The Mysterious Death of Michelle Gram

I’m certain that I did not kill the woman who was found in the dumpster off 10th street. No evidence was found at the scene, and nothing seemed to have been stolen from her, according to the police report I read in the newspaper. I recognized the woman’s face; I had seen her nearly every day on my way to work during the last week. She was stooped with middle age, her face beaten to leather from exposure to the hot July sun. Her tattered jacket and ripped jeans clung to her body in the humidity.

“Any change, sir?” she asked on Monday.

Of course I didn’t have any change. I don’t carry change. No one carries change anymore. Why are you wearing a jacket in the summer?

“Sorry. I don’t have any.” I rushed past her, avoiding her gaze. I didn’t have change on Tuesday or Wednesday either. Thursday she didn’t even bother to ask. On Friday, I accidently looked her in the face as I was digging my phone out of my pocket. Tired brown irises streaked red and outlined in sagging circles met mine before I could look away. Spider webs of wrinkles spun from the corners of her eyes, but you couldn’t tell from the photograph in the paper on Sunday.

“There was no apparent cause of death,” said the police officer who was quoted in the newspaper, “we do not have any reason to believe she was murdered or committed suicide.” The autopsy had revealed no traces of drugs or alcohol in her system. The story ended with a plea for anyone with information regarding the death of Ms. Michelle Gram to contact the police immediately. My neck turned as glanced involuntarily at the phone sitting on my counter top. But I didn’t know anything. What would I tell them, that I saw this woman on my way to work every day this past week? That I didn’t have change to give her when she asked for it? No. I’m certain I did not kill Michelle Gram and I didn’t have any information for the police.

There was no mention of Michelle Gram in the paper on Monday morning, not that I looked especially hard. I was running late to work, as usual, and didn’t bother to read through the whole paper. I rushed out of my apartment and towards my office building, only five blocks down the street. The sidewalk was beginning to sweat in the early morning heat, banks of haze hovering above the concrete like so many miniature rain clouds. I felt perspiration break out along my forehead before I had finished walking a single block and slowed my stride. No use showing up to work disheveled and sweaty.

“Any change, sir?” a quiet, feminine voice asked at my elbow.

I stopped dead, breath catching in my throat, staring into tired brown eyes. Guilt dripped down my throat and settled in my stomach. It couldn’t be. Michelle Gram had died and her body had been found in the dumpster. I began to breathe again. There were fewer wrinkles at the corners of these brown eyes; the girl staring at me from Michelle Gram’s spot on the sidewalk couldn’t have been older than 25.

“No. I’m sorry, I don’t have change,” I said automatically, shaking my head. The brown eyes slid past me, searching for someone else’s charity. I continued walking towards my office building, careful to keep my pace slow.

“That’ll be $4.54, please.”

I eagerly reached for my coffee from the barista, handing her my punch card and a five dollar bill.

“Thank you,” she punched the card, “looks like the next one is free.”

I grinned, “Excellent. Have a good day.” I dropped the coins into the tip jar. She smiled and rolled her eyes at the 46 cent tip.

“See you tomorrow morning, sir.” She said as I walked towards the elevators. I waved a hand above my head, slurping at my latte. The elevator doors opened, and I stepped in, pressing the button for the 25th floor.

The woman who had taken Michelle Gram’s spot on the sidewalk along 10th street was not there when I meandered home from happy hour. I glanced into the alley, peering at the dumpster. No body, thankfully. I wasn’t thinking very clearly, but I knew that I didn’t want the new girl to die like Michelle Gram. I felt a twinge of guilt thinking of the name. I knew I hadn’t killed her. It wasn’t possible. I reached my hands into my pockets and found two quarters leftover from the night’s fun. I carefully walked over to the spot where Michelle had stood and set them on the ground. Satisfied, I began to make my way back to my apartment.

“Barbara, can I get today’s paper please?” I said into the intercom. I was sitting in my office on Tuesday morning, sipping on a cappuccino and ignoring my paperwork. The homeless girl that I had seen the day before had not been there this morning.

“Right away, sir,” my secretary answered, her voice slightly distorted by the intercom speaker. I swiveled in my chair and stood to stare out of the large, four-paned window that took up most of the outside wall of the office. The 25th floor offered an artistic view of the Portland skyline, etched sharply against the backdrop of rolling green hills. I often gazed out this window when I was thinking; it helped me focus. What I had never noticed about the view, however, was that I could nearly see down the alley off 10th street if I stood at the right angle. It was empty, as far as I could tell.

“Here is the paper Mr. Weaver. Can I do anything else for you?”

I jumped slightly; I hadn’t heard Barbara come in. “No, thank you.”

She nodded and smiled, placing the paper on a stack of others before turning to leave.

“Did you hear about the homeless woman that died and was thrown in the dumpster?” I asked. I’m not sure why.

“No, I hadn’t,” she said frowning, “Should I have?”

“No, no. I was just wondering. It was near my apartment, that’s the only reason I remembered,” I answered, “Thank you, Barbara. You can go back to your desk.”

Barbara smiled again and left; I could hear her muffled heels on the carpeted floor. I opened the paper to the Local section, scanning the headlines. Nothing. Minutes later, prompted by morbid curiosity, I flipped to the Obituaries page. The ad asking for information about the mysterious murder of Michelle Gram was still printed at the bottom of the page. I involuntarily glanced at the phone on my desk, guilt creeping through my body. With effort, I turned away and began working on my paper work. I had nothing to tell the police. I didn’t kill Michelle Gram and there was nothing I could have done to help her.