Defensive Wounds (5 page)

The bloodstain hadn't spread out too far from underneath the head, but it had soaked the carpet pretty good. Perhaps Theresa had been wrong about the steam cleaning.

Neil Kelly and Powell apparently finished with Marcus Dean and reentered the bedroom. “Whoa,” Neil said, looking at her squat, square-shaped machine with a flexible cable protruding from its front. “What's that?”

“ALS. Alternate light source.”

“Like a black light?”

“Like a black light.”

“Whoa,” he said again, grimly. “This is going to be interesting.”

Using a black light in a hotel room, along with reading the health department's report on your favorite restaurant, fell into the category of Things You'd Rather Not Know. The detectives drew the curtains, and Theresa switched off the bathroom light. She passed out orange goggles and turned the machine on. After churning through a few different wavelengths, she settled on one around four hundred nanometers. This would excite certain enzymes and proteins in bodily fluids—particularly semen—and cause them to emit a bluish fluorescence. Then she picked up the small machine, warning the detectives not to trip over the cord. The room was dim, certainly, but wearing the goggles made it even darker.

She passed the light, slowly, over the open bed, weaving from side to side, trying to cover every inch of the exposed white sheets.

Powell let out a breath he must have been holding. “I don't see anything.”

“Me either,” she agreed. Nothing. Not a fiber, not a spot, and certainly not the glowing blob of semen she'd expected to see.

“So wherever they did it—if they did it—it wasn't in the bed,” Neil surmised.

Theresa threw the covers back into place so she could see the surface of the comforter. A splotch burst into a faintly yellowish glow as the light passed over it. And another. And another.

“Yuck,” Neil Kelly said.

Powell, at her elbow: “What did they say about that expensive suite Mike Tyson was in? They found how many different semen samples?”

“You would think it would show up better on these white comforters and they'd have to wash them more often,” Theresa said. “Only five here. Not as bad as the Tyson suite.”

“You going to collect them all?” Neil asked.

“Have to. Don's not going to be happy,” she added, referring to the lab's DNA analyst. She moved the light to the floor.

“Yuck,” Neil said again.

“Eww,” Powell added. “Look, it goes up the
wall
. I don't know whether to be disgusted or jealous.”

“The
bed,
people,” Neil instructed the phantom guests. “That's what the
bed
is for.”

“Most of this is probably urine,” Theresa assured them. “Someone may have been incontinent or have some very odd habits. Most likely they smuggled a pet into the room. They may even
allow
pets in this room.”

Neil said, “Probably. The Paris Hiltons of the world have to be indulged.”

Theresa followed the glowing splashes around the bed, to the bathroom, to the desk, and out the door, debating on what to collect and what not to. She didn't want to overload Don or rip up more of the Ritz's property than she had to, but at the same time there was never a good way to explain why she
hadn't
collected a piece of potential evidence. She decided to gather a swab or two from the wall between the bed and bath, take the entire comforter, and clip a few carpet fibers around the body's resting place. Trying to find the swabs, break open the package, locate the tiny disposable plastic vial of sterile water (were those things a godsend or what?) to wet the swab, rub it on the wall, get out the swab boxes and fold them into the correct shape without setting the swabs down, and then label the boxes, all in the near dark, severely tested her dexterity. But she didn't want to mark up the walls with a Sharpie marker, or the hotel would have to repaint for sure and then think about billing her for the cost. She began to clip carpet fibers, the ALS head propped on her shoulder and held in place with her chin, cutting only a few here and there so the damage wouldn't show before the huge bloodstain reminded her that they'd have to replace the carpeting anyway. She took a scalpel and began to cut three-inch-square pieces of carpet to test, along with one clean piece as a control sample. Who knew what kind of cleaners or stain blockers they might have used on the carpet? On rare occasions these could affect the DNA sample.

The detectives offered to help, but there was little they could do beyond Neil Kelly's holding the manila envelopes open for her as she dropped in carpet samples. Finally she could wrap up the cords and open the curtains with the sense of relief a minorly claustrophobic person feels to see daylight again.

