Mike Befeler Paul Jacobson Geezer-lit Mystery Series E-Book Box Set: Retirement Homes Are Murder, Living with Your Kids Is Murder, Senior Moments Are Murder, Cruising in Your Eighties Is Murder

by Mike Befeler

  He extracted a roll of yellow police tape from his pocket and roped off the trash chute. Then he turned to me. “Okay. Please give me your name and tell me what happened.”

  He stared at me with cold gray eyes, and I felt my throat tighten. I gave him my name and explained the sequence of events while he took notes on a small pad.

  “Anyone else around?” he asked.

  “A cleaning lady.” I turned my head and surveyed the hall. “She isn’t here anymore.”

  He shone his flashlight at the bag of bottles and then bent down to look more carefully.

  “You wait over there,” he said, motioning me toward the side wall.

  Just then two men and the cleaning lady came toward us. One of the men, a tall drink of water in a blue suit a size too large, introduced himself as Alexander Farns, the retirement home director. He looked like Ichabod Crane with a corncob up his ass. The other, a short, rotund, jovial man in a baseball cap, identified himself as the facilities manager. Compared to the stuffed shirt, he looked like a real human being. He even had dirt under his fingernails.

  The policeman said, “I’d like to get a list of all your residents and any employees who have been in the building in the last twenty-four hours.” He turned to the facilities manager. “Tell me about your trash disposal system.”

  The facilities manager reached up and tweaked his baseball cap. “One trash chute on each floor. Doors stay locked from eleven at night till seven in da morning. Fo’ keep down noise, you know.”

  “So someone would have been here at both times to lock and unlock the door?”

  Farns stepped forward, elbowed the facility manager to the side and cleared his throat. “That’s correct. We have a very consistent process and excellent staff.”

  More people began to arrive. One man uncoiled a rope while another snapped pictures of the chute and leaned inside to photograph the face.

  “I can clear the trash out of the way,” I volunteered, pointing to my garbage bag on the floor.

  The policeman clenched his fist and stared at me. “You leave it right there!”

  “Okay.” I raised my hands. “Only trying to be helpful. You can have it.”

  After much effort, the police extracted the body, a withered old man I didn’t recognize. He couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. They laid him on a tarp that had been spread out on the floor.

  “It’s Mr. Tiegan from apartment 630,” the cleaning lady said.

  The name didn’t mean anything to me. I regarded the body more carefully. Only someone that skinny and light could have been crammed into a trash chute.

  “All of you move away,” the policeman said.

  The group of gawkers stepped back, and I continued to watch as the photographer snapped more pictures and a man wearing rubber gloves bent over to examine the corpse.

  Later I overheard this man saying, “Early indication is death occurred between one and five A.M.”

  It took an hour before the body was removed. My bag of bottles had also disappeared.

  I continued to watch as one of the police technicians used a brush to dust the handle of the trash chute with black powder. Then he placed a strip of tape over the powdered handle, pressed it down, removed it, and attached the tape to a card.

  A short, stocky man in his thirties, with dark slacks, oriental eyes, and well-groomed black hair approached me. He reminded me of a fire hydrant. I smelled stale cigarette smoke. He held out a badge, and I noticed tobacco stains on his fingers. “Mr. Jacobson, I’m Detective Saito. I need to speak with you.”

  “Sure. We can go into my apartment.”

  I sat on the couch, and he pulled up a chair to face me. “Mr. Jacobson. You reported finding a body?”

  “That’s right. I was getting rid of a bag of garbage and saw a face in the trash chute.”

  “And what time was that?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but right after breakfast. I called 9-1-1 immediately.”

  “And the contents of the bag you were throwing away?”

  “I found a bunch of bottles in my kitchenette. Tried to get rid of them.”

  “And where did the bottles come from?”

  “That’s a good question. I have this memory problem. I have no clue about the bottles.”

  “How convenient,” he said.

  I looked at him in disbelief. “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m surprised that you know nothing about what you tried to throw away.”

  “Look, I woke up this morning not knowing where I was. I’ve been informed that I moved here yesterday. I found this bag of bottles and was disposing of it. That’s all.”

  “So the first night you’re here, a murder takes place?”

  “If you mean the body in the trash chute, I know nothing about that. Don’t even recognize him.”

  He stared at his notepad. “That’s interesting, Mr. Jacobson. I’ve been informed that there is some pending litigation between the two of you.”

  “What?” I lurched up from the couch.

  “My information indicates that less than a month ago, Mr. Tiegan, the victim, sued you.”

  “I don’t even know Mr. Tiegan,” I said, slapping my palms to my forehead, trying to shake loose any memory.

  “The court records indicate otherwise.”

  Stopping to think, I still couldn’t associate the shriveled body with anyone I’d met before. I gave up and plopped back down on the couch. “Look. I have this short-term memory problem. Even if I’d seen Mr. Tiegan the other day, I wouldn’t remember him, because yesterday is a blank.”

  “What were you doing after midnight last night, Mr. Jacobson?”

  “Sleeping, I guess.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “I would imagine I was in bed, because that’s where I am at night. But since my memory is shot, I can’t say for sure.”

