Kay Scarpet - The Last Precinct Part 24

The only light is what spills through the open doorway, and I make out the shape of the double bed. In the center of it is a crater where the mattress burned down to the bed springs. Marino turns on a flashlight and a long finger of light moves through the room, starting with the closet just right of where I am Standing near the doorway. Two bent wire hangers dangle from the wooden rod. The bathroom is just left of the door, and against the wall opposite the bed is a dresser. Something is on top of the dresser, a book. It is open. Marino walks closer to illuminate the pages. "Gideon Bible," he says.

The light moves on to the far end of the room, where there are two chairs and a small table before a window and a back door. Marino opens the curtains and wan sunlight seeps into the room. The only fire damage I can see is to the bed, which smoldered and produced a lot of dense smoke. Everything inside the room is covered with soot, and this is an unexpected forensic gift. "The entire room's been smoked," I marvel out loud.

"Huh?" Marino shines the light around as I dig out my portable phone. I see no evidence that Stanfield tried looking for latent prints in here, not that I blame him. Most investigators would a.s.sume the intense soot and smoke damage would obliterate fingerprints, when in fact, the opposite is true. Heat and soot tend to process latent prints, and there is an old laboratory method called smoking used on nonporous objects such as shiny metals, which tend to have a Teflon effect when traditional dusting powders are applied. Latent prints are actually transferred to an object because the friction ridge surfaces of fingers and palms have oily residues on them. It is these residues that end up on some surface: a doork.n.o.b, a drinking gla.s.s, a window pane. Heat softens the residues, and smoke and soot then adhere to them. During cooling the residues become fixed or firm and the soot can be gently brushed away like dusting powder. Before Super Glue fuming and alternate light sources, it was not uncommon to conjure up prints by burning tarry pine chips, camphor and magnesium. It is very possible that beneath the patina of soot in this room there is a galaxy of latent fingerprints that have already been processed for us.

I call fingerprints section chief Neils Vander at home and explain the situation, and he says he will meet us at the motel in two hours. Marino is caught up in other preoccupations, his attention fixated on some spot above the bed, where he is shining the light. "Holy s.h.i.t," he mutters. "Doc, would you look at this?" He illuminates two sooty eyebolts screwed into the dry wall ceiling about three feet apart. "Hey!" he calls through the doorway to Kiffin.

She peers inside the room and looks where he shines the light.

"You got any idea why these bolts are in the ceiling?" he asks her.

She gets a strange expression on her face, her voice going up a note, the way it does when she is being evasive, I think. "Never seen them before. Now I wonder how that happened?" she declares.

"Last time you were in this room was when?" Marino asks her.

"A couple days before he checked in. When I cleaned it after the last person checked out, the last person before him, I mean."

"The bolts weren't here then?"

"I didn't notice, if they were."

"Mrs. Kiffin, you just hang outside there in case we got more questions."

Marino and I put on gloves. He splays his fingers, rubber stretching and snapping. The window next to the back door overlooks a swimming pool that is filled with dirty water. Across from the bed is a small Zenith television on a stand, a note taped to it reminding guests to turn the TV off before they go out. The room is rather much what Stanfield described, but he did not mention the Gideon Bible open on the dresser, or that to the right of the bed near the floor there is an electrical outlet with two unplugged cords on the carpet next to it, one to the lamp on the bedside table, the other to the clock radio. The clock radio is old. It isn't digital. When it was unplugged, the hands stopped at 3:12 P.M. Marino tells Kiffin to step inside the room again. "What time did you say he checked in?" he asks.

"Oh, 'round three." She is just inside the doorway, staring blankly at the clock. "Looks like he came in and unplugged the clock and the lamp, now doesn't it? That's kind of strange, unless maybe he was plugging something else in and needed the outlet. Some of these business types have those laptop computers.

"Did you notice if he had one?" Marino glances at her.

"I didn't notice he had anything except what looked like a car key and his wallet."

"You didn't say nothing about a wallet. You saw a wallet?"

"Pulled it out to pay me. Black leather, as I recall. Expensive looking, like everything else he had. Might have been alligator or something," she adds to her story.

"How much cash he pay you and in what kind of bills?"

"A hundred-dollar bill and four twenties. He told me to keep the change. The total was one hundred and sixty dollars and seventy cents."

"Oh yeah. The sixteen-oh-seven special," Marino says in a monotone. He doesn't like Kiffin. He certainly doesn't trust her worth a d.a.m.n, but he keeps it to himself, playing her like a hand of cards. If I didn't know him so well, he might fool even me.

