The Path of Silence

by Edita A. Petrick

  “It could be a politician,” Ken speculated.

  “Is the victim in the penthouse?” I asked.

  Jasper nodded. “The security had called 9-1-1 but whoever is in the penthouse had called the security—and the doctor. Go get him. We’ll be right behind you.”

  We took the service elevator. It had a mirrored ceiling and woven artwork panels.

  “What do they move in here?” Ken murmured, looking around. The art had brass plaques, detailing the artist’s accomplishments.

  “The staff must have a degree from the Mailer Art Institute,” I snickered.

  “They’re missing courses in PR relations and diplomacy,” he snickered back.

  “A hotel that hopes to draw a high-end clientele must protect its guests’ privacy.”

  “There’s been a murder.”

  “They’ll want to keep it quiet.”

  We exited into a corridor. It was decorated in blues and greens. Once we rounded a corner, we faced another lobby. It was decorated in brass, glass and muted colors of the sea and shore. The artwork had coral strips. It provided a touch of whimsy. The crystal fixtures threw sparkles, just like in the main lobby. It reinforced the impression of grandeur, money and tradition.

  The Prince was a modern hotel but it liked symbols of affluence, the pedigreed furnishings and time-honored opulence that the average citizen associated with the privileged.

  We saw a door at the far end of this elegant lobby. The mob outside was motley of police uniforms and civilian suits. Even from a distance, I could see they didn’t come from racks.

  Ken flipped his badge at one of the executives who had noticed us and approached. He was in his late forties. His face had been massaged wrinkle-free. All the imperfections, that make people human, had been removed. I wondered whether he shaved or waxed his face. It looked polished. He oozed displeasure.

  “The police are already inside,” he declared and raised a hand, like a traffic cop, to halt us.

  “Here are more police,” I flipped out my badge.

  A look of distaste flashed on his face. It creased his temples. He didn’t want more police presence. It might skew the ratio of expensive suits and street work clothes.

  “There are already enough police officers inside,” he said and blocked our way. His voice was polite but impatient. I saw that he wanted to clap his hands and have everyone, who didn’t belong here by virtue of money or status, disappear.

  “It’s a penthouse,” Ken said evenly. “I’m sure it could hold the entire homicide division without crowding. Please step aside, sir.” His voice hardened into official tone, his expression likewise.

  I decided to sneak in a jab. “Are you the hotel security officer who called 9-1-1?” I reached for my notebook. His eyes widened and filled with hostility.

  “He’s inside,” he said, nostrils flaring.

  I dismissed him and looked at Ken. He nodded. We sidestepped him and moved for the door.

  One of the uniformed police officers came toward us. He had to be from the South-West district. I didn’t recognize him.

  “Sergeant Leahman. This is my partner, Sergeant Stanton, homicide,” Ken was brief. “Who’s inside?”

  The police officer flipped out a notebook. “The medical examiner and his staff, the security guard who called it in, Sven Olsen—he’s one of yours—the hotel doctor and the paramedics. They are waiting for the pathologist to finish. A couple of the blue suits are in there too, assistants. They looked like bodyguards to me. They’re real pain in the ass. The guest and his female companion are in. Those blue roadblocks won’t let us talk to him. Olsen is negotiating but it sounded like threatening and exchanging insults.”

  “Thanks,” Ken tapped his shoulder. “Someone from the District Attorney’s office should be arriving soon.”

  We entered through the massive wooden door. It was heavily carved and reinforced with brass strips. The security panel sat on the right side, below the plaque engraved with the penthouse number. The light blinked green.

  “Wow!” Ken whistled when we entered.

  I’ve seen my share of suites like this one. They always felt empty to me even when filled with a party crowd.

  It was multi-level, with soaring window panels, overlooking an expanse of darkness. It flickered with the lights of the craft parked in their marinas. We had entered on the mid-level. There were others above and below. Both were accessible by a gracefully curved staircase. It was made of wood and granite. It floated in the air—majestic like all things money could buy. The black lacquered railing ran around the floors. It gave an impression of a luxury cruise ship. The lighting came from many sources, overhead and from the floor. The mid-level was the dining area and reception. The bedroom suites would be upstairs. The downstairs was another reception area, for socializing.

