I wasn’t prepared to quit, and didn’t want to stand here all night waiting for her to come home. I took out my cell phone and said, “Do you have Maureen’s number? Sometimes people don’t like to answer the door if they’re not expecting someone.”
I heard her rummaging in her bag, a sound that gave me pleasure. I can tell by the sound which items she’s moving about. Lipstick, compact, tissues, Smith & Wesson.
“Here it is. Don’t forget the area code.”
I punched in Star Send, held the phone to my mouth, and told it the number. I held the phone out so we both could hear the ring. Maureen’s phone was busy.
“So she’s home,” Kelley said. “Just not answering the door to strangers.”
I felt around and hit one of the other doorbells. A tinny voice said, “Who is it?” and Kelley said, “Friend of Maureen’s.” A buzzer buzzed and the door lock clicked, and we were inside. So much for security.
We went up to the third floor, my free hand following the handrail, the other holding Buster’s harness. I was aware of the thin carpeting, and the shiny feel of the handrail, both worn smooth by generations of hands and feet. A rich assortment of smells assailed me, seeming to change with every step upward. I had the distinct impression the smell was unique to this building, not duplicated anywhere in the world, a smell unchanged and unchanging, so that anyone coming back from an absence of sixty years would recognize his building immediately. The handrail told me I was at the top floor before Buster did.
“Here we are,” Kelley said. “Three B straight ahead, the rear apartment.”
I started forward, only to be stopped by Kelley’s fierce grip on my arm.
“Don’t move!” she whispered hoarsely, in a voice so urgent and strained the hair on the back of my neck stood up. “Don’t move, don’t touch anything. There’s blood on the doorknob.”
6
“Okay, babe,” I said. “Tell me what you see.”
“That’s all,” she said, voice shaking, “just a blood smear on the doorknob.”
“There could be all kinds of innocent explanations. Is the door closed?”
“Almost closed, but not quite.”
“Anything on the floor?”
“I don’t know, it’s too damn dark in here. I can’t see if anything stained the carpet or not.”
My pulse was running fast. I was playing the calm professional for Kelley’s benefit, but fifteen years experience told me we had a crime scene here, though I didn’t want to call 911 until I was sure.
“All right,” I said, “just do exactly what I say. Stay behind me, stay out of the doorway.”
Calmer now, she said, “What if whoever put the blood on the knob is still inside?”
“I don’t think so. The blood got on the doorknob on the way out. Get your gun out, if it’ll make you feel better.”
She rummaged in her purse again, and when I heard her chamber a round I knew she was ready.
“I’m pushing open the door,” I said. “Are you out of the doorway?”
“Yes.” Voice shaking again. “Matt, let’s just call the police.”
I pushed on the door and it moved easily, almost noiselessly. Nothing happened. A whiff of cool, slightly perfumed air brushed my face. Nothing else. No blood smell, no relaxed sphincter smell. Just deathly silence.
Kelley touched my arm, and I said, “What do you see?”
“Kinda gloomy. One window, blinds drawn. A living room. Sofa, chairs, a TV. Nobody there, at least nobody I can see.”
“Can you see past the living room?”
“No, there’s a wall, with a breakfront, a small table off to the side, with four chairs. She must’ve used the corner of the room for a dining area. The kitchen’s probably behind the wall, probably the bathroom too.”
“I’ve got to go in. You stay out here, and if nothing happens, you can come in.”
“Like hell,” she whispered, and I heard her take a step into the room. Buster and I followed. For the first time since Buster and I became partners, I felt inadequate. Kelley was entirely correct, it just made sense to let the one with the gun, the one who could see, go first, and if it had been Frank Kopf I’d have had no second thoughts. But it wasn’t Frank, it was Kelley. She wasn’t my partner, she was my wife. Even so, I was man enough to admit I was wrong to feel this way. Kelley was as capable of putting a bullet in a perp as any guy I ever worked with. At least I hoped she was. There’s a vast difference between a paper target and a man.
