100 Murder Cases

A Splash of Red

The summer of 2005 is the worst time in my life. My landlord decides to sell the Boerum Hill house I've rented an apartment in for sixteen years, and then—in the aftermath of arguments about where to move—my wife suddenly walks out on our marriage. In the midst of a ferocious heat wave and at the peak of one of New York City's most inflated housing markets, I trudge across Brooklyn searching for a rental I can afford on my own, on a freelance writer's budget. One tiny apartment's only window looks out on a grimy airshaft. Another is a dark basement below the office of a doctor who practices adolescent gynecology.

The asphalt is so hot that it sticks to my shoes. The date when I have to leave my old apartment looms closer and closer. I'm panicking that I'll end up homeless when a miracle occurs: I stumble across a funky, eccentric Park Slope realty office where a petite, friendly French woman tells me that she has the perfect solution. She drives me to Ditmas Park, a surprising, little-known neighborhood full of grand old Victorian houses, and she shows me a large ground-floor apartment. It features a front porch, a big back patio, stained-glass windows, even a chandelier. And here's the miracle: the price is seven or eight hundred dollars a month below market value. She says that the landlord lives out of town and his brother manages the property. The whole thing seems too good to be true, but I follow the proverbial advice about gift horses and sign the lease.

Two days before I'm scheduled to move in, I learn why the rent is so cheap.

I ask the broker for the keys so I can clean the place up. At the house, I introduce myself to an upstairs tenant. He's a single guy about my age at the time, 44. I ask what the landlord is like.

My neighbor gives me an odd look. "You mean you don't know?"

"Don't know what? All I know is that he lives out of town."

The tenant grimaces. "Well, he does. He's upstate. In prison."

My heart plummets. I've barely managed to survive a horrendous summer and I'm desperate for a little peace and calm. "What's he in for?"

"He killed his wife."

I can feel myself go pale, but I manage to ask two more questions. "Where did he kill her?"

"In your apartment."

"When?"

"Seven months ago."

The news would be a shock for anyone, but it has special resonances for me. Not only am I in the middle of a painful divorce, but I'm the author of . I've just signed on to live in a crime scene.

* * *

I stand out on the patio under a broiling sun and wonder what the hell to do. If I had found out about this earlier I would probably have ripped up the lease and run, but I have only two days to get out of my other place and can't face any more apartment hunting.

I only want one more detail. "What room did it happen in?"

When I learn that it was the bathroom, I'm a bit relieved; at least it wasn't the room I'd have to sleep in every night.

My broker is as appalled to learn about the murder as I am, but even if she had known the apartment's secret she would not have been obliged to tell. New York realtors don't have to disclose the history of such 'stigmatized properties.' The principle is plain: buyer beware.

* * *

I move in.

I'm not superstitious, but several friends advise me to burn sage to clear away bad spirits. (Evidently, native New Yorkers have a protocol for such situations.)