Time frame: April 1998 during the sixth season right after “Strangled, Not Stirred” (original air date: April 10, 1998). M.E. Julianna Cox had already left the show. I started writing this story April 11, 1998. I completed the story June 20, 1998. The UA Harborcourt movie theatre has since closed. The Fleur de Lis flower shop is now a shaved ice shop.

Disclaimer:  The following Shakespeare quotes appear in the story and are used without permission:

“There’s rosemary. that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts. ...There’s fennel for you, and columbine. There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me. We may call it herb of grace O’Sundays. 0, you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died.”
Hamlet, IV, v, 174-176 and 179-183

“That handkerchief  Did an Egyptian to my mother give. ... Make it a darling like your precious eye. To lose’t or give’t away were such perdition As nothing else could match. ... ...There’s magic in the web of it.”
Othello, III, iv, 55-56, 66-68, and 69

“The rudeness that hath appeared in me I have learned from my entertainment.”
Twelfth Night, I, iv, 202-203

“Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.”
Romeo and Juliet, II, iii, 94

“How all occasions inform against me”
Hamlet, N, iv, 32

“Sweet recreation barr’d, what doth ensue
But moody and dull melancholy”
Comedy of Errors, V, i, 7 8-79

“Men at some times are masters of their fates”
Julius Caeser, I, ii, 139

“If music be the food of love, play on, give me excess of it. That surfeiting the appetite may sicken and so die.”
Twelfth Night, I, i, 1-3

“The justice of it pleases.”
Othello, N, i, 223

“Me thought she purged the air of pestilence.”
Twelfth Night, I, i, 21

“0, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!”
Romeo and Juliet, I, v, 44

“He that commends me to my own content,
Commends me to the thing I cannot get.”
Comedy of Errors, I, ii, 33-34
Bibliography

Shakespeare, William. Comedy of Errors. New American Library, New York. 1965.
The Signet Classic Shakespeare edition.

Shakespeare, William. Hamlet. Penguin Books, Baltimore. 1969. The Pelican Shakespeare edition.

Shakespeare, William. Julius Caeser. Dell Publishing Company, Inc., New York. 1958.
The Laurel Shakespeare edition.

Shakespeare, William. Othello. Thomas Y. Crowell Company, New York. 1961.

Shakespeare, William. Romeo and Juliet. Penguin Books, Baltimore. 1960.
The Pelican Shakespeare edition.

Shakespeare, William. Twelfth Night. Penguin Books, Baltimore, 1958. The Pelican Shakespeare edition.
 
 
 

IF MURDER BE THE FOOD OF LOVE

The voices of Celine Dion and Peabo Bryson rose in the darkness. Detective Laura Ballard’s eyes misted over as the familiar refrain echoed through the crowded theatre. Her favorite Disney movie never failed to move her. When Disney re-released Beauty and the Beast in theatres, she was first in line.

Ballard remembered her wonderful sense of joy, perhaps even emancipation, when she saw Beauty and the Beast for the first time in 1991. Finally, she thought, a Disney heroine with a brain. A dark-haired, dark-eyed woman of the 90s who put her fragile blonde prince-seeking animated companions to shame.

Ballard watched all the credits before she exited the United Artists Harborcourt theatre, artfully dodging the popcorn littered and soda drenched areas in the aisle. She always felt rejuvenated after watching Beauty and the Beast. Maybe there’s hope for me, too, she thought.

However, her rejuvenation was tinged with regret because she couldn’t fail to recognize that she, too, was waiting for her prince in shining armor just like the conventional Disney heroines she so readily dismissed. And so far, the Baltimore singles scene had offered very few promising prospects.

“Next one’s yours, Ballard,” Gee called.

Ballard sat at her desk, dredging up a few unsolved cases, hoping to change some red names to black. She didn’t have to wait long for the phone to ring. Her hand darted out as soon as she heard the shrill noise.

“Ballard. Homicide,” she said automatically.

The scratchy dispatch was paged through. “Female. Mid 2Us. Apparent death by drowning. Victim found in Patapsco River at Bond Street Pier.”

Ballard’s partner, Detective Stu Gharty, was on personal leave. She scanned the squad room. Detective John Munch didn’t look busy.

