The Death Of Blue Mountain Cat Part 2

Without saying anything more, Anita squeezed past them and disappeared.

Caleb said, "Certainly," but he backed up against one of the toilet stalls and paused to look before he left.

In a scene familiar from the nightly news and countless TV recreations, Lauren Bisti lay on the floor between the paramedics, who were efficiently doing everything that needed to be done.

The room was surprisingly Spartan-two salmon-painted sheet-metal stalls with standard, inst.i.tutional toilets; metal towel dispensers; a vanity counter with only one sink; and a mirror, centered over the sink, so small it covered only a third of the wall behind the sink. There was a single, b.l.o.o.d.y handprint on the counter. Laureen obviously had placed her hand there, perhaps leaning over to look in the mirror, perhaps to steady herself when she felt faint. The print smeared across the countertop, and where her dress brushed up against it, the front of the vanity was also smeared with blood. The floor was spotted with it.

Caleb decided he could best help by staying out of the way and was about to leave when a woman's voice demanded, "Let me through. My friend needs me."

"d.a.m.n!" one of the medics said. He looked up at Caleb. "Keep her out of here, will you?"

Caleb nodded. When he stepped to the doorway, he filled it with his bulk, blocking Amanda Kent.

She said, "Get out of my way."

Caleb kept his voice low, so she'd have to strain to hear him. "I'm sorry."

It got her attention. She said, "Lauren?"

"She's being well cared for."

"How would you know?"

"I'm a doctor. The paramedics know what they're doing."

She relaxed a little.

"The best thing you can do for her," Caleb added, "is pull yourself together and cooperate with the police investigation."

"How is she?"

"She hasn't been physically harmed but she's in shock."

She nodded dully, as if in shock herself, and turned away. Caleb stepped out of the doorway and pulled the door shut. He crossed his arms and stood guard until the medics carried Lauren Bisti out.

Seven.

The textbooks said you were supposed to separate multiple witnesses and multiple offenders. Yeah, right. Thinnes looked around and groaned inwardly. "Give me the good news," he told the uniform without looking at him.

The copper pulled his notebook from his pocket before answering, and Thinnes wondered if the sudden pain in his gut was due to the .38 slug he'd stopped there some months back or to the realization that the first officer on the scene was a rookie. "Just tell me," he said wearily.

As the rookie started to answer, a second uniform hurried up. A veteran. Black, five eight, 220 pounds. Officer Reilly. "I'll take care of this, Curtis," he said. "You go see what's holding up the sergeant."

"Curtis," Thinnes said, "make a note of everyone hanging around outside and get the license number of anything parked in this block and the alleys on either side. As soon as somebody shows up with a camera, ask 'em to get pictures of the crowd." He looked back at Reilly.

"We got a call for a stabbing," Reilly told him, "and found this. Paramedics were already on the scene. Said the victim'd already been p.r.o.nounced dead by a doctor."

"You got the offender?"

"Nah. Doctor who p.r.o.nounced the victim seems to have taken charge-I didn't have time to get all the details but he said he couldn't finger the cutter."

"Where is he?"

Reilly laughed. "In the ladies' room. Victim's wife isn't taking it very well. They got the medics in there, too."

"Thanks, Reilly. See if you can find out who's in charge of this circus, will you? And when my partner arrives send him in-Detective Oster."

"Right."

Reilly left, and Thinnes took a deep breath. The suspect list-judging by the number of people milling around-was awesome. Where do you start with a case like this?

Get a grip on it, Thinnes! he told himself. Start at the beginning.

Start with the most obvious suspects-wife, business partners, lovers. Establish whereabouts. Opportunities. Motives. Figure out who stands to gain.

Fending off questions and demands from the crowd of witnesses, Thinnes found a phone near the reception desk and dialed his supervisor's number. No sense broadcasting the details to all the reporters listening on their scanners. After three rings, he heard, "Rossi."

"Lieutenant? Thinnes. I've got seventy-five of the best shod of the city's well-heeled on the scene, and they're madder than wet hornets. This Indian wasn't just some Uptown wino that wandered down here and died. You'd better send me some reinforcements."

Eight.

The police arrived with commendable speed. Caleb glanced at his watch and calculated seven minutes elapsed between Lauren Bisti's scream and the first officer's arrival. If one allowed for the time required to decide that the police should be called, it had not taken them more than two or three minutes to respond.

A significant number of the guests had escaped-those who wanted to avoid the scandal, those with something to hide. The rest were trapped between the police who'd expelled them from the crime scene on the upper level and those guarding the exits. The stairs were covered with people who'd abandoned all pretense of dignity for the comfort of a seat, however unconventional. And, in spite of the injunction against discussing the case, there was a low murmur of conversation. The events taking place above, behind the barrier of uniformed officers and yellow police tape, were too intriguing to pa.s.s without comment.

Caleb and Anita staked their claim to the bottom step, with the best view of the lobby and the best chance of an early interview, but Caleb soon relinquished his seat to a pregnant woman in five-inch heels. When he got tired of standing, he sat on the floor. His suit was ruined anyway-stained with David Bisti's blood. As they watched four detectives enter and flash their badges at the cop guarding the door, Caleb told Anita, "It looks like our reservations have been canceled."

It was obviously going to be a long night.

The beat copper guarding the crime scene didn't seem bothered by the b.l.o.o.d.y death, but he was happy to see Thinnes.

