Past Sins

by Thomas Grant Bruso

  “Beats me.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “A friend of the vic. She lives two doors down from her.”

  Nausea stabs me, and I feel dizzy. My stomach makes gurgling noises.

  Barton glares at me. “Pull yourself together, Ballinger.”

  “Poor woman,” I say. “She seemed so nice.”

  “Accidental death is messy and complicated.”

  I glance at the dead body and swallow back chunks of Lou’s buttery eggs and wince at the bitter taste left in my mouth. A green plastic laundry basket sits on top of one of the four drying machines. It’s filled with frilly, old lady’s clothes. “Doesn’t seem like a coincidence when two people from the same building are found dead on the same day.”

  “That’s why you’re here.”

  “It would help if my old partner was here, too.”

  Barton sighs and pulls out his cell phone from his front pocket. “I’ll call him. Again. Oh. By the way, we got a call from the young girl, Kimberly Block’s parents.”

  “And?”

  “They’re mad, as can be expected. They’re also threatening a lawsuit against the college and sorority house.”

  “It’s only going to get more complicated until we find out who’s responsible.”

  “That could be a while.”

  As he starts off in the other direction down the hall, I stop him and ask, “Where’s the dog?”

  Annoyed, he throws up his free hand and looks at me as if I’ve asked him something in a foreign language. “What dog?” he says, his voice echoing down the long hallway.

  I jerk a thumb into the laundry room. “The elderly woman’s pet.”

  Barton shrugs, and turns back to his phone.

  While waiting for him to finish, I look back to the scene of the crime and take a moment to glimpse the ghastly images in front of me.

  The blood splatter patterns around the body suggest the vic may have slipped. I look down at the floor where the indentation of a single footprint marks the puddle of blood next to her head.

  Crime scene markers identify the important blood patterns around the room.

  I hear the chief ending his call as he heads toward me, his rubber soles squeaking down the hallway.

  “Discover anything?” he asks, coming to my side.

  “Have you contacted Ryan?”

  “No. I left a message on his voice mail.”

  “So, what about the victim’s dog?”

  “It’s with another tenant,” he says, pulling out his notebook, and licking his fingers to flip pages. “Mrs. Jackson. A friend of the victim.”

  “I’d like to talk to her.”

  He gestured toward the stairwell. “After you.”

  * * * *

  Shirley Jackson holds the victim’s dog in her arms when she answers the door on my second knock.

  She looks like she’s been crying, her eyes red and swollen. The dog, a fluffy, tan Pomeranian, barks and growls at me, as I stand in the hall, asking questions I know the woman won’t be able to answer.

  “At what point did you know something was wrong?”

  “When I heard raised voices coming from behind Cora’s apartment door,” she says.

  “Can you remember what time it was?”

  She shifts the dog in her arms as if it is a baby, shushing it and kissing its head. “An hour ago.”

  “How did you hear the voices two doors down from the victim’s apartment? Were you out in the hall?”

  “I couldn’t sleep so I opened the door to see if the morning paper had arrived.”

  “Do you know if it was a male or female voice who was arguing with the victim?”

  She shakes her head, her shoulders sagging. “I don’t understand who would want to hurt someone as nice as Cora.”

  I hear the chief’s voice in my head: Accidental death.

  “Were the voices male or female, ma’am?”

  She cries and the dog stares up at her, its small head cocked. “Male, I think. But the voices were muffled.”

  “Did you see anybody when you were out in the hall?”

  “No. I only heard the voices.”

  I stop writing in my notebook and look down the end of the hall, past the victim’s apartment, to the exit door leading into the stairwell.

  I turn back to Mrs. Jackson. “How would you describe Ms. Finding’s mental state of mind, ma’am?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Was she depressed? Did she have dementia?”

  Mrs. Jackson wipes her eyes with a finger. “What does this have to do with anything?” Her tone is accusatory.

  “It’s routine, ma’am. I’m just trying to understand what happened tonight.”

  “Two people are dead in the same day.” She shudders. “I’m going to be moving, Officer. I don’t feel safe here anymore.”

  “I understand, ma’am. But right now, if you can help me to answer these questions. I’d appreciate it.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just frazzled and scared. What if somebody is targeting the residents of this building?” She looks out into the hallway, leans into me, and whispers, “What if the killer is here right now? Maybe he, or she, is listening to our conversation.”

  I jot down the word paranoid into the margin of my notepad.

  “Would you rather we continue talking inside your apartment?” I ask. “Would you feel safer?”

  She shakes her head. “Killer is leery around strangers.”

  I look down at the small dog staring at me intently.

  “By the way, how long have you and the victim known each other?”

  “Two years. Cora used to come over for afternoon tea. We’d catch up and share stories. Two widows sharing harmless gossip.”

  “Right.”

  “I want to know what happened to my friend, and to the young girl in apartment two.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out, ma’am.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry. This is all frightening and confusing.”

  I nod. “Do you know if your friend had depression or the first stages of dementia or Alzheimer’s?

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “She lived alone. Maybe she was lonely.”

  “She had Killer. How could she be lonely?”

