The Dead Room

by Robert Ellis

  “Where?” Powell asked. “Teddy’s letter?”

  Ellwood shook his head and his jaw tightened, his emotions jammed up into his face as he turned to his partner. “Darlene Lewis’s house.”

  It hung there. It felt as if they were sitting in a vacuum. Like the air in the car had been sucked out onto the street and run over by a passing bus.

  “Not enough to hold up in court,” Ellwood said to his partner. “But shit, Dennis, the motherfucker was there.”

  “Where was the print found?” Vega asked.

  “In the den across the hall from the living room. Three paintings hang on the wall. Trisco touched one of the frames.”

  It settled in hard and fast. Teddy remembered entering the room and seeing the chair turned toward the wall. His hunch had proved out. Trisco had cut away Darlene’s tattoos and was waiting for her to bleed to death. He’d been sitting in the chair viewing the paintings when Holmes showed up with the mail.

  It felt like vindication. It wasn’t a theory anymore. A best guess made after a series of long steps. Edward Trisco had murdered Darlene Lewis. And his client, Oscar Holmes, the odd-looking man who thrashed at his chains during the preliminary arraignment and was known all over the city as the Veggie Butcher, was innocent.

  No one said anything. Vega lit a cigarette, cracked the window and gazed at police headquarters through the cloudy windshield for at least five minutes. The evidence had told one story, then discounted it and told another....

  After a while, Ellwood handed Teddy his keys and they got out of the car. Teddy offered to drive Powell to her office. Vega and Ellwood looked pumped, even angry, and hurried across the lot to the building en route to another, more careful review of the evidence and working with the FBI to find Trisco and Rosemary.

  On the drive uptown, Powell remained quiet as Teddy called Nash at his office and filled him in. It was hard to think, everything going by so fast. When Nash heard the news, he couldn’t seem to find his voice right away. After he did, he sounded delighted but still overwhelmed. Holmes was truly innocent and would be a free man. Every once in a while Teddy would look over at Powell. She was slumped in the seat—staring out the windshield with a blank expression on her face—going over something in her head, or maybe just stuck in neutral. When he saw her building a few blocks up the street, he ended the call with Nash and made a left into a parking structure so that she wouldn’t be seen getting out of his car. He found a place to park, deciding he’d stop for coffee and get something to eat after he dropped her off. But as he reached for the door handle, Powell didn’t move.

  “I can see why Nash has taken you under his wing,” she whispered after a moment.

  She was still staring out the windshield with her hands in her jacket pockets. Beyond the concrete barrier was a view of South Philadelphia. In a way, it felt like they were parked on a hill overlooking the city. He could see the Walt Whitman Bridge, jets lined up in a row dipping into their final turn as they approached the airport.

  “Your instincts, Teddy. You found the mistake and figured it out.”

  “You have, too,” he said.

  She gave him a look, then turned back to the view. He tried not to think of her as a woman. Tried not to acknowledge the smell of her hair. Her skin. He looked at her face, her gorgeous profile. Tried not to feel the sting of her gentleness and overwhelming beauty. Her legs were spread apart. His eyes ran down her black tights to her shoes. It was good to be alive, he thought.

  “I want to apologize,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For not believing you.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “We’re in this together now.”

  Her eyes sharpened. “When we met for breakfast and you told me someone had hit you over the head, no matter how outrageous your claims, I should’ve listened. You could have been killed last night.”

  His mind wasn’t on Trisco, and he couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t reel it all back in. He kissed her.

  She opened her mouth, kissing him back softly. He sensed a light smile in the kiss, felt her hands moving from her pockets, touching him and pulling him closer.

  “It was that shot glass,” she whispered.

  “The one with ships and whales.”

  “Your story sounded so preposterous, Teddy.”

  “I know it did,” he said.

  They laughed and held each other, eye to eye. When her cell phone rang, he gave her a kiss and a look and leaned back in his seat. Powell dug into her pocket for the phone and flipped it open. Once she heard the caller’s voice, she pulled the phone away from her ear and turned up the volume so Teddy could listen as well.

  It was Andrews, driving back to town from the Trisco estate and in a foul mood.

  “How dare you redirect an investigation without my knowledge,” he said, spitting the words into the phone.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  “You and Vega and that asshole kid went out to the Triscos this morning. You told them you were investigating a new missing persons case, but implied that their son was involved in something different. Something more.”

  “But he is,” she said. “Edward Trisco is wanted for the murder of Harris Carmichael.”

  The phone went dead, followed by digital break up as Andrews began screaming. Teddy noted that she didn’t mention the young women or the link pointing to Trisco as the serial killer. But in the end, Andrews was a step ahead.

  “Do you really think that I’m that stupid?” Andrews shouted over the phone. “I know exactly what you’re doing. And believe me, you’re gonna pay for it. I’ll be in my office in twenty minutes. You better be there, too.”

  Andrews fumbled with his phone, swearing in the background before he could find the right button and end the call. With any luck, he’d veer off the road and slam into a telephone pole.

