by R. L. Akers
Gray stopped short as he noticed the lights above the elevator door. The elevator was moving? He checked his watch. It had been little more than an hour since he took his leave of the landlord; there was no way the man had gotten a cleaning crew in here that fast.
Curious, Gray depressed the elevator call button. A minute passed, and his curiosity very nearly lost out to his impatience... but then the elevator dinged, and the door opened.
Leaning in, he was almost bowled over by the overwhelming, headache-inducing stench of bleach. But amazingly, the floor and walls of the elevator car appeared clean. Tentatively, Gray stepped inside and depressed the "2" button, keeping to the corner opposite where the bodies had lain; as the door closed automatically behind him, he hugged his arms to himself, carefully avoiding contact with the handrail or faux-wood walls.
The elevator was slow. Glacially slow. In fact, Gray was fairly sure he could have arrived at the second floor in half the time if he'd just stuck to the stairs.
Breathing shallowly through his mouth, he tried in vain to avoid the bleach fumes and fend off the headache that was forming as a result of them. He shook his head wryly. Just what he needed—more brain damage. Finally the door opened and he stumbled out into the second floor hallway, coughing and rubbing his head.
He was quite ready to give Robert Saunders a piece of his now-throbbing mind, but unfortunately, it didn't seem the landlord was currently at his apartment-turned-office. Having no phone number for the man and no idea where else he might be in the building, Gray settled in to wait.
Gray was sick of waiting before twenty minutes had passed. His headache had begun pounding, and twice now, he'd nearly knocked on the door to 202—ostensibly to resume his canvassing, but in truth to beg for some pain medication. No, he decided, this time he would knock at 202.
The elevator dinged, and out walked a man with a cordless drill in one hand and a smoke detector in the other. "Detective!" the new arrival said in some surprise.
Gray stared at the man, trying to recall how he knew him. The other man definitely looked familiar...
"It's just... I thought you'd left a few hours ago," the other said eventually, filling the awkward silence.
Slowly, it dawned on Gray that this man was the landlord. "Mr. Saunders?"
"Yes...?"
Gray massaged his temple in frustration. These changes he was undergoing... they were going to take some getting used to. "Sorry. Yes, I'm still here, still investigating. It's mostly a formality at this point, but... Can you let me into Mr. Chan's apartment?"
A strange look crossed the landlord's face. "Um, sure. Let me drop this stuff off and get the key. I'll be right back."
"Actually," Gray interrupted, pulling the man up short. "Can I come in for a glass of water? And some painkillers, if you have any? I took a ride in the elevator earlier, and those fumes... They've spawned quite the headache."
Saunders' face seemed to darken—no, the man's face was reddening, Gray decided; Gray just wasn't able to see the color.
"Oh, I see," the landlord said. "Sure," he added after a moment. "Please, come in."
Following Saunders into his unit, Gray watched as the man returned the power tool to a charging station, then set the smoke detector on a shelf with several others. Finally, Saunders disappeared into the kitchen and returned a minute later with a glass of water and two pills. "Here."
Gray tossed back the pills and drained the glass. He immediately felt better, though it was impossible for the medication to have worked that quickly. The human brain was such an amazing organ, so strange and powerful, even when—especially when—it was lying to its owner.
Saunders was rummaging around in his desk, presumably locating the right key. "Okay, here we are."
Gray set down his glass and they left the office. Saunders made for the elevator, but the detective shook his head. "Do you mind if we take the stairs instead?"
The two men were almost to the third story landing when Gray said, "So. You decided to do the cleanup yourself?"
"I... yes. I called the company you recommended, but they were a bit... well, pricey."
Gray snorted. "I hope you took a scalding hot shower afterwards, scraped yourself clean."
Looking embarrassed, the landlord shook his head. "I wore gloves, and I did wash my hands afterwards."
"Mr. Saunders, those cleanup crews usually wear full body coverings when they take on a job like that. You know, like hazmat suits."
Saunders looked suddenly queasy, and Gray stopped to rest, allowing the other man to climb several steps ahead of him. If that guy had just cleaned the elevator wearing no more protection than a pair of latex gloves, Gray wanted to keep some distance between them. He resumed climbing, then stopped short again as it occurred to him: Saunders had poured him a glass of water, fished out some medication for him, then handed over both in his bare hands. Gray suddenly felt ill again.
