West Side, Floor Sixteen By Eric of the Web It was midnight, as George Thomson walked along the streets of New York. Then, to his shock and surprise, a body fell from what seemed like nowhere. He looked up. He was looking into the heights of the Emperor Apartment Building. Only one light was on, on that side of the building. Thomson counted the stories of the building. He saw the window shut, then the light went off. It was the sixteenth floor. He looked down at the body before him. The man was clearly dead. It was pretty evident that he just fell and died. Thomson hurried to the nearest telephone booth and called the police. A detective, named Jones Mason, was assigned the next day. He asked Thomson everything he could think of. Later that day, the Police Department received a call. Harold van Dike was missing. The last thing his family had known is he went to an old friend's house. They said all they knew about this friend is he's a little nutty, but had money. That's what this family needed: a loan. And as you can imagine, Van Dike's physical description matched the dead man's exactly. One thing they did not know is who this friend was. The police operator at the phone merely said, "Thanks for calling. We'll do our best." All he could do then was wait for a professional to tell them the bad news. "So you're sure he was dead as soon as he fell?" Thomson sighed. "Yes officer. I have told you before. He was dead." "And you're sure he wasn't dead before?" "Yes" "And you're absolutely sure the light on was the sixteenth floor?" asked Mason. "Yes." "Just making sure. I am finished for now." Jones Mason walked into the Emperor Apartment Building casually. He spoke to hotel security. He showed his badge and explained the case. They gave him three names, of residents who lived on the sixteenth floor and were on the west side of the building: Louis Charleston, Tom Wong, and Lucy Williams. By one o'clock Mason had questioned all of them. None of them looked suspicious in any way. None of them looked like criminals. None of them looked insane. None of them looked like they murdered a man the night before. None of them looked like the one Jones Mason was looking for. So where was the killer? Mason went home where he could think. Later that day he called in and said he had no clue as to who the murderer was. "You, Detective Mason," screamed his angry boss, "a top New York detective, having no clue! Listen Mason, solve this case or it's a salary cut!" Mason called Roger Johnson, a fellow detective. He came over. Mason reviewed the facts with him. "Do this Jones," said Johnson with a twinkle in his eye. "Check out the west side on the seventeenth floor. Go now and come back to my place when you're done. We'll see if you find a suspect." In one hour and a half Mason returned. "I've found one man who I might be looking for. But why? It was floor 17!" Johnson got up and simply said, "I will show you another time. What you now need to do is go question this suspect extensively. What was his name?" "Howard Einstein." "Good. Go see who he is." Mason walked down the hall once more to Einstein's apartment. The hall was a mess. He knocked on the door. The man answered. He looked tired. His room was a mess. He didn't seem very alert. Then Mason finally said to him, "You look tired. Where you up late last night?" "Up late! Are you kidding?! I didn't get more than an two or three hours. That neighbor of mine threw another party. Wasn't over until twelve in the morning. All I heard all night was shrieks and screams." "Shrieks and screams?" "Yes sir." That was what made Mason suspect something. Was this man tired because he killed some one at midnight last night or because something happened in his neighbor's apartment? "What is this man's name?" "Mark Kennedy, Sir. Lives right around the corner." "Thank you. I may be back." "Oh, one more thing. Be warned about Kennedy. He's a little violent sometimes." Mason knocked on the neighbor's door. It was sure enough around the corner. An obvious drunk answered the door. "Are you Mark Kennedy?" "That I am." "I'm a detective. I would like to ask you some questions." "I don't answer no cop questions." "Sir, I must ask you some questions." "Well, then Mr. Detective. Why don't you come on in and have a drink or two." Mason saw this man could be dangerous. "No need. Were you having a party in here last night?" he said keeping a distance. He decided he shouldn't come in. He also remembered Einstein's warning. "Party?" "That's what your neighbor Mr. Einstein claims." "That dirty liar! He's a murderer on drugs. Don't listen to him!" Mason thought. This man could possibly have done it. There was just one problem. This man's room faced the building's north side. But one thing Mason had noticed was all that money hanging out of his pockets. On the table was "The Wall Street Journal". The stumped detective went back down to hotel security. He asked for all the names on the seventeenth floor. He looked for a lady. He knew that she would be gentle. Lindsay McKinney. Perfect. She lived right next door to Mark Kennedy. Jones Mason went to McKinney's room. She wasn't home. He gave Johnson a call and told him everything. Johnson said he would be over shortly. As Mason was waiting he pulled out his notes. He remembered the friend having a lot of money. "Hello," said Johnson, "did you find anything?" "I know a possible suspect but on floor 17, and the north side." "That makes sense." "Makes sense? The body fell on the west side from the sixteenth floor. Come I'll show you. "Look. Count 16 buttons starting at 1," Johns showed Mason. They were in the elevator. Mason had no idea why, but he did as Johnson said. "...14, 15, 16." His finger was on button 17. He tried again and got the same result. He looked carefully. "There's no number 13!" "Exactly," said Johnson, "many buildings leave out floor 13 because it is believed to be unlucky. Many people will not go on floor 13. That's why when Thomson counted 16 he was counting floor 13, which did not exist." "You're a genius. You knew that all along?" "Yes of course. And I'm sure you want to know about the north side?" "Yes, I do." "You didn't go in the suspects room did you?" "No. He looked drunk and possibly dangerous" "Still you should a looked in. While you were gone I looked outside. The bloodstain was near the corner. Even though it's on the west side, he fell from the corner apartment. If you had looked in the room you would have seen it was on the corner." "Roger, you're are some detective. I thought I was one of New York's best." Johnson merely chucled, "That's what friends are for." "Rog, there's still one thing. What did Einstein mean by a party? Kennedy said he had no party." "I say the only way to find out is to ask him." Mason, now relieved, was ready to put the last puzzle piece together. Was Einstein really a liar? He knocked on the door. "Don't worry I solved the case. You're innocent. I still have one more question. Are you sure your neighbor had a party?" "Something. There were screams all night. I'm telling you." Then it all made sense. Those screams were the screams of a struggling victim. Van Dike had been murdered by a violent man. In October of 1993 Mark Kennedy was convicted of homicide in the second degree at New York State court. He was sentenced for life in prison.