by Warren Adler
"FitzGerald and Prentiss." It was the Eggplant's voice.
"You're off the Thompson case. Bigelow and Phipps will take it. We've got something else for you. Female Caucasian, early twenties, Mayflower Hotel, Room 737."
"Nothing more?"
"Messy sex crime. The assistant manager just hung up. He was hysterical."
"Be there in ten," Fiona said, swinging the car around and heading back to Connecticut Avenue.
"Make it five," the Eggplant said, signing off.
Fiona made it in eight, sirens blazing. They got to the hotel's entrance just as the uniforms arrived in three squad cars. Rushing through the lobby, they made it to an elevator bank and crowded into an elevator keyed in by the ashen assistant manager to circumvent the computers.
"You won't believe this," he cried. "You just won't believe this. There's a woman in there ... Christ ... I never saw anything like it. You won't believe it. Checked in Thursday night."
"Calm down," Gail said. "Just the woman in there? No one else, dead or alive."
"Isn't that enough? Oh, my God. You'll see in a minute."
Six uniforms, the two female detectives and the assistant manager stormed out of the elevator into the corridor. In front of the door, Fiona turned and raised both hands as the assistant manager, with nervous fluttering fingers, attempted to open the door with a key.
"Just myself and my partner, people," Fiona said, turning to the others, taking instant command. "Keep everyone out until we tell you," she barked to the senior uniform. "And secure the corridor." She took the key out of the hands of the assistant manager, who had continued to be unable to get his fingers to master the door-opening process.
"Sorry," the assistant manager said. He was a thin, balding man with round glasses, impeccably dressed and giving off the scent of heavy, sweetish after-shave lotion. His facial skin was dead-white. He stepped aside and leaned against the corridor wall. "I'll wait, if you don't mind."
After putting on plastic gloves, Fiona and Gail opened the door, pushing it aside slowly and not passing over the threshold until it was fully opened. Alert to any surprises, they unsnapped their holsters as a precaution, although they did not draw their weapons, each taking a swift single step inside the room.
"No wonder the man is freaking out," Gail said.
Dominating the room was a queen-sized bed. Beside it, a bedside lamp suffused the room in an eerie yellowish light. In the center of the bed, spread-eagled, was a woman, yellowed flesh floating on a pool of blood, sunken, unseeing, terrified eyes fixed in a frozen stare. The woman's last life image was obviously one that triggered a sense of mortal fear.
Her arms and legs were tied to the bedposts with a kind of silky rope and a wad of washcloth was stuffed into her mouth as a gag. Stab wounds covered her torso from her neck to her pubic hair and seeping blood had dripped over the vertical edges of the sheets, leaving specks of blood on the flowered carpet that suggested the beginnings of a Jackson Pollack painting.
It was one of the worst murder scenes Fiona had ever covered and for a moment her detective's eye seemed clouded over, her alertness blunted. She felt physically and mentally immobilized by the sight.
"You okay, Fiona?"
It was the soft, assured voice of Gail Prentiss, who, towering beside her, was surveying the scene with a far more controlled and analytical eye than Fiona was able to muster. Unable to function, Fiona turned away and went into the bathroom, noting instinctively through her numbness that the room seemed overly clean, a sure sign that the perpetrator had expended a great deal of energy concealing his tracks.
She turned on the cold tap and splashed her face, letting the drying process cool her further. The shock was mildly reviving, returning her somewhat to alertness. She forced her concentration.
There was not a spot in the bathroom to suggest to the naked eye that a bloody mess was lying on the bed just a few feet away. A number of wrung-out towels lay in a corner of the room, suggesting that the effort to eliminate evidence was thorough and meticulous.
A cloth case stood on the Formica counter. Fiona unzipped it. At first glance, it contained the usual articles used by any traveling woman. She made a mental note to go through it thoroughly after bagging it as evidence.
Carefully picking up the bathroom telephone, Fiona punched in the Eggplant's private number. She cleared her throat and fought for calm.
"A bloody pig sticker," Fiona said. "The work of a real sex weirdo."
