The Corpse in My Office
© 2024 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by  RockBaker

Eleven.


“That tears it, Dawson! I’m – “

“Ernie – “

But I ain’t listening to Alex or Stutz.

I’m looking at Bessie Pascucci.

“Why is the Defendant acting this way toward the woman?” the Prosecuting Attorney asked.

Because I didn’t see a ring on her paw. And her daughter thought I was her father at first.

“Uh – I – I . . . “ The woman puts her paws to her face. She starts to sob, ears back and everything, and Stutz has hold of me with one paw, his fist ready to flatten my nose, but he’s looking at her. Farkas looks from her to me and back.

I shrug free of the fox and stare at the woman. “Where is he?” I ask her again.

She pulls up the apron around her waist and blows her nose on it. She sniffles and says to me, “Damn you.”

I nod. “Already am. We’re investigating a murder.” And before you ask, I know Ferguson’s not the father. He was a weasel, remember? “You going to answer my question?”

She backs off the door and down the hallway, and we follow. Little Betsy’s not alone; there’s another orange tabby kitten, little boy still in diapers, and they’re playing on the floor in the living room. The woman gathers up Betsy and sits on the couch.

Yeah, I’m feeling like a cop right now.

Feel like crap, too.

The cat strokes her daughter’s head while she’s hugging her. We just stand there looking down at her.

Finally she asks, “What do you want?” She looks up at me.

“Just a few questions,” I say. I lower my tone. More professional, you know? “Why was Father Ferguson taking money from you?”

She hugs little Betsy again. “H-He . . . he found out.”

“Found out what?” Alex asks.

She sighs and sags a little. “He found out . . . found out about us, m-me and John. He’s the father.”

“’John?’” Stutz asks. Good little kit; he’s got a notebook and a stub pencil out.

She nods. “John Vernon.”

I glance at Farkas. Poor Alex’s mouth is hanging open halfway to the floor. Even Stutz looks like someone hit him between the eyes with a brick.

I just nod.

Finally Farkas finds his voice. “John Vernon?” he asks. “The Archbishop?”

She looks away, and nods.

Alex just stands there, blinking, and Stutz is just as flabbergasted. Guess that leaves me. “Miss Pascucci,” I say quietly, “maybe you should start at the beginning.”

She nods, but first reaches over to her right and picks her younger kitten off the floor. She hugs both of them for a moment. “W-we met . . . at a, he was visiting at a mission on this side of the river. He, he started coming by, helped me out when I needed some money . . .” She looks up at us, ears back and an angry look on her face. “I work for a living, and not on the street, either.”

I nod.

“And then Betsy came along, and little Johnny,” and she nuzzles both of them. “John was happy, and kept giving me money.” She growls.

“And then Ferguson found out.” I glance behind me as Farkas speaks up.

She nods. “Damned weasel threatens to tell everyone if I don’t start giving him some money. Never wanted anything else . . . always looked at me like I was some sort of tramp . . . “ She trails off and kisses her kids.

All I can do is nod. “You hated Ferguson.”

“Defendant is stating the obvious,” the Prosecuting Attorney says.

She nods, and growls, “About a month ago, he comes around. I’d just paid the rent, but he took most of what was left. Barely had enough to feed the kids, and I told him so. He said I should’ve thought about that before . . . I wanted to kill him, and I would have too.”

“Yeah?” This from Stutz.

“I had my father’s gun,” and my ears flick.

“Where’s the gun now?” I ask. “Pawned it?” It’s a good question. I just got Susie out of hock a while ago, remember?

Pascucci shakes her head. “It got stolen.”

Farkas clears his throat. “Ma’am,” he says, “I need to be sure, here. You’re saying that the father of your children is Archbishop John Vernon?”

She nods, looking up at him.

“And Father George Ferguson was taking money from you?”

Another nod. “Said it was what I deserved,” she says, her voice breaking.

Finally I feel a tap on my shoulder, and I look back to see Alex jerk his head toward the door. Yeah, not a whole lot more to say.

Neither of us say anything as we get downstairs to the car. Stutz gets behind the wheel, Farkas next to him, and I get the back seat to myself. I light up a smoke and the fox asks, “Back to the precinct, Sir?”

Farkas’ ears are down and he says quietly, “No, Carl. O’Farrell’s.” He glances at me in the back seat. “I think we can all use a drink right about now.”

I nod, and Stutz puts the car in gear.


***


O’Farrell’s is a pretty quiet place this time of day, but it’ll get a little louder after the sun goes down and the regulars stop in for a beer or something a little stronger. Good food, too, if I recall.

We go on in, and I wave at the barkeep and hold up three fingers. He gives me a nod, and Farkas and me take a booth facing each other, while Stutz takes a seat at the bar. “Hey, Kid,” I call out to him. He turns and gives me a glare, and I wave at him as I’m moving over on the bench. “Come on over and have a seat with the grownups.”

Fox looks at the wolf, and Alex nods. Stutz gets off the stool and sits down next to me. “Still don’t like you, Dawson,” he says.

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “I ain’t asking you out on a date either, Stutz. But nothing says you can’t sit here and have a beer while we get this mess sorted out.” I give Farkas the eye. “You okay, Alex?”

He’s looking at the table until a Pilsner glass of beer gets plunked down in front of him, and he looks up at me. “Just trying to wrap my head around things, Ernie.” He grabs the glass and takes a drink.

I take a pull at my beer. Tasty, and the barmaid comes back with pretzels. “Take your time,” I say.

So we sit there, drinking and eating. The pretzels are warm, soft and really tasty.

The Judge pipes up from her seat on the bench. “What are your thoughts regarding this case?”

Not sure, but I’m waiting for my friend.

Farkas finishes his beer. “Okay, let’s go over this. “We have a dead priest.”

“Yeah,” I say. Stutz nods.

“A priest who was blackmailing a woman,” and Farkas takes a breath, “who has two kids by the Archbishop of the diocese.”

“Uh huh,” I say. “Hell of a world, ain’t it?”

Stutz takes a bite out of a pretzel and waits till after he swallows before he says, “She had a gun.”

I nod. “Yeah. Said it was stolen.” I look across the table at Alex. “Bets on it being the murder weapon?”

He tries to smile. Fails. Alex’s a good Catholic, and I can see this is tearing him up inside. “No bet.” He signals for another round, and I take the opportunity to visit the little kits’ room.

I come out of the bathroom and start heading toward the booth (yeah, I washed my paws afterward) and these two young guys come in. One’s a goat and the other’s a bull, and they don’t look like they belong in here.

The bull just starts looking around like he’s spoiling for a fight, and the goat shoves a paw into his coat. “This is a stickup!” He yells, trying to sound all tough.

Susie’s in my paw, and I draw down on the pair.

So does everyone else in the place, while the bartender pulls a sawed-off shotgun out from under the bar.

I guess no one bothered to tell these punks that O’Farrell’s is a cop bar.

The idiots weren’t even armed, and they’re still looking shell-shocked when the two on-duty cops the bartender called collect them. Bull wet himself.

I sit back down and take a drink of my fresh beer. “Well, now that the floor show’s over,” and Stutz laughs in spite of himself, “we got to answer a question,” I say. “Why did Ferguson come to me, and what was his game?”

Farkas’ ears flick back and forth, and finally go back, like he’s just thought of something. “Ernie.”

“Yeah, Alex?”

“I think I might have given him the idea.”





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