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  THE SINGLE TWIN

  An Abe & Duff Mystery

  Sean Patrick Little

  Spilled Inc. Press

  Sun Prairie, Wisconsin

  © 2019

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters and incidents herein are figments of the author’s imagination. No living animals were harmed in the writing of this book. No imaginary ones, either.

  All rights reserved.

  Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying or recording, or in any information or retrieval system, is forbidden without the prior written permission of both the publisher and copyright owner of this book.

  Copyright 2019 Sean Patrick Little

  Published by

  Spilled Inc. Press

  Sun Prairie, Wisconsin

  Email: [email protected]

  On Twitter: @SpilledIncPress

  All rights reserved.

  For my parents,

  Who gave me Hardy Boys books

  when I was in first grade.

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Publisher’s Notes

  THE SINGLE TWIN

  -1-

  THE TWO MEN stood shin-deep amid the chaos scattered about the room. Around the pair was a standard-issue grisly murder scene with all the accouterments one would typically find in such a situation. A body, bloated from the summer heat, had been dead for several days. The smell issuing from the corpse was enough to make a vulture rethink some of its life choices. Flies buzzed around the room incessantly like something out of The Amityville Horror. A pool of crusty, dried blood was around what used to be the corpse’s head. The body, discolored from bruising and swelling, bore the telltale signs of violence. The bed was unmade, white coverlet and sheets stained with dried vomit and spatters of blood. The rest of the room looked like it had been tossed by overzealous prison guards looking for drugs. The drawers were emptied all over the floor. Everything which had been on the little, white IKEA desk in the corner of the room was strewn about the chaise lounge by the window. Clothes, hygiene supplies, and books were everywhere. Whoever had killed the victim had actually carried items from all over the house and scattered them in the room.

  Neither of the two men moved for a time. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the center of the mess and just looked around. Their eyes lit on everything in the room slowly. Surely. They took in every detail. The taller of the two men was lanky and thin, his arms absent of muscle. He had a bit of a belly paunch. He looked sad-eyed, gaunt, and ungainly. He wore an ill-fitting short-sleeved shirt, a bad maroon tie, and khaki slacks which ballooned on the man’s waist where he’d cinched his belt.

  The second man was shorter and much fatter. He was obese, but not in a grotesque way—more like the way former football players let themselves go despite the shorter man’s only football playing experience coming via Madden games on his PlayStation. He wore dirty blue jeans, unlaced high-top sneakers, and a black-and-white plaid flannel shirt hanging open over a Pink Floyd t-shirt. A faded Milwaukee Brewers snapback cap perched on his head, the visor tilted upward so it would not interfere with his view of the scene.

  Both men were slump-shouldered, out of shape, and looked like they’d gone seven rounds with Life and their cornermen had thrown in the towel. They were a modern-day Laurel and Hardy without any of the joy, optimism, or charm.

  From the doorway, a police detective in a leather jacket and jeans watched them. He was fit, gray at the temples, with a square jaw and thick neck which refused to let him wear a tie correctly, so his tie perpetually hung loose. He drummed his pen impatiently against his thigh beating out an arrhythmic cadence. “Well, fellas?”

  The fat man looked over his shoulder. “Ease up, Betts. This takes time.”

  Betts thumbed the corner of his impressive mustache. “You guys only get called in because you got the weird-ass Sherlock Holmes power. If you can’t do it, then you’re wasting my time. Make with the results.”

  “I said ease up.” The fat man turned back to the room before him. “We’ll get there.”

  The tall, thin man closed his eyes. His hands lifted out in front of him and made gestures like he was striking at something with an invisible bat. “Metal pipe.” His voice was thin and raspy.

  “Clearly,” said the fat man. “Left-handed assailant.”

  “How the hell do you know that?”

  The fat man looked back at the detective. “Look at the strike patterns on the victim’s skin. Well, where you can still see the strike patterns, at least.” The body was purpled from bruising and decay. “Anything that didn’t come straight down on top of his head came at a downward angle on the left side and an upward angle on the right.” The fat man mimed swinging a club with his left hand. “This means he was swinging overhand on his left side. Can’t swing overhand like that on the right. The shots on the right side came from backhand swings.”

  “Did anyone find a metal pipe?” The thin man’s eyes blinked open.

  “Not on the premises,” said the police detective.

  “Then he took it with him.”

  The fat man groaned. He moved to a window and peered out into the street. The narrow suburban street was lined with identical green waste receptacles in front of every house. “Dammit...it’s trash day.”

  The thin man turned to the police detective. “Betts, you have to get patrol agents to search every garbage can and recycling can on the block. Now. Before the waste management truck gets here.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because the murder weapon is in one of the garbage or recycling cans out there. The murderer couldn’t walk down the street with it. He wouldn’t have put it in his car, either. Too much blood and hair on it. It’s going to be in one of those garbage cans out there.”

  Betts rolled his eyes. “Son of a bitch. Wilson, call it out to the guys outside.”

  A uniformed officer was standing in the hallway behind Betts. The uniform ran outside and seconds later, cops were scattering for the nearest trash cans.

