Night Corridor (8 page)

Cozy in her robe, she brought the thin, china cup to her lips, avoiding the chipped side. The commercial for Tide Laundry soap ended, and the game show came back on. At the same moment, there was a knock at the door and her first thought was that she had shouted out the answers of some of the questions and disturbed a neighbor. She'd all but decided she hadn't when a male voice called through the door: "Miss Hill? This is the police. We'd like to talk to you, please, ma'am."

She stood at once, rattling the cup in its saucer, near spilling her tea. She set them carefully down on the coffee table.

The police? What would the police want with her? Her back turned to the handsome game show host, she wondered what had she done to bring the police to her door? Then she recalled the landlady's pursed mouth, the anger in her eyes as they walked along the sidewalk. Maybe Mrs. Bannister had only pretended to be friendly with her again. Did she call the hospital to complain as soon as we got home? Am I being sent to live somewhere else?

Absently, Caroline stood there in the middle of the floor finishing off the toast, chewing fitfully, as if it might be her last meal in this room. Swallowing the lump of toast, she finally crossed the room and opened the door a crack. "Yes," she said, eyeing the two policemen who stood in her doorway.

They were in suits and topcoats, one with graying hair and shrewd eyes. Square-jawed, just beginning to slacken. But still a nice looking man. The younger of the two was stocky and shorter with a bushy gingery-colored mustache, like a man in a cartoon. He looked like he might be someone's nice brother. She'd always thought it would be lovely to have a brother. Someone there for you, to take up your battles if you needed him to. To be in your corner. The Gingery man seemed that sort of person. But you couldn't always tell about people.

"May we come in, Miss Hill?" the older man said.

Since they didn't have uniforms on, how could she know for sure that they were policemen?

"Could I see some identification, please," she said in her new confident voice. She had heard people say this on TV programs.

They politely showed her their badges, not just flashing them like they did on those cops' shows, but holding them out long enough for her to examine their photos and read their names.

I'm Detective Tom O'Neal," the older policeman said. "This is my partner, Detective Aiken. We'd just like to ask you a few questions, Ma'am. Could we come inside, please?"

At Bayshore, people just came into your room if they wanted to and left the same way. No one ever asked her permission. Not for anything. But this was her own room, she reminded herself. Paid for with her own money. So she didn't need to let them in if she chose not to. Just like she hadn't needed to let Harold in.

"No, thank you," she said.

Detective O'Neal said nothing, just looked surprised. The gingery man stifled a grin at this partner, and Caroline wondered what she had said that was funny. Was he laughing at her? The blood rose hot to her cheeks.

"I would prefer that you didn't come into my room if that's all right."

She saw the exchange of looks between them, fleeting. But she had grown adept over the years at catching nuances of people's expressions and could tell the two policemen weren't used to being told what they could and could not do.

She was relieved when the gray-haired policeman, who seemed the leader of the two, shrugged good-naturedly and said that that was fine with him. Either of them could have said 'No, it isn't all right,' and she thought she might have opened the door wider to let them in. She sensed they knew that, too, but decided to give her her way.

"Thank you," she said. It couldn't be about her, they would have come inside, taken her away in handcuffs if they had wanted to.

"No problem," the gingery man said. "We don't mean to upset you, Ma'am, but a woman who used to live in this building was murdered on Saturday night. We realize she wasn't living here at the time of the murder, but we're talking to everyone in the building. We wondered if you might have known her."

"Her name was Lorraine Winters," Detective O'Neal said. His eyes had softened. They were light brown, the color of the tea she'd been drinking when they knocked on her door. It wasn't about her. She had done nothing wrong. She wasn't being sent away.

"No, I didn't. I just moved here. But I know about her. We passed the alley where—he put her." The woman had been killed elsewhere, dumped there, said the newsman on TV.

"She lived there," she said, pointing at the dark maroon door across the hall. "Right there."

They glanced at the door, nodded.

"We?" Detective Aiken said. "You said we. You and someone else walked past the alley?"

"Mrs. Bannister and I. I saw the yellow tape, and the police cars. There were people on the sidewalk. A red car was being towed away. That was hers, wasn't it? You should talk to Mrs. Bannister. She knew her. She was her landlady. Just like she's mine. Mr. Mason knew her too. He lives upstairs."

She remembered looking in the alley, imagining the dead girl in there. It had made her think of her roommate who had slit her wrists. But she'd made that decision for herself. Though it wasn't her fault, how much worse it must be to have someone else take your life away. Lorraine Winters had been an actress and had had dreams for herself.

"We will," Detective O'Neal said, and Caroline knew then that they had already spoken with the landlady, and she had told them about her. Told them she used to be a mental patient. That would make Caroline a suspicious character. But Mrs. Bannister had done right to tell them about her tenants' history. They were trying to find a murderer, after all.

"We were shopping for things," she said, the words suddenly too loud, tumbling from her as if of their own volition. She softened her tone. "Groceries, stockings …other things. I bought this robe." Her voice trailed off. Why had she told them that? She sounded crazy. Even at the thought, she involuntarily ran a hand down the front of the soft material, unaware that she had, and smiled like a child. And felt a terrible helplessness. It was just that it was the first thing she'd worn in years that someone else hadn't worn first, and she loved it.

After a brief silence, the gingery man said in a brotherly voice, "It's very pretty with your dark hair. Looks comfy and warm as can be."

