The last time they’d investigated one of these it had ended well enough, the officers discovering that the elderly occupant wasn’t dead at all but instead had run off to a bunco tournament with a hairdresser from Port St. Lucie. Each case was different, though.
Any cop would say as much.
After having knocked on the door and announced themselves not once but twice—and not having received a response of any kind—the officers waited while the building superintendent jangled his ring of keys and then let them into the apartment. Immediately and to the left an exotic bird in an ornate cage set his eyes upon them and began dancing, slowly, side to side.
Look at that parrot, Orcutt said.
That’s not a parrot, Hernandez replied. That’s a cockatoo.
Raymond, the super said from the doorway. That’s his name.
The bird raised his crest, ruffled his plumage. BONJOUR!
Hernandez cracked a smile. And bonjour to you, he said, tapping a light finger on the cage.
Marie’s just crazy about that bird, the super said.
The officers began scouting around the living area. On the sofa were two thin blankets, a mashed pillow, another pillow—kind of nest situation going on, apparently. To the right, on a chair, a copy of Family Circle; also, a copy of Le Monde. In the kitchen, a small bag of Carte Noire sat on the counter by the coffeemaker. Next to that, a half-empty container of box wine. Some mac and cheese cold on the stove. On the fridge, a sticky note (jus d’orange, written in a feminine hand, followed by pommes, bouillon, and fromage). Along the wall opposite was a small TV set, a desk with an old laptop computer. Photographs above that—family, presumably. Several photographs. Some color, some black and white. Hernandez wondered about the brunette posed offhandedly with a pair of attendant, tragically hip teenagers. Was she the daughter from Montréal?
The super lingered in the doorway. The only complaint anybody’s made about Marie, he continued, is maybe she plays her radio a little loud.
Hernandez nodded.
That classic rock stuff, you know. That’s what she likes. Schmaltz. But she’s a sweetheart.
Raymond began to climb the side of the cage. Soon he was hanging upside down, comfortably. Then he climbed down to his perch.
In a lewd gravelly turn Raymond grumbled, TALK DIRTY TO ME, BABY!
Hernandez shot a bemused glance at Orcutt. They carried on.
Advanced down the tight hallway.
Let’s check the bedroom, Hernandez said.
On a nightstand was a tray of meds: Mitotane, Lynparza, Ixempra.
Cancer drugs.
And with those: Tramadol and Roxicet.
Painkillers.
Not good, Hernandez said.
Seriously, his partner agreed, examining one of the bottles.
My mother-in-law was on that one, Hernandez said. Didn’t help. Too little, too late.
They returned the bottles to the tray and moved around the room. Kept moving, yet pausing here and there to examine one thing or other: on the dresser, a leather day planner (red/empty); a hardcover title (Understanding Your Health); a trade paperback (Astrology and Your Health); a pocket bible (French/English); costume jewelry; ceramic figurines (bulldog, cherubs); more figurines (ballerina, baby ducks); on the floor, laundry; nearby, more laundry; at the closet’s threshold, a tidewrack of worn slippers, old sneakers, and collateral footwear.
Looks like Cindy’s room, Hernandez said. A disaster. Don’t have kids, Pete.
From the hallway they heard Raymond again.
WHEN THE LIGHTS … GO DOWN … IN THE CEEE-TAYYY.
Orcutt dropped his head, savoring a sudden gust of Zen.
Who sang that, Hernandez asked. That’s Journey, right? He hummed a few bars, bobbled his head in awkward rhythm. Pretty sure that’s Journey, he said. Am I right?
Orcutt rolled his eyes. Before my time, Boomer.
Something of a tipsy mood had settled over them. An air of the absurd.
But they weren’t smiling when they found the bathroom door locked.
~
Edward Miller teaches writing at Madera Community College. Included among his areas of interest are outsider art, street photography, and the American vernacular.