Black Iris: Chapter Thirteen
See Updated Chapter List Go to Previous Chapter
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
By the time I reach the street, the Phantom’s slack mouth is overflowing with rainwater. He has no pulse and his eyes are glazed over. After I call 911, I try three rounds of CPR, though I skip the mouth-to-mouth portion. Even if I wasn’t repulsed by the idea of touching my lips to his, my cat snout doesn’t allow me to make a tight seal. Not that it matters at this point.
My ears tell me the ambulance is exactly 12 blocks away to the southeast unless that siren is for a different emergency. It occurs to me that nobody knows who the Phantom really is. I check his pockets for ID and find nothing but a pen, $12 in cash, and a business card for reporter Cindy Dolans at the Daily Squawk. He’s written something on the back of the card — one word beginning with the letter “T” and another with the letter “G.” The ink has been smudged due to the rain.
Both the police and the EMT show up at the same time.
“Are you the guy who called this in?” a blonde mustached cop asks while the EMTs futilely try to revive the Phantom.
“Yeah. I was up in my apartment when it happened. I heard the tires screech, but by the time I looked out the window, the car was gone and he was just lying here.”
“So, you don’t know him?”
“No.”
The cop goes through the Phantom’s pockets and then gives me a suspicious look. “You didn’t take his wallet by any chance, did you?”
“Uh, no.”
“Hmm. Guy’s probably homeless, then.” He pats one of the EMTs on the shoulder. “Ok, fellas, you might as well take him away.”
They zip him up in a black bag and load him into the ambulance.
“So, where’s he going? I might try to get my hands on that raincoat after he’s been processed or whatever.”
The cop raises an eyebrow. “Most John Does end up at Kibble County Hospital. But, uh… the clothes are usually incinerated with the body.”
“Right. Just thought I’d ask.”
“Alright well, thanks for your help. Let me get your contact info in case we have any questions later. I doubt we will, but you never know.”
“Sure.” I hand him my card.
Both vehicles leave with blaring sirens after being at the scene for less than three minutes, and with them goes any indication that a man was just run over by a car. If there was any blood or debris, it’s already been washed away by the rain. Will I miss him? Not exactly, but I’m sadder than I would have expected. Maybe death just has more of an impact on me now.
A year ago, I was hit by a van in almost this exact same spot. It jumped up onto the sidewalk and crushed me against a mailbox, pulverizing my internal organs as well as the bag of gourmet donuts I was carrying. The Phantom was actually there to see it, or at least he arrived in time to watch me die in the arms of a Kibble detective I had scandalously hooked up with. Swardson is not a busy street. There’s only one lane, and there are several lights and crosswalks to slow down traffic. It wasn’t an accident when I was hit, and as much as I hate to admit it, the Phantom’s death probably wasn’t an accident either. It’s not hard to believe there are people who would want to kill him, but what about the other stuff he was saying? Is there really a complicated conspiracy involving all of Kibble’s major power players? If so, what is their ultimate goal?
The Phantom said that I might know something important but not realize it. He also asked about missing time, which makes me wonder if this has anything to do with the night I can’t remember. If so, is there a way to get my memory back? I have a feeling the Phantom knew more than he was telling me, but maybe I should consider his last bit of advice. Maybe it’s time to see if a certain nature photographer is back from South Africa.
***
When I arrive at the building, the window from which the air conditioner fell is closed. I ring the buzzer for Ed Smith in Unit 523, and as I expect, there’s no answer. I look into the black dome mounted on the ceiling and wonder who is looking back at me.
According to McCarthystein, cranky old lady Henrietta Feathers in Unit 519 had it out for me, but that might have been a lie. Even if it’s true, I doubt she remembers what my voice sounds like. The good news is it’s only 10:00 p.m. — still pretty late for a senior citizen, but not an ungodly hour. I buzz her unit.
“Hello,” she says, “who is it?”
“Hi, Mrs. Feathers, it’s Ed Smith from down the hall. Sorry to bother you so late, but I just came down to get the mail, and I guess I forgot my key, so now I’m locked out. Is there any chance you could buzz me in?”
“Ed who?”
“Smith. I live a couple doors down from you.”
She doesn’t answer. As I suspected, she appears not to know her neighbor. I buzz again, and she still doesn’t respond. I’m just about to try picking the lock when the elevator in the lobby opens, and a tiny silver-topped woman in a beige (maybe pink) bathrobe emerges.
This was not part of the plan. I figured she’d either buzz me in or tell me to get lost, and I hadn’t considered what I’d do if she showed up in person. She may not know her neighbor, but she knows he’s not a cat.
“You must be Ed,” she says, opening the front door. “Good to finally meet you.” Her eyes look like hockey pucks through her half-inch thick bifocals, and she smells cold and blue like stale menthol cough drops.
“Yes, ma’am. And you must be Mrs. Feathers. Nice to meet you, too, and thank you for coming down.” I don’t shake her hand. She might be too blind to see what I am, but if she felt my paw, it would definitely give me away.
She looks at my paws, and for a moment, I think I’m busted. “Where’s your mail?”
“Uh, there actually wasn’t any.”
“It’s just as well. It’s always just junk mail from the credit card companies, right?”
“Ha, yeah.”
She presses the “Up” button on the elevator. “So how long have you lived in the building?”
“Oh, a while now. I’m a nature photographer, though, so I’m not around much.”
“I’ve been here for almost 20 years. I like it just fine, but I preferred the old landlords. They used to let us sit out on the front lawn, but the new people put up that fence.”
The elevator is taking forever.
“Sorry to hear that. Say, would you think it terribly rude if I took the stairs? I’m trying to get my 10 thousand steps in for the day, and I’m still a few thousand short.”
She laughs. “No, that’ll be fine. It was nice meeting you.”
“Likewise. And thanks again for letting me in.”
When I get to the fifth floor, I hang out in the stairwell until I hear the ding of the elevator and watch through the glass until Mrs. Feathers is back in her apartment.
The door on Unit 523 looks new compared to the other ones on the floor, with a lever-style handle instead of a knob. It may have a more secure locking mechanism, but it’s actually easier for me to break. I just pull down on the lever until the internal components snap.
The door opens into a spacious living room. The blinds are drawn, but there’s still enough light coming in for my cat's eyes. Not that there is anything to see. The entire room is empty. No furniture, nothing on the walls, no bulbs in the light fixtures. Moving into the kitchen, the cupboards and drawers are bare, and the fridge is empty and unplugged. In the bedroom, it’s more of the same: no bed, no dresser, nothing hanging in the closet. The only sign that anyone has been in here at all is shoeprints in the dust. I follow them to the window in the living room, where the air conditioner had been. An appliance that size would have done serious damage to the sill had it fallen on its own, yet the window structure is intact. There aren’t even scuff marks.
So the place is cleared out. What exactly does that mean? People move all the time, and Ed Smith is too generic of a name to track. The dust is a more important clue. Aside from the shoeprints, there’s an even gray film from corner to corner in every room. This tells me that, not only is the place currently empty but it’s been empty for a long time, which makes it a perfect sniper’s nest.
The question is, what kind of sniper uses an air conditioner instead of a rifle? If the Phantom didn’t already know the answer to that, he was close to figuring it out. Now, he’s dead.
I’m not sure I want to follow him all the way into the black forest of conspiracy nuttery, but I’ll at least grant him that things definitely aren’t what they seem. If only ignorance truly was bliss, then I would gladly remain ignorant. Instead, I’m going to have to get off my ass and start doing my job again, which sucks because there isn’t even a paying client.
I should have taken that $12 I found in his pocket.