A Slow Walk to Hell Page 4

  “Simon’s got half the team searching Talbot’s bedroom and his office,” Enrique explained.

  Amanda and I nodded; it was a given as to what Simon was hot to find.

  Enrique swung toward the corridor on our right, then pulled up, frowning at Amanda. “Problem?”

  She had stopped to study the oak front door. We could see the knob had already been dusted. Amanda looked at the nearest technician, a thin guy with tightly curled blond hair that looked suspiciously like Berber carpet.

  “Did you dust the door knob?” she asked him.

  “Yeah. Five prints. Three partials.”

  Amanda nodded slowly. Assuming the killer was moderately intelligent, the fact that he hadn’t wiped the knob indicated he either hadn’t entered through the front door or had worn gloves. Probably gloves.

  She glanced at Enrique. “You find signs of forced entry on any doors or windows?”

  “No.”

  “Major Talbot was home alone?”

  “As far as we know.”

  “Do you know if he went into work today or—”

  “The lunch plates in the kitchen suggest he took the day off. Either that or he came home early.”

  I scribbled a mental note to check with Talbot’s co-workers.

  Amanda’s eyes went to an electronic keypad on the wall. “How about the alarm? Was it on or off?”

  “What Simon got from Mrs. Chang was that it was off when she arrived. He couldn’t confirm with her whether Talbot usually set the alarm when he was home. Odds are he did. We also can’t rule out that the killer jumped him while he was outside.”

  Amanda and I were thoughtful at this possibility.

  “Anyway,” Enrique said, “Mrs. Johnson can probably tell us.” He picked imaginary lint off his suit and turned to go.

  Amanda said, “Mrs. Johnson?”

  Enrique was disappearing down the corridor. Amanda and I trailed after him, our heels clicking on the marble floor. We came to a game room. In addition to a pool table and a dart board, I noticed a single gold cross on otherwise bare walls.

  Amanda repeated her question about Mrs. Johnson. This time Enrique answered; she was another housekeeper.

  “Works part-time. Simon tried calling her, but she’s not home.”

  We passed a bathroom, then a well-equipped gym. Each contained a single cross on the walls and nothing else. Since we were obviously in the leisure section of the house, I finally deciphered Talbot’s logic when it came to displaying religious symbols. In rooms that served a strictly functional or nonreligious purpose, he’d hung up a solitary gold cross and left it at that.

  From a doorway at the far end, we heard a woman’s voice. Her tone was soft and soothing, as if addressing a child. “It’s okay, baby. I won’t hurt you. I only want to turn your head a little. There. That wasn’t so bad…”

  “Dr. Cantrell,” Amanda said.

  To clarify something Enrique had mentioned, I said to him, “Earlier you indicated that Talbot wasn’t necessarily close to his killer—”

  “No, but he must have known him. Why else would he let him in the house?”

  My point exactly.

  We were almost to the end room. Dr. Cantrell was still talking. Enrique slowed to a stop and appraised me. “We’re also pretty sure that the killer must have visited the house before.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of where he chose to kill Talbot.” Enrique nodded toward the open doorway just ahead. “It’s a soundproofed media room.”

  Amanda nodded grimly at the implication. I could only shake my head.

  “Yeah,” Enrique added, his voice hardening. “The cold-blooded bastard knew exactly where to take Talbot so he could work on him. He wanted a place where Talbot could scream his head off and no one would hear—”

  He broke off, looking past us. Amanda and I turned at the sound of clicking heels.

  A man in a long-tailed black tuxedo was entering the hallway, listening to a cell phone. His face was locked in a grimace. Moments later, he ended the call with a tight-lipped: “Yes, sir. We’ll be expecting you.”

  Tucking his cell phone into his jacket, he continued toward us, his eyes shifting between Amanda and me as if confused by something. A hesitant smile played across his lips.

  “I’m glad you could make it.”

  I had the distinct feeling Lieutenant Simon Santos wasn’t talking to me.

  Smoothly elegant.

