“You won’t be in my way. You can stay as long as you like. I’ll see if I can find you a nice comfortable chair.” She put her mug down. “Would you like some coffee?”
“I certainly would.” Mark looked at her more carefully. It might be an evening with the nurse rather than the doctor. Mark decided he had better go back and check the room first, reassure Casefikis, if he were still awake, and then call the Met and ask where the hell their man was. He walked slowly to the door a second time; he felt no need to hurry now. He opened the door quietly. It was pitch black except for the light from the TV, and his eyes were not quite focused. He glanced at the two of them in bed. They were quite still. He wouldn’t have bothered to look any further if it hadn’t been for the dripping.
Drip, drip, drip.
It sounded like tap water but he couldn’t remember a tap.
Drip, drip.
He moved quietly to the bedside of Angelo Casefikis, and glanced down.
Drip, drip.
Warm fresh blood was flowing over the bottom sheet, trickling from Casefikis’s mouth, his dark eyes bulged from their sockets, his tongue was hanging loose and swollen. His throat had been cut, ear to ear, just below the chin line. The blood was starting to make a pool on the floor. Mark was standing in it. He felt his legs sink, and he was barely able to grip the side of the bed and stop himself falling. He lurched over towards the deaf man. Mark’s eyes were now focused, and he retched loudly. The postman’s head was hanging loose from the rest of his body; only the color of his skin showed that they were once connected. Mark managed to scramble out of the door and get to the pay phone, his heartbeat thudding madly in his ears. He could feel his shirt clinging to his body. His hands were covered with blood. He fumbled ineffectually for a couple of quarters. He dialed Homicide and gave the bare outline of what had happened. This time they wouldn’t be casual about sending someone. The nurse on duty returned with a cup of coffee.
“Are you okay? You look a bit pale,” she said, and then she saw his hands and screamed.
“Don’t go into Room 4308 whatever you do. Don’t let anyone into that room unless I say so. Send me a doctor immediately.”
The nurse thrust the cup of coffee at him, forcing him to take it, and ran down the corridor. Mark made himself go back into Room 4308, although his presence was irrelevant. There was nothing he could do except wait. He switched on the lights and went over to the bathroom; he tried to remove the worst of the blood and vomit from himself and his clothes. Mark heard the swinging door and rushed back into the room. Another young, whitecoated female doctor... “Alicia Delgado, M.D.” said her plastic label.
“Don’t touch anything,” said Mark.
Dr. Delgado stared at him and then the bodies, and groaned.
“Don’t touch anything,” repeated Mark, “until Homicide arrive; they will be here shortly.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Special Agent Mark Andrews, FBI.” He instinctively took out his wallet and showed his credentials.
“Do we just stand here staring at each other or are you going to allow me to do something about this mess?”
“Nothing until Homicide has completed their investigation and given clearance. Let’s get out of here.” He passed her and pushed the door with his shoulder, not touching anything.
They were back in the corridor.
Mark instructed Dr. Delgado to wait outside the door and to allow no one else inside while he phoned the Metropolitan Police again.
She nodded reluctantly.
He went over to the pay phone, two more quarters; he dialed the Metropolitan Police and asked for Lieutenant Blake.
“Lieutenant Blake went home about an hour ago. Can I help you?”
“When had you been planning to send someone over to guard Room 4308 at Woodrow Wilson Medical Center?”
“Who’s speaking?”
“Andrews, FBI, Washington Field Office.” Mark repeated the details of the double murder.
“Well, our man should be with you now. He left the office over half an hour ago. I’ll inform Homicide immediately.”
“I’ve already done that,” snapped Mark.
He put the phone down and collapsed into a nearby chair. The corridor was now full of white coats. Two gurneys were being wheeled up to Room 4308. They were all waiting. What was the right thing to do?
Two more quarters, he dialed Nick Stames’s home. The phone seemed to ring for a long time. Why didn’t he answer? Eventually a female voice came on.
Mustn’t show panic, he thought, holding on to the phone box. “Good evening, Mrs. Stames. It’s Mark Andrews. Can I speak to your husband?” An even tone, no sign of stress.
“I’m afraid Nick is not home, Mark. He went back to the office about two hours ago. Funny, he said he was going to see you and Barry Calvert.”
“Yes, we saw him, but he left the office to go back home about forty minutes ago.”
“Well, he hasn’t arrived yet. He only managed to finish the first course of his dinner and said he would come straight back. No sign of him. Maybe he returned to the office. Why don’t you try him there?”
“Yes, of course. Sorry to have bothered you.” Mark hung up, looked over to check that no one had gone into Room 4308. No one had. He put two more quarters in and phoned the office. Polly was on duty.
“Mark Andrews. Put me through to Mr. Stames, quickly, please.”
“Mr. Stames and Special Agent Calvert left about forty-five minutes ago — on their way home, I think, Mr. Andrews.”
“That can’t be right. It can’t be right.”
“Yes, they did leave, sir. I saw them go.”
“Could you double-check?”
“If you say so, Mr. Andrews.”
Mark waited, it seemed to him, for an interminable time. What should he be doing? He was only one man, where was everyone else? What was he supposed to do? Christ, nothing in his training covered this — the FBI are meant to arrive twenty-four hours after a crime, not during it.
“There’s no answer, Mr. Andrews.”
“Thanks, Polly.”
Mark looked desperately at the ceiling for inspiration. He had been briefed not to tell anybody about the earlier events of the evening, not to say a word whatever the circumstances until after Stames’s meeting with the Director. He must find Stames; he must find Calvert. He must find somebody he could talk to. Two more quarters. He tried Barry Calvert. The phone rang and rang. No reply from the bachelor apartment. Same two quarters. He called Norma Stames again. “Mrs. Stames, Mark Andrews. Sorry to trouble you again. The moment your husband and Mr. Calvert arrive, please have them call me at Woodrow Wilson.”
“Yes, I’ll tell Nick as soon as he comes in. They probably stopped off on the way.”
“Yes, of course, I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe the best thing will be for me to go back downtown as soon as the relief arrives. So perhaps they could contact me there. Thank you, Mrs. Stames.” He hung up the receiver.
As he put the phone down Mark saw the Met policeman jauntily walking towards him down the middle of the now crowded corridor, an Ed McBain novel under his arm. Mark thought of bawling him out for his late arrival, but what was the point. No use crying over spilt blood he thought, morbidly, and began to feel sick again. He took the young officer aside, and briefed him on the killings, giving no details of why the two men were important, only of what had happened. He asked him to inform his chief and added that the Homicide Squad were on their way, again adding no details. The policeman called his own duty officer, and reported all he had been told, matter-of-factly. The Washington Metropolitan Police handled over six hundred murders a year.
The medical personnel were all waiting impatiently; it was going to be a long wait. Professional bustle seemed to have replaced the early panic. Mark still wasn’t sure where to turn, what to do. Where was Stames? Where was Calvert? Where the hell was anybody?