The Elevator Murders

Chapter 1 As he waited for the old, slow elevator, Tony leaned against the wall, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes in frustration. He knew what he’d heard, but he couldn’t figure out where the voice had come from, other than he thought it was this floor—or not. “Are you all right?” He put his glasses on, turned, and saw an older gentleman who lived in the building giving him a worried look. Tony lifted one shoulder. “Yeah, I guess. I thought I heard someone calling for help. But I can’t figure out where they are. And as far as I can tell, no one else heard it but me.” “A ghost,” the older man replied with a wink. “This place is old enough to have them.” “No.” Tony shook his head. “This was real. I know it was. Hell, if it was a ghost, and I don’t believe in them, I’d think it’s a little too late for it to be calling for help.” “What did they say?” “Don’t hurt me.” “It came from up here?” “I don’t know,” Tony replied in frustration. “I have my windows open and…” He spread his hands. “Maybe it was someone on the street?” “No. I went out on my balcony to check, even though it sounded like it came from somewhere above my place.” Tony glanced down the hallway. “I suppose it could have been from someone’s TV, but it sounded so real.” The man laughed. “Isn’t that the idea, with a TV show?” “Yeah, I guess.” Tony knew the older man was right, but he couldn’t dispel the idea that what he’d heard had been someone in distress. “You should have called the cops if you were really worried.” “And tell them what? That I heard something from somewhere that might have been a TV turned up too loud? That would have gone over big, if they even sent someone to investigate.” The elevator finally arrived, the doors sliding open to reveal— “Oh, s**t. I was right,” Tony gasped. A body was sprawled face down on the elevator floor, blood oozing from several wounds. Stab wounds, Tony thought, but he wasn’t about step into the elevator to investigate. He did reach in to press the Emergency Stop button. Then, kneeling at the edge of the doorway he, very gingerly, put his fingers on the wrist of the victim’s outstretched arm and couldn’t feel a pulse. “I think he’s dead,” he said shakily as he stood up. Taking out his phone, he dialed 911, vaguely aware the old man was already doing the same thing. “I want to report an…an assault, or maybe a murder,” Tony said when the dispatcher answered, trying to keep his voice steady. He gave the woman the address as well as his name, and explained that the body was in the elevator. Then he hung up before she could ask anything more. The man was still on his phone. He looked at Tony, saying, “They want to know your name.” “I already…Never mind. It’s Tony Watkins.” The man repeated the information, then a moment later hung up. “The problem with apartment buildings,” he said to Tony. “You never know names. I’m Alan Rose.” “Nice to meet you, Mr. Rose. Well, as more than a face I see now and then.” “It’s Alan, Tony. Forget the formalities. Under the circumstances…” He gestured at the elevator. Tony winced, trying to keep from looking, but it was like trying not to look at a car wreck, only worse—much worse. At least I can’t tell who it is. True, since the man’s head was turned away from the door. “Seems like you weren’t hearing things after all,” Alan remarked. “Though I’d say you picked the wrong floor to check out.” “I was going to work my way up,” Tony admitted. “Not that it would have done any good I suppose. If someone else heard the…the cry for help, they didn’t do anything about it or the cops would be here already.” He sighed deeply. “Now I’m going to live with the fact that if I had called them, maybe he’d still be alive.” “Doubtful,” Alan replied, patting Tony’s shoulder. “I’d guess he was in the elevator when he cried out, meaning it was already too late.” “Why didn’t anyone else hear him?” “Is your place next to the elevator?” “Yes. Oh.” “Exactly,” Alan said. “But so are other apartments.” “It’s afternoon. Most people are still at work. And the laundry rooms are on the other side of the elevator on every floor.” “Okay. That makes sense, I suppose.” “Why are you…?” Alan stopped when the door to the emergency staircase opened and two uniformed police officers appeared. “That was fast,” he said under his breath. Tony had to agree, since it seemed as if he’d barely hung up from talking to the 911 dispatcher. “Gentlemen,” one of the officers said. “Were you the ones who called us?” “Yes, sir,” Tony replied, gesturing to the open elevator. By then, the other officer was at the door. He looked at the corpse, leaned down to put his fingers on its neck, then said, “He’s dead.” Tony wanted to say, “No s**t,” but held his tongue. “Did either of you step into the elevator?” the first officer asked. His name tag identified him as Officer Davis. “I did,” Tony replied. “Just one foot, so I could push the Emergency Stop button. And I did try to see if he had pulse, but I just reached in to do that.” “You are?” “Tony Watkins.” “That makes you—” Davis checked his notes, “—Mr. Rose.” He looked at Alan, who nodded. The other officer had been on the phone. He hung up, telling them that the detectives and crime scene team were on their way. “Do either of you know the victim?” Office Davis asked. “Hard to tell,” Alan replied. “I can’t see his face.” “What about from his clothing?” Tony resisted rolling his eyes, since the victim was wearing jeans and what had once been a white T-shirt—now red with blood. Nonetheless, he replied, “No, sir.” “Do both of you gentlemen live in the building?” Davis asked. “I do. On the second floor,” Tony replied. “I live on this floor. Number three-oh-seven,” Alan told him. “Your apartment number?” Davis asked Tony. “Two-oh-one.” Davis glanced at the apartment next to the elevator, which was 301, about to say something it seemed, when two men in their mid-forties—wearing suits—and several more people in white coveralls, booties and caps, streamed into the hallway from the emergency stairs. “What do we have?” one of the suited men asked after introducing himself as Detective Sanders. “Dead body in the elevator,” Officer Davis replied, stating the obvious. A crime scene person was already photographing the scene while the others stood back to give him room. At that point, a middle-aged man entered the hallway from the emergency stairs. He came over to talk to Sanders, asking, “What do we have?” Tony would have laughed at the repetitiousness of the question, if he