A Stranger's Inheritance

“Your Honor, I did not kill him.”

I sat alone now in my cell. The guard that was on duty had come by and removed my fellow incarcerated. Supposedly, the youth had his relative stop by the station to post bail. He had boasted to me that he had burgled a boutique the night before. Two hours and a baseball bat, and the absent-mindedness to not leave his wallet at home. The patrol picked him up after breakfast, and he was leaving before supper. I wonder how that was possible, but I presume it may be related to the distinctive embroidered L and V on his boots. It must be nice.

“My name is Albert. A-L-B-E-R-T.”

Now I had the room to lift my feet on the weathered bed that was chained to the wall. My shoes had no embroidery, but just the memories of pavement that had etched their signatures into the rubber beneath my sole. I traced my fingers on the brick. The mortar crumbled at my touch. There were some who considered this aesthetic admirable. Chic. Vintage. I could not see it.

“I am a consultant, not by choice, but by suggestion.”

This was my 5th day here, or was it my 6th? I have lost track. I know I was in the courtroom no more than two days prior, or was that yesterday? I began to see why prisoners would tally the time on the walls. Not that it would do me any good. Meals would arrive irregularly, so it was impossible to keep an audit of my ordeal. The only light percolating through the iron poles was that of the lachrymose luminescence buzzing above me. It felt like a long tube of lightning bugs that never slept. Neither did I. Were they doing this intentionally? Even if so, it made no difference.

“I had no prior relations with Mr. Sintes, nor his nephew Raymond.”

I could not escape his glare. Raymond had sat across the aisle with his affluent attorney, confidently stroking his brown leather briefcase. I looked straight ahead, mostly because I just wished to be finished with my hearing and had no interest in talking to anyone more than I had to. I sat next to my court-appointed counsel, who reeked of cigarillos and plea deals. I think he wanted to leave the courtroom more than I did. At a time in my life, I had wanted to be in a room such as this, in a contrasting circumstance. I had studied for the bar three years earlier but was advised to go into consulting by my professors, given my dubiety. The Judge sat stoically in her chair, with eyes that exuded decades of savoir-faire. Mine simply felt defunct.

“To be truthful, I do not understand exactly why this occurred.”

Tapping my nails on the steel chain, I recounted my ruminations. To my knowledge, I still have not deduced why I was arrested in the first place. Everything had moved so suddenly since the announcement. I had even taken my usual route to the train station after reading the post, passing by billows of steam emerging from the busy street beside me. I sometimes would picture shapes in the mist, the way others may imagine figments in the clouds on a summer’s afternoon. That day, one of the shapes lunged at me. In my disarray, I faltered back to flee from this phantasm. Suddenly, I was on the ground with radio frequencies shrieking in my ear, being told I had the right to remain silent. I normally never spoke to anyone and I saw no reason to change that day.

“He was my neighbor, but we never spoke.”

Mr. Sintes was my neighbor, that was not a lie. Nor was having never spoken to him, for the most part. At best, I would only exchange a polite nod as I walked near him on the dilapidated stairs to my derelict apartment, which consistently smelled of water damage. I preferred to keep to myself, as did Mr. Sintes. He always wore argyle sweaters, with tattered fibers clawing for freedom at the ends of his sleeves. Most days, in the afternoon, I would return home for lunch. The office space was always too raucous, and I felt it to be suffocating. He would hobble down the stairs to check his mailbox for letters but never seemed to return with any. A man of routine, which I respected. At the top of the stairs, we would part ways, not saying a word, and return to our hovels, alone.

“I merely gave the gentleman back his notebook.”

The month prior, I had returned to my bleak little box slightly later than usual. A gentleman had collided with me a block away, blowing my papers onto the concrete. Without even stopping to apologize, he left in a haste, oak dress shoes clattering away. I chose not to engage. It was inconsequential and consisted of me being delayed an extra five minutes. I continued my normal strolling pace. I had nowhere to be.

When I opened the graffitied doors to my building, Mr. Sintes was not present. I assumed he had completed his afternoon ritual without the need of my cavalcade. As I approached the top of the stairs, I smelled a hint of bergamot. Maybe they cleaned the rotted wood off the ceiling vaults finally. That was when I overheard the sounds of muffled moaning. Mr. Sintes lay bleeding on the soiled carpet, dark maroon saturating the squalid steps from a cavity in his temple. I stared, betwixt and between on what to do. He turned towards me, his eyes glazing over like an aluminum veneer. I gave him a polite nod, which he returned. I stepped over him to be unobtrusive, and with a wax finger, he sighed a pleading breath towards a small black book that had fallen beside him. It had a brunet drape over it with crisp ivory pages. Apprehensively, I handed him the leather book, which he clutched to his chest. I vacillated on whether to ask if he needed any assistance. To my surprise, as if he discerned what I was thinking, replied “There is no need.” I walked back into my room.