“Hey, John,” she called. “How about a ride in my Chevy?”

“Once a Boy Scout, always a Boy Scout,” he returned as he grabbed his overcoat. “Anything for a damsel in distress.”

“Well consider me your good deed,” Ballard responded as they exited the squad room.
***

Ballard and Munch pulled into the pier and headed for M.E. Alissa Dyer.

“What do we have?” Ballard asked Dyer.

“Looks like a drowning,” Dyer answered, pushing her glasses up in front of her steel blue eyes. Her reddish blonde hair was cut short for minimal interference with her work. “A dock worker found the body when he was cleaning the pier. But, Ballard, this drowning is certainly unusual.”

“Why’s that?” Munch queried.

“The girl had this around her neck.” Dyer handed them an evidence bag which held what appeared to be a bouquet of flowers in a plastic bag. Neither Ballard nor Munch was any good at botany. They recognized a daisy in the spray, but none of the other flowers looked familiar. There was also a note inside the bag. Ballard put on her gloves and withdrew the note from the bag. She opened the handwritten note and began to read:

“There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts. There’s fennel for you, and columbine. There’s rue for you and here’s some for me. We may call it herb of grace O’Sundays. 0, you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died.”

“Oh great,” Munch muttered. “A nut who knows his way around a flower garden. Bet he’s crazy as a daisy.”

“Not exactly,” Ballard replied. “This is a passage from Ophelia’s mad scene in Shakespeare’s Hamlet.”

As Ballard had been reading the words, she had thought immediately of her close friend from college, Aspen Sinclair. She had met Aspen in her Introduction to Shakespeare class during her sophomore year at UW; Aspen had been a freshman. Aspen was a huge Kenneth Branagh fan, so when Branagh released his four hour uncut film version of Hamlet eight years later in 1996, Aspen saw it nine times in the theatre. She met Kenneth Branagh at a benefit screening of the film, and they hit it off. She had been Branagh’s personal assistant for nearly two years. She was busy on the set of Branagh’s next film, an adaptation of Measure for Measure with Branagh directing himself as the tormented Angelo.

“I didn’t know you were so savvy about the Bard,” Munch commented with grudging respect.

“Let’s just say I have connections,” Ballard smiled and turned to Dyer. “Any I.D. on the victim?”

“We haven’t found any,” Dyer replied. “You guys’ll have to call this one in to Missing Persons.”

“All, Jane Doe. That’s a Familiar name, isn’t it?” Munch remarked as he turned to the reporting officer, Jack Scranton. “Any witnesses, Scranton?”

“This is a pretty deserted area this early in the morning,” Officer Scranton replied. “Only witness we know of is one Jasper Jenkins, the dock worker who found the body. He’s over there with Officer James.”

“What time did you find the body?” Ballard began.

Jasper Jenkins smoothed his greasy brown hair. His acned face was pale, and he had to clear his throat before he started to speak.

“Um, I came on at 4 a.m.,” Jenkins told Munch and Ballard. “I usually make it to this pier by 6:15 a.m. I was just cleaning the deck when I thought I saw some flowers in the water. I wandered over out of curiosity. Sometimes I see trash in the water, but flowers are pretty rare. I peered over the edge of the pier. That’s when I saw her.”

Ballard noticed the boy shuddered involuntarily at the memory. Poor kid, Ballard though. He couldn’t be more than eighteen, she realized, noting his physical awkwardness and reluctance to make eye contact.

“I’d never seen a dead body before,” Jenkins continued. “But her lips were blue and she wasn’t moving, so I thought she was probably dead. As soon as I found her, I rushed to the nearest pay phone and called 911.”

“Don’t worry, Jasper,” Munch reassured him. “You did the right thing. Now did you notice anything suspicious this morning?”

“No, the place was pretty deserted, as usual,” Jenkins answered. “I didn’t notice anything odd.”

“Well, here’s my card.” Munch extended his card to Jenkins. “Give me a call if you remember anything, okay?”

“Sure thing,” Jenkins promised quickly. “Hey, does this mean I’m free to go? My boss told me I could have the rest of the day off. On account of the body and all.”

