Rancor: Sinister Attachments, Book 1 Page 13

  When Maggie had finished showering, she walked into the living room. Ethel was still snoring on the couch. A thin line of drool ran from her mouth, down her cheek, and onto the pillow.

  “Ethel, are you awake?” Maggie wanted to let her know that she was going up to her apartment, but Ethel was out. Too much booze and pills, she thought. She would come back down when she finished and leave a note for Ethel if she were still not awake.

  Maggie held her apartment key in her hand as she walked out of Ethel's door. The storm had passed, and the sun was shining; there were no signs of Bruce, Debbie, or Susie. She closed the door and walked to Mr. Zimmerman's office; he was not there. I should speak with him before I leave, she thought.

  She looked toward the staircase. Was it safe to climb? She tiptoed toward it. Maybe she should wait for Ethel to wake up and have her go with her to get the rest of her belongs. However, she knew Ethel would not go with her because she did not want her to go back into the apartment. Maggie kept walking toward the stairs, looking up at the second floor and listening. There were no sounds of people, or spirits, moving around; only the sound of occasional clicks and taps in the walls.

  The summer sun cast warm rays into the building, making her think that it had the capability of repelling evil. Just as fictional vampires exposed to sunlight will spontaneously combust, maybe these spirits would react the same way. Had she seen them in the sunlight? They were always inside the building. Then she thought, there is no such thing as vampires, and even if there were, these lost souls were not vampires.

  Maggie reached the top step on the second floor and looked over at her apartment door; it was closed. She looked up the next flight of stairs leading to the third floor and Mr. Zimmerman's apartment. Maybe she should speak with him first, tell him she was moving out, and then come down and get the rest of her things.

  She walked around to the third flight and looked toward the top. She had never been on the third floor. One light foot at a time, she climbed the stairs. If it were not for the sound of the soles of her shoes grinding dirt into the wood steps, there was no sound. She felt alone in the building. All alone and frightened.

  When she reached the top floor, she noticed a sign next to an apartment door with the superintendent's name on it. That must be Mr. Zimmerman's apartment.

  She walked across the hall and knocked gently on the door, not wanting to draw attention to the fact she was upstairs.

  There was no answer. She knocked again, this time a little louder. Still no answer. Where was Mr. Zimmerman? He has not been answering his phone or in his office. Maybe he was hurt or sick and needed help, she thought, as she turned his doorknob. The door opened.

  “Mr. Zimmerman, it's Maggie,” she said from the doorway. “Are you home?”

  There was no answer. She would need to go inside and check on him. Maybe he had a stroke or a heart attack and was lying ill on the floor. She walked inside the L-shaped living room. His apartment was larger than hers was, she thought as she called his name again.

  The living room had magazines stacked on the floor next to a recliner and smelled of rotten meat. A TV tray with a half-eaten plate of food sat next to it. When she walked closer, she noticed flies on the food and the stench of something more rotten than a TV dinner.

  Her heart pounded rapidly; she knew something was wrong because the bit of food on the plate could not cause the gagging odor filling his apartment. She forced herself to look around the corner of the room toward the bedroom. The door was open. She kept her hands over her nose as she walked closer. When she looked inside, she screamed. Mr. Zimmerman was lying face down with all four limbs tied taut to the legs of his bed. Whoever did this to the poor man did not stop there; they had taken something sharp and stabbed his back repeatedly.

  Maggie was shaking as she searched for Mr. Zimmerman's phone. Finding a wall phone by the kitchen, she picked it up and dialed 9-1-1. As she spoke with the dispatcher, she heard someone climbing the stairs.

  “I hear someone,” she whispered, looking toward the open apartment door.

  THIRTY-THREE

  She dropped the phone, leaving the receiver dangling by its coiled cord, and ran to the door. She was about to close it when she noticed that it was Ethel, limping up the steps like a resurrected mummy pursuing the archeologists who disturbed his tomb.

