"Pardon me?"
"You've already got one lit," Jessica repeated, pointing to the ashtray.
"Jesus," he said. He butted out the old one.
"A little nervous?" Byrne asked.
"Well,yeah," Stott said.
"Why is that?"
"What, you kidding? You're from Homicide. Homicide makes me nervous."
"Have you murdered someone recently?"
Stott's face contorted. "What? No."
"Then you have nothing to worry about," Byrne said.
They would run a check on Stott anyway, but Jessica red-lined it in her notebook. Stott had done time, she was sure of it. She showed the man a still photograph of the bathroom.
"Can you tell if this picture was taken here?" she asked.
Stott squinted at the photo. "It sure looks like one of ours."
"Can you tell which room it might be?"
Stott snorted. "You mean like, is it the presidential suite?"
"Excuse me?"
He gestured at the dilapidated office. "This look like the Crowne Plaza to you?"
"Mr. Stott, I have a deal for you," Byrne said, leaning across the counter. He got to within a few inches of Stott's face. His granite gaze held the man there.
"What's that?"
"Lose the attitude, or we will shut this place down for the next two weeks while we examine every tile, every drawer, every switch plate. We will also record the license plate of every car that pulls into this lot."
"That's a deal?"
"Believe it. And a good one, too. Because right now, my partner wants to bring you down to the Roundhouse and stick you in a holding cell," Byrne said.
Another laugh, but not nearly so derisive this time. "What is this, good cop, bad cop?"
"No, this is bad cop, worse cop. Those are the only choices you're going to get."
Stott stared at the floor for a few moments, leaning slowly back, extricating himself from Byrne's orbit. "I'm sorry, I'm just a little-"
"Nervous."
"Yeah."
"So you said. Now, back to Detective Balzano's question."
Stott drew a deep breath, then replaced the fresh air with a lung- rattling draw on his cigarette. He stared at the photograph again. "Well, I can't really tell which room it is, but the way the rooms are laid out, I'd say this was an even-numbered room."
"Why is that?"
"Because the toilets are back-to-back here. If this was an odd- numbered room, the tub would be on the other side."
"Can you narrow it down at all?" Byrne asked.
"When people check in for, you know, a few hours, we try to give them rooms five through ten."
"Why is that?"
"Because they're on the other side of the building from the street. Lots of times, people like to be discreet."
"So if the room in this photograph is one of those, it would be six, eight, or ten."
Stott looked at the water-stained ceiling. He did some serious ciphering in his head. It was clear that Karl Stott had a few problems with math. He looked back at Byrne. "Yeah."
"Do you recall any problems with your guests in those rooms over the past few weeks?"
"Problems?"
"Anything unusual. Arguments, disagreements, any loud behavior."
"Believe it or not, this is a relatively quiet place," Stott said.
"Are any of those rooms occupied right now?"
Stott looked at the corkboard with the keys on it. "No."
"We're going to need the keys to six, eight, and ten."
"Sure," Stott said, hooking the keys off the board. He handed them to Byrne. "Can I ask what this is all about?"
"We have reason to believe that a serious crime was committed in one of your motel rooms in the past two weeks," Jessica said.
By the time the detectives reached the door Karl Stott had lit another cigarette.
Room number six was a close, musty space: lopsided queen-size bed with a busted frame, splintered laminate nightstands, stained lamp shades, cracked plaster walls. Jessica noticed a ring of crumbs on the floor around the small table by the window. The worn, dirty oatmeal-colored carpeting was mildewed and damp.
Jessica and Byrne both snapped on a pair of latex gloves. They checked the doorjambs, doorknobs, switch plates, looking for visible blood evidence. Given the amount of blood generated by the murder on the videotape, the possibility of splatters and smears throughout the motel room was great. They found none. None that was visible to the naked eye, that is.
They entered the bathroom, flipped on the light. After a few seconds, the fluorescent fixture over the mirror flickered to life, settling into a loud hum. For a moment, Jessica's stomach lurched. The room was identical to the bathroom on the Psycho tape.
Byrne, at six three, looked at the top of the shower rod with relative ease. "Nothing here," he said.
They poked around the small bathroom-lifting the toilet seat, running a gloved finger around the drain in both the tub and the sink, checking the grout in the tile around the tub as well as in the folds of the shower curtain. No blood.
They repeated the procedure in room eight, with similar results.
When they entered room ten, they knew. It was nothing obvious, or even something that most people would have noticed. They were seasoned police officers. Evil had walked here, and the malevolence all but whispered to them.
Jessica flipped on the light in the bathroom. This bathroom had been recently cleaned. There was a slight film on everything, a thin layer of grit left from too much cleanser and not enough rinse water. They had not found this coating in the other two bathrooms.
Byrne checked the top of the shower rod.
"Bingo," he said. "We've got our tag."
He held up the still photograph taken from the freeze-frame of the video. It was identical.
Jessica followed the sight line from the top of the shower rod. On the wall, where the camera must have been mounted, was an exhaust fan, located just a few inches from the ceiling.
She retrieved the desk chair from the other room, dragged it into the bathroom, stood on it. The exhaust fan had clearly been tampered with. Some of the enamel paint was chipped away from the two screws that held it in place. It appeared that the grate had recently been removed and replaced.
Jessica's heart began to race with that special rhythm. There was no other feeling in law enforcement like it.
Terry Cahill stood near his car in the Rivercrest Motel parking lot, talking on his cell phone. Detective Nick Palladino, who was now assigned to the case, began a canvass of the few neighboring businesses as they waited for the Crime Scene Unit. Palladino was about forty, roughly handsome, old-school South Philly Italian-meaning he ate his salad at the end of the meal, had a copy of Bobby Rydell's greatest hits in the tape deck in his car, and didn't take down his Christmas lights before Valentine's Day. He was also one of the best detectives in the unit.
"We need to talk," Jessica said, approaching Cahill. She noticed that, even though he was standing directly in the sun, and the temperature had to be in the mideighties, he had his suit coat on, tie up, and there wasn't a single drop of sweat on his face. Jessica was ready to dive into the nearest pool. Her clothes were sticky with perspiration.
"I'll have to get back to you," Cahill said into the phone. He closed it, turned to Jessica. "Sure. What's up?"
"You want to tell me what's going on here?"
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"It was my understanding that you were here to observe and make recommendations to the bureau."
"That's correct," Cahill said.
"Then why were you down in the AV Unit before we were briefed on the tape?"
Cahill looked at the ground for a moment, sheepish, caught. "I've always been a bit of a video nut," he said. "I'd heard you have a very good AV Unit and I wanted to see for myself."
"I'd appreciate it if you cleared these things with me or Detective Byrne in the future," Jessica said, already feeling the anger begin to diminish.