Free The Cincinnati Red Stalkings by Troy Soos Page B

stifled a laugh, and I realized how silly that sounded.
    I stood up carefully, my knees feeling like they were going to buckle again. My head didn’t want to stay up either; it felt like the dull pounding in the back of my skull was trying to knock it forward onto my chest.
    I struggled to get vertical, then walked to the front door.
    “Shouldn’t we call the police?” Margie suggested.
    “Good idea. Go ’head.” I opened the door and peered outside. Of course, the burglar would have been long gone, but I felt compelled to check. Everything was quiet and calm, not even a passing automobile.
    While Margie placed the phone call, I looked around the parlor. Everything of obvious value—Victrola, mantel clock, silver candlesticks—were still there and looked untouched. My desk appeared to be the only thing in the room that had been disturbed. The stacks of guides and magazines were in disorder and the desk drawers were open. But from what I could tell, nothing had been taken.
    While waiting for the police to arrive, Margie checked the kitchen, and I looked around upstairs. She then put on a pot of coffee.
    A disheveled young officer eventually arrived in a patrol car. He looked like he’d been asleep not long before. “You called about a break-in?” he asked.
    “Yes,” Margie and I answered in one voice. I then gave him the story in all its brevity.
    “Well, let me take a look-see.”
    Margie offered him a cup of coffee, which he accepted and sipped as he walked around the house, checking the front and back doors and the windows. “Doesn’t look like a forced entry. You keep your door locked?”
    Who locks their doors? “Not when we’re home.”
    “Could have walked right in then. What all was taken?”
    “Nothing. I don’t think.” I pointed to the messy desk. “He went through that, though. Probably looking for something.”
    “Probably,” he repeated. The officer scribbled in a notebook, muttering to himself, “No forced entry. Nothing taken.” He gulped the last of his coffee. “Well, I’ll file a report, and we’ll keep our eyes open.”
    “That’s it?” I wasn’t sure what I expected, but I assumed the police could do more than this.
    “For now.”
    I touched the back of my head, where a lump had started to bloom. “He knocked me out.”
    The cop grunted. “But you’re all better now?”
    “Uh, yeah.”
    “Good.” He wrote some more in the book, reciting aloud, “Assaulted resident. Minor injury.” He then thanked Margie for the coffee and advised us to lock the door from now on. “Good neighborhood, but you never can tell,” he said.
    After he left, we followed his advice, locking the doors and windows. Then we went back upstairs to try and get some rest. I lay on my side to keep my bruised head from touching the pillow, but I never did get to sleep.

    By eight-thirty, with Margie still asleep, I’d taken a hot bath and eaten breakfast—the cookies I’d wanted last night. I was on my fourth cup of coffee and holding the second bag of ice to my throbbing head. This was one of the rare times I was hoping not to play; my head and eyes were in no shape to pick up a fastball.
    I was thinking about the break-in, and was struck by the similarities with the one at Ollie Perriman’s office. Detective Forsch had never talked to me again after I’d met with him at police headquarters. Maybe I should contact him.
    I phoned the Crime Bureau and was put through to Forsch. “Glad you’re there,” I said after identifying myself. “Wasn’t sure if you worked Sundays.”
    “They don’t give us weekends off,” he replied. “Fridays and Saturdays are the big crime nights. Matter of fact, I got a stabbing on Front Street I need to look into. So what’s on your mind?” I heard him take a drag on a cigarette.
    I told him of our intruder.
    “So what do you want from me?” the detective asked. “You reported it, the local cops looked into it, end of story. Who knows—maybe they’ll