The hinges on the door were dusty and showed no signs of tampering. A black leather sofa was pushed off to the side, near the doorway. I followed the tracks that its feet had made in the carpet. The sofa had been placed in front of the door and then shoved aside.
I opened the door, holding the knob with two fingers. It moved easily, even though it was heavy and solid. I closed it, stumped.
“How did the killer get out?” I said, mostly to myself.
“Maybe he didn’t get out. Maybe the killer is still in the apartment.” Herb’s eyes widened and his hand shot up, pointing over my shoulder. “Jack! Behind you!”
I rolled my eyes.
“Funny, Herb. I already searched the place.”
I peeled off the gloves and stuck them back in my pocket.
“Well, then there are only three possibilities.” Herb held up his hand, ticking off fingers. “One, Coursey and Johnson and the superintendent are all lying. Two, the killer was skinny enough to slip out of the apartment by going under the door. Or three, it was Houdini.”
“Houdini’s dead.”
“Did you check? Get an alibi?”
“I’ll send a team to the cemetery.”
While we waited for the ME to arrive, Herb and I busied ourselves with tossing the place. Bank statements told us Janet Hellerman made a comfortable living and paid her bills on time. She was financing a late model Lexus, which we confirmed was parked in the lot below. Her credit card debt was minimal, with a recent charge for plane tickets. A call to Delta confirmed two seats to Montana for next week, one in her name and one in the name of Glenn Hale.
Herb called the precinct, requesting a sheet on Hale.
I checked the answering machine and listened to thirty-eight messages. Twenty were from Janet’s distraught mother, wondering where she was. Two were telemarketers. One was from a friend named Sheila who wanted to get together for dinner, and the rest were real estate related.
Nothing from Hale. He wasn’t on the caller ID either.
I checked her cell phone next, and listened to forty more messages; ten from mom, and thirty from home buyers. Hale hadn’t left any messages, but there was a “Glenn” listed on speed dial. The phone’s call log showed that Glenn’s number had called over a dozen times, but not once since last week.
“Look at this, Jack.”
I glanced over at Herb. He set a pink plastic case on the kitchen counter and opened it up. It was a woman’s toolkit, the kind they sold at department stores for fifteen bucks. Each tool had a cute pink handle and a corresponding compartment that it snugged into. This kit contained a hammer, four screwdrivers, a measuring tape, and eight wrenches. There were also two empty slots; one for needle nose pliers, and one for something five inches long and rectangular.
“The utility knife,” I said.
Herb nodded. “She owned the weapon. It’s looking more and more like suicide, Jack. She has a fight with Hale. He dumps her. She kills herself.”
“You find anything else?”
“Nothing really. She liked to mountain climb, apparently. There’s about forty miles of rope in her closet, lots of spikes and beaners, and a picture of her clinging to a cliff. She also has an extraordinary amount of teddy bears. There were so many piled on her bed, I don’t know how she could sleep on it.”
“Diary? Computer?”
“Neither. Some photo albums, a few letters that we’ll have to look through.”
Someone knocked. We glanced across the breakfast bar and saw the door ease open.
Mortimer Hughes entered. Hughes was a medical examiner. He worked for the city, and his job was to visit crime scenes and declare people dead. You’d never guess his profession if you met him on the street – he had the smiling eyes and infectious enthusiasm of a television chef.
“Hello Jack, Herb, beautiful day out.” He nodded at us and set down a large tackle box that housed the many particular tools of his trade. Hughes opened it up and snugged on some plastic gloves and booties. He also brandished knee pads.
Herb and I paused in our search and watched him work. Hughes knelt beside the vic and spent ten minutes poking and prodding, humming tunelessly to himself. When he finally spoke, it was high-pitched and cheerful.
“She’s dead,” Hughes said.
We waited for more.
“At least four days, probably longer. I’m guessing from hypovolemic shock. Blood loss is more than forty percent. Her right zygomatic bone is shattered, pre-mortem or early post.”
“Could she have broken her cheek falling down?” Herb asked.
“On this thick carpet? Possible-yes. Likely-no. Look at the blood pool. No arcs. No trails.”
“So she wasn’t conscious when her wrist was cut?”
“That would be my assumption, unless she laid down on the floor and stayed perfectly still while bleeding to death.”
“Sexually assaulted?”
“Can’t tell. I’ll do a swab.”
I chose not to watch, and Herb and I went back into the kitchen. Herb pursed his lips.
“It could still be suicide. She cuts her wrist, falls over, breaks her cheek bone, dies unconscious.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m not. I like the boyfriend. They’re fighting, he bashes her one in the face. Maybe he can’t wake her up, or he thinks he’s killed her. Or he wants to kill her. He finds the toolbox, gets the utility knife, makes it look like a suicide.”
“And then magically disappears.”
Herb frowned. “That part I don’t like.”
“Maybe he flushed himself down the toilet, escaped through the plumbing.”
“You can send Coursey out to get a plunger.”
“Lieutenant?”
Officer Coursey had returned. He stood by the kitchen counter, his face ashen.
“What is it, Officer?”
“I was doing the door-to-door. No one answered at the apartment right across the hall. The superintendent thought that was strange – an old lady named Mrs Flagstone lives there, and she never leaves her home. She even sends out for groceries. So the super opens up her door and… you’d better come look.”
Mrs Flagstone stared up at me with milky eyes. Her tongue protruded from her lips like a hunk of raw liver. She was naked in the bathtub, her face and upper body submerged in foul water, one chubby leg hanging over the edge. The bloating was extensive. Her white hair floated around her head like a halo.
“Still think it’s a suicide?” I asked Herb.
Mortimer Hughes rolled up his sleeve and put his hand into the water. He pressed her chest and bubbles exploded out of her mouth and nose.
“Didn’t drown. Her lungs are full of air.”
He moved his hand higher, prodding the wrinkled skin on her neck.
“I can feel some damage to the trachea. There also appears to be a lesion around her neck. I want to get a sample of the water before I pull the drain plug.”
Hughes dove into his box. Herb, Coursey, and I left him and went into the living room. Herb called in, requesting the forensics team.
“Any hits from the other tenants?” I asked the rookie.
He flipped open his pad. “One door over, at apartment 3010, the occupant, a Mr Stanley Mankowicz, remembers some yelling coming from the victim’s place about six days ago.”
“Does he remember what time?”
“It was late, he was in bed. Mr Mankowicz shares a wall with the vic, and has called her on several occasions to tell her to turn her television down.”
“Did he call that night?”
“He was about to, but the noise stopped.”
“Where’s the super?”
“Johnson hasn’t finished taking his statement.”
“Call them both in here.”