Hallway Whispers
A story about gossip and murder.
"A drunk, a cheat, a killer, a thief," the detective mused, studying the man on the floorboards. "Your neighbours don't think very highly of you, Mr Landlord."
The detective stood in the corner of a small living room, sipping a bottle of water. The room was neat and tidy, bare to the point of austerity. A small television set stood in one corner, a clean but threadbare lounge sitting opposite. Two small side tables buttressed the lounge, one holding a half-finished cup of tea and the other an aged photograph of a smiling couple.
The door to his back was the main entrance to the apartment. It had been clumsily reset in the frame it had been kicked from when the first responders arrived. He could still hear the tenants in the hallway, trading the same insights and opinions they had peppered him with until just a moment ago. Nothing like a murder to bring people together, he thought.
Privately, he thought of all of them as characters in a play. Curtains up. Here, centre stage, lay the Victim, cold and pale. Two bit players, Paramedics #1 and #2, stand idly by. Enter the weary Detective, sipping his water bottle. They confer briefly, before the Paramedics shrug and exit stage right. And waiting to make their entrance, the tenant ensemble — the Mother, the Husband, the Wife, the Bachelor.
It helped, thinking of them as nothing but characters, actors to hit their mark and leave. This wasn't Mr Cavanaugh, 68 years old, whose skin was beginning to purple where it pressed against the cold wooden floorboards. This was just the Victim, and he was just the Detective. And at the end of the day when he left behind the Victim, he could leave behind the Detective too and return to being Joseph Kovacs, 36, who had to swing by the supermarket on the way home because he had run out of milk and eggs.
It was a trick he'd learnt years ago, after his first case. The Victim had stayed with him for months after that first one, before he even thought of them as Victims. Before he could just leave them behind at the end of the day. A dead kid; ten year old boy. It had happened at the very same block of flats in which he now stood. Perhaps that was why he'd put his hand up for this case.
The boy had fallen from a fire escape, his body found twisted and broken in the alley below. There were no signs of a struggle, no motive, nothing at all to suggest it was anything other than a tragic accident. Yet when he had interviewed the residents, every one of them had pointed a finger squarely at the landlord. Some had given fantastically detailed accounts of the landlord's sordid past. Others offered little more than vague anecdotes. All agreed he was guilty.
When he had finally interviewed the landlord, the detective had been entirely unsurprised to find an ordinary old man. Of all the residents, the landlord had been the only one to offer him a seat, the detective remembered. The old fellow had seemed baffled, then genuinely hurt, when the detective began probing about the general ill will toward him. He was either an excellent actor, or until that day had been unaware of the gossip about him that infested the building.
Now he was dead.
The residents all agreed that they had heard a gunshot. "Exactly 8:15pm!" the husband from next door had declared importantly, his wife bobbing her head beside him. "I checked the moment I heard!"
The detective was doubtful. Outside of movies, he suspected none of them had ever heard a real gunshot. And the landlord, although very much dead, was decidedly un-shot.
The time frame didn't add up either. The landlord himself had been the one to call emergency services, at 8:20. He'd heard a noise and looked out his window in time to see someone on the fire escape trying to access his neighbour's apartment. In the detective's experience, it was very rare for a murder victim to call emergency services himself, especially after he had been murdered.
The detective thumbed the lid of his water bottle. This case was nothing like the old one, but somehow it had the same odd taste. When the boy had died, the detective had ignored the rumours that clung to the case like a bad smell and eventually ruled it an accident. But it had scratched at the back of his mind for months afterwards. He felt that same scratching now.
He started with the woman in apartment 304. Her door was across the hallway from the landlord's, so she was most likely to have noticed anything suspicious. That was what he had told her, anyway. The truth was he started with her because he remembered her. Ms Pertes, 30 years old, parent of the dead boy. The Mother.
Back then, she had sat straight-backed and answered his questions with an unnerving calmness. It was almost as though the death of her son had not affected her at all. The detective had been disconcerted to the point of suspicion. Then, in the middle of the interview, the mother had offered him a cup of tea. The mug she handed him was completely empty. She returned to her own seat and sipped vacantly at her own, equally empty, mug. The woman hadn't been calm at all. She had been so completely and abruptly shattered that all the pieces of her still hung in midair like a cartoon, clinging to their original shape.
It seemed that those pieces had all since fallen. The woman who led him inside had traded her sharp pantsuit for a stained dressing gown. Takeaway food containers littered the floor and tables, most with an empty bottle of vodka standing vigil. The home had a damp musk, as though no one had drawn the curtains or opened the windows in a long time.
"I'm glad he's dead," the mother said abruptly. She stared at him as though daring him to reply, but he remained silent. After a moment, she looked away.
