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The Corpse in My Office
© 2024 by Walter Reimer
Thumbnail art by
RockBaker
Four.
“How long did you ‘think?’” the Prosecutor asked.
“Till about daybreak,” I say. “I had a busy day.”
“How much Scotch did you drink?”
“About half the bottle. Like I said, it had been a busy day, and I needed the sleep.”
I wake up about midmorning, hugging my tail to me and stroking the tip like it was some movie starlet. I get a little breakfast, some coffee, and head to the office. I’m looking at my notes when my ears twitch from a knocking sound.
Takes me a while to pay attention, but the knocking’s coming from my door.
So I get up and scoop up Susie before I walk to the door. I hold the gun up, thumb the hammer back, and call out, “Who is it?”
“I’m with the Evening Press,” some guy says.
“Yeah? So what?”
“I want to talk to you about the murder.”
“What murder?” No, I didn’t forget.
There’s a pause. “You Ernest Dawson?”
“Yeah?”
“Look, the other papers are reporting that some priest came here and got murdered. I just want to ask some questions,” the guy whines. “Have a heart, Dawson. My editor’s breathing down my neck.”
Damn. I sorta hoped it wouldn’t get out.
I ease the hammer forward on Susie and tuck her under my belt behind my back, plant my right foot a few inches from the door and crack the door open as far as my foot will let it. “Who’re you?” I ask the fox.
Smart cub; he keeps his paws where I can see ‘em, and he flashes a press card. “Name’s Paul Johnson,” he says. “Evening Press.”
“Yeah, I see that. Get in here.” I didn’t see anyone behind him, and no cameras. As soon as he’s inside, I close the door. “Okay, ask away.”
He shrugs and pulls out his notebook. “Okay. Did you know Ferguson?”
“Nope.”
“What time did he show up here?”
“About ten.”
He twitches his brush. “What he come up here for?”
I smile. “I ain’t telling you.”
“How’d he die?”
“Somebody shot him.”
“You?”
I smile again. “Good try, kid, but no kewpie doll. The cops already asked, and I didn’t kill him.”
“Then who did?” I had to give it to this guy. He was persistent.
“I mean to find that out,” I say. “Now beat it. I got nothing more to say.” He looks at me all grumpy, but shrugs and I let him out.
I lock the door behind him and grumble, “Damn.” Well, it was a murder; there was no way to keep it out of the papers. It’s just going to make it harder to figure out who shot Ferguson.
My ears perk at a knock on the door. “Who is it?” I call out.
“You Ernie Dawson?”
“Ask his next of kin,” I say, and I go to make some coffee. After a while, the idiot knocking on my door stops.
I let myself out after checking to make sure no members of the press are hiding, waiting to jump out at me. I head down to the newsstand and buy a paper and a pack of cigarettes, then step into a doorway out of the sun and read the article after I light up.
Basic info, same stuff I gave Alex and his shadow yesterday. Hell, they even found an old photo of me back when I was a cop.
I fold the paper up and start walking to the precinct. It’s not far.
And I need to talk to Alex.
The desk sergeant gives me the eye, but he’s new so I don’t expect him to know who I am. I’m cooling my heels for about ten minutes when Farkas comes out and we shake paws. “Hi, Ernie.”
“Hi Alex. Need to talk with you about a couple things.”
“Okay.” He gives the desk sergeant the high sign. The bear looks grumpy, but he’s outranked.
“Wow,” I say, looking around, “this place hasn’t changed in years.” And it hasn’t; same dingy paint on the walls, same cracked and water-stained plaster on the ceiling. Hell, my old desk is still in the same spot.
“Heh.” Alex waves me into a chair at his desk. “So, what’s up, Ernie?”
I give a short huff and brush my cheekruffs back before stubbing out my smoke in the ashtray. “You know the Ferguson murder hit the papers this morning?”
“Yeah, I did,” he says.
“Makes my job more complicated,” I say. “I gave the Evening Press an interview, kept things to the article in the paper.”
My old partner nods. “That all you have for me, Ernie?”
“Nope,” and I tell him about the umbrella and give the more exact time Ferguson showed up at my office.
Alex jots down what I give him. “Still no idea why he came to you?”
I shake my head. “No. Still trying to find that out. But I figure I clue you and Clutz – “
“Stutz.”
“Yeah, him, whatever. I figure I clue you both in on what I find out.” He nods. “That’s all I got for now.”
“Good. You take care of yourself, Ernie.”
“You too, Alex.” I get to my feet. “I can find my way out.” We both get a laugh at that, and I leave the precinct.
I spend a lot of time walking, like I was a cop again, walking a beat.
“Do you regret your choices?” the Prosecutor asks.
“Maybe,” I mutter. “Can’t do a damned thing about them now.” Damn, I need a drink, so I stop off at a bar, one where I’m not a frequent customer. A couple drinks and a sandwich later, and I head back to my office.