"Yes, it is." She was behaving inappropriately. In an effort to steer the conversation away from herself, she said, "The lady who was killed was an actress, wasn't she? I don't believe I ever saw her on TV. No one's moved in yet, but I think I heard someone in there."

"Oh?" Detective O'Neal raised an eyebrow. "When was that?"

"I don't know." He wasn't thinking of her yellow robe anymore. Or her dark hair. "Yesterday, maybe. Do you think you'll catch the bad man who killed her?"

"How do you know it was a man, Miss Hill?" Detective Aiken asked.

"It's almost always a man, isn't it? Maybe her boyfriend. I saw a TV show once where the boyfriend did it, except he poisoned her. But not all at once. It took a long time for her to die."

Neither policeman said anything, but she saw in their eyes that the actress didn't die right away either, and knowing made her feel sad. "Another woman was murdered too. A nurse. It might be a serial killer. Do you think it was?"

"That's what we're trying to find out, Miss," Detective O'Neal said. Then he thanked her for her help and handed her a card. "If you think of anything that might be useful, give us a call."

Back inside her room, the door locked behind her, she sat back down on the sofa. Her tea was cold. The credits were rolling on her game show over the applause of the audience. Restless and anxious, she got up again, paced. What could she possibly tell them? She set the card on the dresser. She didn't know the woman. Had only just moved here. And yet she felt she had already said too much. She had prattled on like a magpie? She wrung her hands. Why was she like this? Why couldn't she act like a normal person?

The question pulled her gaze to the trunk that sat on the floor by the sofa, still locked.

Detective Aiken stopped on the stairs to jot down some notes in his notebook, and O'Neal halted his own step to wait for him. Not one to rely on memory, his partner was a copious note taker. Not just facts, statements, but his impressions, thoughts. Reminders.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the landlady was waiting for them.

"I told you she wouldn't know anything. How could she? She just moved in on Monday. You two probably scared the wits out of her."

Ignoring her comments, Detective O'Neal asked to see inside Lorraine Winter's old room.

"I don't see the point; she hasn't lived here in weeks. But okay."

"Anyone in there?" Detective Aiken asked, as they followed the labored, uneven step of the landlady up the stairs. "We can let ourselves in no problem," Glen said, behind her, concern in his voice.

"No, I'm fine, Detective. Still under my own steam. Such as it is." The keys dangled from her left hand, the other clutching the banister. "What are you looking for anyway?"

"Not sure. Anyone been in there lately?"

"Sure. The cleaner. Also hired a fellow from the homeless shelter come paint and lay some tile. Did a nice job, too. Got the place rented to an older lady."

As they passed Caroline's door," she said, "I suppose she told you she heard someone in there."

Caroline had heard them coming back upstairs, and now hearing the trace of irritation in the landlady's voice, she backed away from the door.

***

Driving back to the station. Detective Aiken got stuck behind a green Honda Civic, and now moved at a snail's pace because the woman driver had spotted a cop's car behind her. At the first opportunity, he took a left down a side street, so she could breathe again and they could get back to the station sometime today.

"Hope that Hill woman is wrong about it being a serial killer," Glen said beside him.

"Yeah, me, too. She was just repeating what she heard, of course. But the public buys it. Still, two murders don't necessarily add up to a serial killer."

Two in our jurisdiction, he corrected himself mentally. The nurse's body was also found in an alley, one wider with grassy patches, near an elementary school. It was around midnight when the girl's mother reported her missing, and the following morning some kids on their way to school spotted her in there. Freaked them out, no surprise there. The nurse had been walking, on her way home. No car. She'd died where he'd dragged her. No one saw anything. Late at night, quiet street. Different circumstances.

They'd questioned everyone close to her, the boyfriend being at the top of the list. He had an ironclad alibi. So far, nothing.

Serial killer?

He didn't really want to go there. Such cases were almost impossible to solve; the guy could go on for years and remain invisible. Just an ordinary looking man, someone's neighbor. 'He was always so nice,' the neighbor would invariably say ten years from now, 'If you needed anything, he'd be right there.' Or he could be a transient, staying a month or two in one place, moving on.

"What did you think of Caroline Hill?" Detective Aiken asked. "Think she knew anything?"

"No. Like her landlady said, why would she? But we needed to talk to her anyway. Eliminate any possibility. You never know. Winters could have visited someone at Bayshore Mental Hospital. Someone who had a connection to the killer. Maybe the killer himself. Though they'd gone through the list of recently released patients and no one grabbed his attention.

"Pretty woman," he said of Caroline Hill. "A little vague."

"I didn't see vague," Glen said. "Anxious, maybe. Wary. Who could blame her?"

***

Caroline sat on the sofa with her hands folded in her lap, fretting about the landlady being mad at her again.

In a little while she heard someone overhead playing the piano. Awkward, hesitant notes. Not the piano player. And she remembered that he gave lessons. She thought it would be lovely to be able to play the piano.

At a knock on the door, she jumped up from the sofa

"Caroline, could I talk to you please."

The landlady.

Twelve

On Monday morning, Caroline rose two hours early for work, took a quick bath in the big apple-green painted claw-foot tub at the end of the hall, and dressed in a navy skirt and white blouse. In spite of her nerves, resulting from both fear and excitement, she managed to get down a cup of tea and a slice of toast.

It was a fifteen-minute walk to work and she used the time to work on her nerves. The day was sunny and bright, which also helped. She'd do fine. It was just a dishwashing job and she knew how to do that, for Heaven's sake. Her step became almost light as she drew nearer her new place of employment.