M Sellars - Love Is The Bond

Her reasoning for his exile was primarily based on the fact that he was my friend, and she absolutely despised me. On the surface, the naked derision she displayed, even publicly, would have seemed unusual. However, when you considered all the facts, it instantly made sense. She was a fundamentalist Christian with a badge, and I was an out-of-the-broom-closet Witch who had been instrumental in solving more than one series of serial homicides. Not exactly what you would call a perfect match.

I’d made no secret of the fact that I blamed myself for Ben’s career derailment, even if he didn’t. And, while to this day I still felt guilty over it, ever since Albright’s promotion, things had gotten much better for him including being re-assigned back to the Major Case Squad.

“I thought you said Albright hadn’t been causing you any trouble since she made captain,” I commented as I waited my turn to autograph the crime scene log.

“Bee-bee?” the uniformed officer chuckled, overhearing me, then he muttered as he shook his head. “What a piece of work.”

“Yeah,” Ben answered me. “Well, not much anyway. She still gets her kicks in. But, you’re right. It’s been manageable. She’s been fast trackin’, and lately she’s climbin’ the ladder and bein’ a bureaucrat. Rubbin’ elbows just like she wanted.”

“So,” I asked as I scribbled my signature on the log and then handed the pen back to the officer. “What are you worried about?”

Felicity had already slipped beneath the crime scene tape and was photographing the exterior of the motel, approaching the task by-the-book, working her way inward on the actual scene.

My friend was holding the yellow barrier up for me as he answered my query with his own biting rhetorical question. “Like I said, she’s climbin’ the ladder, and there’s a dead federal judge in that room over there. You’re not gonna get much more high profile than this. Jeezus H. Christ, gimme a break. You really think she’s not gonna make for damn sure she’s up to her scrawny ass in it?”

The Chippewa Courts Inn was your typical no-tell-motel. The building itself was an unremarkable, twenty-four unit, one-story structure in the shape of a lopsided, block-style letter “U”. At the truncated end, which was farthest from us at the moment, was the office. Behind that there were four rooms. The two longer expanses housed the remaining eighteen less-than-spacious accommodations, ten in one section and eight in the other. Each had a double window, exterior door, and a single parking space in front of it.

Across the almost deserted expanse of the parking lot, a timeworn marquee stood in front of the office, near the street. Its mismatched backlit letters proclaimed “FREE IN-ROOM ADULT MOVIES.” Beneath that bit of visceral marketing, a pinkish neon pretzel struggled to announce “VACANCY,” occasionally blinking into darkness, only to eventually issue a loud buzz and snap back to something less than brilliance before flickering off yet again.

Room seven, where we were now entering, was itself your typical hourly-rate special-rectangular, not quite clean, and poorly lit. The streaked windows next to the weather-beaten door were covered inside by heavy drapes, which were themselves a good decade out of style, if not more. In keeping with a basic configuration, there was a dressing area and sink at the back of the room. Over the basin sat a large mirror that was now reflecting the flicker of lights from outside as they bounced in through the open doorway. To the right of that area appeared to be a smaller room, most likely the bathroom and shower.

Ben pointed to the smaller room as if he’d been reading my mind. “Body’s back there in the john,” he offered, thereby confirming the suspicion.

Wafting on the chilled atmosphere was the usual unsavory blend of odors one encountered in such a room-stale smoke, musty carpet, and old intimacy. However, in this case the olfactory aura of bygone lovemaking was merely a subtle backdrop to the unmistakable odor of recent, unbridled sex. In fact, the very charge of extreme passion hanging in the air would have been enough to provoke arousal were it not underscored by the less than commonplace, but just as palpable, funk of death. As if that weren’t enough, pulling the unlikely melange together was a cloying watermelon-like scent.

“TV assholes are here,” Ben called out to the lone crime scene technician inhabiting the room. My friend swung the door closed behind us then stabbed a finger toward the silvery back wall as he instructed, “We better keep the door shut, or one of the fuckers’ll be bright enough ta’ try pointin’ a camera into that mirror.”

The dust-mask-wearing technician gave a nod as he took a few steps toward us. “What about the plate on the car?”

“Covered,” Ben replied. “Got a squad parked behind it.”

From all indications, the tech had simply been milling about and leaving the scene untouched, presumably waiting for us to arrive and create the visual record that was the next step in the chain of evidence. I was getting ready to ask about the mask when he quickly turned away and pulled it down. Slapping a handkerchief up to his face, he broke the near serenity of the interior with a resounding sneeze.

“Jeezus, Murv,” Ben said. “You really that sick?”

“What the hell gave ya’ that idea?” he replied, a slight Southern drawl affecting his raw voice. Still, even his obviously heavy congestion didn’t hide the sarcasm tainting the words.

“Well why didn’t ya’ stay home then?” Ben asked.

“Oh, maybe ‘cause you told ‘em ta’ get me outta bed.”

He finished wiping his reddened nose then pulled the mask back up to cover the lower half of his face.

“You shoulda said you were sick.”

“I did,” he returned through the disposable cup-shaped shield. “But, then I got told, ‘Storm says don’t be such a wuss’.”

“Yeah, well…”

“Yeah, well my ass. You’re gonna owe me for this one.”

My friend nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Booze or cigars?”

“The way I feel right now? Booze.”

“Bottle of Jack?”

“Screw that,” Murv huffed. “This is worth Maker’s Mark. The big bottle, not the little one.”

“Yeah, okay,” Ben agreed. “So, listen, this is Felicity and…”

“Yeah, we’ve met. It’s been…” he interrupted then abruptly ended his own sentence with a repeat of the earlier sneeze. “Look, no offense,” he finally continued, gazing back at all of us with bleary eyes as he repositioned the mask once again. “But all I wanna do right now is go home. Can we just do this so I can get a team in here to work the scene?”

“You got a team? I thought everyone was out sick?”

“I’ve got three techs,” he replied. “And two of them are as bad off as I am, so can we get moving on this?”

“Yeah.” Ben nodded.

“Can you smell that?” I asked, grabbing at the opportunity to interject the question.

“I couldn’t smell shit if I was neck deep in it,” Murv replied, shaking his head.

“Yeah. Ya’ talkin’ ‘bout the sickly gag-a-maggot reek?” Ben asked.

“Yeah.”

He pointed to a nightstand next to the twin bed. “There’s a tube’a crap over there. Some kinda novelty eat-me gel or somethin’. Smells like a whor…” He caught himself mid-sentence, casting a quick glance at Felicity. “…Reeks don’t it?”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Is there anything in particular you want me to concentrate on, then?” my wife asked.

“You get the outside already?” Murv asked.

“The door and a few shots of the lot leading up to the entrance. I didn’t see any markers, so I just shot mid-range.”