You and Kim know immediately when you reach the correct corridor of the run-down tenement building from the sickly sweet, vomit-inducing smell. You cover your mouth and nose with your sleeve. Kim tenses up and wrinkles his nose.
"Why does it take so long for people to report deaths?"
"A lack of familiarity with the signs? The thought that it should be somebody else's job? No access to a telephone line?" Kim suggests.
"No, I mean how do they deal with the smell?"
Kim shrugs. "That, I have no answer for."
"This is it," you say. The smell is stronger here, like the essence of the man is trying to escape from underneath the apartment door.
Kim tries the door, but of course it is locked.
"Stand back," you say.
"Um, detective?" Kim says, but sees the determination in your eyes and steps aside.
You walk backwards until you reach the opposite wall, then run at the door, slamming into it with your shoulder. The wood creaks and cracks in places, but the door stands firm. "Fuck!" you cry out, feeling pain radiate from your shoulder down your arm and across your back.
"Harry!" Kim yells, but you are already taking another run up.
White hot pain shoots through your upper body. Your injured leg starts to hurt too. This time the wood splinters and starts to give. The door still bars the way to the room, but you are able to punch a hole big enough to fit your hand and arm through to unlock the door from inside.
"I suppose it is redundant now to say that we could have got a key from the landlord," Kim says as the door swings open.
Kim's words only make your body ache even more. "But that way you wouldn't have got to see me do something cool," you say. Putting your fist to your mouth, you suck on it to relieve the pain. You taste blood.
"Yes, real cool to see you seriously injure yourself, detective."
You muster up a smile through your pain. "Glad you think so. Makes it all worth it." You shake your bloodied hand. It stings. You probably have splinters.
It's easier to focus on your aching hand and your aching shoulder than it is to focus on what is in the room. A single worn chair faces the window, which looks straight out onto a brick wall. The head of a figure lolls to the side, its eyes shut as if sleeping.
Kim takes out his notebook. "Initial inspection indicates a time of death in the last two weeks," he mutters to himself as he writes.
The man looks to be in his mid to late fifties. His hair and beard are long and streaked with grey. An empty bottle of pills lies in his lap, with more at his feet.
"Cause of death…" Kim begins, prompting you to chime in.
"Drug overdose."
"Mm-hmm," Kim says, making a note then walking around the dead body in its final seat. "I would suggest self-inflicted. No signs of involvement of others."
"Are you sure?" you say. A suicide is always far more depressing than a murder. A murder can be solved, a murderer may be apprehended. But a suicide is a victim and a perpetrator in one person. There is nothing to be done. All hope has already been snuffed out.
"You're not?" Kim says, raising an eyebrow.
You walk around the room, looking for any signs of foul play. No other people hide in the closet, or in the bathroom. The single window frame in the room is covered in layer upon layer of ancient, peeling paint. At one time it may have opened, but long ago it was painted shut.
You sigh. "Self-inflicted," you say.
Kim flips open an address book. A single business card falls out, but otherwise it is empty. He looks around the room. "Do you see any sign that our victim had any next of kin? If not, we report to the landlord, arrange for removal of the body, and the case is closed." Kim speaks quickly, as if in his mind the case is already closed.
"There must be something," you say, starting a more thorough search of the apartment. You want there to be something. No, you need there to be something. A chill runs through you. It is sad to die and leave people behind. But it is far sadder to die alone, forgotten even before one's death. No, you can't accept that possibility. This man must have had someone.
You look around, checking and re-checking places that Kim has already checked. Finally, in desperation, you upend the trash bin from the kitchenette onto the floor.
Kim watches you, but says nothing.
You start to scrabble through what might be months of rotting food waste, cartons and containers. The stench almost overpowers that from the dead body. A scrunched up colourful piece of cardboard catches your eye. You pick it up and unfold it, smoothing it out. It is a birthday card.
Kim lets out a whistle. "Nice find, detective. Who is it from?"
It's hard to concentrate on the words once you realise the implications of them. This man began writing a rambling, but heartfelt message to his son, who he had seemingly not seen in years and wished to reconnect with. The message ends mid-sentence, and you envisage the dead man throwing down his pen and crumpling the card, furious in the knowledge of the futility of the situation.
"Not from. To. His son."
"Ah. Do you have a name?"
"Phillipe."
"Hm, I suppose it is too much to hope for an address, or a telephone number. No, that is stupid. Nobody would write such things in a birthday card."
"Hmm. You wouldn't write an address inside a birthday card, but you might write it on the envelope," you say. You start to sift through the trash again, looking for anything paper-like. You find several pieces of card and paper, some of which are sodden with unspeakable juices. None of them are obviously an envelope. Some of them are almost unidentifiable now.
"Wait, Phillipe?" Kim says, going over to the dresser and flourishing the business card. "PLJ Roofing. It doesn't give a name, but the P may stand for Phillipe."
"Yes! We can ask the landlord if he knows."
Kim nods. "And perhaps not mention the damage to the door at the same time."
