She moved to the board where the stills of the murder scene, the body, the graphs and charts from the probability scans and background checks run to date were already tacked.
"This wasn't a spree killing. It wasn't an impulse. It was planned, staged. It was performed. And it was recorded. I've got copies of the discs for everyone. We're going to watch the play, each of us, study it until we know the lines, the moves, so well we could go on the road with it ourselves.
"It's about twisting the law," she murmured. "About playing with it. And in the end, it's about a kind of justice. The murderer might see Draco's death that way. A kind of justice."
Feeney rattled the sugared nuts in the bag in his pocket. "Nobody loved him."
"Then we figure out who hated him most."
The boy's name was Ralph, and he looked both terrified and excited. He wore a battered Yankees jacket over his dull brown janitorial uniform. He either had a very bad haircut or, Roarke supposed, was sporting some new fashion. Whichever, he was forced to blow, sweep, or shake the ragged streams of dark hair out of his eyes on a continual basis.
"I didn't think you'd come yourself, sir." Part of Ralph's panicked excitement came from the idea of speaking face-to-face with the legendary Roarke. Everybody knew the man was totally ice. "Orders are to report anything out of the ordinary to control, so when I saw how the stage door wasn't locked and coded, I figured how I should report it right off."
"That's right. Did you go inside?"
"Well, I…" Ralph didn't see any point in admitting his over-active imagination hadn't let him get two feet beyond the door. "I started to, you know. Then I saw how there were lights on that aren't supposed to be on. I thought it was smarter to stay out here and… be guarding the door, like."
"Good thinking." Roarke crouched down, studied the locks, glanced up idly at the security camera. Its indicator light was off, and it shouldn't have been. "Do you usually work alone?"
"Oh no, sir. But since, you know, the building's closed because of that guy getting dead and stuff, my super asked one of the cleaning crew to volunteer for light maintenance. With the whole deal on opening night, nobody ever got to cleaning the bathrooms and stuff. The super, he said how the cops gave us clearance to go back in since they got what they needed already."
"Yes." Roarke had been informed only that morning that certain areas of the building were not cleared.
"We're not supposed to pass the police barriers onstage or back. Super said they'll give you a bitch of a shock if you try to mess with them."
"Super is quite correct."
"So, I'm just supposed to deal with the bathrooms is all. I popped for it 'cause I can use the money, you know?"
"Yes." Roarke straightened, smiled at the boy. "I know very well. Well then, Ralph is it? We'll just go in and see what's what."
"Sure." There was an audible gulp as Ralph stepped inside behind Roarke. "You know, they say a murderer always returns, like, to the scene of his crime."
"Do they?" Roarke's voice was mild as he scanned the area. "You'll learn there's very little always in the world, Ralph. But it's possible they could be right this time around."
The rooms beyond the anteroom were dark, but there was a backwash of light shining up the stairs from the lower level. Roarke started down, tucked a hand in his pocket where he'd slipped a small, illegal-for-civilian-use stunner when he'd gotten the call of a potential break-in.
He followed the glow toward the under-stage area.
He smelled home brew, the just-going-sour punch of it, and a nasty undertone he recognized as death.
"Yes, I'm afraid they're right this time," he murmured, then turned the corner.
"Oh, shit. Oh, man." Ralph's voice jumped over the words, and his eyes goggled at the figure dangling from a stout length of rope. "Is that a guy?"
"It was. If you're going to be sick, there's no shame in it, but find another place."
"Huh?"
Roarke glanced back. The boy's face was sheet white, his eyes going glassy. To keep it simple, Roarke simply pressed a hand on Ralph's shoulder and lowered him to the floor. "Put your head down, take slow breaths. That's the way, son. You'll do fine."
Turning from the boy, Roarke walked to the hanged man. "Poor, stupid bastard," he thought aloud, and took out his palm 'link to call his wife.
"Dallas. What? Roarke, I can't talk to you now. I'm up to my neck here."
"Speaking of necks. I'm looking at one now that's been considerably stretched. You'll need to come to the theater, Lieutenant, lower level. I've found another body for you."
Death demanded routine, even if the primary investigator's husband discovered the body.
"Can you identify him?" she asked Roarke, and signaled for Peabody to record the scene.
"Quim. Linus Quim. I checked the employment records after I called you. Head stagehand. He was fiftysix. Divorced, no children. He lived on Seventh – alone, according to his file."
"Did you know him personally?"
"No."
"Okay, stand by. Peabody, get me a ladder. I don't want to use this one until we've done a full sweep. Who's the kid?" she asked Roarke.
"Ralph Biden. One of the janitorial team. He was going to work solo today, saw the stage door was unlocked, and called it in."
"Give me times," Eve demanded as she studied the angle of the fallen ladder, the pattern of shattered glass from the broken brew bottle.
After one long stare, Roarke took out his log. "He contacted maintenance control at eleven twenty-three. I was alerted six minutes later and arrived on-scene at noon, precisely. Is that exact enough to satisfy, Lieutenant?"
She knew the tone and couldn't help it if he decided to be annoyed. Still, she scowled at his back and he walked away to take a small stepladder from Peabody.
"Did you or the kid touch anything?"
"I know the routine." Roarke set the ladder under the body. "Nearly as well as you by now."
She merely grunted, shouldered her field kit, and started up the ladder.
Hanging is an unpleasant death, and the shell left behind reflects it. It bulges the eyes, purples the face. He hadn't weighed more than one-twenty, Eve thought. Not enough, not nearly enough for the weight to drop down fast and heavy and mercifully snap his neck.
Instead, he'd choked to death, slowly enough to be aware, to fight, to regret.
With hands coated with Seal-It, she tugged the single sheet of cheap recycled paper out of his belt. After a quick scan, she handed the paper down. "Bag it, Peabody."
"Yes, sir. Self-termination?"
"Cops who jump to conclusions trip over same and fall on their asses. Call for a Crime Scene team, alert the ME we have an unattended death."
Chastised, Peabody pulled out her communicator.
Eve logged time of death for the recorder and examined the very precise hangman's knot. "Why self-termination, Officer Peabody?"
"Ah… subject is found hanged to death, a traditional method of self-termination, in his place of employment. There is a signed suicide note, a broken bottle of home brew with a single glass. There are no apparent signs of struggle or violence."
"First, people have been hanged as an execution method for centuries. Second, we have no evidence at this time the subject wrote the note found on-scene. Last, until a full examination of the body is complete, we cannot determine if there are other marks of violence. Even if there are not," Eve continued, backing down the ladder, "a man can be coerced into a noose."
"Yes, sir."
"On. the surface, it looks like self-termination. It's not our job to stop at the surface and assume but to observe, record, gather evidence, and eventually conclude."
Eve stepped away, studied the scene. "Why would a man come here to an empty theater; sit and drink a glass of brew; write a brief note; fashion himself a nice, tidy noose; secure it; walk up a ladder; then step off?"