  There was a Prince Excelsior hotel in Honolulu. It had a penthouse suite just as magnificent as this one. Fifteen years ago, it had cost four thousand dollars a night to stay there. I imagine it would be double today. The penthouse had an exit from the lower level on to a rooftop garden with a swimming pool. The terrace was not screened but it had a security railing. It wasn’t high enough to pose a challenge. I took the bet that life had served me on a golden platter. I was clear-headed but my head was spinning at the same time. Each time I caught a glimpse of another event that sat like a brick in my wall of the past, my history, the pain attacked. When it could not be stopped, I had soared into the morning air, heady with the scent of the native flora. The rulers of uncommon destiny decided not to play fair. There was another terrace, smaller, not visible from above. It was filled with potted greenery. It had interrupted my defiant flight and delivered a harsh message. I had spent months in a hospital, healing broken bones and fractures. To this day the smell of hibiscus and ginger came to haunt my dreams.

  I didn’t want the memories but they surged on their own.

  “Kenny, Meg, over here,” I heard Sven Olsen’s voice. I shook off the history.

  The victim was lying on his back, parallel with the polished steel cart. It was laden with silver-dome covered dishes. A bottle of wine chilled in the bucket drenched with condensation. There was a single yellow rose in a crystal tube in the center of the cart. Joe knelt beside the body. He was taking off the latex gloves.

  “Don’t bother asking,” he mumbled. “One exploded chest is interesting, in any given year. Two are…” He trailed off.

  “Puzzling,” I offered.

  “Alarming.” He lifted his head and stared at me with worry.

  “Found any traces of pacemaker?”

  “Would I have said alarming, if I did?”

  “Same as Brick?” I saw that he didn’t want to go through the protocol tonight.

  “Exactly.”

  “This victim is not a missing person case,” I pointed.

  “He is now,” he snapped. “Missing from the human ranks.” He motioned at the victim’s chest. It was a freshly ploughed field covered with shredded red poppies. Even the sleeves of his white service jacket were soaked with blood.

  He continued, “His organs were already liquefied when I started. Brick’s tissue and blood samples didn’t show anything abnormal. He was an O-negative. That’s all that analysis gave us. I’ll have something to put down on my report. I was hoping there might be a trace of some synthetic alkaloid that would account for liquefaction. I’ve been reading research papers. There’s no mention of anything that would be as toxic as this shit. The reaction is incredible. I think in this case, the substance worked faster. It was more potent.”

  “Someone wants to make sure that we don’t get even a fragment of what the victim had carried in his chest,” I said.

  “You’ve got it.” He gave me a military nod.

  “So if Brick’s pacemaker was an older model and this one is a newer, improved version…” I stopped. I dared not continue.

  Joe was fearless. “They’re still improving on the original design. That means there will be
more walking ghosts. I don’t envy your job. I have only my colleagues at Hopkins to annoy me. You have an empire builder here, a dark overlord.”

  “Do you think it could have malfunctioned?” I asked.

  “Not a chance.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that would make your job easier. I could relax, knowing that whoever is producing this device and the toxin, is just a hack, experimenting and failing miserably. That’s not the way I see it.”

  “Are you saying that this is another execution—a success?”

  “If Brick’s device was an older model and he lived with it for four years, then this one—an improved version—would be twice as reliable. It didn’t malfunction. It was set off, on purpose.”

  “Why execute an economist and a waiter?” Ken murmured.

  “That’s not my department,” Joe said gruffly. “I’m still trying to figure out how they could adapt a micro-shock hammer trigger that’s meant to regulate electrical signals in the neural synaptic network, to control levels of serotonin and dopamine, to a triggering device in a pacemaker.”

  “This micro-shock hammer exists?” Ken was surprised.