“Yeah,” Ballard answered. “Go ahead.”

Apparently, Jenkins couldn’t leave the scene quickly enough. He bolted as soon as Ballard gave the okay.

“Bet he can’t wait to get home and tell all his friends,” Munch muttered cynically.

“Give the kid a break, John,” Ballard responded. “He looked scared.”

“Remember, Laura, I was his age once, too,” Munch responded with a mischievous smirk.

Now that’s a scary thought, Ballard grinned as she and Munch finished up at the crime scene.

“What do we have, Ballard?”

Lieutenant Al Giardello’s booming voice resonated in his small office in the squad room.

“Jane Doe. Mid 20s. Found drowned at the Bond St. pier. We have the teenager who found the body, Jasper Jenkins, but he told us he didn’t see anything. So right now it’s no witnesses, no suspects. But there was a bag of flowers around the dead woman’s neck. Munch is working on identifying the flowers. There was also a note inside the bag. It contained a passage from Shakespeare’s Hamlet which has several references to flowers. I think the bouquet may contain the flowers referred to in the passage. If so, we may be able to trace the buyer. Those flowers would be quite an unusual request.”

“What about an I.D. on the dead woman?” Gee pressed.

“I’m working on it, Gee,” Ballard told him. “I’ve contacted Higbee in Missing Persons, and he’s checking on their Jane Does.”

“Well, let me know when you have something, okay?” Gee concluded.

“Gee?” Ballard had one request. “With your permission I’d like to run this case by the F.B.I. The Shakespeare quote gets me. There may be a killer the F.B.I. is following who has an M.O. involving Shakespeare. This perp might not be local, and he may have killed before.”

“Good hunch, Ballard,” Gee approved. “Give it a try and get back to me.”

“Thanks, Gee,” Ballard said as she and Munch left.

After leaving Gee’s office, Ballard’s first stop was the small third floor cubicle known formally as the Missing Persons Division office, but referred to by detectives as “Dead End Alley” because so many of the missing persons reported were never found.
Officer George Higbee sat behind the only desk in the room. He looked up from his paperwork as Ballard walked in.

“What do you have for me, George?” Ballard asked as Higbee shuffled his papers and pulled out a photograph.

“How does Ashley DeWitt sound?” Higbee extended the photograph.

Ballard was transfixed by the eyes of the young woman in the photo. The eyes were hazel and shone brightly. The smile in her eyes extended to her mouth. She looks so alive, Ballard thought. So happy. Not like the body we found in the water yesterday. But Ballard couldn’t deny the girl in the photograph and the body at the pier were one and the same.

“It’s her,” Ballard confirmed to Higbee. “Who called it in?”

“Her roommate, Vivian Winters,” Higbee reported, handing Ballard the rest of the DeWitt file.

“Thanks, Higbee,” Ballard called as she headed back up to the squad room.

“Hey, Munch,” Ballard said, approaching his desk, “I’ve got a positive I.D. on the girl from Higbee in Missing Persons. I’ve also got the address of the woman who called her in. Let’s roll. You can tell me about your success with the flower shops on the way.”

Munch hadn’t call the flower shops immediately, Ballard learned as she drove toward Vivian Winters’ apartment in Canton. Instead, he had contacted his brother, Bernie, a Baltimore mortician. If anyone would know about flowers, Munch had surmised, it would be Bernie. Munch had a copy of the Shakespeare passage and a photograph of the bouquet from evidence control, and he planned to head over to Evergreen Funeral Home as soon as he and Ballard finished with Vivian Winters.
Vivian Winters lived at Willowbrook Terraces, an upscale apartment complex near the Canton waterfront in Southeast Baltimore.

  Ballard and Munch climbed the stairs to the third Floor and knocked on the door of apartment 314.

“Who is it?” a female voice asked.

“Baltimore Homicide,” Ballard and Munch answered in unison.

The door flew open, and a petite dark haired woman in her mid twenties stood before them.

“It’s about Ashley, isn’t it?” she questioned fearfully.

“Yes,” Ballard replied. “Can we come in?”

“Uh huh,” the woman nodded and motioned them in.

