by Sharn Hutton
Dinwiddy straightened up and turned on the spot, surveying the scene and pinching at his chin. His audience crammed in the doorway with Dinwiddy centre stage.
He retraced his steps, slid a small camera from a pocket in the wallet and looped its cord handle around his wrist. He switched it on, then off, then on again.
“I don’t know about you, but my bed doesn’t look like that when I get out of it. Click. The pillows are bunched and everthang’s all mussed up. The sheet’s all pulled, but only on this side, closest to the door. Pardon my indelicacy, ladies, but I don’t believe it got that way through sleeping.” He stooped to sniff at the pillow and slid his eyes over to the ash on the bedside table. There was a spot of blood on the floor. Click. Click.
“Is smoking permitted in this room, Mr Jackson?”
“No, a non-smoking room was requested by the occupant.”
“There’s no sign of a butt. Maybe who ever smoked it took it with them. Suggests someone still thinking clearly enough to try to cover their tracks.” Dinwiddy let the camera swing from his wrist so he could write a note. His tongue peeped out over his lower lip to help with the concentration. He ran his eyes over the sweep of cupboards, checking their surfaces.
“There’s a lot of damage, a lot of blood and the coffee table, well now, that took a real pounding. Suggests a fight now, doesn’t it?” He bent down to visually inspect a broken stemmed glass on the desk, searching the rim for the kiss of a femme fatale. Click. Click.
“Champagne and broken glasses. A bed not ruffled from sleeping and a fight that started in the bedroom and ended with a blood bath. Could be a fight between lovers. A woman’s blood on the floor, not the resident’s at all. Or perhaps she turned on him, surprised him. Hell hath no fury, you can count on that. Depends whose blood that is on the bathroom floor now, doesn’t it? What else do we know about the resident of this room, Mr Jackson?” Dinwiddy turned to peer through the door of the bathroom. Click. Click. Click.
Mr Jackson consulted a slip of paper pulled from his pocket. “This was a single occupancy room. The resident’s name was Jeremy Adler. A British guy here for the TEKCOM exhibition over at the Centre. A corporate booking by Locksley PR in the UK. He arrived with another Brit a couple of days ago.”
“When was the last time anyone saw him?”
“We can check the key card system to see when he came to his room and circulate a photo around the staff, but this is a very large establishment, officer. It would be impossible to remember every guest.”
“That would be fine. Thank you. I’ll take everything you’ve got, Mr Jackson, registration, corporate information and that of his colleague. Marcie, I’ll need you to come make a statement, if that would be all right?” Dinwiddy’s gaze skipped between Mr Jackson and Marcie. Both nodded.
Dinwiddy pulled the mobile from his belt and called the captain. “Sir, I’m calling in from the MGM Grand, investigating the suspected murder, sir.”
“And,” the captain crackled down the line.
“And I believe there is sufficient evidence here to warrant a full forensic sweep.”
“What do you want me to do? Fill out the paperwork for you? Dinwiddy, I’m busy, Call Forensic direct.”
“I apologise, sir, I was just seeking your authorisation.”
The captain took a beat. “All right, I get it. Shall I patch you through, Detective Dinwiddy?”
“That would be fine, sir.”
The line went dead. Dinwiddy stood blinking for a minute then checked the phone display. He’d been accidentally cut off. He redialled.
“Kabawitz.”
“Captain, this is Detective Dinwiddy, we seemed to get cut off.”
Brrrrr. The line dropped out again.
Perhaps a more direct approach to Forensics would be better. There seemed to be a problem with the captain’s line.
“Mr Jackson, I’ll need to get on to the DA and organise a forensics team. That might just take me a minute.” Mr Jackson stepped aside to let Dinwiddy back out into the corridor. The door opposite had a welt of blood on it too. Click.
He tucked the camera back into his wallet and retrieved instead a roll of crime scene tape which he proceeded to apply in a careful cross spanning the bedroom door frame.
