Dead Man Below Deck

Chapter 1. The Beginning

Chapter 1. The Beginning

I walked past the dead man without noticing him. Well, not right past him; he was about ten feet away. This failure to notice what some people might regard as noteworthy caused the police to be suspicious. But the honest truth is I just did not see the body. After all, it was six in the morning. I was going out to pick up a newspaper and some bananas at the convenience store down the block. I was half asleep, not expecting anything unusual like a body by the door. Not exactly by the door; we have a second floor condo with a deck-type balcony. The body was directly under my deck on the neighbor’s patio. My front door opened at least ten feet from that spot so, as you can see, it was not directly in front of my eyes.

Okay, maybe some people would have noticed it. But I was not your average person. The convenience store was a block away. I wandered over there in the usual way, my early morning ritual on a summer morning being unvaried if at all possible. I circled the building, staying on the sidewalk and stepping over the dirt. The building was new, so we had a lot of dirt. The dirt was sometimes a little wet and I didn’t want mud on the bottom of my shoes. Then, I always followed the same route. I walked on the left side of the street until I was across from the convenience store. I crossed over and went in, being careful of cars seeking gasoline. The return trip was a mirror image of the first leg.

The convenience store was bright, clean, and airy. It was a very nice store. The people who worked there were wide awake, cheerful, neat and clean, and looked wholesome. The store had fresh bananas, donuts, and milk along with the usual conveniences. I always picked up the Milwaukee paper and this morning, a Saturday, my wife wanted me to get the Advertiser. An inveterate yard sale fanatic, she was looking forward to a full morning. Rather, she was looking to fill what would be left of the morning after she finally got up and dressed. That would be several hours from now.

Let me clarify so you don’t get the wrong idea: we didn’t read the Milwaukee paper because we were in Milwaukee. We didn’t like Milwaukee. Nobody did. Milwaukee was not like the rest of Wisconsin. It was more like Chicago. And we really didn’t like Chicago.

On the other hand, the Milwaukee newspaper was better than the one printed in Madison. The Madison paper did not even have the Dilbert comic strip. So we were driven to settle on the Milwaukee paper. Just don’t think that meant we liked Milwaukee or were the slightest bit interested in what went on there.

Quite the opposite in fact. As Milwaukee grew, it pushed its boundaries out. Those of us with homes in small towns like Fort Atkinson were in danger of some day becoming part of the ‘Milwaukee area.’ When that happened, we would be painted with the same brush, the brush that said urban problems – crime, pollution, traffic, and racial conflict. This was unfair and not our fault. If we wanted urban problems, we would live in the city for Pete’s sake. In fact, we proved our innate good sense by not living in the city. For the city to invade us was just not right. They could damn well grow in the other direction. That would be into Lake Michigan. Let them live in houseboats or in bubbles under the lake (the one they polluted whenever they got the chance).

While I was paying for the bananas and papers, a police car raced by the store, lights flashing and siren screeching. This was painful at the early hour and really not necessary. After all, there was not much traffic that had to be warned out of the way. Those guys liked to make a fuss just for the fun of it sometimes. The noise jarred our ears and caused all of us in the store to pause and gaze briefly out of the window before turning back to our respective tasks without comment.

The young woman behind the counter asked me if I had purchased gasoline (no) and would like a bag for the bananas (no). This proved to be a mistake. Since I was walking, a bag might have made it easier to carry my purchases. And, maybe, I did not look my usual debonair self with a bunch of bananas under my arm. Yes, I probably should have taken a bag, but until I had at least two cups of coffee, my brain cells did not function very well. Two large cups of coffee.

Back I went to the condo. Imagine my surprise when I saw the police car parked next to my building. Imagine my surprise when I saw the authorities clustered around the patio of the condo, right below my deck. Imagine my surprise when I saw a body on the ground not ten feet from the front door. Imagine their surprise when a middle-aged guy carrying bananas tried to push through the crime scene.

“You can’t come in here, sir. This is a crime scene.”

“But I need to get in my front door.”

“I’m sorry, sir. But you can’t come this way.”

Naturally, I wilted a bit. No coffee? I had put the pot on before leaving the building. Fresh coffee awaited, unreachable. And where was I supposed to go? The car was in the garage. The keys were in the condo. The automatic garage door opener was in the car. This was a difficult problem to solve without coffee.

I could sit down somewhere and try to struggle through the paper without coffee as unlikely as that sounds. But the only place to sit was on the gurney they had brought which was next to the body, right in the middle of their precious crime scene. Impossible. So I turned away. Probably, I was going to walk slowly in aimless circles until the problem resolved itself or I fell into a coma. More likely, both would occur with my mind drifting away as my feet did their thing.

Perhaps it was just as well that one of the officers called me back. “Sir, do you live here?”

“I’m in the upstairs unit.”

“Right above this body, sir?” The implication escaped me, but a feeling of unease began to disturb me.

“We would like to ask you a few questions.” He said with a stone face.

“Can we do it over coffee? There is a fresh pot upstairs.” Clever of me, don’t you think? A chance to get at the coffee and I leapt on it.

The policeman stared at me for a moment. He seemed to think I was not displaying the proper regard for the gravity of the situation. After all, there was a dead man below my deck. Perhaps I should have been all a twitter - horrified, fearful, and excited. But heck, I saw dead bodies all the time on TV. It was no big deal. Well, if I had noticed it, I would, of course, have called it in and felt important for being so civic minded and alert. However, since I missed my chance at that moment of glory, I just wanted my coffee.

The policeman considered the situation for a moment. I thought maybe my offer of fresh coffee had dented his resolve about the sanctity of the crime scene. No such luck. “Stand over here, sir. Someone will question you later.”

Stand around waiting for someone to question me? Arms full of bananas and newspapers? This could take hours. A couple of brain cells clicked together under duress and I whipped out my cell phone. I called my wife, hoping she would hear the phone ring. I did not expect her to answer it. She kept it inside a bag, inside her purse, which was usually inside a larger bag. The chances of getting through all of those barriers before the phone stopped ringing were a flat zero. But she would call me back.

And she did. “Ed! Are you all right?”

Panic.

“Yeah, fine.”

“Where are you? What’s wrong?”

“I’m just downstairs.”

“Are you hurt? Why don’t you come up?”

Trying to cut through all the fear and panic, I interrupted her and spoke as quickly as possible. Repetition was important under these circumstances so that she would hear my message even if she tried to talk. “THE POLICE ARE DOWN HERE THEY WANT TO QUESTION ME ABOUT SOMETHING PLEASE BRING A CUP OF COFFEE DOWN DON’T WORRY NOTHING WRONG BODY BELOW DECK BRING COFFEE.” That should do it.

Silence. “I’m coming down.”

“Thanks. Don’t forget my coffee.”