  The fat man looked around the room. “House is what, mid-1960s? It’s messy, but not filthy. Chances of this place having a long, loose metal pipe laying around here are pretty slim.”

  “The killer brought the pipe with him,” said the tall man. “Definitely premeditated, then.”

  “You think it’s a man who did this?” Betts was jotting notes on a small notepad.

  “Almost definitely. A man or a woman who’s really jacked,” said the fat man. “You don’t crush a skull like this with average strength.”

  “Look for someone with serious rage issues or someone who had a vendetta against the victim.”

  “Forget the rage issues. This was personal.”

  Betts looked up from his notebook. “How do you know?”

  The fat man crouched down and picked up a few pieces of debris in the room. The first was a quarter. He held it up. “See this? It’s a 1996 Washington Quarter with the Missing Earlobe. It’s worth like two grand.” He held up a display case that was cracked in half. “Whoever hit t
his case to destroy the display, he knew what was in the case. He hit it to hurt the victim, not to steal the coin. There are a couple other collectible items here worth some cash. They’re all broken, too. The attacker wanted to hurt this man before killing him. What do we know about the vic?”

  “Not a ton.” Betts consulted his notebook. “Name’s Dalton Roth. Owns a couple of restaurants. No history. No outstanding debts.” Betts shrugged. “Dude seems clean.”

  “What restaurants? Maybe we’ve eaten there.” The fat man was suddenly interested.

  Betts scanned his notebook. “Two pizza places: The Red Room and Guido’s Deep Dish, and a small diner, the East Side Cafe.”

  The fat guy patted his stomach. “Yup. Been to all three. This guy was a chef? Doesn’t look like a chef. He looks like he worked out a bit. Not a ton, but enough.” The dead man was in reasonable shape for a man over fifty.

  “Owner. Apparently, he was the money guy, the investor. More of a silent partner.”

  “Decent finances?” The tall man was pulling on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. He started poking through some of the opened dresser drawers that hadn’t been emptied onto the floor.

  “I guess. House looks good. Newer Chrysler 300 with all the bells and whistles in the garage. Guy wasn’t broke, but we’re still waiting for a court order to get all the financial details.”

  The fat man was still crouched on the floor by the bed. “Why did you call us again?”

  “Look at the scene. Whoever did this went ham all over the room. We don’t know what was here before the attack and what was added afterward. We figure whoever killed this guy scattered everything to bury any evidence. Be hard-pressed to match DNA if we can’t determine what DNA was in the room before the murder. The stuff in this room, we figure a lot of it was brought in from other rooms in the house, too.”

  “Makes sense.” The fat man lurched forward in an attempt to stand. “I think I’m stuck.” He rocked back and forth. “Yeah, my knee locked up. I’m stuck.” He looked to the cop in the doorway. “Hey, Betts, give a big guy a hand, would you?”

  Betts sighed. “Are you serious, Duff?”

  The fat man, whose proper name was C.S. Duffy, nodded. “Yeah, it’s an old sports injury.”

  “You didn’t play no damn sports.”

  “Ping-pong is a sport, Betts!”

  “I think it’s more like an eats-too-much-Lucky Charms injury.”

  The tall man, who was christened Aberforth Willard Allard, but whom everyone simply called Abe, hurried to the side of Duffy. He pulled his friend to standing. “Never mind, Betts. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself, there.”

  Betts ran a finger over his moustache. "Duff, you gotta get in shape.”

  “Round is a shape.”

  “You’re gonna drop dead of a heart attack any day now.”

  “Hey, my old man was a fat guy, and he lived to the ripe old age of sixty-five. That gives me like twenty good years.” Duff shook his leg to reset his trick knee.

  “Get him into a gym once in a while, Abe.”

  Abe shook his head. His fingers twiddled nervously in front of him. “Gyms have a lot of people. Sweaty people. I’m not a fan.”

  “Fine. Just don’t invite me to his funeral.”

  Duff jibed Betts. “You do put the fun in funerals, Betts. I want you to give my eulogy.”

  “Keep it up, Duff. What do you geniuses have for me? What’s the final call?”

  Duff and Abe moved to the doorway. Duff looked to Abe. “You want to be the vic?”

  Abe’s face wrinkled into a mask of mild disgust. “I really don’t.”

  “You never make a good suspect, you know. You don’t have it in you.”

  “Maybe today I will. I’ve been practicing.”

  Duff shrugged. “Whatever, man. If this reenactment sucks, it’s on you.”

  “No, I got this; I’m feeling it today.” Abe hopped in place like a sprinter trying to get loose. He shook out his arms and hands. He recited a mantra to himself. “I’m a murderer. I’m a murderer. I’m a murderer.”

  Duff waded into the room. “So, here’s how it probably went down. I’m the vic, right? Judging from the vic’s nude status, we have to assume he’s either just had sex or he’s just gotten out of the shower.” He pointed to a towel on the floor next to the bed. “I’m betting shower. This guy, he’s in decent shape, but look around: All the drawers are spilled out all over the room and we got no condoms, no lubes, no porn, no sex toys. He’s in good shape, but I don’t think he gets laid much, or if he does, he ain’t bangin’ nobody here.”