“This area will be out of bounds until Forensics have completed their investigation,” he said, pulling himself up to full height.
“Of course, officer.”
“Access to this floor will also be closed until further notice. I’ll be waiting in the fourth floor lobby to guard the crime scene until their arrival. I’d much appreciate it if you could direct them to me when they get here?”
Mr Jackson had a twinkle in his eye. “Of course.”
All three had a wide-eyed look about them as they turned to leave.
“One more thing, before you go, Mr Jackson,” said Dinwiddy, pointing to the blood-smeared door opposite Jerry’s, “Can you tell me whose room this is?”
SIXTY-ONE
DINWIDDY PERCHED ON THE EDGE OF HIS CHAIR and sized up the felt wall of his desk pod. Phones rang, keyboards clacked and conversations rattled on but to him, holed up in his soft cell, they all churned together into a creamy comfort of white noise. Dinwiddy was getting organised.
His desk was laid out like the counter in a sweet shop: a pot of drawing pins next to a reel of sticky tape; a fat marker pen by rectangles of card, white for times, pink for people, blue for places; a spool of thick red thread and a nice sharp pair of scissors. All present and correct.
One side of his padded cell was free and clear of furniture and made for a giant pin board. He fixed the victim’s passport photo into its centre and squeaked out a name tag on pink. ‘Jeremy Brian Adler, 42’ got taped beneath. He squealed ‘MGM Grand’ onto blue and pinned that to the left. Someone was sighing in the neighbouring cubicle, but they didn’t have anything to say. He tacked up the bloody selection of photos he’d taken at the crime scene.
The top section was for other characters associated with the victim. So far, all he had was Marcie, the maid and the business associate, Donald Spink. He pinned up their photos and squeaked out more labels. The hotel records showed that both the victim and Spink worked for a PR company back in the UK. Dinwiddy pinned up a card for Locksley PR and carefully wound red thread around pins to link them together.
The bottom section of his giant pin board was for places. So far, the Convention Centre was all he had. He pinned it on, poking out his tongue a little to help with the accuracy.
This was shaping up nicely. Now, the order of events. Key card records said that on Saturday the bedroom door lock was operated electronically at 03:14, 22:42 and again at 23:00. The final time with a new card, issued that evening. He squealed the fat marker over white slips to write ‘Door unlocked’ and the three times, and added them to the picture map.
Looked to Dinwiddy like the killer had been lying in wait, getting to the room just ahead of the victim. He considered Marcie. She’d said housekeeping missed the room that day. The lock records showed access coming in, but there was no way of knowing about going out, when the door was unlocked manually. If this fella was a businessman, was he actually doing any business and where? What about the day before that? He’d sure got in late. Dinwiddy flipped open his investigation wallet and made a note to ask for key card activity for the entire stay.
The subject was supposed to be at the Conference Centre. Dinwiddy tied a length of red thread to the MGM’s pin, ran it over to the Conference Centre and wound a liquorice curl around its thumb tack. He snipped off a couple more threads and connected Marcie to the MGM, Spink to the MGM and Spink to the Conference Centre. There wasn’t much to go on.
He needed to find out what the victim had been up to. CCTV from the hotel had already been seized, on which Dinwiddy hoped to find some clues, but didn’t the monorail have a CCTV system too? Perhaps he could follow him around through a lens?
The most pressing question, of course, was: where was the body
? A substantial amount of blood had been lost by someone in that bathroom and if they weren’t dead they’d most certainly need medical attention. Dinwiddy pulled out his list of local medical centres and tapped out the first number.
The lined burred out six rings before it finally picked up. “Sunset Medical. How can I help?” The words were polite, but the tone was tired and unfriendly.
“My name is Detective Dinwiddy of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. I am currently investigating a disappearance and suspected murder and would like to rule out the presence of the victim at your facility.”
“U-huh.”
“The victim’s name is Jeremy Brian Adler.” Dinwiddy heard the tap of a keyboard over the operator’s silence.