"You got some kind of stepladder around here?" Marino says next.

She hesitates. "Well, I guess so." She is gone again, the door left standing wide open.

Marino gets down to take a closer look at the outlet and unplugged cords. "You think they plugged the heat gun in here?" He ponders this out loud.

"It's possible, //"we're talking about a heat gun," I remind him.

"I've used them to thaw my pipes and to get ice off my front steps. Works like a charm." He is looking under the bed with the flashlight. "Never had a case where one was used on a person. Jesus. He must've been gagged pretty good for no one to hear anything. Wonder why they unplugged both things, the lamp and the clock?"

"Maybe so it didn't throw the circuit breaker?"

"In a joint like this, yeah, maybe. A heat gun's probably about the same voltage as a blow-dryer. One-twenty, one- twenty-five. And a blow-dryer would probably knock out the lights in a dump like this."

I move over to the dresser and look at the Bible. It is open to the sixth and seventh chapters of Ecclesiastes, and the exposed pages are sooty, the area of dresser under the Bible spared, indicating this was the position the Bible was in when the fire started. The question is whether the Bible was open like this before the victim checked in, or does it even belong with the room, for that matter? My eyes wander down lines and stop at the first verse of the seventh chapter. A good name is better than precious ointment; and the day of death than the day of one's birth. I read it to Marino. I tell him that this section of Ecclesiastes is about vanity.

"Kind of fits with the queer thing, don't it?" he comments as aluminum sc.r.a.pes outside and Kiffin returns with a rush of wintry air. Marino takes a paint-spattered, bent ladder from her and opens the legs. He climbs up and shines the flashlight on the bolts. "d.a.m.n, I think I need new gla.s.ses. I can't see nothing," he says as I hold the ladder steady.

"Want me to look?" I offer.

"Help yourself." He climbs back down.

I take a small magnifying lens from my satchel and up I go. He hands me the light and I examine the eyebolts. I can't see any fibers. If there are any, we are not going to have any luck collecting them here. The problem is how to preserve one type of evidence without ruining another, and there are three possible types of evidence that might be a.s.sociated with the eyebolts: fingerprints, fibers and tool marks. If we dust off soot to look for latents, we might lose fibers that could match the ligature that might have been threaded through the eyebolts, which we also can't unscrew without risking the introduction of new tool marks, a.s.suming we use a tool such as pliers. The biggest threat is inadvertently eradicating any possible prints. In fact, the conditions and lighting are so bad that we shouldn't be examining anything here, really. I get an idea. "If you can hand me a couple baggies," I tell Marino. "And tape."

He hands me two small, transparent plastic bags. I slip one over each eyebolt and carefully wrap tape around the top of the bag, careful not to touch any part of the bolt or the ceiling. I climb back down while Marino opens his tool box. "Hate to do this to you," he says to Kiffin, who hovers outside the door.

hands deep in her pockets, trying to keep warm. "But I'm gonna have to cut out part of the ceiling."

"Like that's gonna make much difference at this point," she says in a voice of resignation, or is it indifference I detect? "May as well," she adds.

I am still wondering why the fire only smoldered. This has really got me stuck. I ask Kiffin what type of linens and mattress cover were on the bed.

"Well, they were green." She seems sure of herself on this point. "The bedspread was dark green, sort of like the color the doors are painted. Not that we know what happened to the linens. The sheets were white."

"Do you have any idea what they were made of?" I ask.

"I'm pretty sure the bedspreads are polyester."

Polyester is so combustible that I try to remember never to wear synthetic materials when I fly. If we have a crash landing and there is a fire, the last thing I want against my flesh is polyester. I may as well douse myself with gasoline. If a polyester bedspread had been on the bed when the fire was set, more than likely the entire room would have gone up in flames, and quickly. "Where did you get the mattresses?" I ask her.

She hesitates. She doesn't want to te'l me. "Well," she finally gets around to what I believe is the truth, "new ones are awfully expensive. I get secondhand ones when I can."

"From where?"

"Well, from that prison they closed down in Richmond a few years back," she tells me.

"Spring Street?"

"That's right. Now, I didn't get anything that I wouldn't sleep on myself." She defends her choice in fine bedding. "Got the newest ones from them."

This might explain why the mattress only smoldered and never really caught fire. In hospitals and prisons, mattresses are treated heavily with flame r.e.t.a.r.dants. This also suggests that whoever set the fire wouldn't have had any reason to know he was trying to burn a mattress specially treated with flame r.e.t.a.r.dants. And of course, common sense would have it that this person also did not hang around long enough to know that the fire went out on its own. "Mrs. Kiffin," I say, "is there a Bible in every room?"

