around a little, she told me how you and she were playing her little Santa game tonight. She said she's been milking you for goodies while I'm out of town. Guess some broads are never satisfied—always got to have more. I guess, as you say, she’s a bit of a nympho, but when she gets out of the hospital this time, I don't think she'll be doin' the horizontal cha-cha with any other guy for awhile.

"But as for you, you sad-assed old bastard, since you haven't shot me yet, I'd guess you're the one without the nerve. So before you shit in your Santa suit, I'll say goodbye the only way I know how." He laughed, "Funny thing, I just got back from closing out a contract in Cleveland I got twenty grand for. I'm not getting nothin' for this one; and I'm going to enjoy it much more. S'long, sucker."

Ross watched in shock as two tongues of flame spirted from the dark shadow, and he heard two sounds as though someone was trying to quiet him in a library. Then, the figure turned and ran down the hallway. As he heard the elevator descending, his knees buckled and he slowly sank to a squatting position against the door frame.
 
What the hell had happened?, he wondered. Rhonda's husband had shown up and pumped two more shells into Hacker, that's what happened.  He hadn't had to go through with this charade, hadn't had to shoot his partner—Rhonda's husband had done it for him. Now what could he do? He looked at his watch: 11:47. Whiffle, the other avenging husband was due in less than 15 minutes.

He waited to hear the elevator doors close. Don't panic, just lock Hacker's door and turn out the light. When Whiffle comes he'll  think Hacker chickened out, and leave.” Smiling with renewed courage, he rose to his feet—and heard the elevator doors opening.

Damn, Ross thought, Whiffle's car must have come up while Farinelli's car was going down.

With no time to lock the outer door, he ran to the desk and was jerking the revolver from the dead man's hand when a voice behind him asked, "Which one of you bastards is Hacker?"

Ross concealed the gun behind him. He turned and saw a tall, thin man in a tan overcoat. He pointed to the corpse and said, “ That's Hacker. Are you Whiffle?"

"Damned right, I’m Whiffle. And that's not Hacker, you're Hacker—same voice as on the phone. You’re not going to get away with blaming any of this on some stuffed Santa Claus."

Ross implored, "No, you don't understand. I was only pretending to be Hacker. He 's right there in the costume. Really!"

Whiffle walked into the room, and, in his gloved hand, picked up the automatic from the corner of the desk "Now who's the wimp? You don't even have the guts to admit who you are. You're just a slimy, cheating bastard! The world would be better off without you. Now, give back my wife’s money.”

Ross had always thought fast on his feet. Why am I worried? There's nothing but blanks in that gun.

He brought the chromed revolver up and pointed it at Whiffle. "Screw you. I already spent that money on a sexier broad than your wife will ever be. So if you've got the guts, which I doubt, blast away! If you haven't fired before I count to three, I'm going to empty this thirty-eight into you. One ... two ..."

Ross didn't get to three. He heard a loud report, and fell to the carpet to make it look like he’d been shot. But he thought he must have hit the corner of the desk on his way down because of the sharp pain in his chest. He decided he'd play dead.

Ross didn't know what happened after that; he was aware only of flashing lights and great pain. The last sounds he heard were the tinkling notes of Silent Night.

Author Bio

Jim Oddie lives in the apple capitol of the world with his wife, Pat. After a career as a commercial artist and exhibit director, he has been writing short mystery stories for about a dozen years, and drawing cartoons and caricatures for many years more.