Bubble Gum Murder  By Sean M. Cogan    There's always been a sort of kinship between mysteries and music. Both share a systematic structure -- music beat and meter, the mystery logic and order. If most musical composition is built upon the twin dynamics of melody and lyric, detection is based on the complementary concepts of deduction and intuition. The quirky British hit The Singing Detective, the macabre Broadway smash Sweeney Todd, and the recent Oscar-winning saga of Prohibition-era crime and punishment Chicago all demonstrate the link between a good murder and a snappy tune. Further, music has always been an integral element of the Columbo canon. Perhaps no TV crime show beyond Peter Gunn or Miami Vice has been so flavored by its musical scoring. Take Columbo: A Self-Portrait , with its playfully operatic underpinnings adding rich spice to the story's artistic milieu. Country music played a pivotal role in Blueprint for Murder and was central to Swan Song. Classical music made Columbo's second season premiere, Etude in Black, well, sing. Murder of a Rock Star and Murder With Too Many Notes may not have been (sorry) the high notes of the series, but they once again gave our lieutenant the opportunity to whistle his way to a perfect solve rate.     And so we bring up the curtain on Bubble Gum Murder , a very amusing, very sly, very sharp-edged tale of boy band boys gone solo and gone bad, blonde divas who should be more afraid of knives than of Spears (Britney, that is). Watch out, though: Nobody is who they seem to be, especially not (note carefully) Detective Columbo. See if you're N'SYNC with our trenchcoated sleuth and our newest author, whose name brings to mind one of the late greats of the American stage, George M. Cohan...

It was amazing. I sat in the Los Angeles Concert Hall dressing room looking at... myself.

"Mr. Timberhitch, sir?" The boy had my same blonde hair, my same baby blue eyes, even my same distinctive nose. It was almost scary to know that there were legions of young men (and, scarier still, even young women) who had their hair styles and clothing changed in an attempt to match mine.

"It's amazing," I said. "Dude, there is no doubt that you are the winner of the Johnny Timberhitch look-a-like contest."

"It's an honor to actually meet you, Mr. Timberhitch ," said the boy, name of Hank Kallahagen.

"Well, it's always an honor for me to meet a fan," I said. "Smile for the camera." I grabbed onto Hank's shoulder and gave the camera my cheesiest grin. I was happy to do it. I knew that my worldwide celebrity status had nothing to do with being a choir boy back in Bay City, Michigan. It might have got me a record deal, but the record would have flopped. It's only sheer sex-appeal that means anything in the music world, and I was more than proud of it.

I went through the usual action, pulling out a black-and-white of my pretty face and signing it with a felt pen. Then, I snapped my fingers, signaling to my body guards that I wanted to be left alone. After making small talk with Hank, it was time to move onto the next step of my plan.

"Hank, my man," I said, "how would you like to perform on stage?"

"You're joking," said Hank. An expected response.

"I would like you to help me play a little joke on everybody," I said. "In a few minutes, I am supposed to come out and perform two of my slow songs. No dancing required.  'You're Like a Little Lamb' and 'Would You Love Me Twice?' You know them?"

Hank nodded enthusiastically.

"I've got this costume in my closet here. It's the one I'm supposed to wear for this next act. I want you to put it on. You go through this hall and there will be two women to help you with the costume if you don't have it on just right. I want you to go out there and pretend you're me. Can you do that for me?" Hank seemed a little nervous at first, but he finally agreed with me. I knew he would. All pop fans are the same. "Now, you have to swear to me you won't tell anyone about this. Not even my management knows. This is just our little joke. Just between you and me.   But you can't tell anyone. Not your mother... Not your homies... not your girl... You gotta girl, Hank?"

"Yes, I do, sir," said Hank.

