I slowed my pace, almost to a standstill.

The newly vacated apartment. I’ll admit it was as much my desired to turn around as it was to get a better feel of what I was approaching. I paused where another couple of officers in yellow coats were looking over their crime scene investigation equipment. Not really too different from the kind you see on TV surprisingly enough. But exactly what everything was there for, I couldn’t tell, I don’t watch those shows that much. I was more interested in how the cops themselves were dealing.

Now it helps to judge a situation, based on the fact of what kind of expressions, the people have on their faces. You can tell various things, like you they enjoy their work, have they had a bad day, do they think they might want to rob you, or do they think they might want to have sex with you.

Now the closest that these gentlemen had to those expressions on their faces, was that they were having a bad day of the inexplicable kind. You know when whole sides of peopled faces turn to expressions the other side ignores. Where people speak in hushed tones, or monosyllables or indecipherable shop talk where one person disagrees, but doesn’t offer a rebuttal. None of this made me feel any better.

But I still went up to the door, went back-to-the-wall to avoid a couple of men in hazmat suits, were pushing a squeaking gurney carrying a demonstrably man-sized bag. At least the shape in the body bag seemed intact. I took a breath, then approached the police officer standing there. He was almost a head taller than me, broader, older with a thick gut and a double chin his badge denoted him 6623. I’m sure I’d seen him before at 37 Division.

In fact, I think I remember him from the time I helped Fingers find his niece Cindy. What was that now,? I wondered. A couple years. The girl had escaped the life of the reserve up north to the back alleys of the big city, and he was in desperate straits to find her. I still shake my head when I think about that. But hell, Fingers was my friend, even if he has a freaking crazy grandfather.

And I don’t have a whole lot of people that I can honestly tell anyone that they are friends. I’ve tried to keep a low profile these past dozen years or so.

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That caused me to twist my mouth a little at the irony. Can’t even get that right these days.

I offered a smile, which the uniformed cop at the door did not return. I looked back at the officer that had brought me, then back at the door guard.

“Hello officer,” I tried in a moderate to light toned voice. “My name is Mr. Smith, I am the building manager. Detective Fingers wanted to see me.”

The men looked at me, in sort of the same way you might like in the dirty countertop, thinking, what, do I clean that clean now, or do I wait till later.

“Just a moment,” he told me and consulted his tablet. He brushed it for a while, then looked up at me.

“First name?”

“John.”

“Okay,” he replied and started tapping it’s glowing surface.

“You don’t need me to spell that for you,” I wanted to know, expecting the usual banter about my name which to most people wouldn’t make the least bit of sense..

He looked back up at me as though I’d asked a stupid question and was deserving of a stupid answer..

“You spell your name differently from every other John Smith in the world?”

“No,” I started. I started having sinking feeling in my stomach. Another omen, and a bad one. It offered a strong hint of what I was going to find beyond the apartment door, but one I really didn’t want to imagine. “But– never mind.”

He nodded, finished his entry, turned to the door, and shouted, “Detective, the guy you wanted is here.”

“Who?” I heard the should from within.

“The building manager. John Smith.”

There was a familiar sounding voice of shouted assent, from the apartment ahead. Yes, Detective Speaks With fingers. Although we generally socialized on a less professional level. This has been and will stay, even after what I was about to see, a decent apartment building, and in a good part of town to boot. The police don’t show up very often here, certainly not like this.

“Yeah, yeah,” the voice called out in reply. “Send him in. I’m in the master bedroom.”

The big officer looked past me for a moment at my chaperone, then he waved me in.

“Detective is in the master bedroom,” he told me.

I nodded.

“Yeah, I heard that.” I told him. I didn’t move. It seemed that my feet didn’t really want to.

I looked up at him and sort of motioned with my head, including a questioning expression, trying to get a response of what I could expect through the door.

No such luck. Fine. How bad could it really be? I was about to find out.