The prompt from my weekly writers group in Florida was to write a piece focusing on an aspect of character development. This post is an excerpt from a chapter in one of my novels, ‘Delayed Penalty’. Can you discern the personalities of these two characters from their conversation?

“Yeah, she lives here.  What’s this all ‘bout?  She in trouble?”  Dicky Lister was slouched in the doorway to the landlord’s apartment, a beer can in his hand.

“When did you last see her?” Detective Billie Radford asked.

Scratching his head, Lister said, “I dunno.  Coupla days ago, maybe.  Me an’ the tenants don’t exchange Christmas gifts, y’know.”  Radford noticed flakes of dandruff on his shoulders as he scratched his hair.

“Did you happen to see her sometime on the twenty-fourth, Christmas Eve?”

“Yeah, I guess, but early on.  Me an’ Lizzie don’t hang up our stockin’s for Santa together, neither,” he smirked knowingly.  “Wouldn’t of minded, though.”

“Her name is Lissa,” Radford said, “not Lizzie.  She’s been missing since Christmas Day, and I’d like to see her room.  I need you to let me in.”

Lister drew back a step, took a swig from the can.  “Nah, I can’t do that, Detective.  I got a key an’ all, but I never go in somebody’s room if they ain’t ‘round.”

Radford smiled disarmingly.  “Oh, I’m sure you don’t, Mr. Lister.  But it’s very important that I check her room, and I’m asking you once more, politely, to open it for me.  Otherwise, I can come back with a warrant, and in that case, we’ll make a point of searching the entire building.  That will be a lot more aggravation for you, I can assure you.”  As she spoke, she made a point of turning to look up at the ceiling in the hallway behind her.

“Whatta you lookin’ at?”

“Nothing really, and that’s a problem!  I don’t see smoke-alarms or sprinkler-heads in the corridor, which, as I’m sure you know, is a violation of code for a rooming-house.  That’s not something I’d normally concern myself with, but I’m wondering if the fire marshal’s office has granted you an exemption for that?”

Lister’s beady eyes narrowed.  “Oh, so you’re gonna report me for that?  You friggin’ lady-cops, man!  You got nothin’ better to do?”

“I do have something better to do,” Radford said, still smiling.  “I have to write a report about my visit here today, but if I don’t have a look at Lissa’s room, I won’t have anything to report.  So in that case, I suppose I’ll have to report the code violations.”

“You friggin’ cops!” Lister hissed again.  “Always makin’ trouble for us little guys.  Wait here a second ‘til I get the key.”  He closed the door unceremoniously in her face.

As she waited, Radford sent a text to the fire marshal’s office about the violations.

“Only thing worse’n a real cop is a lady-cop!” Lister sniffed a few moments later on the way to Lissa’s room.  As they passed through what passed for a front vestibule, he tossed his empty beer can on top of an overflowing garbage can.

Once he had the door unlocked, Radford said, “Thank you, Mr. Lister.  I’ll let you know when I’m finished here.”

After she closed the door on him, Lister offered a middle-digit salute before stamping back to his apartment to fetch another beer.  “Cops suck!” he yelled, knowing she’d be able to hear him through the paper-thin walls.  “You better not report me!  An’ I’m gonna tell Lizzie a cop was goin’ through her stuff!”

Ignoring his threats, Radford did a cursory walk-through of the bedroom and bathroom, saw nothing out of the ordinary for a young woman living on her own.  A more thorough search of her closet, dresser, and bedside table also yielded nothing of much interest.  The only curious thing that caught her eye was a black bra in the top drawer of the dresser—curious because it was flecked with what looked like…dandruff.

Yeah, he never visits tenants’ rooms when they’re out!  The pervert!

After taking a picture without disturbing anything, Radford put on a pair of plastic gloves and placed the bra in a plastic evidence-bag.  

On her way out, she taped two strips of yellow crime-scene tape diagonally across the door to the room, and photographed that, too.  Back in the vestibule, still gloved, she took a picture of Lister’s discarded beer can on the garbage can, then put it inside another evidence-bag.

Might be nothing.  But if the guy lied about never going into tenants’ rooms, maybe he’s lying about Lissa’s whereabouts, too.  We’ll check the DNA.

She didn’t bother to tell Lister she was leaving.