A Jury of One

Chapter 2

"Paul, honey, what's that strange smell? I smell it again, are you sure it's not you or one of your 'projects' again?" Mary McCarthy asked her husband of 2 years. Paul worked at the city dump. Often times, he would find something useful that someone had thrown out but was still good. So he would bring it home and fix it up, because it was a better way to get something expensive that they could never afford on their own. But the side effect of bringing stuff from the landfill was that it often smelled like, well, trash. Mary and Paul would try their best to clean the things that he brought home, but some stenches just lingered.

"Mary, I'm telling you, it's not me. I can't smell a thing, you must be imagining it," Paul called from the living room/dining room/study of their small, one bedroom apartment. Mary shook her head. Of course Paul wouldn't smell a darned thing, his nose was warped from spending all the time in that ghastly landfill. She kept asking him to look for another job, but he kept putting it off. Secretly Mary thought he liked working there, although she couldn't see how anyone could make it past the first day there. "Paul, I'm not imagining anything. My nose works just fine. I think you're the one with the subpar nose," she retorted. Maybe she could trace the ghastly smell. That would show Paul. She walked around the small apartment several times, nose on high alert.

"Mary, I'm telling you, you're just imagining things. Our place smells exactly the same as it always does," Paul tried to reason. Mary shook her head. There was definitely a new odor under the usual air freshener and lingering smell of dirt. She strained to smell. On her third - or was it fourth? - loop around the cramped apartment, Mary sensed the smell get just slightly stronger. That's odd, she thought, the smell is coming from the door. "Paul, will you come with me to find where this smell is coming from? If it's not us and it's the building, we're gonna have to call the landlord." Paul reluctantly followed Mary into the stairwell.

"Come on Paul, I smell it more now. It's got to be coming from somewhere downstairs." Mary tugged Paul down the creaking old staircase of their apartment building. Paul sniffed loudly. "Oh gosh, now I smell it. That's a ghastly smell," Paul told Mary. "And it seems to be coming from there." Paul pointed to the second floor apartment.

Mary moved a bit closer. "You're absolutely right. Wait, isn't that the apartment of those two college kids?" Mary knocked on the door. "They must have thrown a party and not cleaned up after themselves," she said matter-of-factly. Mary knocked again, louder this time. Still no answer. "Paul, you've got to call the landlord. These people have been horrible tenants. First the noise of arguing all hours of the day and night, and now this horrible stench. You've got to get him over here."

Paul obliged, dialing the number for the landlord into his flip phone and waiting. Several rings, and no answer. He called the landlord again. This time the landlord picked up on the second ring. "Hello, Mr. Ginnetti? ---Yes, there's this smell coming from the people on the second floor and we don't know what it is. ----Yes, we've tried knocking on the door. No answer. ----Okay. ----Okay, see you soon." Paul snapped the phone shut. "Mr. Ginnetti said that he was coming over as soon as he could." Mary sighed with relief. Thank goodness she wasn't just imagining the smell.

Five minutes later, an old, plump Italian man made his way slowly up the stairs. "What is that horrendous smell?" Mr. Ginnetti asked, holding onto the railing and creeping up the stairs, one at a time. "Sir, that's what I told you about on the phone," Paul explained. Mr. Ginnetti reached the top of the stairs and paused slightly to catch his breath, muttering something about kids these days under his breath. He then shuffled over to the door, giving it three sharp raps. "Mr. Wainwright. Open up." He paused, waiting for a response. None came. Mr. Ginnetti banged on the door again, louder this time. "Mr. Wainwright, I need to have a word with you. It's Mr. Ginnetti." There was no response. Visibly frustrated, he ran a hand through his hair. "Mr. Wainwright!" he shouted, "I'm going to give you ten seconds to come open this door or I'm coming in there."

Paul and Mary looked on as Mr. Ginnetti counted to ten loudly and then pulled out a large key ring. He was muttering under his breath again about how Mr. Wainwright had always been a problem tenant. Mr. Ginnetti found the right key and pushed it into the lock, turning the key sharply. He wrenched the knob to the right and angrily pushed the door open while Paul and Mary eagerly watched. There, sitting in the middle of the room, was John Wainwright, bound to a chair with blood pooling in an angry swirl of red under the same chair. And upon the wall was a message scrawled in blood. The Jury has Reached a Verdict.

Mr. Ginnetti cried out and made the sign of the cross over and over, all the while praying. Paul felt like he was going to be sick and Mary had already fainted, leaving Paul to hold her up. All the while, John's lifeless eyes looked on in silence. "Mr. Ginnetti, we've got to call the police, Mr. Ginnetti, please," Paul pleaded. Mr. Ginnetti turned around, looking a pale shade of green and opened his phone. He dialed three numbers and held it up to his ear.

"Nine one one, what is your emergency?" The operator on the other line asked in a soothing voice.

"Something awful has happened here. Something awful," he repeated to the woman who was listening. "Something awful..."