By Lauren Daniels

There are ways around it. I could walk up the back steps to the apartment complex and bypass 302 all together. But there is a fascination I have with this door. It’s a barrier. Keeping its secrets behind two inches of wood and a deadbolt. I glance at the gold numbers perched on the door each time I walk by. I want to know what is behind that door. I’m not expecting answers, or a justification for what Marcus did. It’s a morbid fascination, I know. 302 mocks me. It’s there every day as a standing testament to my curiosity.

Since Monday there has been a long grey electrical chord stretched out from an outlet in the hall and under the door of 302. I have heard the vague sounds of a machine running and pounding on the walls. I picture men working in a far back room, cleaning, remodeling, and painting over crimson discolorations on the carpet and walls. 302 was a roof over Marcus Dory and his family’s head. And soon, it will be the roof over another’s. Rent ads will read “Fully remodeled 2 bedroom apartment. Complete with walk in closets, full kitchen, washing machine, new carpet, freshly painted walls, and smooth caulked over bullet holes.”

Chris Beuzek and his grandmother Carol Perry live on the first floor in apartment 102. Her deck faces the walkway to the complex. “It’s like grand central station. I see everything and everyone that comes and goes.” She says with a laugh.
Carol is a sweet woman with a thick dialect known around the areas of Taunton, Fall River and New Bedford. “Oh dear” she said looking at my Boston hat. “You’re one of those.” She said, and pulling up her pant leg, shows me her New York Yankee’s socks.

Carol and her grandson, Chris have lived in their apartment a little over a year. “I really like it here. It’s quiet.” She said.

“You know what’s weird?” Chris said. “That he shot himself at 8 in the morning, and no one heard it.” He said, as though questioning this grandmother’s notion to it being quiet.

“Well, I heard the screaming” Carol said, picking up quickly where Chris left off. “It woke me up, but I didn’t know what it was. It was coming from outside. I thought someone got hit in the parking lot.” She points to the far end of her apartment, where her sliding glass door is leading to her deck. “My bed faces the walkway, so I heard all the commotion. I ran into Chris’s room and woke him up, because his room looks out into the parking lot.”

Chris nods his head as Carol tells of her morning. “But I still can’t get over how no one heard the gun shot. I mean, it’s a gun. How could we not hear it?” he said, flinging his arms out in a flamboyant, exasperated manner.

We all sat in a few seconds of silence, pondering how no one heard the echo of a gun shot. At 8am, I was sound asleep. The noises I heard weren’t until later around 10:30am.

“That’s because that is when his family found out that he died. They got a call from the hospital saying he hadn’t made it.” Carol said. “He got rushed out of here fast, and his family was outside. The police wouldn’t let them in the apartment, because there was forensics, or crime scene, or whoever was up there.”

Chris shook his head in disbelief. “His sister was on the ground, wailing. It was so sad. I felt horrible.” Carol came in after a beat. “He didn’t live there. He came and went. But one of the women I work with is friends with the family. She said that he told his sister he was going to shoot himself, and did it right then and there.” She said.

My eyes have been wandering around the apartment. Carol’s apartment is laid out the same way as 302. It has a large living room and a half wall to the left separating it from the kitchen. Straight head of the front door is a through way leading to a bedroom on the left, and another on the right. Two floors above her is a carbon copy where Marcus shot himself in front of his sister. In Carol’s apartment, it feels like his footsteps could be re-traced.

“I heard that he shot himself in front of a mirror or something like that.” Carol says in an eerie tone. She averts her eyes to the ground and shaking her head. “It’s so sad. He didn’t die right away. He was rushed to Morton’s, and then flown to Boston. He was on life support, but didn’t have any brain activity. So the family took him off it.” She said.

Marcus Dory’s death is labeled as an “unintentional death” in the police transcripts from November 10, 2007. Though, when one puts a gun to their head and pulls the trigger, the plan is clearly that death is inevitable, not unintentional. The reasoning behind why Marcus shot himself will be something only Marcus knew, and took with him.

“I knew Marcus’s sister, Kiki. I went to school with her. They kind of had it rough coming up. Marcus was gangsta’, but was always seemed really nice when he came around here. I think maybe he had gotten wrapped up in something, and was scared.” Chris said.

Hearsay is vague. “But I don’t know for sure. I can only assume. But it seems like that could be the case. I know he has gotten in trouble for drugs before, and has been in and out of jail. He even has a kid.” He said.

Marcus Dory. Born on May 13, 1989 and died on November 10, 2007 was 17, a “possible” drug dealer, bounced in and out of jail, and had a child. Who was living down the hall from me was a complete mystery. What Marcus did on his own time was of no concern to me. He seemed nice enough, and whatever he did in his personal life never followed him back to 302.
The air is cold, and the wind only helps make it bitter. Darting across the Taunton Green to the police station I suddenly realize that I am jaywalking my way to the station.

