Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

“Evening, Doctor,” Pinker said. “Or should I say morning?”

“I notice you’ve dispensed with good.” The medical examiner put her bag down by the bed. “Is the photographer finished?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the crime-scene supervisor from where he was dusting for prints.

“Let me see if I can answer your question, Detective.” The M.E. set to work, measuring temperatures and filling in a checklist. Simmons and Pinker went over to the CSI.

“Anything for us?” Pinker asked.

The bespectacled man raised his shoulders. “Nothing very striking so far. We’re collecting traces and fibers, of course. The main light was on. There’s a dimmer switch and, assuming the beat guys didn’t touch it as they say, then it was on low. That red bedside light was on, too. And the candles.”

“Romantic atmosphere, huh?” Simmons said. “Windows closed?”

“And locked,” the CSI replied. “The killer left out of this door and the one on the street.”

“Leaving the latter half-open,” Pinker said. “He was either in a state of panic or he didn’t care.”

“Nothing here that wouldn’t belong to the vic?” Simmons asked.

“Not obviously so.”

“Oh, Detectives,” Dr. Gilbert called.

“That was quick,” Pinker said, walking over to the bed.

“A preliminary report only,” the M.E. said, with a tight smile. “To help you out.”

“Kind of you, Doctor,” Simmons said, giving his partner a blank look. Pinker got the message and kept quiet. “Time of death?”

“Rigor mortis has been developing for several hours. Calculating from the temperature, I’d say between six and, say, nine hours ago. As for cause, Detective Pinker, yes, the victim could well have died from his wounds. Until I see the internal damage, it’s impossible to be sure. It looks very likely that the weapons punctured his kidneys. There isn’t much blood loss, so I’d be inclined to think he died from shock.”

“Not surprised,” Simmons muttered.

Marion Gilbert pointed at the sheet of paper. “What’s that all about?”

The detectives exchanged glances.

“Haven’t a clue, Doc,” Pinker said, stepping away from his partner.

The M.E. looked at them and shook her head in what looked like disgust. “Well, I wish you luck in finding one, gentlemen. No doubt I’ll see you at the autopsy later on today.”

Simmons and Pinker moved to the door.

“Asshole,” the big man said. “What’s with the clues shit? You reading Agatha Christie?”

“No,” Pinker said, grinning. “I’d like to look for the doctor’s clue, though.”

Simmons scowled at him. “Pussy hound. You’d better start wearing out your expensive calfskin loafers. We need witnesses. You heard the doc. Between six and nine hours takes us back to between six and nine last night. Get canvassing.”

“What about you?” Pinker demanded.

“I’m going to look for someone to ID the victim. But before that, I’m calling the Chief of Detectives. He is not going to be happy.”

While interviewing a nearby shop owner, Simmons was called back to Monsieur Hexie’s apartment. He went upstairs and found a fair-haired, middle-aged man and brunette young woman talking to the CSI supervisor. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“Peter Sebastian,” the man said, studying him dispassionately. “FBI. I’m deputy head of violent crime.”

“…you slumming?”

“Unfortunately not. I’ve spoken to your chief.”

Simmons knew what that meant.

“This is Special Agent Dana Maltravers, my assistant,” the FBI man said, glancing at the woman. She gave Simmons a tight smile. “No, Detective, we aren’t slumming. This is the second murder in D.C. in rapid succession. You can understand the Bureau’s interest, given the large number of VIPs in the district.”

“But they’re not your problem, are they?” Simmons said. “You’re a violent-crime man.”

Sebastian looked at him icily. “Can we have some cooperation here, please?”

Versace chose that moment to make his entrance. “Cooperation?” he said. “That’s my middle name.”

Dana Maltravers looked at him. “And your other names are Gerard and Pinker?”

The detective laughed. “On the button. Give the lady a coconut.”

The agent’s lips started to form into a smile, then she saw her superior’s expression. She ran a hand through her short brown hair and looked away.

Peter Sebastian introduced himself and his colleague again, then turned back to Simmons. “So, Detective, about that cooperation?”

Simmons raised his shoulders. “Sure. Tell us how this particular cooperation is going to play.”

“Very well. You remain in primary control of the investigation into this murder and that of the rock singer, but you inform us of every development immediately.” The FBI man smiled, showing gleaming and perfectly straight teeth. “And we reserve the right to take over if and when we deem that appropriate.”

“Oh, right,” Pinker said, stepping forward. “We do the legwork and you step in at the end to get the applause.”

Sebastian’s gaze hardened. “Let’s face it, Detective, you and your partner haven’t exactly covered yourselves in glory so far.”

Simmons put a hand on Pinker’s arm.

“If you’re unhappy,” the blond man concluded, “ask your chief about the terms. He agreed to them.”

“No need,” Simmons said. He and Versace had shown they weren’t pushovers; now they needed to get on with the investigation. “What do you need to know?”

Sebastian inclined his head toward Maltravers.

“Has the victim been identified yet?” she asked, looking at her clipboard.

“Not officially,” Simmons replied. “But the CSIs found a brochure for the shop downstairs. The photo of Monsieur Hexie matches the dead man.”

Dr. Gilbert’s initial impressions were then passed on. After hearing about their canvassing, Dana Maltravers looked at them both.

“What are your thoughts about the modus operandi?”

Versace shrugged. “Musta hurt something awful.”

Clem gave a weary shake of the head. “I guess you mean the fact that both this victim and Loki were killed with two weapons?”

“Very good, Detective,” Sebastian said. “I’m glad one of you has been paying attention.” He ignored Pinker’s glare.

“Oh, we both noticed that, all right,” Clem said, rescuing his partner. “We’re just keeping an open mind about it.”

“Yeah,” Versace said. “After all, most murderers have got two hands.”

Sebastian and Maltravers looked at each other.

“You don’t think the number two might have some symbolic meaning?” the female agent asked.

Simmons screwed up his eyes. “You mean, some kind of binary significance? A pair, that kind of thing?”

Maltravers shrugged. “I guess. Or maybe there were two killers.”

Pinker glanced at Simmons. “We haven’t excluded that possibility.”

“There were no footprints on the street at the first murder,” his partner added. “But the CSIs should be able to get prints from the rugs here.”

“Let’s leave that for now,” Sebastian said. “We’ll leave you to your work, Detectives. Perhaps we could meet at your office, say, midday?” His tone made clear that the issue wasn’t negotiable.

After the agents had left, Pinker nudged his partner.

“Binary significance?” he said, ironically. “What the hell has that got to do with anything, Clem?”

“Search me,” the big man replied, with a soft grin. “I just wanted to show off my lack of a college degree.” He turned away from his partner. “Now it’s time I worked on the voodoo connection.”

Pinker gave a hollow laugh. Then he realized that Simmons was serious.