"It wasn't just the cost," the landlord added, almost defensively. "I could have afforded that company if I wanted to." For some reason, it seemed very important to Saunders that he convince Gray of this. "But I couldn't wait on them. They said they wouldn't be able to start the job until tomorrow morning. I needed to get the elevator back into operation before then."
Gray nodded his understanding, though the landlord's back was to him. "I guess you have other elderly tenants, or handicapped? People that can't take the stairs?"
The landlord paused. "Right. That's why."
The detective frowned at the other man's tone. No, that's not what the landlord had been thinking at all, Gray realized. He smiled. "Or maybe you just don't want to encourage the idea that this building is haunted."
Saunders spun to face him. "Haunted? This building isn't haunted," he sputtered. "How would an out-of-order elevator encourage people to think the building was haunted?"
Gray thought about it. Actually, the landlord had a point—that really didn't make much sense. Maybe Gray's head really wasn't working right. Between what had happened last month and breathing in all those fumes today, perhaps it would be best if he dropped this investigation and went home to bed.
Saunders was angry though. "I just don't want to advertise there's been a grisly murder in my building!" He eyes shot past Gray to the fifth floor landing, which they'd just passed, and he dropped his volume. "As of right now, only Vanessa Watkins knows what happened, and I'd prefer to keep it that way. Unless there's some reason you think everyone else needs to be told?" He inspected Gray's face. "You haven't told any of the other tenants about it, have you?"
"I haven't, no. But how can you hide the fact that the Howells are dead? Surely they had other friends in the building." Other than the man that apparently murdered them, he meant.
"Yes, but there's no reason people need to know all the gory details, right?" Saunders shook his head. "And do they need to know it was another tenant who killed them? The longer that elevator remained out of order—not to mention covered in blood—the more likely someone would have found out what happened, and the more likely I'd have people running in fear."
"So that is a concern for you," Gray pressed. "Whether it's because of murderers or ghosts, you're afraid the goings-on in this building are going to scare your tenants away."
"Ghosts?! Why—" Saunders threw up his hands in an admirable impression of Mack—either he was a very excitable man or this was indeed a sore subject—then turned again to face Gray. "Fine, yes. There are some tenants—a very few tenants—who believe this building is haunted. There's no factual reason for them to believe this; it's just a stupid rumor that started a few years ago. Last year, I actually had a family move out because of that stupid rumor; they claimed there was a spirit living in their unit, leaving bloody messages for them on the wall."
He shook his head, looking up, meeting Gray's eye. "So no, I can't afford for my tenants to feel unsafe in this building. And now, this—someone has actually died here." He licked his lips. "You're right, I can't hide that. But
if they find out it was a brutal murder, that the killer was another tenant... some of them will instantly jump to the conclusion that Barton Chan was possessed or some such nonsense. I'll have an exodus on my hands, and next thing I know, the Harkley Building will start appearing on those stupid lists of New York City's most haunted buildings!"
"And what's to stop Vanessa Watkins from telling the other tenants what happened?"
The landlord looked abruptly embarrassed. "She won't. I, uh... I offered her a small break on her rent if she keeps quiet."
Gray felt his eyebrows climb. "What? When?" When had Saunders even had time to speak with the woman? Gray himself had only just left her unit half an hour before.
"I just spoke with her, about ten minutes ago."
"So you're buying her silence?" Gray persisted incredulously.
"Not from you—not from the cops! Just from the other tenants." The landlord stared intently at him, his tone almost accusatory. "Is there something illegal about that? Or even unethical?"
"Well..."
"I'm not asking her to lie to anyone. I just asked for some discretion."
After a moment, Gray nodded. He supposed that really didn't sound unreasonable. Letting the matter drop, he gestured up the stairs instead.
Saunders didn't move immediately. "What about you, Detective? Can I count on your discretion?"
Gray turned his head to the side, looking at the landlord askance. "My discretion?"
"You're still here in this building. If you speak to any of my tenants—if you decide to question any of my tenants—will you agree not to scare them out of their minds with details about Barton Chan's brutal murder of the Howells?"