We walked slowly into the room. I don’t know why, but the hairs on the back of my neck started to tingle.
A whiff of scent drifted across my face. “I smell something,” I whispered. “I can’t identify it, but it’s not perfume, and it’s not cologne. Something underneath the woman smell. Somebody’s here.”
My nerves began to jangle. I strained to see, and for the first time in a long time I began to be afraid. My stubbornness, my male ego, had put my beloved wife in danger. I should’ve called the cops when she wanted to, but it was too late. We were here. And so was someone else. I could smell it, feel it, taste it. Another whiff of scent and this time I smelled the blood. I wanted to back out, wanted to run, but it was too late for that.
My mind ran back to a childhood memory, a screaming, afraid of the dark little boy memory. My parents had left my sisters and I alone for a few hours, the only time they did so. I was asleep, alone in my room, when I suddenly woke. There was someone in the room, someone softly walking around. Had my parents come home? How long had I been asleep? I didn’t know. I was five, and I was alone in the dark, with someone in the room. I wanted to cry out, but was afraid to make a sound, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid the someone in the room would know I was there. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, I heard my father say, “It’s only me,” and tiptoe out again. That’s how this was. Someone was here, and I didn’t know who it was, didn’t know where he was, and my darkness was darker than that long ago bedroom could ever have been.
A tiny sound ticked, somewhere nearby.
“I hear something,” Kelley said softly. “Something’s moving.”
Buster heard it too. He growled and I felt him tense. Almost inaudibly, the sound ticked again.
“There’s something in the kitchen, behind the wall,” Kelley whispered. “Or maybe the bathroom. Matt, let’s call the police.”
The crash of breaking glass jolted me. Buster growled again, and I jumped when something hit the floor.
“Jesus, it’s a cat!” Kelley said, voice shaking. “Knocked something off a counter probably. He’s on the sofa now, licking his paws like nothing happened. Lucky I’m so steady or he’d of been down to eight.”
“Let’s find the bedroom, toots.” I was my old nonchalant self again. Just a cat. Still, it wasn’t cat I’d smelled, but whatever it was, I relaxed, knowing the perp had left, maybe hours ago, something I knew when Kelley said there was blood on the doorknob, but which was momentarily overridden by the sudden non-female, non-blood smell that sent my nerve endings racing for cover.
Still whispering, Kelley said, “Let me check the bathroom first.”
I heard her walk away, heard a light switch click on and off, heard another light switch click on, followed by a bathroom fan whirring away then shutting down.
“Kitchen and bathroom okay,” she said. “Pretty stong smell by the bedroom door. Shall I open it?”
“Is there blood on the knob?”
“Yes. But it’s not a knob, it’s one of those fancy lever handles. Don’t you think we should call the police?”
“We’ve come this far,” I said, and handed her my handkerchief. She was right about the smell. Blood smell. “Push down on the end of the handle. Don’t touch any more of it than you have to.”
A wave of blood smell hit me.
“My God,” Kelley whimpered, “she’s here.”
“All right,” I said softly. “Just take a deep breath and tell me what you see.” The sick-sweet scent o
f blood in large amounts crowded out almost everything else. Around the edges of the blood smell drifted the sweet scent of a woman’s bedroom, the two smells separate and distinct.
“She’s covered with blood,” Kelley whispered, gaining a semblance of control. “I think she’s dead. I’ve never seen a dead person, not like this.”
“You’re doing fine,” I said gently. I remembered my first bloody homicide, a child, dismembered and stuffed in a plastic bag. I remembered how sick I got, and how hard I fought to control it.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she said, breathing deeply. “She’s on the bed, on her back. Her throat’s been cut, it’s gaping wide open. Her eyes are open, there’s blood everywhere.” She stopped, still trembling, and I didn’t press her.
“Sorry,” she said again after a moment. “I’m all right now. There’s just so much blood. I never knew there was so much blood. She’s covered with it, she’s lying in it, the bed is soaked with it.”