"The one thing folks don't steal." She avoids my question, taking on a suspicious tone of voice again.

"Do you know why this one in here is open to Ecclesiastes?"

"Now I don't go around opening them. I just leave them on the dresser. I didn't open it." She hesitates, then announces, "He must have been murdered or everybody wouldn't be going to all this trouble."

"We have to look into every possibility," Marino remarks as he climbs back up the ladder, a small hacksaw in hand that is helpful at scenes like this because the teeth are hardened and aren't angled. They can cut elements in situ, or in place, such as trim molding, baseboard, pipes or, in this instance, joists.

"Business has been hard," Mrs. Kiffin says. "I'm on my own because my husband's on the road all the time."

"What does your husband do?" I inquire.

"A truck driver for Overland Transfer."

Marino begins popping out drywall tiles from the ceiling around the ones the eyebolts are screwed through.

"I don't imagine he's home much," I say.

Her lower lip trembles almost imperceptibly and her eyes brighten with pain. "I don't need a murder. Oh Lord, it's going to hurt me bad."

"Doc, you mind holding the light for me?" Marino doesn't respond to her sudden need for sympathy.

"Murder hurts many people." I train the flashlight on the ceiling, my good arm steadying the ladder again. "That's a sad, unfair fact, Mrs. Kiffin."

Marino starts sawing, wood dust drifting down.

"I've never had anybody die here," she whines some more. "Not much worse can happen to a place."

"Hey," Marino quips to her above the noise of sawing, "you'll probably get business from the publicity."

She gives him a black look. "Those types can just stay the h.e.l.l away.

FROM THE PHOTOGRAPHS STANFIELD SHOWED ME, I.

recognize the area of wall where the body was propped up and I get the general idea where the clothing was found. I imagine the victim nude on the bed, his arms strung up by rope threaded through the eyebolts. He might be kneeling or even sittingonly partially hoisted up. But the crucifixion position and gag would impair his breathing. He is panting, fighting for breath, his heart palpitating furiously in panic and pain as he watches someone plug in the heat gun, as he hears air blow out when the trigger is pulled. I have never related to the human desire to torture. I know the dynamics, that it is all about control, the ultimate abuse of power. But I can't comprehend deriving satisfaction, vindication and certainly not s.e.xual pleasure out of causing any living creature pain.

My central nervous system spikes and surges, my pulse pounds. I am sweating beneath my coat even though it is cold enough inside the room to see our breath. "Mrs. Kiffin," I say as Marino strokes the saw, "five daysa business special? This time of year?" I pause as confusion dances across her face. She is not inside my mind. She does not see what I see. She can't begin to imagine the horror I am reconstructing as I stand inside this cheap motel with its secondhand prison mattresses. "Why would he check in for five days the week of Christmas?" I want to know. "Did he say anything at all that might have given you a hint as to why he was here, what he was doing, where he was from? Aside from your observation that he didn't sound local?"

"I don't ask." She watches Marino work. "Maybe I should. Some people talk a lot and tell you more than you want to know. Some don't want you in their business."

"What feeling did you get from him?" I keep prodding her.

"Well, Mr. Peanut didn't like him."

"Who the h.e.l.l is Mr. Peanut?" Marino reaches down with a ceiling tile that is attached by an eyebolt to a four-inch section of joist.

"Our dog. You probably noticed her when you came in. I know it's kind of a funny name for a female that's had as many puppies as that one, but Zack named her. Mr. Peanut just barked her head off right when that man showed up at the door. Wouldn't come near him, the fur just standing up on her back."

"Or maybe your dog was barking and upset because someone else was around? Someone you didn't see?" I suggest.

"Could be."

A second ceiling die drops, and the ladder shakes as Marino descends. He goes back into his toolbox for a roll of freezer paper and evidence tape and begins wrapping the ceiling tiles in neat packages as I walk into the bathroom and shine the light around. Everything is inst.i.tutional white, the top of the counter scarred with yellowish burns, probably from guests parking lit cigarettes while they shave or put on makeup or fix their hair. I see something else Stanfield missed. A single strand of dental floss dangles inside the toilet. It is draped over the edge of the bowl and trapped under the seat. With a gloved hand, I pick it up. It is about a foot long, several inches of it wet from toilet water, and the mid-section of it pale red, as if someone flossed his teeth and his gums bled. Because this latest find isn't perfectly dry, I don't seal it in plastic. I place it in a square of freezer paper which I fold into a jeweler's envelope. We probably have DNA. The question is, whose?

