The Cincinnati Red Stalkings by Troy Soos Read Free Book Online

about?”
    “Well, when I first came in, Mr. Tinsley was here, too. Him and Mr. Perriman were talking about the opening of the museum.” I briefly wondered if I should mention that it had sounded like more of an argument than a discussion, but decided not to. “Then he left, and I asked Perriman how the exhibit was coming—I’m supposed to be there when they have the grand opening.”
    “Why?”
    “Why what?”
    “Why are you supposed to be at the opening? Were you a friend of Perriman’s?”
    “Not really. Well, maybe we’d have become friends—I think we would have—but! I only met him twice before he . . .” My attention strayed to the bloodstain on the floor.
    “So why were you going to be at the opening?” Forsch prodded.
    “Oh. Mr. Tinsley wanted somebody from the team to be there. For publicity.”
    “And they picked you ?”
    I ignored the note of incredulity in Forsch’s question. “I volunteered. Mr. Tinsley asked for players who might be interested. Guess I was the only one.”
    We were interrupted by two more cops, one of them with sergeant’s stripes, entering the office. Forsch stepped aside to talk with them. There were enough officers in the room to fend off an invasion, but they didn’t seem to be doing much in the way of investigating.
    I turned to look at Tinsley and Herrmann. They stood huddled together near the desk but standing well clear of the blood spot on the rug. The two were an odd match. Garry Herrmann, his short, portly body a testament to his patronage of Cincinnati’s sausage makers and breweries, wore a bright green-checked suit, and diamond rings glittered from the fingers of both hands. He was visibly agitated, and Lloyd Tinsley, more sober in both appearance and manner, appeared to be trying to calm him.
    Having finished with the officers, Forsch directed his attention back to me. “Let’s see, where were we ...” He made a quick check of his notes. “When you spoke with Perriman yesterday, did you notice anything unusual?”
    “Like what?”
    “Did he say anything about being in danger? Did he seem scared, nervous?”
    “Only about getting the exhibit open soon. Said he was going to work late and try to get things in order.”
    “Did he say how much the collection was worth?”
    “Not specifically. Told me he spent more money than he should have for some of this stuff, but didn’t say exactly how much. Mr. Tinsley would probably know that better than me. Or Mrs. Perriman. He said his wife wasn’t happy about how much he was spending.”
    “Did he say if any items had been lost or stolen in the past?”
    “No ... but you can check his book. He had a list of everything in the collection.”
    “Yes, Mr. Tinsley has been reviewing that for us.”
    Forsch then took my home address and phone number in case he had additional questions later.
    When he flicked his notebook closed, I pointed again at the bloodstain. “How did—?”
    With a heavy sigh to show that he didn’t really have to answer any questions of mine, the detective said, “Shot. Bullet to the head.”
    “But why ?”
    “Well, I’m just making a wild guess here,” Forsch said facetiously, “but this is a museum ... a lot of valuable items ... the shooting happened around midnight ... In my professional judgment, I’d say he was likely killed in an attempted robbery.”
    “So you think—”
    “Thanks for coming in. If I have any more questions for you, I’ll be in touch.”
    I was dismissed. But instead of leaving the office directly, I went over to Herrmann and Tinsley. “The detective says he’s finished with me. Anything you need me for?”
    Herrmann shook his head. “No, no, you go shower now.”
    I hesitated a moment, unable to keep from staring down at the carpet again. Yesterday, Ollie Perriman had been standing here, alive, enthusiastic about his latest treasures. And now he was dead, killed on almost the exact spot where I’d last seen him.
    As for those treasures, I saw