Was I reading too much into this? Had the pot made me paranoid? My gut said something was amiss. Women can be so easily victimized by men.
I’d seen the movie Rear Window. When I thought of Mr. Simon, ghostly images of Raymond Burr, the killer across the courtyard, floated through my mind.
Since I worked from home, I’d become quite familiar with the couple’s schedule. They usually left for their jobs at the same time every day. And arrived home within a few minutes of each other every evening. Like clockwork.
I kept track of who came and went from the Simons’ apartment for a whole week. Then another. Although I frequently saw Mr. Simon, his wife never showed up.
Gerald laughed at me. “Maybe they’ve split up,” he’d say. “Maybe that’s why he’s renovating.”
Sure, I thought. Maybe.
How could I confirm this?
I arranged to corner Simon at the mailbox, accidentally/on purpose.
“How’s your wife?” I asked, aiming for a nonchalant tone.
Simon turned and glared at me.
“We’re separated.” His terse response bespoke an unstated directive to mind my own damn business. He pulled out his mail, slammed the box shut and stalked off.
That night, to gain clarity, I smoked a bowl. (I do some of my best thinking when I’m high. Ask Gerald.) Since Mr. Simon was as likely to tell me Mrs. Simon’s whereabouts as I was to catch a ride on the next space shuttle, I realized I’d have to break into the apartment for evidence to take to the police.
I ordered some tools off the Internet (you really can get anything on eBay). After practicing on my own front door (late at night, with no one around), I became rather proficient at cracking locks.
Mr. Simon had a routine. He liked to go out Saturday nights. I guess he hit the bars. With Mrs. Simon out of the picture, she had nothing to say in the matter.
When Simon took off on one of his Saturday night escapades, I waited a bit, then used my eBay tools to break in.
Once inside, my arms tingled. Goose bumps popped. I couldn’t believe what I was doing! I thought about the dim view Gerald would take of my efforts. But he wasn’t going to stop me. No, Gerald couldn’t intimidate me anymore.
Simon rarely got home until the wee hours, which gave me plenty of time to search the place.
Jewelry, I thought. A wedding ring? Just like Rear Window. Could I get that lucky?
The thought brought me up short. How can you even think in terms of luck? We’re talking about the murder of an innocent woman.
Even so, I thrilled at the thought of catching someone in the act.
I entered the bedroom. The bed was made. (Simon was neat, at any rate. More than I could say for Gerald.) I looked in every obvious place but couldn’t find a purse. I checked all the drawers. No sign of Mrs. Simon’s valuables. The closet held precious little in the way of a woman’s wardrobe.
“Shit.” He’d probably seen Rear Window, too. He might have taken all her valuables to another location. Or hocked them after he offed her.
As in the movie, Mr. Simon might have packed her personal effects in a trunk and sent them to some destination where the alleged Mrs. Simon would pick them up.
I sat on the bed and wondered how to proceed.
Aha! I realized I could drop a tip to the cops. Anonymously, of course.
It was midnight (and Gerald kept telling me I was crazy, which in itself was enough to make me crazy). I ignored him and walked four blocks to a convenience store with a pay phone. I put in the call to the police, told them that Mrs. Simon had gone missing and hung up.
I went home and smoked another bowl before hitting the sack. “I hope you’re satisfied,” Gerald grumbled. I ignored him and went to bed.
Within a few days,
the police were at Simon’s door. I watched through the peephole as they entered his premises.
Not long after, I watched as they took him to police headquarters—for questioning, no doubt.