Oops.

Inside there are two men sitting at a long table talking to an officer about a traffic altercation. The guy tells the officer that his tools were stolen out the back of his truck, and he had been sideswiped. His co-worker nods in agreement, and the officer glances down at his paper work with a “so this is what I’ve been reduced to” look. My interest in overhearing the conversation is quickly phased out by an ABC Channel 6 cameraman and anchor taking interior shots of the station. They are quick and precise not making any commotion, and then head outside for exterior shots.

The secretary at the records counter is seated behind about three inches of bullet proof glass. She is completely enthralled with the conversation she is having on the phone and simply puts up her index finger to signal to me to wait. I try to imagine why the window at the records counter would need three inches of bullet proof glass. I picture a crazed man wielding a gun requesting the report from a parking ticket he received, and the petite lady, safely behind her glass putting up her index finger asking him to wait.

“What can I do for you?” comes mumbled from the speaker box above me.

I request the police report from the incident at my apartment complex three weeks ago.

“Mmhmm, do you know what the incident was? Breaking and entering? Unintentional death?” she says.

Suicide. Yeah. That’s the one.

She swivels around in her chair, and gives me a sideways look.

“Did you know the victim? Did you know his sister? Are you a friend of the family?” she asks. I am caught off guard. I thought police reports were public record? I stumble around for words to say. “I live in the complex, and I had talked to his sister a few times. I’m just curious to know what may have happened.” I finally say.

The petite lady behind her three inches of bullet proof glass just nods her head and I can tell she’s thinking ‘another nosey neighbor’.

“I can’t give you the police report, but I can give you the police logs from that day.” She says.
I’m disappointed. But I relent. I hand over my dollar and skim through the report. There is nothing of up most importance in it. I get Marcus’s full name. His birth date. Time of incident called in. Time of ambulance arriving. After a few minutes, I walk out of the station. I want my dollar back.

It’s 2am, and as I’m walking up to my complex, and a small part of me knows that I’m going to regret going out when I have to wake up at 8 for work.

As soon as the door shuts behind me, I hear another open. On the second floor I can see Tommy Briggs standing in his doorway, and leaning on it as a form of support.

“Shh. Hey, Lauren, come here. I wa-want you to meet mah’ wife.” He says, slurring. I am hurried inside his apartment, and greeted by small, beautiful brunette women about 25. “Hi, I’m Amanda.” She says, extending her hand to me.

I sit down, and say my hellos to the other guests, and Tommy is by my side with a bloody mary. Now isn’t the time for one of these, maybe in the morning, but the thought doesn’t stop me.

A few awkward beats, and  Amanda turns to me. “Isn’t it sad about the kid up there?” she says. “It happened so early, we stood at the door and watched them take him down.” She says.

“Oh yeah. That was fucked up.” Tommy says. I’m slightly annoyed at Tommy’s tone with the situation. More of a comical, of not light hearted tone, and after my drink, I excuse myself to my own apartment.

A few minutes later, I hear a soft tapping on my door. I crack it open and see Tommy standing inches from my face.

“C’mere. I want to show you something.” He says, whispering, and playfully, in almost a child’s voice.

I’m hesitant, but follow none the less. Heading down the hall, I suspect that Tommy is just trying to convince me to come down and carry on with the party, but instead he leads me to 302. The door is swung open, and I stand at the doorway in shock.

This holy grail of doors, this illusion to my curiosity is there, open and waiting, and I can’t bring myself to walk through its threshold. The room is dark, and I can only see the reflection of the white walls from the light in the hall.

I look at Tommy, and he seems impressed with himself.

“I did that. I opened it.” He says, swaying. I have no words to say to him, I grab the knob, and shut the door.

“Goodnight, Tommy.” I say in a disgusted tone as I walk away and back to my own apartment.

My phone is ringing, and I answer it in a groggy tone. The voice on the other end is my manager, “You know you were supposed to be here a half an hour ago.” She says.

I rant on with my apologies, and jump out of bed, quickly showering and getting dressed I dart out of my apartment and down the hall, the previous night not even accruing to me until I stop in front of 302.

The door is open. Morbid curiosity that was absent from the night before comes over me, and the idea of being late for work is no longer a concern. I stand in the hall for a moment, and then gingerly walk towards the door. Carefully, and meticulously I peer inside 302.

There are trash bags against the wall separating the living room and the kitchen, and beside them is a safe with a shattered lock. The refrigerator still has magnets holding up pictures and pieces of paper against it. The living room is empty, and the air is stale. An old vase with a “Happy Valentines Day” engraving sits on the kitchen table, and in front of me, through the through way against the wall, is a mirror reflecting back at me.

I take a step past the door way, and suddenly feel that I am intruding. The chaos from the past weeks echoed on the walls. The apartment is cold, and quiet. My curiosity sated, I respectfully close the door and go to work.