Robert Ellis - The Dead Room

He looked up and saw Jackson standing in the doorway with an open flask.

“We came here tonight for a look at paintings?” the detective said.

Teddy stood up, his eyes on the flask. “Do you drink on duty, Jackson?”

The detective smiled. “I already told you I punched out. It’s been a long day, kid. You want a hit or what?”

The flask was fitted in a leather case. Inside the strap was a shot glass that covered the neck of the flask and the cap.

“No thanks,” Teddy said.

“Suit yourself. But a shot or two would keep you warm. It feels like they got the heat turned down in here. Like everybody but you knows the guy ain’t coming back.”

It wasn’t made of Sterling silver. Teddy’s eyes rose from the flask to the detective’s face. His bad-boy smile. He wondered if Jackson wasn’t toying with him. Taunting him.

Teddy moved to the worktable and quickly thumbed through a stack of sketchbooks. If Jackson had been the man who clubbed him on the head and ran over Barnett’s legs, then he would’ve known Teddy got a good look at the shot glass he found in the snow. The tall ships and whales etched into the silver. Jackson was smart enough to switch flasks. The fact that he was drinking and talking about keeping warm on a cold night seemed like a play though. Some sort of warning without details that hung over the night like Holmes’s shadow cast in a field of blue.

The strange looks and long stares began the moment Teddy stepped out of the elevator. The receptionist at the front desk skipped her usual banter and remained quiet. When he strode down the hall to the kitchenette, he could feel everyone turning away.

He poured a cup of coffee and walked down to his office wondering what was up. Dumping his briefcase on the couch, he threw the morning papers onto his desk and sat down. The coffee tasted stale, yet it was only 8:00 a.m. Still, the blast of hot caffeine felt soothing, and he sipped the brew trying to wake up. It had been another sleepless night. Between nightmares of a delusional artist dissecting his models with a razor-sharp knife and dreams of making love with Carolyn Powell, the idea of a decent night’s rest seemed ludicrous.

Teddy tossed the Inquirer aside and flipped over his copy of the Daily News . When he unfolded the newspaper and caught his first glimpse of the front page, he felt his pulse rocket upward and set the mug down.

Someone in the district attorney’s office had leaked details from the crime scenes to the press. Even worse, someone had gotten to Holmes.

Teddy’s eyes worked over the picture of Holmes filling out the entire front page-another distorted and particularly grizzly shot of Holmes as a monster. Instead of a headline, the editors had gone with the quote I DON’T EVEN EAT MEAT! attributing it to Holmes and tagging him as the Veggie Butcher .

It was done. Holmes was serial killer with a nickname. The Veggie Butcher.

Teddy’s heart almost stopped.

He turned the page, trying to remain calm as his eyes took in the headlines. Holmes was branded a cannibal for all the world to see. There was an old snapshot of Holmes behind the counter at his butcher shop, sharpening a long knife in front of three old ladies with big, wide-open eyes. Another of Darlene Lewis in a bikini by the pool. Then a third photo of the girl’s corpse inside a body bag as it was wheeled out the front door of her home.

Teddy began reading, the words zipping by at high speed. Holmes had cut Darlene Lewis up and eaten her, a source close to the investigation told the paper. When Valerie Kram’s body was fished out of the icy water along Boathouse Row, the medical examiner found the girl’s internal organs disturbed, another unnamed source said. In his own defense, Holmes confronted the charges with the apparent claim that he couldn’t have eaten their flesh because he was a vegetarian.

Teddy flipped the page, so nervous his hand was trembling. The words THE SKIN GAME leaped out at him. Beneath the headline was a photo of Jim Barnett. It was the same photo printed in Philadelphia Magazine’s Power 100 issue. A reporter had been digging into Holmes’s past and discovered that Barnett and Holmes were brothers-in-law. The secret was no longer a secret. Barnett wouldn’t achieve his dream of making the top ten list this year.

Teddy threw the newspaper in the trash, thinking he might be sick. He heard someone enter his office and turned as he stood. It was Larry Stokes, cofounder of the firm, glaring at him.

“What have you done?” Stokes shrieked.

Teddy froze, spotting Jill down the hall waving her hands in warning. He looked back at Stokes. The man was seething, his eyes filled with venom, but also a large measure of fear-Jill’s warning a moment too late.

“You’re blaming me for this?” Teddy said.

“You bet I am,” Stokes said. “Building this firm’s reputation has taken me a lifetime. Look what you’ve done in just three months. Barnett said we weren’t putting up a defense. There wouldn’t be any headlines. You’re obviously not doing what you were told.”

Teddy remained quiet, his anger rising. If he said what was on his mind, he knew the idiot would fire him on the spot.

“He wants to see you right away,” Stokes said. “I just got off the phone with him.”

Teddy sat down in his desk chair.

“Not later,” Stokes shouted. “Right away. He’s in room three-fourteen.”

Teddy grabbed his briefcase and left the room. As he passed Jill, she took a step back and cringed. Before turning the corner at the end of the hall, he glanced back at his office and saw Stokes still glaring at him from the door.

“Get out,” the man said, rocking on his heels.

He found Barnett’s room at Bryn Mawr Hospital. The shades were drawn, the man cloaked in darkness with a copy of the Daily News beside him and three needles in his arm. Barnett’s legs were still held in place by a maze of steel tubing, his face more white than pale. After a moment, Barnett sensed his presence and lowered his gaze from the ceiling. His eyes were hollow and sick. Teddy didn’t feel any anger emanating from Barnett, just devastation and terror. When he checked the medications hanging beside the bed, he realized the man was on morphine.

“Jesus, Teddy,” he whispered.

Teddy pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down. Barnett took his hand and gave it a squeeze, not wanting to let go. Teddy didn’t feel uncomfortable holding Barnett’s hand. The gesture was an act of friendship, the kind of thing a father and son would do.

“Have you ever felt like shit?” Barnett asked, slurring his words.

“Yes.”

“Well this is worse than that.”

“The doctor says you’re doing good.”

“The doctor’s full of shit.”

Barnett smiled, releasing Teddy’s hand to adjust the hose feeding oxygen into his nostrils. As he moved, he groaned and tried to catch his breath.

“What the hell happened?” he asked after a moment.

“There’s been a leak,” Teddy said.

“A leak? When a dam breaks it’s not a leak. It’s the end. What do you think the chances are that Holmes will get a fair shake in court now?”

The answer was none. The jury pool had been poisoned. If it went to court, the Veggie Butcher was dead.

Teddy glanced at the morphine again, doubting Barnett was in any condition to handle an update on the case. He did it anyway, briefing him on what had happened since he was run over by the car. Barnett seemed particularly shaken by the fact that the district attorney had widened the scope of the investigation to include ten more missing women. Still, Teddy noted the glimmer of hope in the man’s eyes when he mentioned that Nash thought Holmes was innocent. The hope faded just as quickly, however, as Teddy brought up their theory that they were looking for an artist. When Teddy was finished, Barnett picked up his copy of the Daily News and rested it on his lap.