He reached for the shampoo, second container from the left on the shelf beneath the shower head. He could not read the label, but it didn’t matter. It was the correct shape, and besides, he always kept the shampoo second from the left on the shelf.
He unscrewed the cap of the plastic bottle, poured a generous measure of shampoo into his left hand, and replaced the open bottle on the shelf-second from the left.
He let some of the shampoo flow from his left to his right hand, and then began to rub it vigorously into his hair and scalp. With his brush cut, he was able to get the liquid to his scalp quickly.
Something was wrong.
He pulled both hands from his head and pressed them tightly to his chest. There was a terrible constriction there. It felt as if someone had placed a steel band around him and was tightening it rapidly. A heart attack? The very thought induced a further sense of panic. He was alone. No one would come to his aid.
Suddenly, his entire body began to shudder. The shuddering intensified. He shook as if he were a ragdoll being battered about by a malevolent child.
He tried, but could not control the violent shuddering. It became a spasm. Now his body was completely out of control. His hands shot to his neck, which had stiffened so he could not draw a breath.
It was not so much that he fell as that he was thrown to the floor of the tub. His legs shot out stiffly, straight and rigid. He tried to breathe, but could not. He could feel his respiratory muscles tighten. His skin was turning from bluish to a purple discoloration.
Suddenly his body arched, then balanced on his head and heels. It stayed in that taut position for long seconds.
Then, as unexpectedly as it began, it ended. His body relaxed, and gave one more massive shudder. He was dead.
The shower played unimpeded against the far wall. It ran down and formed a small pool where the body of Hank Hunsinger partially blocked the drain.
Not much later Jan Taylor let herself into the apartment.
“Hun?”
No answer.
She noticed the television was on. She also noted the images on the screen. She shrugged. So it was going to be one of those nights. Plenty of kinky sex. She loathed it, but would never let on to Hunsinger. He might be an animal in bed, but he did keep her well.
She removed her coat and carefully hung it on the hook inside the closet door. The Hun had appointed that specific hook for her hanger and apprised her of the importance of always, without exception, using that hook for her coat. Left to her own devices, she would have thrown it over a chair.
She could hear the shower running. She toyed with the option of waiting till he finished before announcing her presence as if she had just entered. It would spare her the unnecessary repetition of getting wet again. She had showered before leaving her apartment. And it would save her the indignities of Hunsinger’s shower routines. A far greater consideration.
On the other hand, it was entirely possible he was waiting for her to join him. In which case, her absence would infuriate him. And the last thing she needed was a furious Hun.
She shrugged and entered the bedroom. The sound of the shower was much clearer now. The lack of any sound but that of the water beating against a wall seemed somehow ominous, although she did not focus on any specific reason for her apprehension.
While she removed her clothing, hanging each item on the designated hangers, she noticed the small red light indicating that his “cooker” was working and that his contact lenses were being cleaned. All the better to see you with, my dear.
Naked, she entered the bathroom. Although she had been girding herself for the worst, she certainly had no way of anticipating this.
She screamed. Over and over. Then she ran from the bathroom.
Lieutenant Ned Harris was in Hank Hunsinger’s bathroom. It was the scene of the crime and he was being careful not to miss a single detail. Very soon, investigative specialists would be swarming over the apartment, each performing his or her task. Before that happened, Harris had the rare opportunity to commune with the place where death had occurred, where, probably, murder had been committed. He would never again in this case have this perfect opportunity to be in this specific location where vital clues and silent testimony told no lies. As he studied the apartment, he allowed the everyday inanimate objects to talk to him wordlessly.
Harris was an inch and a half to two inches more than six feet tall. His build was slender but powerful. Aquiline features and a receding hairline set off his deep black skin. He had been a part of the homicide division for most of his professional career. He loved it.
His partner on this case, Sergeant Ray Ewing, was interviewing the witness, Jan Taylor, in the living room.
Ewing, at five-feet-eleven, with a stocky physique, somewhat resembled singer Steve Lawrence. He also had Lawrence’s pleasant voice and engaging smile.
Harris and Ewing had been the sole occupants of their squad’s office at police headquarters on that otherwise slow Sunday evening when they got the call from the uniformed officers who had responded to Jan Taylor’s 911 call.
“Would you mind going over that one more time, Miss Taylor?” Ewing continued to scribble notes on his pad. “Why would Mr. Hunsinger take another shower when he got back here after the game? He would have taken one before leaving the stadium, wouldn’t he?”
Jan dabbed at her eyes with a corner of her handkerchief. She was obviously distraught. Ewing chose to reserve judgment on the reason for her anxiety. It might have been the sudden loss of whatever Hunsinger had been to her. It might have been the shock at what she had found in the bathroom.
“He was never satisfied with the shower at the stadium.” This was her second time through the second-shower phenomenon. She wondered why she had been asked to repeat the explanation. “What with the heat in the locker room, the steam from the showers, and the lights from the TV cameras, he said he always felt as sweaty after that shower as he had before.”
“So?”
“So he always took another shower when he got home.”
Ewing noted the slight show of color in Jan’s face when she reached this part of her testimony the second time through. He surmised that the second shower probably was for her benefit. Taking stock of her, he did not blame Hunsinger.
“Always?”
“The Hun,” Jan replied, a touch caustically, “did everything he did always.”
“And what time was it when you entered the apartment?” The third time for this question.
“About six-thirty, or a quarter to seven.”
“And was that tape in the video cassette deck playing?” First time for this question.
“I. . I don’t recall.”
“It was playing when we entered the apartment. If it was on when you came, did you turn it on?”
“I. .I guess it must have been playing when I came in.”
You bet it was, Ewing thought. And that tells us much about the relationship between the two of you and why you’re going to be on the shy side of telling us much about it.
“Then you went into the bedroom. Why was that?”
“I heard the shower. I knew Hank couldn’t hear me with the water running and I wanted him to know I was here.”
“And then you said you noticed that Mr. Hunsinger’s disinfecting unit was operating. It was cleaning his contact lenses?”
“Yes. I just happened to glance over and saw the red light lit.”
“Anything significant in that?”
“Well, it told me he hadn’t been in the shower very long.”
“How’s that?”
“The unit turns itself off after about twenty minutes.”
“So he would have been in the shower something less than twenty minutes. Then he wouldn’t have begun his shower much before you got here.”