The Book of 21 (8 page)

In the kitchen, he found Pete Alvarez’s rear-end sticking out of a lower cupboard. He asked, with a volume loud enough to carry over the banging pans, “Did you find anything, Pete?”

“Just some cockroaches.”

“I think I’ve found what I needed. Pop some tape on the door and seal this place off until CSA can get over here. The hard drive on the computer has been wiped clean, and I don’t think Hallman did it himself.”

“You got it.” Alvarez stood and walked out the front door to get his yellow crime scene tape.

Taking the papers from his coat pocket, he scanned through them to see if there were any directions to other possible hiding places in the apartment. There were several photocopies of old letters and a few computer printouts. Hallman had scrawled notes onto most of the pages. The notes were sometimes in pencil, sometimes in blue ink, and sometimes in black ink. Once or twice, Hallman had taken a yellow highlighter to the notes.

A plain white page topped the stack. It began by contradicting John’s most confident assumption of the whole day:

I reformatted my hard drive to lessen the chance that the people who helped us find this information will be put at risk.

Please see that Detective Fullman gets these: Information on the Brethren.

--

T.J. Hallman

Just as in Dunglison’s letter, there was yet another reference to Detective Fullman.

Since the homicide division bumped into other police units all over the city, John should have met another detective—even one from another division. He strained his memory trying to recall Fullman, and generated a picture of a fat detective with a handlebar mustache. Unfortunately, that guy’s name was Feely, not Fullman; he recalled that name association by envisioning that the mustache twirled out into feelers. He gave up on trying to recall Fullman’s face and returned to the papers.

A sticky note, lower on the same page, read, “Contains letters donated by Alice Mortimer and other supporting documents, arranged in the order I found them: Why I believe the door and
Le Coeur Codex
in Phila, PA.”

He flipped past the first page and found what looked like a long letter written in a fancy script. Hallman had jotted some notes on a sticky note attached to the page. The fancy and faded script looked like it would be hard to read, so John decided to save it for later.

The next page was a clear and crisp computer printout that contained the words:

Revelation 3:7-11:

To the angel of the church in Philadelphia write: These things saith he that is holy, he that is true, he that hath the key of David, he that openeth, and no man shutteth, and shutteth and no man openeth;

I know thy works: behold, I have set before thee an open door, and no man can shut it: for thou hast a little strength, and hast kept my word, and hast not denied my name.

Behold, I will make them of the synagogue of Satan who say that they are Jews and are not, but do lie; behold, I will make them to come and worship before thy feet, and to know that I have loved thee.

Because thou hast kept the word of my patience, I also keep thee from the hour of temptation, which shall come upon all the world, to try them who dwell upon the earth.

Behold, I come quickly: hold fast that which thou hast, that no man take thy crown.

Hallman had written in the margin, “St. John had reportedly written Revelation according to the information given to him by Christ. Did they come to Philadelphia to use the words of ‘the Rock’ against him? To remind St. John that he was just a man and could not take the crown?”

John’s face contorted in confusion, but then his attention was captured by the sound of tape being ripped off a spool.

As he stretched the yellow crime scene tape across the doorway, Pete Alvarez met John’s gaze and asked, “Did you find everything you need, Detective, or are you still looking for more?”

John folded the papers and slid them back in the evidence bag. “I think I have most of it, you’ll need to watch the place until Harry arrives and can go over the whole thing. I need to stop off at the ME and then get downtown. I’ll log these papers when I get to the Roundhouse.”

John started toward the door and asked, “Your station house covers Penn Commonwealth and the old Victorian that had the murder last night, right, Pete?”

“Yep.”

“Do you know a Detective Fullman?”

“Nope,” Alvarez grunted with a frown. “I know all the detectives there, and I don’t know any Fullman.”

“Maybe he’s new.”

“Nah, not unless he started today; the Sarge makes sure we meet all the new detectives at roll call the day after they start. It’s a precaution so we don’t accidentally shoot any new guy when something goes down.”

“Well, maybe he works from another station. Does your squad car have a wireless connection?”

“Sure, come on.”

John followed Alvarez though the cheese-stench and down the grimy stairs until, finally, he burst through the doors of the building and found himself back on the street. There, even though he inhaled car exhaust and sewer vapors, he was happy to be back in the fresh city air. John took a deep breath to clear his lungs and waited for the cop to bring up the cruiser’s laptop computer and wireless connection.

“Here you go,” Alvarez said as he exited the car.

John clicked on the departmental directory and searched for “Fullman.” The computer answered him with the words, “Total instances found: 0.”

He thought for a moment. If no one at Alvarez’s station house could handle the call at the time, the call might have gone to a detective from another station house within the Southwest Division. It was also a possibility, though unlikely, that both Dunglison and Hallman screwed up the spelling. John searched for all the detectives and lieutenants in the Southwest Division. The computer answered, “Total instances found: 71.”

None of the names resembled anything close to Fullman. The two deceased scholars seemed the type that would get the details straight. If they did, either somebody was posing as a cop, or a cop was giving a false name. John particularly disliked the implications of a cop bearing an alias; it most likely meant that one of his brothers in blue was dirty.

“Everything OK?” Alvarez asked.

John wondered about that question. He did not have the time to wait around while Harry swept the place. Even if he did stand here and wait for Harry, it would do little good; a dirty cop could access the scene, pick up any evidence he wanted, and walk out with it while the rest of them cluelessly worked the site. Until he could locate Detective Fullman, he could trust no one, and his best hope at finding Fullman was to get downtown and start working a few requests through the system.

“Eh,” John said. “Until I find this elusive Detective Fullman, watch your back.”

