Макс Коллинз - No One Will Hear You

Amari asked, “What makes you say that?”

“Last time there were secondary wounds we attributed to extreme rage.”

“Yeah?”

Bending over the body, Talbot said, “Maybe we were wrong. Maybe on that first one? He wasn’t sure he’d gotten the job done with that first blow, and kept at it. This time, well, his first try was the kill shot.”

“If it’s not about anger,” Polk asked, “what is it about?”

“Not saying anger doesn’t enter in,” Talbot said. “But this kill is also about control... control and power — over both the victims and himself.”

“Control,” Polk said, like he was tasting the word.

“Over life and death,” Talbot said. “Whether the victim lives is the killer’s choice. But this is also about... shall we call him Billy Shears?”

Amari sighed. “Why not? Everybody else is.”

“Well, this is about Billy Shears and how he sees himself. This time, when he took his trophy of the victim’s genitalia, the cut was more assured, more controlled.”

Having a peek under the sheet, a grimacing Polk said, softly, “It was more jagged last time.”

“Right,” the coroner’s man said. “Billy hesitated a couple of times. Not this time — we’re talking one smooth stroke. Like a tree surgeon cutting off a leafy branch.”

Polk shuddered again and let the sheet down.

Talbot was saying: “Billy waited longer this time, too, before trophy time. Less blood. Your boy’s getting better at his job.”

“A fast learner,” Amari said with quiet disgust. She sniffed, turning her head as she did so. “Smells like smoke again, too.”

The crime-scene tech emerged from the bathroom — Glenn Madlin, an old vet Amari knew well, tall, thin, silver-haired, nearing retirement.

“Smells like more than one cigarette,” Madlin said in his unemotional tenor, “judging from the bathroom.”

“Hi, Glenn,” Amari said. “He flush them?”

“Hi, Anna. Seems to be the case. No fingerprints on anything, and the only footprints are from shoe-covered booties.”

“So,” Polk said, with an awful sigh and a worse smile, “we got nothin’ again?”

“Nothing on my end,” Madlin admitted.

Amari asked, “What say you, Dink?”

“Nothing yet,” Talbot said. “Maybe another hair’ll turn up. When I get back, I’ll run the prints and do a tox screen. My guess is Mr. Shears roofied this one, too. Who knows, maybe we can at least ID the poor bastard.”

“Shit,” Polk said. “ Nothing ?”

He was asking the coroner’s man, but Amari answered.

“Something,” she said. “We have at least four video cameras. One had to catch something — I don’t care how careful Billy Boy was.”

Lee had been lurking around the doorway. Now he stepped in deeper... and he looked sick. “Umm, guys — there isn’t any video.”

Amari blurted an f-bomb, then calmed herself. “Sergeant, how is that possible? I saw four cameras.”

“Seven,” Lee said with a shrug, “if you count the ones outside — it’s just... the system was installed when the hotel was still part of the Ramada chain. When the main tape deck... it’s tape, not DVD... busted, about six months ago? The Olmstads didn’t spend the money to fix it.”

Amari glared at the sergeant. “And you saved this sweet tidbit for me till now why?”

“It slipped my mind. You didn’t ask and... sorry, Lieutenant.”

She raised a hand to silence any further apology.

“They’re waiting in the office, just off the front desk.”

To the coroner’s assistant, Amari said, “Call me when you’ve got something, Dink.” “Will do.”

In the corridor, Amari accessed the geography — the victim’s room was near the end of the hall. A doorway to the stairs down to the parking lot was nearby. She stuck her head back in the room.

Madlin and Talbot both looked up.

Amari said, “Glenn, make sure you dust this exit door, will you? My guess is the killer used it.”

“You got it, Anna.”

Madlin was not one of those techs who got irritated when you told them how to do their jobs. Not that either Amari or Madlin expected Billy Shears to leave his prints behind...

“These cameras being defunct,” she said, pointing at one, as they headed back down the corridor, Sergeant Lee bringing up the rear. “That might tell us something.”

Polk smirked. “That we are unlucky as hell?”

“No. That Billy Shears does his homework...”

Soon Amari and Polk — leaving Lee behind — joined the motel owners in the small, cluttered office off the desk.

Mr. Olmstad was paunchy but in decent enough shape for his age, his hair barely graying. He must have been working the desk, because he was in a navy blazer with what Amari guessed was a yellow turtleneck dickey.

In a yellow blouse and navy slacks, Mrs. Olmstad was thin, her shortish hair bottle blonde, bifocals on a black cord around her neck. She was dabbing at red eyes with a tissue, sitting at the metal desk in the small space, her husband towering behind her.

“I know this was very unpleasant for you,” Amari said.

Mrs. Olmstad nodded. “We’ve had deaths here before. All hotels do. But this... this ...”

“The guest who was killed — was it Al Roberts?”

“Who?” Mr. Olmstad asked.

“Al Roberts is the name on your guest register. Of the man who checked in.”

Olmstad gave a facial shrug, but his wife said, “No, that was not Mr. Roberts. Mr. Roberts I checked in on Wednesday afternoon. His room is paid for through tomorrow morning.”

Amari nodded. “How did he pay?”

“Cash,” Mrs. Olmstad said.

“No credit card for incidentals?”

“No. He paid for two nights.”

“Don’t you usually insist on a credit card for incidentals?”

“We don’t have room service.”

“Couldn’t you get nicked on long-distance calls?”

“Yes, but, uh...”

“But what, Mrs. Olmstad?”

“He gave me one hundred dollars on deposit. Said he wasn’t planning on making any long-distance calls, and I could keep the deposit, either way.”

Polk asked, “What did he look like?”

“Not too tall. Kind of heavyset, and you might call him handsome, only he had a scar on his left cheek. Ugly one, too. First thing you saw about him.”

Amari asked, “Could you describe the scar?”

“Long... jagged. Ran clear from his eyebrow almost all the way to his chin.”

“Eye color?”

“Brown, I believe.” She closed her eyes momentarily. “Yes, brown.”

“Hair?”

“Brown. Kinda on the long side, but well groomed.”

This sounded nothing like guy who’d checked into the Star Struck.

“Do you think you could describe the man who checked in to one of our forensic artists?”

“Certainly.”

“Now, about the security cameras...”

Mr. Olmstad jumped in. “I am so sorry about that. We never thought we’d need them here. We just never have any problems.”

Amari couldn’t help herself — she gave the man an arched eyebrow.

And he said, “Well... till this awful thing happened. We’re the kind of place you go when you forgot to make a reservation, or your hotel loses your reservation, or... frankly... if you meet somebody you want to spend a few hours with.”

“The cameras been down for six months?”

“Yes, ma’am, more or less.”

“Who might know they were broken?”

“Chiefly, just the staff. That’s me, the wife, and three part-time desk clerks and four maids.”

“We’ll need their names and contact information.”

“Oh my,” Mrs. Olmstad said, fingertips touching her thin lips. “I can’t think any of our help would be involved with anything like this... They’re all so reliable . A few may not have their green cards. Will that be a problem?”