Small Apartments by Chris Millis Page A

morning I spent an hour or so with your deputies snooping around Al Olivetti’s personal affects. Did you know he owned rental property in the city?”
    Fred opened a manila folder on his desk. “One unit at 559 Potomac, and one at 100 Garner.”
    “Have you sent a deputy up to ask some questions around there yet?”
    “Not yet,” said Fred. “I have to make contact this morning with the Buffalo PD and get things coordinated.”
    “Have you heard anything about that mysterious Chevy pickup?”
    “Are you worried I forgot how to do my job, you old dog?” asked Fred with a smirk. “Why don’t you tell me whether that fire was arson or accidental.”
    “I got a hunch you’re going to find that fire was set. I think that Olivetti fella was dead before it started,” said Burt Walnut. “I never known a fella to burn to death in one place unless he was a Buddhist monk. This Italian fella wasn’t moonlighting as a Buddhist monk, was he?”
    “I can look into it, but I don’t think so,” said Fred with a chuckle.
    Burt Walnut stood up and hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. “I’m thinking I might go up to the city for some ice cream this morning.”
    “Is that so?” said Fred. “There wouldn’t happen to be any ice cream parlours around 559 Potomac and 100 Garner, would there?”
    “I’ll get back to you on that,” said Burt Walnut with a smile.
    “Give me a call after lunchtime and I’ll tell you what Bob Fields had to say in his autopsy report,” said Fred.
    “I’ll call if I’m feeling lonely and need somebody to talk to,” said Burt, “but I doubt you’re gonna tell me much I don’t already know. I
would
like to learn how the poor fella did die, though.” Burt sauntered out of Fred’s office and gave him a backhanded wave over his left shoulder.
    Fred sat for a half-minute thumping his pen on his desk, then dialed the phone. “Helen, this is Sheriff McNally, is Bob available to talk? Uh huh. I see. Well, please tell him to call me the minute he’s done with that Olivetti autopsy. Thank you, sugar.”

CHAPTER
12

    T HE GREY, STEEL hydraulic door swung open with a groan of air as Franklin entered the Buffalo Psychiatric Centre on Elmwood Avenue Wednesday afternoon. The fluorescent lights droned above his head while his rubber-soled sandals chirped along the polished white hallway. The walls were painted a sane yellow and the smell was more sterile and antiseptic than a normal hospital. No wonder Bernard requested that Franklin never visit. This place is creepy, he thought. The receptionist was a bored overweight woman with a poor complexion who looked as forlorn as the building.
    “I’m here to visit a resident,” Franklin said.
    “I’m sorry?” said the receptionist, phrasing her statement as a question.
    “That’s ok,” said Franklin. “I’m here to see Franklin.”
    “First name?” asked the receptionist.
    “First name Franklin.”
    “Ok, last name then.”
    “Last name Franklin.”
    “Look sir, we don’t have a Franklin Franklin. I know that right off the top of my head.”
    “No,
I
am Franklin Franklin. I thought you needed my name for your log book or whatever.”
    “Well I will, but first we need to figure out which resident you are here to see, Mr. Franklin Franklin,” said the receptionist with an air of sarcasm.
    “Bernard. Bernard Franklin.”
    “Can I assume you are a relative?” asked the receptionist.
    “You should never assume. But yes, he’s my brother.”
    The receptionist shook her head and performed a few deft strokes on her computer keyboard. She picked up the phone and pushed one button, then mumbled something that sounded to Franklin like ‘Jews have brown hair.’ She asked him to sit in the waiting area. Moments later a hospital administrator appeared through one of the oak double doors that led to the residents’ rooms. Franklin thought it was nice that they called them residents, even though they were all there because they