The spacious apartment had a huge window with a great view of the Patapsco River. Ballard and Munch quickly took seats on the couch in the living room and Vivian sat in the armchair in front of them.

“She’s dead, right?” Vivian could barely utter the words because she was on the verge of tears.

“We found a woman’s body yesterday down at the Bond St. Pier,”

Munch said softly. “The body we found may be your roommate, Ashley
DeWitt. We’ll need you to come down to the station to make a positive I.D.”

Vivian nodded and bit her lip.

“Vivian, do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Ashley?” Ballard asked.

“Of course not,” Vivian responded vehemently. “Ashley was the sweetest girl in the whole world. She was a preschool teacher, and she loved children. She wouldn’t hurt anyone, and she didn’t have any enemies.”

“Does she have family in the area or a boyfriend, someone we can go to for more information?” Munch questioned.

“All her family is out in Des Moines,” Vivian replied. “As for a boyfriend, she told me she met this great guy who was really into Shakespeare. She was very secretive about him. She only called him her ‘poet king.’ I have no idea what his name is, but she met him through her book club. She was part of the City that Reads Book Club at Adrian’s Book Cafe down in Fell’s Point. She was so happy. She thought she’d finally found her prince charming.”

Ballard shuddered when she heard the words “prince charming.” Oh, Ashley, how wrong you were, she thought.

Ballard and Munch drove Vivian to the morgue to make a positive I.D. Vivian confirmed that the drowned woman was indeed Ashley DeWitt.

After dropping Vivian back at her apartment, Ballard put in a call to the F.B.I. about the DeWitt murder, hoping for a match. She left the information she had and was told the Bureau would call her soon with any leads.

Munch headed out to the funeral home. Bernie made a quick match with Ophelia’s flowers and those in the bouquet. He also narrowed down the list of possible flower shops where the bouquet could have been bought.

“Most of these flowers you can find anywhere,” Bernie told Munch. “But there’s only two flower shops in Baltimore that sell fennel, Foxglove on Morton Street and Fleur de Lis on North Charles Street. I’d check those two, John,” he said, offering Munch the phone numbers.

Munch grabbed the phone and dialed Foxglove First. Foxglove was a no go because while it sold fennel, it did not sell columbines. However, with Fleur de Lis, Munch hit pay dirt. The clerk confirmed that all the flowers were indeed sold at Fleur de Lis.

“Well, I’m off to North Charles Street,” Munch told his cousin as he prepared to leave. “Thanks, Bernie.”

“Whatever you desire, John,” Bernie returned as he walked his brother to the door. “After all, your line of work helps keep me in business.”

“Ballard, phone’s for you,” Munch called across the squad room.

“Homicide. Ballard,” she said when she picked up the phone.

“Detective, this is Special Agent Palmer with the F.B.I. We received your request for an M.O. match, and we got a hit. Turns out, the Shakespeare M.O. showed up in another murder. Three months ago, Denver homicide worked a case. Victim fit the same profile, white female, mid 20s, no I.D., found in a deserted alley. She was smothered.”

Like Desdemona in Othello, Ballard thought.

Palmer continued, confirming Ballard’s immediate suspicion. “There was a handwritten passage from Shakespeare’s Othello in a bag around her neck. Turns out, the passage had been written in her own handwriting. There was also a red handkerchief in bag. The M.E. says it was probably used to kill her. The case is still open. There may be no connection, but it’s worth a shot. Let me give you Detective Jacques O’Mara’s number in Denver. He was the primary on the case. Good luck, Ballard.”

As soon as she hung up with Palmer, Ballard called O’Mara. He saw immediate parallels to the unsolved Veronica Chambers murder. His case was three months old, and O’Mara was grateful for the lead. He wanted to come to Baltimore to work with Ballard on the DeWitt murder. Ballard spoke with Gee, O’Mara spoke with his lieutenant, and arrangements were made.
O’Mara would fly out that night.

Ballard arrived early to meet O’Mara’s 9:10 p.m. flight. Whenever she went to Baltimore-Washington International airport, she liked to spend time at the upper level Observation Gallery in the comfort of a black vinyl cushioned chair. The large windows looked out on the runway, where Ballard enjoyed some quiet reflection as she watched the planes take off and land. The Gallery also featured a Smithsonian Air and Space Museum gift shop and a small exhibit about Maryland aviation with scale models of different parts of the plane including the cockpit and the engine.

