Instinct

by James Patterson

  She didn’t need to elaborate. So far what was in the public’s best interest was aligned with the mayor’s interest. Meaning it didn’t serve anyone to have the public panicking about a serial killer on the loose. Not yet. But if the murders continued…

  “You’re getting a lot of pressure from the mayor to catch this guy,” I said. “Before it gets out of hand.”

  “More than you could possibly imagine.”

  “Then we’ve got a medical examiner to go see,” I said.

  “So you do think he missed something?”

  “It’s a hunch,” I said.

  She reached for her blazer on the back of her chair. She was up and ready to go. Meanwhile, I hadn’t moved.

  “What are you waiting for?” she asked.

  “Who else knows?”

  She flinched. It was all I needed. That’s why she was acting different around me.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Let’s get going.”

  Chapter 29

  THE FORENSIC biology laboratory on East 26th Street, part of New York City’s Office of Chief Medical Examiner, reeked of antiseptic. And that was outside the building.

  Inside, there was even more of a reason to hold my nose.

  “Does he have a badge?” asked Dr. Ian Wexler.

  That was his welcome to me when Elizabeth introduced us, straight past a hello and a handshake and directly into a massive attitude. It was classic Freudian displacement. He didn’t like a detective questioning his work but couldn’t kick Elizabeth out. I was the next best thing.

  “No, Ian, he doesn’t have a badge,” Elizabeth said calmly. “I told you he’s a professor assisting the investigation.”

  “If he doesn’t have a badge, he can’t be in here,” he insisted.

  The “here” was the autopsy suite, where Wexler was setting up a full body X-ray on a cadaver. It was the second dead body I’d seen in as many days, and there was no shaking the horrible feeling that there were more to come.

  For sure this room could accommodate them. There were at least half a dozen other examination tables—slabs—along with a series of deep-basin sinks and hanging scales that could’ve easily been mistaken for the kind you see in the produce section of your local supermarket. Although these particular scales were never going to be used for weighing bananas.

  “C’mon, Ian, play nice,” said Elizabeth. “He doesn’t need a badge.”

  Wexler stared at her. Then he stared at me. Up and down, a real good once-over. I figured maybe I could break the ice.

  “Badges? We ain’t got no badges…I don’t have to show you any stinkin’ badges!” I said.

  “Yeah, ha-ha,” said Wexler, stone-faced. Not even a hint of a smile. “The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Overrated movie, if you ask me.”

  But it was enough for him to drop it. “What did you want to talk about?” he asked.

  “Jared Louden,” said Elizabeth.

  “The hedge-fund guy,” said Wexler, nodding. “Did you read the report?”

  “We did,” said Elizabeth.

  “Then what is there to talk about?” In other words, My shit don’t stink, and neither do my autopsy reports.

  It was as if we barely had the doctor’s attention as he resumed fiddling with the X-ray machine. Whatever caused the death of the elderly man on the table in front of us—his otherwise naked body covered only by a small towel across his midsection—it wasn’t from an external injury.

  As opposed to Jared Louden.

  I chimed in again. I was, after all, the one who led Elizabeth here. “You wrote that he died from multiple stab wounds,” I said.

  Wexler, now shaping up to be a first-ballot inductee into the Asshole Hall of Fame, managed to combine sarcasm, condescension, arrogance, and mild amusement into a single chuckle. “Did you reach another conclusion, Professor?” he asked.

  “No, but I was curious as to how many stab wounds there were,” I said.

  “You saw the accompanying photos in the report. There were too many to count. Mr. Louden was practically shredded.”

  “That’s the thing,” I said. “The photos you included only show certain sections of his body, not all of it. You photographed all of him, though, correct?”

  “Of course,” said Wexler.

  “But you didn’t bother to count the stab wounds?”

  Wexler glared at me. If looks could kill I would’ve been toes-up on one of his other slabs.

  “No, I didn’t bother,” he said, beginning to lose his cool. “Again, there were too many to count…and I really don’t like what you’re suggesting, Professor.”

  In that case, Doc, you’re really not going to like what’s coming next…

  Chapter 30

  I MUTTERED a few words under my breath. Loudly enough for the doctor to hear something, but not loudly enough to know what it was.

  “What’s that?” asked Wexler.

  “Three hundred and fifty-two,” I repeated.

  He could hear me just fine now. He simply didn’t know what the hell I was talking about.

  “That’s how many dimples there are on a Titleist Pro V1 golf ball,” I explained in response to his blank stare.

  “Listen, Professor—”

  “Four thousand five hundred and forty-three,” I continued, cutting him off. “That’s the number of words in the US Constitution. One thousand seven hundred and ten? That’s the number of steps to the top of the Eiffel Tower when it was first built.”

  “Are you trying to impress me?” asked Wexler. “Or just piss me off?”

  “I’m trying to get you to do your job,” I said.

  “Telling you whether Jared Louden died of thirty versus forty or fifty stab wounds—that’s what this is about?” he asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then enlighten me.”

