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The Corpse in My Office
© 2024 by Walter Reimer
Thumbnail art by
RockBaker
Five.
“Did you know the Archbishop?” the Defense Attorney asked.
No. Well, not to spot him on the street when he wasn’t in full feathers and war paint. But here he is, the head of the Catholic Church in the city, sitting next to where a priest died. Wasn’t even wearing his collar.
“You’re not wearing your collar?” I ask.
He looks a little startled. What, he thinks I’m blind or something? Then he gives a chuckle. “I wanted this to be quiet,” he says. “I had my car drop me off a few blocks away.” Another chuckle. “I confess I feel a little naked without the collar.”
I nod. Smart of him. “Tell me what you know about Ferguson,” I say.
Vernon stops looking at the spot where Father George died and looks at me. “Father Ferguson has – had, sorry – lived here in the diocese for twenty years, straight out of seminary upstate.” I nod and write a few notes. “He ministered to the flock at St. Alban’s before I asked him to join my staff at the cathedral.”
“He a good worker?”
He nods, his tail swishing. “Yes. Worked very hard. Never late, hardly ever called in sick.”
“Real go-getter, huh?”
He smiles. “I suppose you can say that. I used him as a type of, ah, troubleshooter. I would send him to various churches to help sort problems out.”
“I see. Nothing involving money?”
He looked surprised. “Oh no. I have a monsignor and a firm of accountants for that.”
Oho. I nod. Inwardly I was relieved that the money I’d taken from Ferguson hadn’t been stolen.
“Did you think he was embezzling?” the Judge asked.
I frown. I could use a belt right now. “Do you have any idea,” I ask, “why he might have come to me the night he got killed?”
He leans forward on the sofa, resting his elbows on his knees. “That’s the problem. I can’t think of anything going on that would cause him to seek out a private detective.” He gazes up at me through his eyebrows. “Of course, if you find anything, I hope you’ll let me know.”
“Sure,” I say. “Did he have an office?”
“Yes.”
“Mind if I take a look at it?”
The guy sits back a little and shrugs. “Don’t mind at all. The police have already looked at it, of course.”
I nod. Same thing I’d do.
He stands up, his hat in his paw. “I . . . well, I know you won’t be working for free.”
I nod. “Standard contract, Archbishop. My rate’s forty a day, plus expenses.” I slide open a desk drawer and pull out a sheet of paper with the contract on it. Once upon a time, I had a bunch printed up.
I get out my fountain pen, take a look at the dried ink clogging it, and give him a lopsided look. “This thing’s dead. Mind if I use yours?” He gives me the pen and I fill in the rate and the date. He reads it over and I give him the pen back so he can sign it.
“We don’t have much cash on paw, Mister Dawson,” he says as I walk him to the door, “so I will pray that you’ll be quick about solving this.”
“I’ll do my best,” I promise him. We shake on it, and he leaves.
Well, don’t that beat all.
I’ll actually have to do an expense report.
But not today. Right now, that bottle of Scotch in my desk is calling my name.
First thing, though, I lock the door. I don’t want anyone coming in. It’s almost dinnertime.
“Liquid dinner?” the Prosecutor asks, like a wise guy or something.
“Not completely,” I say.
So I go to my apartment, make a sandwich and eat it with the other half of the bottle of Scotch while I have a think. After a while it gets too hard to think, so I go to bed.
The Judge lifts her gavel and the sound makes my head hurt. “Order in the Court,” the hyena femme says. “Mr. Dawson, you showed scant respect to the Archbishop.”
“Not my table, Your Honor,” I say.
The prosecutor chimes in, looking like my Dad. “Surely you were raised better.”
What I say to that would have my Ma washing my muzzle out with soap, and the Judge bangs her gavel while the Bailiff grabs me. “Prosecutor will refrain from baiting the accused.”
“Yeah,” I say. “What she said.” I pull away from the Bailiff and straighten my clothes. “Now, you got a question for me?”