"He killed my boy. They said it was a… a accident, but I know. Why'd he even be on that side'a the building, out … out front that man's window? D-don't make sense. He had somethin' to do with it, I know it…"
The mother trailed off, looking absently at her feet. The detective waited for a few moments, but she remained silent.
"Did you see or hear anything unusual tonight?" he asked. The woman shook her head slowly. "But you heard a gunshot?" Nod. "When was that?" Shrug.
Another vodka bottle quietly appeared in one of her hands, the other shakily trying to open it. He persisted for a few minutes more, but he could tell she had already drifted away. After a few more nods and shakes and shrugs, he turned to go.
"I only got one of my boy's g-gloves back, y'know?" she slurred. Tears rolled heavily down her cheeks. "Bet anything the other one is in his apartment. A… a m-memento, like. He killed my boy."
The detective nodded solemnly and jotted down a note.
"I'm not surprised he ended up like this," the man confided. "He had sticky-fingers, our landlord did. Had a master key to the building, used to sneak about and help himself when people were out. One of my wife's rings went missing once. When I confronted him, he denied it of course. But the next day the ring magically reappeared!"
The Husband graced the detective with a wink as he leaned back in his chair. He had the sort of easy confidence and swagger of a man who was used to getting what he wanted. The detective had an innate mistrust of those sorts of people. In his experience, people who always got what they wanted did so because they foisted everything they didn't want on to some other poor sap.
"Did you file a police report, mister…?" the detective asked.
"Evans! Jonathan Evans, but just call me John. No, no need. We changed the locks that week, naturally, and I gave him a big enough scare to stop it happening again," he shrugged his shoulders at the detective's raised eyebrow. "I wouldn't hurt a fly, ask anyone. But I'm a big lad. Play rugby, every Wednesday! Just socially, but it's good to keep fit."
The man did have the look of someone who had once played football. But judging by how long it had taken him to lower his growing figure into the armchair, and the sigh of relief once he had accomplished it, the detective doubted very much he had seen the inside of a football field for a long time. He thumbed the lid of his water bottle absently.
"You said the gunshot came at 8:15. Where were you then?"
"Right here," the man replied, gesturing expansively around the comfortable lounge room. "Fatal Attraction had just started. Then came the gunshot, and I looked at that clock there."
The detective looked at his wristwatch, then at the clock the husband was pointing toward. The times matched.
"And where was your wife?"
"She was here. In the house I mean, not in the lounge room. She thought she'd heard something in the bedroom. She must have been in there for about, oh, perhaps five minutes before the gunshot. Banging drawers and cupboards, checking under the bed for monsters I suppose. I didn't think anything of it. She's forever hearing things, seeing things."
Mr Evan blinked as the detective opened his notebook, then began to chortle.
"Don't go getting any ideas! She bolted right out of there when the gun went off, I'll tell you that! You should have seen her face. Slammed open the door so hard it put a dent in the wall," the big man gestured to a small mark on the plaster. "Still, I don't think the landlord will really mind."
"He was a drunk you know," Mrs Evans sniffed. She sat in the same chair her husband had occupied just moments ago. Where he had dominated the room by casually leaning back with open arms, the Wife did so by sitting ramrod straight with her hands clasped in her lap. She wore a pressed dark dress, her hair drawn up in a severe bun. She looked not unlike a headmistress reprimanding a poor student.
"He hid it well of course, but they all do. That's why his wife left him, though. Couldn't give up the bottle."
The detective glanced down at his notebook. "It was my understanding that his wife passed away."
The woman frowned for a moment, then waved it away. "Yes, of course, she's gone now. Cancer, I think. But she left him first. Because of his drinking."
The detective nodded again, flicking back through his notebook. He asked the wife about the stolen ring.
"Yes, the ring. My husband bought it for me as a surprise, of course. I accidentally found it when cleaning, but I didn't want to spoil his surprise so I left it where it was. My mistake, really," she attempted an eye-roll, but the stiffness of her smile made it awkward. "He hid it and then completely forgot about it. A week later I went to check and it was gone."
"And you suspected Mr Cavanaugh?" the detective asked. The woman stared blankly back at him. "Your landlord, next door?"
"Oh, yes, Mr Cavanaugh," she said primly, "well yes, of course. It didn't look like anyone had, you know, broken in. He used his set of keys, we think. That's why we changed the locks."
The woman's eyes didn't meet his as she spoke, instead fixating on a spot just over his shoulder. He tapped his pen on the pad, letting the silence draw out. She spoke as though she had been rehearsing. That didn't necessarily mean anything. People wanted to make things neat and easy, and so they prepared neat and easy answers to questions they knew were coming. The problem was that the truth was usually messy and hard.