  “I’m a professor, not a magician, but I’ll do my best,” I said. “Louden is stabbed to death seemingly countless times, yet the wounds are spread out over his entire body. What’s more—at least as far as I can tell from the pictures you included in your report—every wound is distinct. Not a single one overlaps another, and that can’t be a coincidence. Meaning the killer wanted you to count how many times he stabbed Louden. Because that’s your job. He’s trying to tell us something.”

  “Which is what?” asked Wexler.

  “That’s my job,” I said. “So if it’s okay with you, let’s go have a look at all the photos you took—the entire body.”

  “Now?” asked Wexler. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m in the middle of something.”

  “I’m sure this gentleman won’t mind,” I said, nodding at the slab. “It’s not like he’s going anywhere.” Then I really persuaded him. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere, either, until we do.”

  Wexler pursed his lips, the exasperation making his face look sunburned against the white of his smock. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

  He left the room, heading for an adjacent office. Elizabeth waited until he was gone.

  “You should apologize,” she said.

  “To Wexler?”

  “No—to the poor soul lying on the table here,” she said. “You pretty much used a dead guy as your straight man.”

  “Comedy is not pretty,” I said. “Steve Martin.”

  “Christ, is there anyone you don’t quote?”

  “Yeah, Hitler and weathermen,” I said. “So I wasn’t too hard on Wexler?”

  “No: you were definitely brutal,” she said. “For some reason, I don’t mind your arrogance as much as his.”

  “That should be a Hallmark card.”

  Her laugh was cut short by the ring of her cell. Her eyes narrowed as she saw who was calling. Not good, I could tell.

  “Hello?” she answered.

  I heard the sound of a man’s voice on the other end but could understand nothing of what he was saying. As for Elizabeth, she wasn’t saying anything. Just listening.

 
Meanwhile Wexler returned with a file in hand. No sooner did he open it than Elizabeth ended her call.

  “We’ve got to go,” she announced.

  “What about the photos?” asked Wexler. “Don’t you want the count?”

  “Fifty-two,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s the number of wounds, if I had to guess,” I said. “In fact I’m almost sure of it.”

  Chapter 31

  I’D HEARD about Tribeca 212. It was the current “it” hotel in lower Manhattan, complete with a ridiculously over-the-top lobby that looked like a cross between a Salvador Dalí painting and the Korova Milk Bar from A Clockwork Orange. Throw in the feng shui–inspired rooms and the rooftop pool heated by solar panels and you understand why so many save-the-planet A-list actors were meeting in its all-vegan, gluten-free restaurant for their Vanity Fair interviews.

  In short, you either loved the place or wouldn’t be caught dead there. In a manner of speaking, at least.

  “Tenth floor, room 1009,” said the cop standing guard by the waiting elevator.

  “Thanks,” said Elizabeth, pocketing her badge as we stepped on.

  Instead of pumping out Muzak all the way up to the tenth floor, the overhead speaker was treating us to a recording of one of Che Guevara’s protest speeches.

  Elizabeth shook her head slowly. “In case you were wondering, this is why so many people hate liberals.”

  Ding.

  There was no need to follow any signs as we stepped off the elevator. Just follow the commotion. Thirty feet down the long, mirrored hallway to our left were the hotel manager and the detective who had called Elizabeth. The two guys were toe-to-toe, mano a mano. Another cop was the lone spectator.

  The manager, with his perfect head of hair, was angrily demanding to know why it was taking so long to remove the bodies. The detective was shouting back at him to calm down while surely entertaining thoughts of what Tasering the guy might do to that perfect coiffure.

  “You must be the manager,” said Elizabeth, immediately inserting herself between the two. “I’m Detective Needham.”

  “Oh, great, another detective,” said the guy, rolling his eyes.

  “I know, I apologize for the delay,” said Elizabeth. “It’s my fault. My fellow detective here was merely doing what I’d asked. Tell me, is there a back exit to the hotel, perhaps an alleyway?”

  “Yes,” said the manager. “There is.”

  “Wonderful,” she said. “Would you prefer we take the bodies out that way or would you rather we parade them through the front, where all the photographers and news vans are?”

  Elizabeth flashed a smile, sweet as honey. I’d yet to hear her sound so polite. Meanwhile, the manager softened like last week’s banana.

  “Um. I mean, of course I would prefer the back exit,” he said. “Speaking on behalf of the hotel, I would really appreciate your not going out the front.”

  “Of course you would,” she said. “But I had to check because, you see, I’m the one who makes that decision. Now, can I ask you a favor in return?”

  “Sure,” said the manager. “Anything.”

  “Get the hell out of my face before I change my mind,” she said.

  Again, Elizabeth smiled at the guy.

  I was really starting to like her.

  Chapter 32

  ELIZABETH TURNED sharply, walking through the open door of room 1009. I followed right behind her, as did the detective who was first tangling with the manager. He was chuckling to himself.

  “You’re so sexy when you’re a bitch, Needham,” he said. “Will you go to the prom with me?”

  Elizabeth quickly introduced me to Detective Eric Monroe, a chunky man with a double chin, two-day stubble, and easily twenty years on the force who would probably be the first to admit that his crack-wise demeanor was little more than a coping mechanism for all the dead bodies he’d seen.

  Here were two more.

