The Corpse in My Office
© 2024 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by  RockBaker

Thirteen.


The gavel comes down as the Judge says, “The Defendant is warned. Don’t be so flippant.”

“Flippant?” I ask as I head to the bathroom.

“’Cracking wise,’” the Defense Attorney says.

“Oh.”

I step into the bathroom and take a long, hot shower, and after I shut the water off, I look at my paws. They’re not shaking yet, which shows I’m doing the right thing by drinking beer. But I know that’s only putting it off. I’m going to need a belt of something stronger pretty soon.

I get into my suit and overcoat after I dry off and brush my fur, trying not to look into my eyes in the mirror. I lock up before I put on my hat and head downstairs.

I step outside and turn up my collar before hunching my shoulders. Lord, it got cold out here during the night, so like everyone else I step lively as I head to Jim’s for breakfast.

Hot coffee, pancakes with eggs and bacon, and I’m feeling warm enough to head for my office.

“Morning, Ernie,” Farkas says when I call the precinct. “Got your message.”

“You and Stutz have anything going today?” I ask. “I got a plan last night.” I give him a quick rundown. When I’m finished, he gives a whistle.

“Risky, Ernie,” he says. “If you’re wrong – “

“If I’m wrong,” I say, “I’ve been wrong before.”

“You could end up more than wrong.” Yeah, he’s right.

I wonder, though, if ‘more than wrong’ might not be a bad thing.

The Judge bangs her gavel. “The jury will ignore that, and the clerk will strike that from the record,” the hyena says, and she gives me the eye as I stand there in the dock. “The Defendant will not follow that line of thinking.”

I’m touched - probably in the head.

And I’ve thought about killing myself before. What alky hasn’t? I usually pawn Susie when I start thinking that way.


***


After lunch, I head back to my office and settle behind my desk. I glance at the clock and pick up my phone, dialing the number that Vernon gave me.

“Archbishop’s office, Mrs. Donaldson speaking.”

“Hello, this is Ernie Dawson. I need to talk to the Archbishop, please.”

“One moment, please,” and the line goes quiet. No click, so I know she didn’t hang up on me. After a few moments she comes back. “Hold on, please,” she says.

So I do, and pretty soon the man himself picks up the phone. “Mister Dawson?”

“Yeah, it’s me, Sir.” I figure that honey instead of vinegar is the best way to go. “I have some information for you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, Sir. I’d like you to come to my office, so we can talk face to face.”

“Oh, um, well, I won’t be able to come over immediately. I have Mass at four o’clock.”

“I see. Sometime tonight, then? Say, seven o’clock?”

“You can’t come over now?”

“No, still wrapping up some loose ends.” Come on, Ernie, you can do better than this. Out of practice, I guess.

“Hmm. Seven-thirty.”

“Thanks, Sir.” He hangs up and I look at the pawset in my paw.

It’s shaking.

I hang up the phone and get the bottle of Old Panther out of the desk drawer, along with a small glass. I pour it about a third full and down it.

Better, but for how much longer?

Takes some doing, but I get the bottle back in the drawer before I call Alex again. After we talk, I finish writing everything up.


***


I make sure to get some dinner in me, even though it’s sitting in my gut like a cannonball, and I’m back in my office in time. Just to set the scene a little, I get the bottle out of the drawer again, and pour a few shots worth down the toilet to empty the bottle a little. I take another belt and leave the bottle and the glass on the desk.

A little after seven-thirty my ears perk when someone knocks on the door. “Come in,” I call out. I get to my feet when Vernon comes in. He’s wearing a heavy overcoat and scarf over his suit, and he closes the door behind him. “Sorry to call you in at this time,” I say, and I wave my tail at the couch. “Have a seat.”

“I’ll stand, thank you,” the orange tabby says. “I don’t have much time. Christmas, you know.”

I nod, and glance over at the bottle. “Can I get you a drink?”

He gives me the eye. “No, thank you. You look like you need it more than I do.”

“Heh. Okay, we’ll cut to the short version.” The desk is between him and me, and we’re both on our feet. “I think you killed George Ferguson.”

His ears and whiskers go straight back before he has time to recover, and he cocks his head. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.”

He sticks his paws in his pockets and sort of looks down his nose at me. “And where do you get that idea?”

“Glad you asked,” I say. “Let’s start with Bessie Pascucci, and her kids Betsy and Johnny.”

He cocks an eyebrow and says, “Oh, yes. Poor woman. She’s quite mad, you know; she’d be in the asylum upstate if it weren’t for her kids.”

“I’ll bet. She seems to know you pretty well, though.”

“Part of my pastoral mission is to help the poor, Mister Dawson.”

“Helping single mothers get their start, huh?” His tail gives an irritated twitch and I say, “For the sake of argument, let’s say she’s telling the truth. Humor me.”

He glances at the half-empty bottle. “Likely it’s the drink doing the talking, but go on.”

“Anyway, the two of you are enjoying the setup – you give her some money, she raises your kids – until Ferguson gets wind of it.”

“How?” Vernon asks.

I shrug. “Still working on that. Might have to have another chat with Miss Pascucci. Anyway, Ferguson figures it out somehow. He starts extorting money from her and squirreling it away before he comes to see me.”

“Why you?”

“No idea,” I lie. Best to keep Alex out of this. “Way I figure it, he wasn’t going to confront you directly, but if he could get someone like me to dig up the dirt and,” I wink at him, “maybe dish to the local gossip rags, he could force you to give up your position. Maybe even get fired as a priest.”

