The Esther Code

by Michael Danneman

  “I’m glad to have your assistance. I promise I won’t take too much of your time, but I would like to see the room and speak with Terrence and the other staff that were on duty that night.”

  Juanita looks off to the side, her expression a little terse. “I can’t let you see the room. There is a new resident already occupying that room.”

  “WHAT?!”

  “You see, we have a waiting list. The room was released yesterday. I had to call five times to get it released. After all, they had already been in and taken photos and whatever else,” Juanita argues, standing her ground.

  “Oh! I forgot to mention that,” Ragsdale pipes up from beside Jamie.

  She sighs, “Fine. Well, I would like to see the room anyway.”

  Again, Juanita becomes agitated. “We couldn’t possibly do that—privacy and all.”

  “You can’t honestly expect me to believe that. How do prospective residents preview their rooms?” Jamie demands, losing a bit of her cool.

  “We get permission from some of our guests to show their rooms to new clients, who are escorted by me, of course,” Juanita informs them with a self-satisfied smile at her own professionalism.

  “Well, then, I’m your newest potential customer, and I want to put Granny on your waiting list. Let’s go. Room 128. It’s her favorite number. And you’d better find something for your new resident to do outside of his room for a few minutes—get some fresh air, perhaps,” Jamie orders the woman with a determined glare. The time for diplomacy was before a new occupant was settled on top of Jamie’s crime scene.

  Juanita’s smile slowly transforms into an indignant glare. She opens her mouth, and closes it again with a twitch of her lips. “Fine. I’ll arrange it. Just a moment.”

  With that, Juanita disappears around the corner.

  “You’ve got some spunk, kid!” Ragsdale exclaims once Juanita is out of earshot.

  Jamie ignores him, her mind still on the retreating Juanita. Jamie follows her down the hallway toward room 128. Juanita knocks on the door and slinks inside. Jamie leans against the wall and waits patiently. Glancing over, she sees that Ragsdale has followed her and is standing behind her looking at his phone. It takes about three minutes, but Juanita finally convinces the old man in the room to go for a walk outside. As she guides him to the back door, which leads into a garden, she waves Jamie into the room. Juanita’s brown eyes still burn, but Jamie has more important considerations.

  Not waiting for Juanita’s signal, Jamie starts into the room as soon as the old man turns his back to her, seconds before Juanita waves. Jamie enters through a tiny sitting room, complete with recliner, armchair, and television. She follows the room’s “L”-shape around the corner to find that the rest of the apartment is a small bedroom and a bathroom. Jamie figures that the room next to this one will fit into the crook of the L, so the whole center is one big jigsaw of rooms, maximizing the given space.

  The new tenant has already set up pictures of family and friends. As Jamie expected, the place is clean. But at least she now has a concept of the room and can clearly imagine the steps the killer would have taken. The bedroom would have provided more privacy for a murder than the sitting room. Jamie examines the bedroom, even looking under the bed. Clean. She exits the room and finds Ragsdale still leaning against the wall. His bored expression tells Jamie everything she needs to know.

  Jamie looks each way down the hallway and realizes that the room is not tucked into a distant corner. The killer must have had a reason to pick this room, instead of a less visible corner room, or a room near an emergency exit. It is perplexing. It further solidifies the idea that the murder was not random, but that Fred Schmidt was the intended victim.

  A nursing assistant is wheeling out the neighboring resident. Jamie assumes the poor old guy is off to the dining hall, or maybe therapy, or to visit a friend. Glancing at Ragsdale, Jamie grins slyly before ducking into the room. As she suspected, the room fits, puzzle-like, with Schmidt’s old room. She heads to the bedroom, where she gets down on her hands and knees to see under the bed. There is plenty of dust, hair, crumbs, and even a strand of rope from a mop caught in the wheels of the bed legs. This further confirms that the killer cleaned the victim’s entire room quite thoroughly.

  Exiting the room, Jamie spies Juanita returning without the older gentlemen. Juanita’s face radiates anger.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Juanita hisses, none too quietly.

