The Entirely Fabricated Story of Lizzie Nickerson

Chapter 4

Lizzie peeled back the welcome mat in front of the apartment of the deceased and produced a key. She inserted it into the lock and opened the door to Mr. Gibbs' apartment.

As the door swung open, the old metal hinges made that creepy screeching sound that hinges make in movies and on television shows when they're trying to set an ominous mood. Lizzie didn't make that connection because she didn't watch TV and there has never been a motion picture produced in the history of cinema in her opinion that would be worth the revulsion of sitting in a dark room with a bunch of strangers for two hours.

"Don't go in there!" Tarpick shouted.

"Oh, geez, " she said. "I've been in here a hundred times. I've carried Mr. Gibbs' groceries in for him, delivered his fish food, cleaned his fish bowl, watered his plants. I can probably figure out the dates. Not exact dates but–"

"That won't be necessary," Tarpick said.

"Not necessary." Stoudemire agreed, stepping over the welcome mat. It was so badly worn that instead of saying HOME SWEET HOME, it now said ME WET HOME.

The apartment's entryway opened into a small kitchen with yellow linoleum tile and orange flowered wallpaper. 

On a cluttered desk in the corner of the room was a fish bowl where a solitary guppy swam. Two clay pots held what appeared to be a fern's skeleton and a begonia's corpse.

"So this is your gardening work? Tarpick needled her.

"Gardening is not as easy as it looks," Lizzie said.

"That's an understatement." Tarpick let out a forced laugh. His partner did not join in the mockery.

She ignored his heckling. "I'll bet Mr. Gibbs was attracted by something he saw either through here." She gestured toward the window over the sink.

She paced into the adjoining living room. "Or through one of these corner windows."

Detectives Tarpick and Stoudemire followed her into the living room.

A wobbly coffee table stood on a stained woolen rug, flanked by an overstuffed upholstered chair and a well-worn purple corduroy couch. The old furniture held the aroma of pipe tobacco and the pungent smell of some long-dead pet's urine. A framed photograph of a tabby on the mantel suggested the cat was the culprit. The tilt of its head and the smug expression on its face practically screamed, "Yeah, it was me. So what?"

"When you said he was attracted by something," Stoudemire said, shifting his eyes from the photo back to Lizzie. "What exactly did you mean by that?"

"I was just about to ask that very question, though in a slightly more formal construction," said Tarpick, tapping his folder against his thigh in a slightly agitated manner.

"More formal construction?" Stoudemire raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, something more like "What exactly did you mean when you said he was attracted by something?" said Tarpick.

"That doesn't sound so formal to me," Frazier replied.

Tarpick clarified. "I said slightly more formal."

"Oh, geez. Are you guys going to continue with your discussion of sentence construction, or would you like to hear my answer to your informal and slightly more formal questions?" Lizzie drummed her fingers on her forearm.

"I was merely making a point," Tarpick wouldn't let the issue rest. "But please do answer either one or both of the questions." He set his folder on the end table, raised a tobacco pipe from the ashtray, and brought it to his nose.

"People in this building said Mr. Gibbs was a busybody," she said. "He was always peeking out of his windows and listening at his door. He was like the building's security system. If there was an unfamiliar car parked on the street, he'd go out and have a look. If he heard strange voices or a dog barking, he'd investigate. If you guys checked up on crimes committed last evening at either that location or in that general area." She pointed out the living room windows. "Or maybe down on this street." She pointed at the roadway from her vantage point out the kitchen window, "You could really narrow your list of suspects."

Stoudemire was intrigued. "Do you mean to say that Mr. Gibbs saw something suspicious through one of these windows, went downstairs to investigate, and instead discovered the perpetrator on the front porch?"

"Someone down there on the street probably got mad about Mr. Gibbs watching them. They waited for him on the front porch, chased him inside when he opened the front door, and bashed Mr. Gibbs on the head when he tried to go back up to his apartment." 

"And so he fell backward down the stairs, as you earlier stated." Stoudemire made another notation in his notepad."

"Exactly," said Lizzie. "Oh, geez. How could you even think this was a simple slip and fall? That doesn't even make sense."

Tarpick cursed under his breath.

Lizzie said, "He didn't deserve to be murdered."

"I heard you the first time."

His partner asked, "Care to offer any suggestions as to who the perpetrator might be?"

Lizzie peered through the kitchen window. "That building on the corner." She squinted. "Oh, geez, almost every night there are strange people in strange cars. Mister Gibbs said that people were going in and out until five in the morning. I was still sleeping but I believed him. He wouldn't make that up. That building with the tiger flag seems like a good place to start."

"Hmmm." Stoudemire scratched his chin with his pen. "Are you talking about that white building with the Cincinnati Bengals' flag on the front porch?"

"Yeah, the white building," she said. "What's a Cincinnati Bengal?"

Tarpick rubbed his eyes and mumbled, "Right now I envy the dead guy."