  Those two words fit Simon to a T, and not only because he happened to be wearing a tuxedo instead of his trademark dark blue Brooks Brothers suit. A youthful thirty-eight, he was tall and dark, with a gaunt, unlined face topped by longish black hair combed straight back. Most people who meet him for the first time are unsettled by his piercing black eyes, which seem to look right through you. As he approached, those eyes were focused on Amanda and I was getting a funny feeling why.

  Stopping before Amanda, Simon squeezed her hand affectionately. This was an unexpected gesture and not only because he wasn’t into touching. He and Amanda had never been particularly close. Both strong willed and outspoken, they had a history of butting heads over the nuances of a case. Amanda often initiated their disagreements; she had a hard time blindly accepting Simon’s theories, even though he was usually proved right. That’s not to say she didn’t respect his opinions; she did. When Amanda agonized over whether to reveal how she felt toward me, Simon was the person she’d called for advice.

  “He was the obvious choice,” she said. “He’s one of your closest friends and I knew he’d give me a straight answer.”

  An accurate assessment, which explained why I was bothered by what I’d witnessed.

  Simon had squeezed Amanda’s left hand. He must have felt her engagement ring through the latex glove. But as Enrique had done, he offered no congratulatory comment.

  My earlier suspicion was reinforced and I tried to decide how I felt about it.

  Was I angry that Simon had known and hadn’t told me? Not really. Despite our friendship, I realized that if I’d been in his position, I’d probably have done the same thing.

  Turning to me, Simon was all smiles as he asked about Emily. He wasn’t simply making small talk; he genuinely wanted to know. Since Nicole’s death, he’d appointed himself Emily’s unofficial godfather.

  I told him about the dance, how beautiful Emily looked. As Simon listened, his mood became somber, his eyes going to the media room. From within, we heard Dr. Cantrell say, “I have to take your temperature, honey. Is that okay? Jerry, get some pictures before we cut the ropes. Maggie, hand me that knife—”

  “It’s a bad one, Martin,” Simon said quietly.

  Everyone in the world called me Marty, including my mother. Not Simon. “We’ve heard. Who was that on the phone?”

  “Congressman Harris.” He addressed Enrique, speaking quickly. “Pass the word that the congressman plans to arrive by nine-forty-five. Tell everyone I don’t anticipate a disruption in our activities. Also have Teriko check Talbot’s computer for a listing of his friends and acquaintances, including email contacts.”

  Enrique swung around to leave.

  “Oh,” Simon added, “and ask Richard to request printouts of phone calls that Talbot made over the past six months. From his home and his cell phones. Have the lists faxed to the car.”

  By car, he meant his limo, which had two satellite phone lines and all the high-tech communication equipment a millionaire homicide cop could ever want.

  As Enrique hurried away, I checked my watch. It was only eight-fifteen. “Harris wasn’t even supposed to land until nine-thirty.”

  “His flight departed early,” Simon said. “He should land at Reagan National in less than an hour. There’s a chance he could be delayed by en route weather, but for now, he wants us to assume that he will be on time. He’s determined to view his nephew’s body. I tried to advise him against it, but…” He shook his head.

  Simon hated outsiders barging into a crime scene. But he�
��d obviously gotten the word to handle Congressman Harris with kid gloves.

  When I asked, he said he hadn’t broached the topic of Talbot’s sexuality with the congressman. “What’s the point, Martin? Do you think he’d tell us the truth?”

  “Probably not.” Harris had spent political capital by publicly denying that his nephew was gay and odds were he wouldn’t change his story now.

  From the doorway, Cantrell said, “Take two more shots of his hands, Jerry. Zoom in close. Get the knot. That’s it. Careful of the blood.”

  Simon removed rosary beads from his jacket and we filed into the media room to see the body.

  5

  It was a windowless room roughly twenty feet square. The walls were dark blue, almost black, and were made of a porous, sound-absorbing material. A stocky man and a petite blonde woman stood just inside the door, backs to us. The guy checked us out and drifted over to make room. Peering over Simon and Amanda’s shoulders, I went clockwise and saw a refrigerator, a wet bar, a couple rows of plush theater chairs, and a wall-mounted movie screen. I could also make out the upper half of two people, a reed-thin man with a camera and a heavyset woman with short gray hair. They were standing in front of the screen, bending over something on the floor.