“I felt it was unnecessary to call at the time.”

I awoke the next morning with my head spinning. I had not slept well the night before. As I exited my doorway, the only memory left of Mr. Sintes was the scabbed impression of his left profile on the musty carpet. The smell of citrus no longer inhabited the hallway. Now it only smelled of stale coffee. Officers had stayed late last night securing the crime scene. The detective had questioned me if I had seen anything suspicious, to which I replied no. Apparently, Mr. Sintes had been struck by an unknown assailant, who had fled the area. I mentioned I merely stepped out of the way to avoid being a nuisance and went directly to my room. The detective asked why I did not call the police when I had discovered Mr. Sintes hemorrhaging to death. I had no answer for them. In retrospect, it may have been better if I did, or at least fabricated some excuse. Yet I honestly did not know why. I did not think I could make much of a difference.

“I only first learned about the money from the morning post.”

It was everywhere on the news. Mr. Sintes had been a former real estate mogul, who had receded into reclusive behavior some ten odd years ago. He still maintained primary ownership of several parking garages and buildings within the city but was excused from his daily duties after what had been reported as a “depressive psychotic” episode. Since then, he had avoided the public eye almost entirely, only cared to and seen by his relatives. I found that last statement rather peculiar. In the four years that I have lived in my disgusting studio, I have never seen a wink nor trace of any visitor to Mr. Sintes’ room. Albeit that was not what demanded the majority of my attention that morning, as I scraped my soles on the asphalt. In bold letters on the front of the page read “Estate Empire passed to Unknown Complex Neighbor” with a picture of me plastered on the right-hand corner. It was my old law school identification. I had not seen it in years. I did not care for it. Soon after, I was pinned to the ground by more officers that smelled of old gas station coffee.

“Your Honor, if I may, I have some pertinent information now.”

The entirety of his estate, including all assets, liquid or otherwise, were to be left in my name, starting with $20,000 to be sent to my bank account every month. The revision to the old man’s will was notarized by his attorney only a week before his unsolicited lobotomy. It was noted that I was also to be given the only physical possession that was found on his person. The little black book that he had embraced so dearly before his disagreeable demise. I have yet to discover what lies between those onyx leaflets. I was immediately whisked to the cell I now inhabit, which frankly was not much of a revision from my previous chamber. It was there I found myself now pondering, clawing away the cheap fibers lining my bench. My head was beginning to rage and ferment, from all the hazy hypotheses of my predicament. It would be much easier to submit myself to the asphyxiating cradle of my piteous dilemma.

“There was something I had noticed that day.”

I could not stand the way his eyes patronized me. I learned from the proceedings that it was Raymond who had requested I be seized on grounds of slaying Mr. Sintes. He had purportedly witnessed me leaving his uncle bleeding on the stairs upon arriving at our complex. Again, I found this statement rather queer, as visitors were prohibited from entering without a residential chaperone. The supposition quickly evaporated as the plaintiff read the basic information regarding the case. We were to resume our hearing in a week, wherein wait, I was to spend my time in my adamantine alcove. Raymond proceeded to swiftly strut his ochre Oxfords past me, with an air of superiority wafting behind him. I gagged on the suffocating cloud of bergamot. Bergamot…

“There is another suspect.”

I jolted from my recumbent wallowing, my head smashing into the metal links adhering my seat to the wall. As pain shot through my brow, I was simultaneously granted a sensation of clarity. The reminiscent scent of citrus cut through my confusion like a scalpel. The hurried gentleman. The aroma of affluence. The greedy glower that demanded so much of my submission.

I sat straight now with my feet rooted firmly on the concrete beneath me. For so long, I have felt undecided, unsure, and now, I welcome the gentle indifference of the world. For most of my life, I have ceased to distress myself with the comings and goings of the universe besides me. Yet the smell of Bergamot suddenly gave way to a realization. To a determination. I quickly scoured the remnants of my cognizance, with an exotic agility in efficiency. I had around $12,000 left in my savings, to which I am prepared to surprise an unknowing investigator to assist me. I hope he finds it as pleasantly unexpected as the wind of vitality I feel now. My eyes now gleaming with puissance, I knew something for the first time in my life. I now had something to say. I now wish to accept on the estate of my old friend. I will discover what lies between those pearly pages that he held with such intent.

I now have made my decision.