by E. M. Parker
She took note of the phrase not finished with her yet, immediately deeming the thought too dramatic for the circumstances. Sullivan had combed the bowels of crime scenes two hundred times worse than this one; crime scenes that were still rife with the possibility of actual danger, not the made-up kind that was the stuff of the ghost movies that she binge-watched as a kid. This wasn’t the Overlook Hotel for crying out loud. This was a simple crime scene, the same as all the others. The thumping (which only increased when she entered the bedroom) didn’t mean anything, neither did the dark foreboding that was rooted entirely in her mind, neither did anything else, except finding the person who killed Donald Tisdale. And right now, Sullivan was convinced that Tisdale had been killed.
She listened as the thumping subsided, then reappeared with more force, seemingly moving the floor underneath her feet. When she backed out of the room, the thumping followed, moving up the hallway wall, then past her into the living room, where it once again subsided.
Maybe the walls are infected with a family of fat, scary, genetically-engineered rats. That’s it, genetically-engineered rats. The ridiculous thought brought a smile to Sullivan’s face, easing her tension and allowing her to focus on her actual reason for being here.
Detective Greer was somewhere in the building in search of the maintenance supervisor Arthur Finley. They hadn’t had the chance to speak with him last night, so they hoped he could shed some new light on Tisdale’s life. Sullivan’s job was to bring her fresh eyes to the scene to find any clues that may have been missed in the running chaos that was an inevitable part of any new crime scene. She knew there would be little remaining evidence that hadn’t already been recovered. But it was important to be here nonetheless, if for no other reason than to exorcise the illogical fear that she had come to associate with this place. Despite her absolute best efforts, the illogical fear was still there.
That was why she felt such relief at the sound of knocking on the front door. Greer had returned, hopefully with Arthur Finley, which meant that the alone time in Tisdale’s apartment that she once coveted was coming to a merciful end. Greer knocked again before Sullivan could make it to the door, turning her relief into irritation.
“Relax, I’m coming. No need to break the door dow–.”
When she opened the door, Greer was not there. She caught only a glimpse of what had been there, as it quickly rounded the corner out of her sight. It was small and featureless, like a three-dimensional shadow. And it was very fast. It could have been a child playing a prank, but children playing pranks always gave themselves away with mischievous laughter. Sullivan heard no laughter. She heard no footsteps padding away in panic. She heard nothing. But she felt the chill. It was immediate, and it was consuming.
Sullivan stepped into the hallway. “Hello?” She listened for a response. Hearing none, she slowly rounded the corner where the shadow had disappeared to. “Is someone–”
A heavy hand stopped her cold, causing a high-pitched yelp that reverberated through the corridor.
The next sound she heard was Greer’s laughter. “Don’t worry, Mr. Finley. She reacts like this every time she sees me. It doesn’t hurt my feelings as much as it used to.”
Greer’s humor did nothing to ease Sullivan’s nerves. “Did you see?”
“Did I see what?”
“A child, or something, running through the hall.”
The smile left Greer’s face. “What do you mean a child or something?”
“There was a knock on Tisdale’s door. I answered, thinking it was you. When I opened the door, I saw this small child running away.”
“What did the child look like?” the man standing next to Greer asked.
Sullivan recounted what she had seen, which, besides the fast-moving shadow, wasn’t much.
The man and Greer looked at one another quizzically.
“We didn’t see anything,” Greer said.
“It would have run right past you.”
“Do you think you could stop saying it? You’re kinda freaking me out with that.”
“I don’t know what else to call it.”
The man standing next to Greer intervened. “We do have several children in the building. There’s always a morbid sense of curiosity surrounding an event like this, and the kiddos seem to be most affected. I wouldn’t doubt for a second that one of them is behind this.”
“It’s what kids do,” Greer added. “They’ve got to cope with their fear somehow.”
Sullivan allowed their words of logic to sink in, and when they did, she felt better. “I guess so. I just wish they hadn’t done it on my watch.”
“I can imagine it was a little unnerving,” the man said as he extended his hand. “Art Finley.”
Greer cut in. “Sorry, with all the excitement, I didn’t get a chance to properly introduce you. “Detective Sullivan, this is Arthur Finley. Mr. Finley, Detective Chloe Sullivan.”
Sullivan shook his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Finley. I apologize for the theatrics. I assure you that I’m normally very professional.”
“No need to apologize, Detective Sullivan. I completely understand. And please, call me Art.”
His gentle, kind smile immediately disarmed her. She could now get on with the business of being a homicide detective and not the frightened nine-year-old who had momentarily invaded her body.
“Art has agreed to answer some questions about Mr. Tisdale,” Greer said.
“Would you prefer that we talk out here?” Sullivan asked, hoping like hell that he would say yes.
“It’s probably not best to be within earshot of the tenants. They’re pretty nervous as is.”
“Agreed,” Greer said. “Would you be okay talking inside Tisdale’s apartment?”
Sullivan’s face dropped. “It’s still an active scene.”
