by Thomas Amo
Stevens face contorted into an expression of curious puzzlement as he began placing Amanda Carlyle's clothing into an evidence bag when something metal fell from her handbag, clanging against the cold tile floor. Wayne reached down and picked it up.
"Uh, guys, I think things just got a little more complicated," said Stevens as he held up a blood soaked straight razor.
"Where did that come from?" asked James.
"Inside her purse. That's not all, I think I also found what it was used on." Stevens held aloft something that was also blood soaked. The men slowly closed the gap between Wayne and themselves.
"Is that what I think it is?" asked Kirkland.
"I do believe it is, Mr. Kirkland," said the doctor.
The five men looked at one another and then at the dead corpse of Hermann Kritzler. "Wayne, slide down Mr. Kritzler's trousers," said Roberts.
The men gathered around the steel table holding the old Nazi's body. Within seconds, Stevens had done as ordered, and they could see a deep maroon stain on the old mans boxers. Stevens looked at Roberts. The doctor nodded the signal to continue. Stevens pulled at the stained boxers, a universal gasp emanated from the witnesses. Roberts smirked as he looked at the Nazi's pelvic area, which was now void of his manhood.
"No more heil Hitler's for this guy."
"Looks like there is justice after all doc," said Kirkland.
"Justice Mike? This monster manages to get away with raping girls, murdering thousands, and live well into the next century. Why now? Why wasn't he executed 60 years ago, with all the other Nazi slime?" fumed James.
"Maybe the Devil wasn't done with him," said Roberts as he scribbled notes into his autopsy book.
James took in a deep breath.
"Wayne, what else you got in that purse?"
Stevens dumped the remaining contents on the table.
"We've got some lipstick, gum, make-up, checkbook, bunch of loose change, piece of paper- wait it's a credit card receipt."
"Receipt for what?" asked James.
"The straight razor."
"Who's the card holder?"
"Virginia Rappe."
Chapter Five
Virginia Rappe
Why do I know that name?
James sat at his desk staring at his computer screen. His face was blank. Was the name another mock clue from Edmund Frayker? Was it supposed to mean virgin rape? he wondered.
James picked up the credit card and examined it closely. It appeared to be new. He turned it over to find it was unsigned. James noted the telephone number to report it lost or stolen. As he dialed, James wondered if the name on the card was the identity of the killer. The voice of a young female operator pulled James away from his musings.
"This is operator 2175, do you have a lost or stolen card to report?"
"Yes, my name is Thomas James, I'm a homicide detective with the city of San Francisco. My badge number is 1563. The card I wish to report has been found at the scene of a homicide."
A long pause filled the air. James knew the operator was trying to absorb the information.
"Did you say homicide, sir?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"One moment."
James knew the operator was putting him on hold to find a supervisor. How long would this take? he wondered. Should he take his dinner break now or just wait it out? His attention returned to the phone as the voice of a man was now on the other end.
"This is supervisor Webber, how may I assist you sir?"
"Mr. Webber, my name is Thomas James, I'm with San Francisco homicide. I need to verify some information on a credit card found at a crime scene we are working on."
There was another long pause. James knew neither, the operator or the supervisor believed him.
"What is your badge number Mr. James?"
"Inspector James, and it's 1563, I already told the girl I spoke with this information."
"Please be patient with us, Inspector James. You understand we have an obligation to our cardholder."
"I understand, so just tell me what you need, so you can verify I'm telling you the truth and we can proceed."
"Just one more moment Inspector, we're verifying your information right now."
James rolled his eyes as he listened to the monotone sound of the supervisor's fake voice. Deepening it, trying to make his voice sound authoritative and threatening, Webber continued, "Thank you for your understanding Inspector James. What information do you require?"
"I need an address and telephone number for this credit card."
James rattled off the credit card number and listened to the clicking of computer keys on the other end of the phone.
"The name on the card please."
"Virginia Rappe."
Another pause. James knew the supervisor sensed something.
"What is it Mr. Webber?"
"Are you sure the card says Virginia Rappe?"
"I'm looking right at it," said James.
"Is the last name spelled, R- A- P- P- E?" asked Webber.
"Yeah, looks like the word rape with an extra 'p' in it."
"I think someone is trying to play a joke on you Inspector."
"What do you mean?"
"Virginia Rappe was a silent film actress."
"Was she?"
"Yeah, she was raped by a guy named, Fatty something or other."
James froze in his chair. The hair stood up on his neck. That's why the name seemed familiar to him, James thought to himself.
"Mr. Webber, can you stay on the line with me a moment?"
"Certainly."
"I'm going to put you on speaker phone."
James turned to his computer and typed into the search engine the name, Virginia Rappe. In a moment he saw dozens of links and photos of a sultry young woman. He clicked on a link titled "FATTY ARBUCKLE and the DEATH of VIRGINIA RAPPE." James' heart raced as he scanned the article. According to the article silent film star Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle was blamed for the death of sometime silent film actress Virginia Rappe. The event had occurred at San Francisco's Aleris Hotel in 1921. At a wild party, with heavy drinking, Arbuckle was accused of raping Virginia with a Coke bottle. James shivered at the image in his mind.
