I get out of their way, but I’m deeply distracted: I’m trying to close everything out because there is something about the room, the whole situation – I’m not exactly sure what – that is troubling me. A part of the scenario is wrong, and I can’t tell why. I look around, taking another inventory of what I see, but I can’t find it – I have a sense it’s from earlier in the night. I go back, mentally rewinding the tape to when I first walked in.
What was it? I reach down into my subconscious, trying to recover my first impression – it was something detached from the violence, minor but with overriding significance.
If only I could touch it … a feeling … it’s like … it’s some word that is lying now on the other side of memory. I start thinking about how I wrote in my book that it is the assumptions, the unquestioned assumptions, that trip you up every time – and then it comes to me.
When I walked in, I saw the six-pack on the bureau, a carton of milk in the fridge, registered the names of a few DVDs lying next to the TV, noted the liner in a trash can. And the impression – the word – that first entered my head but didn’t touch my conscious mind was ‘female’. I got everything right about what had happened in Room 89 – except for the biggest thing of all. It wasn’t a young guy who was staying here; it wasn’t a naked man who was having sex with Eleanor and cut her throat. It wasn’t a clever prick who destroyed her features with acid and drenched the room with antiseptic spray.
It was a woman.
Chapter Three
I’VE KNOWN A lot of powerful people in my career, but i’ve only met one person with genuine natural authority – the sort of guy who could shout you down with just a whisper. He is in the corridor now, coming towards me, telling the forensic team they’ll have to wait: the Fire Department wants to secure the acid before somebody gets burnt.
‘Keep your plastic gloves on, though,’ he advises. ‘You can give each other a free prostate exam out in the hall.’ Everybody except the forensic guys laughs.
The man with the voice is Ben Bradley, the homicide lieutenant in charge of the crime scene. He’s been down in the manager’s office, trying to locate the scumbag who runs the joint. He’s a tall black man – Bradley, not the scumbag – in his early fifties with big hands and Industry jeans turned up at the cuff. His wife talked him into buying them recently in a forlorn attempt to update his image, instead of which – he says – they make him look like a character from a Steinbeck novel, a modern refugee from the dustbowl.
Like all the other regulars at these murder circuses, he has little affection for the forensic specialists. First, the work was outsourced a few years back and overpaid people like these started turning up in crisp white boiler suits with names like ‘Forensic Biological Services, Inc.’ on the back. Second – and what really tipped it over the edge for him – were the two shows featuring forensic work that hit it big on TV and led to an insufferable outbreak of celebrityhood in the minds of its practitioners.
‘Jesus,’ he complained recently, ‘is there anybody in this country who isn’t dreaming of being on a reality show?’
As he watches the would-be celebrities repack their labs-in-a-briefcase, he catches sight of me – standing silently against the wall, just watching, like I seem to have spent half my life doing. He ignores the people demanding his attention and makes his way over. We don’t shake hands – I don’t know why, it’s just never been our way. I’m not even sure if we’re friends – I’ve always been pretty much on the outside of any side you can find, so I’m probably not the one to judge. We respect each other, though, if that helps.
‘Thanks for coming,’ he says.
I nod, looking at his turned-up Industries and black work boots, ideal for paddling through the blood and shit of a crime scene.
‘What did you come by – tractor?’ I ask. He doesn’t laugh; Ben hardly ever laughs, he’s about the most deadpan guy you’ll ever meet. Which doesn’t mean he isn’t funny.
‘Had a chance to look around, Ramón?’ he says quietly.
My name is not Ramón, and he knows it. But he also knows that, until recently, I was a member of one of our nation’s most secret intelligence agencies, so I figure he’s referring to Ramón García. Ramón was an FBI agent who went to almost infinite trouble to conceal his identity as he sold our nation’s secrets to the Russians – then left his fingerprints all over the Hefty garbage bags he used to deliver the stolen documents. Ramón was almost certainly the most incompetent covert operator in history. Like I say, Ben is very funny.
‘Yeah, I’ve seen a bit,’ I tell him. ‘What you got on the person living in this dump? She’s the prime suspect, huh?’