"The tech boys are on their way," the Eggplant sighed.
"You want to be a spokesman?" Fiona asked. Of course, he did, she knew, but the pause that followed indicated that he was more reticent than usual.
"Really ugly, is it?"
"The worst," Fiona said.
"White lady?"
"As the driven snow," Fiona said. "It's an uptown case."
"Any theories?" the Eggplant asked.
"Too early to tell. Could be a serial killer. The perp seems to have done a thorough cleanup. The only filthy piece of work is the deceased and her immediate surroundings."
She felt herself talking more than she normally did upon arriving at a murder scene. Her reactions since entering the room were, for her, professionally uncommon. She knew exactly why.
"Bare bones to the press, FitzGerald. But only if necessary. Keep the lid tight, and see me when you get back here. If I were there, I'd be drowning in shit."
To Fiona, it seemed a rare example of his total trust. Of course, he knew that she was fully aware of all the public ramifications. A murder in a prime hotel meant sending ugly signals for the tourist business, which was suffering enough with the murder-capital moniker. Aside from the pure business aspect, it was the kind of murder that wasn't good for the image of the country. It sent bad messages about crime and violence and the safety of people, especially to young women visitors coming to the capital of the only superpower left in the world.
There also seemed another ploy at work. The Eggplant was putting her out front on this one. There would be no place to hide. She supposed there was a gender twist to it as well.
Hanging up the phone, she gave her face a passing glance in the mirror. Her skin looked pallid and a nerve was twitching in her cheek. This was the face of a distressed woman.
Back in the bedroom, she noted that Gail had placed a small footstool next to the bed to minimize any disturbance to the floor. She had also put plastic booties over her shoes, which emphasized the preparation and attention to detail she invested in her work. She was kneeling on the footstool and writing in her notebook. When she saw Fiona returning, she looked up and began to read from her notes.
"A Caucasian woman, twenties, hard bod. Name is Phyla Herbert, from Chicago. Two suits, one skirt, three blouses, all hung up like soldiers in the closet. Underwear in top drawer of chest. Small empty suitcase in closet as well. Beside it, a briefcase. Lots of résumés and other paraphernalia of a job seeker. Should be easy to trace her movements using the hotel telephone log."
Fiona listened carefully to Gail's recitation, but kept her eyes averted from the body, hoping her action or lack of it would go unnoticed. She was bluffing and knew it. This was not like her. She would have to force herself to look.
"I told you, my dad was a surgeon," Gail said. Nothing escaped her. "I've watched him operate."
Fiona ignored the comment. Squeamishness seemed her only logical cover. Gail appeared to relish the inspection. Fiona noted her intensity, her large yellow-flecked brown eyes studying the body and surroundings with laser-like thoroughness.
She felt an odd resentment, as if her authority was being usurped, although she knew that Gail would be deferential, respectful. Nevertheless, the feeling was there. Yet, there was no escaping that she had to deal with the body and its implications, including the personal aspect. She was, after all, a homicide detective, the senior officer in charge of the crime scene.
"Suck," Gail muttered.
"What?"
"Suck," she repeated. "Here, printed und
er her bangs. And over here on both thighs, 'scum' on one thigh and 'cunt' on the other."
She must force herself to look, Fiona cried inside herself, her head turning, eyes focusing. There it was, the body dead-white under its blanket of speckled, browning blood. And the words Gail had spoken were clearly printed in cherry red lipstick in block letters on the dead woman's forehead, inner thighs and arms. Her areolas, too, were reddened by lipstick, unevenly, like a child's crayoning.
And more. A long red streak led down from her neck to below her navel with the word "whore" printed in a crude semi-circle around her pubic area. For a brief moment Fiona's eyes clouded, then, by force of will, cleared again. Was it possible? Déjà vu, or fate playing an ugly game.
"Graffiti," Fiona said, croaking the word, fighting for her bearings, desperately trying to control her agitation. Another flash of memory exloded in her mind. Oh God, she needed to run from this.