“Yes,” the Prosecutor said. “You intend to visit the victim’s office?”
“Yeah. And his apartment.”
He gives me a nasty smile. “You do know the old saw about good intentions, don’t you?”
“Yeah. Road to Hell’s paved in them - ”
What the blazes is that noise?
Oh.
Heh.
I guess I wasn’t that out of it; I’d remembered to set my alarm before hitting the hay. I haul myself up and sit there on the side of the bed, looking down at my feet and yawning until I feel ambitious enough to get up and get to the bathroom.
Good hot water and lots of fur-soap later, and I at least feel presentable. Need a trim awful bad, though; if my Dad saw me he’d say I need a violin and a tin cup. Never knew what he meant until I saw a panhandler playing his fiddle outside the train station.
I switch on the radio while I’m making some breakfast. Christmas carols, ugh. I’m not hung over, but I can do without the relentless cheerfulness this morning, okay? I twist the tuning knob until I get some other music, and eat my scrambled eggs and toast in peace.
“You have an active investigation,” the Judge reminded me.
“Yeah,” I mumble before washing down the last bite with some coffee.
There’s a hundred and fifty, give or take, left from the six hundred I lifted off Ferguson, so I split it in three piles and pocket a third. The other two thirds I hide. Hopefully searching for them will sober me up before I blow it all on booze and coffin nails.
One last check to make sure I have everything, and I’m out the door.
The Archdiocese’s business offices take up three floors of a building downtown, within sight of City Hall and a few blocks of the Cathedral. Seems kinda odd to me that a church needs a business office, but there you are.
Old biddy at the front desk is a fellow raccoon. “Good morning,” I say. “I’m Ernest Dawson.”
She looks up at me over her schoolmarm glasses. Reminds me of my first-grade teacher, and while she collects herself I wonder what happened to Mrs. Gillespie. “Oh? Oh! Yes, Mr. Dawson,” and she pulls me back into the here and now, “His Eminence told me you’d be dropping by. You’re trying to find out who killed poor Father George?”
I smile before putting my hat and overcoat on the coatrack. “Yes, Ma’am. The Archbishop said I could take a look around his office, and his apartment.”
“Of course. I’ll give you his address.” She gets to her feet. “Follow me, and I’ll show you to his office.”
I follow her like a good little kit, and she fishes a set of keys out of her skirt pocket. “After the police visited, His Eminence ordered me to keep the office locked,” she said as she unlocked the door.
“Thank you, Ma’am,” I say with my best winning smile, turn the knob, and in I go.
I’m sure Alex and his pet fox have been through the office, but it doesn’t hurt looking again. The filing cabinet and desk are both unlocked, which saves time, as the old lady’s gone back to her seat. I start with the desk.
Correspondence, office supplies; I pull the drawers out of the desk after I empty them and look underneath them. Hey, you never know, and chances are that Alex might have known to check, but Stutz wouldn’t have. Snot-nosed kit, he’ll learn after a while.
When I’m done, I put everything back and sit down at the desk to take stock before I tackle the filing cabinet. I fish a notepad out of my pocket, and take out a pencil.
So far, everything I’ve seen show a guy who was pretty much an office boy. No ambition to get any farther, and so clean he squeaked.
The kind of guy who makes my hackles go straight out.
After taking a few notes I go to the filing cabinet and rifle through it. Different folders for each church in the archdiocese, all very nicely organized. Stories of minor disputes settled, irregularities smoothed out.
Lord, I could use a belt.
I wrap up my notes, make sure everything’s put back where it belongs, and let myself out.
The old lady smiles up at me. “Did you find what you were looking for?” she asks.
I smile back. “Yes, thank you,” I lie. “Do you have that address for me?”
She blinks up at me over her glasses for a moment before light dawns. “Oh! Yes, of course.” She grabs a piece of note paper and writes it down, then holds it out to me. “I pray you’ll find out who killed Father George, young man.”
“I’m doing my best,” I say as I collect my hat and overcoat and show myself out.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
© 2024 by Walter Reimer
Thumbnail art by
RockBakerFive.