Ben can hide many things, but his eyes can’t mask the look of surprise – a woman?!
Excellent, I think – Ramón strikes back. Still, Bradley’s a cool cop. ‘That’s interesting, Ramón,’ he says, trying to find out if I’m really on to something or whether I’ve just jumped the shark. ‘How’d you figure that?’
I point at the six-pack on the bureau, the milk in the fridge. ‘What guy does that? A guy keeps the beer cold, lets the milk go bad. Look at the DVDs – romantic comedies, and not an action film among them. Wanna take a walk?’ I continue. ‘Find out how many other guys in this dump use liners in their trash cans? That’s what a woman does – one who doesn’t belong here, no matter what part she’s acting.’
He weighs what I’ve said, holding my gaze, but it’s impossible to tell whether he’s buying what I’m selling. Before I can ask, two young detectives – a woman and her partner – appear from behind the Fire Department’s hazchem barrels. They scramble to a stop in front of Bradley.
‘We got something, Ben!’ the female cop says. ‘It’s about the occupant—’
Bradley nods calmly. ‘Yeah, it’s a woman – tell me something I don’t know. What about her?’
I guess he was buying it. The two cops stare, wondering how the hell he knew. By morning, the legend of their boss will have grown even greater. Me? I’m thinking the guy is shameless – he’s going to take the credit without even blinking? I start laughing.
Bradley glances at me and, momentarily, I think he’s going to laugh back, but it’s a forlorn hope. His sleepy eyes seem to twinkle, though, as his attention reverts to the two cops. ‘How’d you know it was a woman?’ he asks them.
‘We got hold of the hotel register and all the room files,’ the male detective – name of Connor Norris – replies.
Bradley is suddenly alert. ‘From the manager? You found the scumbag – got him to unlock the office?’
Norris shakes his head. ‘There are four drug warrants out for his arrest; he’s probably halfway to Mexico. No, Alvarez here’ – he indicates his female partner – ‘she recognized a guy wanted for burglary living upstairs.’ He looks at his partner, not sure how much more to say.
Alvarez shrugs, hopes for the best and comes clean. ‘I offered the burglar a get-out-of-jail-free card if he’d pick the locks on the manager’s office and safe for us.’
She looks at Bradley, nervous, wondering how much trouble this is gonna cause.
Her boss’s face gives away nothing; his voice just drops a notch, even softer. ‘And then?’
‘Eight locks in total and he was through ’em in under a minute,’ she says. ‘No wonder nothing’s safe in this town.’
‘What was in the woman’s file?’ Bradley asks.
‘Receipts. She’d been living here just over a year,’ Norris says. ‘Paid in cash, didn’t have the phone connected – TV, cable, nothing. She sure didn’t want to be traced.’
Bradley nods – exactly what he was thinking. ‘When was the last time any of the neighbours saw her?’
‘Three or four days ago. Nobody’s sure,’ Norris recounts.
Bradley murmurs, ‘Disappeared straight after she killed her date, I guess. What about ID – there must have been something in her file?’
Alvarez checks her notes. ‘Photocopies of a Florida driver’s lice
nce and a student card or something – no picture on it,’ she says. ‘I bet they’re genuine.’
‘Check ’em anyway,’ Bradley tells them.
‘We gave ’em to Petersen,’ says Norris, referring to another young detective. ‘He’s on to it.’
Bradley acknowledges it. ‘Does the burglar – any of the others – know the suspect, anything about her?’
They shake their heads. ‘Nobody. They’d just see her come and go,’ Norris says. ‘Early twenties, about five eight, a great body, according to the burglar—’
Bradley raises his eyes to heaven. ‘By his standards, that probably means she’s got two legs.’
Norris smiles, but not Alvarez – she just wishes Bradley would say something about her deal with the burglar. If he’s going to ream her out, get it over with. Instead she has to continue to participate, professional: ‘According to a so-called actress in one-fourteen, the chick changed her appearance all the time. One day Marilyn Monroe, the next Marilyn Manson, sometimes both Marilyns on the same day. Then there was Drew and Britney, Dame Edna, k. d. lang—’
‘You’re serious?’ Bradley asks. The young cops nod, reeling off more names as if to prove it. ‘I’m really looking forward to seeing this photofit,’ he says, realizing that all the common avenues of a murder investigation are being closed down. ‘Anything else?’ They shake their heads, done.
