Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (41 page)

 
``It’s eerie,’’ she said when she’d caught him looking in her direction.
 

 
``What is?’’

 
``The room. It feels like we’re violating him somehow.’’

 
``You get used to it.’’

 
He surveyed the rest of the room. Small things — details — jumped out at him, as if he was looking at the scene for the first time. The carpet was askew. The clothes closet door was ajar. The hiking pants and jacket on the curtain railing had been pushed to one side. The books on the side table had been moved. The window had been opened a crack, allowing the earthy thick smell of the forest outside to invade the room. Had someone been here since they’d removed the body or had they disrupted the contents when they’d moved him? Perhaps he was imagining things. Perhaps not.

 
``See if you can find a cellphone or a diary or something.’’

 
Brant began a search of the closet. Two pairs of newish looking hiking boots sat at the bottom of the cabinet as did a pair of Teva sandals. Three pairs of woolen socks and a pair of gray shorts were piled in a corner. A jacket and pants hung from a nail hammered into the back wall. Hiking shirts, two more pairs of pants and a wetsuit had been folded and placed on a set of cheap shelves. On the top shelf, he found a shaving kit, hairdryer and tubes of hair gel. Guide maps, a compass, a Swiss Army knife and a thermos had been thrown into a cardboard box. A box of condoms in foil wrappers lay nearby.

 
``Active or optimistic?’’ Brant asked as he lifted the condoms from their hiding place.

 
Mallek smirked. ``As I said, he was popular.’’

 
He moved to the bookshelf. Cheap paperbacks dominated — thrillers mostly. Dan Brown. Michael Crichton. Some Robert Harris. The hardcovers caught his eye. Sun Tzu’s
Art of War
, a leather-bound copy of the Catilinarian Orations, a treatise on urban development in the early 1940s, a history of Levittown.
 

 
He reached for the top shelf and a set of hardbacks arranged neatly in a row.
 

 
``An academic?’’ he asked, holding aloft a thick volume on molecular biology, his pulse quickening at the find and the first tangible link to Allison Carswell. The spine beside the book he’d selected was equally as obscure:
 
Verizon RISK Team, 2012 Data Breach Investigation. ``What on earth was he up to?’’

 
He handed the first book to Mallek, who flipped through the pages with interest. She made a clucking sound as she returned the book to its shelf.

 
``Maybe the room’s former occupant,’’ she said with a shrug. ``Come and look what I found.’’

 
Mallek had pulled out the side table’s drawer and dumped the contents at the head of the bed. She lifted a cellphone from a pile of papers and photographs.

 
``This what you’re looking for?’’ she asked.

 
``Perfect,’’ he said, placing the handset aside for the moment. ``What are those?’’

 
``Looks like photographs. Do people still make prints?’’

 
He began sorting through the collection. Most were banal. The lake in early evening. The lake in the morning. A group of kayakers shot from somewhere offshore, the corner of the lodge barely discernible at the edge of the frame. A few were more interesting. Some of the photos were headshots, others were more animated. Brant’s eyes widened at the find as an electric charge ran through his body. The thrill of discovery once more.

There was Eichel with his arm around a blond-haired woman dressed in lycra workout gear and a lifejacket. Another was the woman alone staring into the camera, an intense, almost hostile look fixated on the camera lens. Another was of a darker-haired woman dressed in shorts, t-shirt and sandals. She had the body of a swimmer — long limbs, slim at the waist but more muscular in the arms and shoulders. A third woman was the picture of a homecoming queen. She had a bright, cheery smile, blond hair and slender figure. She wore a two-piece swimsuit, accentuating a curved and supple body. She had big eyes set into a round face with broad forehead and a nose on the precipice of being too large.

 
Brant again scrutinized the first sequence of photos and the blond-haired woman dressed in lycra, his hopes soaring as he placed the backdrop within the context of earlier photos he’d recently seen. There was no mistaking it. The blonde was Allison Carswell. A younger Carswell. She’d since changed her hair and altered her appearance slightly. But there was no doubt.
 

 
He handed the photos of Carswell to Mallek, again reluctant to play his hand too early.

 
``Have you seen this woman before?’’

 
Mallek took the photos in hand.

 
``Nope. Look at the date. These were taken last summer.’’

 
She was right. The photos Eichel had taken of Allison Carswell were stamped in the righthand corner with a date and time indicating they’d been taken in June the previous year. Brant returned the Carswell photos to the collection.

 
Most of the photos were in sequence, the oldest at the top of the pile. Eichel had been active. Each set of photos seemed to document a different partner in a different location. Curiously, a two-year gap appeared in the middle of the photo stack. Either Eichel had grown bored of his photographic habits, or he’d had a dry spell with no partners for a period.

 
``He seemed to like athletic women,’’ Brant said, setting the photos aside for the moment.

 
``He liked all women. Didn’t matter the age, the color, the size. Did you find anything in there?’’

 
Mallek thrust her jaw in the direction of the cellphone. He’d turned it on, summoning the device to life. A set of icons popped onto the screen.

 
``No security code, meaning he was either lazy or didn’t think the phone had anything on it worth protecting.’’

 
``I’m going with lazy,’’ Mallek said, again almost biting the words.
 

 
The phone was an iPhone 6 Plus. Brant held it in his hand. The screen was big. The biggest he’d ever seen on a cellphone. The device would barely fit into the pocket of a jacket, let alone into a pair of hiking pants or jeans. Yet the phone’s screensaver was a picture of the lake. Most of the apps were for hiking and biking. A few were games or newsreaders. Brant frowned as he ran his finger over the screen, flicking from one set of apps to the other.
 

