Jeffery Deaver - The Broken Window

Wincing from the strain on her arthritic joints, she pushed through the door on the sixth floor and found room 672. She knocked, then stepped aside. “Police. Mr. Jorgensen? Please open the door.” She didn’t know what connection this man might have to the killer so her hand hovered near the grip of her Glock, a fine weapon, as dependable as the sun.

No answer but she believed she heard the sound of the metal cover of the peephole.

“Police,” she repeated.

“Put your ID under the door.”

She did.

A pause, then several chains were undone. And a deadbolt. The door opened a short way but was stopped by a security bar. The gap was bigger than that left by a chain but not large enough for someone to get through.

The head of a middle-aged man appeared. His hair was long and unwashed, his face marred with an unruly beard. The eyes were twitchy.

“You’re Robert Jorgensen?”

He peered at her face, then at her ID again, turning the card over and holding it up to the light, though the laminated rectangle was opaque. He handed it back and unhooked the security bar. The door swung open. He examined the hall behind her, then gestured her in. Sachs entered cautiously, hand still near her weapon. She checked the room and closets. The place was otherwise unoccupied and he was unarmed. “You’re Robert Jorgensen?” she repeated.

He nodded.

She then looked over the sad room more carefully. It contained a bed, desk and chair, armchair and ratty couch. The dark gray carpet was stained. A single pole lamp cast dim yellow light, and the shades were drawn. He was living, it seemed, out of four large suitcases and a gym bag. He had no kitchen but a portion of the living room contained a miniature fridge and two microwaves. A coffeepot too. His diet was largely soup and ramen noodles. A hundred manila file folders were carefully lined up against the wall.

His clothes were from a different time in his life, a better time. They seemed expensive but were threadbare and stained. The heels of the rich-looking shoes were worn down. Guessing: He lost his medical practice due to a drug or drinking problem.

At the moment he was occupied by an odd task: dissecting a large hardcover textbook. A chipped magnifying glass on a gooseneck stand was clamped to the desk and he’d been slicing out pages and cutting them into strips.

Maybe mental illness had led to his downfall.

“You’re here about the letters. It’s about time.”

“Letters?”

He studied her suspiciously. “You’re not?”

“I don’t know about any letters.”

“I sent them to Washington. But you do talk, don’t you? All you law enforcers. You public-safety people. Sure you do. You have to, everybody talks. Criminal databases and all that…”

“I really don’t know what you mean.”

He seemed to believe her. “Well, then-” His eyes went wide, looking down at her hip. “Wait, is your cell phone on?”

“Well, yes.”

“Jesus Christ in heaven! What’s wrong with you?”

“I-”

“Why don’t you run down the street naked and tell every stranger you see your address? Take the battery out. Not just shut it off. The battery!”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Take it out. Or you can get the hell out right now. The PDA too. And pager.”

This seemed to be a deal breaker. But she said firmly, “I’m not dumping my memory. I’ll do the phone and the pager.”

“Okay,” he grumbled and leaned forward as she slipped the batteries out of the two devices and shut off the PDA.

Then she asked for his ID. He debated and dug out a driver’s license. The address was Greenwich, Connecticut, one of the ritziest towns in the metro area. “I’m not here about any letters, Mr. Jorgensen. I just have some questions. I won’t take much of your time.”

He gestured her toward the gamy couch and sat down on a wobbly chair at the desk. As if he couldn’t help himself he turned to the book and with a razor knife cut a piece off the spine. He handled the knife expertly, fast and sure. Sachs was glad the desk was between them and her gun unobstructed.

“Mr. Jorgensen, I’m here about a crime that was committed this morning.”

“Ah, sure, of course.” Lips pursing, he glanced at Sachs again and his expression was clear: resignation and disgust. “And what was I supposed to have done this time?”

This time?

“The crime was a rape and murder. But we know you weren’t involved. You were here.”

A cruel grin. “Ah, keeping track of me. Sure.” Then a grimace. “Goddamnit.” This was in response to something he found, or didn’t find, in the bit of book spine he was dissecting. He tossed it into the trash. Sachs noticed half-open garbage bags containing remnants of clothes, books, newspapers and small boxes that had also been cut apart. Then she glanced into the larger microwave and saw that it contained a book.

Germ phobic, she supposed.

He noticed her gaze. “Microwaving’s the best way to destroy them.”

“Bacteria? Viruses?”

He laughed at the question as if she were joking. He nodded at the volume in front of him. “But sometimes they’re really hard to find. You have to, though. You need to see what the enemy looks like.” Now a nod at the microwave. “And pretty soon they’ll start making ones that you can’t even nuke. Ah, you better believe it.”

They…them…Sachs had been a beat cop in the Patrol Division for some years-a portable, they were called in cop slang. She’d worked Times Square back when it was, well, Times Square, before the place became Disneyland North. Patrolwoman Sachs had had lots of experience with the homeless and emotionally disturbed. She recognized signs of paranoid personality, maybe even schizophrenia.

“Do you know a DeLeon Williams?”

“No.”

She offered the names of the other victims and fall guys, including Rhyme’s cousin.

“No, never heard of any of them.” He seemed to be answering truthfully. The book took all his attention for a long thirty seconds. He removed a page and held it up, grimacing again. He pitched it out.

“Mr. Jorgensen, this room number was found on a note near the crime scene today.”

The hand with the knife froze. He looked at her with scary, burning eyes. Breathlessly he asked, “ Where ? Where the hell did you find it?”

“In a trash bin in Brooklyn. It was stuck to some evidence. It’s possible this killer discarded it.”

In a ghastly whisper he asked, “You have a name? What does he look like? Tell me!” He half rose and his face grew bright red. His lips trembled.

“Take it easy, Mr. Jorgensen. Calm down. We’re not positive he’s the one who left the note.”

“Oh, he’s the one. You bet he is. That motherfucker!” He leaned forward. “You have a name ?”

“No.”

“Tell me, goddamnit! Do something for me for a change. Not to me!”

She said firmly, “If I can help you, I will. But you have to stay calm. Who are you talking about?”

He dropped the knife and sat back, shoulders slumped. A bitter smile spread across his face. “Who? Who? Why, God, of course.”

“God?”

“And I’m Job. You know Job? The innocent man God tormented. All the trials he inflicted? That’s nothing compared to what I’ve been through… Oh, it’s him. He found out where I am now and wrote it down on that note of yours. I thought I’d escaped. But he’s got me again.”

Sachs thought she saw tears. She asked, “What’s this all about? Please, tell me.”

Jorgensen rubbed his face. “Okay…A few years ago I was a practicing doctor, lived in Connecticut. Had a wife and two wonderful children. Money in the bank, retirement plan, vacation house. A comfortable life. I was happy. But then a strange thing happened. No big deal, not at first. I applied for a new credit card-to get miles in my frequent-flier program. I was making three hundred thousand a year. I’d never missed a credit card or mortgage payment in my life. But I was rejected. Some mistake, I thought. But the company said that I was a credit risk since I’d moved three times in the past six months. Only I hadn’t moved at all. Somebody had gotten my name, Social Security number and credit information and rented apartments as me. Then he defaulted on the rent. But not before he’d bought nearly a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise and had it delivered to those addresses.”