Линкольн Чайлд - Verses for the Dead

At this point in the conversation, Sergeant Waintree took over. The first responders were a patrol cop — now retired and living in Arizona — and an ambulance driver, who’d died in a car wreck just a few months back. Next came a small Crime Scene Unit, who took down the body, performed an initial forensic evaluation, took samples and photographs — now in Coldmoon’s possession — and then handed the body off to the coroner. The coroner was still around, no longer practicing but living down the coast in a town called Bristol.

“Were you on the force at the time?” Coldmoon asked Waintree as he opened the police folder.

The cop nodded. “Ayuh.”

“Part of the investigation?”

“Wasn’t that much to investigate. Went through all the details, though.”

“Such as?” Pendergast asked, looking at the folder as Coldmoon paged through it.

“Nobody heard or saw anything out of the ordinary. Some of the guests in the surrounding rooms, and the staff on duty that evening, were interviewed. So were a few of the co-workers of the deceased.”

“Where are the transcriptions of the interviews?” Pendergast asked.

“These were just informal interviews, no reason to suspect anyone of anything. There are summaries in there.”

Pendergast pulled out a sheet of paper with two sentences on it. “Such as this?”

“Yep.”

Pendergast dropped the paper back into the folder. “Any security cameras or video feeds?”

“This is Maine, Agent Pendergast,” Mr. Young said, as if that explained everything.

“Were there reports of any strangers in town? Anything that seemed unusual or out of place?”

“There are always strangers — tourists — in town that time of year,” replied Waintree. “Right up to the last leaf falling. But no complaints, fights, incident reports during the week she hanged herself.”

“What about the scene of death itself? Any evidence of an unusual or suspicious nature?”

Both the manager and the policeman shook their heads.

“And no suicide note?” Coldmoon said.

“None,” said Waintree.

“What about the coroner’s report?”

“It’s there.”

“You mean, this three-page photocopy of typed notes?” said Coldmoon. “There aren’t even any X-rays.”

“It’s like I told you on the phone yesterday,” the sergeant said. “There’s not a lot to learn from the file. You could have gotten it sent to Miami and stayed a lot warmer,” he added in a stolid voice.

Coldmoon and Pendergast glanced at the brief coroner’s report. “ The usual ligature marks associated with a suspension hanging ,” Coldmoon read aloud. “ Death was caused by asphyxiation. ”

“She hanged herself from the curtain rod,” Pendergast said. “In my experience, curtain rods — especially in hotels — are not the sturdiest of platforms. Frequently, they are attached by suction cups.”

“Not in the lodge, they’re not,” said Young. “Ours are fixed with mounting brackets. Three screws apiece, right into the studs.” He smiled proudly.

Pendergast took another glance around the lobby. “Well, then. Perhaps we should take a look at the room.”

Young nodded. “You’re in luck. That’s one spot we’re not renovating this winter.”

The place where Elise Baxter took her life looked like countless other motel rooms Coldmoon had seen. Dense carpeting, iron-hard and patterned in a design intended to hide stains. A double set of heavy curtains to ensure the morning sun wouldn’t disturb late sleepers. A duvet cover that probably hadn’t been washed since the start of the last season. Coldmoon had read somewhere the dirtiest thing in a motel room was the TV remote, sometimes covered with E. coli or even contagious, antibiotic-resistant MRSA. He looked around. There it was, lying on the table beside some flyers advertising local attractions.

The bathroom was small, with a porcelain tub and yellow floor tiles. The curtain rod — fixed securely, as Young had said, to mounting brackets — hung a few inches below the upper molding. Coldmoon eyed the distance from the floor to the faintly mildewed ceiling, guessed it was the standard eight feet. More than enough headroom to get the job done.

Pendergast turned to him. “May I see the photographs, please?”

Coldmoon opened the folder again and together they looked through the glossy, well-thumbed prints. At least the photographer had done a thorough job, getting all the right angles as well as a full sequence of the body. Elise Baxter hung from the shower rail by a knotted bedsheet. The woman was wearing a terry-cloth dressing gown that had come loose at the top, exposing one breast. She was much less attractive than she had been in the portrait in her parents’ living room: the dried, protruding tongue; staring eyes; and mottled petechiae spreading up from her neck like overripe blueberries — all indications of asphyxiation — were textbook in a suicide like this.

Pendergast pointed to a close-up of the dead woman’s legs. Despite the settling of blood in her lower extremities, Coldmoon could make out a sheen on her toes and ankles, as well as on the porcelain lip of the tub.

“She, um, soaped her feet,” Young said.

“So she couldn’t change her mind?” Coldmoon asked.

“It is not uncommon,” said Pendergast.

Young shook his head.

Pendergast looked around the room. “Mr. Young, the tiles here are different from the photographs. And the curtain rod appears to be of relatively recent vintage.”

“Yes,” the man replied. “I mean, we had to change everything. And not just the bathroom: new bed, wallpaper, carpet — the whole nine yards.” He paused. “Hotel workers are even more superstitious than hotel guests.”

“Very good,” Pendergast said, not looking as if it was good at all. He replaced the glossy photographs into the manila folder. “We’re going to look around the room for a bit, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” the Youngs said in unison.

“And Sergeant Waintree, we can go over the other aspects of the suicide back at the station once we’ve finished here.”

The cop’s expression became, if anything, more stolid. “I’m sorry, Agent Pendergast, but that won’t be possible.”

“Why not?”

“Well... ” Waintree hesitated a moment. “Chief Pelletier told me to convey his apologies, but we’re awfully busy at the moment.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, sir. See, we’ve had a real epidemic of opioid-related crimes and overdoses swamping our office. That, and the usual domestic stuff we always get around now, when the winter gets long. The case files you already have contain everything relevant, and I’m the only eyewitness to the suicide still on the force. There’s no point in going into the station.”

Pendergast’s face had grown opaque during this recitation. When Waintree finished, Pendergast let a lengthy silence build. Just as he was about to reply, Coldmoon — acting on some internal warning he didn’t quite understand — jumped in. “Speaking of that,” he said to the Youngs, “which rooms have you put aside for us?”

The couple exchanged glances. “Oh my,” said Carol Young. “But there’s none available. We’re closed.”

“No rooms? I thought the entire lodge is empty.”

“Sure it is,” said her husband. “Like everyplace around here. Population drops like a stone once the leaf-peepers are gone. Perfect time for renovations.”

“I thought you said this part of the hotel wasn’t being renovated.”

“This room isn’t being renovated. Like I told you, it already was. All the other rooms... ” Young gave a helpless shrug.

Coldmoon absorbed this. “Can you recommend anywhere in town?”