“We have no-one of that name registered, officer,” they said eventually.
“I see. And do you have any John Does?”
“John Does? Admitted on what date?”
“Last night.”
“Last night? They won’t even be on the system. We’re overflowing down here with people from the Monte Carlo. Patients are laying out in the corridors with notes piled up. It’s going to take us days to catch up.”
“Ma’am, my enquiry is of a most urgent nature.”
The operator sighed and gave their pinched response, “I understand that, officer, but we’re drowning down here. No-one’s got the time to sit at a computer.”
“I see. Well now that is most unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate, yeah. What can I do?”
They meant it in the rhetorical sense, of course, but Dinwiddy was not so easily put off. “Please make a note of my enquiry and check your system regularly.” He gave her his direct line, giving out the digits slowly to make sure there was no mistake.
Dinwiddy got the same story at High County and Canyon Springs and drew a blank entirely on the other two he called. The conference centre, at least was a little more co-operative, and put him on hold while they checked through their visitor badge data.
Dinwiddy sat straight and patient, eyes ahead, but after a couple of minutes they started to wander and he became aware of snickering behind him. A pair of uniforms peered over the top of his cell at the sparse web of information on the opposite wall. Discovered, they snapped up and went about their business. That was when the helpful lady at the Centre came back on the line. “Mr Adler was registered in physical attendance on the first day of the exhibition, but not at all yesterday. Shall I email you over the report on which stands he visited?” Dinwiddy thanked her for her help and considered his timeline. Las Vegas was one heck of a journey from England. Why travel all that way if the victim’d figured on playing hooky? It didn’t make sense. Maybe the monorail cameras could shed some light.
Dinwiddy packed his crime board paraphernalia away into a drawer, set his phone square and tucked his chair tight under the desk. One of the worker bees now too, he wove through the hive—investigator’s wallet tucked tight under his arm. He dropped down in the lift and made his way out into the world.
It was amazing how fast a man could find his feet, Dinwiddy mused. His lines of investigation had given him purpose and direction. Doing something for himself, at last. Nothing to block. No reason to feel anxious. He was the man for the job and the captain could count on him to do his best.
Tomorrow he’d be assigned a partner, he was sure of it: a sharp-witted officer in pristine uniform that would appreciate his thorough investigative style and horse sense. Enthusiasm running over, Dinwiddy fair bounced to his stalwart Chevy. It rattled to life, succeeded in the operation of every switch, both on and off, and pulled out into traffic with Dinwiddy joyful at the wheel.
The monorail office was across town so he’d eat his lunch on the run. He supposed the officers in Area Command were dining on something rich in vitamins and poor on flavour, to maintain those marine-fit physiques. Perhaps in time he could adjust, but away from home and out of kilter, he pined for Mama’s hoecakes and redneck caviar: the hearty taste of home.
The manager over at the monorail office was used to visits from the cops. They had a special form for him to sign so the D.A. could be billed for their trouble, which was minimal. They sat Dinwiddy at a monitor, showed him how to work the system and left him to it.
He ate a nugget from his Happy Meal and found a satisfaction in its fatty smack that boosted his eagerness still further. There were four cameras on the platforms at the MGM, another on the escalator; the same at the Conference Centre plus two more on the run down to the car park. There was a heck of a lot of footage to get through and Dinwiddy wanted to get a head start on the work before reporting back to the captain tomorrow, so he settled in for the long haul and popped in another nugget.
Starting with the rush hours, he scanned the platform going out in the morning and back late afternoon. Nothing. Maybe the subject didn’t leave his room that day after all. He’d scan Friday to see if he appeared.
Footage from Friday scrolled before his eyes and, even on fast forward, hours passed and Dinwiddy’s back twinged. In the end he wondered if he was really seeing anything anymore and rubbed at his eyes with thoughts of Mrs Hong and the fast approaching E.T.A. He had a schedule to maintain and couldn’t let her down.
