The Corpse in My Office
© 2024 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by  rockbaker

Eight.


“The Court wishes to ask,” the Judge says, “why do you think Father Ferguson decided to contact you?”

“Don’t know,” I say as I flag down a cab, “but I’m trying to find out.” A cab pulls out of traffic and comes up to the curb.

“Where to, Mac?” the cabbie asks.

I get in the cab and give the driver the address to the precinct Farkas is working at. The cabbie nods, sets the meter, and he steers us back onto the street.

I lean back in the seat and close my eyes. My head’s starting to hurt, and I’ve been on the merry-go-round long enough to know that Mrs. Dawson’s son Ernie needs a drink or two.

Or three.

To make the pain go away.

I get a cigarette from my pack and light up, looking out the window as the cab heads downtown. But I ain’t looking at the other cars, I’m thinking.

My phone directory ad and the notebook in the safe deposit box confirmed that Ferguson had come to talk to me about something. The address I cribbed was a key piece of the puzzle, so what or who was there, and what was the connection?

Made my head hurt more thinking about it, so I sat and smoked until we got to the precinct. I settled up with the cabbie and went inside.

Different desk sergeant, a grizzled lynx who remembered me. “Ernie? Ernie! And here’s me, thinking you were dead!”

I give him a tip of the fedora. “Yeah, O’Malley, it’s me. Long time no see.”

“Faith, it’s been years.”

“They’ve got you riding the desk now?”

“Eh,” he says with a grumpy look, “Themselves think I’m gettin’ too old to walk a beat.” He pauses, turns his head and spits before he says, “So, what brings ya here, Ernie?”

“Is Farkas in, Jack?” I ask.

He checks the roster. “Says here he should be,” he says. “Want to go on back?”

I laugh. “I think I can find my way.”

He laughs and buzzes me in, and I head back to the detectives’ office.

Farkas is on the phone, and his eyes go big as he sees me walking in. “Something just came up,” the big wolf says. “I’ll call you back, okay? See ya,” and he hangs up. Behind the desk across from his, Stutz is giving me a stink eye that makes me think he’s part skunk. “Hey, Ernie.”

“Hey, Alex. Pup,” and Stutz starts bristling at me. Like I care. “Just keeping you in the know about things.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” and I sit down as he waves me into a chair. “I’ve been chasing you and your shadow around.”

“Aw,” Stutz says. “Not finding any clues, Dawson?” he asks, but with a tone like I was stupid or something.

I snort a chuckle at him.

Time for the big reveal, so I show them there’s nothing up my sleeves, reach into my pocket and toss the safe deposit box key onto the desk in front of Farkas.

The look on Stutz’s face is worth getting my paws muddy.

“I had a look at Ferguson’s office and apartment,” I say. “Good job tossing the place, I knew you had a paw in it,” I say to Alex.

“Where’d you find this?” Alex asks, poking the key with a finger. I tell him, and he gives Stutz a look that makes me remember when I’d just made detective, and Farkas taught me the ropes.

Made my head hurt more.

“Don't be too hard on him, Alex,” I say. “He ain't been around as long as we have." I cock an eye at the fox. “You just need to read more pulps – that is, unless you’re still reading The Yellow Kit."

Stutz comes out of his seat, cresting. “You’re not a cop, Dawson – “

“Carl,” Alex says.

“I oughta run you in for murder,” the fox says.

“I didn’t – “

“Want a bet I can make it stick?”

I get up out of my seat, real slow, and smile at him. “Want to go out back and discuss it?” I ask. Alex is still sitting down, but there are others in the room watching us real carefully.

Stutz starts to grin. Not a healthy look on him, and he cracks his knuckles. “I’m game,” he says. “You need a lesson in manners.”

“You’re not my Mom.” I give Alex a look before I turn back to Stutz. “I still got business. Wait for me outside, okay?”

“Yeah,” and he looks at Farkas. Alex gives him a nod, and the fox walks out, headed for the back entrance to the precinct.

I sit back down. “That’s gotten rid of him,” I say. A few veterans around me laugh and Alex just shakes his head.

“One of these days, Ernie, you’re going to get your muzzle flattened.”

“Again, you mean,” I say. We share a laugh over that. “Look, I’ll make it quick before he wises up and comes back. I used that key.”

“Oh yeah?” The wolf looks at the key before looking at me. “Take anything out of the box?”

I shake my head. “Nope, I left it for you. Copied it down, though.” My head’s really hurting now, and I stand up. “You can have the key, Alex. See you in the funny papers.”

“Ernie,” and I pause as he grabs my sleeve. I look down at him as he says, “You’re not looking good. Go home and get some rest, okay?”

I nod and he lets me go, and I’m out the door before the penny finally drops and Stutz goes back inside to find I’ve left. I take a careful route, several blocks one way and then another, crossing the street from time to time, just in case the fox is following me.

After about a half an hour, I haven’t picked up a tail, and its snowing and getting colder, so I head for the nearest bar.

I catch my reflection in a window. Yeah, Alex is right; I’m not looking good.

Daddy needs his medicine.

“Objection,” the Prosecutor says. “Defendant should not become inebriated.”

“Defendant – “ the Defense Attorney starts to pipe up.

“Sustained,” the Judge says. “The Defendant is advised – strongly advised – to keep his wits about him.”

“Shut up, all of you,” I mutter as I push the door open.

“Hey, Ernie!” Lou, the barkeep, says as I come into the bar, hang up my hat and coat, and take a seat at the bar. “Your usual?”

I take a breath. “Yeah, Lou. Just gimme the bottle, okay?”

“Okay. You want anything to eat with that?”

Hm. “Yeah, sure, I’ll have a sandwich. Turkey melt?”

Lou nods. The Great Dane’s been here for years, and we know each other. He plants a mostly full bottle of Old Panther and a shot glass in front of me and heads off to tell his cook what I want.

I tip the bottle and pour a shot and set the bottle down before I bend the old elbow. The liquor burns its way across my tongue and down my gullet, hitting my stomach and making me start to feel warm. I send another down to keep the first one company.

There’s a few others in the bar tonight. I know a few of them, but we just nod at each other. We all have something to do, namely drinking. I put a third shot down my throat, and the Court in my head starts to sound far away.

Good. I don’t want to hear them.

I’m about a quarter of the way through the bottle when dinner arrives. Nice and hot, toasted bread with thin slices of turkey and melted cheese. I eat in silence, blessed silence.

Soon enough, though, the bottle’s empty and the plate’s clean. I settle up with Lou, collect my hat and coat, and I head on out into the snow, headed home.

While I’m walking, that damned Judge starts pounding her gavel on the bench.

“Order!” she shouts. “The Defendant has not been excused.”

“Yeah, well, too bad,” I mutter. “I’m going home. I need some sleep.”

“Bailiff! Restrain the Defendant!”

I really wish that she’d stop banging that damned gavel.




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