“Is he still breathing?” A young woman in a frilly bathing outfit ogled the lifeless body.
“Looks dead as a doornail to me,” a big man snickered. “Was he looking for his horse in the Gulf? Hard to swim in cowboy boots.”
I gaped at the body, recalling a neighbor boy who, on a dare, tried to swim across a lake but ended up drowning. What a horrid way to die, gulping for air, calling for help that never came. Edging closer to Sammy, I whispered, “Think it’s him? The cowboy?”
Sammy squinted at him, nodding. “Must be. It’s too much of a coincidence.” He bent down and turned the body over, then wiped his hands on his jeans.
The frilly bathing suit lady let out a high-pitched scream and ran down the beach. I wanted to follow her, but I forced myself to watch as Sammy examined the cowboy, bloated and puffy, like a blue beached jellyfish. His ruddy face was swollen, his thick copper-colored hair plastered against his forehead, his pale fingers like fat cigars. Vacant blue eyes seemed surprised, staring out into space.
“I’m going to be sick,” Amanda muttered, her eyes half-closed.
“Me too.” I stood there, speechless, unable to move or breathe. Two bodies in two days….Too much violence, too many deaths. Feeling woozy, I leaned against Amanda for support. We stood together in the sand, like a pair of crumbling pillars.
Sammy studied the cowboy’s face and neck. “Looks like rope burns around his throat. Maybe he was hung by a rope—but his neck doesn’t seem broken. Probably strangled.”
I gulped. “You think he was murdered, not drowned?”
He nodded. “Seems he was strangled somewhere else, then dumped off in the ocean.”
“You a doctor?” A short pipsqueak of a man in a black bathing costume challenged Sammy. “You don’t look like no doctor to me.”
“Says who? You?” Sammy stood up to his full six feet and crossed his arms, facing down the diminutive bather.
“I’ll go get the cops. Too late for an ambulance.” The small man walked away, anxiously looking over his shoulder.
After the crowd left, Sammy said, “He looks familiar. I’ll check his pockets, see if I can figure out who he is.” He pulled out a soaked train ticket and poker chips from the Surf Athletic Club—marked SAC. “Take a look at this.” He handed me a chip. So Candy was right— the cowboy was gambling at the Surf Club last night, after the murder. Did we miss him?
“Where’ve you seen him before?” I asked, trying not to stare.
“Maybe at Joe’s Bar. The cowboys seem to like that run-down saloon. The sawdust on the floor makes them feel right at home.” Made sense. The cowboy may have been waiting for the ice man at Joe’s, and followed him to his truck after he made his delivery there.
“There’s no wallet or ID?” I doubted hit men used their real names anyway.
“Nothing.” Sammy studied the wet ticket. “One-way to Houston. Poor sucker got a one-way ticket, all right, to nowhere.” He stuffed the items back into the cowboy’s pockets. “Too bad he can’t tell us who put out the hit.”
“Don’t the Surf Club chips imply the Beach Gang hired him?”
“Looks that way. The chips may be planted or it’s the last place he went. Say he stopped by to collect his dough, or gamble it away.”
Mention of the Surf Club gave me an idea. “What if the Beach Gang had both guys killed? Say they strangled the cowboy after he stabbed the ice man so he wouldn’t talk. Could be symbolic, a warning to rival gang members and hired guns.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. But we may never find out who’s behind the hits. Gangsters know how to cover their tracks.”
“I’ll bet. Say, I need to call Nathan so he can take photos before the body is moved. I’ll let you know what the reporters dig up.”
Too bad I couldn’t send Mack a postcard: ‘Wish you were here.’ Still, was stumbling over yet another dead body really such a feat? To be honest, I felt more like upchucking than gloating.
“I’d better scram. After Burton, I can’t stomach any more cops. I need to make a few stops. Wanna come?” Sammy asked Amanda.
Amanda nodded. “You bet! Beats standing around this funeral.”
“Be careful,” I called, waving good-bye, tempted to follow them.
After they left, I climbed the stairs to Murdoch’s, clutching the banister for support, and found a public phone.
When Mrs. Page answered, I described the crime scene on the beach and asked her to locate Nathan. “Oh my! You poor dear! Want me to call Mack, or one of the city reporters?”
Who did she think I was—a Gibson Girl? “No thanks, I can handle this,” I bristled. “Let me talk to Mr. Nelson, get his OK.”
While I explained the situation, Mr. Nelson sounded skeptical but gave me a few pointers: “Take lots of notes, get accurate quotes and keep your facts straight. Make it snappy—the shorter, the better.” I figured he couldn’t turn me down since I was already on the scene, and Nathan would be taking photos. Didn’t dead bodies still make front-page news?