  Although it was safe to assume he hadn’t seen anything quite like this.

  Ditto for Elizabeth. “Jesus,” she muttered under her breath.

  It wasn’t that the couple on the bed had each been shot multiple times at close range, bits and chunks of their brains and entrails splattered across the sheets. Or that the sheets themselves were so stained with blood that barely an inch of white remained.

  That wasn’t it. Not even close.

  “You said to leave the bodies untouched until you got here,” said Monroe. “Just pictures and perimeter evidence so far.”

  “Thanks, Eric,” she said. She leaned toward him, dropping the volume on her voice. “The report of death?”

  “I was slightly delayed calling it in,” he said with a wink. He was referring to the medicolegal death investigator. “MDI is currently on his way here, though. There’s only the responding officer out in the hall so far and our two forensic friends here.”

  Monroe turned to the two guys who had all the mannerisms—if not quite the looks—of their CSI counterparts on TV. They were standing next to some weird credenza made of driftwood, busy labeling samples they had already bagged. I assumed they were waiting for the okay to get started on the bodies. Among other things, they would collect sample DNA and make an official tally on all those bullet wounds.

  Also, they’d be checking for signs of a struggle. Was the couple forced into their pose, as it were, or had the killer somehow managed to enter the room undetected? These were the things the investigator from the medical examiner’s office would be working to know as well. When he finally arrived, that was. By “slightly” delaying the report of death, Monroe had bought Elizabeth a few extra minutes, time that she very much wanted.

  Monroe spun around back to the bodies on the bed. “So are they who you think they are?” he asked.

  Elizabeth nodded, even though she’d never seen the couple before and didn’t know the first thing about them. Same for me.

  But we both knew exactly who they were.

  The two of hearts.

  Chapter 33

  “WHO FOUND them?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Room-service kid,” said Monroe. “The door was propped open on the safety latch. He knocked repeatedly and ultimately came in.”

  “Where’s the kid now?” she asked.

  “Staff lounge, along with the cleaning lady who arrived after hearing him yell for help. I already took statements from them both. They didn’t see anyone or anything strange prior.”

  “What did they order?” I asked.

  “Huh? Oh, you mean the couple,” said Monroe. “I’ll have to check with room service. Why do you ask?”

  “He thinks maybe it was the killer who placed the order,” said Elizabeth. She turned to me. “Right?”

  “It’s a possibility,” I said. “The killer left the door open, didn’t he? He wanted the bodies discovered sooner rather than later.”

  Elizabeth stepped closer to the bed, her eyes taking everything in. The couple, completely naked. The man propped up against the headboard, legs spread. The woman, lying on her stomach, her head between his legs.

  And, lastly, the only reason Elizabeth and I were there in the first place.

  “Whoever pulled the trigger,” said Monroe, “he sure as hell has a sick sense of humor.”

  “Are you referring to the position they’re in or the position of that playing card?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Both,” said Monroe. “Although who’s to say he actually choreographed them? It’s possible they somehow didn’t hear him come in.”

  “Caught in the act, as it were,” said Elizabeth.

  “Even more caught than that,” said Monroe.

  “What do you mean?” Elizabeth pointed at the wedding rings, a huge diamond on the woman’s hand and a titanium band on the man’s. “They’re married, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah,” said Monroe. “Just not to each other.”

  He glanced at the small pad in his hand, reading off the names he’d written down, cou
rtesy of their driver’s licenses. Rick Thorsen and Cynthia Chadd. Two different last names with different addresses and pictures of different kids in their wallets. This definitely wasn’t a married couple.

  “That explains the blow job,” I said.

  Monroe laughed. I clearly was beginning to develop a coping mechanism, too.

  “That reminds me,” he said. “Our first officer on the scene wants to know how much detail he should put in the report.”

  Elizabeth folded her arms. “You mean he wants to know if he should really write that the female victim was found with the penis of the male victim still in her mouth?”

  “Well,” said Monroe. “When you put it like that…”

  “Tell him he can limit the details,” she said.

  Monroe nodded. “That’s what I thought. Besides, a picture’s worth a thousand words, right?”

  “Yeah…about those pictures,” said Elizabeth, turning to the CSI duo by the credenza. “Can I see them?”

  “Sure,” said the younger of the two. Much younger.

  The older one, though, traded glances with Monroe. They both had been around the block pretty much the same number of times. The exchange happened quickly, but I caught it. So did Elizabeth.

  “Sorry, Needham, I can’t do it,” said Monroe.

  Can’t do what?

  Chapter 34

  ELIZABETH TILTED her head in disbelief. I couldn’t help thinking there was a little playacting involved.

  “Are you serious?” she asked. “You can’t show me the photos?”

  “You know what I mean,” said Monroe. “I can’t do what it is you want me to do.”

  “Which is what, precisely?” she asked.

  Monroe took a step toward her, his easy laugh suddenly a distant memory. “I didn’t ask you the question; I didn’t make you lie to me,” he said. “The only reason you’re here is because of that nine of diamonds wedged between that dead woman’s ass cheeks. We all know it, but I didn’t ask you to explain what it means. So don’t ask me to make that card disappear like some magic trick.”