"Good thinking. It's barely worth bringing up. The woodworm is so bad in this place you could talk the thing down," you say, in direct opposition with your aching body.
As it turns out, the landlord is unaware of any family of the dead man. In fact he seems to know little about him, the man apparently barely left his apartment. All he is able to say was that he was behind on rent.
The drive to the son's apartment is disconcertingly short. Turning the corner, a modern bâtiment stands in stark contrast to the older buildings around it. A wealthy developer must have bought this small plot of land, hoping to appeal to the aspiring middle class. You know you have the right place because a van with hand painted letters vaguely resembling the business card is parked in front. As Kim pulls into a space, you see that the back doors of the van are open.
You get out of the Kineema and hurry over. Kim follows.
"Phillipe Joly?" you call to the man rummaging in the back of the van, only his legs visible.
"That's me. I've got a big job on today, so you'll have to wait till tomorrow if you want me to come round and have a-" The man stands up, almost hitting his head on the roof of the van. "Oh, officers. Are you here about them little urchin kids that keep hanging around here?"
"No, I'm afraid we're not," Kim says.
"Urchin kids?" you say. Kim shakes his head at you. He's right, that doesn't sound like something you need to investigate.
The man wipes his hands on his overalls and raises his eyebrows at you. "What's this about, then?"
Kim looks at you, offering the opportunity to deliver the news. You're ready for this, you tell yourself. You've made progress since that time in Martinaise. But still you hesitate. Your hands start to shake.
"You are the son of Ludovic Joly?" Kim asks.
"I suppose I am," Philippe says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his overalls.
Beside you, Kim takes a deep breath. This sort of thing bothers him too. Of course. How could anyone find it easy?
You hold up a hand and Kim glances at you and closes his mouth. You swallow. Just do it.
"What kinda trouble has the old man got himself into this time?" Philippe is smirking. No, this makes things worse. You know you should have said something sooner.
"Your father has been… we found your father d-dead in his apartment," you say, hating yourself for stumbling over the most important word.
The smirk disappears from Phillipe's face. "Right," he says. "What now?"
"Uh," you begin. It isn't a good start.
Kim touches your arm. "Someone from our precinct will be in touch with you about arrangements."
"Okay. Can I go now? Only I've got a lot on today."
Kim nods, and Phillipe turns back to his van.
"Wait," you say, pulling the still-crumbled birthday card out of your pocket. "He wanted you to have this."
Phillipe eyes the card in your hand for a moment before he takes it. He opens the card and his eyes move over the words. He shakes his head, then crumples it up again.
You feel like it is you who has been crushed.
Kim takes a step away and looks at you, clearly willing you to go with him. But you just stand there. You search for the words to make the man give a shit, but there aren't any.
"My birthday was four months ago," Phillipe says, and there is the barest hint of emotion in his voice. Then he returns to the back of his van, sorting out his tools.
"Detective," Kim says.
You trudge back to the Kineema.
There are other cases that day, but that is the only one that sticks in your mind.
"For what it's worth, you did a good job of giving the death notification. I know that is never easy."
It is as if Kim knows what you are thinking. You hadn't mentioned it, but since you returned home you have been sitting on the couch staring into space. He stands on the other side of the room, regarding you with his hands clasped behind his back. The thought that once again you are being a bad host to him briefly crosses your mind.
"What does it matter? His son didn't care. Imagine that, the only family you have in the world, and they don't care you're dead."
Kim's forehead furrows and he shakes his head.
You decide to say what's been playing on your mind since you discovered the dead body. Maybe you'll feel better if you let it out. "It could've been me. That is how I'll go out. Not found for days, weeks. Nobody noticing I'm missing. Nobody caring when they do find out," you say, raking a hand through your hair. "Will anyone even come to my funeral?"
"I don't expect it will matter, once you are dead. You won't be around to know who turned up and who didn't."
You sigh, and shrug dejectedly.
Kim shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then back again. "I think the fear that nobody will care when you are dead is a common one. But today's deceased was unusual. After a lifetime, most people accrue at least a small group of people who care about them."
"I haven't. And who knows how long I have left?"
Kim stares hard at you. "A long time, if you look after yourself."
You shake your head. "I don't have enough time. I'll die lonely and forgotten, I just know it."
"I guarantee that people will care when you die, Harry."
It's not that you don't want him to argue with you about this. It's more that you can't believe him. "How do you know?"
"Trust me, I do."
Me, he means. I care. Or are you just interpreting his cryptic words the way you want things to be? No, deep down, you know he cares about you to some extent. You should just appreciate that, instead of moping around because you don't occupy the top spot in his list of people who are important to him. The goal of reaching that top spot seems theoretically obtainable. You should be able to get there. But can you do it? Or will you just fuck it up?
Kim doesn't seem to be able to read your mind right now. Thankfully. Or unfortunately. You're not sure how you should feel about that.
You have a second chance today to make him feel welcome in your home. But first, you will need to get yourself off the couch. On top of your dark thoughts, your aching body makes it even more of a challenge.
