Myke Phoenix 6: The Puzzle of the Talking Dinosaur

Act 1: The breathless man

Until a few minutes later, no one noticed the man who was now leaning against the corner of the building in the 1800 block of Hansen Street, gasping for air as if he had been running longer than he should. He held his long trenchcoat closed tightly, but it was a cooler autumn morning than had been predicted, so he was not the only one on the street who looked cold.

The tall man's given name was Morton Montgomery Davis, but only his mother ever called him Morton. He had come to insist that his friends and business associates call him by his last name, Davis, but many condensed that to Dave, which was all right, too. That the district attorney called him Morty was, well, mortifying to him, but at the moment he didn't care what anyone called him.

Dave now was pressed against the side of the building as if it would crumble to the ground if he were to move. His breath came in quick, short intakes that rattled as if he had a bad cold or worse. It was worse.

After his rest against the building only made the gasps come faster, he gathered his energy and pushed himself to the first door he found, which happened to be that of a car seat reupholstery shop.

The rich smell of leather greeted his nose when he pulled open the door, but he didn't draw deeply as one who appreciated the fragrance.

Instead, Dave spoke in a wheezing gasp. "You gotta help me," he panted to no one in particular. "Call an ambulance."

"What in the name of wide, wide world of sports happened to you, buddy?" said the man behind the counter.

"I've been stabbed," Morton Montgomery Davis said as emphatically as he could given that his ability to take in oxygen was heavily compromised. "Just make that call."

When Dave heard the sound of three buttons being pushed – 911 – he knew help was on its way. As if knowing their job was completed for now, his legs buckled under his weight, and Dave crashed to the floor.

The counter clerk heard the man in the trenchcoat breathe once, deeply, as if finally permitting himself to enjoy the leathery perfume of the shop. Then he noticed a spreading pool of red staining the floor where the man lay. As if the blood released him from some strange paralysis, the man who had been standing without moving behind the counter dashed over to help.

"Holy Schmitt, I've seen this guy's face in the newspaper," the clerk said. "He's one of the Pinkstaff boys."

Before the clerk could figure out how to help – which is just fine because there was nothing he could have done – the bleeding man gave a mournful cry, exhaled raspily and lay absolutely still. A siren whooped a few blocks away.

"White male, about 6-3, 220 pounds, dead of a stab wound to the chest," came the voice over the phone. From the description Sgt. Fredricks of the Astor City Police Department, Detective Division, had a pretty good idea what the answer to his next question would be.

"Got an ID?" he asked anyway.

The pause at the other end confirmed his fear. He was not surprised when the voice said, "It's Davis, Sarge."

Two nights ago Morton Montgomery Davis had talked to Fredricks at a fast-food place 35 miles away, to avoid being seen by someone who might see the two of them together and do the math. The detective had been prepping Davis one last time to testify against his former employer.

"You OK, Sarge?" The detective sergeant realized he was still on the phone.

"Oh. Sorry, Will, I was just sitting here getting real damn mad, that's all."

"I don't blame you. I'll go back to the upholstery shop and see if I can scare up any witnesses."

"Great, thanks. I'll probably be over there with you soon." Fredricks set the receiver down more carefully than necessary, fighting the urge to slam it down in a rage.