  “Ethel, thank God,” Maggie said, running up to her. “I’m talking to nine-one-one, you stay here, and I’ll be right back.”

  Maggie went back into the apartment, picked up the phone, and continued speaking to the dispatcher. She hung up as Ethel walked inside.

  “Is Mr. Zimmerman . . . dead?” Ethel took the scarf from around her head and used it to cover her nose.

  Maggie nodded. “We’re supposed to leave his apartment so that we don’t contaminate anything. I’ll open the front door when the police get here.”

  Maggie helped Ethel set down on the top step. “Did you see Mr. Zimmerman?”

  Maggie nodded and looked at the floor. She did not want to talk about it.

  “Did he have a coronary . . . or was it something else?”

  “Something else.”

  Ethel took a cigar from her pocket and lit it.

  “I don’t know if you should smoke that, it might contaminate the area.”

  “It’ll mask the smell and besides, I’m too sore to walk back down the steps.”

  Maggie agreed and walked down the hallway to a window where she would see the police driving down the driveway. They waited in silence, occasionally giving each other a reassuring smile.

  “They’re here. I’ll be right back,” Maggie said, walking past Ethel and down the staircase. She let the officers in and took them up to Mr. Zimmerman’s apartment.

  After an officer had instructed Ethel to stop smoking, he wrote down Maggie and Ethel’s names and addresses while another police officer set up a boundary with yellow crime scene tape and orange cones. He questioned both of them about their accounts of the incident as a man with a tie came up the stairs. When he got closer, Maggie noticed he had a police badge on the left breast and a firearm clipped to the belt of dark-gray dress slacks.

  “Hi, Detective Becker,” the officer said, turning his attention from Maggie and Ethel to the detective.

  Detective Becker stepped past Ethel, still sitting on the top step, and smiled at Maggie as he walked into the crime scene with the officer.

  Ethel looked up at Maggie and grinned. “He’s a crime scene investigator, like on TV . . . and he likes you.”

  “Shush, not so loud,” Maggie said, blushing. “They’ll hear you.”

  Ethel groaned as she changed position. “Are they done with us yet? My butt is getting sore.”

  Maggie listened to the conversations in Mr. Zimmerman’s apartment. She heard someone mention that the weapon that inflicted the fatal wounds had not been found. And that, even though, the victim had been dead for a few days, there appeared to be recent stab wounds, as well. It was Susie, Maggie thought. She had a knife and had gone to the third floor. But Susie was a ghost. Can a ghost use a real knife and kill someone?

  The detective took his gloves off, disposed of them, and walked out of the apartment and up to Maggie. “Hi, I’m Detective John Becker, the crime scene investigator. Are you Margaret McGee?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I’m Maggie.”

  “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “No, not at all,” Maggie said, looking at the handsome detective. He was about her age and seemed to have a gentle demeanor by the way he carried himself with a calm self-assurance.

  “Officer Kline already briefed me on your answers to his questions, but I was wondering how many times you have been here, at Mr. Zimmerman’s apartment.”

  “This is the first time. I moved in only a couple weeks ago.”

  “Your apartment is 22C on the second floor, correct?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

 
“Have you seen anyone come up to this floor?”

  “I saw Susie . . .” She stopped speaking mid-sentence. Susie was a spirit from the past. Then movement caught her attention over the detective’s right shoulder. Debbie and Bruce were standing several feet behind him. She stared at them as they laughed at her.

  “Who is Susie?” the detective asked.

  Maggie could not take her eyes off the two of them. “She’s ah . . .”

  Ethel grunted as she stood up, moved toward Maggie, and stood next to her.

  Detective Becker watched Maggie’s eyes. “What are you looking at?”

  Maggie pointed past the detective. “Do you see them?”

  He turned around. “See who?”

  “Debbie and Bruce; they live on the second floor.” Maggie looked back at the detective, knowing he was beginning to doubt her integrity. “I mean, they used to live there.”

  “Are you seeing them now?” He kept glancing at Maggie and the hall behind him.