“We’ve collected everything we need. I don’t see the harm in it, as long as you agree not to touch anything, Art.”
“Promise. Hell, the way I look at it, I’ll ultimately be responsible for cleaning out the place when you guys are finished, so it’ll be a good primer.”
With that, the three made their way into Tisdale’s apartment.
“Have you been having issues with the heating?” Greer said with a shiver as he entered the apartment.
“It’s been a persistent pain,” Arthur responded. “I’ve been lobbying for a new ventilation system now for over a decade. Mr. Barlow doesn’t believe the problem warrants that kind of investment. He doesn’t believe in investing much of anything into this place, but that’s another story.”
Arthur’s bright face took on a dark edge as he entered the apartment. Sullivan noticed him shiver, though she attributed that as much to emotion as she had the cold.
“How long have you lived here?” she asked.
“Longer than I can remember. I came in first as a tenant, then, after the old maintenance supervisor died, Mr. Barlow hired me. I’d done some odd jobs around the building, so he knew I was pretty handy.”
“You must know this building like the back of your hand by now,” Greer said.
“I’ve gotten to know this old girl really well over the years; the good, the bad, and the oh-so ugly.”
“Same with the tenants?” Sullivan asked.
“In as much as I can. It used to be much easier back in the day. People moved in and they stayed for years. Now, with the turnover being so high, the only way I can truly keep track of who is here is by the number of times I’m called to fix something for them. That seems to be the only time that anyone is interested in conversation. No sense of community like there used to be. Different times altogether, I guess.”
Sullivan nodded her agreement. Different times indeed.
“As we were walking up here, you spoke about your friendship with Mr. Tisdale. Was he close with anyone else in the building?” Greer asked.
“Don kept to himself. He didn’t have anything against the people here, he just found over the years that
he had less and less in common with them.”
“But the two of you were pretty tight.”
Arthur’s weathered face creased with emotion. “Always.” His eyes surveyed the apartment, finally landing on the spot where Tisdale’s body was found. The chair, noose, and hook had all been removed.
Sullivan noticed this and watched for any nervous changes in his demeanor. Seeing none, she dismissed his lingering stare as coincidence and continued her questioning.
“Did he ever speak about anyone else in the building? Anyone he liked, or more importantly, disliked?”
“Don never had a bad word to say about anyone.”
“Could there have been anyone who disliked him?”
Arthur eyed her quizzically. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”
“I’m not going anywhere with it, Mr. Finley.”
“Art.”
“Art. I’m just trying to get a broad picture view of his life here.”
“Are you thinking that someone here could have…” he couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Not at all,” Greer assured him. “Like Detective Sullivan said, we’re simply trying to understand the bigger picture.”
Arthur took a moment to ponder. “Well, I guess there was one thing. Happened some time ago though.”
“What?” Sullivan asked with piqued interest.
“Well, there was this guy, Noah Glasby. Still lives on this floor actually.”
“What about him?”
Arthur hesitated, as if the memory made him uncomfortable. “So one day, Don runs into one of the kids who live on this floor, a little girl in 607. From what Don said, it was a friendly conversation. He’d asked her about school, any fun hobbies she may have had, really basic stuff. Turns out, they shared an interest in drawing. Don was quite the artist, great with nature scenes. I called him our resident Bob Ross. I’d be willing to bet that he still has a few pieces hidden away somewhere. Anyway, she was interested in seeing his work, so he agreed to let her come over on the condition that she got permission from her mother first. So, she asks her mom, and somehow, Noah gets wind of it. That’s when all hell breaks loose. He almost beat down Don’s door, calling him a pervert and every other despicable name you can imagine.”
“All because he wanted to show the girl some drawings?” Greer asked. “Seems a little excessive to me.”
“But that’s not all,” Arthur continued. “He basically demanded that Don stay away from his family, and that if he didn’t, the two of them would have major issues.”
“Did Noah physically threaten him?” Sullivan asked.
“According to Don, there was never an overt threat. He had retreated into his apartment before Noah could escalate the situation any further. But the threat was certainly alluded to.”
“Where there any altercations between the two of them after that?”
“No. Don avoided them, and as far as I know, he never talked to the girl again. Don was a sweet man. Damn shame that someone would twist his perfectly innocent intentions into something so disgusting. Speaks more to the kind of man Noah is, if you ask me.”
Sullivan looked at Greer, hopeful that he had the same thought as she did.
“You said Noah lives in apartment 607?” Greer asked.
“Yes.”
Their next visual exchange confirmed that the two detectives were indeed on the same page.
“What do you say we go pay him a visit?”
Sullivan immediately nodded her agreement. “Right behind you.”
“If it’s all the same, I would ask that you didn’t mention me in your conversation. I’m more than happy to help you guys out in whatever way I can. I want to find out what happened to Don as much as anyone else. But I have no desire to catch that family’s wrath. It’s difficult enough dealing with them as is.”
“We completely understand, and we would never put you in that position,” Sullivan assured him.
Arthur let out a quiet sigh of relief. “I appreciate that.”
