The Face Behind The Mask

43

Patrice looked past the woman into the dim living room. The odor of warm trapped air seeped out of the house as if the door hadn't been opened in ten years. "Is Walter here?"

"No." The woman's lips barely moved. "Who are you?"

Patrice showed her badge. "We're Pittsburgh police detectives." She noticed the woman was dressed casually in tan elastic-waisted trousers and matching fuzzy socks. "Were you expecting us?"

"I don't have a lick of makeup on. Do I look like I'm expecting company?"

It was difficult to determine the woman's age but the creases in her face and the broken capillaries in her flat cheeks spoke of a difficult life.

"I'm Sergeant Wilson," the local officer said with a polite grin. "And this is Officer Dunlop from the East Liverpool Police Department."

"There sure are an awful lot of you."

"You're Ms. Schmitzer?" said Patrice. "Walter's mother?"

"Is he in some kind of trouble?" Her tone softened.

"Did your son mention that the police would be visiting?"

"No." Her expression tightened.

"Maybe we should talk about this inside." Patrice glanced over her shoulder at the neighbors on their porch. "You don't need anybody else in your business, do you?"

The woman swiped a strand of silver hair from her face and glared at the neighbors and their yapping dog before retreating into her home.

"Is there anyone else in the building aside from you?"

"No."

Sergeant Wilson rubbed his nose. "How about we keep the door open and me and my officer will be right out here if you need us?"

The detectives cautiously crossed the threshold and followed the woman into her living room. In contrast to the dilapidated exterior of the home, the interior was spotless. The heavy cocktail of furniture polish, Lysol, and Windex hung in the air and infiltrated the worn upholstered furniture. To add to the oppressive ambiance, Patrice estimated the room temperature to be somewhere in the neighborhood of eighty degrees.

The woman grumbled, "You're letting the bugs in."

The Sergeant responded by closing the door halfway.

The old woman shuffled to an overstuffed chair and lowered herself into it with a muffled grunt. She looked like she could barely keep herself from falling asleep.

Patrice paced slowly across the carpeting and peeked around the edges of the shades through the front-facing windows. She got the impression that Velma Schmitzer didn't spend much time looking out these windows, she was more concerned that others didn't look in. Patrice stopped at the base of the staircase.

With his eyes darting back and forth across the room, Lloyd asked, "Ms. Schmitzer, are there any weapons in the house?"

"Huh?" She pulled a wadded tissue from her cardigan pocket and dabbed her nose daintily.

"Do you own a gun? Or guns?"

She lifted her chin and glared at him. "What for?"

"So am I to understand there are no firearms on the premises?"

A creaking sound coming from the second floor drew Orion's attention. "Nobody's upstairs?" she said.

"It's an old house," Ms. Schmitzer said solemnly. "Old houses make noises."

Orion looked toward the top of the staircase, her hand near her holster, the heat dimming her focus.

The woman cleared her throat. "You say my Walter was in Pittsburgh?"