Neil and Powell searched the room as she gathered her envelopes. They found nothing save for a paper clip and the corner of an ancient Twinkie wrapper wedged behind the nightstand, next to a dead cockroach and half of a Len Barker baseball card.

“Engorged with Twinkie crumbs is not a bad way to go,” Neil pointed out, “but who rips up a perfectly good baseball card?”

Len Barker had pitched a perfect game for the Indians in 1981, only the eighteenth no-hitter in major-league history. “Would that be worth a lot?” Theresa asked.

Powell said, “No, they're not that rare. But I'll bet it's got a story behind it. Just not one involving Marie Corrigan.”

The two detectives kept up a running vaudeville act on the various possible explanations for all the stains they'd seen, like the overgrown boys they were. Theresa escaped to process the door to the hallway for fingerprints, as well as the hallway door to the stairwell, and then she could finally strip off the gloves and gather up her envelopes and equipment from the plush carpeting. “I think that's about it.”

Powell moved to the outer room to make a phone call. Neil Kelly took one more look around, then said to her, “I want to ask your daughter a few questions. Do you want to be there?”

Theresa got to her feet immediately. “You better believe it.”

The lobby bustled with human activity. Dinner hour approached with check-in time, and new guests queued up at Rachael's desk. The conference sessions were breaking up, and small groups of people with identical name badges gathered, discussing the murder and also where to get a decent steak.

Theresa made Neil wait until Rachael had checked in a group of tourists from Norway and could turn her counter over to another girl, feeling that tiny frisson of anxiety one does when introducing one's child to another adult, especially this man—a peer, sort of. Would he have the good sense to discern the obvious superiority of her offspring? Or would he remain clueless, uninterested in the child's intelligence and wit? Not that it mattered to Theresa, of course.

Rachael joined them next to a statue of three running horses, realistically captured in bronze. “We'll have to talk fast, 'cause I'm not supposed to hang around the lobby. So who did it? Do we have some psycho killer running loose in this place?”

So much for wowing Mom's new acquaintance. “Rachael! This isn't a TV show.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I guess I can afford to be flip—I don't have to go into some empty room off a silent hallway all the time like the maids. They're totally freaked out. I think they may revolt.”

“That's not funny.”

“It wasn't meant to be. They're talking about walking out unless the hotel provides armed security guards on each floor.”

“I don't blame them,” Theresa said.

Rachael's line of sight swung to a young man in a cook's white shirt who was leaving the lounge. He toted a white cardboard box labeled
POTATOES
and headed for the restaurant but paused to give her a nod and a grin. Rachael burst into a smile of such wattage that for a second or two Theresa forgot about the dead lawyer. “Let me guess—that's the William I've been hearing so much about.”

“The very same,” Rachael happily confirmed, her gaze lingering on the kid until he disappeared behind the frosted-glass doors of Muse. The Ritz-Carlton's well-known restaurant served both foie gras and macaroni and cheese, which happened to be an excellent culinary representation of the city at large and its distinct and varied populace.

Neil Kelly leaned an elbow on the stallion's rump and cleared his throat, so Theresa got back to business—which happened to be the safety of her only child. “So you're here in the lobby for your entire shift, then.”

“Yeah, unless Karla sends me off on an errand. But usually—oh, come on, Mom. I know what you're going to say.”

“Yes, you do. You're confined to this lobby until we wrap this up. No going anywhere in this building alone, got it? I don't care if Elvis Presley checks in and wants a mint julep.”

“Isn't Elvis dead?”

Neil cleared his throat again, loudly enough to be heard even over the growing hubbub of conversations around them.

“Rachael, this is Detective Kelly. He needs to ask you a few questions.”

He gave Rachael a grown-up handshake and asked, “Neil Kelly. As exactly as you can remember, what time did you get that call from the Presidential Suite?”

