The file arrived on my desk at 4:50 pm on a Friday. Remains of my fourth cup of coffee lay like sludge in the styrofoam cup on my desk, their rancid smell urging me to peel out early if I could go unnoticed. Karl tossed the file from the doorway, his favorite way to startled me if he caught me in a near-relaxed daze.
"Look alive, Frank, I need you to look into this."
I looked up at him with the kind of incredulous disdain you can only give a close friend, and he smiled.
"Just give a look over a maybe drive by? Stuff seems stranger than fiction if you ask me."
He turned on his heel and strode down the hallway, pleased with himself to have the smallest authority with which he could pass-on crappy cases to other detectives, i.e., me.
Photos, a few handwritten notes, and a typed memo from the Sheriff's department were paperclipped inside the folder, anchored to a perp file with a photo of what looked to be someone's grandmother. The little old lady is pictured in a plush chair at home, peering over a small book through cloudy reading glasses.
I looked up and around wondering if I'd just been punk'd. It was 5:05 pm, the office was nearly silent. I start flipping through the file and pull out some of the sheets.
Reading the typed memo, I rub my eyes to make sure they aren't playing tricks on me.
"Mrs. Clinton currently resides at 945 Palisade St in the Venetian Isles mobile home park. She walks her dog daily at 7:45 am and 5:45 pm, recorded for two weeks by officers DeLoitte and Nunez.
Neighbor and Venetian Isles resident Bertha Bennett told officer DeLoitte, "In the last six months, we've had more people leave this neighborhood, often unexpectedly or under cover of night, than ever before. I retired here 27 years ago, and that woman, recently transplanted here by her two kids, who seem odd in their own right, is a bad omen."
Another resident, who pressed to remain anonymous out of fear of reprisal, told officer Nunez, "I used to walk my dog on Mrs. Clinton's street. One more, around 6 am, when I usually make my first loop of the day, I was accosted by the rotting smell of her trash. Minding my own business, I went about my day, made four more loops, and it appeared that the trash service was going to miss the day.
Later that night, around 10 pm when I was making my last loop, I saw that her lights were off and ventured to open her trash can. What I saw was so disturbing, I ran all the way home."
When asked what she saw, she was visibly distressed and had to be coaxed to share the rest of the story.
At this point, I'm wasn't entirely sure why I'm reading a narrative about one old lady going through another old lady's trash. Still, I'm already invested in the outcome, so I read on.
"There was a dress, one that looked just like Mrs. Liddell, who lived only two streets up before she mysteriously disappeared two weeks ago. Mrs. Liddell didn't have any children, and her husband died ten years ago. She was all alone here. But that wasn't all.
So much yarn, tangled in knots and sticky, though it was dark so I couldn't see with what. And, buried beneath the dress and just the tip sticking out, a knitting needle. Splattered with something thick and brown, so its brass finish only barely shone."
Our source asked us to leave after this conversation and told us to never contact her again. We attempted to reach her family, but they appear to have died or have married into new namesakes."
A knitting needle? A thick and brown substance - does she mean blood?
It's 5:15 pm. I picked up one of the handwritten notes and squint to read the messy handwriting:
"Anonymous source is Mrs. Diane Bell of 876 Garden Court, Venetian Isles mobile home park. She has been reported missing by neighbors Mrs. Betty Liddell and Joan DiMacchio at 4:30 pm on January 3."
That's today. That was almost an hour ago.
"Sources claim Mrs. Diane Bell has not been seen for three days since the death of her daughter, Denise, to whose funeral she was expected but did not attend. We have issued a silver alert at the request of her last living relative, fourteen-year-old granddaughter Greta, the only survivor of Mrs. Bell's daughter, Denise."
I look from my desk clock to my watch to the clock on the wall. It's nearly 5:30 pm. My wife is probably making meatloaf with gravy, my favorite. Technically, I'm off the clock. I can look into this on Monday.
A knitting needle?
I grab my briefcase, the file, and the sludge that's left of my cup of coffee. Venetian Isles is about eight minutes away. I'll make it in time for that second dog walk, and hopefully, I'll be home before dinner at six.
