Westminster-Canterbury.
Retirees live here.
They’ve worked hard, and now they’re only duty is to relax.
In this building they live and thrive in safety.
But when that safety is shattered, I’m the one that cleans
up the shards.
I’m a Security officer.
My name’s Osberg.
My partner: Popovich.
It was a night like any other. My partner and I were making
our usual rounds of the towers when we got a call from our manager, Joe.
“I need a 10-25 in my office,” Joe chimes in on the radio.
“10-4,” I respond.
As my partner and I make our way to Joe’s office, we notice
an elderly lady having trouble with a door. “Allow me, ma’am,” I say, and hold
the door wide so she can pass without incident.
“Hey Joe,” Popovich says as we enter the office.
“Yo, I need you guys to come in and close the door for a
second; we’ve got a problem.”
“What’s the trouble?” I respond, as an uneasy feeling
envelopes me. I’ve had this feeling before. It usually precludes an incident
involving some low life scum that doesn’t know the difference between right and
stupid.
“Have a seat,” says Joe. “I just took a report from the Mrs.
Hershey in apartment 772. She says she was cooking up a couple of pork chops
for her and her dog, when she needed to leave to deliver a parcel to the front
desk. She was gone from 3:30 P.M. until about 3:50 P.M. When she returned, the
pork chops were gone. All that was left were a few bones and a grease stain on
the wall.”
“That doesn’t bode well,” I say as I stroke my beard. I’ve
been letting it grow for a couple of months now. It’s a little itchy and some
residents don’t like how it looks. But when you’re in my line of work, it helps
to cover up any emotion you may be showing. Residents depend on me, and I can’t
let that get in the way of professionalism.
“I’ve already taken a
statement and a couple photos. Just need you to review it,” says Joe. “We also
have a slight description of a suspect. It’s a lady, 5’11” with curly brown
hair and glasses. A resident down the hall said she saw the suspect walking
away from the room in the same space of time.”
“Is that all we’ve got so far?” says Popovich.
“Afraid so,” says Joe. “We can’t do a lot for the victim.
But I’ve spoken to my boss, and the pork chops will be replaced.”
“Yeah, but what about the time to cook ‘em,” I say as we
leave. Crooks get under my skin. And this one’s under; way under.
Back at our office I look up Joe’s report on the computer,
finding it in the missing items folder. In the report is everything Joe told
us, including the witness’ name, apartment number, and telephone extension.
Name: Mrs. Troubedour.
I pick up the phone and dial.
“Hello?” an elderly female voice answers.
“Yes, this is Security Officer Osberg. I’ve been informed
that you may have witnessed a robbery. Can you tell me what you saw?”
“Oh, thank you for calling back so promptly!” she says with
delight. “I’ve been talking to all my neighbors about it. Just terrible! It’s
getting so you can’t even cook dinner without these crooks grabbing it right
from under your nose. Say, just the other day I was in the dining room and saw
a visitor take the last chocolate mousse just as a resident was getting ready
to purchase it. Terrible!”
“It would be advisable to keep open cases under wraps until
they’re resolved, ma’am,” I say. “Could you tell me what you saw concerning
Mrs. Hershey?”
“Oh, yes!” she says. I can tell she’s taken a seat and is
reclining as a sigh of exultation escapes her breath. “It was around 3:45 P.M.
I was taking my trash out when a lady was walking away from Mrs. Hersey’s room.
I thought she kind of looked like a friend of mine from when I lived in
Vermont. You know, it’s funny how some people remind you of others.”
“Just the facts, ma’am,” I say.
“Of course,” she says, a little annoyed. “Anyway, I kept looking
and she kept just right on a’ walking. I thought I should say hello, but
didn’t. You know she was walking away from me and all. She got on the elevator
and that’s the last I saw of her.”
“Can you think of anything else about her?” I say. “Was she
carrying anything on her person?”
“Well, yes!” she says. “She was carrying a broom and
dustpan. That’s why she reminded me of my friend so much; always sweeping that
porch. I never seen someone clean a porch so carefully.”
As I hang up the phone, Popovich returns from parking a car.
He’s wearing his jacket, as its cold outside.
“What’d ya find out?” he says.
“The suspect is a housekeeper,” I say. “Name: Trish Kimble.”
At 8:07 P.M. my partner and I find the suspect in the 3rd
floor janitor’s closet, rinsing out a mop.
“Good evening,” I say cordially.
“Evening,” she responds hesitantly. “Something I can help
you two with?”
“Yes ma’am,” I say. “We have reason to believe that you were
on the 7th floor earlier this afternoon around 3:45. I understand
that it’s not your assigned area. Would you mind telling us what your business
was on that floor?”
“Well,” she says. “I was checking to see if the janitor’s
closet had an extra broom and dustpan. I couldn’t find mine, and I knew that
the assigned housekeeper was already done using it. I borrowed them and had
them returned as soon as I was finished.”
Her story checks out. We say thank you and leave her to
finish her work. A hunch is burrowing its way in my gut; the kind that doesn’t
go away. You swallow hard to drown it, but it shoves its way back just as hard.
I make my way to Mrs. Hershey’s apartment.
After ringing the bell twice and waiting, it’s apparent that
the victim isn’t home. I radio down to the front desk that I’m entering and use
my key to open the door. A chill runs down my spine. I can’t shake it. The
grease is still on the wall, the pork chops are still missing, and there’s a stench
lingering in the cozy apartment air. The shades are drawn and the antique lamps
dimly light the apartment. I pull out my flashlight and start looking.
There on the floor lay the dog; dead. Part of a pork bone
sticking out of his mouth with vomit stained carpet surrounding it. It had been
lying there for a couple of hours.
I pick up the phone and let Joe know about the deceased dog
and the pork bone.
Popovich arrives soon after I finish on the phone with Joe.
He looks sad and disgusted.
“At least we know one thing,” I say.
“What’s that?” he quips.
“I don’t know about rolling old men, but you don’t give a
dog a bone.”