  She shook her head even though she was still looking at them. “I’m sorry; I haven’t had much sleep lately. My husband committed suicide several weeks ago, and I guess I’m just not back to myself.”

  “When was the last time Susie came here?” he asked. His voice was not as soft as when he had first begun speaking with her.

  “Yesterday . . . No, I don’t know.” Maggie knew she was beginning to sound crazy.

  “You’re a guilty, stupid bitch,” Debbie said as Bruce pulled her closer. Then she spoke louder, “Detective, Detective, Maggie killed Mr. Zimmerman.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Maggie snapped. “Stop accusing me.”

  Detective Becker looked surprised. “Who’s accusing you?”

  Maggie shook her head and began to cry.

  “She needs rest,” Ethel said, touching Maggie’s arm. “She’s been through a lot.”

  “How long have you known Maggie?” Detective Becker asked.

  Ethel looked at the floor then up at the detective. “Only a couple weeks but we’ve become good friends.”

  “Have you seen anyone come up here?”

  “No, no I haven’t.”

  “Have you seen anyone else on the second floor?”

  She shook her head. “No. The only other person I’ve seen in the building is her friend, and that was a week ago.”

  Bruce walked up directly behind Detective Becker and began speaking next to his ear. “Maggie killed him. Maggie killed him. Maggie killed him.”

  “Don’t listen to him, he’s lying to you,” Maggie said as tears rolled down her face. She looked away from Bruce’s fiendish glare.

  “Who’s lying to me?”

  “Bruce.” Maggie sobbed. “Bruce and Debbie are lying.”

  As the officers took bags of evidence from the apartment, the first responding officer came out and stood next to the detective. “Do you need me to make a call?”

  The detective looked back at Maggie. “Ma’am, would you like me to call a counselor for you?”

  Maggie did not answer as she watched Bruce and Debbie continue to talk as if the detective could hear every word they were saying. Maybe his subconscious could, she thought. If that was the case, she was doomed.

  “She’ll be fine. She can stay with me.” Ethel said, pulling on Maggie’s hand. “Dear, come with me . . . if you’re done questioning us, Detective.” She looked at the detective with sweet old-lady eyes.

  Detective Becker gave them both his business card. “I’ll be back in touch with both of you soon. Call me if you think of anything regarding this case.”

  Ethel took the cards. “Thank you, Detective, we will. Come along, Maggie.”

  The detective and the officer watched as Ethel, limping from her sore hip, guided Maggie to the elevator.

  “We need to keep an eye on them,” the officer said, crossing his arms.

  “I agree.” Detective Becker did not stop watching them until the elevator door closed.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Ethel noticed Maggie had pushed the second-floor button. “Maggie, you're going with me to my apartment, not yours.”

  She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I need to get my phone charger. I won't be long.”

  The elevator bounced to a stop on the second floor. Then, when the cab decided it was ready, the door rumbled open. Maggie and Ethel stepped out.

  “I'll be right back.” Maggie walked across the hall to her apartment, avoiding the temptation to look at Bruce and Debbie's doors. When she got to hers, she noticed it was unlocked. Not surprising because of the speed at which her and Ethel had left the apartment yesterday.

  Maggie left the door open and walked inside while Ethel stood in the hall. She went into her bedroom and unplugged the phone charger from the wall. She looked around. There were still lots of things she wanted to take with her, so she opened her big rolling suitcase and began taking the remaining clothes from the closet and dresser draws. Then she went to the bathroom and began collecting things that would not fit into her backpack yesterday. She pushed the shower curtain aside and took the wet shampoo and conditioner bottles out. She would need to dry them off before putting them into her suitcase. I will just put them in the laundry basket, she thought as she walked out of the bathroom.

  The basket was still sitting next to the bathroom door. When she dropped the bottles onto the dirty towels, she heard a dull clunk, there was something hard underneath them. However, nothing hard should be in the laundry basket. For a moment, she thought it was her video camera, but she had taken it yesterday, and besides, she never hid it in the laundry basket.

