The Dog That Barked
by Jeffrey Hantover
The police detective thanked him for his help. His teenage son thought it was cool that his father broke the case. Called him “Sherlock,” which was quite a change from the boy’s usual sullen silence. The neighbor next door in 3F claimed he had taken his dog out at midnight and hadn’t returned till almost one. When he came back, he found his wife dead on the kitchen floor, stabbed multiple times in the chest and neck. Why the police wanted to know had he gone out so late at night? The dog was whining, scratching the front door. He thought the dog might be sick, better he throw up on the sidewalk then in the apartment.
When the police asked if he had heard anything unusual that night, he said that the neighbor’s dog had barked nonstop for five minutes plus starting at 12:15. He was sure of the time because he had been in the second bedroom that was his study talking to a friend and looked at his phone when he was finished. The police checked his phone to confirm the time. The neighbor had lied. He hadn’t left his apartment. The dog had been a vocal witness to the murder of its owner.
His wife seemed troubled by his newfound celebrity among the other tenants and friends. She was unusually quiet, and whenever the topic came up in the week following the murder, she went into the kitchen to clean up even before their guests left. The idea of a murder next store, a bloodied body lying on the kitchen floor, their friendly, middle-aged neighbor brutally stabbing his wife of 27 years with a carving knife was, he was certain, especially disturbing to her. He tried to comfort her, a touch on the shoulder, a hand on her cheek, but she pulled away. At night, she clutched a spare pillow tight to her chest and turned his back to him. He didn’t say anything, believing time would erase the images that were haunting her.
Ten days after the murder, he and his wife sat in silence at the dinner table. She was about to say something, then stopped. One then another tear rolled down her cheeks. She made no effort to wipe away the tears.
“Who were you Face Timing so late? “
“When? “
“The night of the murder.”
“A friend. Just an old friend from high school. You’ve never met her?”
“Just a friend whose face you wanted to see at midnight? How long?”
“Since the 25th reunion last year.”
“Eight months.” He didn’t say anything. “How often? Once a week? Twice a week?” He said nothing. “Every night? God, every night.”
In the morning he stood in the hall waiting for the elevator. The workmen had come early to 3F. He heard them ripping up the kitchen floor. They would spackle and paint the entire apartment. The walls would be smooth and white. The real estate agent wouldn’t mention the murder. The apartment would look brand new. All would be as it was before.
When the police asked if he had heard anything unusual that night, he said that the neighbor’s dog had barked nonstop for five minutes plus starting at 12:15. He was sure of the time because he had been in the second bedroom that was his study talking to a friend and looked at his phone when he was finished. The police checked his phone to confirm the time. The neighbor had lied. He hadn’t left his apartment. The dog had been a vocal witness to the murder of its owner.
His wife seemed troubled by his newfound celebrity among the other tenants and friends. She was unusually quiet, and whenever the topic came up in the week following the murder, she went into the kitchen to clean up even before their guests left. The idea of a murder next store, a bloodied body lying on the kitchen floor, their friendly, middle-aged neighbor brutally stabbing his wife of 27 years with a carving knife was, he was certain, especially disturbing to her. He tried to comfort her, a touch on the shoulder, a hand on her cheek, but she pulled away. At night, she clutched a spare pillow tight to her chest and turned his back to him. He didn’t say anything, believing time would erase the images that were haunting her.
Ten days after the murder, he and his wife sat in silence at the dinner table. She was about to say something, then stopped. One then another tear rolled down her cheeks. She made no effort to wipe away the tears.
“Who were you Face Timing so late? “
“When? “
“The night of the murder.”
“A friend. Just an old friend from high school. You’ve never met her?”
“Just a friend whose face you wanted to see at midnight? How long?”
“Since the 25th reunion last year.”
“Eight months.” He didn’t say anything. “How often? Once a week? Twice a week?” He said nothing. “Every night? God, every night.”
In the morning he stood in the hall waiting for the elevator. The workmen had come early to 3F. He heard them ripping up the kitchen floor. They would spackle and paint the entire apartment. The walls would be smooth and white. The real estate agent wouldn’t mention the murder. The apartment would look brand new. All would be as it was before.
Jeffrey Hantover is the author of the novel The Jewel Trader of Pegu. His novels, The Three Deaths of Giovanni Fumiani and The Forenoon Bride are forthcoming in the summer of 2023. His short story, "The Man in the Moon," was published in The Raven Review.