Shit! I’ll bet it’s the cops!
Bruno was showering, having arrived home from the warehouse, when the banging on the door brought his ablutions to a sudden halt. “I’m comin’,” he yelled.
Wrapping a towel, quickly, around his waist, he put on a long sleeved shirt to cover the fresh wound to his arm, and headed to the door. On passing the television, he reduced the volume.
He felt anxious, but the man and woman did not need identifying.
“Bruno Novak?” asked Detective Perez.
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m Detective Sergeant Perez.” Then pointing to her partner, she said, “And this is Detective Andretta.”
“What d’ya want?”
“Can we come in? We’d like to ask you a few questions about an assault on Saturday. Do you have any objections?”
Bruno knew if he were to yes they would eventually question him at the police station. “Come in. I’ll put my jeans on.” He could feel his stomach knotting as he walked away.
From the moment they entered, their eyes scoured the room. They needed evidence.
Detective Perez could smell a hint of bleach. As she walked toward the small open area kitchen, she called aloud, “Have you been here long? You’ve been doing some cleaning, I can smell bleach.” Her eyes continued their search.
“Not long. Yeah, I cleaned the other day,” came the reply, just as loudly.
Walking from the bedroom Bruno brazenly sat on the couch next to Detective Andretta. Detective Perez picked up a kitchen chair and placed it in front of the couch’s two occupants. Even though she’d noticed the torn clear cellophane wrap lying on the floor near the table, its significance escaped her.
“Bruno … we need to ask you some questions. Do you mind?”
“I don’t care.”
“My partner will take notes. Did you leave your apartment any time after six on Saturday morning?”
“I didn’t leave here at all. I was sick.”
“Are you saying you never left this apartment, for any reason?” She was sceptical.
“I was feeling sick after work on Friday, so I came home and went to bed. I was in bed all day Saturday.”
Detective Perez quickly glanced at her partner before returning to her questioning. “So, you’re saying you definitely didn’t leave here?”
“I’ve already said that. My Uncle Stan … he lives down the hall … called in Friday afternoon to see me, ‘cause I normally go there to eat or have coffee. But I didn’t go. The only time I left here was to go to his apartment for somethin’ to eat early on Saturday night. We had pasta. Then he went for a drink.”
She had the distinct feeling he was lying. “What time did your Uncle Stan come to your apartment?”
“He finishes about two, so I’d say, close to six.”
“Six in the evening?”
“Where does he work, and is he at work now?” she asked, in a conciliatory tone.
“He works at the diner downstairs.” They’ve got nothin’ on me, otherwise I’d be arrested.
“Is he at work now?”
“Don’t think so. He should be in his room, or maybe he’s out having a drink.” His reply had a cockiness to it.
“What number is his apartment?” Detective Perez asked.
“Last one, near the stairs.”
Detective Andretta interrupted, “We may have more questions for you, so don’t leave Boston.”
They walked from the apartment with the intention of interviewing Stan Bobek.