“What is that?'' asked J.T., equally confused.
Jessica stepped closer to the mirror. “Fairfax, have you found any prints in the room?”
“No, nothing. This guy was extremely careful. Likely wore gloves.”
Jessica knew that fire investigation had come into its own with modern, computer-enhanced gas chromatography and lasers. “Do you have a blue light with you?” she asked.
“Right here.”
“Shine it on the message in the mirror.”
Fairfax, impressed, came close to the glass with his handheld laser. One of his junior partners turned off the portable lights they'd brought into the room. Everyone's eyes were riveted to the strange grease marks across the mirror, now highlighted beneath the blue light.
“Do you see what I see?” she asked.
Fairfax gasped. There were multiple print marks in the grease.
“What kind of grease marker is this guy using?” asked J.T.
“We'll need lab analysis, but it appears to be hot grease from the flaming victim. It dries hard and waxy on the mirror's surface, and he took his gloves off to write in it,” Jessica explained. “Unless someone in here touched the grease?''
She and Fairfax scanned the room for anyone who might confess to having touched the lettering and numbers on the mirror. There were no volunteers. “Just the same,” said Fairfax, “everyone here not on my team, leave a set of prints with Dennis, here.”
Dennis had been doing the fingerprint search. He gave out with a “Yo” for all to identify him.
“We should also scrape the message for a sample of the grease he used to smear out this message with, to confirm my suspicion,” Jessica told Fairfax. “Also, see to it clear laser photos and the usual photos are made from every angle on this mirror, before anything is removed.”
“Not to worry, Dr. Coran,” Fairfax assured her.
The blue light disappeared when someone turned on the portable lights the fire investigation team had brought into the room. The electricity in the room had long since departed.
Karl Repasi now stepped over to where she stood before the mirror. “Impressive, Doctor, but you can be assured that I have everything here well in hand. So, you and Dr. Thorpe ought really to go back to the convention, enjoy yourselves. This is hardly an FBI matter.”
Jessica did not release Repasi from her glare. “Karl, I want a copy of every photo shot here,'' she replied. “And if you autopsy her, I want a copy of the protocol.”
“We'll have to get a laser camera from the lab,” complained Fairfax, who sent one of his men out with the chore.
In the meantime, Repasi gave Jessica a hard stare, as if to say, Who's in charge here?, but he kept silent counsel while the flash, flash, flash of the 35mm Kodak camera and the repeated whining of its automatic forward gave positive response to Jessica's request. The noise of the camera also came as a welcome relief to Jessica's thoughts. Other noises and voices now filtered in from the hallway, where people were gathering and being held back by uniformed policemen.
“Here's the answer to your earlier question, Dr. Repasi,” declared Charles Fairfax, who also vied for control of the crime scene. Fairfax's hair was light and wispy, making him look like a candidate for baldness within a few years. His stony eyes and grim demeanor were in keeping with both the scene and his job. He presented the picture of confidence and knowledge. “Whoever doused her with the gasoline and set her a flame, first went to work on the overhead sprinklers and the alarm.” He pointed to the melted alarm box, its wires exposed and singed like dead and hardened worms.
For Jessica the crime scene took on a surreal nature, as if time stood still.
Repasi was still defending his position with Jessica, saying, “I was only a few doors down. I stumbled into this, just as you have, but now that I'm here, I'm obligated to see it through.”
Jessica nodded in response, knowing Repasi to be an ambitious man by nature, and that M.E.s as a rule were ambitious and tenacious. Good attributes for the profession. He surely saw the media attention such a case meant. Jessica, like Repasi, had known in her bones, the moment she'd stepped into the room, that it had to be murder and no mere fire suicide.