This isn’t an easy case. My usual line of work has me window-peeping, looking for an unfaithful wife or husband, or maybe checking to see if some deal’s on the up-and-up. Once or twice I’ve helped Alex and the cops solve a crime; the last time was checking up on a bank president who thought that the safe was his piggy bank.
But this is a murder, with very few clues, and there’s one part of that which really gets under my pelt.
Someone waltzed on in, shot Ferguson, and waltzed right out – while I was sound asleep at my desk, just across the room from the weasel.
“How do you feel about that?” asked the Defense Attorney.
“I hate it,” I say. I hit the desk with my fist, and my ears perk as someone tries the doorknob before knocking on the door.
Dammit, if it’s another reporter . . .
“Who is it?”
“Mister Dawson?” Strong, deep voice. “I need to talk to you.”
“You with the papers?”
The guy chuckles. “No, sir, I’m not. I – I’d like to hire you.” That gets my interest, so I get up and go to the door.
The guy’s a tall, bluff orange tabby feline, green eyes and wearing a gray suit. He takes his hat off. “May I come in?” he asks.
“Sure,” and he steps inside. I close the door and go into the office, where he’s looking around.
He lays eyes on the couch. “Is – is that where Father Ferguson died?” I point to the exact spot, and he crosses himself. “Such a tragedy.” He sits down at the far end of the couch while I sit at my desk and get out some paper and a pencil.
“You say you have a job for me?” I ask.
The tabby nods, fiddling with the hat in his paws. “I . . . a murder has been committed, Mister Dawson. I want to hire you to find out who did it – who killed George.”
Takes me a moment to recall the dead priest’s first name. “That’s a tall order,” I say. “He died right in front of me, and I didn’t see it.” He raises an eyebrow, and I pull open the bottom drawer and let him see the Scotch bottle.
“Ah. I see,” the cat says. “Are you letting the police take care of the matter?”
I shake my head. “Nah. I want to find out, just to know what happened.”
“I see. I do want you to hire you, though.”
“Fair enough.” I take up the pencil. “What’s your name?”
The feline glanced around. Nervous?
“I’m John Vernon. Father Ferguson’s, ah, supervisor.”
I look up, my ears going straight back. “The Archbishop?”
He nods, and I start writing.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
© 2024 by Walter Reimer
Thumbnail art by
RockBakerFour.
“How long did you ‘think?’” the Prosecutor asked.
“Till about daybreak,” I say. “I had a busy day.”
“How much Scotch did you drink?”
“About half the bottle. Like I said, it had been a busy day, and I needed the sleep.”
I wake up about midmorning, hugging my tail to me and stroking the tip like it was some movie starlet. I get a little breakfast, some coffee, and head to the office. I’m looking at my notes when my ears twitch from a knocking sound.
Takes me a while to pay attention, but the knocking’s coming from my door.
So I get up and scoop up Susie before I walk to the door. I hold the gun up, thumb the hammer back, and call out, “Who is it?”
“I’m with the Evening Press,” some guy says.
“Yeah? So what?”
“I want to talk to you about the murder.”
“What murder?” No, I didn’t forget.
There’s a pause. “You Ernest Dawson?”
“Yeah?”
“Look, the other papers are reporting that some priest came here and got murdered. I just want to ask some questions,” the guy whines. “Have a heart, Dawson. My editor’s breathing down my neck.”
Damn. I sorta hoped it wouldn’t get out.
I ease the hammer forward on Susie and tuck her under my belt behind my back, plant my right foot a few inches from the door and crack the door open as far as my foot will let it. “Who’re you?” I ask the fox.
Smart cub; he keeps his paws where I can see ‘em, and he flashes a press card. “Name’s Paul Johnson,” he says. “Evening Press.”
“Yeah, I see that. Get in here.” I didn’t see anyone behind him, and no cameras. As soon as he’s inside, I close the door. “Okay, ask away.”
He shrugs and pulls out his notebook. “Okay. Did you know Ferguson?”
“Nope.”
“What time did he show up here?”
“About ten.”
He twitches his brush. “What he come up here for?”
I smile. “I ain’t telling you.”
“How’d he die?”
“Somebody shot him.”
“You?”
I smile again. “Good try, kid, but no kewpie doll. The cops already asked, and I didn’t kill him.”
“Then who did?” I had to give it to this guy. He was persistent.
“I mean to find that out,” I say. “Now beat it. I got nothing more to say.” He looks at me all grumpy, but shrugs and I let him out.
I lock the door behind him and grumble, “Damn.” Well, it was a murder; there was no way to keep it out of the papers. It’s just going to make it harder to figure out who shot Ferguson.
My ears perk at a knock on the door. “Who is it?” I call out.
“You Ernie Dawson?”
