Bath House Murders
Murder mystery
Logan Masters
Copyright © 2012 Logan Masters
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
The Publisher makes no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. Neither the publisher nor author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any commercial damages.
2012-05-29
CHAPTER ONE
It was roughly 10:30 PM on Friday night…
A young man dressed in jeans and T-shirt, and wearing an Arizona Diamondback’s baseball cap, drove his late model Ford Mustang off a freeway access road and onto a parking lot encircled by a tall fence crowned with spirals of barbed wire. Before exiting his car, he removed the slightly-worn cap and tossed it into the back seat where it came to rest atop a well-worn baseball glove and several aluminum bats.
From this same practically deserted feeder road, one vehicle, then eventually another entered onto the secured lot. Most of the painted lines marking off the more than 50 parking slots were hardly visible due to years of bleaching by the intense desert sun. The lot was practically full. Opposite was an entrance from another road. Occasionally, a vehicle would enter there slowly creeping along in search of some space to park.
Interstate 17 ran north and south, paralleling the access road. A major thoroughfare, it sliced through the heart of this sprawling desert metropolis of Phoenix, Arizona. The roadway’s bright freeway-lighting contrasted the dimly lit, clearly dilapidated, commercial district encompassing the weathered parking area. Spanning from I-17, eastward, lay old-town Phoenix, demarcated by the sparsely traveled access road.
Time worn mammoth-sized construction equipment lay discarded in an open field north of the parking lot, immobilized by thick-coatings of rust, a reminder of compounded seasons of neglect. Against the poorly lit desert-nights sky, these huge metal pieces staged an eerie haunting appearance. To the south was an unsightly barren lot of sand and desert shrubs, another blatant sample of the neighborhood’s fallen-down condition. From this lot’s surface, continuous nightly winds swept sheets of sand, un-slowed by the tall metal fence, sprinkling all the vehicles parked on the other side.
Strategically placed, at several points on the parking lot were undisguised surveillance cameras with glowing red eyes. These captured all movement on the premises.
At the lot’s center rested a flat-roofed, lackluster block-brick building, painted light brown with some portions faded to cream from the years of exposure to bleaching desert rays. The structure reflected an architectural design some thirty years prior. Even when first built, the structure’s purpose obviously had been more functional than fashionable.
Entry into this building exhibited no visible exterior door…
A line of men, seven to nine in number, stood trailing out the entry way, clearly awaiting a turn to be permitted inside. Above them, atop the flat roof, a well-lighted sign shown, approximately five feet by ten feet in size. Painted in dark chocolate letters against a beige background, it read “THE BULGE.”
Just beyond the door way, on the left was a transparent upper-wall of bullet proof glass, placed between those waiting to enter and an attendant doing the checking in. On the opposite side was a mirror that covered the wall from floor to ceiling. The attendant was a large man, in his late thirties, with reddish curly hair that looked cheaply dyed. He had a high-pitched voice and stood positioned behind a chest-high metallic counter.
“You a member?” he asked while looking down to the counter top, appearing preoccupied.
The fellow checking in was the same young man who had tossed his baseball cap to his vehicle’s backseat! He was in his early twenties. Posting a cute boyish grin, he immediately slid a membership card into a dip in the counter just below the glass partition. The attendant eyed it, but not carefully.
The name on the card read “Brice Williams.”
“Okay! What will it be Brice honey?” Then a brief pause and he continued, “Or maybe I should say horny.” The latter remark, made under his breath, was intended for a fellow worker coming from a small room behind him.
Brice, while slender in build, had the muscled frame of an athlete. He was six foot tall, with dark brown hair, and green eyes. He was good-looking enough to turn heads.
“I’ll take a locker, unless you’re running a Friday night special.” The remark clearly was made in jest.
“Listen, sweetie, the only thing special in here tonight’s, me! And I don’t roll out of this joint ‘til 2 AM.”
“It’ll be a locker then, babe,” said Brice.
“That will be twenty dollars!” Uttered in haste, the attendant batted his eyes in a flirtatious manner. Brice winked back.
The others in line busied themselves pulling out membership cards, counting cash, or by daring to exchange a desirous’ glance with another standing nearby. On the glass wall fees were posted: LOCKERS - $20, SMALL ROOM - $24, LARGE TV ROOMS - $29. Smaller print communicated that the fees covered an eight hour stay. Also advertised were an assortment of lubes, lotions, and sex toys, with the prices posted.
In addition, one could not miss the information taped to the wall in big bright red letters:
THIS IS A PRIVATE MEN’S CLUB. IF YOU ARE OFFENDED BY HOMOSEXUAL ACTS, YOU SHOULD LEAVE NOW!
As a twenty dollar bill was slipped to the attendant, the latter speedily wrote out a receipt and then motioned with his head for Brice to enter. A buzzer sounded freeing the door and permitting entrance.
On the other side of the door, Brice was greeted by another attendant standing at a waist-high counter who looked to be in his early fifties. He had a receding hair line, was of medium build, and posted a welcoming smile. On that counter was a long narrow metal box, emptied and readied for deposit.
“Please put your valuables in the box,” he told Brice. Simultaneously he nodded toward another sign on the wall.
WE ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR VALUABLES. PLEASE LOCK THEM UP WHEN YOU ENTER!
Brice instantly complied, dropping his wallet, high school graduation ring, and car keys into the metal box.
“That everything?”
“Yep, Bob.”The familiar remark denoted Brice was no stranger to the man or the place.
With that comment, the lid was shut tight. The attendant speedily shelved it amidst a collection of similar box-slots built into the wall behind him, all with locked covers. He shut the numbered door, sealing in the box with a turn of a key, and then he turned to hand Brice that key attached to a large safety pin. Next, he passed him a medium-sized white towel and a single packaged condom.
“You’re
