Michael Lister - Power in the Blood

Inside, Jack Jordan, looking tired and older than he should have, spoke with the county coroner in hushed tones that reminded me of church. His wrinkled clothes and uncombed hair said that he, too, had been in bed and he, too, lived alone.

The body of Russ Maddox was slumped over in an uncomfortable-looking wingback chair covered in plastic and positioned in front of the television. Like the chair, the entire house looked uncomfortable. If the house were lived in, I couldn’t tell it.

“John,” my dad said when he saw me.

“Dad.” I nodded my head. Neither one of us was what you might call a gabber.

I walked over to the chair where Russ’s obese body sat crumpled. His head hung down, the fat gathering beneath his third chin and in large roles of white blubber around his midsection. He was wearing a white silk robe, which gaped open revealing white silk boxer shorts and a tight white silk T-shirt. He looked like the Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man. Beside his chair stood an ornately carved wooden TV tray with an open bottle of wine, a wineglass, and a small china plate with caviar and crackers on it.

My eyes widened when I noticed the two long, sharp kitchen knives lying near the plate. The knives seemed to be spaced too far apart from the plate, and they were positioned funny. It was just an impression, but it looked as if they had been added later. I looked back at Maddox. There was no sign of violence or trauma anywhere on his body. In stark contrast to the last death I had witnessed, there was not a single drop of blood.

“That is caviar, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Yes, it is,” the medical examiner said.

“Is it generally eaten with large carving knives?”

“Curious, isn’t it?” he asked.

“You ever been accused of exaggeration, Roger?” I asked.

He smiled, but did not comment. I looked over at Dad. He just shrugged.

“Any prints?” I asked.

“On the bottle, the glass, the plate, the tray-everything but the knives. They’re clean,” Dad said.

“I did find small traces of the light powder residue that is usually associated with surgical latex gloves,” Roger stated as if he had said that he had found wine in the wine bottle.

“Well, now,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Dad. I could tell we were thinking the same thing.

“Is it okay to look around?” I asked no one in particular.

“Everything has been dusted, if that’s what you mean,” Jake responded. He took his toothpick out of his mouth again and tucked it into the left breast pocket of his deputy’s shirt.

“You can take a look,” Dad said and then gave Jake a look that said back off .

I walked across the sculpted Berber carpet, which covered the entire house, save the mahogany floors in the kitchen, dining, and foyer areas. In the kitchen, brass pots, colanders, and ladles hung over the butcher-block island. Like the counters, there was nothing on it, and it had been cleaned to the point of shining. Expensive wineglasses were suspended under the glassed cabinet housing his fine, and I do mean fine, china.

I walked out of the spotless kitchen into the formal living room, continuing my journey through the showpiece of the Potter County Tour of Homes. Every single piece of upholstered furniture sported carefully placed afghans, as if being preserved for an event yet to come, and every piece of wooden furniture was fitted with a sheet of custom-cut glass to cover the top. In fact, with the exception of the dead body in the living room, the entire house could have been a fine furniture store showroom.

Evidently the crime-scene investigation was nearly concluded when I had been called. The house was virtually empty. I did, however, pass by a young female deputy as I was walking up the stairs, but she didn’t seem to be investigating. I smiled politely at her. She didn’t smile back. She obviously felt the need to establish that she was a serious crime-scene investigator. She convinced me.

The second story of the house was as immaculate as the first- nothing out of place and no sign that human beings lived there. Every hallway had a long plastic runner covering it, which caused my shoes to make a noise similar to that of a small Skilsaw as I shuffled along them.

There were three bedrooms. If someone had ever spent a single night in any of them, I couldn’t tell it. The one I assumed was Russ’s, because of its size and attached bathroom, was nearly two times the size of my trailer. The bed, a king-size monstrosity, was at least four feet off the floor with massive spiral posts at each corner and looked to be mahogany. The other furniture in the room seemed to be an eclectic gathering of priceless antiques gleaned from different parts of the world: an armoire, tallboy, full-length free-standing mirror, vanity, and dresser. I was certain their value could have purchased any modest home.

The walk-in closet was neatly organized. The back wall was covered with shoe bins from floor to ceiling: each containing a pair of polished shoes. Each side of the closet had a rack with clothes hanging on it, suits and dress shirts mainly. I looked around the closet and the bedroom and found nothing unusual. In the bathroom, however, I did.

Under the expensive porcelain sink with gold and brass fittings, there were three very large jars of Vaseline, four tubes of K-Y personal lubrication jelly, and two rather large boxes of condoms. This was very unusual since Russ was thought to be about as sexual as the lint that gathered in the large black hole of his navel. It was also an inordinate amount. Unless these were tributes to wishful thinking, there should have been more Russ Maddox grist in the Pottersville rumor mill.

The other two bedrooms were a lot like the larger one, only smaller. They were showroom-clean and decorated like the ones seen in magazines. I made what I thought was a pretty thorough search of the rooms and then went back into the master suite. Looking through Russ’s drawers was like shopping at Macy’s. Everything looked new, and there were several packages of underwear and socks that had never been opened. I thought how embarrassed I would be if someone were searching through my drawer of holey underwear and dirty socks. I walked over and looked under the bed. It was spotless. I was beginning to think that Russ Maddox was a little on the obsessive-compulsive side, but it was just an impression, and I knew the dangers of formulating rash opinions.

After finding nothing on the back side of the headboard and the mirror, I opened the two doors of the armoire, exposing a 32-inch television, VCR, and camcorder. On a shelf under the TV and VCR, there were several videotapes. The movies ranged from The Sound of Music to Rocky . I pulled a few of the tapes out of the boxes. Their labels matched the boxes. I popped a few of them into the VCR. They were what they had appeared to be. As I started to replace them, I noticed that behind them, lying on their sides, were four of the oversized Disney movie boxes. I pulled them out. There was Bambi, Dumbo, Beauty and the Beast , and The Lion King . I stood them up vertically alongside the other tapes and closed the armoire doors.

I started to leave the room, and then it hit me. Why would somebody as obsessive-compulsive as Maddox lay the Disney tapes horizontally behind the others? When I saw them, I had figured it was just because they were too tall to fit, but putting them back like the others disproved that. It also proved that there was room for them. I also wondered why a man like Russ Maddox would have Disney movies anyway. I went back and opened the doors again and then the Disney boxes. The labels on the tapes corresponded with the boxes, but they were typed homemade labels and not the printed labels that usually were affixed to tapes in the dubbing houses. Homemade labels would have made sense if the tapes were copied, but if they were copies they wouldn’t be in the Disney boxes.