Jessica, ignoring the others, now stared at the body and the bed upon which the woman had died, the bed that had been turned into an inferno, the remnants now black and dripping a mucky residue all about the carpet around the fire hole in the bed, the body on the bed sagging through to the blackened carpet beneath. The body looked like a martyr upon a cross, its hands and feet stuck together as if soldered that way, the remnants of whatever binding that held the victim in place now turned to black snakes coiled about her wrists and ankles.
Jessica's eyes, as if fitful and resisting her stare, blinked again and again over the sight like two small cameras recording the indigestible truth, while the photographer with the fire department continued to snap photos from where he stood on the opposite side of the bed.
Everyone was going about his or her duties, doing what must be done while Jessica felt impaled in thin air, unable to make a decision, unable to think clearly, feeling a helpless fool, just in the way here, as Repasi believed, while her mind replayed the telephone call again and again in its every detail. She must recall every word, every nuance, for every utterance, every sound, could be important. The one sound—that rush of fire—she would never forget; it had been like death's angel whispering in her ear.
She felt J.T. tugging at her to come away from the body and the room; she felt all eyes upon her. But the photographer, Repasi, the firemen, none of them had spoken with the dead woman only moments before. They could afford to be nonchalant about the murder; they didn't have an emotional stake in the circumstances surrounding the killing. Nor could they possibly know what was going through her mind, how she felt, the overwhelming remorse and helplessness she now endured.
“Jesus, the odor... damn, look at it....” said J.T. with a moan at Jessica's side, the sight of the charred corpse getting to him now, too.
Jessica's mind retreated, wanting to shout at Karl or any other easy target: This isn't really happening, is it? Some sort of gag, an elaborate hoax put together for the convention, a fun “whodunit” for the weekend get-together of forensics champions, to keep everyone occupied? M.E.s liked healthy competition with one another, and Repasi was beating hell out of her. Her instincts had been right on. The fire, Fairfax, and the firemen added a nice touch, along with the body via a Hollywood prop specialist. It all made for a fun-filled mystery weekend game engineered by Karl and his pals, and J.T., the double-crossing, scrawny traitor, was in on the joke as well.... If only it were true.
Jessica felt J.T. pushing a handkerchief into her hands. He'd already placed one over his own nose to ward off the sickly sweet and sour odor of charred flesh, which she knew only too well to be real—no moviemaking magic could capture such a stench. Handling burn victims was never easy.
J.T. was saying, “Gives me the heebie-jeebies just lookin' at her.”
“Yeah, right,” agreed Repasi. “Makes my skin crawl, too. Thorpe, this is a real body, a real crime scene. If you ever got out of that laboratory of yours in Quantico, you'd know this is the rush we live for, right, Jess?” he suddenly asked her, making her feel even more responsible for this young woman's death than she already did, if that were possible.
When Jessica failed to agree with him or meet his eyes, Repasi shook his head and stared back at the dead woman, muttering, “Hell of a way to go out, but maybe she was dead when he did her. Only an autopsy'11 tell us so.”
“Any ID on the victim?” Jessica asked, drawing Fairfax's attention.
“Nothing found so far. No purse or wallet, no, but a front desk check says the room's registered in the name of a Chris Dunlap. We might assume this is Chris.”
“If the room is registered to the victim here, it should be a Chris Lorentian,” she muttered in response. “Maybe Dunlap's a maiden name.”
&nb
sp; J.T. put an arm about her.
The fire investigator's eyes widened as he asked, “You knew her?”
Repasi jumped into her face. “How do you know the victim, Jessica? Cops are going to want to talk to you. Is she with the convention, in the club?”
“Only briefly met by... by phone, and no, she's not with the convention, so far as I know. I only spoke briefly to her. Damn... damn,” Jessica further muttered as if to herself, the men in the room all staring now at her.
“Who ever killed her, he or she held the room for some time before doing the deed then,” J.T. pointed out unnecessarily, likely needing to hear him self speak in the face of such horror. Jessica realized that he seldom got out of the lab and that he was hardly used to such awful crime scenes as this. She instinctively grasped the protecting hand he'd placed on her shoulder, giving it a squeeze.