  He grunted and wrote a note on his pad.

  “I need to ask you to give me a set of fingerprints.”

  I shrugged. “Okay with me.“

  He brought out a small kit and proceeded to ink my fingers and press them on a card.

  “I look like a refugee from a tattoo parlor,” I said, admiring my hands. “Kind of like your tobacco-stained fingers, Detective.”

  “It’ll disappear with a good washing using soap and hot water,” Detective Saito said. “May I have your permission to look around your apartment?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  He lumbered to his feet and strolled around, scrutinizing my kitchenette, dresser top, and bookshelf. He leaned over and inspected a small object on a shelf in my television cabinet.

  “Mind if I keep this?” he asked.

  “What is it?”

  “A Swiss stamp.”

  I flinched. “I don’t know why that’s there. You can have it.”

  He took a pair of tweezers and small paper bag out of his pocket, picked up the stamp, and dropped it in the bag.

  I again noticed his tobacco-stained fingers.

  “I’d like to ask your permission to do an in-depth search of your apartment.”

  “And if I don’t agree?”

  “Then I can take you down to headquarters for some additional questioning while I obtain a search warrant.”

  “No need for that,” I said. “You can look to your heart’s content.”

  He proceeded to go through every drawer and cabinet, looked under my bed, lifted up the mattress, and searched my closet. Given the tiny one-room hovel, it didn’t take him long.

  “You satisfied?” I asked when he finished.

  He wrote something in his notebook and snapped it closed. “You and I will be speaking again.”

  “Whatever you want, Detective. By the way, I’d suggest giving up smoking. It’s not healthy for you.”

  He glared at me. “I’ve tried. Back to the subject at hand, I have to ask you not to leave the islands until this is cleared up.”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t tr
avel anymore.”

  “We’ll be in touch.” With that, he stalked out of my apartment.

  I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach. This was all happening too quickly: finding myself in a strange place, discovering a dead body, and being linked to the murder victim.

  Taking a deep breath, I tried to get it all in perspective. I’d have to be careful with Detective Saito. He was convinced I was tied to the murder. And I’d have to learn more about this Tiegan fellow. I could try to contact my son, but first I’d see what I could find out on my own. Maybe my new eating buddy Meyer could lend some insight.

  * * * * *

  At lunch I returned to the same table where I’d eaten breakfast.

  “Do you remember who I am?” Meyer asked me as we both watched Henry slurping his soup.

  “Damn straight. You’re the guy who can’t see.” I pointed to Henry. “And this crazed eater is your baseball almanac.”

  “Very good.”

  “You’re beginning to sound like a doctor rather than one of the inmates,” I said.

  “Your medical case is interesting,” Meyer said. “You seem to remember fine during the day. But overnight your short-term memory blanks out.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “You couldn’t remember meeting me yesterday.”

  “Still don’t,” I said. “But we talked at breakfast.”

  “Case proved.”

  “You’ve figured me out, Doc. I can still dredge things up from the distant past as well. I remember being a kid in San Mateo, going to college, getting married, raising a family, running my business in LA, retiring. Enough about my strange memory. How long you been held here?”

  “I moved in two years ago,” Meyer said. “It was right after I had to give up driving.”

  “You come here on your own free will, or did you get locked up by some overzealous relative?”

  “It was a little of each. I knew I couldn’t take care of myself. My kids were afraid I’d burn my condo down when I tried to cook.”

  “So they sent you up the river.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Meyer said. “We visited half a dozen places, and I selected this one.”

  “What convinced you?”

  “Kina Nani has an excellent staff. There’s a nice view as long as I’m able to enjoy it. And finally, I can be entertained by people such as Henry.”

  “Right,” I said. “Henry’s a barrel of laughs.”

  “You’ll learn to appreciate his talents. Henry, who won the American League batting title in 1907?”

  The spoon kept scooping without a pause. “Ty Cobb.”

  “What was his average?”

  The spoon left his mouth. “Three-fifty.”

  Meyer smiled. “What more could you ask for? I have my own baseball statistician right here at the table.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t even remember yesterday, and this klutz has a brain full of baseball facts. Ever stump him?”

  “Not yet. But I keep trying. Henry, who won the 1945 All Star Game?”

  “Trick question. No one. No All Star Game was played that year.”

  “Who won the Cy Young award in 1973?” Meyer asked.

  “Tom Seaver and Jim Palmer.”

  Meyer took out a notepad and wrote on it.

  I looked over. He had written some large misshapen letters.

  “What’s that for?” I asked.

  “I’m going to check his answer in my sports reference book after lunch.”

  “I thought you couldn’t see to read?”

  “I can’t,” he said. “I have to use a magnifying glass.”

  “It must be the shits to lose your eyesight.”

  “It can’t be worse than losing your memory.”

  “You got me there,” I said. “Say, we had some excitement up on my floor this morning.”

  “I heard some sirens. That have anything to do with it?”

  “Yeah. There was a dead body in the trash chute.”

  “What? Was it an accident or murder?”

  “Apparently murder. Guy had a gash on his forehead. Someone must have stuffed his body in the trash chute.”

  “Who was the victim?”