  “I need to see the sign-in sheet for last Sunday,” Jamie replies coolly, ignoring the question.

  Juanita mumbles something under her breath, then stalks away down the hallway.

  “You sure know how to push people’s buttons,” Ragsdale snickers.

  “You coming?” Jamie retorts, following Juanita down the hallway.

  “I wouldn’t miss this,” Ragsdale mutters, falling into step beside Jamie.

  Juanita throws open an office door so that it hits the wall and recoils towards Jamie. Reaching out an arm, Jamie catches the door before it shuts and enters the room, with Ragsdale on her heels.

  Juanita shoves the clipboard at Jamie. “Here.”

  Jamie accepts with a smile and a “Thanks.”

  The clipboard is just like the register Jamie signed earlier. Since so many people have touched it, Jamie doubts that there will be any usable evidence from it, but that did not stop the police from fingerprinting it. Jamie sees a small residue of black powder left on one of the corners of the clipboard. At least they followed protocol. She looks at the names on the list for Sunday night. Toward the bottom is an entry that reads, “Simon W,” with no time given. The handwriting is very poor, as if this person used his non-dominant hand. The previous signature was written at 6:46, and the one after Simon checked in at 7:10.

  “I need to speak with...” Jamie begins, then pauses to check her notes, “Terrence and Bertha…Bertha Ames, the nursing assistant from the night of the murder.”

  “Terrence won’t be in ‘til Saturday. He only works weekends,” Juanita informs them with obvious pleasure. “And Bertha doesn’t come in until 3 p.m.”

  “That’s okay. I’m sure they both have cell phones. I need to speak to Terrence before I leave,” Jamie says, motioning to the telephone.

  “He won’t answer if he’s in class.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  Juanita hesitates for a moment. “We have to go to my office, so I can look up their numbers.”

  “Lead the way,” Jamie replies with a mocking smile.

  They follow Juanita back out of the office and down the opposite hallway to a room next to the dining room. Jamie smells cilantro as soon as the door opens. The room is filled with obnoxious colors and strange Aztec statues like those at tourist traps in Mexico.

  Sitting in her comfy business chair, Juanita loads something on the computer. She picks up the phone on the desk and dials, all the while stonily watching Jamie. Ragsdale slumps into one of the chairs on the other side of the desk, a smug look on his face.

  “Hi, Terrence. It’s Ms. Applegate. I have someone here who needs to speak with you,” Juanita says briskly, her face unchanged. “Between classes? Okay, perfect—this should just take a few moments.”

  Jamie takes the phone Juanita holds out to her. “Terrence, I’m Special Agent Golding of the FBI. I have a few quick questions for you.”

  “I’ve got fifteen minutes before class so, okay, cool, shoot,” Terrence answers nonchalantly.

  “That’s great.” Jamie jumps right in. “Do you recall a visitor to your facility named Simon W.?”

  “Yeah, he came to see Mr. Schmidt.”

  “And how often did this Simon come to visit Mr. Schmidt?”

  “I dunno. I think I’ve seen the dude maybe two or three other times, before that last time, that is. I can’t really remember. A lot of people come through there, you know.”

  “When did you see him last, before this past Sunday?”

  “Uh...probably tw
o weeks ago.”

  “Also a Sunday? Also in the evening?”

  “Can’t remember for sure. I guess it could have been a Saturday. But yeah, he always came in the evening, probably around seven or so,” Terrence recounts.

  “Interesting. And did he look the same each time? Similarly dressed? Did he bring anything with him? Tell me all that you remember about his appearance,” Jamie requests.

  “Well, he had essentially the same thing on. Wore a nametag from the group he was with. Same hat on each time. Always carried a backpack.”

  “The group he was with?”

  “Yeah—some church or something.”

  “Anything else you may have remembered since, anything that might not be in the other reports?”

  “No, that’s really it. He was a pretty friendly guy. Always addressed me by name. He never seemed suspicious to me. Totally double-cool with ice, you know,” Terrence expounds thoughtfully.

  “Thanks, Terrence. I appreciate your help. Can I call you again if I need anything else?”