  “Did you ever see her walking around aimlessly?”

  She shakes her head.

  I stare down at the dog. “When did you have access to the dog this evening?”

  “I went to the apartment because I heard barking.”

  “Did you go into the apartment?”

  “No. I knocked.”

  “What time did you go the apartment?”

  Her expression is tight. “An hour ago, give or take a few minutes.”

  “Did Ms. Findings answer the door?”

  “No. But the door was unlocked and Killer was scratching at it. I pushed the door open and he came running out into the hall.”

  “Did you go into the apartment?”

  “No. I called Cora’s name from the doorway, but she didn’t answer. Other tenants came out into the hall when they heard me calling for her.”

  “My superior told me you found the body.”

  She hugs the dog. “After I let Killer outside to do his business, I put him in my room with my cat and went to look for Cora.”

  “Did Ms. Findings usually wander off early in the morning?”

  “Not with her apartment unlocked, and Killer barking, no.” She shakes her head. “Cora never left her door unlocked, or Killer alone by himself.”

  “So, what made you go down into the basement, ma’am?”

  “It was the last place I looked.” She shivers. “I wasn’t expecting to find her lying on the floor dead.”

  “Does she usually do laundry this early in the morning?”

  “I, uh, I don’t think so. But who knows? Maybe she couldn’t sleep either.”

  I write more notes on my pad. “When she came over for tea, did she ever conf
ide in you that she was scared of anyone or anything? Did she have any enemies?”

  Mrs. Jackson laughs, and it feels out of context. “Enemies? Cora? Are you kidding me? No, Officer. She was sweet as pie. She was a caring woman who helped so many people. She loved everyone, and everyone loved her.”

  Not everyone.

  “Do you know where I can reach the property owner?” I ask.

  She thinks. “His office is out back.”

  I jot down notes as she talks.

  “I hope you find whoever did this,” she says, before retreating back into her apartment. “They deserve to be punished.”

  In this line of work, I want to tell her there are no guarantees. None of us behind the badge can make promises. Most of the time they turn out to be false.

  * * * *

  I am alone in the hallway, finishing a thought in my notepad before I head to the end of the hall and open the door to the stairwell.

  Staring down the flight of stairs to the bottom, an idea grabs me: What was Cora doing in the basement alone?

  Laundry?

  Possibly, I think, but doubtful.

  Something smells fishy.

  * * * *

  Cora Findings’ body is covered in a white sheet and wheeled out on a stretcher as I stand on the sidewalk with the police chief and other curious onlookers from the neighboring block.

  “I’ve got to get back home,” the chief says. “My wife is waiting for me. Will you head to the station and write up a report?”

  “I’m on my way,” I say, pulling out my cell and scrolling through missed calls, but none of them are from Steve.

  Barton slaps me on the back as he saunters off. “I’ll catch up with you at the office, say, in an hour? I’ve got an errand to run before I head back to work.”

  I nod and stare down at the last incoming call.

  Unknown.

  Whoever they are left a message.

  I hit accept, and hold the cell phone to my ear.

  There’s a beep and heavy static and someone breathing heavily, almost panting.

  I hear a faint sound of music or a TV playing in the background.

  Then the line goes dead.

  Chapter 8

  Later that morning, I sit outside the police station on Barney Road and stare out at a strip of houses atop the steep rocky hill behind the high school and football field.

  I think of the people living inside those dwellings and imagine them going about their daily lives, eating, laughing, dreaming, when Cora Findings and Kimberly Block lie dead in the county morgue, their lives cut short by unexplainable tragedy.

  As I get out of the car and head up the sidewalk to the front door, Steve’s face flickers across my vision, and a feeling of regret punches me in the stomach.

  The station is empty, except for a light burning in the last cubicle in the back of the room.

  Officer Hawkins.

  No one is manning the reception desk, I notice, as I dash into the restroom at the end of the hall, checking under all three stalls for a pair of feet, a visitor, but there are none.

  Ducking into one of the stalls and locking the door, I call Steve, pacing in the small, tight space, my body trembling with each passing ring.

  Three. Four. Five.

  He doesn’t answer, and I debate whether or not to leave a message.

  After the incident at the diner, I wonder if he wants to be left alone to think things through.

  I recall him telling me that he’d call me.

  At the small window of opportunity when the last beep encourages me to leave a message, I panic and hang up.

  I lean against the wall, my hands clammy, my thoughts fuzzy, forehead glistening with sweat.

  In the outer office, Hawkins is at his desk as I head to my workspace and sit down in front of the computer, shaking the cordless mouse to awaken the screen.

  I switch on the tiny lamp next to me and stare at the blank monitor, struggling to write my report on Cora Finding’s death.

  My thoughts keep returning to Steve, wondering how he’s doing and what he’s thinking. I reach for my cell phone to call him again when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  I let out a girlish gasp, drop the phone on the desk, and whirl around in my chair, looking up wide-eyed at the six-foot tall leggy blonde staring down at me with a sad smile.

  Stella Barton, the chief of police’s wife.