“If you don’t mind, we’d like for you to stand by in case we need to follow up after our chat with the folks in 607,” Greer said.
“Of course. Whatever you need.”
After seeing Arthur out of the apartment, Sullivan and Greer made their way down the hall.
“I didn’t have much luck with them earlier,” Sullivan said as apartment 607 came into view.
“When you were knocking on doors?”
She nodded. “To be fair, I didn’t have much luck with anyone. Even when people answered the door, most times I wish they hadn’t.”
Greer put a hand on her shoulder, stopping both of them before they reached the apartment. A look of concern creased his smooth, ageless face. “What happened back there, outside of Tisdale’s apartment?”
Sullivan swallowed hard as she attempted to frame her answer. In her world, there was a logical explanation for everything. She had even found a way to explain the pool of blood that seemed to spontaneously appear in Tisdale’s kitchen and bedroom. It was there the entire time. In the rush to declare his suicide an open and shut case, everything else, including the blood, had been overlooked. Simple. But what she witnessed in his apartment today defied logical explanation. The thumping in the walls that seemed to move as she did, the knock on the front door, the shadow that moved away from the door when she opened it, none of it seemed real. And yet it was. The first issue was admitting that to herself. The second was admitting it to Greer.
The two of them had gotten on nicely in the six months since they’d been partnered. Sullivan’s previous partnership hadn’t ended so well, so Greer’s humor, fair-mindedness, and dedication came as a breath of fresh air. She trusted him with her life, because the job dictated that she had to. But she had also come to trust Greer as a person, and she assumed that he trusted her. In her experience, trust was fragile, capable of being shattered by even the slightest indiscretion or misstep. How would Greer’s trust be affected by the admission of her belief that what she heard in Tisdale’s apartment and saw outside his door was something other than human? Would he ever again trust her to lead the way into a dark alley or active crime scene? Would he trust the female intuition that she had fought so hard to convince him was a real thing? He just might. At this point, however, it wasn’t worth the risk to find out. The incident could make for an interesting anecdote over beers one day, where its merits could be dissected, ridiculed, and ultimately dismissed. But for now, she needed Greer’s full faith in her ability to help close this case. She needed to maintain faith in herself too; faith that was diminishing a little more with each passing moment spent here.
“Nothing happened that’s worth rehashing right now,” Sullivan declared as emphatically as she could. “Let’s just see what we can find out about Noah.”
“Are you sure?” Greer asked with a doubting expression. “That look in your eye. It was like you saw a damn ghost.”
“There’s no such thing as ghosts, Marcus. Didn’t they teach you that in the police academy?” With that she continued the walk down the hallway.
Greer chuckled as he followed close behind. “Sorry, I must have been absent that day.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE DETECTIVES WERE GREETED BY loud music upon arriving at apartment 607, a common occurrence according to Arthur Finley. Greer smiled and began bobbing his head to the thrashing guitar riffs and rapid-fire drum beat.
“Metallica, ‘Disposable Heroes’,” he said with finger horns raised in the air.
“Funny, I thought this was Megadeth.”
“Bite your tongue, young lady.”
Sullivan eyed him with amusement. “How do you know so much about it, anyway?”
“What, you don’t think a brotha from Park Hill can a metalhead?”
“Looking at you right now, I don’t doubt it for a second.”
When the song ended, so did Greer’s headbanging. “Quick, knock on the door before ‘Leper Messiah’ starts up.”
Sullivan followed his command, silently thanking him for the much-needed comedy relief. She managed to get in four hard knocks before the next song began.
“Think she heard that?”
Before Greer could answer her question, the door flew open.
The loudness of the music hit Sullivan like a sonic wave, momentarily pushing her back. When she regained her bearings, she saw a young woman whose pretty face was marred by a thick layer of black mascara and a pointedly hostile expression. Unable to hear the words she spoke, Sullivan had to rely on her ability to read lips.
“Can I help you?” was what she made out.
“Turn the music off first!” she responded in a voice that tested the limits of her vocal range. It was still barely enough.
The woman’s piercing green eyes cut through Sullivan, as if her directive meant nothing.
“We said turn it off!” Greer’s baritone rose above the music enough to make the woman flinch.
She huffed as she walked back inside to turn off the music. She said nothing to them as she returned.
“Don’t you think your neighbors deserve a little more consideration than that?”
The girl met Greer’s question with a contemptuous glare. “Who are you and what do you want?”
Sullivan displayed her badge without saying anything.
The woman appeared unfazed by the sight of it. “Am I breaking some kind of law?”
“Not at the moment,” Sullivan answered.
“Then why are you here?”
Sullivan looked at Greer, informing him that this one was all his.
“My name is Greer, and this is my partner Detective Sullivan. Are you aware of the incident that occurred on this floor last night?”
“No.”
“You haven’t heard your neighbors talking about it? You haven’t seen us around the building?”
“Like I already said, no.”
Sullivan noted the justifiable tension in Greer’s jaw and quickly took over the questioning.