  “Man name of Tiegan.”

  “Marshall Tiegan,” Meyer said. “I’ve met him.”

  “Strange situation. I don’t remember ever seeing him, but the detective claims he was suing me.”

  “So are you a suspect?”

  “I guess so,” I said. “What do you know about Tiegan?”

  Meyer scratched his head. “He wasn’t a very pleasant person. He tended to gripe a lot.”

  “Sweet personality like Henry here?”

  “I hope they give you the electric chair,” Henry said without looking up.

  I laughed in spite of the situation. “I’m sure the detective shares your view, Henry.”

  “You should talk to a lawyer if you’re a suspect,” Meyer said.

  “I hate scumbag lawyers even more than I hate swimming. Hell, even though I can’t remember squat, I know I didn’t have anything to do with the dead body.”

  “Your life could get pretty unpleasant if you’re a suspect,” Meyer said.

  “I guess I’ll just have to deal with it.”

  “There’s one other idea.” Meyer formed his fingers into a steeple. “I have a lot of contacts in the police department.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I used to be, as you so quaintly put it, one of those scumbags.” He gave me a wink. “I was a district attorney and also spent a stint as a municipal judge. I’ll poke around a little.”

  I felt two inches tall. Nice going, Jacobson, I told myself. The guy who could assist you was a damn attorney, and you started it out by insulting lawyers. But he did seem willing to help.

  Then I had a thought. “Wait a minute. I overheard that the trash chutes are locked between eleven P.M. and seven A.M. and that the murder occurred between one and five A.M. The murderer must have had a key.”

  “Bingo,” Meyer said, giving me a big smile. “Now you have something to go on.”

  Chapter 3

  Rather than waiting for the police to lock me up as their favorite suspect, I needed to get my butt in gear to learn more about this place.

  I had one stop to make. By inquiring, I found the office of the facilities manager on the first floor. He was the short, chunky, part Hawaiian man I remembered seeing with the cleaning lady and Farns earlier in the morning. He was leaning back with his hands clasped behind his head and his feet resting on a scratched desk.

  “I’m Paul Jacobson.”

  “Yeah. You da guy who found da body this morning.”

  “That’s me. I was wondering. Who would have been on duty after midnight last night?”

  “Only two people here. Jason Kam on da front desk and Moki Iwana on security.”

  “Would Moki have been on the sixth floor?”

  “Yeah, maybe two times.”

  “What about Jason Kam?”

  “He stay at da front desk fo’ watch da lobby.”

  “Is Jason around now?” I asked.

  “Nah. He be here tonight.”

  “I understand that the trash chutes were locked around eleven P.M. last night.”

  “Yeah. Moki made da rounds.”

  “Any chance he forgot to lock it?”

  “Nah. He’z okay. Lock da chutes on all da floors by eleven and unlocked dem by seven in da morning.”

  “Where can I find Moki?”

  “No work today. Nex’ time night shift tomorrow.”

  I thought for a moment. “Who else has a key to the trash chutes?”

  “Jus’ Moki, Harold, and me.”

  “Who’s Harold?”

  “Second night watchman.”

  “And would your key be lying around for someone to use?”

  He pointed to a peg board with keys on hooks behind his desk. “Jez hang it dere.”

  “But anyone could get the key,
then.”

  “Nah. I leave dis office locked when I go ’way.”

  “So how do other people get in here when you’re not around?”

  “Easy. Everybody has key to dis office.”

  I left shaking my head. Only three copies of the trash chute key, but anyone with a key to the office could have taken one of them. Still, I’d need to talk to Moki when he was back on duty.

  My next stop was at the front desk. A pleasant middle-aged woman wearing a purple and white orchid lei greeted me.

  “Do visitors sign in?” I asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’d like to check the visitors’ sign-in log from last night.”

  “Should still be there,” she said, pointing to a clipboard.

  I thumbed through several pages. Most of the visitors had signed in early afternoon and signed out by dinner time. There was one illegible name that signed in at 9 P.M. There was no sign-out time marked.

  “Do you recognize this name?” I asked.

  The woman squinted at the place I pointed. “No. Looks like an ‘H’ at the beginning, but I can’t make out any other letters.”

  “Did you see someone come in?”

  She shrugged. “I wasn’t on duty then. You’d have to talk to Jason Kam.”

  “Could you run a copy of this page for me?”

  “What for?”

  “I’m trying to track down who visited last night. Didn’t the police want to see this as well?”

  She stared at me over the top of a pair of reading glasses. “No. You’re the first to inquire.”

  “Make me a copy, but save the original. I’m sure the police will get to it eventually.”

  “Okay.” She removed the page, stepped to the back of her office area, and inserted it in a copy machine.

  With copy in hand, I headed back to my room, wondering if I could get any useful information from Jason Kam.

  * * * * *

  At dinner I was back filling out the threesome.

  “I’ve been thinking about your memory problem,” Meyer said.

  “You going to help me find those lost brain cells?”

  He chuckled. “Those are probably gone for good. But I have a suggestion for you. Every night you should write down what happened during the day. Then the next morning you can read it to know where you are and what happened the day before.”