“Yes,” I said, “I smell it.” I could smell the blood, I could smell the woman scent of the bedroom, but that was all. She evidently hadn’t lost control of her bowels. Maureen Zobranski’s bedroom didn’t smell at all like Maggie Swain’s motel room. “Is she tied up?” Some questions you just don’t want to ask.
“She’s tied to the bed, all spread out. There’s an old-fashioned brass headboard and footboard. She’s tied to the corners with some kind of thin cord. Her wrists are tied and pulled up tight to the corners of the headboard, and her ankles are tied and pulled up tight to the footboard.”
“Spread-eagled. Is there a spider?” Another question I didn’t want to ask, but I was reasonably certain I knew what the answer would be.
“Yes there is. A big hairy rubber one.”
“Is it in her vagina?”
“Yes. I’m going to be sick.”
“Hold onto it. Look away, take a deep breath. Just another minute and we’ll call the cops.” She pressed close against me, and I held her even tighter than before.
“There’s so much blood,” she whispered. “Her hair is covered with it. Her whole body is covered with it. No wonder whoever did it got some on the doorknobs.”
“You’re doing fine. Is her mouth taped up?”
“Yes, there’s duct tape wound around her head, covering her mouth. God, she must have been so afraid.”
“She probably was. Is the light on or off?”
“Off. There’s a window, the shades are drawn, but there’s still enough light to see.”
“What does the room look like? Struggle? Blood on the walls?”
“No, it looks fairly normal. No blood spattered around, no furniture overturned. The phone’s been knocked off the bedside table, but not the lamp. She couldn’t have put up much of a fight.”
“One last question. Is it our blond Maureen or our lilac Maureen?”
“Lilac.”
“All right,” I sighed. “Time to call the cops.”
A uniformed officer arrived first, and after we showed him what we had we went into the hall to wait for Homicide. The uniform left and I supposed he went to his car to call in. Another officer came in and joined us in the hallway. After what seemed like a long time I heard the front door open and footsteps on the stair. I was preparing my version of events when I heard a familiar raspy voice.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Frank Kopf said. “What are you doing here, Doyle?”
“We think it’s our Maureen, Frank,” I said.
“I thought the address sounded familiar. This is the hooker you asked me about, isn’t it? Pretty big coincidence.”
“Damned big. There’s a spider, Frank.”
“Yeah, I thought there might be. Didn’t you say she was Jimmy Pompo’s alibi for the DeMarco killing?”
“So Jimmy claims. Said she was with him all night in Atlantic City the night Tommy was killed. Kelley and I were hired to find her, and I understand Sammy Weese had some other people out looking for her too. Speaking of which, what are you doing here? I thought you were working the Driscoll case.”
“I am. Report said we had a woman tied and throat slashed. The responding officer said it looked a lot like Driscoll, so I thought I better have a look.” He introduced Killarney to Kelley and after the pleased to meet yous he said, “Stick around, we’ll have to talk to you later. In the meantime, I better get in there before the crime scene unit tramps all over it with their size fourteens.”
“If you need us to stick around, Frank,” I said, “we’ll get something to eat. Tell us where you want us and what time you want us there.”
“Ah hell,” he said. “Go on home. I might be tied up here for hours. I’ll give you a call tomorrow unless something happens I don’t foresee and I need you tonight. I have your home number if I need it.”
We passed a large number of people trundling up the steps, probably the crime scene unit, but Buster handled it with the same cool professionalism he handles everything and we had no trouble.
We ran into some people at the second floor landing, the building’s non-working tenants apparently. Kelley had to say, “Pardon me,” several times, and I brushed against one or two more or less unyielding bodies. We were asked several times what was going on, but we pressed on without answering, and got out of there without enlightening them. They’d find out soon enough. There’d be cops aplenty asking them what they saw, what they heard, what they knew, and if this one was like most of mine were, nobody saw, heard or knew anything.
We reached the front steps and started down.
“He’s back,” I said. “Eight the first time, and now Driscoll and Zobranski.”
