The Last Precinct - Cornwell Patricia - Страница 67

"That's right. Now, I didn't get anything that I wouldn't sleep on myself." She defends her choice in fine bedding. "Got the newest ones from them."

This might explain why the mattress only smoldered and never really caught fire. In hospitals and prisons, mattresses are treated heavily with flame retardants. This also suggests that whoever set the fire wouldn't have had any reason to know he was trying to burn a mattress specially treated with flame retardants. And of course, common sense would have it that this person also did not hang around long enough to know that the fire went out on its own. "Mrs. Kiffin," I say, "is there a Bible in every room?"

"The one thing folks don't steal." She avoids my question, taking on a suspicious tone of voice again.

"Do you know why this one in here is open to Ecclesi-astes?"

"Now I don't go around opening them. I just leave them on the dresser. I didn't open it." She hesitates, then announces, "He must have been murdered or everybody wouldn't be going to all this trouble."

"We have to look into every possibility," Marino remarks as he climbs back up the ladder, a small hacksaw in hand that is helpful at scenes like this because the teeth are hardened and aren't angled. They can cut elements in situ, or in place, such as trim molding, baseboard, pipes or, in this instance, joists.

"Business has been hard," Mrs. Kiffin says. "I'm on my own because my husband's on the road all the time."

"What does your husband do?" I inquire.

"A truck driver for Overland Transfer."

Marino begins popping out drywall tiles from the ceiling around the ones the eyebolts are screwed through.

"I don't imagine he's home much," I say.

Her lower lip trembles almost imperceptibly and her eyes brighten with pain. "I don't need a murder. Oh Lord, it's going to hurt me bad."

"Doc, you mind holding the light for me?" Marino doesn't respond to her sudden need for sympathy.

"Murder hurts many people." I train the flashlight on the ceiling, my good arm steadying the ladder again. "That's a sad, unfair fact, Mrs. Kiffin."

Marino starts sawing, wood dust drifting down.

"I've never had anybody die here," she whines some more. "Not much worse can happen to a place."

"Hey," Marino quips to her above the noise of sawing, "you'll probably get business from the publicity."

She gives him a black look. "Those types can just stay the hell away."

FROM THE PHOTOGRAPHS STANFIELD SHOWED ME, I

recognize the area of wall where the body was propped up and I get the general idea where the clothing was found. I imagine the victim nude on the bed, his arms strung up by rope threaded through the eyebolts. He might be kneeling or even sitting_only partially hoisted up. But the crucifixion position and gag would impair his breathing. He is panting, fighting for breath, his heart palpitating furiously in panic and pain as he watches someone plug in the heat gun, as he hears air blow out when the trigger is pulled. I have never related to the human desire to torture. I know the dynamics, that it is all about control, the ultimate abuse of power. But I can't comprehend deriving satisfaction, vindication and certainly not sexual pleasure out of causing any living creature pain.

My central nervous system spikes and surges, my pulse pounds. I am sweating beneath my coat even though it is cold enough inside the room to see our breath. "Mrs. Kiffin," I say as Marino strokes the saw, "five days_a business special? This time of year?" I pause as confusion dances across her face. She is not inside my mind. She does not see what I see. She can't begin to imagine the horror I am reconstructing as I stand inside this cheap motel with its secondhand prison mattresses. "Why would he check in for five days the week of Christmas?" I want to know. "Did he say anything at all that might have given you a hint as to why he was here, what he was doing, where he was from? Aside from your observation that he didn't sound local?"

"I don't ask." She watches Marino work. "Maybe I should. Some people talk a lot and tell you more than you want to know. Some don't want you in their business."

"What feeling did you get from him?" I keep prodding her.

"Well, Mr. Peanut didn't like him."

"Who the hell is Mr. Peanut?" Marino reaches down with a ceiling tile that is attached by an eyebolt to a four-inch section of joist.

"Our dog. You probably noticed her when you came in. I know it's kind of a funny name for a female that's had as many puppies as that one, but Zack named her. Mr. Peanut just barked her head off right when that man showed up at the door. Wouldn't come near him, the fur just standing up on her back."

"Or maybe your dog was barking and upset because someone else was around? Someone you didn't see?" I suggest.

"Could be."

A second ceiling die drops, and the ladder shakes as Marino descends. He goes back into his toolbox for a roll of freezer paper and evidence tape and begins wrapping the ceiling tiles in neat packages as I walk into the bathroom and shine the light around. Everything is institutional white, the top of the counter scarred with yellowish burns, probably from guests parking lit cigarettes while they shave or put on makeup or fix their hair. I see something else Stanfield missed. A single strand of dental floss dangles inside the toilet. It is draped over the edge of the bowl and trapped under the seat. With a gloved hand, I pick it up. It is about a foot long, several inches of it wet from toilet water, and the mid-section of it pale red, as if someone flossed his teeth and his gums bled. Because this latest find isn't perfectly dry, I don't seal it in plastic. I place it in a square of freezer paper which I fold into a jeweler's envelope. We probably have DNA. The question is, whose?

Marino and I return to his truck at one-thirty, and Mr. Peanut flies out of the house when Kiffin yanks open the front door to go back inside the house. The dog chases us as we pull out, barking. I watch in the side mirror as Kiffin yells at her dog. "You get here right now!" She angrily claps her hands. "Come here now!"

"Some asshole take time out from torture to floss his teeth?" Marino starts in. "Like what the hell is that about? Or more likely, it's been hanging out in the toilet since last Christmas."

Mr. Peanut is now right by my door, the truck bumping over the unpaved drive that leads through woods to Route 5.

"Come here now!" Kiffin bellows as she comes down the steps, hands smack-smack-smack.

"Goddamn dog," Marino complains.

"Stop!" I am afraid we are going to run over the poor animal.

Marino stamps the brakes and the truck lurches to a halt. Mr. Peanut jumps up barking, her head bobbing in and out of my window. "What in the world?" I am baffled. The dog was scarcely interested in us when we first showed up a few hours ago.

"Get back here!" Kiffin is coming after her dog. Behind her, a child fills the doorway, not the little boy we saw earlier, but someone as tall as Kiffin.

I get out of the truck and Mr. Peanut starts wagging her tail. She nuzzles my hand. The poor, wretched creature is dirty and smells bad. I get her by the collar and tug her in the direction of her family, but she doesn't want to leave the truck. "Come on," I talk to her. "Let's get you home before you get run over."

Kiffin strides up, just livid. She pops the dog hard on top of the head. Mr. Peanut bleats like an injured lamb, tail tucked, cowering. "You learn to mind, you hear me?" Kiffin furiously wags her finger at her dog. "Get in the house!"

Mr. Peanut sneaks behind me.

"Get!"

The dog sits down in the dirt behind me, pressing its trembling body against my legs. The person I saw in the doorway has vanished, but Zack has emerged on the porch. He is dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt that are way too big. "Come 'ere, Peanut," he sings out, snapping his fingers. He sounds as frightened as the dog.