  * * *

  Teddy entered the Wawa minimarket, poured a large cup of coffee, grabbed a poppy-seed bagel with lox-flavored cream cheese, and moved to the counter. Oscar Holmes’s picture was on the front page of both papers, but the Daily News said it best. Stamped over Holmes’s face in four-inch-high text were the words: VEGGIE BUTCHER SAYS, “I CONFESS!”

  Teddy picked up copies of both papers, asked the woman behind the register for a pack of Marlboro reds, and walked out.

  JKF Plaza was less than a block away from the district attorney’s office. It was another unusually warm day for December. He’d told Powell he would wait for her there until things shook out.

  He crossed the street, found a seat with a view of the building and sat down. Tearing into the pack of cigarettes, he lit one and took a sip of coffee. He’d been up for more than twenty-four hours and was beginning to feel punchy. Fighting off a yawn, he checked his watch and figured that Andrews should’ve arrived by now. As he scanned the street and looked at the skyline, his eyes fell on a high-rise building a block south from where he’d parked. He knew that the Trisco Corporation owned the building, that they were the sole occupants and had commissioned the structure to be their flagship and national headquarters. The architecture seemed to fit its owners like a glove. The building was nondescript. Another boring flattop with mirrored glass.

  Teddy turned away, sipping his coffee and letting his mind wander as he looked at the newspapers on the bench. The district attorney was in a bad place. Every good word written about the man over the last week would come back as a nail in his political coffin. He’d made another mistake. Arrested the wrong man after reassuring the public that they were safe. No one would forgive him this time. No one would forget.

  His cell phone rang. As he flipped it open, he heard Powell’s voice.

  “I’ve been transferred out of homicide,” she said.

  “Where?”

  “The juvenile division. Habitual offenders....”

  It sounded like a move to Siberia. Andrews had struck back and knocked her all the way down the food chain. Teddy wasn
’t sure if he felt guilty, or just inept.

  “It’s not your fault, Teddy.”

  “Did you tell him about the fingerprint?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “How did he react?”

  “It didn’t seem to faze him. He took it in stride.”

  “You wanna meet somewhere?” he asked.

  “He only gave me an hour to move my office,” she said. “After that I think I’d rather go home, take a shower and change. We were up all night, remember?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “What about Vega and Ellwood?”

  “They’re looking for Rosemary, and Trisco’s the one. Nothing’s changed. They’re working it hard.”

  “I’ll call you back this afternoon,” he said.

  “Maybe I’ll have better news.”

  He slipped the phone into his pocket. As he gazed at the building, he noticed a man staring at him from the corner. It was Alan Andrews, striding toward him like he knew who Teddy had been talking to. He’d seen him on the phone. Seen him sitting on a bench in December across from his office. Teddy set his coffee down and stood up as the district attorney moved closer. The man stopped just short of his face. To Teddy’s surprise, he didn’t appear anxious or even angry. Instead, Alan Andrews was relaxed, his voice eerily smooth.

  “Do you really think you’re ready for the big leagues, Teddy Mack?”

  Teddy didn’t say anything, and took a step back.

  “I didn’t think so,” Andrews said, sizing him up. “I just got off the phone with a partner at your firm. It’s official. You’ve cashed your last paycheck. Your career’s over. You’ve been fired.”

  Teddy took it in and buried it. Andrews gave him a long look, then turned away and started off as if pleased.

  “At least it won’t be in the papers, Andrews.”

  The man turned back. “What did you say?”

  “I wasn’t fired in public,” Teddy said. “When they get through with you, I don’t think it’ll be so easy.”

  Andrews smiled and took a step closer. “You really think so?”

  Teddy nodded.

  “What do you think they’re gonna do to me?” Andrews said. “What’s your best guess? I’ll tell you what they’re gonna do. They’re gonna make me mayor. That’s how it’s written. That’s how it ends.”

  Teddy found Andrews’s confidence astounding, his armor impenetrable, if not bizarre.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure,” Andrews said.

  “How much money have you raised so far?”

  “For mayor?”

  Teddy nodded.

  “It’s only an exploratory committee,” Andrews said. “I haven’t announced my candidacy yet. If I did, I’d have to give up my job.”

  “But how much have you got socked away in your war chest?”

  Andrews shrugged as he thought it over. “More than anyone else, times five or six.”

  “Then why do you need the Trisco’s money? How do you expect to get away with it?”

  “Get away with what?”

  “Protecting him. A serial killer.”

  “But I’m not protecting anyone,” Andrews said with an odd glint in his eyes. “The man who murdered Darlene Lewis is awaiting trial in a city jail.”

  * * *

  Teddy walked down the sidewalk, heading for the parking garage and wondering how Andrews could maintain his composure given what had happened and the things all of them knew. The man’s cavalier attitude was unnerving. Either Andrews was in shock and had lost his ability to reason, or he was two steps ahead of everyone else and had found a way out. Like Nash had said, Andrews was a survivor.

  As Teddy crossed the street and started down the next block, he pretended he was Alan Andrews and tried to imagine what the way out might look like. Andrews had the evidence against Holmes, but Trisco’s fingerprint on the painting would seem to discount it.

  What would the way out look like? What would the results be if Andrews got his wish?

