Cold Case

6

After nearly having his face peeled off by gusts of wind-borne ice, Matt was glad for the shelter of the police patrol car. He’d had to open his coat to get out his wallet-phone and call for help. For the rest of the time he and his father had stood at the scene of the accident, Matt hadn’t been able to shake the resulting chill.

Maybe it was psychological, a reaction to standing beside a dead body. There was no doubt that Ed Saunders was dead. Matt had tried to resuscitate him, but it was like working with a very stiff dummy. He knew it was hopeless, but he’d had to try. Saunders’s cold flesh had just sucked away more of Matt’s body heat. Worst of all was the knowledge that the effort was a lost cause. Saunders already had a thin coating of ice over his eyeballs.

All in all, Matt had been glad when the police officers had arrived and put him in the stuffy warmth of their squad car. But the smell was wearing on him now. It stank of harsh cleanser and, under that, just the barest trace of vomit. Matt gulped against a suddenly rebellious stomach, wishing he hadn’t recognized that other scent.

He tried to distract himself by thinking of what lay ahead. His dad wasn’t with him. Gordon Hunter was sitting in the sector sergeant’s car, which had arrived just a moment after the ambulance Matt had called. But the paramedics had stayed in the meat wagon while the cops stood hunched in their blue parkas, guarding the scene of the accident — or, perhaps, of the crime.

It looked to Matt as if Saunders had slipped on the ice and cracked his head on the curb. But as he sat in the caged rear of the patrol car, he had to admit the possibility that Saunders might have had his head cracked before he hit the ground. No wonder the cops had been so interested in the people who had found the body and called in the accident. That’s why they’d separated him from his father — so neither would hear the other’s story.

So, what would Monty Newman have done in this situation? There was at least one Lucullus Marten novel where the assistant sleuth had been accused of murder….

Annoyingly, Matt’s thoughts refused to get together and stay together. His eyes kept closing. The warm air wafting from the car’s heater was putting him to sleep.

The blast of cold air and ice that invaded the car when the door opened was a shock. But Matt got an even bigger shock when he managed to focus his eyes. He knew the man leaning into the car. It was David Gray’s father.

Martin Gray was a detective for the D.C. police — on the homicide squad. He looked almost as surprised to see Matt as Matt was to see him. “You’re a long way from home — on a night when most people would prefer to stay there,” David’s dad said.

Matt replied with a bone-cracking yawn. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I was dozing off in here.” He blinked. “My father and I were going to see Ed Saunders, the — the man out there.” Matt pointed through the fogged window toward the curbside.

“It must have been pretty important to come out in the middle of a storm,” Martin Gray prompted.

“Seemed so at the time,” Matt said. “I’d better start at the beginning.” He told the detective about the sim and the resulting problems. “Is there some reason to think that Saunders was killed?” he asked when he’d finished.

“I wouldn’t exactly call you a suspect,” Martin Gray replied dryly. “But what you tell me does explain something we found on the late Mr. Saunders.” He held up a piece of paper. “I guess you didn’t notice this in his pocket.”

Matt shuddered. “I was just trying to give him CPR.” An unpleasant memory intruded — how Saunders’s ice-impregnated coat had crackled under his hands while Matt tried to revive him.

“Saunders must have been working on an answer for those lawyers you mentioned.” Detective Gray held out the paper. It was a computer printout, but somebody had attacked the crisp letters with a smeary ballpoint pen. Lots of words had been scribbled over, with whole new sections of the letter put in by hand. “Is that the name of the law firm? Do you recognize any of the names in the list down here?”

Matt looked over out the top of the letter for the address and name of the law firm, and got a quick glimpse of the list of what he guessed were Ed’s sim users before Martin Gray covered the addresses. A line of names ran down the left in the body of the letter, with addresses on the right. “That’s the firm,” he said. “As I told you before, I don’t know the real names of the sim users, only the names of the characters they were playing.”

Even as he spoke, though, Matt was frantically trying to memorize those real names now. He only caught one name and address, and another name from the next line.

T. Flannery he thought, trying to memorize the next part. 2545 Decatur Place. The next name was K. Jones, and that was all that Matt’s sleep-deprived and shock-dulled brain managed to hold on to. He repeated them silently until they seemed to be echoing in his head. “You think one of these people did…that?” Matt gestured again out the window. More police had arrived, taking pictures and checking the area. Now they stepped back to let the paramedics slip Ed Saunders into a body bag.

“I don’t know. To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t necessarily be here, except that the sector sergeant is a friend of mine…and I happened to be in the neighborhood.” Detective Gray shrugged. “Whenever anybody who’s not directly under a doctor’s care passes away, the case is treated as a possibly suspicious death.”

