Shred of Evidence

He listened to Emily’s footsteps move purposefully across the kitchen floor above him. In twenty minutes, her automatic garage door would grind open and her car engine kick in. Then the house would be his again for nine to eleven hours depending on how late she worked. He waited another five minutes to make sure she did not forget anything, but she never did. Emily was a creature of habit, the most organized person he had ever happened across. He supposed that was what came from living without people or pets.

He had never seen Emily, but figured she was one of two women in a photo that stood on her dresser. There were no pictures of men or children, so he further assumed she had never been married. Her wardrobe belonged to a woman no younger than forty, someone who worked in an office and did not go out much.

The few times he had heard Emily talk on the phone, he could not make out the conversations, but they were usually brief. The most telling characteristic about her was that she never had company, not in the two months he had lived in the crawlspace beneath her tidy ranch-style house. The doorbell sometimes rang, but the people on the other side of her threshold must have been salespeople, the pizza man or beggars like himself. A pizza delivery was a special treat because Emily invariably left a piece or two inside its box in the garbage.

His new life had begun in November. Cold and hungry, Emily Preston’s back door lock had been easily disengaged. He had not known Emily’s name then. That came later when he saw her junk mail and bills on the kitchen counter. There had not been much worth taking inside her tidy house, but in a storage space off of her bedroom, he had found entry to a twenty by twenty crawlspace. He shined his penlight into its corners and found the space dry and free of pests, as tight as a concrete bunker…or a tomb. He would risk spending the night.

After Emily left for work, he climbed out and raided the refrigerator. Emily’s house was small but cozy. He had owned a home once, before his life fell into a downward spiral, before jail time. He made the decision to stay another night, so he put back the food exactly as he had found it, shy a few slices of bread and lunchmeat. The crawlspace beat standing at an interstate off-ramp with a cardboard sign and it sure beat the hell out of fighting for a bed at the shelter.

Two nights became three, then six, then two weeks. After a month, he lost his fear of discovery. Emily left every weekday at the same time and never returned home till six or later. He developed his own routine. He bathed and shaved every few days, washed his few clothes, took just enough food from the pantry and fridge not to be noticed and lounged around the house watching TV or reading. Emily subscribed to enough news magazines to stave off boredom. Creating a comfortable place to sleep had been easy—stolen lawn cushions and old blankets from Emily’s highest storage shelf, his extra layers of clothes and his winter coat provided reasonable accommodation.

His primary daily duty was to be certain the house appeared to be just as Emily had left it. That included washing dishes or silverware he used, replacing ice cubes, wiping down every place he used water and smoothing out the sofa cushions and her bedspread, where he sometimes reclined and thought about his life.

Just before six, he watched the driveway until her car pulled in, then he quietly descended into the crawlspace closing the trap door behind him. The house he had grown accustomed to remained Emily’s at night.

He had found a spare key and made a duplicate but the only time he felt the need to leave was Thursdays. That is when he disposed of his accumulated trash and hit the interstate to collect money for extra treats—a fast-food burrito, candy, a beer now and then—food to get through the weekends when Emily stuck close to home. On Thursday nights, Emily went out for some kind of meeting so he could return after dark and crawl inside his makeshift bed before she came home.

Night after night, he lay in his crypt-like space listening to Emily’s soft footsteps paddle from the kitchen to the living room to the bathroom and waited to hear the water from the toilet or sink or tub run through the pipes and wonder what she would do if she knew he listened below. There was something comforting about her movements and the sounds, even that of the furnace cutting on and off, providing heat for the woman only a few feet above him. They were sounds of a normal life.

Then, on a Saturday morning, the trap door flew open and Emily quickly descended the four steps. He tried to retreat into the concrete wall, tried to make himself invisible, but Emily did not glance in his direction. She sat a canister in the middle of the room, pressed a button, then departed, closing the door behind her. The canister fizzed, releasing an unpleasant chemical cloud that soon assaulted his eyes, ears and throat.

“Bug Bomb,” he whispered.

He had to stop the spreading gas or get out. He crawled to the canister and threw his heavy coat over it, then bolted for the trap door to take his chances. His hands pushed against the plywood trapdoor, flipping it open. He climbed the steps and tentatively looked into the bedroom and adjoining bath. Emily was nowhere in sight. He had not heard the garage door or her car but in the confusion, he may have missed the familiar sounds. He stealthily slipped from room to room. When he was certain she was gone, he recovered the canister and tossed it in the back yard where it could fizzle and die.

When his eyes quit burning, he looked at Emily’s kitchen calendar. A neat line was drawn through five days. Above the line, she had written, Sister. He grinned at the thought of having the place to himself for five days. He would panhandle until he had enough to get some extra food and maybe he would sleep in her bed. There would be plenty of time to be topside as long as he kept the lights low and cleaned up carefully prior to her return.

After three days, he knew it would be hard to go back into the crawlspace but, at the same time, he had grown accustomed to Emily’s habits. She never talked to herself but occasionally hummed along with the music she played. He missed the sounds and he missed her. He had only seen her that one time, in silhouette, when she released the bug bomb, but she looked determined, a no-nonsense person who took care of business. If he slipped up while she was gone, she would notice and surely call the cops. They would find him and drag him away.

Through the edge of the curtains, he watched a neighbor pick up Emily’s paper each morning. The time had come to move along, but he could not bring himself to do it. The holidays were near and Emily would play Christmas music and there might be treats she would bake for her office or bring home. He wished he could see her face and wondered which of the women in the picture was she and which was “sister.”

He came uncomfortably close to getting his wish upon Emily’s return. The garage door clattered open while he dosed in front of the TV. When he realized what was happening, he clicked the TV off and flew over the couch making a beeline to the safety of the trapdoor. He stumbled, almost knocking a lamp off its stand, steadying it as the garage door closed and the kitchen door opened. He scrambled to his feet and reached his hiding place in time, praying she did not notice the wumph of the plywood door as it dropped snugly into place.