Vernon frowns. “It’s called ‘defrocked.’”

“’Defrocked,’ thanks.”

“But why? There’d be no way Father George could be elevated to my position.”

I wag a finger at him. “Probably wouldn’t have mattered to him. From everything I found, Ferguson was a goody two-shoes. Probably thought he’d be doing the Church, from the Pope on down, a favor by getting rid of you.” I lean a hip on the edge of the desk. “And you killed him.”

Did I just see his right arm tense up? His overcoat’s too thick for me to get a good read.

Vernon takes a breath and moves a step or two toward the couch. He looks at where the weasel died before turning his head to look over his left shoulder at me. “He died right there,” he said. “How did the killer manage that, with you sitting right there?” He jerks his chin at my chair.

I shrug. “I’m a heavy sleeper, and I’d had a skinful.”

Vernon nods. “Feel like having a drink now, Mister Dawson?” His eyes narrow. “I’ve seen people afflicted by alcohol. Feeling your guts clench, and your skin crawling. Sure you don’t want a drink right now?” He’s got what they call an insinuating tone in his voice now.

“The Defendant – “

Shaddap.

“No. I’m good.” Had to force myself to say that.

“I was afraid you’d say that.” Vernon turns and he’s already got a small-barreled revolver in his right paw, pointing it from his hip. “Paws up and stay right where you are,” he says, and I raise my paws to about chest-height. “You did very well, Mister Dawson. Answered a few questions I’d had.”

I glance down at his right paw. “That Miss Pascucci’s gun, I take it?”

He smiles. “It was absurdly easy to slip it into my pocket.”

I nod. “She told you about Ferguson, and all you had to do was watch and follow him.”

“Patience is part of being a priest, Mister Dawson.” He says this with a smile, showing his teeth.

“Like a feral cat at a mousehole, huh?”

“The Defendant will not antagonize the witness,” the Judge says.

I ignore her. “Still, I have to say that you hiring me was a good piece of thinking on your part. Who’d expect a hopeless alky that’d just had a guy murdered right across from him solve the case?”

If he’s offended, he isn’t showing it. “You might say that,” he said. “Shooting Father George was . . . regrettable. He refused to keep this to himself, saying that he would write to Rome. Lord forgive me, I had to silence him.” He looks at me. “Hiring you was a way to distract the police. Ah, well. Sadly, I’m afraid I’ll have to silence you now, Mister Dawson.”

I nod and glance at the bottle. “Mind if I get one more? You know, for the road?”

He gets a funny half-smile. “Go right ahead.”

I reach over, slowly, so he doesn’t get the idea I’m going to do anything stupid, and pick the bottle up by the neck. I fiddle with the cap and I say, “You get all that, Alex?”

Vernon frowns. “Who?”

Alex was in the adjoining room. He comes out into the open, gun out and ready. “Police, Your Eminence. Drop the gun. Carl!” he shouts, and Stutz comes in from where he was waiting outside. I can just glimpse a couple boys in blue out in the hallway. “Drop the gun, Your Eminence.”

Vernon half-turns to look at the wolf.

I wallop him one on the back of his head with the bottle. He goes down, hard. Bottle doesn’t break, which is good. It’d be a waste of Scotch.

Notice I didn’t say good Scotch.

Stutz holsters his gat and gets the gun away from Vernon before putting cuffs on him, and I sit down in my chair, hard. I uncap the bottle and take a swig as Farkas walks over to me. “You okay, Ernie?”

I cough when I lower the bottle. “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Not used to people pointing guns at me.”

He puts a paw on my shoulder before turning as Vernon’s hustled to his feet. “Archbishop John Vernon, you’re under arrest for murder.” He nods to Stutz, and the fox and the two patrolmen get the orange tabby out of my office. Alex gets ready to leave, but he stops and looks at me. “Don’t drink too much of that, Ernie, okay?”

I surface after taking another swig of Old Panther. “Why? Going to join me, Alex?”

He gives me a grunt. “It’ll be after midnight by the time we get all the paperwork taken care of,” he growls. “Will there be anything left in that bottle if I come back then?”

I raise the bottle in salute. “I’ll save some for you.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” And he leaves.

I lock the door behind him and just look out the window as it starts snowing.


***


The public got an early Christmas present when the news came out. It had everything: priests going bad, a fallen woman, a murder. The trial started just after the New Year, and between me, Bessie Pascucci, and the evidence overheard by Alex Farkas, the jury didn’t need much time to come back with a guilty verdict.

Vernon got twenty years upstate.

The Archdiocese paid my retainer off and closed the contract, which was nice of them. I took the last of the money Ferguson had and part of what the Archdiocese gave me, and gave it to Pascucci. She took it, seemed grateful.

I hear that she and her kids moved out of the city. Where, I don’t know, but I guess the Church had a paw in it. Wanted to make a clean break of it as quietly as they could.

Me?

Well, it took a while, with Alex bringing it up. Even had Margo mention it once or twice. Yeah, some of my money went to her. Dinner, a movie or two.

Nothing for her damned cat, though.

But finally I got up the nerve after New Year’s to go to this old hall. Group of guys already there, and one of them greets me as I sit down.

“The Defendant,” the Judge says, “is released on his own recognizance.” Her gavel hits the bench, and as it echoes in my head I get to my feet.

“Name’s Ernie Dawson,” I say, “and, um, I’m an alcoholic.”

The other guys all nod or say hello, and the meeting starts.




end



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