The conference had wrapped up on Sunday afternoon but Hans opted to stay on an extra night, to interview some of the presenters and write up his notes while everything was still fresh on his mind, especially Kitty Doyle’s less than stellar performance. On Monday, he took a flight back to Mitchell International and enjoyed the luxury of an expense account cab, as it turned out not quite as far as the front door, arriving mid-afternoon to a confusing scene. He dragged his cases up the drive past billowing yellow tape to the stationed police officer, who demanded his ID.
As he fished around for it, Hans wanted to ask what on earth was happening but thought better of it. They wouldn’t tell him anyway, if it were as serious as it looked. A friend of his had recently described a day-long police presence on a normally serene residential street. Curious neighbors who had summoned up the courage to ask the officers what was going on had been told it was just routine traffic surveillance. In the end, it had turned out to be a serious stake-out. Guy Karon, looking out the windows from behind Gervase’s desk, buzzed him in.
“Hans. Just arriving? Didn’t know you were away. Quite a day here. Watching for Lee coming home from school.”
“What’s going on?”
“Sworn to silence by the cops. They’re in the meeting room, interviewing. You’ll be next.”
“Where’s Gervase? Is he all right?”
“Gervase is fine. We’re all fine. I told him I’d spell him while he took out Steinhardt’s dog. Not supposed to tell you, but he found a stiff in the pool this morning. Turns out it was one of the Mangolds.”
“Whaaat? Dead, you say? Here?”
“That, plus there’s a big mudslide down the bluff. Oh look, there’s Lee now. Going to intercept her. She doesn’t know anything about this, either. You can be Gervase for awhile.”
Bewildered, Hans piled up his belongings behind Gervase’s desk and slumped into his chair. It wasn’t long before a policeman came and asked him back into the meeting room. Hans said he would be there as soon as Gervase came in; he could see him just up the street now.
“Glad to see that you’re OK, Gervase. They’re waiting to talk to me.” Gervase waved him away.
“I’ll watch your stuff. Go.” Turning to Pocano, he chuckled, “OK, back into your bloodhound role for awhile.” Pocano wagged his tail, before sitting on it, and proceeded to be attentive.
In the meeting room, Hans gave his name and unit number, stiffly, as though it were his rank and serial number and he was preparing himself for interrogation.
“I’ve just arrived home from a weekend away and have no idea of what’s going on.”
“How do you pronounce your surname, again?” Martin waited, to jot it down phonetically, basic training coming to the fore.
“No-poo-pick.”
“Mr. Knopupik,” Martinelli resumed for his stricken colleague, “we are here investigating a death. Rusty Mangold was found dead this morning in your swimming pool. Did you know the deceased?”
“By reputation. Not personally.”
“What do you mean ‘by reputation’?”
“I’m a free-lance journalist. I write about developments. The Mangolds are developers.”
“When did you last see the deceased?”
“At a meeting they gave, to explain their project. Can’t recall the exact date. I can check in my office upstairs for that.”
“Oh, so you work from home, do you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you ever ask people here for work purposes?”
“Rarely. It’s often easier to meet elsewhere.”
“Have you ever interviewed him or seen him inside this building?”
“Rusty? No. I interviewed Morris once, at their office.”
“Are you a swimmer?”
“Recreational only. I haven’t been down in our pool for months.”
“And you say you’ve been away? For how long?”
“I left on Thursday for an out-of-town conference. I’ve only just arrived back from the airport.”
“Do you live here alone?”
“Yes.”
“And did you ask anyone to visit or stay in your unit while you were gone?”
About a 10 minute drive from downtown to Mitchell International airport, past Milwaukee landmarks.
“No.”
“Do you ever let anyone into the building who doesn’t live here?”
“An occasional delivery person or my own guests. Nobody that I don’t recognize. We can buzz people in from our units so I wouldn’t ever need to do that for anyone else.”
“Now, about this proposed development next door. Did anyone in this building know the Mangold’s personally?”
“Well I can’t say that for sure. No one I know here has ever said that they did, let’s put it that way.”
“Anybody ever made any threatening remarks about them?”
“Not that I’ve ever heard, no, never anything personal. There is a concerted effort to question the validity of the proposal, to prevent it happening if possible, but that’s an entirely different thing. We have a committee working on that issue.”
“And the names of the committee members…?”
“It’s not a secret. Earnest Arbuthnot, the current president, Jack Pardoe, the past-president, Bert Steinhardt, Guy Karon, and Lori Hazell are on it. I’m the association treasurer and keeping the committee informed about any changes, as far as the proposal is concerned.”
“We’re asking that residents don’t discuss this amongst themselves until after we have interviewed everyone.”
Hans retrieved his belongings and made directly for his unit, very relieved to be finally home. It still smells like Peter, was his first impression, reminding him that he’d invited Peter to come over, not that Peter had ever called to say he would. This was definitely not a good night to have him around. The police might not let him in, anyway. After he’d unpacked, Hans would have to call and cancel. He went to the frig to find a cold drink and see if he’d be able to scrounge up some supper with what was on hand. He didn’t feel like a grocery excursion. Other than a lifetime supply of frozen ends of banana bread there were eggs, so that problem was solved. Not much to drink, though he vaguely remembered some beer on the door shelf. He must have been mistaken. There wasn’t any there; no loss, as he didn’t really like it, anyway.
He couldn’t decide if it was nice to come home and find things exactly as one remembered or unsettling to think how little attention he probably paid to his surroundings. When, for instance, had he started plumping up the couch cushions, and why couldn’t he remember doing it. That was something Peter always did. Maybe he was starting to pick up after himself better now that Peter was gone. That would be something; all the times they had argued over stupid little things just like this and now he was behaving in exactly the way Peter wanted him to. Hans phoned him.
“Hi, it’s me.” This time, Peter answered.
“Hello me.”
“Calling to un-invite you over tonight. Did you remember I invited you to come over after I got back?”
“Um, sure. But I can’t anyway. My room-mate promised to help me clean out the inside of my car. Just out of curiosity, why are you canceling?”
“Police everywhere. Found a body in the pool.”
“Really?”