I knocked one final time. “Charles?”
My only response came from Ringo and I figured Charles couldn’t hear me over the television.
With a sigh, I tried the knob and found the door unlocked. I stepped inside and called for him once again as I scooped up Ringo. “Charles, it's Patty! I just came for Ringo!”
A John Wayne movie blared from the television perched on a small table in the living room, but no one sat on the sofa to watch it. A desk sat in the corner piled high with newspapers and books. The smell of something burning also caught my attention, and I hurried into the kitchen to find a pot on the stove, the ingredients caked to the bottom. At one time, it may have been chicken soup. After removing the pot, I turned off the burner. At least it hadn’t caught fire.
An IBM Selectric typewriter sat on the kitchen table with a stack of papers next to it. I picked one up and after glancing over a few paragraphs, I realized Charles had been writing a memoir of sorts, but he couldn’t spell worth a darn.
“Where's Charles?” I asked Ringo as I stroked his head, worry now sitting heavily in my chest. The man may have had mental issues, but he'd never have forgotten food on the stove.
Gunshots went off in the living room, causing me to gasp and just about jump out of my skin. “It's that stupid television,” I muttered, shaking my head. Hurrying over, I turned off the T.V. and an eerie silence fell over the apartment. A couple of sirens wailed in the distance, and I heard the neighbors walking down the hallway.
Yet, something was wrong. I could feel it in the chill that traveled up my spine and the goosebumps that crawled over my arms.
Holding Ringo close to my chest, I slowly walked toward the bedroom. The door lay half-way open, and I stared at it a moment. “Charles?” I called.
As I pushed open the panel, my heart thundered and my knees weakened. A scream escaped me when I found Charles lying on the floor, a knife protruding from his stomach, his blank gaze staring at the ceiling.
Chapter 2
Rightfully so, my plans for a quiet evening flew out the window when I found Charles dead.
I immediately hurried back to my apartment and called the police, and because so many were downstairs breaking up the protestors, they arrived within a minute or two.
With shaky hands, I lit a cigarette while the cop sat down on the opposite side of the couch from me. I didn't usually smoke but finding a man dead with a knife in his stomach seemed to be a good reason to fire one up.
“My name's Officer O'Malley,” the policeman said curtly. With his thinning hair and the fine lines around his cold blue eyes, I pegged him to be in his forties. A huge beast of a man standing well over six feet and weighing in over two hundred pounds. He took out a pad of paper and I imagined he'd seen a lot of horrible things in his career to be so brusque. “I'll be sitting with you until the lead detective arrives. What's your full name, miss?”
“Patricia Byrne,” I said, stroking Ringo's back as he sat on my lap. He must have realized I needed him for moral support.
I had always been terrible with names. Someone could introduce themselves to me and I couldn’t recall their name fifteen seconds later, especially when I was nervous. I’d started to give people little nicknames to help me out—usually something that described their personality, a physical trait, or while flying, what they were drinking. Sometimes it took me weeks to remember a moniker, but my little trick seemed to help.
Ogre O’Malley.
“And how did you know the deceased?” he asked.
“Well, he was our neighbor,” I said. “He watched our cat for us when we were out of town.”
“We?”
“Yes. My roommate Donna and me.”
“What do you do that takes you out of town?” he asked, jotting down some notes.
“We're stewardesses for Cross Country Airlines.”
He glanced up at me, then shook his head and I had an idea of what he was thinking. Stews had a reputation as easy party girls, and for some, like Donna, that was true. Even the airline's advertising played up this rumor. However, I had become a stew simply because I wanted to travel, see new places and experience new things. I wasn't quite ready for marriage, and college wasn't an option for me.
“And can you tell me how you managed to find Mr...”
“Mr. Bernard,” I replied, blowing a cloud of smoke above me. “Charles Bernard.”
“Why were you in his apartment?”
“Like I said, he babysat our cat for us. I'd just gotten home, and I went to retrieve Ringo. I noted his door was open, so I walked in, thinking he might not have heard me with the television on.”
“His door was open? As in ajar?”
I shook my head. “No. Unlocked.”
He furrowed his brow as he continued to take notes. “Did you often barge into his apartment like that?”
As I stubbed out my cigarette in irritation, I wished I had poured a glass of wine. “I didn't barge in on him. I knocked many times and thought he couldn't hear me. When I realized the door was unlocked I went in and found him.”
The cop seemed to be making something nefarious out of my innocent actions, and it grated on me. However, I'd been taught to respect authority, so I'd hold my tongue. Instead, I smiled sweetly, hoping to hide my annoyance.
“Okay. What can you tell me about him?”
What did I know about my neighbor? Actually, quite a bit, and I didn't like speaking of him. It felt like gossip to me and it was rude to gossip about the dead.
“Anything you can tell me may help solve the case,” Officer O'Malley said gently.
A knock sounded at the open door, and I