He backed into his secret corner and listened. He heard a man’s voice. Emily and the stranger were laughing. Someone has come home with her. That might be a blessing. It will keep her from looking around too closely…but…what if he stays? Not Emily. She is not the type to bring someone home.

The man’s voice grew louder as he tried desperately to hear their words.

“I’ll set these in the closet for now,” the stranger said.

He heard a bump on top of the trap door.

Luggage. The man had placed luggage on top of his escape route and left the room. There was nothing to do but wait. He hoped the stranger would soon leave and Emily would go to bed and everything would be as it had been, as it should be. He wrapped himself in a blanket and waited for what seemed hours with only the sound of distant mumbling to keep him company. Then he heard another sound. Emily was sobbing. He had never known her to cry. Who was this person in the house with her? What right…?

A shuffle of footsteps came into the bedroom. He could make out the stranger’s words once more.

“It’ll be okay, Emily. Just lie down and relax.”

For the first time, he could hear Emily’s words clearly. “This isn’t right. It’s been years. I need time.”

“This is the time,” the stranger told her. “What difference does it make how long it’s been. Just take it easy.”

He listened carefully, hanging on every sound above. The words had stopped. He imagined what was taking place and felt like crying himself.

“No!” Emily screamed.

He heard what sounded like a slap followed my Emily’s wails. She was being attacked. He could not squat down there and just listen. He had to do something. He crawled to the trapdoor and gave it a push. It did not budge. The goddamned luggage.

Emily screamed again. This time it sounded like one last wailing plea.

“Oh, shut up,” the man told her. “You’ve been without it too long.”

On the steps now, he put his shoulder to the door and pushed for all he was worth. He heard the suitcases slide. Another shove and the door opened. He scrambled up the steps, out of the storage space behind Emily’s closet and into her bedroom.

In the dim light, he saw the stranger tearing at Emily’s slacks and underwear. She was pinned by his forearm as her arms flailed at him.

He ran to the bed, hooked his arm around the stranger’s neck and pulled back. “Stop it,” he screamed as he saw Emily’s face for the first time. It was streaked with tears and one side was reddening from the slap. He pulled the man off of the bed and pushed him away.

“Who the hell are you?” the stranger gasped, holding his tortured neck.

“You better get out of here.”

“I’m an old friend,” the stranger said. “We were just playing around…”

“Please leave,” Emily pleaded.

The stranger looked at him. “I’ve got more right to be here than you. Where the hell…? You were hiding in the house. Do you even know this person, Emily?”

“Please go, both of you!” Emily said, pulling her torn blouse over her chest.

When he turned his attention to Emily wanting to explain, the stranger threw a sucker punch, sending him sprawling on the floor. Emily screamed as the stranger placed both hands around his neck and squeezed. “You’re an intruder. You’re the one that doesn’t belong, you asshole.”

He was close to losing consciousness from the pressure of the man’s thumbs when he saw Emily looming over them. She held a large object and crashed it against the stranger’s skull. The man slumped and fell to one side.

“Thank you,” he croaked, his vocal chords straining to make sounds.

“He was trying to kill you,” Emily cried. “I had to do something.”

“Of course you did.”

Her ripped blouse hung loosely from her shoulders but she did not care about that any longer. She looked very fragile as she sat on the edge of her bed and dropped the marble bust of Beethoven that had torn open the stranger’s skin and cracked his skull. “You’re the man from the crawlspace,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Yes,” he said, “but how…?”

“I’ve always known you were there. I’m a bookkeeper. I count things. I’m very efficient that way…and the little hairs around the edge of the sink. I knew you weren’t here to harm me and now, thank God…”

“But the bug spray?”

“I didn’t want you thinking I was suspicious and leave. I knew you’d get out of there once I was gone.”

They both looked at the man who lay face down in a spreading pool of blood.

“He’s not…no, he can’t be,” Emily said, fresh tears welling in her eyes.

He had seen death before and this stranger, this man who had conned Emily in some way, had come to cause harm, to take advantage, was most certainly dead. He looked at Emily and nodded.

“Oh my God,” she said. “I didn’t mean to… I had to stop him.”

“You did the right thing.”

“He lives near my sister. We went out years ago. Said he wanted to look for a job here. I gave him a ride.” She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

He stood next to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. “I know what to do. It’ll be all right. I can take care of this. You aren’t to blame. Will you trust me?”

Emily looked up at him. “I trusted you to stay in my house,” she said softly, wiping her tears.

“Why? If you knew, why—”

“Because I was lonely. As silly as it sounds, I took comfort in you being down there. I was about to be brave and acknowledge you when I had to visit my sick sister. I decided to wait till I got back and if you were still here…” She took his hand. “Now it seems there was a reason for your being here. What’s you’re name?”

“What was that guy’s name?”

“Bill Jacobsen.”

“Then call me Bill.”

* * *

“It looks like him. This is his spot and them’s his clothes.”

“You have any idea who would want to do something like this?” the detective asked the transient.

“Hell, who knows? I never even knew the guy’s name. He hadn’t been around so much lately.”

The detective sighed, put his notebook in the breast pocket of his jacket. He knew the investigation would come up empty and that this John Doe might never have a name.

* * *

Bill and Emily spent their nights together listening to music or watching TV. She cooked for him and he kept house. He intended to look for work as soon as the holidays were over. They knew they would always have each other, their secrets safe in each other’s arms.

Emily called her sister to tell her how much Bill had changed and how well things were working out. “I’ll come visit after the holidays,” Emily told her. “Now that I have Bill to take care of things, I can get away more often.”