Rachael squared her shoulders, which were reflected in the marble wall behind her. “One thirty-one. I remember because I was staring at the phone display. When anyone calls from one of the suite rooms, we're supposed to address them by name. Like, I'm supposed to answer the phone ‘Yes, Mr. Jones, how can I help you?' But the display was blank, and I couldn't figure out why—I get it now, because no one was staying in that room, but at the time it made me totally stuck.”

“So when you answered, what did the man say?”

Rachael went over the conversation, telling them nothing they didn't already know. Finally Neil thanked Theresa's daughter with what seemed like genuine warmth and left to find his partner. Rachael said that her shift had ended, but she volunteered to wait and go home with Theresa, avoiding a long bus ride.

“I'm done here. We'll just run by the lab so I can hang up her clothing and make sure the blood dries, and we can go. What happened to your uncle?”

“The Ambassador Room, seventh floor.” Rachael's hair swung toward the elevator bank. “They're talking to all the lawyers. Who's that guy, the one who just talked to me? Do you know him?”

“Vaguely.”

“He knows you.”

“Here, grab this ALS—and what does that mean?”

“He likes you. I can tell.”

Theresa shook her head as she shuffled her load. Despite firm biceps, an ability to ride a skateboard, terrific mathematics skills, and a local Halo championship under her belt, Rachael was all girl. A born people manager, and there was nothing she enjoyed managing more than her mother's love life. “How nice. Just wait for me here, okay? And try not to get murdered.”

“Not allowed.”

“To get murdered?”

“To sit around in the public areas. It's a no-no for staff. I'll wait in the office behind the desk. Come and get me there.”

Rachael passed the ALS back. Theresa first stored her equipment and evidence in the county station wagon and then went in search of the other family member present.

Every available Homicide detective had been assigned to assist, which was how Frank Patrick came to be sitting in the Ritz-Carlton's Ambassador Room. The Ambassador Room had been designed for seminars given by very well-to-do corporations or perhaps for the elegantly understated second wedding with a limited guest list. Walls the color of a pale burnt sienna contrasted with rich bronze draperies. Sheers underneath blocked the harsh world outside, creating a quiet haven of good taste. Apparently the conference hadn't needed this room; tables were set up with matching but unblemished tablecloths, each chair in place. The ten or so people in the room hovered at one end of it, around uncovered tables with mismatched folding chairs. The hotel would give the police a room to work in so long as they didn't mess up the place settings, like Frank's mother protecting the dining room on a bridge-club day.

Normally, witnesses would not be questioned in the same room, but with a pool this size, speed and efficiency were of the essence. Cops kept their voices low, and the attorneys were doing the same. His partner, Angela Sanchez, had arrived as well, and now the olive-skinned woman with shoulder-length raven hair sat across from a young attorney, leaning away as he zoomed in on her pert nose and scoop-necked T-shirt.
Good luck there, pal,
Frank thought. Half the force had already tried, with no more success than that turn-of-last-century's baseball team, the Cleveland Spiders.

His cousin appeared in front of him, with a weary look and a smudge of black powder on both her chin and the ivory blouse. “Getting anywhere?” she asked.

“These are defense attorneys.”

“Refusing to talk without, what, an attorney?”

“No,” he sighed. “Obviously trying to confuse me, they've all been pretty forthcoming. At least half of them are from out of town, so maybe they're more willing to let their guard down and set a dangerous precedent of cooperation. Except for the last guy, and him only because he doesn't want his wife or his boss finding out where he spent his expense account last night. Otherwise they've been surprisingly open. The last sighting of Marie Corrigan, so far, seems to be five-thirty last night, in the bar. A group of them, all from different cities and all men—no surprise there—bought her drinks and planned to go over to East Fourth, hit Michael Symon's place for dinner, and then do the bars. Marie left to powder her nose and never came back. They drank for another hour, then figured she'd ditched them and staggered off to East Fourth on their own, but, being from out of town, they headed west instead and wound up at Brasa's.”