"Not even your girlfriend. You got that, man? You gotta swear you're going to keep this between the two of us." He swore. "O.K., man. And there'll be a prompter out there in the back of the auditorium. If you ever forget a word, you just look out there. Can't miss it. We're giving you tickets back to Florida right after the show, right?" Hank nodded again. Good. The less chance he had to break his vow, the better. I applied the false beard, mustache, and black wig I often wore when trying to walk about in public without being hounded by the paparazzi.   Then I headed out the door of the dressing room into one of the back corridors.  I turned one last time to Hank. 

“God bless you, man,” I yelled.  “I’ll get you an autographed T-shirt.”

**

I ran through the back door, feeling the keys to my best friend’s car in my pocket.  He hadn’t asked too many questions when I’d wanted to switch cars.   His crummy old Ford for my classy BMW.   It was kind of a no-brainer.   I needed something inconspicuous.

I parked the Ford about a block away from the alley way in which I’d asked Hannah Smears to meet me.  You all know Hannah Smears.  She’s the little girl that made music history with her catch little number ‘Beat On Me, Baby’, not to mention that barely-there cheerleader’s costume she wore in her first music video.

I looked at my watch.  I estimated I still had about ten minutes.  One extra minute, and I’d be as good as dead.   Speaking of dead...

Hannah stood waiting, dressed in a trench coat and fedora.

“Who do you think you are?” I snickered.  “Sam Spade?”

“At least I look good,” said Hannah.  “You look like you’ve just crawled out of a garbage bin.   You got the photos?”

“Consider your career over,” I said.  “These will prove to the entire planet you cheated on your new boyfriend, that dumb little football player of yours, just the same as you cheated on me.”

“The tabloids have still been going on about that,” said Hannah.   “Those pictures that scummy little private eye you hired took of me and Jake.”

“But you came out looking like the good guy,” I said.   “You’re the one that had a nervous breakdown.   You’re the one that cried for the camera.   Nobody cares about me.  Men can’t cry on camera.  Not even to save their image.  And trust me, you could weep Niagara Falls and it wouldn’t save your image now.  Not with the pictures I’ve got.”

“Show me what you’ve got,” said Hannah.  She expected an envelope of photographs.   What I pulled out instead was a kitchen knife.

“Is this some kind of joke?”
          “You broke my heart,” I said.  “Now, I break yours’.”  With that, the knife plunged.

**

          I bent over her broken body.  Perhaps the hottest body on the planet, but that didn’t matter anymore.   Corpses have no sex-appeal.

I reached into my pocket, already wearing leather gloves, and removed the typed letter I’d already doused in perfume.   I placed the letter into Hannah’s over-priced, designer purse.   Next, I grabbed Hannah’s beautiful, soft hand and bent it around the handle of the knife.  I looked at my watch.  Still about six minutes left.

**

          The Ford squealed into the parking garage behind the concert hall.   I jumped out, running through the back corridor back into my dressing room.  I took a quick look at the monitor.  Hank Kallahagen was carefully placing the microphone back on its stand with his left hand.  As he tore through the audience, back into the lobby, and through the lobby to the dressing room, I tore through the hallway that led to the stage, tearing off my wig, mustache, and dark overcoat as I did so.   At the end of the hallway, the two women happily assisted with the colorful outfit I had been wearing underneath the whole time.   I burst onto the stage, crowd cheering, me smiling.   I was victorious.

**

          The next day, I felt much less victorious.  I felt like committing suicide... and taking half of California with me.

          “It’s called freedom of speech, Johnny,” said Mr. I. M. Sleezee , my attorney.  “I know you’ve heard of it.”

          “Then don’t sue the tabloid,” I said.  “Sue the detective.  He violated client confidentiality.  I wanted those pictures of Hannah with Jake Stanley for me.   Seeing them published made me feel all the more humiliated.”

          “It just gave a better explanation to the public for why you broke up with the girl,” said Sleezee.  “Come on, Johnny.  You’re a great performer.  I know you’re in a rut, but there needs to be a better way for the money...”

          “This isn’t about the money,” I screamed, grabbing him by the neck.   “Those pictures hurt me.  Dr. McSchrewbert says I’m still recovering from the psychological damage Hannah dealt me.   I’m not joking.”