  “For sure.”

  “Okay, thanks again.”

  “Bye.”

  Jamie hangs up and looks at Juanita, who is glowering.

  “Now Bertha,” Jamie reminds her.

  While Juanita looks up the number and starts to call Bertha, Jamie again peruses the register in her hands. She flips back the pages and searches for a similar sign-in. She sees “Simon W” the week before on Saturday evening. She checks the preceding week as well, but sees nothing. Another week back, however, “Simon W.” again appears on a Saturday night. All of them are in the same handwriting, most likely, the same guy.

  “It’s Bertha,” Juanita snarls, again holding out the receiver for Jamie.

  Jamie takes the phone. “Hi, Bertha? This is Special Agent Golding, FBI. I have a few questions for you.”

  “Now’s not a good time.” The woman on the other end sounds hurried.

  “Well, I’m only in town for today. I absolutely have to speak with you; can I meet you somewhere in the next half hour or so?”

  “Fine, you can come to my house. Half an hour. You got a paper and pen, Hon? Here’s my address.”

  Jamie writes down the address that Bertha gives before hanging up abruptly. Jamie hands the phone back to Juanita.

  “Is that everything?” Juanita snaps, her right eye twitching slightly.

  “Yes. Thank you for your compliance. I’ll see myself out.”

  Jamie exits the room and confidently walks down the hallway. She does not turn to see if Ragsdale is following, but she can hear his footsteps behind her. “Can you take me to this address?” Jamie passes a piece of paper over her shoulder.

  He takes it from her hand and answers sincerely. “Sure.”

  “Great. Let’s get going,” Jamie says as she picks up her stride.

  “You’re one hell of an agent,” Ragsdale responds with bemusement.

  “I’m getting there.” Jamie is glad he cannot see her lip curve up a little.

  Fifteen minutes later, Ragsdale pulls the car to a stop in front of a small, older home. The house is painted dark brown, and the paint is chipped here and there, giving it a leopard-print appearance. The grass is not overgrown, but most of it is crabgrass. No other shrubbery is visible. There is a frail, chain-link fence enclosing the yard. The fence is bent and twisted in places, so one could conceivably sneak underneath it. The gate is missing altogether.

  “I’m going to sit this one out,” Ragsdale decides, making himself comfortable in his seat.

  “I’ll only be a second.”

  She strides briskly through the almost nonexistent yard and up the creaking wooden porch steps to the front door. The cold is still unbearable to her, as she knocks on the door. After a few seconds, Jamie starts to bounce on the balls of her feet to keep herself warm.

  A series of metallic rattling sounds on the other side precedes the door opening, and a black woman peeks out through the small crack. “Yeah?” her voice challenges.

  “I’m Special Agent Golding. I came to ask you a few questions.”

  “You’re early.”

  “Sorry, I’m just on a tight schedule because I only have today before I fly home. I just need to ask a few questions,” Jamie says, motioning to the door.

  “Fine, Hon, ask away. I had just gotten out of the bath when you called, getting ready for work,” Bertha explains, still looking out through the inch-wide gap between door and frame.

  “Can I come in? It’s freezing out here.”

  “Of course.” Bertha pulls the door open wide enough to admit Jamie. “I’m just a little nervous and all, after what happened to poor Mr. Schmidt.”

  The smell of frying oil and batter welcomes her warmly. The modest home is tidy and neat. From the smeared handprints on the wall, Jamie assumes that Bertha has at least a couple of children as well.

  “So what can I help you with?” Bertha asks, not unkindly, pulling her cornrows back into an elastic band.

  Jamie gets right down to business. “What do you remember about the man who visited Fred Schmidt the night he died?”

  “He was a nice man. He would come and read to Mr. Schmidt and then tuck him in for the night.”

  “Did you talk to him the night Mr. Schmidt died? See him later that evening, when he left, or anything?”

  “I did walk by and heard him reading to Fred. Most of the time, when he left, he would let me know Mr. Schmidt was all set and sleeping. I figured I didn’t need to check on Fred. He always sleeps through the night without any problems.”