  Joe rose and arched his back. He put the folded gloves in his lab coat pocket. His shoulders settled into a perfect “T”. He thrust his neck forward. “It’s still in the experimental stages, research, but there’s a functional version, ready for field trials. I talked to Brian Quigley, the chief of Hopkins’ neurosurgery,” he nodded at Ken. “Your wife, Brenda, was there too. She wanted the same type of information. Nice woman, we went for coffee when she told me that you had asked her to find out about the micro-shock triggers.”

  Ken’s face rippled with disbelief. I waited for him to correct Joe and say that Brenda wasn’t his wife but he didn’t. I suppressed a smile and asked, “Where do they plan to use this micro-shock trigger?”

  “In the cranial implants, schizophrenics, Parkinson’s disease, things like that. Like I said, it’s supposed to control production and levels of hormone-like substances that are neurotransmitters in the central and peripheral nervous system. The dopamine over-activity is thought to produce schizophrenic symptoms. If a cranial implant, outfitted with a micro-shock hammer trigger mechanism, could regulate where this hormone is released in the brain region, then you’re on your way to normal life and good riddance to destructive antipsychotic drugs.”

  “But the field trials are still pending?” I asked.

  “It’s halfway off the drawing board but nowhere near the mass production stage,” he confirmed.

  I glanced at my partner. He looked withdrawn. I continued, “Someone could have made a leap off the drawing board to functional use.”

  “Someone did,” Joe agreed. “And though it would be nice to find out why, I think you ought to concentrate on the manufacturing sector, not the motive.”

  “The motive usually leads to the manufacturing sector, Joe.”

  “Not in this case. Your motive here may be very complex. It would take a team of cops, years to unravel. Just get whoever is producing these chest bombs. That’ll be good enough.”

  “That’s the urgency? Not the motive, not why?”

  He motioned into the dining room portion. I saw a small, intimate table dressed up in a white damask tablecloth. It was decorated with a floral centerpiece and a pair of tall, purple candles. Half a dozen people stood there, hiding in the shadows.

  “The security guy who saw him first, is over there. The doctor arrived five minutes later. He wouldn’t have been able to do anything, no matter how fast he got here. I talked to him. I didn’t get anything useful. I let him go, to attend the female guest. The guard was shaken up. His teeth were still chattering when I went over. I asked for a bottle of liquor but those blue suits got huffy. The guard calmed down. I was able to talk to him. The victim, Peter, worked full-time at this hotel for three years—normally.”

  “Normally? I presume no one noticed any unusual behavior. Nothing amiss with his work, punctuality, health?”

  Joe pushed his head forward even more. He stared at me with rigid intensity. “He didn’t know he had it in his chest, Meg. He couldn’t have known. Hell, any man who would as much as suspect that he’s carrying a bomb near his heart, will at least sweat now and then, break down, cry—go crazy.”

  “Brick knew,” I murmured. “He must have been a strong person to last four years with that knowledge.”

  “This guy,” Joe stabbed his finger at the body that once again looked as if it had been slam-dunked on the ground. “Didn’t know, Meg. He lived a normal life, worked without showing any stress or tension. He couldn’t know. That’s why I said that the motive is secondary to finding whoever is the maker of these implant devices.”

  “If they could implant a bomb into someone’s chest without the person knowing he was a carrier…”

  “Any citizen out there on the street can be such a walking ghost,” he finished.

  “It would take a doctor to carry out such an operation, right Joe?”

  He sighed. “Probably.”

  “Should we start making rounds of the hospitals?”

  “No. Leave those to me. Brenda will help too. She has connections in quite a few city hospitals. Like I said, a real nice lady you have there,” Joe complimented my partner and startled him.

  I had to stir the pot. “Joe, how did you find out Brenda was Ken’s…wife?”

  He shrugged. “She told me.”

  I smiled and grabbed Ken’s arm. “Let’s have a chat with the security guard and the blue suits.” I turned to Joe. “Did you get them to tell you who is staying here?”

  “No. That’s your job. I was only interested in facts. You go after the fiction. That’s all those blue suits will give you.”