          “You really are insane!” gasped Sleezee, loosening himself from my grip and running for his life.  I needed a drink.  It didn’t mean a thing to me that I was under-age.  I still kept a bottle of strong scotch in the dresser in my dressing room.

**

          When I entered the room, however, I forgot all about the liquor.   I stopped as I saw the back of a man in a rumpled trench coat.   Obviously some kind of perverted celebrity stalker.   I had to be careful.  He was closer to my handgun then I was.

          “Get out of here!” I hollered.  “Get out before I call security!”

          “Oh, I’m sorry about that, sir,” said the man.  As he turned around, I noticed he was wearing my false hair pieces.   “Is this what you do to amuse yourself, sir?   Well, to each man his own.  I prefer golf myself.”

          “Get out!” I repeated.  “What do you think you’re doing in my dressing room?”

          “Oh, I’m sorry, sir,” the man said, sloppily darting his hands in and out of the pockets of his trench coat.  I hoped to God he wasn’t trying to unfasten it.  “I’m with the Los Angeles Police Department, sir.”   He held the badge, which apparently his hands had been darting for, up to my nose.  “Detective Columbo.”

“LAPD,” I said, a little bit in shock.  The way I had planned the murder, it shouldn’t have been necessary to be confronted by any policeman at all.  “What can I do for you, Mr...?”

“Detective,” the man corrected me.  “Detective Columbo.”

“Columbo,” I said, remembering the articles I had read about the California cop with a nasty knack for putting celebrities behind bars.  “Not the Columbo?”

“I’m his nephew, sir,” said the man, squinting at me.

“I’m sorry, Detective,” I said.  “It’s been a very hard evening, and I get confronted by all kinds of freaks.   You can understand I’m a bit edgy.”

  “Quite all right, sir,“ said Columbo .  “Are you Mr. Johnny Timberhitch?”  I nodded, more than a little surprised.  “Did you know a Ms. Hannah Smears?”  I looked at him again, now in a state of complete shock.

“Of course I know her!” I screamed.  “We used to date.  Our break-up has been in all of the papers.  I’m Johnny Timberhitch.   She’s Hannah Smears.  We’re both singers. “

          At first, Columbo just looked at me blankly.   Then, he stumbled back, leaning against the wall, grabbing his messy brown hair, and constantly blinking at me.

“Well,” he murmured.  “I feel completely stupid.”  He stood up.   “I know you now.   You’re that pop singer, Johnny Timberhitch .   My wife loves you, sir.   She’s always talking about you, and making me listen to you on the radio, and asking me ‘Why can’t you sing like that?’   I’ve got to admit it makes me jealous, sir.   And that Hannah Smears!  She was such a beautiful...”

“Detective,” I said firmly.  “I am assuming this all has a point?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said Columbo.   “I’m sorry, sir.  We found this check in Ms. Smears’ purse, payable to you, sir.”

“A check?!” I gasped.  I hoped the girl was burning in Hell at that moment.   This was so like her.  When I came up with that black mail story to lure her into the alley way, I had specifically requested that she bring five hundred dollars in cash as payment.  But she had to write a check.  The disobedient little...  “You found it in her purse?” I said, as if I was now just realizing what he was saying.   In a way, I guess I was. 

“She’s dead, sir.”  I fell back into my seat, faking shock.  Actually, the shock was partially real.  I almost couldn’t believe I had finally gone through with it.    I removed the bottle of scotch from my bottom drawer.   “I think I need some of this.”   I poured myself a glass and then chugged it.   I pointed the bottle at Columbo .  “You, Detective?”

“No thank you, sir.  Never on duty, sir,” said Columbo.   “I realize this must be very hard for you...”

