Patricia Cornwell - Cruel and Unusual

“Marino, what was the name of that man who claimed his eiderdown vest was stolen?”

“Sullivan. Hilton Sullivan. Why?”

"During my testimony, Patterson made the outrageous accusation that I might have used a revolver from the firearms lab to shoot Susan. In other words, there is always a risk involved if you use your own weapon because if it's checked and it's proven that it fired the then you've got a lot of explaining to do.”

"What's this got to do with Sullivan?”

"When did he move into his condo?”

"I don't know.”

"If I were going to kill someone with my Ruger, it would be pretty clever of me to report it stolen to the police before I commit any crimes. Then if for some reason the gun is ever recovered - for example if the heat is on and I decide to toss it - the cops might trace the serial number back to me, but I can prove through the burglary report I filed that the gun was not in my possession at the time of the crime.”

"Are you suggesting Sullivan falsified a report? That he staged the burglary?”

"I'm suggesting you consider that," I said. "It's convenient that he has no burglar alarm and left a window unlocked. It’s convenient that he was obnoxious with the cops. I'm sure they were delighted to see him leave and weren't about to go the extra mile and get his fingerprints for exclusionary purposes. Especially since he was dressed in white and bitching about the dusting powder everywhere: My point is, how do you know that the prints in Sullivan's condo weren't left by Sullivan? He lives there. His prints would be all over the place.”

"In AFIS they matched up with Waddell.”

"If that's the case, then why would Sullivan call the police in response to that story about eiderdown we planted in the paper?”

"As Benton said, this guy loves to play games. He loves to jerk people around. He skates on the edge for kicks.”

"Shit. Let me use your phone.”

He came around to the passenger's side and got in. Dialing Directory Assistance, he got the number of the building where Sullivan lived. When the superintendent was on the line, Marino asked him how long ago Hilton Sullivan had purchased his condominium..

"Well, then, who does?” Marino asked. He scribbled something on a notepad. "What's the number and what street does it face? Okay… What about, his car? Yeah, if you've got it.”

When Marino hung up, he looked at me. "Christ, the squirrel doesn't own the condo at all. It's owned by some businessman who rents it, and Sullivan started renting it the friggin' first week in December. He paid the deposit on the sixth, to be exact.”

He opened the car door, adding, "And he drives a dark blue Chewy van. An old one with no windows.”

Marino followed me back to headquarters and we left my car in his parking place. We shot across Broad Street, heading toward Franklin.

"Let's hope the manager hasn't alerted him.” Marino raised his voice above the roar of the engine.

He slowed down and parked in front of an eight-story brick building.

"His condo's in back," he explained, looking around. "So he shouldn't be able to see us.”

He reached under the seat and got out his nine-millimeter to back up the 357 in the holster under his left arm. Tucking the pistol in the back of his trousers and an extra clip in his pocket, he opened his door.

"If you're expecting a war, I'll be glad to stay In the car," I said.

"If a war starts, I'll toss you my three-fifty and a couple speed loaders, and you damn better be as good a shot as Patterson's been saying you are. Stay behind me at all times.”

At the top of the steps, he rang the bell. "He's probably not going to be here.”

Momentarily, the lock clicked free and the door opened. An elderly man with bushy gray eyebrows identified himself as the building superintendent Marino hail spoken to earlier do the phone.

"Do you know if he's in?” Marino asked: "I have no idea.”

"We're going to go up and check.”

"You Won't be going up because hers on this floor.”

The superintendent pointed east. “Just follow that corridor and take the first left. It's a corner apartment at the very end. Number seventeen.”

The building possessed a debut tined luxuriousness, reminiscent of old hotels that no one particularly wards to stay in anymore because the rooms are too small and the decor is too dark and a little frayed. I noted cigarette burns in the deep red carpet, and the stain on the paneling was almost black. Hilton Sullivan's corner apartment was announced by a small brass 17. There was no peephole, and when Marino knocked, we heard footsteps.

"Who is it?” a voice asked.

"'Maintenance," Marino said. “To change the filter in your heater.”

The door opened, and the instant I saw the piercing blue eyes in the space and they saw me, my breath caught. Hilton Sullivan tried to slam shut the door, but Marino's foot was wedged against the jamb.

"Get to the side!”

Marino shouted at me as he snatched out his revolver and leaned as far away from the door's opening as he could.

I darted up the corridor as he suddenly kicked the door open wide and it slammed against the wall inside. Revolver ready, he went in, anti I waited in dread for a scuffle or gunfire. Minutes went by. Then l heard Marino saying something on his portable radio. He reappeared, sweating, his face an angry red.

"I don't fucking believe it He went out the window like a damn jackrabbit and there's not a sign of him. Goddamn son of a bitch. His van's sitting right-out there in the lot in back. He's off on foot somewhere. I've sent out an alert to units in the area.”

He wiped his face on his sleeve and struggled to catch his broth.

"I thought he was a woman," I said numbly.

"Huh?” Marino stared at me.

"When I went to see Helen Grimes, he was inside her house. He looked out the door once while we were talking on the porch. I thought it was a woman.”

"Sullivan was at Helen the Hun's house?” Marino said loudly.

"I'm sure of it.”

"Jesus Christ. That don't make a damn bit of sense.”

But it did make sense when we began looking around Sullivan's apartment. It was elegantly furnished with antiques and fine rugs, which Marino said belonged to the owner, not to Sullivan, according to the superintendent. Jazz drifted from the bedroom, where we found Hilton Sullivan's blue down jacket on the bed next to a beige corduroy shirt and a pair of faded jeans, neatly folded. His running shoes and socks were on the rug. On the mahogany dresser were a green cap and a pair of sunglasses: and a loosely folded blue uniform shirt that still had Helen Grimes's nameplate pinned above the breast pocket. Beneath it was a large envelope of photographs that Marino went through while I silently looked on.

"Holy shit," Marino muttered every other minute.

In more than a dozen of them, Hilton Sullivan was nude and in poses of bondage, and Helen Grimes was his sadistic guard. One favorite scenario seemed to be Sullivan sitting in a chair while she played the role of interrogator, yoking him from behind or inflicting other punishments. He was an exquisitely pretty blond young maid, with a lean body that I suspected was surprisingly strong. Certainly, he was agile. We found a photograph of Robyn Naismith's bloody body propped against the television in her living nom, and another one of her on a steel table in the morgue. But what unnerved me more than any of this was Sullivan's face. It was absolutely devoid of expression, his eyes cold the way I imagined they would be when he killed.

"Maybe we know why Donahue liked him so much„" Marino said, sliding the photographs back inside their envelope. "Someone was taking these pictures. Donahue's wife told me the warden's hobby was photography.”