“We have six active homicides, including your homeless guy who honestly ranks low on the list. You coming back soon?”
“Can I work Pauly’s case?”
“Who?”
“The homeless guy had a name—Paul Leenstra. Can I work his case if I come back?”
“Sure. As long as you clear at least three other cases at the same time.”
“You know I’m not the only detective, right? What’s the problem?”
“Henley’s wife had her baby and he’s on paternity leave. Jameson is home with the flu. Keller is on vacation. I have a handful of support staff and rookie detectives, but no one other than Ford to help me lead them. We need you back.”
We walked down the hall toward the stairwell. An offensive aroma struck my nostrils, and I used my arm to cover my nose and mouth. “What the hell?”
“The smell from the dead homeless guy seems to be getting worse, not better,” Sergeant Quille said, covering his face with his sleeve. “I’m surprised it hasn’t cleared out yet. The landlord should prop the doors open.”
“The landlord doesn’t live in the building, but if the smell was from the DB in the lobby, I’d have heard about it. Most of the cops in our zone took their coffee breaks this morning in my apartment.” I jogged up the stairs toward the third floor. The higher I climbed, the worse the smell was, choking me by the time I reached the upper landing.
Sergeant Quille had followed me and when we turned into the third-floor hall, we both had to backtrack to the landing as we coughed from the stench.
I set my purse on the floor, pulling out a pack of tissue. I stuffed pieces of tissue up my nose. “Call this in. We need the medical examiner.” I pulled a pair of latex gloves from my purse.
“We haven’t confirmed a body yet,” he said as he grabbed the pack of tissues to bundle a wad under his nose.
“By the time they get a van here, we will have.” I walked over to the stairwell window and looked down into the parking lot. “Todd Miller’s car isn’t here. I saw Felicia Rankin leave for work this morning, and the single guy who lives above my apartment went to Vegas for the weekend. Damn it. Roseline.” I turned back, pulling my gloves on before grabbing my keys.
“Why damn? Is she a friend?”
“No. But Roseline was the neighbor I was on my way to talk to. She knew Pauly.”
“I don’t remember her name being mentioned in the report.”
“That’s because I didn’t tell anyone about her. She’s an illegal. She wouldn’t have co-operated with a cop in uniform, but she would’ve talked to me. She works nights so I was waiting until she got home. I planned on getting the details and forwarding them to whichever detective was assigned the case.”
Quille coughed into the wad of tissue. “In theory, sounds like a solid plan.” He moved his arm over his nose and mouth. “But I’m thinking someone should’ve checked on her this morning.” He glanced down the hall. “Which door is hers? It’s been a decade since I’ve kicked in a door.”
I held my keys up. “No need. I have the master for the building.”
“Why would the landlord give you a master?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.
“He didn’t. I borrowed an impression of his key when he came to fix my sink a few years ago.”
“I didn’t hear that.” Sergeant Quille turned away to make the 911 call.
I approached the last apartment on the right. I was already coughing from the stench as I checked the door, finding it unlocked. I turned the knob and stepped inside, my stomach rolling when I saw what remained of Roseline. I’d been on plenty of gruesome calls before, but between what I saw and the realization that the body was someone I knew, I bolted from the apartment as I started gagging.
I ran past Sergeant Quille, down the three flights of stairs, and outside into the already scalding hot morning sun. Leaping forward, I grabbed hold of the front fender of my old pickup before doubling over and hurling my turkey sandwich. I was still spitting up the remnants when I heard sirens approaching. I stood, swayed, and felt Sergeant Quille’s hand on my shoulder.
I looked back and saw he was sweaty and pale, close to losing his own lunch. He handed me my purse and I dug some gum out, offering him a piece which he waved off.
I glanced up at the building to the third floor. “One of us should go back up there and open the windows.”
“Not happening,” Sergeant Quille said. “Next person who enters needs a hazmat suit and a tank of oxygen.” He coughed into his hand, followed by taking a deep breath. “As soon as you opened that door it was like breaking the seal on an old refrigerator and the stench just exploded.”
“As bad as the smell is, the heat was worse. The A/C is off. The blinds are open. The apartments bake in the afternoon on the west side of the building which is why I have an east view.”
“And the body? I didn’t look inside.”
I shrugged, spitting toward the curb. “Her body is lying in front of the windows.” I didn’t need to further explain. Quille had been a cop long enough to image the scene. The dried blood cemented to the body. The bloating. The rapid decay and liquifying of internal organs.
I walked to the other end of my truck and dropped the tailgate. I hopped up to sit and wait. Quille leaned against the back-quarter panel and directed the arriving cops, turning some away to return to other crime-stopping activities. Several