“You have no idea, Detective,” I said.  “I loved Hannah with all my heart.  When she broke up with me, I didn’t think I could live anymore.   All that kept me going was the thought that we’d be together again someday.  And now that she’s dead...”  I forced myself to weep.   Besides being in the choir, I had also taken some acting lessons in high school.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Columbo.   “I realize this is a very bad time, but there are some questions I need to ask you.  It will only take a few minutes, sir, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m not sure I can answer your questions, Detective Columbo,” I said.  “Not in this kind of emotional state.  Never mind.  Do what you must do, Detective.”  I took another shot of scotch.

“There’s this note I need to show you, sir,” said Columbo .   “Seeing as it’s kind of addressed to you...”  I took the note he handed me and held it to my nose.   It was the note I had typed.  

“That’s Hannah’s perfume, all right,” I said, perhaps a bit too excitedly.   I carefully unfolded the piece of paper.   It read as follows:

I can not live without Johnny. He’s the only man I

have ever truly loved.  Without love, I have no reason to

live.  Goodbye, cruel world.   Love, Hannah Smears.

I almost cried as I read the note.  It had the same magical quality as the songs I had written for my last album.   And the music critics had dissed them!

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions about that note, sir.”

“I’m sorry, Detective, but I do mind.  I already told you I was having a hard evening, and now that I know Hannah’s dead...  I just can’t... I don’t know how... Can’t you see I’m in a complete state of emotional shock here!  I’d like to answer your questions, Columbo, really I would, but I...”

“I understand, sir,” rasped Columbo.   “Here’s my card.  If you can think of a time when it would be more convenient, sir...”   He handed me the card and left.   My weeping immediately turned to a Cheshire Cat grin.   I had achieved yet another victory.   The next shot of scotch I took was in celebration.

**

The next day, I used the card Columbo had given me.  When he climbed the stairs to my hotel room, I was in high spirits.  A bottle of wine and two glasses were already out on the table in front of me.

“Detective,” I said excitedly.  “Have a drink.”

“No thank you, sir,” said Columbo.   “I’m still on duty.  Officers can’t drink on duty, as everyone knows, sir.”   Like I cared.  “You called the office saying you were ready to talk to me now.”   I poured myself a glass of wine and began to slowly sip it.

“You know, at first I almost felt guilty about Hannah’s death,” I said.   “After all, she committed suicide because of me.   Not to mention all the times I’ve actually wished death on her.  In fact, it’s kind of a relief that she’s dead.  I mean, I was initially in shock about it, but I’ve known for the last two-and-a-half months that I needed to get over her.  Now, I feel that I finally can.  Is that wrong, Detective Columbo?”

“Not at all, sir,” said Columbo.   “It’s best not to dwell on these things too long.”   I poured myself another glass of wine.

“Sure you won’t have one, Detective?”

“What... Oh... No thank you, sir.  Now if you don’t mind...”

“The questions!  Of course not, Columbo.  Fire away.”

“Well, it’s not so much a question,” said Columbo .  “It’s really just something that bothers me, sir.  Lots of these little things just bother me, sir.  It’s about that letter I showed you the other day...”   He began darting his hands in and out of his trench coat pockets again.  “I know I have it... Dang it!... Blast it, sir... Well, I thought I... if you’d just give me a minute, sir.”  I stifled a laugh.   How could such a bumbling idiot work for the LAPD?   “Here it is, sir.”  He brought out the “suicide note” he had already shown me.   “Here’s what it looks like from the evidence we’ve found so far.  Hannah Smears, she committed suicide, sir.  She typed that letter out, put it in her purse, and went into the alley way.   Then she smoked a cigarette, probably to calm her nerves.   She threw the cigarette to the ground.   She shoved a knife through her own heart.   That’s it so far, sir.”

          I clapped my hands and poured myself another glass of wine.   “How very clever.”

          “Not really, sir.  We’re not really sure it’s a suicide.  We’ve got men looking at the position of the body and the angle of the knife.   The force of the thrust.  Scientific stuff.  They still haven’t gotten anything.  What bothers me is this note, sir. “  He passed it under his nose.  “You identified this scent as the deceased’s perfume, sir?”

          “Alas, I know it well.”