“You okay?” she near-whispered to him.
“Don't worry about me, Jess.”
“You look a little pale.”
He stepped away from her, closer to the body, giving it his full attention, holding himself in, and lying without saying a word.
Jessica began barking orders, saying, “Contact the desk again. Find out for certain who the room was registered to. See if it's ahhh . .. ahhh... see who signed for the room.”
“Yeah, like the bastard's going to leave his name at the desk,” mocked Karl Repasi. “Maybe toss his business card into the jackpot drawing beside the clerk?”
“Karl,” she said, looking at the man's light Polish features, “did you place a call from this room earlier?”
“What? What in hell are you implying, Dr. Coran?”
“No way,” said the fire investigator. “Phone line was seared through and the electrical in here is out. I had to go next door to call the desk.”
“Damn it. Well, don't anyone touch the phone again. It may have the killer's prints on it.” She then again turned to Repasi and asked, “Then you didn't at any time use the phone?” His frown was answer enough, but he muttered in agreement, “Yes, beneath all that grime on the phone, there's likely to be some prints we might salvage. No, I haven't touched the phone, dear, believe me.”
The use of the word “dear” for her was condescension enough, but then Karl asked, “You look as pale as your pal Thorpe, Dr. Coran. Can I get you a glass of water?”
The stench of charred flesh had its dizzying effect on her, but more so was the realization that she had spoken on the phone with the victim, at the killer's arrangement, less than an hour before. “Oh, God...” She felt a bit light-headed, the room and the still-smoldering flesh conspiring to create of her a nauseous and useless bundle of nerves.
“Why don't you Quantico folks let me take care of this bit of nasty business,” continued Repasi, a stout, squat, yet powerfully built man whose ego was also stout. “Go on along now, the two of you. The Vegas coroner's been called. There's nothing more you can do here.”
It was obvious Repasi wanted the case, or at least to be a large part of it; he no doubt had decided on entering and seeing the sooty writing smeared across the mirror that this would be a high-profile case, one that might bring him some notoriety. Part of Jessica told her to do as Repasi wished—step away and leave it for others to clean up. She didn't need this. Another part of her recalled the screams of the young woman lying now like so much petrified wood on the burned bed.
J.T. half-whispered to Jessica, “Then it was her on the phone.”
Jessica was slow to agree. There seemed something indecent in the circumstances, something vile in having just spoken to the dead woman, and despite the fact that Jessica hadn't played a voluntary part in Chris Lorentian's brutal murder, she somehow felt responsible. But these feelings must be kept capped; it wasn't something she wanted to open and examine here and now.
But Karl Repasi remained keenly curious. “Are you telling us that the victim telephoned you just before the murder?” he pressed.
“That'd be impossible,” countered Fairfax. “Her hands and feet were tied. The ropes are burned into her flesh.”
“Then the killer dialed for her,” replied Repasi, “telephoning you, Dr. Coran. Why? What does that mean?”
“Yeah, whataya make of that?” chorused Fire Detective Fairfax.
“The killer... the man who did this... telephoned Jessica,” J.T. admitted. “Moments before the murder, to tell her what he planned. Isn't that right, Jessica?”
“Not quite. He never spoke a word. He just wanted me to hear her shrieking death as she burned to death, the unholy bastard.”
Repasi's mouth fell open, but he managed to say, “He called you? From here? From the crime scene? And you asked if I used the phone?'' His twitching mustache combined with his doughy, round-faced features to fill the bowl of consternation looking back at her.
Jessica's simple reply held an elegance of its own. “There's a record of the call with the desk, yes.”
“Then he called you before the fire?” pressed Repasi, fascinated now. “He actually spoke to you? Told you what he planned?”
“I spoke with her, not him, never him.” She pointed to the dead woman as she corrected Repasi. “She asked for me, for my help.”