“Those poor women,” Kelley said. “Why does he do it?”
“He likes it, babe,” I said softly, “he likes it.”
“All those others were eight years ago. Why is he starting again now?”
“I don’t know. When we catch him we’ll ask him.”
We got home early and the kids were watching television. They both work at McDonald’s during the summer, and had apparently both just gotten home to judge by the food wrappers and empty coke bottles. They worked the counter, cooked hamburgers, and generally helped out wherever needed. Mike took special pride in being employee of the month.
“So what happened today?” I said.
“Not much,” Mike said. “Flipped some burgers, mopped the floor, dropped some fries. Typical day.”
“You dropped them?”
“That’s what we call it. You drop them in the fryer.”
“Gotcha. And you?”
“Worked the hole today,” Carol said. “Not my favorite thing to do, but it has its funny moments. I much prefer working the front.”
“The front being the counter?”
“The front being the counter.”
“And what’s the hole?”
“The drive-through window.”
“And what was funny?”
“Had a lady come through the window, car full of screaming kids, orders four Happy Meals, and one of the kids starts screaming he wants a Whopper, so she changes the order to three Happys and a Whopper, and I had to tell her she had to go to Burger King for the Whopper. She drove away with the four Happys, kid still screaming for his Whopper.”
“You had to be there,” Mike said.
“Well, hoo hoo to you, big brother. Tell them about all the funny things that crazy Amanda says to you all day, making eyes at you and smiling that big come-on with her crooked teeth.”
“I don’t pay any attention to her,” Mike said sheepishly.
“Anyway,” Carol said, “seeing all those screaming kids come through I’ve decided not to get married. What about you guys?”
“A typical day,” I said.
They cleaned up the table and Mike said, “Going over to Claire’s, maybe see a movie. Be home early. Working the morning shift tomorrow, gotta be in by seven.”
Mike is driving now, always a cause for concern, but they have to grow up sometime. We bought him a used
van figuring it would be safer, and he pays his own gas and insurance. He’s a responsible kid, and now that he’s driving he relieves Kelley of having to take them to their games and stuff.
“Mike’s dropping me off at Linda’s,” Carol said, giving me a peck on the cheek. “Love you, pops. See you, mom.”
They left and we ordered in a pizza and sat at the kitchen table.
“Carol seems to be in a good mood tonight,” I said.
“For a change. Teenage girl. Violent mood swings. It’ll get better as she gets older.”
“I don’t like her going with that boy, what’s his name, Freddie? Only met him once, but didn’t have a very good impression. Seems a bit possessive.”
“Freddie’s history,” she said. “It’s Danny this week.”
“Tell me again exactly what you saw.”
She told me again and the phone rang.
“Hiya, Doyle,” Frank Kopf said. “What a mess. Can you and the missus be at the Roundhouse in the morning, first thing? There’s lots of things gotta be done. I’ll have Killarney take your deposition. Christ, Doyle, I wish people wouldn’t do the things they do.”
“If they stopped, you’d have to find another line of work.”
“Yeah, I would. Well, I’m ready for something nine to five. But there’s not much chance of that, not with the psychos we got running around.”
“I’ve been thinking about Maggie Swain and the others a lot,” I said. “Ever since I found out about Driscoll.”
“Me too. And now Zobranski.”
“It’s been a long time between killings, Frank. Seems odd he’s started up again after all these years.”
“How do we know it’s been a long time between killings? We don’t know where he’s been, what he’s been doing. Get a good night’s sleep, and we’ll see you tomorrow.”
Kelley safely abed, the kids home and presumably asleep, I sat alone in the den, in my own personal dark, thinking deep and dark thoughts about killers and big hairy rubber spiders, when the phone rang. I picked it up and heard a familiar voice.
“Itsy-bitsy spider,” Leon said as softly as his whiskey soaked voice would allow. “You remember that one, don’t you? The itsy-bitsy spider, climbed up the water spout, down came the rain and washed the spider out.”
AND A TIME TO DIE Page 7