          “I know it well, too,” said Columbo.   “I bought it for my wife as a Christmas present.   Cost me a month’s pension, and she still hasn’t used it, sir.   Well, anyway, sir, it’s like this...   All of those who knew Hannah Smears identified the scent as le Amour’.  That’s a perfume.   It French for... French for... coffee... or food... or... It’s French for something, sir.”

          “Love,” I said.   “It’s French for love.”

          “Yes.   French for love.  Thank you, sir,” said Columbo.   “Anyway, this perfume, this French stuff... They all say it was Hannah Smear’s favorite perfume, sir.”

          “So far, so good,” I said.  “I’m afraid I don’t see your problem, Detective Columbo.”   He aimed his squint at me again.  

          “Now, I’ve known girls to put perfume on letters before, sir.   There’s nothing unusual about that.   But those are love letters, sir.   Cutsie little love letters.   Like back in high school.   I remember this one my wife wrote me, before she was my wife, sir, of course...   She used this stationary with pink flowers and...   Well, never mind that, sir.   Never on suicide notes, sir.   I have never known of a woman to use perfume on a suicide note.”

          “What man can claim to know the mind of a woman, Columbo ?”   I said.   “I honestly can’t tell you what Hannah was thinking when she scented that note.   She was in an unusual state of mind after our break-up.   After all, it did mess her up enough to kill herself...”

          “I suppose it doesn’t really matter, sir,” said Columbo.   “It’s just a little something for the report.”   I poured myself yet another glass of wine.

          “Are there any other questions?”

          “Just one more, sir,” said Columbo.   “It’s also about that note, sir.   There are no fingerprints on it.   There are fingerprints on the the knife, but not on that note.”

          “That’s simple to explain,” I said.  “She wore gloves.”

          “She wasn’t wearing any when we found her, sir,” said Columbo .  “That’s probably why there were fingerprints on the knife.”

          “Then she was when she wrote the letter,” I said.  “And when she placed it in her purse.   You did find the letter in her purse, right?”

          “Yes, sir,” said Columbo.  “That explains it.  I guess I’ll be going now, sir.”

          “But you must have a drink,” I insisted.  “In Hannah’s memory.”

          “Why not?”   I poured two glasses, then we both called out, “To Hannah,” and downed the wine.  I listened as I heard Columbo’s footsteps down the hall and down the stairs of the hotel.  Then I heard footsteps moving towards the room.   The door opened, and there was Columbo !

          “There’s just one more thing, sir,” said Columbo, holding a finger in the air. 

          “What is it?”

          “Hannah’s body was found in an alley way,” said Columbo .   “Do you have any idea what she was doing there?”

          “I didn’t think that would require much of an explanation, Detective Columbo,” I said.  “She was unnerved.  She was ready to commit suicide.  You don’t think she’d like to be found like that, all dirty and smelling like tobacco and with a knife through her heart, lying in the middle of Rhodeao Drive, do you?”

          “I suppose not, sir,” said Columbo.   “But that doesn’t explain the dress.”

          “The dress?”

          “She was wearing a very nice dress, sir.  A very nice dress.  It was from some famous fashion designer.  A designer with a name so fancy I can’t even pronounce it.   If she knew she was going to get the way you said, dirty with tobacco and the knife, why she was wearing the dress?”

          “As I’ve already said, Detective, who can fathom the mind of a woman?”

          “I suppose that’s it, sir.  Good night, sir.”

          I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing as he left.   I yelled out, “I’ll get you autographed T-shirts.   One for you and one for your wife.”

**

          The next day, I was at a press conference.  My manager, I. B. Sliecier, stood by my side.   Everything was going well, until somebody asked me about Hannah.  

          “We all know you killed her!” someone in the audience yelled.   The crowd began to yell in agreement.

          “I couldn’t have!” I yelled in fury.  “I don’t care what any of you think!  The police know the time of death.  I was performing a concert at the time.  I was right there!”

