A Murderer's Guide to the Perfect Crime

Weighted Rings: An Iniquitous Justice

The door slammed shut behind him, the howls of the wind and the chill sneaking through. "Damn it out there!" Samuel Winston muttered, blowing on his hands for a hint of warmth.

"Who in the world would hold a conference amid the winter?" exclaimed Benjamin, his beguile and blandish assistant.

Winston pulled off his coat. "Ben, go help out the bellman with our luggage, and I'll check in at the front." With a mock 'yes, sir,' Ben trudged his way to the bellman, as Winston headed to the front desk. The motel was fairly crowded, servicemen bustling around frantically as guests huddled around the fire, the winter weather seeping in. Winston rang the bell by the counter, and a well-dressed clerk arrived.

"Good evening, sir," the clerk—his tag read Geoffrey—spoke.

"Evening. I booked two rooms for the week, under the name Winston."

Winston heard the rustle of paper as Geoffrey searched for his booking. "Ah, I see. In for the conference, aren't you? We're all pleased to make your acquaintance, detective."

"Yes, as am I," Detective Winston replied.

Geoffrey left to get the keys as Winston tapped his fingers against the cold desk. Lost in the thrumming, Winston snapped out of his daze by the shake of the counter and the presence of a larger man next to him. Gold rings, Italian suit and the slurring of words. A clerk scattered over, hastily serving the burly man.

"I gotta room under Votyakov. I wanna room service sent at ten with the most expensive dish, sharp. I mighta have to start trouble if it's late." He flashed a smile with teeth as he walked away, but his eyes told the truth. The clerk sped away, head down. He did not bother telling Votyakov that room service needed to be ordered through the phone, too afraid.

Geoffrey rounded the corner, keys dangling from his hand. "Here are your keys, sir. You can head up to the third floor with your luggage. The bellman will be waiting for you."

"Yes, thank you," Winston responded absently, eyes too busy trailing after Votyakov.

Benjamin was the frenzied type, but an impressive conversationalist. That was what made him a great assistant. "How long've you been working here?" he asked.

Their bellman startled, unused to simple conversation. "Seven years, sir."

"Seven good years, I suppose, 'course. And I'm right in assuming you're married?"

The bellman finally looked up, shocked. "Y-yes. How did you know?"

Benjamin smiled. His age was a dead giveaway, but it still came with uncertainty. He turned to Winston with a bright smile. He wanted to show Winston that he was reaching his level of expertise, that his observational skills might just be as good as Winston's. "It was quite obvious," Ben, ever the humbler, said. "You have the imprint of a ring on your fourth finger, a bit red. You took it off not too long ago. I suppose you do not wear it to work?"

"No, sir. I don't wish to lose it. Although my wife insists. The wife will always complain, you know," he declared with a pointed look towards Winston.

"No, I don't suppose I do." Winston never bothered with small talk.

The bellman grew flustered. "M-my apologies, sir."

The elevator door opened and they stepped out, the bellman silent after the mild interrogation. Winston stooped down to Benjamin.

"He's got three kids too," Winston whispered.

Benjamin stopped in his tracks. "Wha—how do you know?"

Of course, Winston would never let Benjamin have the upper hand. He was not a renowned detective for nothing, after all. "Greying of hair you only ever get with kids. A small food stain just at the bottom of his coat. You'd have to be quite short to reach it. Some dye on his hands, from some form of art, I presume. The faint scent of wet grass you only get from playing in the rain frequently. They could all be just one child, of course, though judging by his age and stature, he has multiple, two or three."