Murder on Erie Street -e

by Victor Uribe

Murder, or suicide? That’s what Detective Joe Martino must find out when a beautiful medical student is found dead.

ISBN 1-59431-591-4 Mystery / Fiction

Cover art by Victor Uribe

Also available in RTF and HTML formats.



Chapter 1

Suicide? Or Homicide? Neither was a good choice and sometimes it’s a hard call. Everyone is fallible. When we left, I only knew we had caught another unexplained-death from some hysterical woman on Erie Street.

I’m Joe Martino, Detective Sergeant First Class. My partner, Kathy Johnson, and I took the assignment from Captain Walsh and headed out. Mutt and Jeff they call us, because I’m tall and Kathy is petite. She is the only woman to reach the rank of detective in our Chicago squad. Okay, I take some ribbing from the guys for having a woman partner, but Kathy is as sharp as they come. I’d stake my life on her any day and I do when we have a really bad one. Both of us studied psychology before joining the force. Somehow that translates to our getting sent anytime the reporting party sounds upset.

Traffic was heavy, and we were delayed before we finally arrived at 38 East Erie Street. The brownstone apartment building covered half the block. It had large upscale apartments built around a small landscaped central court. The court had stone pathways, benches, and a small fish pond (soon to be drained for winter) with an arched Japanese bridge across it. Beds of blooming perennial flowers were set between the herbs and shrubs. I inhaled the scent of rosemary and studied the floor plan in the foyer to locate #13.

Smaller studio units faced the side streets and alley in back. But to my surprise Number 13 was one of the best units, with wide windows looking out at the garden.

“Pretty ritzy for a woman that young—and a student,” I told Kathy.

“Maybe she has money. Or her folks do.” Kathy flicked a well-manicured nail at Number 13 on the chart and we headed for the stairs.

The Medical Examiner and Criminalists were already there, working the crime scene.

In the hall, a patrolman from the local precinct introduced himself and Jack Brady, the manager of the building. A blond with a tan who dressed for the beach, in Chicago, in October. He had lots of very white teeth, and looked like one of the Brady Bunch all grown up, but still a bit immature. I vaguely wondered why he didn’t have a “real job” instead of spending his life tending the plants and at the beck and call of anyone with a leaky faucet. I flashed my ID and Kathy showed her badge.

The patrolman managed to break off their conversation about the Bears long enough to tell me, “No note.” The patrolman and Brady remained outside, still talking football. Kathy and I went in.

I could see camera flashes going off in another room. A criminalist wandered around with a video camera. The living room looked neat and it wasn’t furnished in Early Goodwill as most student apartments were. Instead the love seat and chairs were Italian leather. There was a genuine Bokhara carpet on the floor and the paintings on the walls were not only originals, but quite good. A fingerprint tech was “dusting” the coffee table, leaving black powder behind to match the bookcase, stereo and computer desk in the corner. A weeping woman stood in the middle of the room, talking to herself.

“I knock, no answer. I don’t have no key. The manager of the building, he open the door for me. He goes back. He always does that. I go in like usual.” Clara Chochoña, the cleaning lady, stood near to the door weeping and talking, completely ignored by the forensics team, and, until our arrival, by the officers on the scene as well. “I go in to clean, but something don’t smell right. It’s make my eyes itch, you know?"