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Autumn Whimper 6

October 27, 2013

Quinn
October 27th
8:33 A.M.

Vincent hasn’t called in today.
Where is that idiot…
I look down at my cell phone. No messages. No missed calls.
I punch in Vincent’s number and let it ring for a moment.
After what I counted as seven rings, I finally hear him pick up, though he doesn’t speak a greeting.
“Vincent, where are you? We’ve been over this. You need to be here by seven or I’m leaving you at the precinct.”
I can hear your stupid, open mouth breathing, Vincent. I know you’re there.
“I’ll give you twenty to get down here before I leave. It’ll be a long day of checking logs and reviewing case files for you if you don’t get it in gear.”
I hang up.
“Idiot.” They greet my transfer with a moronic partner. How he passed his exams is beyond me.
Eighteen minutes. I close my car’s door as I shuffle in.
I rub my hands together. Damned cold. It’s the worst.
Seventeen minutes. This is stupid.

I fish around in my coat pocket for my lighter. Where did I put that thing?
I find instead a small piece of paper. What’s this?
I lean forward to catch the garage lights on it. Right. That Samson guy’s number.
“I know he’s just trying to find out more about his friend, but I don’t want him creeping around the place.” I remember Patricia saying after she called yesterday, having seen the guy snooping around the victim’s apartment.

I stare at the note for a spell and then a light bulb goes off.
I punch in Samson’s number.
Two rings and he picks up. Does he know it’s me? I don’t answer numbers I don’t recognize.
“Yeah?” I hear him mutter out. Caught him sleeping from the sounds of things.
“This is Quinn Roswell. I’m investigating the death of your friend. Ronald.” I tell him.
“Yeah.”
Chatty guy.
“Patricia gave me your number. Patricia Rutherford. Ronald’s landlor-”
“Yeah, Patricia. Right.”
“Now, I know you were good friends with Samson, son, but I can’t have you snooping around. Keep doing it and I’m going to be coming to pick you up. Understand?”
“Yeah. I get it. Late-”
“Real quick, before you hang up.”
I’ll get some nitty gritty finished without lifting a finger.
“There was one thing I think you may be able to help with, if you’re interested.” I feel somewhat foolish though.
The line is quiet, but I know he didn’t hang up.
“There’s a suburb a few miles out. Runs up Oxford Drive. Do you know it?”
“No.”
I nonchalantly peer around to ensure no one was around.
“I can send you some directions. That house has information that may be useful to finding out what happened to Ronald. A room in particular. It hasn’t been long, so surely they haven’t packed it all up yet.”
“What are you asking me to do?” he asks.
“I’m not asking anything. I’m just talking to myself, is all. I can’t go intruding into people’s homes with no reason. I don’t have anything concrete enough to give me reason to go bother that family.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Just tell them you’re from a house in a nearby neighborhood or something, and that you heard about their loss and want to come console them. I don’t know.” I really don’t. One of the reasons I’m trying to get him to go.
“Uh.. ”
Is he considering it, or just dumbfounded?
“If I could get into that upstairs bedroom; the one at the southwest corner, overlooking the street, I’m sure I could find something that might be a link to Ronald’s murder.”
“Murder?” not a hint of bewilderment in his voice whatsoever. I’m sure he was terrible in school plays.
The line is quiet for a few moments.
“Send me the directions.” he says.
Fantastic. Today’s a freebie.
I hang up and check the clock on my phone.
Goddamn it, Vincent.

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