“Did you know the Archbishop?” the Defense Attorney asked.
No. Well, not to spot him on the street when he wasn’t in full feathers and war paint. But here he is, the head of the Catholic Church in the city, sitting next to where a priest died. Wasn’t even wearing his collar.
“You’re not wearing your collar?” I ask.
He looks a little startled. What, he thinks I’m blind or something? Then he gives a chuckle. “I wanted this to be quiet,” he says. “I had my car drop me off a few blocks away.” Another chuckle. “I confess I feel a little naked without the collar.”
I nod. Smart of him. “Tell me what you know about Ferguson,” I say.
Vernon stops looking at the spot where Father George died and looks at me. “Father Ferguson has – had, sorry – lived here in the diocese for twenty years, straight out of seminary upstate.” I nod and write a few notes. “He ministered to the flock at St. Alban’s before I asked him to join my staff at the cathedral.”
“He a good worker?”
He nods, his tail swishing. “Yes. Worked very hard. Never late, hardly ever called in sick.”
“Real go-getter, huh?”
He smiles. “I suppose you can say that. I used him as a type of, ah, troubleshooter. I would send him to various churches to help sort problems out.”
“I see. Nothing involving money?”
He looked surprised. “Oh no. I have a monsignor and a firm of accountants for that.”
Oho. I nod. Inwardly I was relieved that the money I’d taken from Ferguson hadn’t been stolen.
“Did you think he was embezzling?” the Judge asked.
I frown. I could use a belt right now. “Do you have any idea,” I ask, “why he might have come to me the night he got killed?”
He leans forward on the sofa, resting his elbows on his knees. “That’s the problem. I can’t think of anything going on that would cause him to seek out a private detective.” He gazes up at me through his eyebrows. “Of course, if you find anything, I hope you’ll let me know.”
“Sure,” I say. “Did he have an office?”
“Yes.”
“Mind if I take a look at it?”
The guy sits back a little and shrugs. “Don’t mind at all. The police have already looked at it, of course.”
I nod. Same thing I’d do.
He stands up, his hat in his paw. “I . . . well, I know you won’t be working for free.”
I nod. “Standard contract, Archbishop. My rate’s forty a day, plus expenses.” I slide open a desk drawer and pull out a sheet of paper with the contract on it. Once upon a time, I had a bunch printed up.
I get out my fountain pen, take a look at the dried ink clogging it, and give him a lopsided look. “This thing’s dead. Mind if I use yours?” He gives me the pen and I fill in the rate and the date. He reads it over and I give him the pen back so he can sign it.
“We don’t have much cash on paw, Mister Dawson,” he says as I walk him to the door, “so I will pray that you’ll be quick about solving this.”
“I’ll do my best,” I promise him. We shake on it, and he leaves.
Well, don’t that beat all.
I’ll actually have to do an expense report.
But not today. Right now, that bottle of Scotch in my desk is calling my name.
First thing, though, I lock the door. I don’t want anyone coming in. It’s almost dinnertime.
“Liquid dinner?” the Prosecutor asks, like a wise guy or something.
“Not completely,” I say.
So I go to my apartment, make a sandwich and eat it with the other half of the bottle of Scotch while I have a think. After a while it gets too hard to think, so I go to bed.
The Judge lifts her gavel and the sound makes my head hurt. “Order in the Court,” the hyena femme says. “Mr. Dawson, you showed scant respect to the Archbishop.”
“Not my table, Your Honor,” I say.
The prosecutor chimes in, looking like my Dad. “Surely you were raised better.”
What I say to that would have my Ma washing my muzzle out with soap, and the Judge bangs her gavel while the Bailiff grabs me. “Prosecutor will refrain from baiting the accused.”
“Yeah,” I say. “What she said.” I pull away from the Bailiff and straighten my clothes. “Now, you got a question for me?”
“Yes,” the Prosecutor said. “You intend to visit the victim’s office?”