I pointed to a television screen showing a video tape of the concert from that fateful night.  “I dare any of you to try and prove otherwise.”

**

          That’s when I noticed the trenchcoat.   It was moving behind the camera equipment in front of me.   Columbo waved at me.   He had some kind of black fur ball in his arms.

          “Hello, Detective,” I said.  “What brings you here?”

          “I was just out walking my dog, sir,” said Columbo, “when I saw you, so we... the dog and I, sir... We decided to come see you.”

          “This, I take it,” I said, motioning to the black fur ball, “is your dog?”

          “Yes, sir,” said Columbo.  “That’s my miniature schnauzer.  My uncle has a basset, I have a miniature schnauzer.   By the way, sir, there’s just...”

          “One more thing?” I finished.

          “Exactly.   It’s amazing you knew I was going to say that, sir,” said Columbo.  “It’s amazing how well we know each other.”

          “I know.   It seems we should be on first-name basis by now,” I said.   “Do you have a first name I could call you by, Columbo?”

          “Yes,” said Columbo.  “Detective.”

          “What do you need to talk to me about now?”

          “It’s that note again, sir.  The perfume...”

          “We’ve been over this before, Detective.”

          “But this is something different, sir.  I’ve been to the dead girl’s dressing room.   How much perfume do you think she put on that suicide note, sir?”

          “About half of a bottle, Columbo.”

          “That’s what bothers me, sir,” said Columbo.   “There were no half-bottles in Hannah Smears’ dressing room.   What I did find was a brand new bottle.   Did you hear that, sir?  A brand new bottle filled to the top.”

          “A gift from a fan, perhaps?’

          “We checked into that, sir.  The victim purchased that bottle of perfume herself, on the day that she committed suicide.   Here’s what bothers me, sir:   Why would she buy a brand new bottle of perfume if she was just going to go kill herself?”

          “To use on the letter.”

          “But it wasn’t used on the letter, sir,” said Columbo.   “I told you that already, sir, if you’d been listening, sir.   The bottle we found was full.”

          “Maybe she didn’t decide to commit suicide until after she bought the perfume.”

          “But then she would have needed to use that perfume on the letter, sir.”

          “I don’t know what to tell you, Detective,” I said.  “Hannah had a daily routine.  She probably bought the bottle sub-consciously.   You know, out of habit.”  Columbo bent his free hand into a clenched fist and placed it on his forehead, squinting hard, as if deep in thought.

          “La Amour is too expensive to be a habit, sir,” said Columbo .

“Not for Hannah, it wasn’t,” I said.  “Now, may I ask you a question, Detective? Who wears a trench coat on a hot day in Los Angeles?”

          “You don’t like it, sir?”

“It’s not that I don’t like it.  It’s just that you need to wear something different once and a while.   It’s a matter of style.”

          “Thank you, sir,” said Columbo.   “I just might do that, sir.   Now, may I ask you another question?”

“Of course.”

“It’s about the contents of her purse,” said Columbo .  “I’ve got a list here.”

He repeated the performance he had given the previous night, his hands darting in and out of the pockets of his trench coat.   “Fifty dollars in cash, that check made out to you, a tube of ruby red lipstick, and a packet of cigarettes, minus one cigarette, sir.    But that pack of cigarettes, sir.   That’s like that bottle of perfume.   Why would she have cigarettes on her, sir, if she was committing suicide?”

“I believe you told me that, Columbo,” I said.   “To calm her nerves.”

“Yeah, sir,” said Columbo.   “But a whole pack?”

“She was trying to quit,” I said.  “I am sure you must know, Columbo, many people trying to quit smoking who are eternally on their ‘final pack’.”

“Then there’s that check, sir,” said Columbo .   “The one made out to you. Most suicides wouldn’t have done that.  I don’t know if you’re an expert on suicide, sir, but most suicides wouldn’t have done that.   Most suicides like to get all their financial affairs out of the way before they kill themselves.  Same thing with the cash and with the jewelry, sir.   Most suicides wouldn’t have those either.”