‘Better start getting statements from the freaks – or at least those without warrants, which will probably amount to about three of ’em.’
Bradley dismisses them, turning to me in the shadows, starting to broach something which has been causing him a lot of anxiety.
‘Ever seen one of these?’ he asks, pulling on plastic gloves and taking a metal box off a shelf in the closet. It’s khaki in colour, so thin I hadn’t even noticed it. He’s about to open it but turns to look at Alvarez and Norris for a moment. They are heading out, weaving through the firefighters, now packing up their hazchem pumps.
‘Hey, guys!’ he calls. They turn and look. ‘About the burglar – that was good work.’ We see the relief on Alvarez’s face and they both raise their hands in silent acknowledgement, smiling. No wonder his crew worships him.
I’m looking at the metal box – on closer examination, more like an attaché case with a serial number stencilled on the side in white letters. It’s obviously military, but I only have a vague memory of seeing anything like it. ‘A battlefield surgical kit?’ I say, without much conviction.
‘Close,’ Bradley says. ‘Dentistry.’ He opens the box, revealing – nestled in foam – a full set of army dental instruments: spreader pliers, probes, extraction forceps.
I stare at him. ‘She pulled the victim’s teeth?’ I ask.
‘All of ’em. We haven’t found any, so I figure she dumped ’em. Maybe she flushed them down the john and we’ll get lucky – that’s why we’re tearing the plumbing apart.’
‘Were the teeth pulled before or after the victim was killed?’
Ben realizes where I’m going. ‘No, it wasn’t torture. The coroner’s team have taken a look inside her mouth. They’re pretty sure it was after death, to prevent identification. It was the reason I asked you to drop by – I remembered something in your book about home dentistry and a murder. If it was in the US, I was hoping there might be a—’
‘No connection – Sweden,’ I say. ‘A guy used a surgical hammer on the victim’s bridgework and jaw – same objective, I guess – but forceps? I’ve never seen anything like that.’
‘Well, we have now,’ Ben replies.
‘Inspiring,’ I say. ‘The onward rush of civilization, I mean.’
Putting aside my despair about humanity, I have to say I’m even more impressed by the killer – it couldn’t have been easy pulling thirty-two teeth from a dead person. The killer had obviously grasped one important concept, a thing which eludes most people who decide on her line of work: nobody’s ever been arrested for a murder; they have only ever been arrested for not planning it properly.
I indicate the metal case. ‘Where’s a civilian get one of these?’ I ask.
Ben shrugs. ‘Anywhere they like. I called a buddy in the Pentagon and he went into the archives: forty thousand were surplus – the army unloaded the lot through survival stores over the last few years. We’ll chase ’em, but we won’t nail it that way, I’m not sure anybody could—’
His voice trails away – he’s lost in a labyrinth, running his gaze around the room, trying to find a way out. ‘I’ve got no face,’ he says softly. ‘No dental records, no witnesses – worst of all, no motive. You know this business better than anyone – if I asked you about solving it, what odds would you lay?’
‘Right now? Powerball, or whatever that lottery’s called,’ I tell him. ‘You walk in, the first thing you think is: amateur, just another drug or sex play. Then you look closer – I’ve only seen a couple anywhere near as good as this.’ Then I tell him about the antiseptic spray, and of course that’s not something he wants to hear.
‘Thanks for the encouragement,’ he says. Unthinking, he rubs his index finger and thumb together, and I know from close observation over a long period that it means he’d like a cigarette. He told me once he’d given up in the nineties and there must have been a million times since then that he’d thought a smoke might help. This is obviously one of them. To get over the craving, he talks. ‘You know my problem? Marcie told me this once’ – Marcie is his wife – ‘I get too close to the victims, ends up I sort of imagine I’m the only friend they’ve got left.’
‘Their champion?’ I suggest.