  Maggie bent over and slowly pushed a towel and the bottles to the side. She screamed. Not an ordinary scream of help me, but a cry of anguish; of I cannot take this anymore. She backed up to the wall and began hyperventilating.

  Detective Becker ran into the room while Ethel waited outside. He followed Maggie's eyes to the laundry basket. There, once hidden in the pile of dirty laundry, was a bloody knife. He put gloves on and inspected the curved blade, stained with blood.

  “Is this yours, Ms. McGee?” He looked at her with suspicion.

  Maggie stopped screaming, but she was still shaking uncontrollably. She could not stop the movements or even speak.

  Two other police officers came into the room with hands resting on their sidearms.

  “I think we found the weapon. It's a karambit and is designed for slashing.” The detective stood and looked at Maggie. He asked again, “Is this knife yours?”

  Maggie shook her head. “No, I've never seen it before.” Movement behind the detective caught her attention; it was Bruce and Debbie. “Go away, leave me alone.”

  “Ms. McGee, I'm not leaving.”

  “Not you, them,” she said, pointing toward Bruce and Debbie. Part of her mind knew she was making things worse by talking about people no one, other than Ethel, could see.

  Debbie walked in front of the detective and spoke directly to him. “Detective, it's Maggie's weapon. She did it. She killed our beloved superintendent, Mr. Carl Zimmerman.” She pretended to pout and then she turned and looked at Maggie. “What are you going to do, Maggie, kill him, too? Go ahead, grab the knife and hack him, hack him to death. Do it now you witch, you murderous whore. Kill him.”

  Maggie stood there, her limbs moving as if she was having a seizure. She looked at the knife and then at the detective who was not taking his eyes off her. “No, I'm not going to kill. I'm not.”

  The two officers approached Maggie and handcuffed her and began reading the Miranda warning, “You have the right to remain silent. If you do say anything, it can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to a lawyer present during any question. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you if you so desire. Do you understand these rights?”

  Maggie was preoccupied with Debbie and Bruce's laughter and taunting. She could not stop crying as she repeated, �
�Leave me alone; just leave me alone.” She would have begun banging her head against the wall to stop the thoughts, stop the visions, but an officer was gripping her handcuffed arm.

  Detective Becker approached her. “Maggie, they are going to take you to the police station. There are people there who can help you.”

  “Why are you being so nice to her, Detective?” One officer asked as the other took Maggie out of the apartment. “She's the perp; it's plain as day.”

  Detective Becker ignored him. “Bag the evidence and search the apartment.”

  Maggie's brain had taken a leave of absence from its duty of rational thought. She was acting insane as she passed Ethel, not even acknowledging her words of getting to the bottom of this.

  Ethel went to the apartment door. “Detective Becker, I need to speak with you.”

  “In the hallway, please.” He watched as the officers took Maggie down the staircase and then looked at Ethel and the tears of black mascara streaming down her face. “I know this may sound crazy, but Maggie did not kill Mr. Zimmerman. It's this place, the spirits in this place. I know you don't believe me, but could you at least consider the possibility?”

  As officers began investigating Maggie's apartment, he said. “I'll look at all the evidence, ma'am.”

  Ethel watched as officers strung more yellow barrier tape, blocking all the upper levels of the building. An officer helped Ethel to the elevator. When she reached the lobby, she looked through the window and saw a squad car drive away, with Maggie inside.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  A young woman wearing a tight black skirt and holding a tablet in her hand poked her head into Nora Bella's office. “Pendleton Books called while you were at lunch. They want a change in Dane Slegers contract,” she cleared her throat, “they want us to take a smaller cut.”

  Nora Bella continued looking into the compact mirror and finished applying her red-wine lipstick. Then she checked her teeth, looking for pieces of parsley that may have lodged themselves in crevices, from the pasta she had at the deli. “Thanks, Yani.”