“Yeah. And his apartment.”
He gives me a nasty smile. “You do know the old saw about good intentions, don’t you?”
“Yeah. Road to Hell’s paved in them - ”
What the blazes is that noise?
Oh.
Heh.
I guess I wasn’t that out of it; I’d remembered to set my alarm before hitting the hay. I haul myself up and sit there on the side of the bed, looking down at my feet and yawning until I feel ambitious enough to get up and get to the bathroom.
Good hot water and lots of fur-soap later, and I at least feel presentable. Need a trim awful bad, though; if my Dad saw me he’d say I need a violin and a tin cup. Never knew what he meant until I saw a panhandler playing his fiddle outside the train station.
I switch on the radio while I’m making some breakfast. Christmas carols, ugh. I’m not hung over, but I can do without the relentless cheerfulness this morning, okay? I twist the tuning knob until I get some other music, and eat my scrambled eggs and toast in peace.
“You have an active investigation,” the Judge reminded me.
“Yeah,” I mumble before washing down the last bite with some coffee.
There’s a hundred and fifty, give or take, left from the six hundred I lifted off Ferguson, so I split it in three piles and pocket a third. The other two thirds I hide. Hopefully searching for them will sober me up before I blow it all on booze and coffin nails.
One last check to make sure I have everything, and I’m out the door.
The Archdiocese’s business offices take up three floors of a building downtown, within sight of City Hall and a few blocks of the Cathedral. Seems kinda odd to me that a church needs a business office, but there you are.
Old biddy at the front desk is a fellow raccoon. “Good morning,” I say. “I’m Ernest Dawson.”
She looks up at me over her schoolmarm glasses. Reminds me of my first-grade teacher, and while she collects herself I wonder what happened to Mrs. Gillespie. “Oh? Oh! Yes, Mr. Dawson,” and she pulls me back into the here and now, “His Eminence told me you’d be dropping by. You’re trying to find out who killed poor Father George?”
I smile before putting my hat and overcoat on the coatrack. “Yes, Ma’am. The Archbishop said I could take a look around his office, and his apartment.”
“Of course. I’ll give you his address.” She gets to her feet. “Follow me, and I’ll show you to his office.”
I follow her like a good little kit, and she fishes a set of keys out of her skirt pocket. “After the police visited, His Eminence ordered me to keep the office locked,” she said as she unlocked the door.
“Thank you, Ma’am,” I say with my best winning smile, turn the knob, and in I go.
I’m sure Alex and his pet fox have been through the office, but it doesn’t hurt looking again. The filing cabinet and desk are both unlocked, which saves time, as the old lady’s gone back to her seat. I start with the desk.
Correspondence, office supplies; I pull the drawers out of the desk after I empty them and look underneath them. Hey, you never know, and chances are that Alex might have known to check, but Stutz wouldn’t have. Snot-nosed kit, he’ll learn after a while.
When I’m done, I put everything back and sit down at the desk to take stock before I tackle the filing cabinet. I fish a notepad out of my pocket, and take out a pencil.
So far, everything I’ve seen show a guy who was pretty much an office boy. No ambition to get any farther, and so clean he squeaked.
The kind of guy who makes my hackles go straight out.
After taking a few notes I go to the filing cabinet and rifle through it. Different folders for each church in the archdiocese, all very nicely organized. Stories of minor disputes settled, irregularities smoothed out.
Lord, I could use a belt.
I wrap up my notes, make sure everything’s put back where it belongs, and let myself out.
The old lady smiles up at me. “Did you find what you were looking for?” she asks.
I smile back. “Yes, thank you,” I lie. “Do you have that address for me?”
She blinks up at me over her glasses for a moment before light dawns. “Oh! Yes, of course.” She grabs a piece of note paper and writes it down, then holds it out to me. “I pray you’ll find out who killed Father George, young man.”
“I’m doing my best,” I say as I collect my hat and overcoat and show myself out.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Raccoon
Size 87 x 120px
File Size 57.8 kB
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