“By... by name?” asked Fire Detective Fairfax, amazed.
“And the killer? What did he say?” Repasi again pressed.
“Nothing, not a word.”
“He said nothing to you?”
“Nothing and everything,” she countered.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Bastard just wanted me to hear her die, and I did. I heard it all....”
The men in the room, including her friend and partner John Thorpe, stared in blank astonishment at her words.
“He wanted to make sure I knew what he did to her; wanted me to hear her suffer, wanted me to hear her pleas to him, and her pain when he turned her into a ball of flame. And he got exactly what he wanted....”
“What exactly did she”—Fairfax pointed to the body with the pen he'd been waving around—”say to you?”
“She—what I take as our victim here—she asked if it was me, asked by name... told me her name, Chris Lorentian, she said.”
Fairfax's face scrunched up as if trying to decipher the information.
Jessica continued, “She was crying, blubbering, terrified.”
“Told you her name?”
“Chris, she said... Chris Lorentian.”
“Sounds familiar,” Fairfax replied, setting his hat back on his head, contemplating this.
Jessica lifted a fist and added, “She said something about gasoline, that he doused her with gasoline. I heard the whoosh of flame, heard her scream... heard him—''
“Her attacker?” asked Repasi.
“Heard him laughing, cackling, at the sight of her tied to this bed and burning atop it.”
“My God...” J.T. tried to find a pocket of breathable air.
Jessica, too, felt faint. She tried to think of pleasant places, blue skies, green meadows, Hawaii, James Parry, anything but this reality before her. “She wasn't tied to the bed,” Repasi corrected Jessica. “What?”
“She was bound, hand and foot, face up and watching when he put the torch to her. Fairfax believes he had to've used an easily controlled and focused flame, as with a wand and torch, say a butane torch, right, Fairfax? Fairfax says he concentrated the burn at the eyes, but that he did a pretty good job of frying her altogether, since he doused her body and clothes with gasoline.”
Jessica went for the door, where she held tight to the moldings, her emotions intermingling with the recent memory of hearing Chris Lorentian's agonized screams, the thought now overpowering her emotions. She glanced out into the hallway over her shoulder where people were being gently assured that they might return to their rooms, that there had been a false alarm, no fire. In the crowd of faces, she saw that morbid curiosity that comes with the smell or the sight of death. In the hallway, she thought that perhaps s
he might find some semblance of clean air, perhaps escape this nightmare. Instead, she found the drooling crowd and wondered if the killer himself might not be here, watching... overseeing his handiwork.... J.T. agreeably joined her, himself anxious to leave the death room odors and sights.
“Good idea,” she heard J.T. say.
Repasi joined them in the doorway and muttered, “Yes, good thinking. I'll take care of things from here, Doctors.”
“Be my guest,” J.T. told him, wrapping an arm about her, and while he attempted to lead her from the death room, Jessica stood her ground, a sooty carpet. With his failed attempt to get Jessica away from room 1713, J.T. tried dark levity. “This is going to put a hell of a crimp into the convention, huh?”
“It is so odd, Jessica,” began Repasi again. “You say you don't know her, yet she calls you for help.” A big man who might've played linebacker in college, Karl instantly dropped his stare, realizing how crude he was being, or perhaps he had gotten a glimpse of himself, his reflection, in her hazel eyes; she was unsure which. Karl's eyes now fixed on her bare feet, and indicating the soot all around, he suggested, “You might want to bag your feet, if you're staying.” His own shoes were covered with polyethylene bags, and the carpet was scorched in irregular patches, mostly about the bed, where the fire had scattered like so many sprites and unthinking fairies at play.
Jessica wasn't answering Karl, nor did she notice the stares garnered by her from Fairfax and the photographer who'd obviously overheard enough to make him stop shooting pictures. Jessica stepped away from Repasi and located a box of polyethylene bags near the door and placed them onto her feet, securing them with rubber bands.
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