The Corpse in My Office
© 2024 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by  RockBaker

One.


“Escort the accused to the dock,” the Judge said sternly. She was a hyena femme, dressed in the obligatory black robe. She looked like she hadn’t had any raw meat today and was contemplating me for possible menu options. “Bailiff?”

The Bailiff grabbed my upper arm. Like me, he was a raccoon, but very unlike me, he was young and looked like he’d rarely missed a trip to the gym.

He was also sober – yes, as sober as a judge.

His grip also indicated that he’d studied anatomy, as my left arm south of the bicep started to go numb.

He propelled me into the dock and left me there as I massaged feeling back into the limb.

The Judge glowered at me, and I couldn’t look at her. She always made me feel like I was a naughty kit who’d just been caught with his paw in the cookie jar. Reminded me a lot of my mother.

Since I couldn’t look at her, I looked down at myself. Almost wished I hadn’t.

My shirt was stained with what looked like marinara sauce and dried blood. My shirt and pants hadn’t seen an iron in a while, and there were vomit stains on the trouser cuffs and my shoes. I didn’t bother taking a sniff because my nose might curl up and die.

“Ernest Dawson,” she said, drawing my attention back to her. She said it like she was pronouncing a death sentence, and a peal of thunder punctuated things as a bolt of lightning outside the high windows illuminated the jury.

They looked as hungry as the Judge.

Another rumble, like a gigantic stomach growling with hunger . . .

“Mmmhuwha - ?” I mumble, raising my head from the desk as more lightning flashed outside. There’s another loud rumble of thunder, and rain starts drumming on the window behind me.

That dream again – or was it a dream?

May have been me, you know, the subconscious the headshrinkers talk about, nagging at me.

I sit back in my chair as I slowly start to wake up. Took a moment.

Well, that was why my cheekfur was stuck to the desk; I’d apparently been drooling and had been there long enough for it to dry into mucilage. A squat, squarish glass lay on its side, gleaming a little in the light coming through the window behind me. From the look of things in the semidarkness, I’d succeeded in draining it completely before passing out. A little past the glass’ resting place was my ashtray. Half a dozen butts sat in it, but no smell of smoke.

That was good. There are enough scorch and burn marks on the wood.

A bottle of Old Panther Premium (hah!) Whiskey was at arm’s-length. It was nearly empty. Maybe a teaspoonful or so left in the bottom of the bottle. Ain’t a big judge of exactly how much; ask me to guess the number of jelly beans in the fishbowl, and I’ll tell you to go take a hike.

Just a few scales of the snake that had been biting me. It’d have to do.

I grab the bottle on the second try, drag it over to me and upend it. The whisky spreads over my tongue, dissolving the crust and washing it down my throat. I cough when I set the bottle back down and rub my paws over my face as I yawn.

Might be a good idea to – oh, wait. Never mind.

I sniff. Well, Nature called collect while I was asleep.

I’ve done that before. I’ll clean it up before it stains the floor or starts to smell.

As the Judge probably told you earlier, I’m Ernie, Ernie Dawson. I’m a private detective, with all that that implies; went into business for myself after I got tired of being a cop. The difference is that I can keep my own hours, and I won’t get fired for coming to work drunk.

And yeah, about that. That bottle of Old Panther is laughing at me, reminding me that I could drink three times as much when I was back in my twenties, and still be sober. But that was back then, when I had a wife and kids.

Of course, thanks to the booze, I don’t have either. Beryl took the kids and left a while back, and I haven’t seen my kids in ten years. ‘Course, they’re both over eighteen now, and want nothing to do with their old man.

The kids being over eighteen now, I don’t have to pay alimony or child support any longer. That’s a plus for me, yay.

The Judge and the Bailiff? And the others? Oh, they’re all part of me; they talk, and I’m supposed to listen to them, so they tell me. At least they stick around – eh?

The lightning just lit up the room.

There’s someone in here, on the sofa across the room where I sleep most nights. I reach for the desk lamp and my paw stops a few inches from the switch as I force my way through the haze of Old Panther. My right paw reaches for the gat in my shoulder holster –

Empty.

Oh yeah, sure, now I remember; I pawned it yesterday. Yeah, to buy more booze. Oh, I’ll get it back, no sweat; the pawnbroker and I know each other, and I’ve gotten him out of a few scrapes involving certain items in his stock that weren’t exactly legally obtained.

Sure, okay.

I gently open the desk drawer and pick up the letter opener. It’s not a gun, of course, but I can still menace someone with it. With the letter opener in my right paw, my left paw reaches out, angles the lamp to point at the sofa, and switches it on.

Huh.

There’s a dead guy on my sofa.

How do I know he’s dead? Well, the hole in his forehead is one clue, and all the blood on his face is another. You don’t have to be a private dick to take a good guess about that.

The Prosecutor, a lean cougar, comes forward. “And when did you find the body, Mr. Dawson?”

I close my eyes for a moment and open them again. Yeah, he’s still there. “Maybe . . . two-fifteen in the morning,” I say.

Of all the crappy things to wake up to.

I leave the light on and get to my feet on the second try, and look up at the clock over the sofa. Yeah, it’s 2:17 in the morning. I use my left paw to guide me around the desk, and then I manage to stagger over to the stiff.

A few pokes with the letter opener, and I decide he’s not going anywhere. I turn around and groan as the desk lamp shines right in my damned eyes. All right, all right, already.

I get over to the wall switch, close my eyes, and switch on the room lights. Then I open my eyes again, real slow.

Yeah, the stiff’s still there, dammit. At least I’m not so far gone I’m seeing things.

First stop, the bathroom, where I spend a few minutes splashing and rubbing cold water into my face and eyes until I look bedraggled, but at least I’m awake now. There’s a change of clothes in the closet, so I swap what I’m wearing for something not quite as fragrant and go to take another look at my dead guest.

He still hasn’t moved, which is good. Small-caliber bullet, from the look of it; I get close and personal, and sniff. No smell of gunpowder.

“Could you describe the deceased?”

The dead guy’s a weasel, maybe a little shorter than me if he was standing up. Dark suit and a priest’s collar, eyes rolled up in his head and mouth hanging slightly open. Blood all over his face, some of it on the sofa.

It’s feral leather, it’ll clean up.

I take a deep breath and start searching the body, careful not to move him too much. Pawkerchief, right back pocket; set of house keys in his right front pocket, so he’s probably – well, was – right-pawed. Wallet left side of the suit jacket – oho! What’s this?

Letter in the wallet. Priest in good standing, this diocese, on the Archbishop’s staff. A dead priest, and it’s close to Christmas, I think.

Hm . . .

Driver’s license, this state, address on the other side of town. The stiff’s name is George Eliot Ferguson.

Good morning, George. What brought you here?

“You don’t recall?” the Prosecutor asked.

No, I don’t recall.

The payoff’s in the wallet with his license. Six hundred dollars, in crisp C-notes. I fish them out of the wallet and tuck them into my pocket.

The Judge tsked. “Robbing a corpse? Have you sunk so low?”

“May it please the Court,” I mutter, “shaddap.”

I put the wallet back in his suit pocket and step back until I’m leaning against my desk. Okay, Ernie, now what?





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