"We've had reports that someone was out on the fire escape. Did you notice anyone out there?" he asked suddenly. The detective affected disinterest, but he watched Mrs Evans quietly out of the corner of his eye.
It was another trick he used in certain situations. Start someone talking about one topic. Draw it out a little, let them begin to anticipate the questions, prepare their answers. Then shift quickly to a completely different topic. The person would often stumble, trip over their words as they tried to prepare new answers, then hastily try to correct themselves, to "fix" their answer.
This time it seemed to have an almost devastating effect. Mrs Evans' hands were suddenly gripping the arms of the chair and she seemed to be sitting even straighter, if that were possible. Her eyes widened, and she silently opened and closed her mouth several times. After a few moments of silence, the detective looked up in puzzlement.
"Oh…" she said quietly, then cleared her throat. "Oh, you mean tonight? Well, I… when I went into the bedroom the window was slightly open. I assumed that John had done it. But no, I didn't see anyone outside."
The detective thumbed the lid of his water bottle.
"When you were searching your bedroom, did you notice anything mis—"
"No," she interrupted. "Nothing missing." She resumed staring at the point just over his shoulder, her hands once more firmly clasped in her lap.
"I don't really have much to tell you that others wouldn't have already," the Bachelor began. "I've only lived here a few months."
Of all the tenants, Michael Haynes seemed to fit his role least. The detective always imagined bachelors as handsome and relatively well-off. Comfortable and confident. The tall, reedy man before him looked neither comfortable nor confident, and his features were all a little too sharp and sallow to call him handsome. His apartment was as sparsely outfitted as the landlord's, but where Mr Cavanaugh's furniture had been clean and well-cared for, Haynes' was just shabby.
"The woman in 304, she's probably the best person to talk to. They're lovers, after all," he frowned at the detective's surprise. "You hadn't heard? It was old news before I even moved in. It's why his wife left him. But he still goes over, every Wednesday night like clockwork."
The detective went to thumb the lid of his water bottle, and caught himself abruptly. How long had he been doing that? He wondered if it was his own affectation, or if it was just the Detective's. His own little tell for something doesn't add up. Might as well say it out loud.
The bachelor turned his back to the detective as he prepared himself a bourbon. That was fine. The detective wasn't interested in the bourbon, or the man pouring it. The itch in the back of his mind suddenly abated, and he gazed blankly out the window. He felt various parts of the puzzle began to rearrange themselves in his head. There were still bits missing, but the shape of it was there.
As he forced his eyes to come back into focus, he found himself looking out the window to the rear of the flat. The one that led to the fire escape. It had been closed hastily, trapping a small edge of the curtain outside. It flapped viciously in the cold wind. Another puzzle piece shifted.
Behind him, Haynes shifted nervously. The detective ignored him. He thought quietly for a few moments, arranging what he knew and what he didn't know, and thinking through how to get the last few pieces to fall into place.
"Your neighbour called just before he died. Said someone was trying to break into your apartment," the detective said, his back still to the man. It wasn't a question. Sometimes, the detective liked not asking questions. Another trick. He found people gave the most information when trying to answer a question that hadn't been asked.
"I've been here all night. No one has tried to come in through my window," Haynes replied, his eyes looking down at his bourbon. The detective watched him in the reflection of the window, carefully preparing his trap. He abruptly turned side-on to the other man, and Haynes looked up in surprise to find the detective staring intently at him.
"You were here the whole night? Until 8:15? Until the gunshot?" the detective asked. He spoke slightly quicker than before, leaning slightly towards the other man. Just enough to make Haynes pause, to make him worry about what had caught the detective's attention. Haynes had to sense a trap. You couldn't make a man feel caught unless he knew he was being hunted.
"Y-yes," Haynes confirmed hesitantly, shifting nervously on his feet. The detective smiled sadly. He'd already prepared what he was going to say next. It was a small lie, and like many good lies it was mostly the truth.
"Son, there's security camera footage," the detective said quietly. "We know it was you."
The bachelor blanched.
The detective was standing by the open window in the landlord's apartment.
Time for the last bit of theatre, he thought.
The tenants gathered around him, and he looked slowly at each of them one by one. The mother, Ms Pertes, hugging herself tightly against the cold and staring at an empty corner of the room. Mrs Evans, her arm wrapped tightly around Mr Evans as he stood broadly in the centre of the room and explained with oblivious confidence the meanings of the various small index flags marking the erstwhile crime scene. The bachelor, standing a ways apart, shoulders hunched and head down. None of them met his eye.
What was it they said? the detective wondered idly. A drunk, a cheat, a killer, a thief.
He held up an empty steel lockbox.