  I rise to greet her, but she pushes me back down into my chair, her French manicured hand tapping me on the shoulder playfully. “Sit, sit,” she says, sounding as if she is training a puppy. “You don’t have to get up for me, Jack.”

  We’ve known each other and been longstanding acquaintances for five years, since I took the job. Stella doesn’t treat me like the other officers.

  I think it’s because I’m gay, and she likes expanding her social circle, and she doesn’t feel threatened by me.

  She’s had different experiences with other male officers, none of whom still work here, and who harassed her and hit on her.

  She is ten years Barton’s junior. He likes his women young, fit, and blonde.

  “Stella,” I say, surprised. “What brings you here this morning?”

  She is dressed in jogging attire, spandex, a purple tank top, and running shoes. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Jack.”

  I wave the thought away. “It’s been a long day already. What’s up?”

  “I’m checking on my husband,” she says, “Have you seen him?”

  I look at her, stupefied and speechless. “I just left him at a crime scene. He said he was on his way home to see you.”

  “That’s so Danny. I was supposed to meet him here.” A wan smile. “I haven’t seen him a lot these last few weeks. I make dinner, and he calls and tells me he has to work late. I hate his schedule sometimes.”

  She looks like a child, lost and pitiful.

  “Is there anything I can do?” I ask. “Would you like me to try to call him?”

  “Thanks, Jack. But that’s all right. I’ll just head back to the house after my morning run.”

  I push out my chair and stand, staring over the partition separating my desk from the rest of the station. It is ghostly quiet except for Hawkin’s tapping at his keyboard, the top of his head haloed in the dizzying fluorescent ceiling lights.

  “It was nice running into you, Jack,” Stella says, turning and heading down the hallway to the side exit doors. “You should come over to the house for dinner some time. We’d like the company.”

  “Thanks for the invitation. I might take you up on that.” I watch her turn the corner and hear the exit door open and shut, locking behind her.

  I head to Hawkin’s desk where I find him hunched over the computer, his nose to the grindstone.

  I clear my throat to break his concentration.

  He whips around, surprised, a hand flying to his chest in dramatic fashion.

  I worry he might have backlash. “It’s just me, Alan.”

  “Jesus, Jack. You scared me shitless. I didn’t realize anyone else was here.”

  “Which is strange, don’t you think? Where is everybody?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t care. I just want to finish my report for the chief so I can go home and get some sleep. I haven’t slept since yesterday.”

  “I know the feeling,” I say, checking my watch: 8:00 A.M.

  The shift changes in half an hour.

  “Which brings me here in the first place,” I say, noticing the frustration on his acne-pocked face as he glares at me with a hawkish stare. “Have you seen the chief?”

  He fidgets with his glasses, taking them off and cleaning them on the sleeve of his shirt, and sliding them back on the bridge of his bulbous nose. “The last time I saw him was at the scene at Firewood Road.”

  I pat him on the back. “Thanks. I won’t bother you anymore.”

  He glances at me over the rim of his thick glasses, his stare stodgy and sharp; an irritable sonofabitch. I leave him poundi
ng at his keys, and walk back to my desk, stopping at the coffee station on the back wall near the chief’s office, and pour a Styrofoam cup with decaf.

  I empty three packets of sugar and a dollop of almond milk, and stir.

  At my desk, I leave the coffee untouched.

  The phone rings.

  I answer it. “Hello?”

  It is Sarah Granger from the Phi Sum Beta sorority house. She is calling for an update on her sorority friend Kimberly Block.

  “It’s still ongoing,” I tell her. “We’re still working on a few leads.”

  “Care to share any of them with me? Do you have any suspects?”

  “None at the moment. But we’ll be working around the clock until we do.”

  She begins to cry, and I try to put her at ease, telling her everything will work out in the end. “When we learn anything new, we’ll let you know.”

  “Have you spoken to Kimberly’s parents?” she asks.

  I say, “Chief Barton is in contact with them.”

  “I’ve heard they’re going to sue the college for their daughter’s murder.”

  “I can’t comment on any of that, Miss Granger.”

  It is quiet on the line, and I think Sarah has hung up. But then I hear her breathing and sniffling, and I ask her if there is anything else I can help her with.

  “Just find the person or persons responsible for Kimberly’s death,” she says. “That’s all the girls are praying for at Phi Sum Beta.”

  “We’re doing our best,” I say.

  She hangs up without a thank you or goodbye.

  I feel my shoulders tighten after I end the call, and place the phone back in its base. As I stare at the blank computer screen, an idea hits me like a sledgehammer, and I shut off my laptop and head to my car in the parking lot out back.

  * * * *

  It is something the victim Cora Findings’ neighbor, Mrs. Jackson, said to me during her interview that sends me back to the scene of the crime at Firewood Road.

  I track down the apartment building’s landlord, Dick Redding, a Mr. Magoo type: craggy-old and aided with a cane, in the back room of his outhouse size garage-turned-office behind the apartment building.

  All he is missing is his four-legged doggy companion.

  He is getting behind the wheel of his canary-yellow punch buggy, and mumbling.