name="Who Killed Tippy?" by Ray Gregory

Who Killed Tippy?

Detective Henson checked his watch — Saturday, 8:25 a.m. He glanced back around the cavernous, near-empty parking garage. The lone attendant on duty had said he heard shots, but he saw nothing. Since it was a city garage, only half the security cameras worked, and not one on this level. Henson shook his head, exhaled tiredly.

He stooped to examine the note lying on the small of the victim’s back, careful not to touch the blood-soaked paper. That was forensics’ job. He scanned the ruled lines, the shredded edge where the page had been ripped from a spiral-bound notebook, the BURN IN HELL CLOWN scrawled on it with a wide, black marker.

Watt, his new partner, thrust his smartphone before Henson’s face, a photo of the victim glowing on its screen. “It’s him, all right,” Watt said with a dismal sigh. “Art James, aka Tippy the Atheist Clown. You know, from Tippy’s Truth Time on TV.” Watt shook his head reverently, then nodded toward the late-model Toby Rover parked next to the body. “His ride too.” He shot a glance toward the nearby concrete column. “Bastard musta waited behind that, watched him park. Popped him as soon as he got out.”

The rim of a large, round wristwatch was visible from under the victim’s coat sleeve. Henson pulled on a pair of latex gloves, then tugged the sleeve back. “A vintage Mickey Mouse. The killer wasn’t a collector.” He patted around the body. “Wallet’s here too.”

He eased the wallet from the victim’s rear left pants pocket, then stood up, careful to avoid stepping on any of the six scattered .22 caliber shell casings, each ringed with chalk. He hinged the wallet open. “Credit cards, cash — hmm, let’s see, uh, um, a hundred and ninety bucks total. The killer definitely wasn’t a thief.” He checked the driver’s license. “Arthur Wilson James, all right.”

Watt exhaled heavily. “It was no mugging gone wrong.”

Henson stepped back. He studied the body, then the surroundings. “In close with a .22, but unload on him, not just the head shot?” He stepped farther back, stroked his chin. “TV clown, you say? Atheist clown?” Henson imagined orange hair, baggy clothes, a pair of big, flappy shoes. But atheist? The bullet holes forming a cross — one in the back of the head, three down the spine, one in each shoulder blade looked even more ominous....