By Richard Ross

Jessica was the name of the woman Daniel Cohen picked up at a bar Monday night on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Immediately after arriving at her apartment, she and Daniel had a fit together on the floor. This was not uncomplicated to carry out, since the apartment was only slightly larger than a shot glass.

At the moment of the new relationship’s consummation, police were investigating the suicide of a man in whose pants pocket they had found Daniel’s prescription bottle of Vicodin. Having easily discovered his address through pharmaceutical records, they found the door to his apartment open. Among their discoveries were an ounce of marijuana, an empty year-old prescription bottle of Vicodin in a medicine cabinet behind a package of anal suppositories, and, under several cloth placemats in a kitchen cabinet, a ten-pill foil seal of 60 mg. extended-release morphine sulfate.

There were no pills in the seal and nobody in the apartment.  

“Turns out you’re alive after all, Cohen,” one of the detectives said. “So who’s dead?”

Daniel Cohen had found himself waking around nine next morning in the apartment of his latest sex partner. 

Fuck, he said to himself when he saw the time. Tuesday. Work. 

Jessica was still sleeping. He was hungry but felt too grubby to eat. And showering in her bathroom would mean getting into last night’s clothes afterwards. No, he’d shower in his own apartment. 

Where, he soon discovered, two detectives were waiting to welcome him.He was too shaken, sitting at his kitchen table, to notice how extraordinarily alike the men across from him looked. And how unremarkable. 

“We thought you might be a dead guy,” Detective #1 said.

“Someone who’s dead left behind a bottle of your pills,” Detective #2 said. “Did you give anybody a bottle of your Vicodins?” 

“What?”

“Vicodins. The prescription you have.” The detectives stared at Daniel.

“My Vicodin… oh shit. A guy I know was here drunk last night. Stan Johnson. I left 

him here, he was too drunk to go out, He likes to get fucked up.” 

“Looks like he came to the right place,” said Detective #1. 

“How did you know him?” Detective #2 asked, writing in a small notebook 

“From the bars. Jesus, he’s really dead? How?”

“Do you know any of his family? Friends?”

“I’ve met his sister. Her name’s Juanita.”

Detective #2 was writing. Detective #1 said: “Johnson?”

“I don’t know. I guess.”

“Do you know where she lives?”

“No.”

“So what was he doing with your pills?”

“I left them here when I went out. He must have gone through my drawers and found the bottle.”

“Where’d you keep it?”

“Under my sweaters.” 

Detective #2 looked up from his notebook. “I guess you don’t trust your friends. What were the pills for?”

“Dental work.”

“What kind of dental work?”

“I had a root canal.”

“I’ve had a couple of those,” said Detective #1. “My dentist tells me to take Advil.”

“This yours?” Detective #2 asked.

Daniel Cohen’s eyes opened wider. “I’m not going to get in trouble here, am I? It’s only a little marijuana.”

“No, we’re just going to write you a summons,” Detective #1 said. “We won’t field test the pot, no doubt they’ll dismiss the summons. But don’t forget to show up in court. Otherwise they issue a warrant.”

“The legal advice is free,” Detective #2 said.

“Where did you go when you left here?” asked Detective #1.

Daniel named the bar. “I left there with a woman I met. Spent the night at her place. Her name’s Jessica. You’re not going to interview her, are you? I don’t know her that well.” 

“Really,” said Detective #1. 

“Where does she live?” asked Detective #2, writing again.

“I don’t know. I know the building, it’s on Eighty-First between First and Second. In the middle of the block. I’m not sure of the address.”

“Do you know anything else about this Juanita person, the sister? Where she works? Anything?”

“Uh, not really, sorry.”

“Okay, thanks,” Detective #2 said, putting away his notebook. “Glad to find you alive. Too bad about the other guy.”

“I feel really bad about this. I mean, dead. God.”

“More free legal advice,” Detective #1 said. “Giving someone your prescription medicine is a crime.”

“But I didn’t––” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Detective #2 said. “We believe you, don’t we, Mike?”

“Whatever you say, Marty. Have a good day, Mr. Cohen.” 

*  *   *

Richard Ross is a retired New York City Family Court judge. His publications include works on family court judging, as well as poetry in a variety of journals. As a Very Old Guy he is trying his hand at fiction.