An Agatha Award Finalist
for Best Mystery
A Harry Bronson Mystery
Chapter 1
Sam slammed the newspaper down and threw the beer against the wall. It splattered like a splotchy starburst.
So Bronson was retiring. The famous Harry Bronson.
Dallas finest.
He would now live a life of leisure and peace.
Not likely, not if Sam could help it. After all, Bronson had ruined Sam’s life, and for that, Bronson would pay. Sam leaned back and thought of the plan that had been formulating for over a year. Now, finally, it could be executed.
Sam smiled.
* * *
Ever since his retirement, it had been Harry Bronson’s job to retrieve the mail. No big thing, mailbox right at the edge of his property line. But the P.O. Box-that was a different story. Six blocks away and Bronson hated to drive. So he chose to walk, which he considered to be an excellent form of exercise. After all, Bronson was in his fifties, and he knew walking was good for him. But walking just to pick up the mail didn’t entice him. What did appeal to him was its location. The building that stood next to the post office was a coffee shop-a Ma and Pa-type place where they knew how to make a good cup of coffee. Just thinking about the rich coffee bean smell caused Bronson to increase his pace.
That’s one of the things Bronson missed most about retiring. Not too many places to get a good cup of coffee. His poor Carol-a real good woman, been married now thirty-four years-still couldn’t make a good cup of coffee.
Sad, but true.
Bronson retrieved the key from his pocket, opened the mailbox and stared at it. Had someone sent one more envelope, the post office would have fined him for littering. He really should pick up his mail more often, or better yet, cancel this P.O. thing. Now that he no longer worked for the Dallas police department. . .
Bronson scooped all the mail, placed it in the bag he had specifically brought for this purpose, then hurried next door. He ordered a cup of Jamaican-me-crazy coffee, sat down at one of the tables, and emptied the bag.
Just as he had expected. Lots of junk mail, lots of bills. Nothing ever good.
Then he saw it. An envelope addressed to him similar to the one he had received a little over a week ago. Neither envelope had a return address. Its postmark, like the one before, told him it had also been sent from Dallas. Bronson opened the letter and read the typewritten text:
I didn’t get an answer. Do you remember Casey?
S
Bronson clearly recalled the first typewritten message. It had read: Remember Casey? S had also signed it.
A stabbing pain, like thousands of needles penetrating his skin, immobilized Bronson.
Casey.
His first big case. His first failure.
Casey had died because Bronson had chosen to follow procedure.
Casey.
Dead now for over twenty years.
Twenty-odd years, and it still haunted him.
He had sworn back then that from there on, he’d follow his gut instinct even if it meant ignoring procedure. During the next twenty-six years that he spent on the force, he became infamous for bending the rules, just a little, now and then. Outside of his immediate supervisors, no one seemed to mind too much. After all, he almost always solved the cases.
Almost always.
But not Casey’s.
Bronson’s glance strayed toward the plain envelope, the type sold at thousands of discount stores, supermarkets, and drug or office supply stores. Tracing it would be next to impossible, but there existed more than one way to cook a goose. Or in this case, catch the goose.
Bronson drank his coffee, scooped the mail back into the bag, and hurried home. Once there, he dumped the mail on the couch, walked over to his desk and retrieved two swabs and a small plastic bottle filled with distilled water. He swabbed the sticky side of both of the envelope flaps and the stamps, placed the swabs in separate envelopes, labeled their contents, and sealed the envelopes.
Next, he made duplicates of both envelopes and their letters. He bagged the original letters and envelopes in separate plastic bags. He placed all of the items in a large envelope and labeled it Paul McKenzie.
First thing tomorrow, he would call him and cash in on a favor. Bronson would deliver the bag and Paul would use the swabs to do DNA testing, and from the original envelope, hopefully, he would lift some fingerprints that were on file. If nothing else, Paul could determine what kind of printer was used. The results would tell Bronson everything he needed to know. "Gotcha! The goose was cooked and Bronson wondered why that was so important. He didn’t even like goose.
Just as he stuffed everything inside the top drawer, the front door opened and Carol stepped in. "Whew! She wiped her hands on the sides of her jeans. "I finished packing the camper. It’s ready to go. Have you- Her eyes narrowed as she studied her husband. She placed her hands on her hips. "Harry Bronson, are you brooding again about losing that job?"
Bronson frowned. "I was on the force over twenty-six years."
"Yeah, have you forgotten already? That’s twenty-six looong years. So you just snap out of it. You promised me. One-month vacation time. No beeper. No cell phone. You are retired. "Forced retirement, have you forgotten?"
Carol’s eyes softened and Bronson realized why he loved this woman so much. He forced a smile. "Gotta take the cell phone, though. In case one of the kids needs to get hold of us. Amazing, he still thought of them as kids even though they were married and in their late twenties. He made a mental note to stop referring to them as kids.
"I’ll give you that one. You can take the cell phone. Carol’s eyes narrowed, studying her husband. "You’re still brooding about being fired?"
Bronson shrugged and looked down.
She walked over to him and hugged him. "You know it was a political move. You and Garza never got along. He’s strictly by the book. You weren’t. You ruffled his feathers once too often. You knew it was coming. Only reason he didn’t fire you sooner was because he knew how good you are. Hell, all of Dallas knows about you. You’re a legend in this city."
"That doesn’t change a thing, though. He massaged his temple. "I’ve been thinkin about a P.I. license. Maybe I should get one of ’em. I’m too young to retire."
"You could do that, but first one month. Just you and me in our camper, touring the country. No work. You promised, remember?"
Yeah, but I hate to drive, but I did promise her, didn’t I? He rearranged his features, hoping he had put on a happy face. "And a promise made is a debt unpaid. Bronson wrapped his arms around his wife and thought about the letter.
Certainly, it didn’t mean anything. Just someone’s way of letting him know that the great Harry Bronson wasn’t infallible.
But Bronson already knew that.
He had botched Casey’s case.
Somewhere out there in the streets, a killer walked. Free of guilt. Free of fear. He had challenged the police, and he had won.
All because Bronson followed procedure.
End of Chapter One
