The Corpse in My Office
© 2024 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by  rockbaker

Six.


I squint up at the sky as I leave the office building, and then look at the address. Too far to walk before I get caught in the weather, and it feels like it’ll be snowing before sundown. My breath’s already misting like I’ve been smoking, and I take the hint and light one up.

There’s a cab idling at the curb about a block away, so I run across the street to get to him. “You busy?” I ask.

“Nah,” the rat says, folding up his newspaper. “Where to, Mac?”

I give him the address as I climb in and close the door, and the hack sets the meter and pulls away from the curb. As he threads his way through the traffic, I sit and smoke while doing some thinking.

What the hell caused Ferguson to come to my office? Like I said, he was so clean he squeaked; either he was bent, or he knew someone who was. I’ve been in this city all my life, and no one can be as clean as Father George looked to be.

“You’re oversimplifying matters,” the Prosecutor said. “The city contains many thousands of furs, and you can’t know all of them.”

“I don’t have to,” I grumble.

“Eh? What’s that, Mac?”

“Huh?”

“You were talking to yourself,” the rat says.

“Heh. So I was. Just thinking out loud,” I say.

“Got a lot on your mind, huh?” the cabbie asks. “Busy time of year?”

I take a drag off my smoke and meet his eyes in the rear-view mirror. “Yeah. Time and tides, you know.”

The rat snorts. “Tell me about it. I’d only been back there ten minutes when you came running up. First break I’ve had all morning.”

“Sorry about that,” I say.

“Ah, don’t worry about it. A fare’s a fare, and I’ll be getting lunch soon.”

“Good.”

I wasn’t lying, I was thinking out loud.

The address turns out to be a three-story brownstone in a quiet uptown neighborhood. I pay the hack his fare, and a tip, and watch him drive off before I turn around and take a look at the building.

Older place, like the other houses on the street, with all the windows facing front. Alley running alongside it on the south, so I take a stroll down it. Fire escape’s at the back of the house, but they don’t look like they’ve been used in a while. After a moment looking around, I go around to the front again and hit the doorbell.

A goat answers the door. He’s wearing old trousers, a shirt with a shabby, threadbare sweater vest over it. He peers at me through his glasses. “Yeah, whaddaya want? We don’t need no brushes.”

“My name’s Dawson,” I say, “and I ain’t selling anything. The Archbishop hired me to look into the death of Father Ferguson.”

“Yeah?” the goat asks. “First I ever heard of it, an’ the cops’ve already been here.” He takes another look at me, and sniffs.

Lucky that I haven’t had anything to drink yet.

“You got anything from His Eminence?” he asks.

Damn, I knew I forgot something. “I left it in my other pants,” I say. “Why don’t you call the office and ask. Name’s Ernie Dawson.”

He shakes his head, making his ears flop around. “Wait here,” and his tone tells me he won’t be too unhappy if he comes back and I’m not taking up space on his stoop. He closes the door, and I hear the key turn in the lock.

“Not a warm welcome,” the Defense Attorney remarked.

“Yeah, but I don’t blame him,” I murmur. Sure, I cleaned up, and I’m wearing clean clothes, but I still look like I’m just barely sober. Maybe because I am just barely sober.

Damn, I could use a drink.

My ears perk as the goat comes back to the door. He unlocks it and swings it open. “I called ‘em,” he says, “and I’m supposed to show you up.” I wipe my feet before coming in before he can tell me to.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Tom Gallagher,” the goat says. “I’m the supervisor.”

“You live here?”

“Yeah,” and he points to the right. “After the Archdiocese took the place over, they had it remodeled. There’re six apartments, two each floor. I get one in exchange for keeping the place clean.”

I nod. “Anyone else living here beside you?”

“Well, it was just me, George, and some nuns,” the goat says. “Now, just me and the nuns,” and he smiles.

“You said George lived upstairs?”

“Yeah, third floor on the right. Here’s the key, but like I say the cops have been through it,” he says. He gives me the key, and I head for the stairs.

Suits me fine.

Before I go in, I take a look at the hallway. Rug running the length of it looks like it was cut from a bigger rug, windows at either end. Nowhere to hide anything, not even a loose floorboard, so I open up George’s apartment and step inside.

Huh. I’m in the wrong line of work. This place is nicer than mine.

The place’s been tossed, of course, so I take my time and walk around a little. Two rooms, kitchen and main, bathroom and a couple closets. Crucifix on the wall and a small table under it with a statue of a lioness in robes. Virgin Mary, poor gal. Otherwise, pretty Spartan accommodations. I pick a spot by the door and start looking.

My head’s starting to hurt and my stomach’s asking if I got my throat cut, but I shake it off and keep going. Yeah, Alex was one of the guys shaking the place down; he never believed in making a mess of things.
Desk has some expense books, and I look them over. Kept good track of his money, this guy.

But no sign of the six hundred he had on him when he went to my place.

Hmm. No sign of a bank passbook. I’ll ask Alex on the quiet if he and Snotty took anything out of the place.

Foldout bed in the sofa; you can tell from a fold of bed sheet peeking out. I open it up and check under the mattress. Nothing doing, and I fold things back up. The goat downstairs is probably itching to get up here and get the place ready for a new tenant. I look under the sofa.

Still nothing.

Hmm.

My route goes past the window, and I check around the frame. The flowers in the window box are all wilted, and the soil’s muddy.

Hmm.

The window sash goes up easily, and after I get it braced I shed my overcoat and suit, and roll up my shirt sleeve. This is going to get messy, and I stick my paw in the mud.

Yech. Well, it’s not the first time I got my paws dirty, and I feel around as the cold and wet seeps into my fur.

My fingers are starting to go numb, but I feel something hard a couple inches down and near the left end of the box. I trace its outline and pull out a brass key with a circular brass tag attached to it. I shake the worst of the mud away and head into the kitchen.

Yeah, that hot water feels good, and the mud rinses out of my fur and heads down the drain. I look at the key’s tag while I rinse the mud off it. First National Bank, and it’s a safe deposit box key.

I dry off and slip the key in my pocket, then close the window and get dressed.

The goat is sitting in the front hall, reading the newspaper, and he looks up at me as I dangle the room key in front of him. “You all done in there?” he says, snatching it out of my paw. “Leave the place a mess?”

I give him a smile. “Nope,” I say. “Left it the way I found it.”

He nods. “Thanks,” and he goes back to his paper.

I let myself out. Lord, I can use some lunch.

And a belt.

The key in my pocket reminds me that I have a possible clue now.




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