The Question of the Unfamiliar Husband

by E. J. Copperman

  “You had said his objection was the obstacle to your continued employment, so I attempted to determine the cause of it. But there is no time for this conversation now. I must go up to Ms. McInerney’s apartment and I very strongly suggest you stay here.”

  I turned and started across the street without looking back. It wasn’t until I was on the opposite sidewalk, climbing up the small incline toward the building, that I realized Ms. Washburn was walking at my side.

  She had made her decision in possession of almost all the facts. She was an adult and able to make her own choices. And Ms. McInerney might very well have been in very grave peril at this moment, so I could not stop to question her decision.

  We did not run, but our pace was definitely swift, so we were at the door in very little time. But it was locked. There was a buzzer connected to an intercom system and, seeing no less public avenue to take, I waited, not comfortable with the idea of touching something that had not been cleaned, and Ms. Washburn pressed the button.

  She and I stood at the threshold and waited. Very quietly I believe I heard her mutter, “I can’t believe you called Simon.” But I was not certain of that, so I did not react. My mind was focused on the problem at hand.

  “Might there be a door on the other side of the building?” I said, doing what some people call “thinking out loud,” but which is really simply posing a rhetorical question.

  “A back door?” Ms. Washburn responded. “It’s possible. I’ll check.”

  She had walked away before I could consider the possibility that she could encounter a negative situation at the other side of the building. If I followed her, I would forfeit the chance of someone letting me in at this door.

  Then I recalled seeing a film in which a man faced with a similar situation rang the buzzers on all the apartments in a building and was admitted by someone in another apartment who did not care to screen any visitors. It was worth trying. If I could get inside quickly and there was no back door, Ms. Washburn would not be able to enter the building, sparing her from any unspecified danger.

  I rang all the buzzers, which amounted to only four buttons. It was not easy for me to do so, but pressing them with my elbow proved to be the least objectionable avenue, and the process did not take long.

  One unit, marked B4, squawked to life. “Who is it?” asked a voice filtered through the primitive intercom system. It took a moment to separate the voice from the noise.

  I did not have to touch the unit this time, which was a help. “I am attempting to answer a question,” I said. “Would you let me in, please?”

  “What?”

  That response left me with a conundrum. Sometimes people say, “What?” because they did not hear what was said very clearly. That was obviously a possibility through the aged intercom system. But sometimes they say, “What?” because they find what was said confusing or difficult to believe. There was no clear indicator of which meaning this person was trying to convey.

  “Please,” I said. “I need to get upstairs.” That was true, and it seemed to make the difference, because the buzzer was activated and I was able to open the outer door.

  I made sure to get inside quickly, thereby putting into action my plan to separate Ms. Washburn from the potentially dangerous situation. She did not appear behind me, and I did not look back. I climbed the stairs quickly and located apartment B2, which was the unit Ms. McInerney’s intake form listed as her address.

  The door was closed, and there was no sound coming from within when I stood very still and listened. Again, the question of knocking arose. If Oliver Lewis were actually inside with a weapon, would it be wise to alert him to my presence? I tried the doorknob and found it locked, so the question became moot. Short of knocking the door down—something I would not consider for a number of reasons—there was no other way to gain entrance to the apartment.

  I did wish Ms. Washburn was present now, because her cell phone could call Ms. McInerney and ask for an update on the situation, something I probably should have done from the car. But Ms. Washburn had been driving, and I am reluctant to handle her phone myself.

  That, too, was now irrelevant. I had not called, Ms. Washburn was not here, and the door was locked. I knocked, quietly, three times and waited.

  seven

  No response came from inside the apartment.

  This could either mean that Ms. McInerney and (presumably) Oliver Lewis had left, or that something very disturbing had occurred inside. It could also mean only that Lewis had left on his own, and Ms. McInerney, having secreted herself in the bathroom, was still behind a closed door and had not heard the knock. Perhaps I should knock louder.

  I had raised my hand to do so when Ms. Washburn’s voice, from behind me, asked, “Do you want me to call her cell phone?”

  I turned to see Ms. Washburn wearing an expression I recognized from the last time we had worked together: It was wry. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Wasn’t I supposed to come and be a useful part of the team?”

  “Would you please call Ms. McInerney’s number?” I asked, choosing not to answer her question. “I am somewhat concerned about her safety.” I refrained from saying that I was also concerned about Ms. Washburn’s safety, and perhaps my own, because it would simply have reiterated a point I’d made when I suggested she stay in her car.

  “Let me see the number.”

  I reached into my pocket for the page of the intake form but was already reciting the number from memory before I held it out for Ms. Washburn to see. She nodded, punching the numbers into her cellular phone as I spoke. She pushed another button to place the phone in speaker mode so I could hear.

  It rang twice, then we heard Sheila McInerney’s voice, which sounded small and wavered. “Hello?”