Gail continued to observe the body as Fiona again turned her eyes away and forced her concentration on other details of the scene, hoping to find something that Gail had not yet noted, an unlikely prospect. Soon Flannagan and the tech boys would arrive and the body would be carted off and studied by the medical examiner's office. She was certain that Dr. Benson would do the autopsy.
What Fiona wanted most was to leave this place. The room was oppressive, claustrophobic. She became aware of a growing knot in the pit of her stomach that would not dissolve. Her hands shook and droplets of perspiration were oozing out of her pores.
"You okay?"
It was Gail, towering over her, studying her face. Fiona nodded, wishing that Gail would stop observing her as if she were the victim. She hated this reaction, shamed by her own vulnerability.
Suddenly there was a ruckus in the corridor signaling the arrival of Flannagan and his merry techs.
"Son-of-a-bitch," Flannagan cried as he stood at the foot of the bed observing the body. "Is there no end to man's inhumanity to woman?" Flannagan said. He was an old hand at this and had ghoulishly kept score of how many murdered corpses he had seen in his career.
"Pushing five thousand, Fi. Another ten will do it."
"Spare me," Fiona managed.
Flannagan eyeballed the corpse and shook his head.
"Proves that no one can ever say they've seen everything. Right, Fi?"
He looked toward her, but she had turned away. The knot in her stomach had risen to her throat, making it impossible for her to respond. She thought she was about to throw up.
A police photographer took pictures, bouncing around the room, looking for every possible angle. A uniformed sergeant, who had taken charge in the corridor, opened the door a crack and called for Sergeant FitzGerald.
"We got reporters crowding us," he said.
She was out of it, lost somewhere, unable to respond, her mind groping in some dark hell. For support, she leaned against the bathroom doorjamb, feeling she was about to break apart. An old memory was crashing through the rusty gate of denial. She tried, valiantly tried, to hold it back, but it came rushing out at her like an overwhelming tide.
"What should I tell them?"
The uniformed sergeant's voice was urgent.
"They're crawling all over us."
The words came at her from a distance, but she could find no response in her brain.
"Nobody comes in here," Gail barked, the authority in her voice absolute. Fiona felt the woman's hands on her arm, leading her gently into the bathroom, where she closed the door quietly behind her, pressing the button lock.
There was a glass in a plastic wrapper. Gail tore it off and filled it from the tap, handing it to Fiona to drink. Fiona, hating the show of weakness, needed to cup it in both hands to keep it steady enough to bring to her lips, which she did finally, taking a brief swallow.
"It happens, Fiona," Gail said. "Happened to me twice in LA. Comes like a shock wave, then it passes."
Fiona nodded. Not once had it happened to her. Ever. Until now. Nor could Gail possibly guess the source.
"Take some deep breaths and try to get some more water down."
Fiona obeyed. All personal will had disappeared. The back of her blouse under her suit jacket was soaked through. Letting the tap continue to run, Gail put her long, tapered fingers into the stream, then brought them to Fiona's temples. Fiona felt the healing powers of Gail's cool, soothing touch. Despite her embarrassment, she was grateful.
"Color's coming back, Fiona," Gail said.
Her equilibrium was returning, although she could not clear the knot in her throat. But the clouds were dissipating in her mind.
"Would you like to rest here a moment?" Gail asked, reaching for the lid of the toilet seat.
"No, Gail," Fiona managed to say. "Leave it."
Her alertness seemed to be returning. Toilet seats were often a good source of prints, especially males'. Fiona admitted a secret thrill in finding a detail possibly overlooked by Gail.
"Back in the saddle?" Gail said with a wink.
Fiona smiled, breathed deeply, nodded, then turned the knob of the bathroom door. Flannagan's team had bagged the body and were busy combing the room for latents. The ropes that had held the women had been untied and bagged in plastic, as well as the woman's clothes and other articles.
After a last minute check of the scene, Gail and a somewhat recovered Fiona came out into the noisy bustle of the corridor. The media goons, hoping for a juicy scandal, rushed forward with their cameras, microphones and recorders. This was their meat, a sex murder in a downtown hotel frequented by the power brokers, lobbyists and politicos.
