Stephen White - Cold Case

"But… Dorothy's also a nationally known reporter who has just published a highly critical piece about a well-known local politician who's prominent enough that his problems are beginning to show up on national radar. And then it turns out her hotel room is trashed and streaked with blood. Can't ignore those facts either."

I was having trouble riding along with Russ as he was doing his problem solving.

I said, "She's funny. Witty, too. Dorothy." I was beginning to digest the idea of her being dead.

He touched me on the shoulder again.

"Like I said, it's always harder always when it's someone you know. No sign of forced entry into her room, by the way. She let whoever it was in. Which means Smith can't rule out hotel personnel. That's a lot of people to interview."

I got the sense that his mind was wandering away from the conversation we were having. He cupped my elbow in his hand and eased me down the hall closer to room 505. The hotel was configured in a T;

room 505 was near the center of the intersecting hallway. We stood against the wall on the far side of the corridor. A second perimeter of yellow crime-scene tape blocked any closer access to the body.

"This is her room. You can't go in, of course."

I didn't want to. I didn't tell him that.

Close by, between the two perimeters of tape, detectives and cops huddled together in separate clusters, their voices hushed to reverent whispers. None of them faced the door to the room; most of them were no more comfortable around violence than I was.

The door to 505 was open. From where I stood across the hall I could see part of the bedspread on the floor at the foot of the near side of the king bed. The sheets and blankets were ripped and torn from the end of the bed. The mattress was exposed. At the far end of the room a side chair lay on its side on the floor next to an overturned telephone. Above the chair a smear of blood as wide as a wrist ran at least eighteen inches across the glass panes of the doors that led from Dorothys room out to a small wooden balcony.

In the distance, through the glass, I could see the ski runs decked out for summer. A steady stream of mountain bikers flowed down the mountain trails.

Today, from my vantage, the green grass of the runs appeared smeared with blood.

Dorothy's blood? Likely.

The gondola continued carrying tourists to the top of the mountain.

As I narrowed my focus back to the room, I became aware that I was breathing through my mouth. That's when I saw Flynn Coming into my field of vision.

Her hair was covered by a surgeon's cap and her gloved hands were clasped behind her back. She seemed to be examining the carpeting beside Dorothy's bed.

Percy Smith startled me by opening the door directly behind where I was standing.

"Got a little command post set up in there." He pointed toward the room behind him.

"My idea."

I ignored his bluster and told him without being asked what I had told Russ Claven about Dorothy's marital problems. Smith jotted down everything I said in great detail. He asked a few questions. I answered them.

"And this story she's been working on? The one about Ray Welle. What can you tell me about that?"

"Don't know anything more than I read in yesterdays Washington Post. She faxed me a copy of the article at my home in Boulder on Saturday. Campaign irregularities that go back a few years."

"You wouldn't happen to have the article with you?"

"No"

"But it's about Ray Welle and the fund-raising rumors?"

"Yes. Something like that. Also, she hand wrote a note on it about having met with somebody who wasn't helpful with the campaign thing but who seemed to know a lot about Gloria Welle's murder."

"This person have a name?"

"It's a man. She didn't give a name. She's a reporter. That makes him a source.

She wouldn't give out his name. She also said she had another meeting planned.

Didn't say with whom." Russ said, "Flynn hasn't searched carefully, but she didn't see a laptop in the hotel room. Did Ms. Levin use one?"

I tried to remember.

"Yes. She mentioned one at one point. She said hers was too heavy. Could this have been… I don't know, a burglary?" Oddly, I found the possibility soothing. I wanted to think that this had been a greed-based, random attack. I directed the question at Russ.

Percy Smith raised his voice to a patiently pious tone that reminded me of Charlton Heston sermonizing about the Second Amendment. Smith said, "I'm of the opinion that… we have a lot of ground to cover before we arrive in the territory of the coulda's and the shoulda's."

Russ waited patiently for Smith to cease pontificating, then responded more directly to my question.

"Anythings possible. It's even possible… that maybe someone really didn't want her to work on her story anymore."

"Theory," complained Smith.

"Just theory. Right now we need to collect evidence.

We'll build a theory around the evidence we collect. We're not going to collect evidence to fit a theory. That's not how we do things around here."

Russ Claven was standing slightly back from Percy Smith. I watched a small smile creep onto Russ's face as he papered himself back against the wall. He said, "Hey, Flynn, Alan's here."

Flynn pulled the paper cap from her hair and leaned across the tape to kiss me on the cheek. Her unpatched eye captured both of mine and she said, "I'm so sorry. I got the impression you're fond of her." Flynn's tone told me that she thought that Dorothy Levin was dead. I swallowed back a tear and said, "I am." I was thinking, I was.

Percy Smith interrupted.

"ETA on the crime van is about ninety minutes. Anything else we should do before then, Flynn?" I thought I heard some smugness in his words.

She said, "I've done what I can in there without compromising the scene for them."

Russ interjected, "If a body shows up I'll need a physician with a Colorado license-something I happen to lack-to come with me. He or she can supervise me while I work up the body. The sooner we get somebody on deck the better, Chief.

If circumstances arise I'd like to get started as soon as possible."

"I'll get somebody on call. Anybody with a license will do?"

"That's right. As long as they'll leave me alone to do my work."

Flynn took me by the hand and said, "Come on. Why don't we go somewhere and get something to drink?" Smith said, "Room service set up a canteen for me down in 533. You go help yourselves."

Flynn replied, "I think we'll get some distance from all this and go downstairs.

Thanks, Percy."

We settled into a booth in the restaurant off the lobby. The view was up the ski slopes and was almost identical to that in Dorothy's room. Each of us ordered ice tea. As soon as the waitress departed Flynn said, "He's all right, you know.

Percy. You get past his narcissism and he's reasonably competent."

The eye patch she was wearing that afternoon was of bronze satin stitched in concentric circles with burgundy thread. I found that it was distracting me as I said, "Maybe I'm not as generous as you are, Flynn. I find Percy Smith's narcissism to be a major impediment to perceiving his underlying strengths."

She shrugged, and contemplated my face for several seconds.

"You know what it is I do for a living? I mean really? What I do for a living is… I work other people's crime scenes. On every job I do, I'm an outsider.

On every job I do, I'm a woman. On every job I do, I have only one eye. On every job I do, I'm a threat. Butting up against inflated egos conics with the territory. I would think you've seen your share of them along the way, too."

"Maybe I'm more tolerant when I'm in my office."

"And maybe you're more tolerant when you haven't just learned that someone you cared for may have been murdered?"