On the beach, I watched a roly-poly cop with a handlebar moustache examine the body. Word had spread about the cowboy and only a few gawkers remained. Terrified mothers gathered their children and fled the beach. The heat, the bloated body, the whole scenario made me nauseated, but I couldn’t pass up this opportunity—a hot scoop dropped in my lap.
“How long has he been dead?” I asked the corpulent cop.
The cop looked me up and down, taking in my street clothes. “Who are you?” He sounded suspicious. “Why are you so interested in this young man—did you know him?”
“No, sir.” I tried to stand tall. “I’m a reporter for the Gazette.”
“Oh yeah? Where’s Mack? He usually follows stories like a stray on a steak.”
“Since it’s Sunday, I’m filling in for him.”
“You don’t say? Well, I’ll be. A lady reporter?” He stroked his moustache. “I’d guess this poor fella has been in the water less than a day, from the looks of him. He’s not too swollen or decomposed like some bodies we fish out of the bay.”
I grimaced, trying not to picture the unfortunate folks who ended up as shark food. Still, the time frame made sense. If the cowboy had spent Saturday night gambling at the Surf Club, then he may have been strangled and dropped into the ocean after midnight.
“Any idea who he is? Any ID on the body?” I played dumb.
The cop squatted down and dug into the man’s pockets, producing the same items Sammy had already found. “Here’s a train ticket and some gambling tokens.” Then he turned him sideways and looked behind his shirt collar. “He’s wearing a shirt marked with the name MacDougal,” the cop noted. “If that’s his real name. Maybe he’s a roughneck or rodeo cowboy. I’d best call the M.E. to come down, take a look.”
We hadn’t thought of looking under his collar. Strange that both the ice man and his killer had Irish surnames. Was it a fluke? Were they in rival gangs, or the same gang? Or was it a hit? I was tempted to contact Burton, get his take, but for now I had a story to report.
As we waited for the M.E., I studied the corpse, wondering how he was involved. Was he a novice or an experienced hit man? He looked so young, too young to die. Did he work for the gangs or was this a personal vendetta? I felt dizzy from the heat, so I walked toward Murdoch’s for some shade, to catch my breath. Was someone calling my name or was I hallucinating? Then I saw Nathan wave at me from the Seawall, then rush down the concrete stairs with a smile. Dead bodies didn’t seem to faze him at all.
“Thanks for the tip, Jazz. I was so tired of taking photos of fat babies and their doting mothers at the church picnic.” He studied my face. “You don’t look so hot. Are you OK?”
“I’ve seen enough corpses to last a while.” I shuddered. “Hurry, shoot your photos before the M.E. takes him away.” Keeping my distance, I pointed to the cowboy’s neck. “See these red marks? Sammy said they looked like rope burns. Maybe he was strangled with his own rope?”
“Sammy was here? He’s out of jail?” Nathan grinned. “Attaboy! What happened?”
“There was no proof. He was innocent. Just bad luck.” I wanted to rub it in, saying, ‘I told you he was framed,’ but bit my tongue.
Nathan studied the man’s neck, and took a few close-up shots. “They look like rope burns, all right. Sammy would make a good cop, you know that?”
Interesting idea, Sammy going semi-straight.
Nathan cocked his head. “I’ll have to move fast. He won’t keep long in this heat, like the ice man.” Did he have to bring that up? “Say, why don’t you try calling Mack at the paper?”
“I can do this on my own,” I insisted, pulling out a pencil and pad from my bag.
“Sure? No offense, but you’re used to covering society stories, not murder.” He changed angles to get various shots. “You seem so uncomfortable around crime scenes, especially dead bodies.”
Who isn’t? “How can I learn to be a real reporter if I don’t try new things? I can’t wait forever for my big break.” Clearly covering murders wasn’t my forte, but neither was stupid society gossip.
“Fine. I get it.” He held up his hands in mock-surrender. “Did you examine the body?”
“No, why?” I made a face. “That’s what cops and coroners do.”
“Yes, but when they’re not around, it’s a good chance to do some digging on your own.” He smiled. “I learned a few tips by following Mack around. Have you looked in his boots yet?”
“His boots?” I frowned, puzzled. “Why?”
“You’ve heard of lead boots? How about lead cowboy boots?”
Nathan pulled the cowboy’s pants leg up and peered inside the boots. “Just as I thought—they’re filled with sand. The next best thing to concrete or rocks, especially on the beach.” He tapped the side of his head. “Quick thinking. Could be the killer has done this before, or was in a tight spot.”
I’d heard of cement shoes, but this was a new trick. “Doesn’t the sand wash away?”
“Eventually, but it works for a while. The killer has enough time to get away before the body floats to shore,” Nathan explained. “Do the cops know anything about him?”
“Not yet. But we think he murdered the ice man.”
******