  “How did Simon act that night? Was he composed?”

  “Well, he wasn’t nervous. Wasn’t in a hurry. Said he’d be back in a week or two. Nothing outta the ordinary.”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him?”

  “Lord, yes!”

  “Anything else you remembered that you maybe didn’t report earlier?” Jamie presses.

  “Nope, Honey, that’s all I remember. Do you think he done it?” Bertha questions her nervously. “What if he comes back for me? You know, since I seen him?”

  “Trust me, he won’t be coming back. Are you sure there were no other suspicious persons that night? Just the regular staff? Even housekeeping?”

  “Nope, nobody. Do you think I need to move? I’ve slept at my sister’s the last four nights. She don’t like it on account of I don’t get to her house until almost midnight.”

  “You don’t need to move.” Jamie tries to sound reassuring. He won’t be back, believe me. He doesn’t live in Chicago, or even Illinois for that matter. And,” Jamie weighs her words, “he doesn’t care about you. Trust me, you’ll be fine. Thank you for your help, and here’s my card. Please call me if you think of anything else.”

  “Sure will. You find him, you hear, and quick!”

  “We’re doing our best. Again, call me if you think of something. Anything.” Jamie reiterates, as she sees herself out.

  As she descends the porch, Jamie can hear the metal rattling again, then footsteps walking away. Then silence. Jamie stands still in the yard for a moment. Her mind is doing somersaults. He could have killed Fred Schmidt on any of the other nights. Why did he wait for this particular Sunday? On the one hand, it was shrewd of the murderer to make his visits a norm, so no one would suspect anything. That move provided him several hours before anyone even noticed the crime. However, more visits also meant more chances of being remembered when the authorities came around. With a normal killer, Bertha would be right to be afraid.

  But Simon W. was not a normal killer. And his kills were not random. So why that time? Why that date?

  Jamie starts walking again, but a buzzing in her pocket holds Jamie up at the car. She retrieves her cell phone, which announces a new text from Chris. Jamie opens the message and reads, “it figures.” What is that supposed to mean? Chris is no doubt angry with her for breaking their dinner date. Of course, he has done the same to her, several times. Irked, she puts the phone away a
nd slides into Ragsdale’s car.

  Chapter 12

  At night, my family used to gather around the radio. My mother and grandparents were mostly interested in the news that would be broadcast. I, on the other hand, would endure the tedious reports in anticipation of hearing the latest installment of my favorite radio show. Of course, I could only listen to the radio at night as long as my schoolwork and chores were done for the day.

  Aside from the radio, my grandparents’ dry goods store was the center for gossip and news in Propoc. Many people gathered and talked with my grandparents, imparting tidbits of information, gossip, and other types of news. I never felt lonely working in the store with my family. The local folk would come and buy goods, then stand around and chat. Sometimes people came who were not even customers—they just wanted to be up-to-date on the local happenings.

  Once, I did overhear a conversation questioning the absence of my father by someone new to the community. I, too, had pondered this question. Like myself, my grandparents never discussed my father at all. When I questioned my mother about my father, she would tell me that she has me and that was enough for her. All I ever gathered about my father is that he disappeared not long after I was born.

  Despite my unusual family dynamics in those days, I was still accepted by the community. And since I excelled so well on my marks in school, I became sort of a wonder to people. Especially since my older brother did not receive as high marks as me. I was a young girl who was just as intelligent as the boys at my school.

  I was also privileged enough to receive piano lessons. Not many people in our town knew how to play a piano, and even fewer owned a piano. My grandmother played the piano and taught me how to play. Although I never applied myself to it as I did to my studies, I still learned enough piano to play well. Even now, sitting down at a piano and playing brings back those memories of my grandmother gently and patiently teaching me to play.

  As time passed and my childhood slipped away, I began to be interested in the boys at school. Mary and I started becoming aware of our own style and trying to push limits that the older generation felt were sinful. I never truly defied my mother or grandparents, but I did start wearing makeup and perfume too early for my grandmother’s taste. Mother seemed unconcerned, as other issues were more important to her.