Today, as she gazed out toward the runway and the overcast night sky, she wondered what the winged behemoth would bring her from Denver. What kind of name is Jacques O’Mara anyway? Ballard thought. She was reminded of a friend who had cautioned her to avoid mixing names from different countries when she had children because the combos may result in unusual matches like Guiseppe Jones, Svetlana O’Looney, or Francoise Mayakovsy. Add Jacques O’Mara to the list, Ballard grinned.
Ballard stood at Gate A-2. O’Mara was coming in on United Flight 1641, direct from Denver.

The flight arrived on schedule, and as the passengers emerged From the plane, Ballard anxiously searched the crowd for O’Mara. Her eyes wandered with some eagerness, she reluctantly admitted to herself. He’s only a colleague, her inner voice warned.

Just as this warning played out in her head, she locked eyes with a medium-height, muscular male. That can’t be him, she thought, simultaneously hoping it was. She glanced uneasily at his lapel and to her surprise saw the purple silk handkerchief her eyes sought. She noticed the stranger’s quick look at her blouse, his eyes stopping on her amethyst broach. They had decided on purple signals of recognition because purple was the color of his hometown baseball team, the Colorado Rockies, and the color of her alma mater, University of Washington.

A wide smile broke out on the stranger’s handsome face, a smile which extended to his cerulean blue eyes. He ran his hand through his short white-blond hair and walked toward her. Ballard was stunned. He looks just like Bart Conner, she marveled. She had had a wild crush on the Olympic gold medal winning gymnast during her adolescence.

With effort, Ballard shook herself out of her reverie and walked forward.

Detective Jacques O’Mara paused in front of her and extended his hand.

“Detective Laura Ballard, my fellow traveler from the West, I presume,” he said with a smile.

“That’s me,” Ballard replied with an awkward grin. “You must be Detective Jacques O’Mara.”

“Reporting for duty,” he said with a mock salute.
***
AS Ballard drove the Cavalier back toward the city, they reviewed their respective cases. Both victims were single white women in their mid 20s. Their deaths mirrored the deaths of two Shakespeare heroines, and a Shakespeare passage was found with each of their bodies. O’Mara read Ballard the quote from Othello that had been found with Veronica Chambers:

That handkerchief
Did an Egyptian to my mother give.
Make it a darling like your precious eye.
To lose’t or give’t away were such perdition
As nothing else could match.
***
O’Mara had a profile of the suspect from the F.B.I. They were looking for a white male in his mid 30s, a professional and probable sociopath. In addition, Jacques noted, his employment record would most likely show a recent transfer from Denver to Baltimore. As they approached Fell’s Point, Ballard suggested a drink at the Waterfront before she dropped Jacques off at his hotel. He readily accepted.

“Ballard et beaux,” Munch observed as Ballard and O’Mara entered the Waterfront Bar. “Quel que ce c’est homme?”

“Detective John Munch, meet Detective Jacques O’Mara, Denver homicide,” Ballard said as Jacques extended his hand across the bar.

“Jacques O’Mara?” Munch raised his eyebrows. “A little of the city of lights with a dash of the Emerald Isle?”

O’Mara laughed. “You guessed it, John. My dad’s Irish and my mom’s French. They met and fell in love when my dad served with the British army and was stationed in France during World War II. They moved to Denver forty years ago, and I was born six years later. My dad’s a cop with the Denver PD, and my mom runs Vie en Violet, a Denver bakery that specializes in French pastries.”

“Well, Erin Go Bragh and vive la France,” Munch returned. “Welcome to Charm City. What can I serve you? Your wish is my command.”

“Wow, our own genie,” O’Mara quipped.

“And we didn’t even have to rub a lamp,” Ballard remarked, glaring at Munch.

“So what will it be?” Munch inquired again.

“White Russian,” Ballard and O’Mara responded exactly in synch. Munch smiled as both Ballard and O’Mara turned slightly red.