  “All right, Jerry,” Dr. Cantrell said to the photographer. “When I cut the rope, you shoot the ligature marks on the hands and the feet. Ready—”

  The room was punctuated by a series of clicks and flashes.

  I eased to the right. The chairs in the front row still blocked my view. I took another side step.

  And saw him.

  Christ—

  I tried to prepare myself for what I would see. But nothing can prepare you for this.

  Talbot was lying on his side, hands and feet bound behind him and secured to the legs of the theater chairs. His pullover shirt and jeans were stained dark red from numerous stab wounds to the torso and thighs. The zipper of his jeans was tented open and glistened with the tacky wetness of drying blood that had flowed down his right thigh and soaked into the carpet. From his televised press conference, I recalled Major Talbot had been an exceptionally handsome man, but he didn’t look handsome now.

  Kneeling, I forced myself to focus on his face. Talbot’s eyes were locked wide, staring sightlessly in horror. Thin strips of duct tape covered much of his mouth, except for a slight opening above his lower lip.

  That’s where I was looking now. At the tip of a penis that was sticking out.

  The camera stopped flashing and Dr. Cantrell and Jerry straightened. Cantrell held a surgical knife in one hand and two lengths of blood-stained rope in the other. As she passed them to the woman who was her assistant, Cantrell said to Jerry, “Get me prints as soon as you can.”

  “Sure, Doc.” He gathered his equipment and left the room.

  Cantrell stretched her ample frame. “Jesus, my back’s killing me. I’m getting too old for this.” She focused on Amanda and me. “Long time since I’ve seen the Air Force. What’s it been? Couple years?”

  Amanda nodded mutely. “About,” I said.

  “Do you have an estimate for the time of death, Doctor?” Simon asked.

  “Give a girl a chance, huh?” Cantrell motioned to her assistant and the two women wormed Talbot’s jeans below his buttocks. As they did this, Doctor Cantrell kept a running conversation with Talbot’s body, saying things like, “I don’t like this any more than you do, Franklin. But you heard the man, you’ve got to tell us when you died. It won’t take long. We’ll find who did this to you. I promise, honey.”

  Anyone who witnesses Cantrell talking to a corpse for the first time assumes that she has to be a little nuts. If she is, it’s certainly understandable. Several years earlier, she got called out to process a young male who been killed in a car jacking. Since the victim’s wallet was missing, no one knew who he was. When Cantrell arrived, she got the shock of her life.

  The victim was her son.

  Dr. Cantrell resisted all attempts to get her to leave. She was determined to process his body and by all accounts, did so in a calm, efficient manner. According to the cops on the scene, she gave no outward indication that she was working on her son, except for the loving way she spoke to his corpse.

  She’s continued the practice ever since.

  Cantrell extended her hand. “Maggie. The thermometer—”

  Her assistant produced a long rectal thermometer from a black case.

  Two minutes later, Cantrell had her reading and passed the thermometer back to her assistant. Stepping around the bloodied carpet, she approached Simon and Amanda. “Between four-thirty and five-thirty P.M. I can narrow it down, if you can tell me when he last ate.”

  Simon said, “We’re checking. It would have been lunch; the housekeeper had come to make dinner. How many wounds?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Including the fingers?”

  “Fingers?” I said. Amanda and I swung around to look at Talbot’s hands. Because they were tied behind his back, we’d missed seeing the injuries to his fingers.

  “Yeah,” Cantrell said to Simon. To us: “The tips of the index and forefinger on his left hand are crushed. Probably by pliers.”

  Amanda and I saw the tips of pulverized bone and flesh now. Enrique had called it. Whatever Talbot knew, he’d revealed to the killer.

  Simon said to Cantrell, “You still conclude that the cause of death was cardiac arrest due to blood loss?”