 
``What is it? You look like you either need to go to the bathroom or you’ve eaten something that’s making you sick.’’

 
``He didn’t use social media? I don’t see any Facebook or Twitter apps. That doesn’t seem in character.’’

 
``Let me see.’’

 
Mallek took the handset and made her own search of the device. Presently, she handed it back.

 
``You’re right.’’

 
``Did you and he share anything on Facebook?’’ Brant asked, recalling Eichel’s use of Twitter and the photos he’d posted from the Red Sox game with the Orioles. ``Do you remember if he had an account?’’
 

 
She pursed her lips and made a face as she thought. She hadn’t given it much consideration. They’d been so busy during the summer. One group after the other had come into the lodge in quick succession. There’d been downtime at night, of course. But she’d used that for the mundane life at the lodge. Laundry, cleaning, studying. She’d brought a laptop computer and a tablet but the longer she’d spent by the lake, the less time she’d spent online.

 
``Come to think of it now, no. We didn’t do anything on Facebook. I don’t recall him having a profile.’’

 
``Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’’ Brant asked, again recalling his Twitter feed.

 
She thought about the question for a moment.

 
``You’re right, actually.’’

 
``Look here. The messaging app is empty. E-mail too. It’s like he was either paranoid about what he was doing online, or someone’s wiped the phone. Is that possible? Could someone have done that?’’

 
Mallek shook her head. ``I suppose.’’

 
``Did you see him use his cellphone?’’

 
She rolled her eyes as if the question was out of place. In the circumstances and given Eichel’s age, it probably was.

 
``Every time I saw him, he had his face buried in that stupid screen. It’s one of the reason….’’

 
``Yes?’’

 
``It’s one of the reasons we stopped whatever it is we had going. I can’t stand inattention. If you’re going to be with me, I need all of you.’’

 
``What about the location finder?’’

 
``What do you mean?’’

 
``Those kinds of phones keep a log of where you go with them. No one really knows about it but it’s there. Go to the general setting and tap through to system services.’’

 
She did as she was told. She flipped rapidly through a set up screen before coming to the setting screen. The screen was split. One side was for the settings. The second was for the system services found underneath the location services setting. A row of green toggles aligned on the far right of the screen. Brant smiled triumphantly as he scanned the row. Eichel had forgotten to turn off the frequent locations tab, or perhaps he hadn’t known the phone had been tracking his comings and goings. Whatever the explanation, they now had a record of his travels. And more importantly, the history showed the times and places he’d most frequently visited.

 
``I had no idea you could do this.’’

 
``Most people don’t.’’

 
Mallek tapped into the tab that took her to the list of frequent locations. With the exception of one entry, the history was unexceptional. Most of the places where Eichel had taken the phone were to be expected. The lodge. Out onto the lake. To the nearby town. She swiped into the marker at the top of the list and pressed the entry, taking her to a map of the location.

 
``Here, let me see that.’’

 
Brant took the phone in hand. It was lighter than he’d thought. And slim. He’d been meaning to upgrade but had put off the decision. The thought of going to the mall with Ben to shop for a handset and a calling plan — well, he had better things to do with his time. Better things to do with his money, too.
 

 
``Do you know where this is?’’ he asked Mallek as he showed her the screen, his pulse again quickening. Could it be he had his hands on a virtual log of Eichel’s comings and goings? Had all those sojourns into the woods been logged unknowingly with the iPhone?

He switched from satellite view to traditional, providing a topographical map with a red arrow in the center denoting the place favored by Eichel. The map showed a small lake and a road a dozen or so miles directly south of the lodge.

 
``I’ve passed that lake. Too small for swimming or paddling.’’

 
``It seems our man Eichel was attracted to it regardless. Look at this. He’s been there at least four times in the past three weeks.’’

 
Mallek took the phone. The device seemed outsized in her smaller hands. She flicked through the map and the other icons with the deft, experienced hand of someone who’d grown up with technology at their fingertips. He suddenly felt old. The years were wearing on him. He was being outpaced by those who’d come after him and he knew it. Soon, he’d be one of the old codgers at the station who made a habit of bitching about every decision, every new policy — everything.
 

 
``We need to get out there,’’ Mallek said.

 
``It’s getting late and the light is starting to go,’’ he said. ``First thing tomorrow.’’

 
``What about the storm?’’

 
``All the more reason to wait until tomorrow.’’

 
She shoot him an impatient look.
 

 
``Tomorrow,’’ he said, more emphatically this time.

 
Mallek shrugged. ``I just hope the roads aren’t washed out by then.’’

 
``In the meantime, we have an autopsy to perform.’’

Eichel’s body lay on the table in the cold storage room. Burlap bags of dry ice had been used to preserve the corpse. The canvas tarpaulin remained draped over the body in an act to both preserve its condition and to provide a sense of decorum and discretion in honor of the dead. He’d always found it odd, the way the flesh was treated once the life force had left. The respect was often outsized and unnecessary — particularly in the case of a violent death. What came next, the violation and the disassembly at the hands of a medical examiner was often incongruous with the traditions and tropes of religion. The examiner’s role was altogether different and more base. It was the reducing of flesh to its most elemental, to its most basic. Piece by piece, little by little, the medical examiner’s role was directly contradictory. Whereas the church sought to elevate death to a new plane of existence, the examiner tore it to bits.

 
Not that he was a believer in the dogma of religion or in the afterlife. The Sunday mornings he’d spent at church with his father and sister had seen to that. Maggie had been a Buddhist, much to her father’s distress. She’d introduced Brant to a different way of viewing the universe, their existence, the time they’d spent together. She’d been a breath of fresh air in so many ways.