The Egg at Dumstreet

The Interview

The interview room was not what Art had expected. No small cubicle with bare, white walls, no lamp on a desk to smack its glare into the suspect's face, and no large mirror at one side—but a generous, friendly meeting room with a large table and old prints of historical police uniforms on its walls.

Savage got up when Art entered. "Hello, Mr. Sharpe. Thanks for waiting. This is Mrs. Shellfish." He pointed at a small woman with short, gray hair sitting at the table behind a computer and a recorder. "She'll do the protocol."

Shellfish gave Art an almost-smile and a nod.

"Hi." Art nodded back.

"Please do have a seat. Coffee? Or tea?"

Art shook his head. "No thanks." He wanted to get this over with, and he sat down.

The inspector was tall even when sitting. He wasn't all bald—flaxen hair framed his head and almost blended with the tone of his skin.

"So, please tell us something about yourself. You're not from here, I understand."

The question was along the lines Art had expected, so he told Savage and Shellfish about himself. How he had arrived in this country five weeks ago to work as a postdoc at the city's University. That he was from San Francisco, and that this was his first time living abroad. He also emphasized that he loved the peace and order here, hoping that this would put Savage at ease and expedite the matter. He even produced his immigration papers and work permit, which he had grabbed in his apartment before leaving for the police van. Finally, he volunteered that it was not him who had found the apartment at Dumstreet 9, but that the University had organized it.

Savage nodded. "Yeah, the house..." He set his elbows on the table and rubbed his face with his hands. "Please, do tell me about your neighbors. What do you know about them?"

Art had feared this question because he hardly knew them and because he hated the idea of talking about them behind their backs—it felt like telling on them.

But there was little he could do about that, so he shrugged and began. "Well, there's Mrs. Meier. She lives on the ground floor. She's the janitor. I think she's divorced, or a widow. But you know about that, I'm sure. Her son, Ralph Meier, lives on the first floor. Alone. All of the apartments are rented out to singles. I think that the owner has a thing about single tenants being less trouble, that's something Mrs. Meier once mentioned."

Art paused, and Savage motioned for him to continue.

"The second apartment on the first floor is Adriana's. Couldn't tell you her family name, but I guess you know it."

Shellfish handed Savage a paper. He nodded. "Costello. Her name's Adriana Costello."

"I think she works at a radio, doing something in their music archive. On the second floor, there's me, and my neighbor is... was Mrs. Knooch. At the top floor, there's Rashid Pathan, a taxi driver, from Pakistan. And there's Monica, the waitress." Art stopped, wondering if Savage would elaborate on either of the two.

"Monica Marez, yeah." Savage nodded. "What do you know about her?"

Art shrugged. "Mrs. Meier has told me she's working as a waitress. I haven't talked to her until this morning. She's the one who discovered... the body."

"Yes, that was her." Savage took a breath. "You haven't seen her... or heard her the day before? Saturday?"

Why should he, wondered Art. "No," he said aloud.

 "What do you know about Gertrude Knooch?"

"Well, she was my next-door neighbor, but we didn't see much of each other. I think her husband died years ago. No children. She has a nephew in the city. He brings her groceries. I saw him once. His name's Jake, I think."