Progeny by E. H. Reinhard Page B

only see him once a day, but I’m always on call in case the residents need something that’s not scheduled.”
    “So Wednesday at what? Six o’clock or so?” I asked.
    “Around then yes.”
    “When did you notice his absence?” I asked.
    “Yesterday evening. I went to his place like usual for the breathing treatment around six. When he didn’t answer when I knocked, I got a little worried. He never misses his treatments. I let myself in. His apartment was empty. I asked around. He was at bingo Wednesday and wasn’t seen after. We searched the property, and when we couldn’t find him, we contacted his daughter.”
    “Has anyone seen or heard from him since Wednesday night?” I asked.
    “No. At breakfast, we gathered all of the residents and asked. No one had.”
    “What exactly was Mr. Pullman’s condition that required assisted living?” I asked.
    “He was developing Alzheimer’s,” she said. “It was getting too difficult for his daughter and her husband to manage him in their home.”
    “And the breathing treatment?” I asked. I tapped the pen on my notebook page, waiting for her response.
    “COPD. He had inhalers, but I treated him with a nebulizer nightly.”
    “Did anything look out of the ordinary at his apartment?” I asked.
    “I didn’t really go over anything. We can go and take a look if you’d like.”
    “Please,” I said.
    She stood. Hank and I followed her back across the courtyard and into the building. We took the elevator up to level six and made a right down the hall. The way the facility was laid out, I imagined it used to be a hotel before being converted to assisted living.
    Janet stopped at room 608 and pulled a ring of keys from her pocket. “This is Henry’s room here,” she said. She turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door.
    “Dad?” a voice called.
    I looked at Janet, who had a look of confusion on her face. She, Hank, and I entered.
    A woman in her fifties sat in the living room. She looked at us, her eyes red and puffy. A pile of used tissues lay on the table in front of her.
    “Hi, Marion. I didn’t know you were coming,” Janet said.
    The woman stood from the couch and walked to us in the entryway. She stared at Hank and me. “Why are you two here?” she asked.
    “We’re with the Tampa Police, ma’am. We’re trying to find out what happened with your father.”
    “I know who you are, Kane and Rawlings. I read the paper and watch the television. I mean why are you two, specifically, here. You’re homicide guys.” She was quiet for a moment. “Do you think…? Oh my God!” She held her hands over her mouth and stumbled her way to the kitchen table, where she collapsed into one of the chairs. She held her face in her hands and cried.
    I walked over to her. “Ma’am, we don’t know what has or has not taken place. We’re just investigating.”
    She took her hands from her face and stared me dead in the eye. “Bullshit. They wouldn’t put you two on a missing old man unless there was a reason.”
    I let out a breath. The woman would take nothing but straight facts. Trying to beat around the bush with her to calm her down wouldn’t get me anywhere, so I pulled out a seat next to her. Hank sat across from me.
    “You’re Mister Pullman’s daughter?” I asked.
    “Marion Dean,” she said.
    “Marion. I’m going to be as straight as I can with you. You seem like someone who appreciates that sort of thing. I want you to hear everything I say, okay?”
    She nodded.
    “Yesterday, we found a body. We have no way of knowing if it is your father or not. We will need a DNA sample from the apartment here to rule him out or confirm.”
    “A body?” She sniffed. “Robles Park?” Her voice had an air of desperation.
    “What do you know about that?” Hank asked.
    “It’s been all over the television this morning. Is that why you’re here? Oh my God!” she cried again, burying her face in her hands. “It was my father!” She wept