  “Ms. McInerney, this is Samuel Hoenig. I am outside your apartment door.” Ms. Washburn, knowing I did not want to hold the phone, extended her arm so it would be closer to my face. “Is it safe for you to let me in?”

  “I … I don’t know. It’s been quiet out there for a little while.”

  “Are you still in the bathroom?” I asked. I watched Ms. Washburn’s face for a reaction, but did not see one.

  “Yes.” Ms. McInerney sounded quite afraid, if I was reading her tone accurately.

  Ms. Washburn looked at me and mouthed the word, “Scared.” I nodded.

  “Can you open the door just a little so you can see if anyone else is there?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to.” There was an echo effect from what I imagined was the ceramic tile of the bathroom.

  “Did you call the police as I suggested?” I asked. It would be helpful to know if there were officers on the way.

  “No. I thought that would make him mad. I’m going to open the door a little. Don’t say anything, in case he’s out there, okay?”

  I said nothing.

  “Okay?” she repeated.

  It seemed odd that she would ask me to speak after asking me not to speak, but I answered, “Yes.”

  The moments that followed must have seemed very long to Ms. Washburn, because she was exhibiting behavior consistent with a person experiencing impatience: she shifted her weight from one leg to the other six times, bit down on both lips, and folded her free hand under the arm that was outstretched, holding the phone.

  I simply noticed that the interval took twenty-two seconds. That is not a very long time.

  After that time had elapsed, the apartment door opened slowly. Ms. Washburn ended the call on her telephone, stood straighter, and stared at the door, while I tried to maneuver myself between the entrance and Ms. Washburn. I assumed Ms. McInerney would be behind the door, but I had made a promise and would shield my associate from any potential source of danger.

  Of course, I had been correct, and Ms. McInerney, face very serious, looked out into the hallway, first at me and then at Ms. Wa
shburn behind me and to my left.

  “Who’s that?” Ms. McInerney asked.

  “This is my associate, Ms. Washburn,” I answered. “She is essential to the successful answering of your question.”

  Ms. Washburn held out her hand. “Janet Washburn,” she said. “I’m glad to meet you.”

  Ms. McInerney almost flinched when confronted by the hand, but she took it and then held it. She said nothing.

  “May we come in?” I asked.

  That seemed to have a wakening effect on Sheila McInerney; she let go of Ms. Washburn’s hand and stepped back. “Of course.” We walked through the doorway and into the apartment.

  It was a fairly standard one-bedroom apartment at first glance. The entrance opened into the living room, which included an upholstered sofa, a floor lamp, a flat-screen television, a large table, and an armchair. The floor was covered with an area rug that reached from the television, which sat on a table, to the couch. The walls were painted white. The effect was of efficiency. I would have to ask Ms. Washburn later, but based on previous conversations, I would predict that she’d say the room lacked warmth.

  It did not lack bloodstains, however. There were a few spots on the beige rug, two on the brown sofa, and several leading out of the room toward what I assumed would be the bedroom. If someone with a weapon were still in the apartment, it was logical to assume he or she was in that room.

  “Who else is here?” I said very quietly.

  Ms. Washburn reached into a tote bag she carried and pulled out a notebook and a pen. She is very good about giving me detailed accounts of each interview I conduct, even if I would remember them very clearly on my own. They are useful to me because I can see what Ms. Washburn believes are the most relevant points of the conversation, which might differ from my own opinions.

  “Nobody,” Ms. McInerney answered. “Why?”

  Feeling guilty for involving Ms. Washburn, I pointed to the blood trail. “Something has happened here, and that trail does not lead to the door.” I continued to keep my voice at a very low volume in case someone in the other room was listening.

  Ms. McInerney looked at the stains I had indicated and gasped. “Is that blood?”

  “Yes. Who beside you was here in the apartment? You said Oliver Lewis was here when you called me. Did this happen when you two were arguing?”

  “No. He didn’t hurt me. But he did have a kitchen knife, and he was waving it around. That’s why I hid in the bathroom. But he didn’t cut me or anything.”

  I started to walk, very slowly, following the bloodstains. I was wearing New Balance running shoes, as I always do for the arch support they offer, so my steps were relatively quiet, although a few of the floorboards did creak as I moved.

  Ms. Washburn, not looking up from her notepad, asked, “Do you think he might have hurt himself?” It was a very intelligent question, and it illustrated my need for Ms. Washburn in answering such questions as this. I rarely consider the idea of a person who might harm himself because the concept of doing so would never occur to me.

  “Honestly, I don’t know him well enough to answer that,” Sheila McInerney said. “Are you going in there?” She pointed at the bedroom door.

  Her behavior was not rational. She was giving any potential assailant in the other room, which was past a galley-style kitchen from which there was indeed one rather large knife missing from a block, a warning that someone might be coming. Did she want Lewis to know I was on my way? Was that so he could attack me, or escape before I could find him? Or did she simply not comprehend the situation?

  “No,” I said. “I’m staying right here.” But I kept inching my way toward the bedroom door, which I could now see was closed.