Thinnes could see why. As soon as they realized Thinnes was someone with authority, the half-dozen business types swarming around the officer transferred their interest and their questions to him.

"I'm Michael Wren," one of them insisted, "a member of the museum board. I demand to know-"

"Have you given your name and statement to the officer, Mr. Wren?" He pointed to the beat cop.

"Well, no-"

"Please do so." Thinnes gave the patrolman a wink Wren couldn't see and walked away before Wren could protest.

The murder site looked like a stage set, with the body lying like an important prop under a spotlight-one of the museum's exhibit lights. The exhibit the light should have lit, a wooden crate atop a pedestal, was tipped back against the north wall of the room, tempting gravity, threatening to spill its contents onto the gray carpet.

Thinnes carefully wiped his feet on the carpet and ducked under the barricade tape for a closer look. He watched where he put his feet. The victim was a male Indian, somewhere around six feet in height, probably 175 pounds, between twenty-five and thirty-five years of age. Thinnes took latex gloves out of his pocket and put them on before putting a finger to the victim's throat, over the carotid. No pulse. He was dead all right.

There was a b.l.o.o.d.y hole in the front of his white leather shirt, and blood around his nose and mouth. None on his hands. Curious.

Thinnes looked at the rest of the room. The east wall was a huge window looking down on Michigan Avenue; the south wall had the doors and ramp down to the next gallery, as well as an ugly painting, and a fire-escape door; the elevator filled most of the west wall; the north wall was bare except for the damaged exhibit leaning against it, a sign identifying the exhibit, and architectural details of no particular interest to the police. A woman's purse lay near the body. He resisted the urge to disturb it before the mobil unit had taken photos and diagrammed its position. He didn't touch the b.l.o.o.d.y knife either.

He took the elevator back down to the lobby. Reilly had returned with a semidistracted receptionist and the information that no one had seen the man in charge-one Lewis Andrews-since he'd evicted a crasher.

Reinforcements arrived in fairly good time, in the persons of detectives Oster, Viernes, Ryan, and Swann. Oster had been Thinnes's regular partner since he'd returned from sick leave. John Viernes, Kate Ryan, and Leonard Swann were all supposed to be working days, but they happened to be in the squad room when Thinnes called Rossi. They'd been drafted because this was a heater case and Rossi was willing to pay overtime to cover his a.s.s.

Ryan was a natural redhead, and when she didn't wear makeup-like now-her freckles stood out and her brows and lashes disappeared. She looked like she hadn't slept in days-her green eyes were red rimmed and she couldn't keep from yawning.

"Ryan, you gonna make it through this tour?" Thinnes asked.

"I just need a little coffee."

"Yeah," Thinnes said. He'd seen her mainlining it back at the Area. "They just took the victim's wife to Northwestern Memorial. Why don't you go on over there and make sure we get a statement from her before the press does? I'll give you a call before we leave here."

And if the wife was out of it for hours, no one would fault Ryan for copping a few z's while she waited. Ryan looked grateful as she nodded and left.

The doctor turned out to be someone Thinnes knew. Dr. James Caleb. The man who'd saved his life. Small world.

Neither of them bothered with pleasantries. Thinnes waited until Oster was ready with notebook and pen, then said, "Take it slowly, Doctor. Tell me exactly what you saw."

Nine.

Caleb closed his eyes and conjured up the memory, describing it in detail for the detectives. Lauren Bisti's back, bared by the low-cut dress. Striking. Her elbows pressed tightly to her sides.

"Could you see her face?"

Caleb opened his eyes. "No. Only her back, only her gesture."

"So you couldn't actually see her face or expression?"

"No."

"Go on."

"I could see David on the floor, under the light that was trained on the exhibit. For a fraction of a second, I thought he was one of his installations-with the knife in his chest. Then his chest moved and I knew the blood trickling from his mouth was real."

"So?"

"It was obvious he was in shock. His face was nearly as white as his shirt and he didn't seem to be aware of us or anything."

"You were how far away?"

"About twenty-five feet."

Thinnes waited.

"Then Mrs. Bisti dropped to her knees on the floor next to him and pulled the knife out."

"You didn't try to stop her?"

"I didn't think fast enough. It wouldn't have occurred to me that anyone..."

He didn't need to finish. They both knew that Lauren Bisti's well-intentioned act-pulling the knife out of Bisti's chest-had probably killed him, had unplugged the hole in whatever tissue the blade had penetrated, letting the blood flow unimpeded.

"Then what?"

"She threw away the knife and lifted his upper body onto her lap."

"You still didn't try to stop her?"

"There didn't seem to be any point. All the indications were that his heart or a major artery had been hit and he'd lost a significant percentage of his blood volume into his chest cavity. If he'd been in an emergency room, with a team of prepped surgeons, he wouldn't have had much chance."

Thinnes said, "Ahuh. What did Mrs. Bisti do?"

"She just sat there, cradling his head in her arms and staring into s.p.a.ce until Anita and I led her from the room."

"After you removed her, did the position of the body differ much from what it was when you first saw it?"

Caleb thought for a moment. "Not appreciably. There was just a good deal more blood after she-we moved him."

"How's that?"

"When the chest is compressed, whatever is in the lungs is expelled. When she lifted his upper body..."

Thinnes nodded.

"She didn't make any effort to avoid getting bloodied."