The Corpse in My Office
© 2024 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by  rockbaker

Twelve.


Both of them, the Prosecutor and the Defense Attorney, start talking at once.

The Judge starts banging her gavel again, shouting, “Order! I will have order in this court!”

Me? I take a big gulp of my beer, wishing I could have something stronger. I glance at Stutz, and the look on his face would be funny if I thought I wasn’t pulling the same expression he had.

We both look at Farkas, and I ask, “Care to tell me about that, Alex?”

The wolf huffs and drains his beer before signaling for another round. He’s not looking at me, he’s looking down at the table. I give him however much time he needs. See, Alex Farkas used to be a partner of mine, and that goes deep.

But he’s also a good Catholic, and learning what he’s learned today is probably really bothering him. A lot.

Finally, he sits back and looks at me. “I went to confession last week,” he says.

“That’d put it before Father George ended up dead,” I say. Stutz looks like he’s paying attention, looking at his partner.

Farkas nods. “Yeah. Anyway, I mentioned your name, Ernie.”

I blink and point at myself. “Me?”

“Yeah. Asked the priest to pray for you,” he says. “I worry about you, Ernie.”

“I get it,” and I nod. “Can use all the help I can get, sometimes.”

“Like when you’re passed out drunk,” the Prosecutor pipes up.

I ignore him for right now. “But isn’t what’s said in confession supposed to be secret? I think I heard you say that once.”

There’s a pause while the barmaid brings us the third round. Farkas picks up a pretzel and starts tearing it into little pieces. “Yeah, it’s supposed to be secret,” he says. He puts a piece of pretzel in his mouth and starts chewing.

“I got a question,” Stutz says suddenly.

I glance at him. “Spill it,” I say.

“Okay.” He glances at me before he says, “Are we thinking that the Archbishop killed Ferguson?”

I shrug. “It’s looking that way, yeah. Vernon had his little love nest with Pascucci – “ My ears flick as Farkas growls “ – and Ferguson found out about it somehow. He starts blackmailing her, for how long you can see in that notebook I found at the bank. She didn’t say, but I’ll bet you that she told Vernon about it.” I look over at Alex, and he looks angry and sad at the same time, like he did years ago when his dad died. “I’m sorry, Alex,” I say.

Stutz is nodding thoughtfully. “From where I’m sitting,” he says, “that leaves three things.” Alex and me look at him, and he says, “First, whether or not Pascucci’s gun matches the hole in Ferguson’s head.”

Farkas gives a snort. “We never asked her what size gun it was.”

“Second, how did Vernon find out he was going to see you?” he asks, looking at me.

I shrug. “Can’t recall if Ferguson called for an appointment. Probably did.”

“And finally?” Alex asks.

The fox twitches his ears, and he looks at me. “How the hell’d you manage to sleep through a murder?”

Our ears twitch and we both look at Farkas. Alex is starting to laugh. “What?” Stutz asks.

Alex points at me. “Even before he started spending most of his time in a bottle, Ernie here could sleep through anything.”

I roll my eyes as they both start laughing. “I was hoping you’d forgotten about that.”

Stutz gives me the eye, a grin on his face. “What?”

Farkas snorts and points at me. “We were still both pounding a beat back then. This guy fell asleep while the Captain was giving him a chewing-out for beating some kid back in the lockup.” I just eat a pretzel.

The fox asks, “And he didn’t get fired?”

“Nope. Captain thought anyone who’d fall asleep while he was yelling at them was fearless enough for police work,” and Alex chuckles. Eventually I start chuckling too; it was pretty funny at the time.

We settle up the bill after that, and Farkas and Stutz drive me back to my place. “You going to be okay, Ernie?” Farkas asks.

“Yeah, Alex,” I say, and I head on into the building.

Once I get in my apartment I shed my hat, overcoat and jacket, light a cigarette and sort through my mail. I don’t have much left of the six hundred Ferguson had on me, but I know where it’ll be going. I’ll get it over to Bessie Pascucci. It’s her money, after all.

“This should be entered into the record, in the Defendant’s favor,” the Defense Attorney says.

“So noted,” says the Judge.

I switch on the radio and fix up a sandwich while it warms up. Christmas carols again, eh. Just something to listen to. I take off my shoes and stretch out on the bed, smoking while looking up at the ceiling as I think things over. I get up after the smoke’s done, to eat the sandwich.

I’m pretty certain that Vernon killed Ferguson.

But how to prove it?

I lay back down and stare up at the ceiling after I light up another cigarette. O’Farrell’s had good beer, and me and Farkas laughing over old times wasn’t bad. Reminded me of better days, and nights. I lean over and stub out the cigarette in the ashtray by the bed. Yeah, been a long day.

“The Defendant is free to tell the Court about what he’s thinking,” the Defense Attorney says.

“Within reason,” the Judge adds.

What I’m thinking? That’s easy.

I’m thinking that there’s a missing piece to this, and if I hadn’t drunk four bottles of Scotch that night I might know what the hell it was.

I light up another cigarette and smoke, staring up at the ceiling.

Am I sure that Vernon did it? I mean, sure, I’m pretty certain, but could it stand up?

My ears flick as the radio starts playing God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, and I give a snort before taking another drag on the cigarette. I never liked that song. Always sounds like it should be played at a funeral.

I sit up and stub out the cigarette, and then grab a nickel and my keys and step out into the hallway. Yeah, barefoot; I ain’t going far.

There’s a telephone at the end of the hall, so I drop the nickel after picking up the pawset and I wait for the operator. “Yeah,” I say when she answers the ring, “CIty8-6451, please . . . Yeah, Desk Sergeant . . . Hello, Sarge, name’s Ernie Dawson. Is Alex Farkas there? Oh, he signed out for the night? Yeah, I get you . . . no, it’s not an emergency . . . Yeah, could you take a message for him? Tell him that Ernie Dawson is going to call him tomorrow morning, okay? Got it? Thanks.”

I pause before I hang up, tap the cradle a few times with my free paw, and fish the nickel out of the coin slot. Then I hang up.

Heh.

I head back to my apartment, and this time I lock up, turn the lights out, and go to bed.

When I wake up, the radio’s still playing but this time it’s the news, so I walk out into the kitchen and turn it off.

The Judge gavels for order. “Defense Attorney,” she says, “what has your client decided?”

“I am at a loss, Your Honor,” he says, and looks at me.

“Me?” I ask. I’m all alone in the apartment, so no one here to hear me talking to myself.

“Yes,” the Defense Attorney says.

“I’m thinking of having pancakes for breakfast,” I say.

And I go back to bed, and sleep.




<NEXT>

<PREVIOUS>

<FIRST>