"It's not the NYPD's policy to ever divulge unnecessary details while investigating a case," Gray said formally.
Saunders' eyes were still locked on his. "And you won't ask leading questions about this building being haunted?"
Gray snorted. "No, I have no intention of encouraging the idea that this building is haunted."
"But you are planning to interview more of my tenants, aren't you?"
"Yes, probably," Gray nodded. After all, he needed to kill a lot more time before it was dark out, didn't he? "I assure you, Mr. Saunders. You have nothing to fear from me."
The landlord stared at him a moment longer, then finally relaxed. "Good. Thank you." He exhaled loudly. "Okay, let's get you into Mr. Chan's apartment, shall we?"
Saunders left Gray in unit 602. At the detective's request, he promised to also unlock 603—the Howells' unit—before heading back downstairs.
Gray's stomach grumbled. It was now well past his regular lunch time and, unbidden, he found his mouth watering for a meat and garlic pizza. If only that were an option.
Barton Chan's apartment could not have been more different from Vanessa Watkins', though it appeared the floor plan was identical, merely flipped such that Chan's bedroom shared a wall with Watkins'. Everything else about his home varied greatly: older carpet going thin in places, fading paint of a hue not sold since the 70s; even the furniture was obviously dated, without a single overstuffed or leather piece in sight. And yet, while this was obviously not one of the "updated" units Saunders took such pride in, Mr. Chan's unit was immaculate and orderly.
Noticing a small computer desk on the far side of the living room, Gray decided to start there. Each item on the desk's surface was placed precisely: an aging CRT computer monitor; keyboard, mouse, and mouse pad; a small printer. Each was aligned at perfect right angles with the desktop, all cords running out the back carefully bundled. With a smile, Gray donned a pair of latex gloves and ran his finger along the back edge of the desk, behind the monitor. Nothing. Chan had apparently been meticulous in his dusting.
There was no clutter on the desk, no paper at all save for a personal check made out to Robert Saunders in the amount of $150. Gray blinked. Was this Barton Chan's rent? A mere $150 a month, for a unit that—even in its current state—could probably rent near $2,000? Well... that made sense, now that he thought about it. This was clearly a rent-controlled unit. Watkins had said Chan's parents lived here before he did; as long as they'd been in this unit since before 1971, and as long as Barton had moved back in with them at least two years before they died, the controlled rent amount would persist even today. And of course, that explained why Saunders had not yet updated this unit.
Gray returned the check to where he'd found it, carefully lining it up with the edge of the desk out of respect for Chan's obvious obsessive tendencies. He then pulled open and looked through each of the desk's four drawers, finding nothing unusual.
Turning, Gray scanned the rest of the living room, then walked through the kitchenette, rifling through the drawers and cabinets there as well. Still he found nothing out of the ordinary. He wasn't sure what he expected to find, honestly. Evidence that Chan was a crazed homicidal maniac just waiting to snap? The common area of the man's home held no such indicators. On the contrary, Chan appeared to be a man quite comfortable spending ninety percent of his life alone in this apartment. Perhaps a bit OCD, but that wasn't so unusual.
Still wearing his gloves, Gray turned the knob on Chan's bedroom door, flipping on the light as he entered the room. The sight that met his eyes was... perfectly normal. Even more normal than what he'd seen so far, in fact, for Chan's bed was not made up quite as neatly as he would have expected, considering the obsessively orderly state of the rest of his apartment. From the lumps, it looked like the comforter had been hurriedly pulled up to cover a twisted mess of sheets beneath—exactly the way Gray made his own bed.
Aside from that one evidence that Chan was human, the bedroom still held copious evidence of his OCD tendencies. In the closet, Gray found that the man's clothing was hung and spaced meticulously; he suspected it might even be sorted by color, though of course he couldn't tell for sure. The bathroom, meanwhile, was tiny but spotless, everything in its place.
Gray sighed. There was nothing here to explain what had caused Barton Chan to snap. Stepping back into the bedroom, he noticed a pen on the bedside stand. In anybody else's home, that might have struck Gray as meaningless, but he had a feeling Chan would only have a pen on his bedside stand if he actually used a pen while in bed. Going down on his knees, Gray raised the dust ruffle and smiled at his discovery.