‘That’s exactly the word she used. And there’s one thing I’ve never been able to do – Marcie says it could be the only thing she really likes about me – I’ve never been able to let a friend down.’
Champion of the dead, I think. There could be worse things. I wish there was something I could do to help him, but there isn’t – it’s not my investigation and, although I’m only in my thirties, I’m retired.
A technician enters the room fast, yelling in an Asian accent: ‘Ben?’ Bradley turns. ‘In the basement!’
Chapter Four
THREE TECHNICIANS IN coveralls have torn apart an old brick wall. Despite their face masks, they’re almost gagging from the smell inside the cavity. It’s not a body they’ve found – rotting flesh has its own particular odour – this is leaking sewage, mould and a hundred generations of rat shit.
Bradley makes his way through a sequence of foul cellars and stops in the harsh light of a bank of work lights illuminating the wrecked wall. I follow in his wake, tagging along with the other investigators, arriving just in time to see the Asian guy – a Chinese-American who everyone calls Bruce, for obvious reasons – shine a portable light deep into the newly opened space.
Inside is a maze of cowboy plumbing. Bruce explains that, having torn up the bathroom in Room 89 without finding anything trapped in the U-bends, they went one step further. They got a capsule of Fast Blue B dye from the forensic guys, mixed it into a pint of water and poured it down the waste pipe.
It took five minutes for all of it to arrive, and they knew if it was running that slow there had to be a blockage somewhere between the basement and Room 89. Now they’ve found it – in the matrix of pipes and illegal connections behind the wall.
‘Please tell me it’s the teeth,’ Bradley says. ‘She flush ’em down the toilet?’
Bruce shakes his head and shines the portable light on a mush of charred paper trapped in a right-angle turn. ‘The pipe comes straight from Room 89 – we tested it,’ he says, pointing at the mush. ‘Whatever this is, she probably burnt it then sent it down the crapper. That was the right thing to do – except she didn’t know about the code violations.’
With the help of tweezers, Bradley starts to pick the congealed mess apart. ‘Bits of receipts, corner of a subway MetroCard, movie ticket,’ he recounts to everyone watching. ‘Looks like she took a final sweep through the place, go
t rid of anything she missed.’ He carefully separates more burnt fragments. ‘A shopping list – could be useful to match the handwriting if we ever find—’
He stops, staring at a piece of paper slightly less charred than the rest. ‘Seven numbers. Written by hand: 9. 0. 2. 5. 2. 3. 4. It’s not complete; the rest has been burnt off.’
He holds the scrap of paper up to the group, but I know it’s me he’s really speaking to, as if my job at an intelligence agency qualifies me as a cryptographer. Seven handwritten numbers, half destroyed: they could mean anything – but I have one advantage. People in my former business are always dealing in fragments, so I don’t just dismiss it.
Among everybody else, of course, the speculation starts immediately – bank account, credit card, zip code, an IP address, a phone number. Alvarez says there’s no such thing as a 902 area code, and she’s right. Sort of.
‘Yeah, but we connect to the Canadian system,’ Petersen, the young detective – built like a linebacker – tells her. ‘902 is Nova Scotia. My grandfather had a farm up there.’
Bradley doesn’t respond; he keeps looking at me for my opinion. I’ve learned from bitter experience not to say anything unless you’re certain, so I just shrug – which means Bradley and everyone else moves on.
What I’m really thinking about is the wall calendar, which has been worrying me since I first saw it. According to the price on the back, it cost forty bucks at Rizzoli, the upmarket book store, and that’s a lot of money to tell the date and never use. The killer was obviously a smart woman, and the thought occurred to me it wasn’t a calendar at all to her: maybe she had an interest in ancient ruins.
I had spent most of my career working in Europe and, though it’s a long time since I travelled that far east, I’m pretty sure 90 is the international code for Turkey. Spend even a day travelling in that country and you realize it has more Greco-Roman ruins than just about any place on earth. If 90 is the country prefix, it’s possible the subsequent digits are an area code and part of a phone number. Without anyone noticing, I walk out and head for the quietest part of the basement and make a call to Verizon on my cellphone – I want to find out about Turkish area codes.