The Corpse in My Office
© 2024 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by  RockBaker

Ten.



You could knock me over with a feather.

Thankfully, the Court also clammed up.

The little kitten’s looking up at me with these big, wide blue eyes, and for a brief moment I’m a lot younger, looking at my own two kits before going to work. My heart . . . damn, what am I feeling? Remorse? Sadness for all the lost years and opportunities?

God, I really want to climb inside a bottle now.

The kitten suddenly points up at me and says “Daddy!” in a loud and happy voice.

I’m saved from falling to my knees and bawling my eyes out by the sound of footsteps coming up the hall to the door, and a tall gray tabby woman appears. She says, “What, Betsy? That’s not your Daddy.” She steers the kitten away from the door and glares at me. “Who – who the hell are you?” she demands. Her headfur’s pulled back in a bun, and she’s wearing an apron over a rumpled dress. “Well?”

“She surprised you?” the Defense Attorney asked.

Understatement of the year. I pull myself together. “Uh, er, sorry, ha ha, your little girl caught me unaware,” I say, and I pull my badge. “I’m a private detective – “

“I ain’t got no more money, and you can tell that bastard that!” she snarls, and tries to slam the door in my face.

Of course, I already got my shoe in position to block that. “Not so fast,” I say. “I got some questions for you.”

“Oh yeah? Why should I say anything to you?”

I keep my weight on the shoe blocking her door. “You can talk to me,” I say, “or the cops.”

“Cops?” She gives me the eye. “You a private dick?”

“Yeah.”

“So what do you want to talk to me about?”

“You know a guy named George Ferg – “

I tip my head to the side as she tries to spit in my face, and she gives me an earful that ain’t printable.

“The Court will strike those words from the record,” the Judge says.

She finally runs down and says, “If he sent you – “

“He did, in a way.” Her ears flick. “He’s dead.”

“Good,” and she spits again, this time on the floor by my left foot.

I shrug. “I wouldn’t care much myself,” I say.

“So?”

“So I’m trying to find out who killed him,” I say, “and I found your address.”

She starts to say something but stops and looks to my left and up. I look to my left.

And up.

And up.

There’s a feline guy standing there, built like a stevedore. He’s got dirty-gray fur and he’s wearing trousers, an undershirt and suspenders. “Hey, Bessie.”

“Tim,” she says.

He points a finger at me. Damned thing looks like a salami. “I heard a commotion. This guy giving you trouble?” Tim asks.

She looks at me.

I look at her.

I start to creep my paw toward Susie, even though I’m not sure shooting this guy would bother him much.

Probably make him angry.

“Look,” I say, “I don’t want any trouble. I ask a few questions, I leave. Simple as that.”

She looks at Tim and nods. Tim gives me a look and heads back to his apartment.

I let out a breath I don’t know I’m holding.

“Okay,” she says. “What questions?”

“The big guy called you Bessie.”

“Yeah. Name’s Bessie Pascucci.”

I nod, spotting a crucifix on the wall just past her down the hallway. “From your reactions, I’m guessing you know – knew - Ferguson.”

She succeeds in not spitting again and says, “Yeah, I knew him, the bastard.”

“What’d he do?”

She gives me an angry hiss. “Takin’ money outta – outta the kid’s mouths, is what he’s been doing.” She glances behind her. “I’m through answerin’ questions. Beat it, before I start callin’ for Tim to come back.”

“Okay, fair enough,” I say, and pull my foot back. “Thanks.”

But I say it to a closed door. I shrug and head back down the stairs.

No sign of the cab, but there’s about a half-dozen neighborhood toughs standing around on the sidewalk. One or two give me the eye.

“Uh-uh,” I say, giving my coat and jacket a flip. Just a glimpse of Susie in her holster. “Not a good idea.”

One of the kids, a rat, makes a little show of counting heads. “You’re outnumbered, guy.”

“Maybe, but if I go down I take a few of you with me,” I say. I slip a paw into my jacket. “Anyone wanting to try me?”

The leader thinks it over. “You’re on our turf,” he says.

“And I’d be leaving, if you hadn’t scared off my cab.”

One by one, the kids drift off, and I start to relax a little as I hear engine noises. I think the cabbie just took a quick powder and went around the block, but no such luck.

Unmarked car, wrong color for a taxi and different make. Fox behind the wheel, wolf sitting beside him.

I step back just in case Stutz decides to drive over the curb at me.

Farkas gets out and comes around the car to meet me. We shake paws and Alex says, “Beat us to the punch again, Ernie.”

“You check the bank?”

“Uh-huh,” he says as Stutz gets out of the car. He looks mad, got his ears back and brush switching back and forth. Farkas looks up at the building. “You been up there?” he asks me.

“Yeah. Her name’s Bessie Pascucci,” I say. “Better have your badges out before you knock.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, she’s not in a good mood.”

“I’ll bet,” Stutz growls.

“Not my fault,” I say. “She knew Ferguson, and it’s not a happy memory. Said he was taking money from her.”

Alex’s ears go straight up. He gives me a look, and then looks up at the building again. “Okay,” the wolf say. “Carl, come on. Ernie, you stay here.”

I nod. “Sure. I’ll make sure no one steals the car. Hey, that reminds me,” and Farkas turns to look at me, “my cab got run off. Can I hitch a ride with you two?”

Alex is about to say something, but Stutz beats him to the punch. “Say please, Dawson,” the fox says.

I shrug. “Sure. Please?”

He looks disappointed, and the two of them go into the building.

Part of me hopes Stutz rubs Tim the wrong way.

“The Defendant is advised to not insult the police, since he himself was an officer,” the Judge says.

Yeah, he’s only doing his job. Doesn’t have to be such a little snot about it, though. I pace around the sidewalk, thinking.

Bessie Pascucci says that Ferguson, a priest, was taking money from her. Which meant that he was listing the money he was getting from her in that notebook he had at the bank.

Which meant that the money I took off his dead body was money he’d taken from her.

Wow.

I don’t need just a drink now. I need a lot of drinks.

A whole lot of drinks.

So he was taking money from her.

The big question is “Why?”

“The Defense requests some time for his client to think,” the Defense Attorney says.

I start thinking, going over what I saw and heard.

My ears go straight up.

I take the steps two at a time and barge in between Farkas and the girl, almost elbowing Stutz out of the way.

“Where’s your kid’s father?” I ask.




<NEXT>

<PREVIOUS>

<FIRST>