I wish this had been written a long time ago. I have no excuse, but hope you'll read and enjoy. One thing that I have changed is that Ben fell asleep for more than just a moment before the phone woke him - it's now very early in the morning.
My plan is to update this thing again by Wednesday. I'll see if that happens.
Once again, your thoughts are welcome and invited.
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The police station is an old brick building that looks as severe on the outside as it tends to be on the inside. The dark grey brick has an austere appearance, one that is not helped even a little by iron bars over the windows, not to mention the brigade of officers in the near-black navy blue of the Milwaukee Police Department uniforms. A more humourless group of people you would probably be hard-pressed to find at a funeral, and in the rain that continued to pound the city, everyone was in an even worse mood that they usually were. Not that anyone should fault them for being in a perpetually bad mood; spending time with people like Inspector Johnston would sour even the cheeriest of dispositions.
We pulled up along the submerged curb in front of the wide stone steps to the wrought-iron front doors and sprinted from Fargo up the steps to the cover of the building. I decided that any time that the rain wanted to stop would be perfectly fine with me. I half expected mermaids to greet us everywhere we went. I probably could have made a break for freedom if I'd wanted to, since I don't think anyone would have tried to stop me aside from Inspector Johnston, but the truth is that I wanted to figure this whole thing out. Even though the good Inspector regularly accuses me of some sort of misdeed, it never made another incident less interesting; the hazards of being a snoop for money, I guess. There may not be any mermaids, but a good mystery is like a siren’s song to me, and I’ll crash on the rocks to figure it out. Splashing our way up the stairs, I listened to Inspector Johnston mutter a few colourful phrases under his breath about the weather just before we slipped inside. For some reason, that made the rain seem a little less oppressive to me.
"This way, Benjamin," the Inspector said to me as we got inside, taking hold of my left elbow in a grip that, while not uncomfortable, let me know in no uncertain terms that he was going to make sure I didn't slip away. He guided me toward the interview room and I smirked as I said, "I appreciate the tour, Inspector, but I know the way. If I'd wanted to sneak off, I could have done so already. Mind laying off on the grip? I'd hate for some of your colleagues to think I was under arrest or in trouble or something. That sort of rumour can really hurt a guy’s reputation."
The inspector didn't relent on the grip. He just said in a tone that suggested he was looking at something particularly unpleasant, "They already know you're trouble, Benjamin. My making certain you don't duck out on what we've got to do is no surprise to them."
"Gee, Inspector... Do you think perhaps they also won't be surprised when I solve the case for you and you take the credit? That is, after all, the way things have gone in the past."
Johnston opened the door to the interview room and pushed me inside. Wearing a derisive smile, he said condescendingly, "You're not under arrest, Benjamin. I just have a few questions about a dead body I need you to answer. And you're going to answer my questions, too."
I looked around the room and let out a long breath. Interview Room 1 is about as charming a place as it sounds. To describe it as "spartan" is to suggest that the Spartans were in the business of boring rooms, hot lights, and dingy green paint. The room is not big enough for more than four people, really, and there was no doubt where I was going to be; the rickety wooden chair tucked in on one side of a table with more initials carved in it than a shady tree in the most beautiful picnic spot in the world. No hearts dug into this wood, though there was a very witty limerick about dear Inspector Johnston. I was surprised he hadn't had the table replaced, but was glad each time I saw it; Marion would have been crushed to learn all the work we had done trying to rhyme "incompetent" was for naught.
“Alright then, Inspector,” I said, folding my hands neatly over the punchline of that limerick, “let’s talk about this dead body. I assume that you’ve already sent it to the morgue, since you usually need someone else to tell you that someone’s actually dead and not just asleep. You suggested I killed this person on the phone.”
“Oh, laugh it up, Benjamin,” Inspector Johnston said with an irritated tone and a frown to match, “but I’ve got a corpse in a white dress with your business card in her purse. Pretty thing, too. Well, she was, until someone decided to kill her. Now, I like you for that particular job. I figure you made some sort of attempt at getting to know her, she slapped the taste out of your mouth as any lady would, and you lost your temper. One thing led to another, and she winds up dead. If that’s what happened, we can work with that, you know. You might not get the chair.”
