Robert Ellis: The Dead Room

“Listen to me, Teddy. I know what you’re thinking. I don’t like it either, for Christ’s sake. But I can’t be in two places at once. You’re driving out to the crime scene, and I’m heading over to the roundhouse. If they won’t let you in, and they probably won’t, then do the best you can from the street. Once you get a bead on things, I want you to get back here and handle the preliminary arraignment. I’ve gotta get home at a decent hour. Sally’s got something going on I can’t get out of. We’ll talk tonight-keep your cell phone on-then trade notes in the morning and figure out what the hell we’re gonna do. You’ve been like a son to me, Teddy. I need your help now.”

The door swung open and Jill Sykes walked in with a notepad. Jill had been a student at Penn Law one year behind Teddy and managed to get a job at the firm as a law clerk without knowing anyone while she prepared for her bar exams. She had a witty sense of humor and the ability to cut to the bottom line in an instant. Although Teddy had seen her on campus last year, even found her attractive, they hadn’t met until she was hired by the firm. Over the past three months, they had become good friends.

“Thanks,” Barnett said to her. “Did you get the address?”

She nodded, tearing a sheet of paper from her pad and handing it to Teddy with a look. It was Darlene Lewis’s address in Chestnut Hill. The murder scene. Barnett slipped the bottle of Tylenol into his jacket pocket and turned to Teddy.

“Now get going,” Barnett said. “And be careful. My guess is the district attorney will be there. The way I see it, we’re gonna cop a plea and then play let’s make a deal. I want to avoid headlines at all costs. Be polite, and don’t believe what you’re hearing around town. Alan Andrews is Adolf Hitler, Joseph Stalin, and Osama bin Laden rolled into one pint-sized motherfucking asshole. He’s on the political fast track. We need to keep things friendly, you understand?”

Barnett’s charm was back. Teddy nodded, grabbing his briefcase and heading out the door.

The elevator dropped from the seventeenth floor, and Teddy felt his stomach break loose from his body and slam against the back of his throat. When the doors finally opened, he stepped into the garage letting the dread follow him to his car. He found his beat-up Corolla parked between a restored Jaguar and a BMW 740i, complete with sport package. His Corolla had a hundred and twenty-five thousand miles under its rusting body. Something about the sight of his old friend in these surroundings brought a smile to his face and the tension eased.

He backed the Corolla out of the space and pulled up the exit ramp into the light, noting the time and quickly considering his route. There was no easy way in or out of Chestnut Hill, but he was ahead of rush hour traffic by almost an hour. Avoiding the expressway just in case, he turned up the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, hit the circle before the art museum and shot down Kelly Drive.

The road followed the winding path of the Schuylkill River, and it looked as if a thick fog was settling in. He checked the trees and noticed the wind had died off. As he passed Boathouse Row, he saw the buildings buried in the fallen clouds and couldn’t help but think of brighter days in the warm sunlight. Teddy loved sculling, and had been a varsity rower as an undergraduate at Penn. Now he was on his way to a crime scene. A young girl had been killed and he was representing the man who murdered her. He could feel his heart bouncing in his chest and knew he needed to get a grip on things. Take a step back, keep the details at bay and let the rest of the day just blow.

He eased the car onto Lincoln Drive and started through the woods, following the narrow S curves two miles up the hill. Turning right, he raced down West Allens Lane and made a left at the light onto Germantown Avenue. The road was cobblestoned, the Corolla vibrating over the choppy surface as he pushed past the trolley station and entered the quaint old town twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. Many of the buildings lining the street were over two hundred years old. Antique shops and art galleries whizzed by, along with restaurants and fashionable boutiques that could afford the high rent. He could see people on the sidewalks carrying packages to their cars. Most likely they were gifts for the holidays-the kind you couldn’t buy from a chain store at the mall.

Teddy glanced at the address Jill had written down. 931 Scottsboro Road. He made another left, leaving the shopping district behind and entering a neighborhood of homes that seemed to grow in stature with each passing block. When he hit a stop sign, he looked down the street to his right and caught the flashing lights atop a long row of police cars. This was it, he thought, making the turn onto Scottsboro Road and finding a place to park behind a news van five houses down.

A small crowd had formed in front of the death house. As Teddy walked up the wooded street, he could see people being held back by crime scene tape that looked as if it extended deep into the property. Cops in uniforms stood behind the tape, one with a clipboard who checked off names as various people were let through. Another cop, this one dressed in a suit, stood off to the side and spoke with the press. Teddy’s eyes moved to the fence in the neighbor’s yard. When his view cleared, he got his first look at the Lewis house. It was a three-story Tudor, probably built in the 1890s, set on a well-planted, two-acre lot. On any other day, he would have called it majestic. But not today. Not with the medical examiner’s van parked on the snow-covered lawn and backed up to the front door with its rear gate open.

Teddy grimaced, but kept walking until he reached the cop with the clipboard. He gave the man his name and told him who he worked for. What seemed like a long, icy stare followed before the cop grabbed the radio mike clipped to his parka and spoke with someone inside. Ignoring the black vibes, Teddy turned back to the death house. If the medical examiner was still here, then so was the body. That meant there was a chance Teddy would have to look at it. His eyes fell away from the van. He noticed an attractive woman with blond hair standing in the doorway with a two-way radio in her hand. She was staring at him. After a moment, she nodded at the cop with the clipboard. The cop nodded back and shrugged, taking Teddy’s full name down and letting him pass without another word.

Teddy walked up the driveway, then cut along the slate path that had been cleared of snow from the last storm. Curiously, every window on the first floor of the house was open and he couldn’t help but wonder why. As he started up the steps, District Attorney Alan Andrews met him at the door.

“Where’s the package, kid?”

Teddy stopped under the weight of the man’s eyes. He realized that Andrews had looked him over, mistaking him for a messenger or law clerk.

“You’re from Barnett’s office, right?”

Teddy nodded, watching the district attorney size him up. Then the woman with blond hair reappeared, moving in behind Andrews. Teddy was nervous and knew it was showing. After a moment, their gazes eased up and Andrews came close to fighting off a smile. It didn’t take much to guess what the district attorney was thinking. Teddy wasn’t a messenger. He was a kid just out of law school with no experience. When the case got to court, Andrews would eat him for lunch.

Andrews’s half smile evaporated, and as he shook Teddy’s hand, he introduced the woman as Assistant District Attorney Carolyn Powell. Teddy shook ADA Powell’s hand as well, but Andrews broke in before he could say anything to her.

“So here’s the deal, Teddy Mack. Your client’s the friendly neighborhood mailman. Six hours ago a neighbor saw him running away from the house with blood on his clothes. She got a good look at him. Blood was all over his fucking face and hair like he was swimming in it. She’s the one who found the body and called nine-one-one. She knew her mailman by name. Oscar Holmes. Detectives looked for him at work, but he was absent without leave. Holmes rents a small apartment at Twenty-third and Pine. They spotted his mail truck out front and caught up with him there. When Holmes answered the door he was all revved up. The detectives noted the blood on his face and made the arrest. Once the warrants arrived, the guys went in and found his clothes hidden in the trash.”