The Corpse in My Office
© 2024 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by  RockBaker

Nine.



“Bailiff,” the Judge orders, “return the Defendant to the dock.”

The Bailiff’s a bigger and younger raccoon than me, and he starts poking me in the chest. I try to push back, but I seem to have trouble moving.

The Bailiff’s poking at me, and I’m getting angrier, but I can’t seem to move . . .

And that’s when I wake up.

I blink up at the ceiling for a moment before I raise my head from a pillow (pillow?) and look down to see that there’s a feral cat sitting on my chest, poking his front paws at my chest like he’s kneading bread or something.

I blink again and we look at each other. He’s feral, I said that already, and he’s all black fur apart from white fur on his paws.

“B-Bootsy?” I finally manage to say. He’s still sitting on my chest and I look around.

What am I doing in Margo’s bedroom?

Bootsy looks at me and takes a few steps toward my face. He stops, and sniffs.

Then the little devil bites me on the tip of my nose and leaps off the bed before I can use him to demonstrate a catapult. He leaves me wincing, sitting up in bed and holding my nose and swearing a blue streak.

“Oh, good, you’re up,” and my ears twitch as Margo comes in. She’s wearing a negligee and a chintz housecoat. Bootsy, the little devil, is rubbing up against her legs like he’s perfectly innocent. “Sleep well?” she asks.

I yawn and put my head in my paws. “I guess,” I mumble. I glance down and I’m wearing my boxers and undershirt. “What happened?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I wouldn’t be asking otherwise, Margo.”

The sow gives a chuckle and steps around Bootsy to get to the bureau, gets two cigarettes from the pack lying there, and lights both. She walks over to me as I put my feet on the floor and offers me one of the lit cigarettes. “Thanks,” I say, and take a long drag. “So?”

Margo sits down next to me after getting the ashtray from the top of the dresser. “Well,” and she takes a pull off her cigarette, letting the smoke run out her nose while she says, “I’m working my usual place – don’t know why, with the snow and all, an’ getting close to Christmas – and I see you coming.” She eyes me up and down. “You’re not a big guy, Ernie – “

“No, I’m not.”

“But you were taking up the whole sidewalk. Almost bumped into me,” she says. She’s holding the ashtray in one paw, and she flicks some cigarette ashes into it.

I’m sitting there smoking, listening to her, and I drop some ashes into the ashtray. Finally I say, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She scootches a little closer. “I could tell you were about nine sheets to the wind.”

“Heh.”

“So I figured eh, slow night anyway what with the snow and all, so I helped you along.”

I glance at her. “Thanks.”

She cocks an eyebrow and an ear at me. “You did puke on the way.”

“I – “

“No, you didn’t. I was able to aim you at the gutter.” She gives me a grin and stubs out her smoke. “I managed to get you up the stairs and put you to bed. I thought you needed the rest.”

“Yeah.” I look down at the smoke in my paw and sigh before stubbing it out. I get to my feet and give a start when Bootsy takes a leap at my tail, all claws out. “Hey!”

Margo laughs. “I think he likes you.”

“Imagine what it’d be like if he hated me,” I growl. I look back at Margo. “Treat you to breakfast?”

Her ears go back and she stands up, stepping in close and looking into my eyes. “Breakfast? That all my time’s worth?”

Margo’s a working girl, remember? “You said yourself we didn’t do anything,” I say, stepping a little closer so now we’re both chest to chest, “and you said it was a slow night.”

She smiles. “Yeah, but you still took up space in my bed, Ernie.”

We’re almost nose to nose. “Ten bucks, then?”

“And breakfast,” she says, “and we’ll call it even.”

She kisses me on the tip of my nose, but Bootsy decides to attack my ankle before I can do anything else.

Little killjoy.


***


After breakfast, we part company and I head to my office. The snow’s stopped and is already turning into slush on the streets. While I’m walking, I get back to thinking about the case. Spend a little more time thinking about Margo.

And sure enough . . .

“Defendant will cease his musings about the raccoon sow,” the Judge says. “He has a murder investigation to complete.”

“Don’t remind me,” I say.

When I get into my office, I dig a map out of the filing cabinet and start looking up the address I got from Ferguson’s safety deposit box. I have to move a bottle of Old Panther out of the way to get to the map, but I’m not in the mood to drink right now.

Hmm.

Takes me a while, but eventually I find the place. See, the city’s built on both sides of a wide river mouth that faces eastward toward the sea. Most of the city’s on the north side, but there’s a fair slice of the place on the south side. The address isn’t on the waterfront, though; maybe a mile or so inland. Way too far to walk.

And I’m running a little low on funds.

But I have a client, so I draw up an expense report and head to the Archdiocese’s offices.

The pinch-faced pug I give the report to gives me a look that’d turn fresh milk into cheese, but he finally opens the cashbox and gives me the money I ask for. I thank him, just to twist the knife a little, and head back to the street to get a cab.

“What do you expect to find?” the Prosecutor asks.

“The Defendant is working to solve the case in good faith, Your Honor,” the Defense Attorney says.

“Answer the Prosecutor’s question,” the Judge says.

To tell the truth, I’m not sure what I’ll find. The south side was going downhill back when I retired. I expect the years between then and now haven’t improved things any. There’s three bridges across the river connecting north and south, along with a car ferry, and they’ve been talking for years about digging a tunnel to connect both sides of the river. Haven’t broken ground yet, and I don’t expect they ever will.

At first the cabbie doesn’t want to cross the river, so I promise the husky a fat tip to get me to the address I gave him and wait for me. He doesn’t look happy, but money’s money, and we head across one of the bridges. Thanks to the cold, the cab has all the windows up and the heater on, which is a good thing due to the smell you get in spots along the waterfront.

Sure enough, the address leads me to a rough-looking neighborhood, with tenements on either side of the street. Cabbie looks nervous, and I slip him a little of the tip to keep him from driving off before I square my shoulders and head up the stairs into the building.

The address Ferguson had written down said that I should look for Apartment 210, so I head up to the second floor. Place smells; garbage, smoke, spoiled food. My ears are moving just in case someone wants to sneak up on me.

I reach #210, and pause to unbutton my suit jacket before I knock on the door. It clears the way for me to draw Susie if I have to, just in case whatever’s on the other side of the door wants an argument.

I take a breath, and knock.

I can hear someone moving up to the door, and I take a half-step back as I hear the doorknob rattle.

The door opens, and I don’t see anyone there until I look down.

A cute little orange tabby kitten femme, maybe five years old, in a slightly dirty dress looks up at me and asks, “Are you my Daddy?”




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