“I don’t believe I do,” the man said. “Why do you ask?”
With obvious concern, Madison told the story of Kera’s unexpectedly not showing up for work at the hospital and not answering her phone or responding to multiple texts. “Plain and simple, I’m worried about her,” Madison added. “And she’s not answering her buzzer, either. Of course, I can’t be entirely sure the buzzer is working.”
“Mine’s functioning,” the man said. “But they can be finicky. Do you work at the same hospital as she?”
“Yes. We are both pediatric social workers.”
“Maybe you should go up and knock on her door,” the man said. “Just to be sure.”
“I’d like to do that,” Madison said.
The man got out his keys, unlocked the door, and then pushed it open for her.
“Thank you,” she said. She smiled before walking inside and to the elevator.
Once she’d arrived at 4B, she took a deep breath, then pressed the doorbell. When nothing happened, she pressed it again. When she couldn’t hear any doorbell ringing within the apartment, she raised her hand and knocked on the metal door. Then she listened intently but heard nothing, even after putting her ear against the door. With a disappointed shake of her head, she knocked again even louder. She tried the door, but it was locked, as she suspected it would be. With a sense of frustration, she shook the door. Since it was old, it rattled in its metal jamb and that was when she detected a whiff of a foul odor. It was very slight but disturbingly rank, even nauseating. With some trepidation, Madison rattled the door again and hesitantly put her nose closer to the separation between the door and the jamb. The smell was more intense although still slight, and it keyed off a memory. She had experienced a similar smell when she was a young teen. She and some friends were walking in the woods and came across a dead woodchuck. It was the smell of putrefaction, the smell of death.
Stunned, she backed away from Kera’s door. She wanted to flee, but willed herself to pull out her phone instead. With a trembling finger she punched in three numbers.
“This is nine-one-one,” the call taker said in a practiced monotone. “What is your emergency?”
“I’m at my friend’s apartment door,” Madison began.
“What is the problem, ma’am?” the operator interjected.
“She doesn’t answer when I knock and hasn’t answered her phone for a couple of days. She also hasn’t shown up for work.”
“Do you think she is in need of assistance?”
“There’s a bad smell,” she managed. “When I shook the door, I could smell it.”
“Is the door locked?”
“Yes, of course it is,” Madison said, feeling impatient. “Otherwise I would have gone in.”
“What kind of smell is it?”
“It’s the smell of death,” Madison said. She didn’t quite know how else to describe it. Another mild wave of nausea spread over her as her mind recalled the noxious odor.
“Are there animals on the premises?”
“Not that I know of,” she snapped. “I don’t think so. Listen, I think you’d better send somebody over here.”
“What is the address, ma’am, and your friend’s name?”
Madison struggled with her anxiety as she gave Kera’s full name, the address, and the apartment number. She had never called 911 before and had imagined it would have somehow been easier. She didn’t want to think about what the police may find behind Kera’s door.
“And what is your name, please?”
She gave her name. Then she had to give her address and her phone number. She couldn’t believe it was taking so long. She was worried about Kera—and a smaller, more selfish part of her realized her free time between appointments was rapidly running out.
“The police have already been dispatched,” the operator assured her. “They will be there shortly. When was the last time you saw Miss Jacobsen?”
“Friday at work,” Madison said.
“Did you or anyone else that you know speak with her over the weekend?”
“I didn’t,” she said. “I have no idea about anyone else. Listen, I hate to say this, but I have to get back to work.”