He stretched out, tired of the screen and fixing to leave, as a dishevelled man lurched off the southbound 17:05 onto the MGM platform. From the escalator camera he looked downtrodden and teary and, most importantly to Dinwiddy, familiar. He caught his breath. “I found him! Darn tootin’ I found him!”
He’d glanced up for only a moment, but long enough for Dinwiddy to freeze the frame and zoom in. He held the photo up next to the screen. Yes. He scanned over the timetable and tracked the train back to the Conference Centre, then pulled up the footage.
The subject appeared. He stood straight and moved at an average pace to board the train, not looking unusual. Why the marked difference when he got off?
Dinwiddy clapped his hands. “Sweet success! Excuse me—Ma’am?” he called out to the manager and when she poked her head around the door jamb, she was shrugging into her jacket.
“Do you have cameras on the trains too?”
“Yes. Yes we do.”
“Could I see the southbound 16:35 on this day?” Dinwiddy asked.
“I can get it for you, but not tonight. I’m locking up in five. I have an appointment.” She buttoned the jacket with a stony frown.
Feeling the exhilaration of success, Dinwiddy was reluctant to abandon his investigation, but the manager looked like she could get testy and he wanted to keep her on his side. Then there was Mrs Hong to think about. “Thank you, Ma’am. I’ll be back alright,” he said with a nod. “You can count on that.”
SIXTY-TWO
DINWIDDY FACED FRONT AND STOOD TALL. “Yes, captain, I do believe a thorough investigation is justified.” He was sure that the CIS report would be a doozie. Kabawitz waved a stubby finger in his direction. “Alright, Dinwiddy. You’d better have a partner. Greenway, you’re on this. Make sure the crime log gets covered.”
In the corner of Dinwiddy’s eye, a man threw his hands down into his lap, earning himself a hard stare from the captain.
Greenway.
“Just get to it. If the log’s too menial for you, you’d better get on with inducting our new detective.”
“Sir,” Greenway sighed.
Dinwiddy stretched his eyes around to take in this new mentor from LVMPD’s finest. Greenway was looking right back at him: slouched in his seat with a roll of fat that hid his belt buckle. Rich irritation radiated from his eyes, and his bottom lip jutted out in a fleshy pout beneath a full, greying moustache. Dinwiddy snapped his head back around. Greenway did not look one bit like the partner he had imagined.
When the morning briefing was over, the officers filed out of the room, while Dinwiddy waited to shake the hand of his new partner. Greenway didn’t seem to be an observant man and walked straight past, out into the hall.
Dinwiddy stepped out after him.
“Greenway. Greenway,” he called out, but the detective did not stop.
“Get your stuff, Dinwiddy. You’re moving next to me.”
Dinwiddy supposed it was fair for the old hand to keep their spot. After all, Dinwiddy had only been at his desk a day or two. When he finally found him, tucked into a corner, close to the vending machines, Dinwiddy didn’t feel altogether surprised to find that more than one desk in his proximity was actually free. Dinwiddy chose the one closest to the window and went about re-pinning his crime map to the wall.
“Come at look at this.” Greenway beckoned Dinwiddy to his side. “Don’t know if you’ve got this down in hick Alabama, but here we use the com-pu-ter.”
Dinwiddy nodded. “Why of course, Greenway.”
“This is where we type in the incident number…” He tap-tap-tapped at the keyboard, “and this is where you add interview data…”
“Yes, Greenway, I am familiar with the system.”
“Good. Get to it.”
Dinwiddy reached for the keyboard, but Greenway slapped his hand. “Not here.” He gave him an unfriendly glare and Dinwiddy turned away to scuttle back to his new and unfamiliar desk. One, two, three, four, five long paces to reach his chair. The chair wheels squeaked and the phone was on the wrong side of his monitor. Dinwiddy sat stiff and pulled the keyboard close, quietly pressing at the letters. His skin prickled with Greenway’s proximity, but he’d get on with what needed doing. Greenway was not a nice man. Dinwiddy would have to focus hard to keep himself on track.