Chapter 7:
Rue to the Morgue

By the time John made it to the ME’s office in University City, it was almost noon. It was on the way back downtown, so he felt it best to make the stop now. If he passed by and Kim had something to show him, it would mean another trip across town later. He wished that the city government had kept its offices closer together; he spent too much time traveling between them. If he kept things short here, he could grab something to eat and wrap things up at his office before five.

John strolled through the lobby of the building and took the elevator down to the morgue; most of the lights in the place were off, making it appear creepier than he liked. He wondered why lights were always off in these places. Maybe coroners were worried about the bodies decomposing from the heat of the lights; maybe coroners were just weird.

After opening the door at the end of the hall, he found Kim behind her desk, wearing teal medical scrubs. She stopped reading some kind of digital printout and looked at him over the top of her reading glasses.

“What do you have for me?” he asked.

“Where the hell have you been? I called you three times.”

“I haven’t heard it ring.” John pulled the lifeless cell phone from his pocket. As he tried to close the skewed lid, it snapped off. He gave her a wry smile and faked a shocked look, then said, “Oh, no wonder.”

“Very funny. What happened?”

“A game of leapfrog went terribly wrong.” He smirked. “What did you find?”

“Dunglison was easy enough; he bled to death, probably because of dismemberment. I didn’t find any puncture wounds that would otherwise explain it. I’m not sure about the marks on a few of the bones. I still think they look like a serrated edge made them, but who knows. It also looks like he took a few Valium a couple hours before he died.”

John raised an eyebrow.

She propped her elbow on the desk and rested her head in her hand. After a second, she said, “Hallman was another story.”

“How so?”

“The kid had enough heroin in him to kill a horse. That just doesn’t jive. Heroin is an extremely addictive drug, and I only found a few needle marks on him. They don’t look older than a day.”

“Any chance he was just experimenting and was too stupid to go slow?”

“Sure, but I doubt it. I have everything in the report.”

John thought he would have more time before Kim was done and thought he might have heard that incorrectly. After a short pause and a frown, he asked, “Did you file it already?”

“Yeah, why?” Kim asked with a furrowed brow.

“I found a few things today that I don’t like. Hallman and Dunglison left notes that refer to a detective I can’t seem to locate. So either someone was impersonating a cop, or a cop was giving a false name.”

“What are the odds on the second option?”

“The probability is low, at best, actually. Any caller would be sent to whatever detective was available. It would be doubtful that they got the one detective that was rotten. Either it was just
incredibly
bad luck, or there was someone at the call desk who knew where to send the call. Once you start looking at more than one person being involved, well, conspiracies tend to be unlikely. I don’t like what I’ve seen, though. So, it would be best to play it safe. If possible, it would be better to not file the report just yet. I wouldn’t want to let a bad cop read about how you thought Hallman’s overdose was fishy until I can check things out.”

“Like I said, I already filed it—just before you got here, actually. It’s already in the system.” Her face suddenly looked like she had stepped in something that smelled bad.

They both knew that once a report was in the record system there was no deleting it. Unlike a word processing document, it was in a tightly managed and secure database. It was now a permanent part of city history.

He took a deep breath and then exhaled all of it. He thought for a second. “Can you still change it—dumb it down a bit? Just say that Hallman was apparently a junky. Let whoever might be snooping around think that we just didn’t catch anything odd. Keep the original report somewhere safe for now.”

She squinted at him, clenched her jaw, and asked, “Are you really asking me to alter a report?”

He knew that she was smart to wonder. He sat for a second and followed it in his mind. He could easily be the cop on the inside, asking her to get rid of the key points in her report. They had been friends for a while, but you never knew who might go sour.

“Look, you took the training on insider threats. They are usually disgruntled employees that have been that way for a long time. People don’t wake up one day and decide they want to try to create an elaborate murder plot involving people they’ve never met. You know that. That’s not me.”

She stared at him.

He knew he was far from the poster boy for department morale. Again, she was smart to wonder.

“OK, leave it,” he said. “You’re right. Just keep a copy of the original somewhere safe. If someone is on the inside, they might be able to get into your account.”

“Ugh.” She leaned back and threw her glasses on the desk. “This sucks.”

As she leaned back in her chair, he studied her. It was apparent that she was not wearing a bra, and certain aspects of her anatomy pointed out that there was a chill in the air of the morgue. Kim was firm, smart, and above all, feisty. He wanted to ask her if she would strip down and have a go, right now.

“So what are you up to tonight?” he queried.

John sat stone-faced and watched Kim twist her face in confusion. Internally, a silent voice told him he was pathetic. He was as suave as a brick.

“I’m going out dancing with the girls.”

“Ugh,” he grunted, mimicking her earlier comment.

She shook her head and turned her stare toward her computer monitor.

John realized her mind was on the current problem—not his libido. If he kept this up, he would continue to rapidly kill his chances of ever getting out of the friend zone. He decided to leave while he still had some dignity left. He stood and walked to the door.

“Well, try to have a good time. Don’t worry about the report; if you stash a copy away, everything should be fine.” As he exited her office, he looked over his shoulder. “Have a good one, Kim.”

John strolled back down the icy hall, while his mind pondered Kim’s body gyrating to the beat on the dance floor. Though fun to watch, actually doing the gyrating seemed pointless and strange. He never understood why women wanted to dance so often.

John stopped at the receptionist’s desk in the lobby of the building. The receptionist was fat, sweaty, and old. She had wheels on her office chair, which meant she could stay seated most of the day and wheel herself about her little work area. While this prevented her from over-stressing her pulmonary system, John figured the ease of using the wheels probably promoted further weight gain. She was currently earning a paycheck by reading a fashion magazine.

“Can I use your phone?” he asked, as he pointed at her phone with his right hand and displayed his ID with his left.