"My-" the wife gasped, then quickly clamped her hands over her mouth. As one, the other tenants turned to look at her, and she seemed to grow smaller under their gaze. "My safety box…" she said quietly, dropping her hands.
They stood in silence for a moment, then turned back to the detective.
"At about 8:10pm, Mrs Evans heard someone in her bedroom," he looked towards the husband and wife, who both confirmed it with a nod. "But whoever had been in there was gone. Mrs Evans found the bedroom empty, and nothing was missing. Or at least, nothing she could admit to being missing."
All eyes were fixated on the lockbox in his hand. All except the wife, who stared defiantly back at the detective with her mouth tightly shut. He studied her for a moment, then continued.
"The thief made his escape along the fire escape, where the landlord spotted him trying to gain access to another apartment. His own, this time," the detective said, turning toward Haynes. The bachelor looked away. "Mr Cavanaugh surprised him, no doubt. Shouted out, maybe. Causing him to drop this in surprise."
"And then shot him," the husband rumbled, turning towards the bachelor.
"No!" the detective said sharply. Mr Evans looked back at him in surprise. The detective shook his head. Closing the empty lockbox, he turned and tossed it casually out the open window. There was a moment's stunned silence, followed by an almighty crash. The residents jumped in shock.
"It fell three floors and struck a dumpster below. Sounds similar to a gunshot," he offered. It didn't, not at all, but they all nodded. "The sound doesn't matter though. Mr Cavanaugh was not shot. It's what was in the lockbox that matters."
The wife paled as the detective reached into his pocket, and then sagged in relief when he withdrew a small plastic bag containing a diamond ring.
"Do you recognise this ring, ma'am," he asked. Mrs Evans opened her mouth, but the detective shook his head. "Not you. Ms Pertes?"
All eyes turned toward the mother from 304. She stood unsteadily, looking from the ring to the husband and back again. The husband refused to meet her eye, instead staring stonily at the ring. Finally, she nodded.
Inwardly, the detective relaxed slightly. That had been the first unknown. He had never believed the landlord had stolen the ring. But it had gone missing from the cupboard for a week. And Mr Evans had re-acquired it quickly, once his wife revealed she knew about it. Which meant he had given it to someone else, someone he got it back from.
The detective watched the husband as he began to huff and puff himself up, ready to burst into anger if the need arose. A good way to forestall any sordid accusations, he had no doubt learned. Mr Evans opened his mouth, but before he could talk the detective held up a hand.
"Don't worry, sir. Your wife already knows about your affair. Has for a few years now. Every Wednesday, like clockwork."
The husband stuttered into silence. After a moment's pause, he glanced sideways at his wife. Mrs Evans stood ramrod straight, her face cold and closed. The big man deflated like a pricked balloon.
The detective turned away from them, taking a few steps towards the other woman in the room. He wasn't good at this bit. At trying to be softer, consoling. He thought of resting an arm on her shoulder, then decided against it. No point pretending. He couldn't play that role.
"My guess, Ms Pertes, is that your son saw how happy you were when Mr Ev… when his father gave you this. And how upset you were when he had to take it away again. That's why he was out on that fire escape. He was trying to get it back for you."
"But then," he turned abruptly to Mrs Evans, "you came home. Saw your husband's child coming in through the window. Saw your chance to get rid of him."
Things seemed to explode all at once then. The mother burst into tears, dropping to the floor. The wife screamed and launched herself widely at the other woman, her husband grabbing and holding her back just in time. She flailed viciously around her husband's arms.
"That little whore's rat," she spat viciously. She lunged towards the other woman again, her husband quickly wrapping her up in a bear hug. "I didn't touch him. You've got no proof!"
In the chaos, the detective reached into his pocket again and withdrew another plastic bag. The wife froze in midair, eyes wide. The sudden silence made the mother look up. In the detective's hand was her son's missing glove. A memento.
"So if he wasn't shot, how did he die anyway?" the bachelor asked. They were the last ones in the room. Officers had led the two women away; the mother back to her apartment, the wife downstairs to the waiting police car. Her husband had watched it all in a daze, then stumbled out to who-knows-where.
The detective shrugged. The bit players had already answered that question.
"Heart attack. He'd been gone for two hours before we arrived," the detective replied.
Ironically, a gunshot might have been better. A report of gunfire would have brought cops running. Instead, the poor bastard was just reporting an attempted break-in. Looking out for his ungrateful neighbours to the very end.
The detective turned to the bachelor, and handed him his card.
"Be there, tomorrow, at nine," he said. Haynes nodded seriously. Strictly speaking, the detective should be taking him there right now, processing all the paperwork for his case and the other one. But it had been a long day. The Bachelor, the Victim, the Detective… Joseph Kovacs was ready to leave them all behind.