"Understand it was a pretty messy sex crime, FitzGerald?" Sam Firgus said, his voice booming above the others. Be alert, Fiona warned herself, recovered enough to appear credible. The very word "sex" was enough to conjure up lascivious tabloid revelations.
Fiona's immediate instinct was to offer what was expected, the traditional "no comment." But it was obvious that the elements of the scene and its ramifications had already begun to leak like a sieve. She decided, instead, to be guardedly and selectively factual.
"We found the body of a woman in her twenties. Multiple stab wounds."
"Was the woman nude?" a lady radio reporter asked.
"Yes."
"Was she raped?"
"Can't say at this time."
"Do you think it's the work of a sex deviant?"
"Too early to tell," Fiona said. "We will await further lab tests."
"Do you know who the woman is?" someone asked.
"Yes. But we won't be announcing it until next-of-kin are notified."
"We understand she was tied spread-eagled to the bed," Firgus said. There was an image that would warm the heart of the media hounds.
"I'm not prepared to comment on the position of the body."
"Come on, FitzGerald, level with us," Firgus pressed.
Fiona stayed calm.
"Sorry," she said. "Nothing must interfere with the integrity of the investigation." She noted Gail's approving nod as she stood silently beside her.
"Any political connection?" Firgus pressed, obviously seeking some further titillating angle that would send the story soaring into the national and international press.
"We have no leads at this time to connect anyone with the crime."
"Who is that woman with you, FitzGerald?" Firgus asked. There was simply no way for Gail to be unnoticed.
"My partner, Detective Gail Prentiss," Fiona said.
"Interesting," Firgus said. Fiona hoped that he would not raise the gender issue. He didn't.
The questions persisted for ten minutes more, with Fiona offering little information, deliberately trying to make her answers flat and uninteresting. Unfortunately, this one was a standout even in the murder capital of the United States. Worse, it had explosive implications, known only to Fiona. But there was just enough titillation to assure the Eggplant of further harassment, both from the media and his superiors.
In the car heading bac
k to headquarters, Fiona could not ignore the turbulence in her mind. Vivid memories washed over her with hurricane force, memories she could not avoid.
"Any theories, Fiona?" Gail asked.
"Not yet," Fiona lied. "You?"
"Has the feel of a serial killer with an elaborate modus operandi."
Elaborate? Fiona shrugged, determined to appear noncommital. Could it be him? she asked herself, as the images of that day rushed back at her.
4
The vividness of these images were staggering in their similarity, especially after having been wrapped in the thick fog of denial for nearly two decades. Not that it hadn't surfaced in different guises during that time, mostly in unpleasant and painful recall.
On those rare occasions when the memory did surface, it always came disguised in dreams, mostly nightmares, sometimes remembered on awakening, the faces blank, the bodies distorted. Only the pain was chillingly real. Yet she had learned to quickly eradicate even these fleeting remembrances from her mind. Until now.
Farley Lipscomb was her father's lawyer then, a man of awesome dignity, tall, confident, self-assured, the kind of man who could read the label of a candy bar and make it seem like he was dispensing the wisdom of the ages. Fiona's parents seemed to be in the company of the Lipscombs often.
Letitia Lipscomb was, even then, in the mainstream of Washington's social life. Wealthy in her own right, she had the wherewithal to entertain lavishly in her lovely home off Massachusetts Avenue in the heart of Embassy Row. She had her sights set on becoming one of Washington's most important hostesses and was obsessive in her zeal to collect Washington's big-fish celebrities. Fiona's father, the senior senator from New York was, of course, an excellent trophy for her capital aquarium.
Her social goals coincided with her husband's ambitions and, in a company town like Washington, she was able to produce an accessibility that worked well for Farley Lipscomb's burgeoning practice.
To Fiona at the time, the social trappings of Washington were the ultimate in ostentatious phoniness and Letitia was characterized in her mind as an authentic stiff-necked Wasp aristocrat. The idea was embellished by her manner of speaking, an obviously contrived British accent delivered with a nasal twang that made, to Fiona's ear, even the most sincere compliment seem like a sneer.