  “But you’re—”

  Ms. Washburn, ever useful in any situation, stopped our client before she could cause any more possible damage. “Why didn’t you call the police?” she asked.

  Ms. McInerney, who had seemed to forget there was anyone but herself and myself in the room, turned sharply toward Ms. Washburn and frowned. “Because I was embarrassed, okay? What was I going to do, tell the cops that a guy who says he’s my husband, but I don’t think so, was waving a knife around the apartment we shared?”

  Ms. Washburn waited a second to see me turn the corner toward the bedroom door and answered, “Yes. That’s exactly what you should have done.”

  Now within reach of the doorknob, I moved quickly. I noted the lack of blood on the knob, but had already taken a handkerchief from my pocket and reached for the knob with the cloth in my hand. There would be no sense in leaving my fingerprints in the room should this become the scene of a police investigation.

  Cognizant of that possibility, I did my best not to wipe the doorknob clean as I turned it; I did not want to remove any helpful evidence the police might need. The knob turned and the door swung open into the bedroom.

  Behind me, I could hear Ms. McInerney say, “Why are you going in there?” I did not respond.

  The room beyond the door seemed empty enough, but I had seen enough films and television programs about crime to know that I should look behind the open door before declaring it so. That was made less urgent by the fact that the door swung all the way open, actually touching the wall to my right as I entered. There was no room for a person behind it.

  I did look anyway, and there was no one there.

  It was as colorless and plain a room as the living area. The bed, a full-size model, was neatly made with an off-white comforter and white pillowcases. The walls were painted the same generic off-white as the rest of the apartment, no doubt done by the renting company to all the units in the complex. The wall-to-wall carpet (certainly also a standard feature in all the apartments) was colored beige, and was not worn, but not new.

  Also, it had more bloodstains on it.

  They were little more than spots, starting at the threshold and leading directly into the room toward the bed, then making a turn toward the opposite wall, where the windows were situated. One of them was open, and the screen was raised.

  “What are you doing in my bedroom?” Ms. McInerney called. I was almost certain now that she was trying to warn a compatriot of my presence, but I could not summon a plausible rationale for her doing so.

  Again, I did not answer her. The carpeting in the bedroom provided enough soundproofing to cover my steps in the room. I chose to ignore the open window for the moment in the name of security, and opened the door to the single closet. Inside was a small collection of women’s clothing, shoes, and a few boxes. To the far left, hanging from the bar, were three men’s suits. One pair of black men’s shoes was on the carpeted floor beneath them.

  “Get out of my closet!” Sheila McInerney’s voice was directly behind me, and it seemed upset.

  I turned to see her standing just a few feet away, her eyebrows raised and her eyes wide. Ms. Washburn stood behind our client, notebook in her left hand at her side.

  “Sorry, Samuel,” she said. “I didn’t know she was coming in to yell at you.”

  “I said, get out of my closet!” our client insisted. I have never truly understood that particular impulse. Obviously, if I hadn’t heard her when she’d spoken the first time, there would be no reason to be irritated with my not following her instruction. And if she was assuming that I had heard, the reminder of what she’d just said did not seem like a strong tactic to use in getting me to obey. It had not worked the first time, and the information that she’d said it once before was not a persuasive argument.

  “I was securing the area and that would certainly require me to determine whether there was someone hiding behind the closet door,” I explained. “There is nothing to be ashamed of in your closet, Ms. McInerney.”

  She made a few sounds that fell between an exhale and a cough, perhaps to express some emotion, but I could not decipher the meaning. “I’m not ashamed,” she
said. A few more of the unusual sounds followed, but she said nothing more.

  “What about the window, Samuel?” Ms. McInerney asked.

  I walked toward the window, surveying the rest of the room and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, which made me uneasy. I was careful not to place my hands on the window frame or the sill.

  There was no person dangling from the window, which had been a slight concern of mine. I am not fond of heights of any altitude above a few feet (although I am not clinically acrophobic), so I did only a perfunctory examination of the exterior, not wishing to dangle myself out of the window. There was no further sign of a blood trail.

  “We must go outside to examine the exterior of the window,” I said. “But it seems likely that whoever was in the apartment was somehow wounded, and for reasons I cannot yet explain, chose to leave via the window rather than the stairs.”

  “Huh?” Ms. McInerney asked, although I was reasonably sure she had heard and comprehended what I’d said.

  “Someone was in your apartment, and there is blood,” Ms. Washburn said. She turned toward me. “Don’t you think the first order of business is to call the police?”

  “I’m not sure a crime has been committed,” I explained. “There is blood, but the person—”

  “It was Ollie,” Ms. McInerney said. “He was the one in the apartment with me. And he had a knife. That’s why I locked myself in the bathroom.” She seemed pleased with herself, reestablishing her role as the victim in the drama at hand despite her clearly not being the person who had been wounded.

  “Did you hear him cry out in pain or say anything that would indicate he had injured himself?” I asked.

  She thought. “No.”