“Ask his next of kin,” I say, and I go to make some coffee. After a while, the idiot knocking on my door stops.
I let myself out after checking to make sure no members of the press are hiding, waiting to jump out at me. I head down to the newsstand and buy a paper and a pack of cigarettes, then step into a doorway out of the sun and read the article after I light up.
Basic info, same stuff I gave Alex and his shadow yesterday. Hell, they even found an old photo of me back when I was a cop.
I fold the paper up and start walking to the precinct. It’s not far.
And I need to talk to Alex.
The desk sergeant gives me the eye, but he’s new so I don’t expect him to know who I am. I’m cooling my heels for about ten minutes when Farkas comes out and we shake paws. “Hi, Ernie.”
“Hi Alex. Need to talk with you about a couple things.”
“Okay.” He gives the desk sergeant the high sign. The bear looks grumpy, but he’s outranked.
“Wow,” I say, looking around, “this place hasn’t changed in years.” And it hasn’t; same dingy paint on the walls, same cracked and water-stained plaster on the ceiling. Hell, my old desk is still in the same spot.
“Heh.” Alex waves me into a chair at his desk. “So, what’s up, Ernie?”
I give a short huff and brush my cheekruffs back before stubbing out my smoke in the ashtray. “You know the Ferguson murder hit the papers this morning?”
“Yeah, I did,” he says.
“Makes my job more complicated,” I say. “I gave the Evening Press an interview, kept things to the article in the paper.”
My old partner nods. “That all you have for me, Ernie?”
“Nope,” and I tell him about the umbrella and give the more exact time Ferguson showed up at my office.
Alex jots down what I give him. “Still no idea why he came to you?”
I shake my head. “No. Still trying to find that out. But I figure I clue you and Clutz – “
“Stutz.”
“Yeah, him, whatever. I figure I clue you both in on what I find out.” He nods. “That’s all I got for now.”
“Good. You take care of yourself, Ernie.”
“You too, Alex.” I get to my feet. “I can find my way out.” We both get a laugh at that, and I leave the precinct.
I spend a lot of time walking, like I was a cop again, walking a beat.
“Do you regret your choices?” the Prosecutor asks.
“Maybe,” I mutter. “Can’t do a damned thing about them now.” Damn, I need a drink, so I stop off at a bar, one where I’m not a frequent customer. A couple drinks and a sandwich later, and I head back to my office.
This isn’t an easy case. My usual line of work has me window-peeping, looking for an unfaithful wife or husband, or maybe checking to see if some deal’s on the up-and-up. Once or twice I’ve helped Alex and the cops solve a crime; the last time was checking up on a bank president who thought that the safe was his piggy bank.
But this is a murder, with very few clues, and there’s one part of that which really gets under my pelt.
Someone waltzed on in, shot Ferguson, and waltzed right out – while I was sound asleep at my desk, just across the room from the weasel.
“How do you feel about that?” asked the Defense Attorney.
“I hate it,” I say. I hit the desk with my fist, and my ears perk as someone tries the doorknob before knocking on the door.
Dammit, if it’s another reporter . . .
“Who is it?”
“Mister Dawson?” Strong, deep voice. “I need to talk to you.”
“You with the papers?”
The guy chuckles. “No, sir, I’m not. I – I’d like to hire you.” That gets my interest, so I get up and go to the door.
The guy’s a tall, bluff orange tabby feline, green eyes and wearing a gray suit. He takes his hat off. “May I come in?” he asks.
“Sure,” and he steps inside. I close the door and go into the office, where he’s looking around.
He lays eyes on the couch. “Is – is that where Father Ferguson died?” I point to the exact spot, and he crosses himself. “Such a tragedy.” He sits down at the far end of the couch while I sit at my desk and get out some paper and a pencil.
“You say you have a job for me?” I ask.
The tabby nods, fiddling with the hat in his paws. “I . . . a murder has been committed, Mister Dawson. I want to hire you to find out who did it – who killed George.”
Takes me a moment to recall the dead priest’s first name. “That’s a tall order,” I say. “He died right in front of me, and I didn’t see it.” He raises an eyebrow, and I pull open the bottom drawer and let him see the Scotch bottle.
“Ah. I see,” the cat says. “Are you letting the police take care of the matter?”
I shake my head. “Nah. I want to find out, just to know what happened.”
“I see. I do want you to hire you, though.”
“Fair enough.” I take up the pencil. “What’s your name?”
The feline glanced around. Nervous?
“I’m John Vernon. Father Ferguson’s, ah, supervisor.”
I look up, my ears going straight back. “The Archbishop?”
He nods, and I start writing.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Raccoon
Size 87 x 120px
File Size 55.1 kB
Listed in Folders
On a side note, https://www.youtube.com/@MortskeRepair refers to cans of Hamms beer as "sandwiches"; why, should be obvious...
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