After dropping Jacques at his hotel, Ballard headed home. She lived in a small apartment in Fell’s Point near the station house at 1701 Thames Street. Several of her apartment decorations were leftover from her college days at the University of Washington. Her decor was largely film-related. Ballard loved movies. On her mantel, she displayed her two mock Oscars, one for “Best Actress” and one for “Best Graduate.” Framed magazine covers featuring her favorite actors and actresses, including Daniel Day-Lewis, Kevin Costner, Hugh Grant, Susan Sarandon, and Michelle Pfeiffer, adorned her walls.

She hadn’t majored in film in college. Her chief obstacle had been Film 85, the film production class and a pre-requisite for the major. Stories from her friend Aspen informed her that feverish late-night hours in the editing room were par for the course in Film 85. Ballard liked to spend her late nights watching Twin Peaks in syndication on Bravo. Ballard had been a huge Twin Peaks fan since the series’ premiere in April 1990. The show’s exteriors were filmed in Snoqualamie and North Bend in northern Washington. She had visited both towns in a Twin Peaks pilgrimage while the series was still on. Since then, she had attended a couple of Twin Peaks conventions in Snoqualamie, with conventioneers dressed as Twin Peaks characters. Spending her nights with Kyle MacLachlan was certainly preferable to locking herself away in an editing room.

So she stuck with criminology, an interest she had nurtured since she started reading Nancy Drew books in fourth grade. She still laughed when she remembered how desperately she wanted to be Nancy Drew for Halloween when she was in fifth grade. She would stare in the mirror at her long black braid, wanting by sheer will power to change her hair red to match Nancy’s. She certainly couldn’t find a Nancy Drew costume in the store on the rack next to Raggedy Ann and Big Bird. Her neighbor Jean, an arts and crafts expert, volunteered to make her a wig, but the result looked more like a fur cap than a head of hair.
Ultimately, she didn’t use the wig. She just borrowed her sister’s magnifying glass and wore her mother’s white blouse and autumn colored skirt to school. She accepted with chagrin the constant chorus from her classmates, “Who are you supposed to be?” “Nancy Drew,” she’d reply, brandishing her magnifying glass to defend herself from their laughter. The humiliating Halloween did nothing, however, to deter her interest in detection and crime solving.

Ballard changed into her favorite T-shirt, her “Real Dawgs Wear Purple” University of Washington Huskies purple shirt. The shirt had been a gift from her father’s friend, Uncle Rob, a lawyer in Bellingham, WA, when she was still in high school. It soon became her “good luck” shirt. She wore it to all of her college finals, and she was never disappointed with the results.

Sometimes, she’d put on the shirt during a difficult case in hopes of getting a break. That’s what I’m doing now, Ballard thought. I’m sleeping in the shirt to get some good luck.

When Ballard got to the station house the next morning, she saw O’Mara talking to Munch. She walked over to join them.

“Hey, Laura, I’m glad you’re here,” Munch greeted. “I’ve talked to Fleur de Lis flower shop on North Charles Street. I showed them the bag of flowers we found around DeWitt’s neck, and they confirmed the bouquet was purchased at their shop. The customer was one Victor McSwain, 621 North Charles Street near the Peabody Conservatory. O’Mara and I were headed out to pick him up.”

“We never came across a Victor McSwain in the Chambers investigation, but this sounds promising,” O’Mara added.

“Let’s go,” Ballard replied, heading out followed by Munch and O’Mara.

Munch, Ballard, and O’Mara stood on the steps of the upscale rowhouse. Ballard rang the doorbell.

The door opened slowly. A head of thick blonde hair peeked out.

“May I help you?”

“Baltimore Homicide,” Ballard answered. “We’re looking for Victor McSwain.”

“I’m Mr. McSwain,” the man responded, opening the door a little wider. “What can I do for you?”

Ballard noticed McSwain spoke with a Southern accent. He sounds just like Dennis Quaid in The Big Easy, she thought.

“We’d like to bring you down to headquarters for questioning in a murder investigation,” O’Mara informed him.

“I’d love to help you, detective,” McSwain told O’Mara, “but I’ve got a plane to catch. I just got transferred to Minneapolis. My plane leaves B.W.I. in two hours.”