  Duff walked to the master bathroom door at the far corner of the room. “You got a Jack-and-Jill sink in the master bath, but only one of the sinks is getting used regularly. That’s a single dude, a creature of habit. He doesn’t party much. We’re going to rule out a crime of sexual passion. He wasn’t cheating on someone. He didn’t get caught banging the neighbor.”

  Abe held up his hands like he was holding an invisible samurai sword. “Pretend I’m holding a metal pipe,” he told Betts.

  “Swing from the other side of the plate,” said Duff. “You’re going Hank Aaron. You need to be Ted Williams.”

  “I don’t know hockey.”

  “Baseball, Abe.”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  Betts thumped the wall with his fist. “Jesus Christ! Get on with it. I’m gonna retire before you finish with this shit.”

  Duff ignored Betts. “Ted Williams batted lefty. You’re holding the pipe like you’re a righty. Go southpaw, man.”

  Abe tried to switch his stance but it was a painfully awkward series of machinations as he tried to mimic a batting stance he knew nothing about. “How’s this?”

  Duff shrugged. “You ain’t gonna hit .407 that way, buddy.”

  Abe hesitated. “Do I want to hit four-oh-seven?”

  “If you’re going to be Ted Williams, you do.”

  “Goddammit, fellas! Ted Williams is not the murderer!”

  “He might be,” said Duff. “Like, what if someone sewed Teddy’s frozen head onto a donor corpse and some mad scientist reanimated him? Wouldn’t it be awesome? The Splendid Splinter running around axing people like he’s knocking dingers at Fenway again. Ted would be a Hall of Fame serial killer if he put his mind to it. First ballot, all the way.”

  “Duff, get on with it already.” Betts was seething.

  “Hey, if Theodore Samuel Williams decided to commit to being a serial killer the same way he committed to each and every at-bat he took, we’d be looking at the new all-time champ for murder. Just saying.”

  Betts pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fellas.”

  “I have to agree with Duff,” said Abe. “Athletes tend to have a single-minded focus far superior to the average man. If Mr. Baseball—”

  “Mr. Baseball is Bob Uecker, not Ted Williams.”

  “Well, if Mr. Williams wanted to start murdering—”

  “Get on with it!” A vein was throbbing ever so slightly in the center of Betts's forehead.

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry, Detective.” Abe waded into the room, his imaginary weapon held left-handed...sort of. “The killer confronted the victim with a weapon. Judging from the blood spatters on the bed, the vic was ordered sit. The murderer raged and shouted, bashed up a bunch of the expensive stuff around the room, and then eventually turned the weapon on the vic.” Abe mimed—badly—the act of bludgeoning someone’s skull with a pipe on Duff.

  Duff watched his partner’s bad acting with narrowed eyes. “Really, man? Put your back into it, at least.”

  “I thought I was.”

  “Not really. I knew I should have been the murderer.”

  “You’re always the murderer, though.”

  “Because if one of us was going to start murdering, it’d clearly be me.”

  Abe scowled. “I suppose that’s correct. You be the murderer, then.”

  The two men switched places. Duff’s hands immediately
leaped into a proper left-handed batter stance. He hauled back and mimicked beating Abe about the head and shoulders. “You can see the first blow probably came overhead. It was a stunning shot, but not a killing shot. The vic stayed on his feet. Probably lost his towel at this point, so he was full-on nude. The next few shots came from the sides, hitting in the shoulders and neck, both forehand and backhand shots.”

  Abe pointed to the vic. “He fell at some point and rolled onto his back. At that point, the killer straddled the body standing and rained straight blows down on the skull until the victim was dead. Given the state of the skull, the suspect kept going for a while after the vic was dead, really getting out some pent-up anger.”

  Duff took over the narrative. “At this point, the attacker suddenly comes back into his own. Whatever rage trip he’s been on ends. The fog clears, he looks down at the body, sees what he did to another human being, probably someone he once liked or cared about, is shocked by this, and then the attacker pukes on the bed.”

  Abe pointed a rubber-gloved finger at the bed, his face wrinkled with disgust. “That would be this nasty, fly-ridden pile of dried yuck right here.”

  Betts waded into the room and squinted at the bed. “Looks like a lot of nothing.”

  “Flies probably ate a lot of the good stuff,” said Duff.

  “After the killer pukes, he realizes what he’s done. He knows he needs to cover his tracks and get out. The medical examiner said this crime was done on Saturday, right?” Abe moved toward the window and squinted out. The uniformed cops were still dumping garbage cans in search of the murder weapon.

  “As far as the M.E. can determine, Saturday is most likely.”

  “Today is Wednesday, garbage day for this neighborhood. Given the fact none of the uniforms has found the weapon yet, we’ll say this happened Saturday night. There would have to have been a cover of darkness for the killer to get more than a house or two away before realizing he’d need to stash the weapon.”

  “While he was panicking, he realized the best way to cover up his crime would be to douse the room in as many pieces of junk as he could. No one would be able to tell what was there before the crime or after, and it might mess up any sort of prosecution timeline. Smart play, actually.” Abe looked into the hall. “He would have started in the hallway. That’s why the bookshelf is empty there and all the knick-knacks that would have been on it are in here.”