When I'd arrived home the previous night, I hadn't been as frightened as I had been after Charles' death, but I still woke with every groan and sound in the apartment complex. Beth’s words kept recycling through my head. You could probably solve this case. You found the body and you had a birds-eye view of his life.
I didn't see any harm in asking a few questions if I saw the people on my list of suspects. After all, I looked pretty harmless, especially being on crutches. That also made me an easy target if I spoke to the actual murderer and said the wrong thing, but I tried not to think about that part.
When Sargent Joe Friday caught his man on the television and received accolades, I quickly made up my mind. I was going to try to solve Charles' murder. Perhaps that would lead to me becoming one of the first women detectives on the police force. Would my father be proud of that? He certainly didn't like me being a stew.
Just over a year ago, I had become terribly excited to learn of the opportunity to interview for the position. I’d imagined a glamorous life of meeting movie stars and seeing the world. When I arrived home and told my parents of my plans, my mother burst into tears and my father turned so red with fury, I thought he would have a heart attack. No daughter of mine is going to become one of those girls! he had yelled. Frankly, the dramatic scene had only made me more determined, so I interviewed and got the job. I didn't tell them until the day before I was to leave for training.
My relationship with them was still strained. My dad didn't speak to me for months, and now, the conversations were short and curt. My mother had no interest in hearing about my job. I hadn't become one of the party girls they feared I would, but they still assumed I had embraced the hedonistic lifestyle the media portrayed.
Perhaps a change in careers would please them and mend our relationship. Or maybe they'd think of me as a woman who just wanted to push my way into a man's field for the attention.
A knock sounded at my door, and I rose to open it, then teetered over on my crutches. I'd been using them a few hours and my armpits already hurt.
I opened it to find one of Charles' friends—the one with the long, greasy hair. “Can I help you?”
He stared at me a moment with glazed eyes. “Have you seen Charles?”
I almost blurted out that he was dead but decided to see if I could fish for a little information instead. “Um... no. Is there a problem? I'm sorry, I don't believe we've ever been introduced.”
“I go by Wayne. He owes me money.”
“Ah, yes,” I said, nodding, as if I understood completely. “It's nice to put a name with the face, Wayne. He owed me money as well once when he didn't have enough to pay his electric bill.”
“He owes me for something else.”
“What's that?”
He hedged a moment and glanced both ways in the hall as if he wanted to be certain no one overheard our conversation. “Weed,” he whispered. “If you ever need any, I'm the guy you want to call.” I smiled and nodded, hoping to hide the shock that railed through me. Charles had done drugs? “It would help a lot with your ankle,” Wayne continued.
“T-thank you,” I replied. “It's not too bad. Just a really mild sprain. I'll be up and around in no time after a bit of rest.”
“That's good. Can you tell Charles I topped by?”
And there was the catch. Did I tell him Charles was dead, or simply play it off like I didn't know?
Wayne looked a little seedy, but he seemed pleasant enough, and it would probably be a good idea to let him know he wouldn't be seeing any of the money Charles owed him. “Well, I'm afraid I have some bad news.”
“What's that?”
I pursed my lips together and hoped I wasn't making a huge mistake. In my gut, I didn't think Wayne was dangerous. If he'd killed Charles, then why come back to the scene of the crime looking for money? That simply didn't make any sense.
“Charles was killed.”
That unfocused stare didn't leave me for a very long moment. Then, he glanced from Charles' door, and back to me. To my utter surprise, tears welled in his eyes and quickly tracked down his cheeks. “He's dead?”
“Yes.”
“He survived ‘Nam, and he’s dead? How?”
“He... he was murdered.”
Wayne placed his palms on the side of his head as if his thoughts would seep out his ears, and shut his eyes.
“Are you okay?” I asked, truly concerned. I hadn't expected such a reaction from a hardened drug dealer.
“Charles was my friend,” he whispered. “How do you know he was murdered?”
“I found the body.”
A string of inappropriate curses fell from his mouth and the tears continued. His chest rose and fell in labored pants as if he couldn’t get enough air while he slowly spun in a circle. Wayne wasn't a murderer, but he did seem on the verge of some sort of attack. “Would you like to come in for a moment?” I asked.
He nodded and I moved aside so he could enter. Ringo eyed him from the kitchen and then ran for the bedroom. Either the cat didn't appreciate having his personal space invaded or he didn't like Wayne. Ringo had been present when Charles had been murdered, so the cat may recognize the killer. Is that why he ran? Because he'd watched Charles die? Had I made a terrible mistake in inviting Wayne in?
After he took a seat in the living room chair, I hesitantly sat on the couch. I couldn't imagine the devastation