I knew the moment he mentioned a white dress that he was talking about Agnes. I rarely forget a face like hers, and never a body like hers. The white dress just sealed it for me. I started to reply our conversation over in my mind - all the talk about someone following her, and her fear of someone hurting her, the tears and all of the rest came flooding back - but I couldn’t come up with any good explanation as to who had done anything. I just hadn’t had enough time to sort that part out. Damn, was it really just last night that I’d had that conversation? It suddenly felt like weeks ago.
Inspector Johnston’s patience was especially short today. Rudely, he derailed my train of thought by slamming his open palm on the surface of the desk and saying in a loud voice, “Dammit, Benjamin! Don’t go off daydreaming now! Didn’t you hear me? A woman is dead, and she has your business card with her! Now, tell me what you know about it!”
I wanted to hit the Inspector. Specifically, I wanted to punch him in the mouth so that it could close and I could have a moment’s peace with my thoughts. I just looked at him and said in a really quiet tone, “If you’ll give me a second, Inspector, I’ll tell you what I know. Maybe if you did less shouting and more thinking, you’d solve more cases and wouldn’t need to drag me down here in the rain.” He didn’t like that response, to be sure, but he did stop talking. That was good enough for me.
“First off, I didn’t kill that woman. Her name is Agnes Wolfe. She came into my office and asked me to follow her around for a little while, starting today, actually. She seemed to think someone was after her, and wanted me to see if I could figure out who. That she’s dead tells me she was right, and that the person or persons got a little jumpy when they saw her talking to me.”
Inspector Johnston looked at me, got real pensive for a moment, and then said, “Interesting tale. Tell me, Benjamin, you carry a gun, right?”
“You know I do,” I replied with a nod. That sort of thing isn’t exactly hard for the Police Department to find out, especially since they issue my detective’s license, and they like to know which PI is packing heat.
“A... .38, as I recall,” the Inspector continued. I didn’t like his tone. It was the sound of a man who knew more than he was letting on, but wanted the person he was talking to twist in the wind a little, maybe reveal something that can be used as a noose.
“Cut to the chase, Inspector,” I said, irritated. I wanted to figure out Agnes’ death more far more than I wanted to be sitting here being interrogated.
“Fine,” Inspector Johnston said, “I’ll cut to the chase.” He moved around from the other side of the table from me, to stand at my right side. He leaned in on the table until he was about eight inches from my face. Looking hard into my eyes, he said, “You have a .38 registered to you. We figure she was killed by a .38. You were the last one we know who saw her alive. This doesn’t take a genius to sort out. So, we’re going to go looking through your office and your apartment until we find that .38. You had better hope we find it. Now, I know yours is not the only .38 in the city... but I like you for this, Benjamin. I really do.”
Funny, I thought, I’m having a hard time liking you at all, Inspector. Instead, I just said, “Listen, feel free to go through my place and my apartment. You should find the gun in my desk at work, top drawer, left side.”
“You don’t carry it with you? That seems a little strange, especially for a man who has made as many enemies as you have, Benjamin. I would have thought you would give that some consideration. Walking around without your piece can be hazardous to your health.”
“Maybe, Inspector. But it seems to me that, at this moment, you’re the only one who isn’t locked up and who sees me as an enemy. And we both know that I wouldn’t be long for the world if I used my .38 on you.”
Inspector Johnston just nodded slowly, still leaning in far too close for my preference. He continued to stare at me for a long moment before stepping away and opening the door. Calling in the officer, he said, “Take him to a cell. Lock him up until we sort this out,” and then he left.
I shook my head and rose slowly. With a smirk, I asked the officer, “Can I at least get my usual cell? Third on the right, I believe. It’s set up just the way I like it.” The uniformed young man looked at me, no doubt confused as to what I could possibly mean, since all of the cells are exactly the same. He just took my elbow and all but dragged me off. At least he gave me the cell I wanted. It was a lot like a third home....