"Mr. Webber? Is the address of this cardholder 335 Powell Street?"
"Yes that's right, 335 Powell St. Number 1219, San Francisco, CA."
James quickly scanned the article. There it was in bold black print. Fatty had taken the girl to room 1219.
"Mr. Webber, how many charges are on the card?"
"Just one."
"One? Just how new is this card?"
"Account was opened this month."
"Let me guess, the charge is for a room at The Aleris?" asked James knowingly.
"No, the charge is from The Razor's Edge in Alameda."
Although continuing to read the article online, James managed to turn his attention back to Webber, who was questioning their next step with the card.
"Inspector, what do we do about this card?"
"Keep the account open, Mr. Webber. Notify me at once if the card is used again. I will call you back."
A sick feeling began to come over James as he faced the idea that at this very moment there might be a dead woman waiting for him at The Aleris Hotel. His only hope was she wouldn't be nude with a Coke bottle substituting for a lover. Whatever the answer was, it seemed to be waiting for him in room 1219.
Chapter Six
Room 1219
Kirkland met James at the main entrance of The Aleris around four o'clock that afternoon. The street was unusually quiet. For the most part James always found this area of the city to be bustling, no matter what time it was. As they proceeded up the steps, James stepped on a dead bird. The weight of his foot crushed down on it. To James it felt like squashing a hard-boiled egg. Looking down to see what he had done, James stepped on a second bird, then a third.
"What the hell?" quizzed James as he and Kirkland both found themselves stepping on
dead birds everywhere.
"Tom look," said Kirkland as he pointed to the building across the street where there were hundreds of birds perched and watching them.
"That's very Alfred Hitchcock, isn't it?" stated James.
"It sure is, what's even more disturbing is, why are all the dead birds over here and the live ones on that side of the street? What do they know that we don't?"
Cautiously, James and Kirkland made their way to go inside, they were both puzzled to find the doors locked.
"Locked? Hotels aren't supposed to be locked," said Kirkland as he peered through the glass doors trying to get a look inside.
"See anything, Mike?"
"I see several people sitting throughout the lobby."
"Can I help you gentlemen?" asked a young man wearing a suit with the hotel logo on his name badge. Kirkland and James looked at each other and then at the young man. "As a matter a fact you can Mr. Lee, assistant manager of The Aleris Hotel," said James holding up his badge.
"What's going on?"
"Well we were going to ask you that very same question, first off why is your front door locked? And second can you let us in?"
Mr. Lee looked confused. He tried the door, but couldn't budge it. "This door isn't supposed to be locked. Not ever."
"We didn't think so. But it's good to know it can be, because we are here to lock it down."
"What? Why?" asked Mr. Lee.
"I'll have that discussion with your manager. Why don't you unlock the door, let us in, and get your manager on the phone," said Kirkland.
"I can't let you in. I don't even have a set of keys to this door, because it's never been locked as far as I know."
"Okay, get your manager on the phone and tell him, wait, better yet get your manager on the phone and let him speak to Detective Kirkland," ordered James as he watched the young man take out his cell phone and place the call. Moments later he handed the phone to Kirkland. "What's going on Inspector James?" Mr. Lee asked while they waited for the call to connect.
"We have reason to believe you have a terrorist staying here. Hey can't you rap on the door and get someone from the lobby to come over here and just open it up?" asked James.
"I'll try," he said as he knocked hard on the glass. The man sitting closest to the doors just ignored him. "Come on asshole, turn around. Open up! Wait that's Mr. Foster. HEY Mr. Foster open up!" he shouted as he banged hard on the glass.
"Take it easy Lee, your boss is already on his way down here. He told me he'd be here in less than two minuets," stated Kirkland handing Lee back his cell phone. "Got your boxing gloves on?" asked Kirkland.
"We got a problem?" inquired James.
"Oh yeah, the manager is shitting little green biscuits. Says we don't have the right to be here without a warrant."
"Does he know why we're here?"
"No, I told him exactly what you said to say. That we have reason to believe a known terrorist is booked into the hotel."
"Thanks Mike, once we get inside we can see if there's a dead girl up on the twelfth floor."
* * *
Moments later a black BMW pulled up into the valet parking and James could tell this would be the hotel manager approaching him with all the vigor of a schoolyard bully. He was tall and charismatic in appearance. James did a double take seeing that man in the Armani suit walking directly at him reminded him of the actor Alan Rickman. Not Harry Potter, Alan Rickman, but Die Hard, Alan Rickman. I hope his name isn't Hans, mused James.
"Pardon me, officer I'd like to talk to you," called the hotel manager in a deep resonate voice that carried an underlying threatening tone. James raised his badge. "Inspector Thomas James."
"I don't give a shit if you're Inspector fucking Gadget. I'd like you to explain to me what exactly you're doing here."
"Didn't Detective Kirkland tell you why we are here?"
"He told me. So what? You don't have any proof and no warrant, so until you have one I'd like you to stay the fuck away from my hotel," ordered the manager.
"And what is your name?" asked James.
"It's Richard Grantham," he said coldly.