  Chapter 10

  The guard wanted a tranquilizer, a bottle of scotch and a padded cell. He was a sullen young man, unmotivated to shake hands with adulthood. His name was Vincent Amato. At age twenty-eight he was unmarried and still lived with his parents, somewhere north of Waverly.

  It was his second week on the night shift. I felt it would be his last for a long time. He wanted a note from us, to give to his supervisor, to get a “trauma leave”. He was licensed to carry a gun but never fired it—on duty. He didn’t like firing ranges. We got an impression that his job was an economic necessity, not an enthusiastic choice. He was happy to have been assigned the penthouse. The guests, who stayed here, brought their own security. It made his job easier.

  He pointed at the two blue suits and mumbled that they should have handled the gruesome discovery and subsequent contact with 9-1-1. They were the guest’s bodyguards. It was their job to attend dead bodies lying in the dining room.

  “Which one of you, gentlemen, had found the victim?” I left the oversized child and turned to the guards, holding post by the door.

  Both were over six feet tall, in their thirties and impeccably groomed. They had fresh haircuts and were clean-shaven. They must have spent a lot of time in a gym, toning their impressive muscles. Their suits were tailor-made. Anything from the rack would not have let them raise their hands without ripping the fabric. They looked forbidding and humorless.

  They tried to convince us for thirty seconds that they were mute and deaf.

  “We can do this downtown,” Ken said and turned, as if to leave.

  They decided to cooperate.

  “We heard a rattle, then a fall.” The one, standing on the right side, spoke up.

  “And you are?” I asked.

  “Bryce Seagram.”

  “Kent Smith,” his companion said.

  “I’m Detective Stanton. This is my partner, Detective Leahman, homicide. Would you like to step over there?” I motioned to a side. “We have a few questions to ask.”

  “We can’t leave our station,” Seagram declared.

  “Is your employer behind that door?” I nodded at the ornate portal. He wouldn’t reply.

  “Who had found the body?” Ken’s
voice sharpened.

  “I arrived from the kitchen—” Smith started. Ken cut him off.

  “We can wait, until the District Attorney’s assistant arrives. He likes to bring along the media, to capture these occasions on tape.”

  “We were elsewhere in the suite when it happened,” Seagram said hurriedly. “I was upstairs, patrolling the landing between bedrooms. Smith was in the kitchen. That’s his normal post when the dining room’s occupied.”

  “Who was in the dining room?” Ken asked.

  “Our employer and his guest,” Seagram said.

  “Very well. Let me summarize, Mr. Seagram,” Ken smirked. “You were upstairs and out of sight—and earshot. Mr. Smith was in the kitchen, out of sight but somewhat within earshot. Your employer and his guest were in the dining room, ready to sit down to a midnight dinner, while the waiter was getting ready to transfer the dishes from the trolley on to the dining room table. Who let the waiter in?”

  “I believe that was Ms Alliston.”

  “Is she your employer’s companion?” Ken nodded at me. I started taking notes.

  “Yes,” both replied.

  “Where is Ms Alliston now?”

  “Upstairs, in the bedroom. The doctor is with her.” Smith’s eyes went to the staircase leading to the second level.

  “So Ms Alliston had opened the door and let the waiter inside. He had pushed the food cart into the dining room and… Then what?”

  “She came to the kitchen,” Smith said, tightening his lips.

  “She left her dining companion alone in the dining room, with the waiter. Why?”

  “She didn’t like the wine that was brought. She came to see what else was in the cooler.”

  “Go on,” Ken urged.

  “We were going through the bottles. I heard dishes rattle. Then I heard a voice, my employer, asking what was wrong. Something fell, hard. The dishes rattled again. I left Ms Alliston at the cooler and moved for the dining room. When I got there, my employer was calling the hotel security, asking for a doctor. It was an emergency. The waiter was lying on the floor, beside the cart. His chest was covered with blood. I tried to find his pulse. There was no sign of life. I placed my hand on his chest. It went right through.”