wasn’t so traumatized by what he was seeing—and involved in. Sanders told him, then asked Tony and Alan to come with him to the end of the hallway so that he could question them. Alan suggested they use his apartment, instead. Sanders agreed. “Who found the body?” Sanders asked a moment later when they were seated in Alan’s living room. “I guess we both did,” Alan replied before telling him about the elevator door opening to reveal the victim. “Do you live on this floor, too?” Sanders asked Tony. “No.” Tony chewed his lip. Knowing what the next question would be, he forestalled it by saying, “I was trying to find out if someone heard something.” Sanders frowned. “Explain.” “This might sound weird, but…okay. My apartment is on the second floor, next to the elevator. Of course, I didn’t put two-and-two together until Alan pointed that out. Anyway, I was in my kitchen when I heard someone say ‘Don’t hurt me’. I couldn’t…It was just…It seemed to come out of nowhere if that makes sense. At first I thought someone on the street was being assaulted or something so I ran to check and didn’t see anything. Then I realized the words came from above, not below my apartment. So I decided to see if anyone else had heard them.” He shook his head when something occurred to him. “I went down to the elevator, because I was going to take it up here, but it didn’t come. That happens occasionally, as old as it is, especially if someone is taking their time getting on or off.” Alan chuckled. “What he means is, there are some older people in the building that don’t exactly move fast.” Sanders nodded. “You walked up, I presume,” he said to Tony. “Yeah. I rapped on a couple of doors on my floor, but no one answered, then I figured if someone else heard it, they’d already be in the hall, trying to find out who was in trouble. So I decided to check the rest of the floors.” “Doing your civic duty,” Sanders said somewhat snidely. “When you should have called us, instead.” “I know. But if I was wrong, or it was just someone’s TV…” Tony looked down so he wouldn’t see what he was certain was the look of disgust on the detective’s face. “Anyway, like I said, I was going to check the other floors, too. I thought by now the elevator would be running, so I pushed the button. I heard it start moving from what sounded like the top floor.” “Which would be eight,” Alan put in. “The damned thing moves like a turtle on its best day.” “Yes,” Tony agreed. “I was waiting when Alan showed up. I told him what I’d heard, which he hadn’t. Right?” He looked at Alan, who nodded. “We were still talking when it got here and…” He shuddered. “Bill. We have an ID on the vic,” the second detective said from the apartment doorway. Sanders got up, telling Tony and Alan he’d be back in a few minutes. “Do you think he believes me?” Tony asked Alan. Alan smiled. “I think so. Your story is just crazy enough he probably figures no one would be dumb enough to make it up.” “At least I have you to vouch for the fact I wasn’t on the elevator when the doors opened, couching over the dead body.” Alan snorted. “I doubt even the stupidest killer would ride down with the person he’d just murdered.” Tony got up, crossing the room to look out the window at the parking lot below him then up at the cloudy, blue sky. “If I’d moved faster. Called the police the minute I heard it…” “It would still have been too late,” Alan said. “Those were probably the last words the guy said before he was stabbed. I’d say, from the fact no one else called the cops, nobody was home on the floor where it happened, to hear his cry for help.” “I guess,” Tony replied, turning to look at him. “Why kill someone in the elevator? Why not do it in the apartment where he lived?” “I have no idea. I’m sure the detectives are asking themselves the same question, along with a lot of others.” “Do either of you know a Frank Thorne?” Detective Sanders asked, coming back into the room. Both men shook their heads. “I’ve seen the name on one of the mailboxes,” Tony told him. “That’s it. What does…did he look like?” Sanders handed him a driver’s license in a plastic envelope. “I have seen him around,” Tony told him before handing the envelope to Alan. “I have, too,” Alan said. “Usually with what I guess were friends. Which apartment was he in?” “Eight-oh-five,” Sanders replied. “Then they were definitely just friends. The oh-fives are studio apartments.” “Males? Females?” “Both,” Alan said. “Guys, when I saw him with anyone, which was rarely,” Tony said. Sanders made note of that, then said, “Mr. Watkins, we need your fingerprints, because you said you touched the Stop button in the elevator. Then, I’d like to see your apartment, if you don’t mind.” Tony got why immediately, although he didn’t say anything. After a stop back at the elevator so one of the crime scene people could print him, he took the detective downstairs. When they were inside, Tony showed him where he was standing in the kitchen when he heard someone—presumably the victim—cry out ‘Don’t hurt me’. Sanders took out his phone, made a call, then said, “I’m in place.” He turned off his phone, and a moment later they both heard a disembodied voice saying, “Can you hear me?” Dialing again, Sanders told the man on the other end, “I did,” and hung up. “You didn’t believe me,” Tony said, although he wasn’t too surprised. “Let’s say it was fifty-fifty if sound would carry down the elevator shaft the way you said. Does it happen often?” “Occasionally, if people are being loud, like drunk loud, at night. I don’t hear anything during the day, which I guess is why it didn’t occur to me that what I’d heard came from the elevator.” “Are you usually here during the day?” Sanders asked. “Yes. In my office. I work from home.” “Doing what?” “Writing.” “You can support yourself on that?” Tony shrugged. “Define support. I’m not getting rich, but between the articles I write for a couple of local magazines, plus my ebooks and two in print as well, I can afford the rent and food.” The detective looked dubious—which didn’t surprise Tony—but kept his thoughts to himself. “Where is your office?” “In here.” Tony took him to one corner of the living room that he’d partitioned off with tall bookcases, saying wryly, “If I could afford a two-bedroom apartment, I’d use one of them as an office, but…” “This works. All right. Thank you for your help. I’d like you to come down to the station in the morning to sign a statement.” Sanders gave Tony his card. “If you think of anything else, please call.” “I will.”