  Teddy thought it over. Holmes would take the fall and be found guilty for the murders, no question about that. And Edward Trisco III would be spirited off to a psychiatric facility as he had before, so that the killings would stop. Only this time Trisco’s exile would be unofficial. It would last the duration of his life with his parent’s blessings and a guarantee that they wouldn’t buy his way out.

  But what about Harris Carmichael, the manager at the café? How would Andrews explain away his murder. Holmes was already in prison and wouldn’t be available to take the fall. Trisco’s hair had been found in the glue around Carmichael’s mouth, the lab reporting a match. Vega and Ellwood were beating down the evidence trail. How could Andrews cover it up?

  It didn’t make sense, Teddy realized. There was something missing from the puzzle. A piece they hadn’t considered or seen or imagined.

  Something caught his eye and he turned to the storefront on his left. When he looked through the window, he realized it was the lobby to the Trisco building and stopped in his tracks. There was a model on display, some sort of building project. The sign read MARSH CREEK ESTATES.

  Teddy entered the lobby, avoiding the guards behind the front desk and trying to hide the fact that he needed a shave. As he approached the model, he read the words TRISCO LAND CORPORATION and picked up a pamphlet. He’d known about the Trisco’s holdings in technology and banking. That’s how they made their fortune. But he hadn’t been aware of their interest in real estate.

  Apparently the corporation owned 2,500 acres of open countryside thirty-five miles west of the city. The property bordered Marsh Creek State Park and included the north side of the lake. According to the pamphlet, the Trisco Land Corporation wanted to develop the property and had already presented their plan to the county. The hills would be bulldozed down and carried off to make room for an eighteen-hole golf course and hotel along the shoreline. Luxury homes and condominiums would rim the country club for miles. The land just north of the turnpike would be relegated for the construction of yet another shopping mall. From the way the presentation was worded in the pamphlet, it sounded like the project was about to be green-lighted.

  Teddy flipped the page over and saw a photograph of the lake. The water looked choppy and people were sailing. Teddy had never been to Marsh Creek before, and the size of the lake took him by surprise. Beside the text was a small graphic that included a map of the area.

  He looked back at the model, comparing it with the map. When he noticed a building structure on a lane just off Lakeview Road, his eyes widened and he caught his breath.

  The Trisco’s owned a summer home. If the model was accurate, the place sat right on the water.

  “May I help you?” someone said.

  Teddy looked up and saw two guards standing on the other side of the model. It took a moment to register, but the man standing behind them was Edward Trisco’s father and his fangs were out.

  SIXTY-TWO

  Eddie heard something hit the concrete floor and peeked around his canvas as he tightened the straps on the gas mask over his head.

  It was Rosemary. She had fallen on her face, hit her chin, and wasn’t moving. Her eyes were cracked open, and she was drooling. It looked as if she might have chipped a tooth. With her smile gone, she reminded him of a stupid whore girl again.

  Rosemary had been a complete failure. Obviously, she was no longer up to the job of modeling for an artist. She couldn’t even sit in a chair. The truth was that she hadn’t worked out from the beginning. Her attitude had been all wrong. Rosemary never understood her contribution to the larger cause. What was life in the face of great art?

  Eddie ignored the interruption and returned to his canvas. He’d been experimenting with various shellacs, and thought he’d finally found one that would do. The problem had always been with the finish. The shellac was only being used in the background, and he didn’t want it to stand out. As he brushed in a thin first coat, he listened to the rhythm of his breathing t
hrough the gas mask. It was even and steady, just like his hand. After an hour or so, he lowered the brush and took a step back.

  The work was coming together, he decided. It hadn’t been a waste of time after all. He could feel the excitement in his chest as he took another step back, then another. The painting’s perspective was changing. He liked the way the shellac drew out the color of the oils and gave the work added depth.

  The eye holes in the gas mask began to cloud over. Listening to his breath, he realized he was hyperventilating. He sat down and peered at the painting through the mask. He couldn’t take his eyes off it. His work even looked good in a fog. After a few moments, he got a grip on himself and noticed a gurgling sound coming from somewhere in the room.

  It was his model, Rosemary—interfering again.

  He rose from the chair and strode around the large canvas. Was he Napoleon or Michelangelo, he couldn’t really tell. All he knew was that the bitch had thrown up the meal he’d given her all over the fucking floor.

  He rolled her over with his foot as if he’d come upon a casualty from a great war that couldn’t be helped. Her eyes were open but lost somewhere in the battle. Sweat streamed from her body as if she’d been caught in the rain. He felt her forehead. She was warm, but not piping hot.

  It was time, he decided. Time to prepare for another visit into the past. Time for Rosemary to make her final contribution to the cause.

  He grabbed her by the arms and dragged her out of the studio. Clearing his sketches off the worktable, he laid out a plastic drop cloth he’d purchased by the case from the paint department at Walmart, then lifted her body up and set it down. She buckled a moment involuntarily, but appeared to settle. One by one, he secured her wrists and ankles to the legs of the table with rags. Her eyes remained open and Eddie wondered if she was watching him. He wondered if somehow she knew what happened in the dead room.