Marino and I return to his truck at one-thirty, and Mr. Peanut flies out of the house when Kiffin yanks open the front door to go back inside the house. The dog chases us as we pull out, barking. I watch in the side mirror as Kiffin yells at her dog. "You get here right now!" She angrily claps her hands. "Come here now!"

"Some a.s.shole take time out from torture to floss his teeth?" Marino starts in. "Like what the h.e.l.l is that about? Or more likely, it's been hanging out in the toilet since last Christmas."

Mr. Peanut is now right by my door, the truck b.u.mping over the unpaved drive that leads through woods to Route 5.

"Come here now!" Kiffin bellows as she comes down the steps, hands smack-smack-smack.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n dog," Marino complains.

"Stop!" I am afraid we are going to run over the poor animal.

Marino stamps the brakes and the truck lurches to a halt. Mr. Peanut jumps up barking, her head bobbing in and out of my window. "What in the world?" I am baffled. The dog was scarcely interested in us when we first showed up a few hours ago.

"Get back here!" Kiffin is coming after her dog. Behind her, a child fills the doorway, not the little boy we saw earlier, but someone as tall as Kiffin.

I get out of the truck and Mr. Peanut starts wagging her tail. She nuzzles my hand. The poor, wretched creature is dirty and smells bad. I get her by the collar and tug her in the direction of her family, but she doesn't want to leave the truck. "Come on," I talk to her. "Let's get you home before you get run over."

Kiffin strides up, just livid. She pops the dog hard on top of the head. Mr. Peanut bleats like an injured lamb, tail tucked, cowering. "You learn to mind, you hear me?" Kiffin furiously wags her finger at her dog. "Get in the house!"

Mr. Peanut sneaks behind me.

"Get!"

The dog sits down in the dirt behind me, pressing its trembling body against my legs. The person I saw in the doorway has vanished, but Zack has emerged on the porch. He is dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt that are way too big. "Come 'ere, Peanut," he sings out, snapping his fingers. He sounds as frightened as the dog.

"Zack! Don't you make me tell you again to get your b.u.t.t inside the house!" Zack's mother shouts at him.

Cruelty. Leave, and the dog will be beaten. Maybe the child will. Bev Kiffin is an out-of-control, frustrated woman. Life has made her feel powerless, and beneath her skin she seethes with hurt and anger, the unfairness of it all. Or maybe she is just plain bad, and maybe poor Mr. Peanut is running after Marino's truck because the dog wants us to take her with us, to save her. That fantasy enters my mind. "Mrs. Kiffin," I say in the calm voice of authoritythat cool, cool voice I reserve for times when I intend to threaten the living s.h.i.t out of somebody. "Don't you touch Mr. Peanut again unless you do it gently. I have this special thing about people who hurt animals."

Her face darkens and anger glints. I fix my stare dead center on her pupils.

"There are laws against cruelty to animals, Mrs. Kiffin," I say. "And beating Mr. Peanut is not a good example to set in front of your children." I hint that I spotted a second child she has failed to mention to us thus far.

She steps back from me, turns and walks off toward the house. Mr. Peanut sits, looking up at me. "You go home," I tell her as my heart breaks. "Go on, sweetie. You need to go home."

Zack comes down the steps and runs up to us. He takes the dog by the collar, squats and scratches between her ears, talking to her. "Be good, don't go making Mama mad, Mr. Peanut. Please," he says, looking up at me. "She just don't like it 'cause you're taking her baby buggy."

This jolts me, but I don't let it show. I get down to Zack's level and pet Mr. Peanut, trying to block out that her musky stench triggers memories of Chandonne again. Nausea twists my stomach and makes my mouth water. 'The baby buggy's hers?" I ask Zack.

"When she has puppies, I take them on rides in it," Zack tells me.

"Why was it over there by the picnic table, Zack?" I ask. "I thought maybe some campers might have left it there."

He shakes his head, petting Mr. Peanut. "Uh uh. It's Mr. Peanut's buggy, isn't it, Mr. Peanut? I gotta go in." He gets up, glancing back furtively at the open front door.

"I tell you what." I get up, too. "We just need to look at Mr. Peanut's buggy, but when we're done I promise to bring it back."

"Okay." He tugs the dog after him, half running, half yank-ing. I stare after them as they go inside the house and shut the door. I stand in the middle of the dirt drive in the shadow of scrub pines, hands in my pockets, watching, because I have no doubt Bev Kiffin is watching me. On the street it is called signifying, making your presence known. My business isn't finished here. I'll be back.["_Toc37098925"]