  A nod. “None of the other wounds are fatal, per se. Figured it took Talbot three, four minutes to expire, once his penis was severed.” She sighed, looking down at Talbot. “Real shame. He was a good looking kid. For him to die like this…”

  The room fell silent, all eyes on Talbot’s corpse. We were picturing his final moments, as he lay there wracked with pain, swallowing and gagging as his life ebbed away.

  “The sick son of bitch,” Amanda muttered.

  I had a theory about why the killer felt the need to stab the victim and also crush his fingers. When I mentioned it, I saw nods from both Simon and Cantrell. This was something they’d discussed.

  “You’re correct, Martin,” Simon said. “The killer stabbed Talbot repeatedly, trying to make him reveal information. Talbot must have resisted, so the killer increased the pain level by crushing his fingers. When he got what he wanted, he finished Talbot off.”

  “It appears,” Amanda said, “that there must have been more than one killer. It would take at least two people to tie up Talbot. One to hold a gun on him while the second person bound him.”

  “Could still be a single perp.” Cantrell motioned to her assistant. “Maggie, be a dear and pass me the rope.”

  After Maggie handed over a plastic bag which contained the bloodied rope, Cantrell held it up to us. “Slip knots. Easy enough for one person to keep a gun on Talbot while he slipped the loop over his wrists and cinched it tight.” She passed the bag back to Maggie.

  Of course this didn’t prove there wasn’t more than one killer, but only that one person was capable of securing and torturing Talbot.

  Simon shrugged. “For now, we’ll assume a single perpetrator.”

  “Information,” I said suddenly.

  All eyes went to me, but I was looking at Simon. He knew what I was asking.

  “Assuming Talbot was killed for information,” he said, “that would seem to rule out a hate crime. I understand Major Talbot worked in the Pentagon…”

  I said, “Talbot’s office served an administrative function. He wouldn’t have been exposed to classified information. Certainly nothing anyone would kill him for.”

  “You’re convinced the motive was unrelated to his military duties?”

  “That’s the most likely conclusion. Yes.”

  A faint smile. He’d already determined this. “Excuse me, Doctor.”

  When Cantrell moved aside, Simon knelt over Major Talbot, fingered his rosary beads, and began to pray.

  Simon recited his two favorite Psal
ms dealing with death, the twenty-third and the thirtieth. This was another of his unique talents, an ability to accurately recall information stored in his mental Rolodex.

  When he finished, Simon crossed himself and rose, looking down at Talbot. He took a couple of shallow breaths and seemed to struggle with his composure. “I want who did this,” he said with feeling.

  “Join the club,” Amanda said.

  His eyes sought hers and something unspoken passed between them. She placed a reassuring hand on his back and left it there. Another indication that their relationship had become much closer than I realized.

  I told myself not to read to much into it. But I couldn’t forget Amanda’s ring and inference that came with it.

  Bob had money.

  As Amanda withdrew her hand, Simon said to Cantrell, “You appreciate the priority of this case?”

  “Relax, Simon. I’ll have the autopsy finished by tonight. Say around two.” Addressing her assistant, Cantrell said, “Maggie, bag his hands and feet. Leave the duct tape on his mouth. I’ll remove that when—problem, Simon?”

  Moving toward her with an apologetic expression, Simon explained that Congressman Harris would arrive in a little over an hour to view his nephew.

  “Aw, Christ.” Cantrell threw up her hands and appeared really put out. “Why can’t he come down to the morgue? We can be there in thirty minutes.”

  “I’ve explained that would be preferable. He insisted he wanted to view the body here.”

  Cantrell grimaced in frustration. “Fine. What do I care? So I’ve got to stay up half the night. It’s not like someone my age needs beauty sleep. I assume it’s okay to prep the body for transport and Nate here can still do his thing.”

  “Of course.”

  On cue, Maggie and the criminalist Nate went to work. Nate’s job was to scour the room for trace evidence left behind by the killer.

  To Simon, Cantrell said, “Let Maggie know when she can transport the body. Me, I’m going to get some dinner. Prima donna politicians give me a headache. The morgue is closer to the airport, but you know that. If I were you, I’d ask myself why the hell he really is coming here.” She punctuated the comment with a knowing look, popped off her gloves, and walked out.