It was a shoebox, and it was full of notebooks.
Gray carried the box to the foot of the bed. He brushed a scattering of white dust off the bedspread and then seated himself, eager to see what the notebooks contained. They were composition notebooks, the kind with the black-and-white marble design on the cover, maybe fifteen of them standing up in the box. Selecting the volume at the front, Gray opened it to the first page.
It was a diary or journal; that much was immediately obvious. The very first entry was dated twelve years ago, and it chronicled the day Barton moved out of the hospital, rejoining his parents in Harkley 602. The language was economical, a personal historical record only, no mention of hopes or fears as some might include in a diary. Barton dedicated a page and a half to that momentous day; most of the entries that followed were less than half a page, and Gray quickly lost interest.
Returning that notebook to where he'd found it, he turned the box around and pulled out the notebook now at the front, confirming it was the most recent. These entries remained as terse and boring as before, so Gray skipped to the end. There was no entry yet for today, of course—there never would be, Gray supposed—but yesterday's entry was unusually long, and the first line immediately captured Gray's attention:
I killed them again. God help me, I do not know what is happening to me. But I had the nightmare again last night, and I killed them again.
It started the way it usually does. I become aware I am in the elevator, the bell ringing as it passes each floor. It is so slow, but even being slow, it feels like I am riding forever. And it keeps ringing and ringing, floor after floor after floor. Ring. Ring. Ring. I pass too many floors for it to be real. Harkl
ey only has six floors, but I do not remember that in my dream. It seems real.
The bell rings twice, that little double-tone which means it is stopping at a floor. I hear the doors open and I turn. At first, I am not sure who it is. I do not rec I can see the person, but I do not recognize him. Then he speaks, and I realize it is two people, Ellis and Kathy, though Ellis is the only one who speaks. He says,"Hello Barton!" just the way he always says it in real life, full of enthusiasm and zest. They always make me feel special, like seeing me has made their day. But I tense up. The Howells make me feel uncomfortable. In my dream, I do not remember why this is, but now that I am awake I do. It is because of these dreams. I have known these people all my life. I trust them more than anyone in the world. They are the only family I have, but now they because of these dreams, they scare me.
We exchange pleasantries. I cannot remember any specifics. The way dreams are Maybe there were not any specifics, but I know we spend time in the dream talking, being friendly, me and Ellis and Kathy. And then they say it.
"Your parents would be so proud of you, Barton."
They say that all the time in real life. They know how much I miss Mom and Pop, how much I wish I could have all those years back that I spent at the hospital. They know I need to hear it, like I am some little kid who does not recognize the way they are manipulating my emotions. I do recognize it, but it does not matter. They are right. I need to hear it. But in the dream, they both say it together. In unison. And they are not encouraging me, they are mocking me. "You're worthless,"Ellis says, his voice strange and nasty now. It does not even sound like him. "You sit around all day doing nothing while hardworking people work hard." Then Kathy says,"Oh yes, your parents would be so proud of you, Barton." It does not really sound like her either, but of course it is, she is in the elevator with me. "The world would be better off without you in it,"they say together. "Your parents asked us to take care of you,"Ellis says now, and that is another thing he says in real life sometimes. But in real life, he usually also says,"But you don't need taking care of. You're healthy. I'm proud of you. Your parents would be proud of you too." In the dream, he does not say that. He says it like I am a problem that does need to be taken care of. He says,"I'm going to take out my sword and cut your head off." And then he opens his trench coat and he has a sword there, hanging from his belt. I do not even remember that he was wearing a trench coat before, but he is now. He pulls the sword free and I hear the steel ring. I run at him, but it takes me forever to get there, not like it would in an actual tiny elevator. But I get there in time, before he swings, and I start hitting him, and I knock the sword out of his hands. He is grunting like an animal, saying terrible things, screaming nasty words. And Kathy is on my back, arms around my throat, scraping at my face with her nails, screeching like a banshee. I just keep hitting them, and I am screaming too, and it feels like it lasts forever before I finally realize they are dead. And then I am overwhelmed with guilt and all I want to do is die. I killed my best friends in the world. It is my fault they are dead. How can I ever live with myself?