“Well, your plane may leave, but you won’t be on it,” Munch told McSwain.

“What makes you so sure, detective?” McSwain’s voice was full of contempt, and he glared at Munch.

Ballard intervened. “It will be easier on you if you just come with us,” she urged McSwain. “There’s no need to be rude.”

“The rudeness that hath appeared in me I have learned from my entertainment,” McSwain answered matter-of-factly. Immediately, Ballard’s ears perked up. Sounds like Shakespeare, she thought. We’ve got our guy.

Ballard exchanged glances with O’Mara and Munch, and she could tell they had exactly the same reaction. Munch grabbed McSwain and pulled him outside as O’Mara shut and locked the door.

“You’re coming with us, Victor,” Munch said, as he led McSwain to the Chevy Cavalier.

Ballard, O’Mara, and Munch led McSwain into the interrogation room known as “the Box.”

“Have a seat, Victor,” Munch offered magnanimously.

McSwain held his head high as he walked to the lone chair and sat with his back to the wall.

“My company is not going to be very happy about this,” McSwain complained. “They needed me in Minneapolis today.”

“What company is that?” Ballard asked.

“IBM,” McSwain replied. “I work in their building in the Inner Harbor. I help design financial software.”

“Does your job involve a lot of travel?” O’Mara asked.

“I usually get three month assignments,” McSwain explained.

“Where were you before you transferred to Baltimore?” O’Mara questioned.

“I had a sojourn in the Mile High City,” McSwain answered.

“I’ve heard it’s gorgeous out West,” O’Mara remarked casually. “By the way, that’s a nice handkerchief.”

McSwain’s eyes lit up as he rubbed the burgundy handkerchief in the pocket on the left side of his sports coat. “That handkerchief did an Egyptian to my mother give,” McSwain said eerily, as if in a trance. “There’s magic in the web of it.”
Othello’s very words! Ballard noted immediately, but she suppressed a visible reaction. Ballard glanced quickly over at O’Mara. He, too, was trying to contain his reaction so he wouldn’t tip off McSwain, who didn’t know he was from Denver homicide. Ballard had to get O’Mara and Munch outside so they could confer and strategize.

“Well, if Mr. McSwain is going to miss his plane, the least we could do is offer him some coffee,” Ballard urged, darting pointed looks at both Munch and O’Mara.

“Coffee sounds good,” Munch responded, recognizing Ballard’s intent. “Doesn’t it, O’Mara? We’ll be back in a flash, Mr. McSwain.”

“Wisely and slowly,” McSwain said smoothly, “they stumble that run fast.”

“It’s him,” Ballard said as soon as the door to the Box closed behind them. “Your instinct to go for the handkerchief was a good one, O’Mara,” Ballard complimented.

“I couldn’t resist that kind of opportunity, Laura,” O’Mara responded. “Especially since he doesn’t know I’m Denver homicide.”
 

“Okay, when we go back in the Box,” Ballard decided, “I think we should let O’Mara take the lead. McSwain has no idea we know about Denver. We’ll have a better chance of catching him if we try to nail him for the Chambers murder because he won’t be expecting it.”

“Sounds good to me,” Munch replied. “Lead the way, my Franco­Irish friend,” he urged O’Mara as he followed the Denver detective. Ballard was right behind Munch, and she shut the door firmly.

“Where’s my coffee?” McSwain asked as soon as the three detectives returned.

“Who wants some lousy squad room coffee anyway?” O’Mara shook his head dismissively. “If you answer all our questions, you’ll be out at Starbucks getting iced decal nonfat mocha latte grandes in no time.”

“I prefer the Daily Grind, and I never order decaf,” McSwain corrected pointedly.

“To each his own,” O’Mara shrugged. “I meant to tell you...I have a friend I think would really like your handkerchief. Her name is Veronica Chambers.”

McSwain lost his composure, and his body sank visibly in his chair. “How did you know about Veronica?” he whispered.
Munch cackled, “Meet Detective Jacques O’Mara, Denver homicide.”

McSwain’s eyes grew wide. “How did you find me?”

