Robert Ellis - The Dead Room

Teddy rose to his feet and stretched. Outside the window he could see the press crowding behind the crime scene tape that had been strung along the trees on Kelly Drive. He turned back to the room. When Powell broke away from Andrews, he pulled her aside.

“I want the keys to Holmes’s apartment,” he said.

She gave him a suspicious look. “Why?”

“Because he’s my client.”

“It’s still under seal,” she said, turning away as if she had something more important to do.

“I have a right,” he said. “I want the keys.”

She turned back, studying his face and thinking it over. Teddy held the glance.

“You’ll need an escort,” she said after a moment. “Someone from the office. The keys are in my desk. I’ll give you a call in the morning.”

“I want to go tonight,” he said. “Now.”

She was sizing him up again. “What are you up to, Teddy? What haven’t you told us?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I want to look at my client’s apartment.”

“I’ll have someone meet you there in twenty minutes.”

She walked off. Teddy spotted Andrews standing before a mirror in the hall. The man was whispering something to himself. After a moment, Andrews began experimenting with different smiles and various shades of compassion as if he were alone. When he found what seemed like the appropriate facial expression, the district attorney vanished through the lobby and out the door ready to meet the press. Teddy waited a beat before following him outside.

The night air had a bite to it. And the afternoon mist had thickened into a rich wet fog. He saw Andrews waving his hands as the press gathered around and camera lights were switched on. Teddy started up the bike path, then stopped and turned to watch once he reached the shadows. He noticed the boathouses were lit up. The small white lights outlining the buildings were part of the festive nature of the city and burned every night of the year. They looked like Christmas trees. Only tonight didn’t seem particularly festive, and the holidays felt like maybe they ought to be postponed.

“I have a short statement to make,” Andrews said. “Then I’ll answer any questions I can.” He paused a moment, waiting for everyone to settle, then remained silent a moment longer as if to underline the gravity of the situation and his importance to the cause. “At two-thirty this afternoon the body of a young woman was found on the banks of the Schuylkill River along Boathouse Row. As yet, the victim remains unidentified. Detectives Dennis Vega and Nathan Ellwood of the homicide division are heading the investigation. An autopsy will be performed tomorrow to determine cause of death. I’m sorry, but those are the only details I have right now.”

“What about the time?” a reporter called out. “How long has the body been in the water?”

Andrews glanced at a piece of paper and pretended to read a notation. “Our preliminary examination of the body indicates that the victim died sometime ago.”

“Hours, days or weeks?” another reporter shouted.

“Weeks,” Andrews said. “We’ll know more after the autopsy.”

“Who found the body?”

“The body was found as a result of our expanding investigation into the Darlene Lewis murder. We’re working the case twenty-four-seven.”

“Then they’re related.”

“I can’t say at this time,” Andrews said.

“Two bodies in two days,” a reporter said. “Is it true that Oscar Holmes was a former butcher?”

“Yes.”

“Was the body you found today cut?”

“Yes,” Andrews said with just the right hint of a smile. “And let me reassure everyone here tonight or watching on television that Oscar Holmes was arrested yesterday and is safely behind bars.”

He’d done it, Teddy realized. Andrews had succeeded in linking the murders to Holmes while denying it.

Teddy glanced through the crowd and caught Carolyn Powell staring at him. She looked back at Andrews, but Teddy could tell from the expression on her face that she knew exactly what Andrews had done as well.

He listened to the district attorney answer a few more questions, taking credit for as much as he could. When no one asked about Nash’s press conference yesterday and the role the DA had played in sending an innocent man to his death, Teddy started up the bike path to his car. In one day, Alan Andrews had cleaned the slate. It had taken the gruesome murders of two young women to pull it off, but it was done. The city had been attacked. Because Andrews was perceived as playing a key role, he was beyond criticism much like a president leading his country into war. Teddy thought it over as he spotted his car. It took a certain kind of person to become a politician these days. And Alan Andrews seemed particularly well suited for the job.

A late-model Cadillac DeVille idled in the darkness taking up two parking spaces on Pine Street. Teddy legged it down the sidewalk, keeping his eyes on the spooky-looking guy behind the wheel. The man was staring back at him while smoking a cigarette with the windows closed and listening to an old Frank Sinatra song. When Teddy stopped before Holmes’s apartment and looked about the street for his escort, the man turned off the ignition and climbed out of the DeVille with a rough groan.

“You the lawyer?” the man said like he was pissed off.

Teddy nodded slowly.

“I’m Michael Jackson,” the man said. “Not the dancer, but the detective assigned to the district attorney’s office. I’ve worked with Andrews since he got rolling.”

He jingled a second set of keys in the air, then lumbered up the steps to the building’s entrance as if his stomach was full. Teddy hesitated, watching the sixty-year-old man make the climb. His eyes were hooded, his skin pockmarked, and he wore a cheap black rug that Teddy spotted even before he got out of the car.

Jackson unlocked the building door and turned back, flicking his cigarette at the sidewalk by Teddy’s feet.

“You coming or what, kid?”

Teddy hurried up the steps, following the detective into the building.

“Next time you need to see somethin’,” Jackson said, “do me a favor and pick a better fucking time.” The man let out a sigh, then pointed to the stairs. “It’s the penthouse on the third floor,” he said. “They’re always on the third floor.”

As Jackson opened his coat and started up the steps, Teddy caught a glimpse of the gun clipped to the detective’s belt. It was an old.38. Teddy had grown up with guns and was comfortable using them. Still, there was something about the worn-out look of this one that made him uneasy. Mulling it over, he wasn’t sure if the darkness emanated from the gun or the man who carried it. Either way, both looked used and dangerous.

He shook it off, following Michael Jackson’s tired legs up the stairs. On the drive over he’d had a chance to review his conversation with the mysterious Dawn Bingle. She’d known the body was at the boathouse and led him there. That much he was sure of. But she’d also taken the time to find out who Teddy was. She knew where he worked, and seemed to have an understanding of his cases. The bait she’d used to get him to the boathouse had been perfect. A nice touch that itched beneath his skin.

They finally reached the third floor landing. Jackson struggled to catch his breath and started coughing. When the hacking stopped, the man lit another cigarette, got the door open and switched on the overhead lights.

“This is it,” Jackson said, waving the smoke out of his bloodshot eyes. “Paradise lost. You wanna touch something, that’s okay with me. You wanna take it, that’s no good at all. Now start looking, kid. I don’t wanna make a night out of this. It’s only our first date.”