“As I’ve said, I can’t explain what Hannah was thinking,” I said.   “Unless, you think...”

          “You’re going to think this awfully strange, sir,” said Columbo .  “I wouldn’t tell this to the boys downtown.  They think I have too much of an imagination.  My wife thinks I have too much of an imagination.   Even I think I have too much of an imagination.   Just between you and me, sir, let’s suppose this:   Say Hannah didn’t commit suicide.   Say she was waiting for someone in that alley way.   Say she smoked that one cigarette while waiting for this someone.   Just supposing, sir, what if it was murder?   What if that someone killed Hannah Smears?   Do you think that’s being too imaginative, sir?”

“Not at all, Detective,” I said.  “I think it’s all quite clever really.  There are plenty of people who would have wanted to see her dead.   I’m not the only man whose heart she’s broken.   Or do you think I killed her?”

“I wasn’t thinking that way, sir.”

“But you should have been thinking that way, Detective Columbo,” I said. “It’s your job to think that way.   But I can assure you I didn’t kill Hannah.   I have about a thousand people who can back my alibi.  I was performing a concert at the time of death.   I’ll even give you a video tape of the concert if you’d like.   You can watch it with your wife.   Oh, that reminds me!  I’ve got a little gift for you.”  I pulled out a compact disc and handed it to Columbo .  On the cover was my picture and the words, “Johnny Timberhitch (formerly of the group K-NOT): Johnnyfied .”   On the back cover were the words “To Mrs. Columbo, Keep it real.   Take care of your crazy husband for me.   Love, Johnny.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Columbo.   “I’m sure she’ll appreciate that.   Now, there’s another thing, sir.   It’s about that suicide note.”

“What is it now?”

“Well, sir, it’s typed.  Like on a computer, sir,” said Columbo.   “Generally, suicides don’t do that, either.   It’s not personal enough.”

          “Like I’ve said...”

“You don’t know how a woman’s mind works.   I know, I know,” said Columbo. But, sir, we’ve checked her dressing room.   No computer.”

“She wouldn’t have much use for a computer in her dressing room,” I said. “Her computer’s at her house.”

          “Thank you, sir,” said Columbo.   “You’ve been very helpful.”   He put the dog down.  “Let’s go, miniature schnauzer.”

**

          I used my right hand to place down the microphone after my last slow song that night.   I was actually booed off the stage.  

          “You’re fired,” said Sliecier as soon as I walked off stage.   “I’m serious.  This tour is your last.  Your sales have been dropping like ‘60s rockers.   You’ve been getting nothing but bad publicity.   Face it, kid.  Without K-NOT or Hannah Smears, you’re nada.   You’re just an alcoholic and sexaholic doing bubble gum pop.  We’re halting production on your new album.  And your lawyer, Mr. Sleezee, he wants to talk to you.  He won’t handle your lawsuit anymore.  You’d better start working on your lines for ‘Where Are They Now?’ because it’s the next program you’re going to be on.”

          “But my next album...” I insisted.  “I was going to go deeper.  It was going to be good.”

          “It wasn’t,” said Sliecier.   “It was nothing but bubble gum pop.”

          I burst angrily into my dressing room.  Sitting there in my chair was Detective Columbo.  

          “I took your advice, sir,” said Columbo.   “About wearing something different.”   He opened his trenchcoat.   He was wearing my autographed T-shirt under it.

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “I don’t feel at all like talking to you right now.   I’m in a very bad mood.”

“But it’s very important, sir,” said Columbo .   “We found the computer at Hannah Smears’ house, just like you suggested.   There’s something you should know about computers, sir.   They have their own unique printing.   Just like fingerprints.  Our expert checked, sir.  He found that the typing on Hannah’s computer did not match the typing in the suicide note. It was what they call the fonts, sir – the letters were typed in Times New Roman, but Ms. Smears’ computer only had regular Times Roman on it.”

