Murder at midnight—a terrible inconvenience for Harold Dempsey. He lit a cigarette while navigating his ’56 Chevy over the Cermack Road Bridge with his knee, the Chicago River beneath him. Crows feet pinched his soft blue eyes as he scanned the skyline. The spire of the Prudential building shone white and pierced the night sky, soaring over Chicago, but behind it lurked a rolling fog that would soon swallow the city.
“Why can’t this town just sleep?” he sighed.
That was the last thing Betty had said. Then she drifted back to sleep and he snuck out from under the sheets, away from the warmth of her naked, youthful skin, and into a suit, tie, and overcoat. After twenty years on the job, he insisted on looking the part no matter the hour. But he had forgotten his holster.
A hard right off Cermack—into a dark, expansive parking lot containing a single squad car on the far side of the parking lot nearest the brick warehouse. He approached and saw a policeman standing guard as a broad-shouldered man paced. Harold parked and stepped into the night.
“Morning,” Harold said gruffly to the young officer. “How’m I starting my Sunday?”
“I’m Ricky”—
“Not your name, his.”
“This is Douglas Brown, sir—janitor here. He found the body of a woman inside the warehouse.”
“Just any woman?” Harold’s cigarette bounced on his lips.
“It’s my supervisor’s wife,” the janitor said. No longer pacing, he stared with unblinking, bloodshot eyes that punched through the dark. “Sir.”
The fog stood closer—just outside the chain link fence that lined the property.
“Ricky, park your squad at that entrance. It’s the only way in and out of here, and the suspect may still be on the premises,” and he eyed the janitor. “You—show me what you found.”
Inside—only a fraction of the overhead lights were lit. Shadows were many. They walked down an aisle lined with pallets stacked high, smelling of freshly hewn lumber. Harold stayed two steps behind Douglas. At the end of the aisle came a clearing, and there lay the contorted body of a woman. Harold crouched—a closer look: her pale, delicate hands curled lifelessly; slender legs pointing from her skirt in vulnerable ways; and bouncing blonde curls—just like Betty—only matted with blood, and beneath them, an open skull.
Harold stood and contemplated the massive man clad in tattered blue coveralls.
“How ‘bout a smoke?”
“Yes, sir.”
Harold shook free a cigarette from the pack. The janitor plucked it and put it between quivering lips. Harold struck a match and held it up toward the big man’s mouth. The janitor cupped his hand around Harold’s, and it was nearly twice the size, with calloused skin and jagged fingernails, black as night.
And it smelled like bleach.
“Douglas—that’s your name, right?” Harold’s tone softened. The janitor nodded. “Where were you just before you found this woman?”
“Well,” the janitor said slowly. “I guess I was up in my janitor’s room, fixing to mop the supervisor’s office once he left.”
“How ‘bout you take me there, Douglas?”
“Yes, sir.”
They went in silence. Inside the janitor’s room, the pungent smell of bleach stung Harold’s nose. A lone light bulb and fixture hung from a wire in a corner, leaving the room dim. Harold pointed to a folding chair.
“Have a seat, Douglas. You’ve had a rough night.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does the supervisor’s wife visit often?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Saturday nights?”
“Lately, sir, yes. Mr. Carpenter’s been ill, and she’s been assumin’ his place.”
“Did you like Mrs. Carpenter, Douglas?”
The janitor lowered his head.
“Douglas? Did you like your supervisor’s wife?”
“I don’t like the way she talk to me, sir. She ain’t kind as Mr. Carpenter. And she ain’t kind to Mr. Carpenter.”
“What does that mean, Douglas?”
“I don’t want no trouble, sir”—
“You can tell me, Douglas.”
“There’s talk of Mrs. Carpenter takin’ other men,” Douglas whispered, and then leaned forward, his eyes like full moons, his lips slick and trembling. “Talk that she’s uh… a whore, sir.”
Harold moved close.
“Is Mr. Carpenter still on site, Douglas?”
The janitor shrugged, tears in his eyes. Poking free from his pant pocket: a roll of bills—hundreds.
“Stay here,” Harold ordered, and flicked his cigarette as he ran back toward the body. He rounded the corner and stopped.
A man in dark slacks and a leisure shirt, staring at a pool of blood, but Mrs. Carpenter’s body was gone.
Harold exclaimed: “Costello?”
The man jumped back.
“Harry! Sonovabitch,” the man stammered and walked toward Harold. “They called you, too? Nothing here but a little pool of blood. Someone needs a bandage, it looks like”—
“Costello, there was a body here a fucking minute ago!”
“Harry, easy. You’re out of your jurisdiction here, okay?”
“I’ve got a witness that says suspect is on the premises. We need to”—
“Harry, I’ve got the guys searching already. It’s secure. Go home. Get lucky with Betty, okay?”
“The witness,” Harold said. “He knows more.”
“You know me, Harry. I’ll beat the truth out of him if I have to. I’ll find out what happened to her.”
Outside—he lit a fresh cigarette. Fog had squatted over everything, including his car, alone in the lot.
Where did Costello park?
A narrow sidewalk led around the building and continued into the fog, descending toward the river. The smell: dead fish. Nearer now—water lapped the dock, producing a rhythmic thump.
Tied to the dock Harold found a canoe, rocking on easy waves, and an anxious man beside who froze, hands covered in blood. Then he saw blonde curls beneath plastic: Mrs. Carpenter’s body lay inside a clear bag. Beside her: two cinder blocks, another bag, and rope. Then Harold remembered Costello’s quips: Nothing but a pool of blood…. I’ll find out what happened to her.
Her.
“Harry,” came the voice from the fog behind him. “I’ll bet Betty’s missin’ you.”
Submission for NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest (Round 1; July 2017). Assigned genre/location/object: mystery/warehouse/canoe. Thousand-word maximum word count.
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