James and Grantham stared silently at one another for a moment, each sizing up the other. James wanted to put the arrogant prick in his place, but knew ultimately he would get father by using diplomacy. James decided to bluff first and see where the cards fell.
"Well Dick, we have a small problem here. You're obstructing justice. Now I know you are concerned for the guests of your hotel. But what are the owners of this hotel and every media outlet in the country going to say, when a bomb goes off killing everyone within five hundred feet of the blast? And you didn't do a thing about it." James could see the manager was way too egotistical to care.
"You storm into my hotel without a phone call or any kind of warning of what you claim is going on. Stopping my guests from leaving. Now you have people scared and panicked. I know my rights. Hamilton Bransford is a personal friend of mine, and a frequent guest here. I suggest you tread carefully Inspector James," said Grantham in a conceited tone.
James smirked as Grantham tried to actually scare him by using the mayor's name.
"Actually we haven't been inside yet, to scare or prevent anyone from going. Your hotel is locked."
Kirkland smirked as he watched Grantham grab the doors and try to move them. He then reached into his pocket and retrieved a set of keys. "I'll thank you both to stay outside until you've got a warrant," growled Grantham.
James had come to the end of his rope with Richard Grantham. As Kirkland walked over to report everything was sealed, James took his handcuffs off his belt.
"Detective Kirkland, arrest Mr. Grantham for obstruction of justice."
Kirkland took the handcuffs and grabbed one of the manager's wrists.
"Mr. Grantham, you have the right to remain silent."
Grantham jerked away. "Wait, wait a minute!"
"Mr. Grantham, are you resisting arrest?" asked James.
Grantham looked worried for the first time. His face became flushed with fear.
"No I'm not resisting, I'm trying to understand what the hell you are doing here!"
"We told you, and you decided to be rude and belligerent. So now you're going downtown."
"I'm not fucking going anywhere!"
Kirkland grabbed Grantham's other wrist. "You have the right to an attorney. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."
Panicked Grantham shouted. "What do you want?"
"I want you to knock off all this fucking bravado and take us to Room 1219!"
Grantham fell silent. His face became a blank slate, but his eyes revealed to James he knew exactly what he was asking for.
"You want the..." Grantham couldn't finish the statement.
"Yeah Dick, 'The Fatty Arbuckle room.' I want you to take me to the very room where he used a Coke bottle on Virginia Rappe."
James and Kirkland could see Grantham's behavior changed in an instant.
"Why do you want to go in there?"
"We have our reasons."
"But those rooms are not available to guests in the hotel."
"Rooms?" questioned James.
"Yes, rooms. Arbuckle booked three rooms that weekend. 1219, 1220 and 1221."
"Which one was Virginia in?"
"All of them. But I still don't understand why you want to go in there. What does any of that have to do with a terrorist in my hotel?" questioned Grantham. James looked at Kirkland who in turn gave him a look that gestured to let Grantham in on the real reason for their presence. James could see it was time to drop the bluff and give diplomacy a try now.
"Detective Kirkland and I are working on a homicide case, where a credit card was found in a victims purse. The name of the credit card holder is Virginia Rappe and the address on the card is this hotel, room 1219," stated James.
Grantham looked shocked, yet his face revealed he wasn't telling James and Kirkland everything he knew.
> "So, if these rooms are not available to your hotel guests, what are you doing with them Mr. Grantham?" asked James.
"After what happened in 1921, the hotel owners had the rooms cleared, cleaned and locked."
"You're telling me, no one has been inside these rooms since 1921?"
"No, after the original hotel owners died. The new owners decided enough time had passed and they re-opened the rooms until 1950."
"What happened in 1950?" asked James.
"Vaudeville performer, Al Jolson died in room 1220."
Chills ran down both James and Kirkland's arms. "So you closed the rooms for good in 1950?" asked Kirkland.
"The owners decided they didn't want to take any more chances or bad press. No one would admit that there was something wrong with those rooms. In 1966 the rooms were turned into the maintenance man's living quarters. Since they are suites, they're big enough for someone to live in full time. We figured this was a chance to keep a man always on the premises at all hours. Also it was another way of deterring every sicko from wanting to book them on the Labor Day anniversary. Do you know how many freaks want to fuck in the Arbuckle suite?"
James reached behind Grantham and removed the handcuffs. He could see the manager relax.
"We need your help and cooperation, Mr. Grantham."
"Very well, ask me anything you'd like to know."
"Who is living in room 1219?"
"Our maintenance man, Mr. Skylar."
Now it was James and Kirkland's turn to appear shocked. James cocked his head to the side.
"Excuse me? Did you say Mr. Skylar? Do you mean Richard Skylar?"
Grantham nodded quickly in agreement.
"Yes. Why is there a problem? Mr. Skylar isn't in any kind of trouble is he?"
"Why would you ask that?" questioned James.
"Well I mean the man has been with us since 1966."
"Mr. Skylar has been with the hotel for over 43 years?"
"Yes, I came to The Aleris as manager in 1986 and originally I planned to replace him. However, when I realized he already had been with the hotel for 20 years and carried an impeccable work record, I thought, why bother?"
"And since 1966, The Aleris has not had another incident in the Arbuckle suites?" inquired James.