“Let me give you a hint, college boy,” Munch answered contemptuously. “Next time you order a bouquet of flowers that can only be found at one flower shop in the whole city, don’t leave your real name and address with the order, okay? You never know when you’ll be in a city where there’s a homicide detective with a cousin who runs a funeral parlor.”

“How all occasions inform against me,” McSwain muttered.

“So, why Veronica Chambers? Why Ashley DeWitt? And why Shakespeare?” Ballard questioned McSwain.

“You should understand, detective.” McSwain sized up Ballard. “You’re an attractive woman. I bet you’ve broken a lot of hearts.”

“What does that have to do with Veronica Chambers and Ashley DeWitt?” Ballard asked.

“Let me put it this way, detective,” McSwain proposed. “Remember when you read Shakespeare plays out loud in class when you were in high school?”

“Sure,” Ballard shrugged. “Who doesn’t?”

“Well,” McSwain continued. “I remember, too. I loved to read the plays. I volunteered every day. I’d read ahead so I knew which role was the best. I sat near the door to the classroom so I could catch Mr. Landry as soon as he came in and I could get the role I wanted. First we read Othello, then Hamlet, King Lear, and Romeo and Juliet. I was Othello, Hamlet, Lear, and Romeo. And the most beautiful girl in class, Serena Beauchamps, was my Desdemona, my Ophelia, my Cordelia, and my Juliet. In Mr. Landry’s classroom, she pledged her eternal love to me with Shakespeare’s words.” McSwain’s tone was wistful and his eyes were bright.

His tone changed abruptly. “But outside the classroom, she rebuked me and ignored my advances,” he confessed angrily. “She scorned me and humiliated me. She called me the ‘poet pip-squeak’ in front of her football player boyfriend. And, detectives, sweet recreation barr’d, what doth ensue but moody and dull melancholy?”

McSwain frowned but then his voice gained assurance. “But men at some times are masters of their fates,” he declared. “And Serena would pay. She would be the grand finale. If murder be the food of love, play on, give me excess of it, that surfeiting, the appetite may sicken and so die. First, there would be three others, one for each play we read in Mr. Landry’s class. I saved the last play for Serena. The justice of it pleases.”

All three detectives watched McSwain in silence as he continued.

“Veronica was spirited and lovely,” McSwain said enthusiastically. “Me thought she purged the air of pestilence. She was my Desdemona.” McSwain involuntarily rubbed his handkerchief.

“Ashley was innocent and sweet,” McSwain remarked tenderly. “She called me her ‘poet king.’ She was my Ophelia.”
McSwain’s voice became consumed with regret. “I was to discover my Cordelia in Minneapolis,” he sighed. “And Serena...oh she doth teach the torches to burn bright! She was my Juliet, waiting for me in New Orleans.”

McSwain looked around the Box at each of the detectives and finished, “He that commends me to my own content, commends me to the thing I cannot get.”

McSwain signed a confession and was charged in Baltimore with Ashley DeWitt’s murder. O’Mara contacted his lieutenant in Denver to get things under way to charge McSwain with Veronica Chambers’ murder as well. He then made arrangements for a flight back to Denver that night. His flight wouldn’t leave until 11:30 p.m., so he offered to buy Ballard a drink at the Waterfront after her shift before he left.

The Waterfront was nearly empty when Ballard and O’Mara walked in around 8:30 p.m.

“Night crowd hasn’t made it in yet, Billie Lou?” Ballard greeted the bartender.

“Nope,” Billie Lou answered. “You two practically have the place to yourself.”

“Could you bring us a couple of White Russians?” O’Mara called as he and Ballard headed for a corner table in the back.

“Sure thing,” Billie Lou said, quickly preparing the drinks and delivering them shortly alter O’Mara and Ballard sat down.

“So what’s it like in Denver this time of year?” Ballard asked.

“Well, Laura, I can order up a sunny day, high 70s, with no humidity especially for you,” O’Mara replied smoothly. “Just give me a date.”

Ballard was overwhelmed by O’Mara’s sincerity and by the light in his blue eyes. Maybe there’s more for me than a late night impromptu blue plate special at Jimmy’s with Falsone, Ballard thought with a smile as she gazed over at O’Mara across the table. Yeah, she grinned, maybe there is.