Suicide Note: Part Two – ‘never trust a suicide note that isn’t handwritten’

You can read Part One of this story here

The apartment block is red brick, and someone had done a decent job of construction during a period in our city’s history when any idiot was allowed to slap up some monstrosity and make a fortune.

The brick walls were still warm, and the effect reminded me of my aunty’s house when we were kids. I loved leaning up against the warm bricks in the cool of the evening.

Our floater’s name was Debra, and she lived in flat number six. A cute policewoman used keys to let us in.

“Have you been in there Tiger?” I said.

“No sir. Been waiting out here for you.”

Egg gave her a smile, but she didn’t return it.

The flat was neat and tidy and smelled of orange blossoms.

There were photos on the mantlepiece, and the sounds of traffic leaked through the thick brick walls.

Walking into someone’s world like this always makes me slightly dizzy.

The air was thick in this warm room. The cool air from the open doorway was welcome.

The only thing out of place in the tiny flat was a single sheet of paper lying on the kitchen bench.

The paper set out a list of reasons why Debra had decided to take her life.

“Kind of puts paid to your theory, Sarge,” said Egg, the expert.

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s a suicide note. She killed herself.”

“Never trust a suicide note that isn’t hand written. The bloody thing isn’t even signed.”

“But there it is,” said Egg triumphantly.

“The note was produced by a computer printer. Do you see a printer or a computer anywhere?”

Egg looked around.

“She might have printed it at work.”

“Might have, but didn’t.”

We knocked on the other five doors in the block, not expecting any answers. We’d send local plods back after dark to do another run.

Number three answered the door just as I turned away.

“Hello,” said an attractive woman in her early forties. Shoulder length brown hair, slightly dishevelled.

“Sorry to disturb you Mam ..”

“Miss.”

“Sorry to disturb you Miss,” I smiled involuntarily. It was something about the way she said it, ‘Miss’.

“We were wondering if you could tell us something about the woman who lives in number six?”

“We? Are there more of you?” The question took me off guard.

Police officers do a lot of these.

“Do you know, have you seen, etc.”

There’s a finite number of responses. You hear them all eventually. Many of them are rude, insulting, judgemental, homophobic, racist and boring.

Despite her ruffled exterior (most of us look a bit under the weather when we answer the door), her eyes sparkled with life.

“My partner and I,” I said self-consciously. I was losing the upper hand. The hand that said, I’m a copper, and I need information, so don’t piss me about I haven’t had my lunch yet.

The forty-something craned her neck to see past me in both directions.

Egg hove into view, and forty-something smiled.

“He’s too young for you,” I said as softly as I could.

“Pardon,” said forty-something.

“Number six? How old would you say she was?”

“Debra? No idea. Twenty something?”

“Do you know where she worked?” asked Egg, and I realised we were talking through the forty-something’s screen door. Inviting ourselves into her flat seemed like a bad idea. Might not make it out in one piece.

Forty-something told us where she worked, and I sent Egg off to talk to her workmates.

“Take the car. I’ll catch a tram back,” I said as I handed him the keys. Egg momentarily turned into a sixteen-year-old being allowed to drive dad’s car.

“You do have a licence?” I said and instantly regretted it. His face sank.

“Yes Sarge. Top of my class.”

I resisted the urge to ask him how many people were in his class and handed him the keys.

“Scratch it and I’ll take out your appendix with a spoon.”

“Nice young man,” said forty-something.

“Yeah, but he isn’t waterproof,” I said.

Forty-something looked bemused before asking, “Has something happened to Debra?”

I ignored her question. I wasn’t sure if her relatives had been informed.

“Did she ever discuss serious stuff with you? Did you have that kind of relationship?”

“No. Not really. She watered my plants for me if I was going to be away, that sort of thing, but no ‘deep and meaningfuls’. Is she okay?”

“Not really,” I said, “we have a body, but it hasn’t been formally identified as yet.”

Forty-something reached for her phone and showed me a photo. Two women with goofy smiles leaning up against the red brick wall of the apartment block.

I nodded.

“Not allowed to say until she’s been identified,” I said.

A cat walked up and sat next to me, and forty-something opened the screen door just enough to let it in.

“Nietzsche,” she said.

“Never trust a thought that occurs to you indoors,” I said.

“Pardon?” she said.

“Nothing. Just something a cat once told me.”

Forty-something was used to me by now, so she didn’t raise an eyebrow.

“Was Debra the sort of person who would do herself harm?” I said.

Forty-something took a moment before answering.

“I might, but I don’t think she would. Drove me crazy with her smiling and optimism.”

I thanked her and half turned to go when she said, ”When you come to these doors after they find me one day, tell them I wasn’t as bad as they thought. My cat would speak up for me. At least I hope he would.”

“Nietzsche loved horses and cats do too. Anyone who likes cats can’t be too bad. Don’t make me knock on these doors on your account any time soon. Okay?” I said.

“Okay,” she said.

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