          “So, it’s a murder, just like you said,” I said, flopping down onto a sofa. “ Columbo, I find that quite underwhelming.”

          “But there’s something else, sir,” said Columbo.   “You’re going to want to watch this, sir.”   I followed him over to a TV\VCR hook-up.   He pushed in my concert video and played the segment of me performing 'You're Like a Little Lamb'.   “That’s from tonight’s concert,” said Columbo.  “The one you just performed.”  He switched videos.   We watched what seemed to be the exact same segment over again.   “That’s from the video you gave me, sir.   The concert on the night Hannah Smears was murdered.   Yes, sir.  Murdered.   Did you catch it, sir?”

          “Catch what?”

          He played both segments again, and when I still responded that I hadn’t noticed anything, he started to play the first video again.  He paused it.  “See there, sir?  For all other segments you use a headset.  But for the slow songs you take that microphone off of the stand.   Notice here, sir, that you pick the microphone up with your right hand.”  He played the other segment.  “And here you pick it up with your left hand.  Did you see that, sir?  In one video, you pick up the microphone with your right hand.   In the other, you pick it up with your left hand.”

          “That’s easy to explain,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat.   “I’m omnidexterous.”

          “Oh, I see, sir,” said Columbo.   He removed a black-and-white and a pen from my dresser and pushed them towards me.  “Autograph that for me, sir.  And do it with your left hand.”
          “Detective Columbo,“ I said, “why are you so obsessed with proving I killed Hannah Smears?”

          “I checked with your management,” said Columbo.   “It seems one month ago you announced a ‘Johnny TimberhitchLookalike’ contest.   That’s one month after Hannah Smears broke up with you, sir.   And less than a month after you started seeing a psychiatrist named McSchrewbert.   I’ve seen a photo of the contest entries, sir, and may I say, the resemblance was uncanny.  But the one that really stands out is Hank Kallahagen .  He must’ve been the winner, sir.  But of course you already knew that.  You picked him out yourself.  And you made sure he not only looked like you, but that he could sing like you.   He looks just like you, but there was one thing you didn’t notice.  He’s left-handed, and you’re right-handed.  That, and he’s two inches taller than you.  We can get him down here, sir, and he can testify that you had him sing in your place while you were off murdering Hannah.”

          “I don’t think he will, though,” I said, Plan B kicking into action.   “My fans are fiercely loyal.   Look, Columbo.   It was a little joke.  I was right here, evaluating Hank’s performance, the whole time.   And getting the biggest kick out of it.   You can never prove otherwise.”

**

          Columbo placed his right elbow in his left palm and his chin in his right.  He looked very thoughtful.   “No, sir,” he said.  “I suppose you’re right.”  He headed for the door, but right when he made it into the corridor, he spun around.

“There’s just one more thing.”  He marched back and fast-forwarded to the next spot on the video.   “Notice your beard there, sir.   All the other scenes, you’re clean-shaven.   But there you have a little black beard.”   He moved to another drawer and pulled out my false hair pieces.   “It’s this beard, sir.  You didn’t want anyone to recognize you on the night of the murder.   You didn’t expect to be seen, but all the same you didn’t want to risk anyone recognizing you.  There are tiny hairs in a Ford owned by a friend of yours.   He says you traded cars with him that night.   I know why.  A BMW would attract too much attention.  The hairs in the Ford will match the hairs on this beard, sir.   There were also hairs found on Hannah Smear’s body.   They will also match the hairs on this beard.   And we know you had the beard in your possession, because you were wearing it on the night Hannah Smears was murdered.   You accidentally walked right out on stage with it after you murdered her.  That’s all we need to put you in jail.”

          A pair of police officers burst into the dressing room and handcuffed me.   I just laughed.

          “It seems I underestimated you, Detective Columbo,” I said.

          “Don’t worry about it, sir,” said Columbo.   “It happens all the time.”

          “I had to kill Hannah,” I said.  “She was bringing me down, both emotionally and professionally.   Both of our images started dying when we broke up.   It was either her or me.”

**