BY DICK LOCHTE

Guess the killer and the tell-tale clues and win a $25 gift certificate from Borders Books & Music!

On that Sunday afternoon of the spring of 1968, George Anthony Trosclaire wasn't aware of all the activity in his private office on the third floor of The Rex Brewery, the company he and Adolph Schmidt founded nearly 50 years before. He did not see the New Orleans Police Department technicians practicing their craft, dusting for prints, photographing the scene, studying exposed surfaces. It didn't matter to him that the man leaning over him, Dr. Macaluso of the coroner's office, had had extra garlic on his interrupted pasta and andouille sausage lunch. George Anthony Trosclaire was beyond any form of earthy care, slumped over his desk, as dead as the dream of peace in Vietnam. Dried blood formed a rose-like blossom at the right side of his bald head just above his ear. His pince nez eyeglasses were crushed between his face and the desktop. His eyes were open, the pupils glazed by death. "Well, doc?" the man from homicide, Lt. Abadie, asked. "Whatcha think?" "I think the gentleman suffered two severe blows to the head, one of them fatal." "I can see — " Abadie left the sentence unfinished. He stared at a tall, thin man with a pencil mustache who'd just that minute strolled through the door. "Oh, Jeeze," Abadie said in exasperation, "if it isn't the Cajun supersleuth, come to show us how it's done. J.J. Legendre, troubleshooter for the city's district attorney Jim Garrison, gave the policeman a smile and said, "Just stopped by the brewery for my daily pint." Actually, the DA had requested his attendance, as he often did in the case of high-level homicides. "Don't let me slow you down." "Doan worry 'bout that," Abadie drawled, turning to the doctor. "Anyhow, you was sayin', doc?" "Two blows to the head. One at the left rear that sent him forward over the desk. Then a second, right there above the ear, that probably finished the job." "When do you figger it happened?" "Three, four hours ago," Dr. Macaluso replied. "Nine or ten in the a.m. Can't be any more precise until we open him up." "He always work on Sunday, do you suppose, lieutenant?" Legendre asked. "I gather it was a bit unusual," Abadie said. "Won't know more until we get some statements from folks who knew him." He scratched his head and pointed to an antique dueling pistol lying on the floor, dry blood on its butt. "We're assumin' that's the murder weapon. What do you think, doc?" The doctor shrugged and nodded. "Looks promising." Abadie nodded and shouted, "Joe, you out there?" Abadie's assistant, Officer Joe Voire, limped in from the hall. According to rumor, he'd shot himself in the foot while trying to kill a rat in the back yard of his Ninth Ward house. "How's the bunion comin' along?" Legendre asked him. Voire glared at the DA's man. "Wanna bag this?" Abadie asked his assistant, indicating the dueling pistol with his toe. "Who found the body?" Legendre asked. "Cleaning woman," Voire answered. "Sorta high strung type. Doc had to sedate her." "Trosclaire's family notified?" J.J. asked. Abadie nodded. "Took us a while. Wasn't nobody home when we called. But the wife called here 'bout an hour ago. Seems her and Trosclaire's daughter and some others are all over at Antoine's waitin' for him to show up for lunch. I sent Mike Bordelon over there to keep 'em all calm and quiet until I could break loose from here." Legendre took a quick survey of the crime scene. He noted the leather binder resting on the desktop beside the late George Trosclaire. The binder was open, exposing five neat rows of coins. No. Not coins. Legendre looked closer. They were beer bottle caps. Falstaff, Jax, Regal, Blatz, Pabst, Schlitz, and a few brands the detective had never heard of. There was a blank spot, as if one of the caps was missing. Abadie, always curious about anything that Legendre found interesting, said, "Looks like Trosclaire was checkin' out his bottle cap collection when he was slugged." Legendre nodded his agreement. "The ole boy was some collector, all right," Abadie continued. "Looka them weapons." An assortment of pistols, knives, swords and even crossbows had been mounted on a far wall. It seemed as if all were still in place except for the proposed murder weapon. Legendre leaned in close and studied the guns. "See anythin' interestin'"? Abadie asked. "Not really." "Well, here's something," Dr. Macaluso said. "It was in the dead man's hand." Using an instrument that looked like oversized tweezers, he held up a bottle cap. "Budweiser?" Abadie scowled. "The guy's croakin' and he grabs the cap from a bottle of Budweiser?" he moaned. "Musta been some kind of reflex action. Hand contractin' when he got swatted on the skull. The Cajun Joe Friday, here, probably thinks its a clue." "It's a clue all right," Legendre replied. "But a clue to what I couldn't begin to say." "Well, while you work on it," Abadie said, "why don't we get over to Antoine's and see what the family thinks about it all." Next: The suspects get grilled at Antoine's