“At least he died a happy death,” Stinelli commented sorrowfully.?
Liu continued the autopsy, meticulously examining every inch of the flabby corpse that had once borne the nickname “Steamroller.”
“Take a look at this,” he finally said.
At first the visitors couldn’t see what the Philly coroner was pointing to. But it came into focus as he explained.
“Residual pressure point,” Liu indicated with his finger, “precisely adjacent to the heart.”
Now they saw it clearly: the trace of a grid mark on the pressure bruise.
Wolfsheim admitted he was baffled.
“Wait a moment,” Liu asked them. He removed his plastic gloves, excused himself, climbed down from his bench, and left the operating room.
A few minutes later Liu returned, a Taser gun in hand.
The New Yorkers watched as Liu held the gun up to the corpse, demonstrating how its grid-like contact surface could have left the mark sealed by death on Jackson’s body.?
An hour later, Liu concluded his examination of the heart muscle, confirming that “the victim’s heart arrested, probably following constant arrhythmia that it could no longer compensate for due to the strain already put on his system by the alcohol and drugs.”
The Taser had finished him off.
“No doubt about,” Cody said. “It’s our guy.”
Wolfsheim concurred. “And this is yet another m.o.-thermal/electrical. The guy’s working the neighborhood.”
As he saw his visitors to the exit, another of Liu’s assistants handed him a plastic bag. Liu nodded, and gave it to Stinelli.
“What is it?” Lou asked.
“One of the items found on the victim’s body,” the coroner explained. “The minute I walked in I realized who it was.”
Looking perplexed, Stinelli held the plastic flush to the newsprint contained in the bag. Cody and Wolfsheim saw the Chief physically react as he recognized what it was. In a well-weathered newspaper clipping, it was a faded photo of Stinelli with his arm around Jackson. Jackson’s face was a mass of cuts and scratches, but his grin showed through it all.
Stinelli regained his composure. “This was taken outside his locker room, when Valerie and I attended our last prize fight.”
“Who knows about this photo?” Cody asked Liu.
“No one but us chickens,” the coroner replied. “And the cops who found the body.”
“Check the prints on it,” Cody said.?
Cody was silent on the drive back to New York, mulling over the entire Androg scenario to date. It was nearly six when Stinelli dropped off Wolfsheim at his apartment, then, at his insistence, dropped Cody back at the Loft. “Knock off early. Get some sleep,” Stinelli advised.
“I’ll sleep after we stop this son of a bitch,” was Cody’s reply.
Stinelli grunted. That’s why he’d chosen this man to head TAZ.
Cody lost no time getting to Google. He looked up “Clue Awards” and, pinpointing the date, quickly corroborated the suspicions that had been nagging at him for the last twenty-four hours.
Hamilton was in Philadelphia at the time of Jackson’s murder. If he had planned it in advance, he could have had his limo drop him off near the alley after the event, walk a few blocks to find him, tempt Jackson with the fine scotch, chat with him while the combination of coke and liquor produced its effects, press the Taser against the man’s chest until his heart failed, then walk to the waiting limo, and head back to New York as though nothing had happened.
How could he possibly know that Jackson was in that particular alley? Even the homeless have habits, Cody thought. And Hamilton was a master researcher.
But something was wrong with this theory. How could he still be so certain when there was an obvious problem with it?
The problem was Uncle Tony.
With growing dread, he knew the evidence was right in front of his eyes. The totem was subliminal and artfully designed so only Cody would begin to flash on it, which he did as the messages from his unconscious continued.
One after the other, he deciphered the subliminal signs-trying to figure out if each murder had either a distinctive male or female overtone:
Was it Victoria who had killed Handley, after giving him oral sex?
Victoria could have killed Uncle Tony while Hamilton was busy in Philly. She hid in the ladies room until the time was right because she was a lady.
She would have gotten home just in time to greet Hamilton returning from the Awards.
Hamilton, who had just killed Jackson in the alley. Chivas was a man’s drink. It had taken a man’s strength to hold the former boxer still enough for the Taser to finish the drugs’ work. Cody could imagine the scene: a man in a tuxedo with his arm around a bum in the alley, the Taser concealed as it shocked the boxer to death.
Hamilton or Victoria could have killed Song, though women killers rarely use guns.
Whose turn was it next? Who was Number Five?
This entire theory was too preposterous to take seriously. It would leave Cody out on a limb that could fatally distract him from stopping Androg. Or was it? He couldn’t get it out of his mind.
Cody studied the calendar. He picked up the phone and dialed Wolf’s number. “I need you to do me a favor,” he said, “and do it personally, no questions asked.”
“Shoot,” replied Wolf.
“Get me Ward Hamilton’s medical records.”
“Why in the hell-?”
“-No questions asked,” Cody interrupted.
Wolf grunted. “You got it.”
“And Wolf… Whatever it takes. Do it.”
Tonight was Halloween, exactly one week since the killings started.
If seven was the magic number, there’d have to be three more deaths.
With a shaman’s certainty, Cody knew they were planned for tonight.
And that one of them was meant to be him.
40
Halloween Night
Jake Sallinger got out of the shower, careful to navigate his balance on the slippery porcelain that had, more than once, ushered him to a painful slip.
As he reached for his towel, he contemplated with excitement the evening’s entertainment. Waiting for him at the Lotus Club would be the woman who described herself as a “strawberry blonde, green eyes, wicked smile” in the Metro Magazine personals ad. Who knows? Tonight might be his lucky night. It was certainly overdue. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d gotten laid.
But something was off.
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand to clear them from shower fog.
Where his towel should have been a manila envelope was propped on the rack.
More than puzzled, he reached for it without thinking, disturbing the white powder that covered the flap.
As his eyes automatically began to scan the first page, Jake found himself sneezing uncontrollably. He doubled over from the sneezing attack-just as the bathroom door pushed open.
Cynical laughter he’d recognize anywhere, then: “Thought you might appreciate it more by manual delivery,” Hamilton said.
But Sallinger had fainted from the effect of the mysterious powder. The last things the editor’s eyes saw were Hamilton’s clear plastic gloves and green surgical booties.?
Careful not to slip on the wet floor, Hamilton dragged Sallinger’s naked body toward the bathtub. He lifted the still-breathing editor into the tub. Taking a deep breath to recover from the exertion, he grabbed his editor’s head with both hands-and slammed it repeatedly against the brass towel rack, until he was satisfied Sallinger was dead.
To be doubly certain, Hamilton took the man’s pulse, and nodded to himself when he found none.
Deftly, and quickly before rigor mortis set in, he arranged Sallinger in a sitting position.
Taking another calming breath, Hamilton reached for the wall telephone and dialed 9-1-1.
“You’d better send someone to 155 E. 49 ^ th St. #3D,” he said to the operator. “The best crime article ever written has just been delivered to its former editor. Right on deadline.”