Matt shook his head. “Boy, I thought school was tough — but if you need a doctor’s note for this!”

His half-punchy comment got a laugh out of Martin Gray. Then the expression on the police officer’s face sobered.

“Yeah, well,” David’s dad said. “On the other hand, Mr. Saunders isn’t really going to care about it, now…is he?”

Leif was lying in bed, surrounded by books about the Callivants, when the chimes announcing an incoming call began to ring. He swung both feet to the floor and activated his bedroom console. A second later a holo image swam into view — a very pink-faced Matt Hunter. Before he could speak, Leif erupted in a thunderous sneeze.

“I guess I wasn’t the only one who was out in the weather,” Matt said, massaging his cheeks. “I still can’t quite feel my face.”

“Sounds charming,” Leif sneezed again and scrabbled for a tissue to wipe his runny nose.

“Not as charming as what you’ve got,” Matt shot back with a grin. “You don’t look your usual suave self.”

Leif looked down at the old sweatsuit he was using as pajamas, his nose wrinkling from the pungent scent of the herbal rub his mother had insisted on slathering over his chest. “Just be glad you can’t smell me.” He looked keenly at his friend. “What sent you out into the howling blizzard? Is it something to do with your problems?”

Matt nodded. “I’ve got a new one now. Ed Saunders is dead and the cops are investigating.”

Leif stopped dabbing at his nose. “You think one of your playmates resented this deadline of his that much?”

“Who knows? As far as I can tell, he didn’t let us know how things had turned out. When I tried to call, I got his automatic message system. Dad and I finally took the Metro, hoping to talk this out face-to-face. We were half a block from his address when we found him — literally in the gutter.”

“What happened? Murder most foul? Hit-and-run? A falling icicle?” Leif was downright disappointed when he heard that Saunders had most likely been the victim of a fatal slip on the icy sidewalk.

“David’s dad has no sense of drama,” Leif complained.

“I’m sure that’s the last thing he wants in his job,” Matt agreed. When he went on to describe the letter and the attached list, Leif’s interest quickened.

“The List of Ed Saunders,” he said in a throbbing voice. “No, it’s not going to work as a title. “The List of Edward Saunders. Or maybe The Curious Case of Edward Saunders.”

“Be hard to top the book you’ve got in your hand,” Matt replied. “What is that? Political Crimes and Misdemeanors?”

Leif held up the book he’d brought along with him. “Just something I borrowed from Mrs. O’Malley,” he said. “It’s got some stuff about the death in Haddington.”

“That’s the last thing I have to worry about,” Matt said. “Right now I have to see how this death in Washington affects what’s going on with the Callivant lawyers.” Matt hesitated for a second. “I got a look at that list you were kidding about.”

“Really? I don’t suppose there was anybody you recognized.” Leif grinned. “I always figured Maj Greene for a secret Lucullus Marten fan.”

Matt shook his head. “No friends, no enemies, no obvious murderers. Just a bunch of unknown names.”

Leif looked expectantly at his friend’s image. “So did you copy them all down? We could check them out.”

“I got one name and address, and one more name.” He looked embarrassed.

“That’s it?” Leif asked.

“Hey, I’d just struggled through a storm with a lawsuit hanging over my head, I found a body and gave CPR to a cold corpse, and when I was just about frozen stiff, then I was put as a possible homicide suspect into a police car with the heater doing overtime. I had just about zonked off when David’s dad started talking to me.”

“At least you got two out of five.”

Matt scowled. “More like one out of five. Do you know how many K. Joneses there are in this city?”

Leif laughed, then coughed. “Not to mention the surrounding suburban counties. I take it that’s the name that didn’t have the address?”

Matt nodded. “The other is T. Flannery.” He reeled off the rest of the address.

“Decatur Place?” Leif closed his eyes, calling up a mental map. “That’s a street up by Dupont Circle. Pretty nice address.” The area was in Northwest Washington, where developers now waged a continual war with people who wanted to preserve the old buildings in the neighborhood. “Have you checked it out?”

“There’s no listing for a T. Flannery at that address,” Matt replied.

“And why would anybody give an unlisted connection, even for a noncommercial test sim like Saunders was running?” Leif felt his lips twitch into a smile. “I begin to see why you decided to call me.”

Still maintaining his connection with Matt, Leif warmed up his computer and began giving some orders. Besides communications codes, he had access to a wider range of trace programs and databases — some of them even legal — than Matt did.

“The city directory doesn’t show a T. Flannery living at that address,” Leif announced, looking at the print display now floating beside the image of Matt’s head. “No rent records, or condo mortgages. But I’ve got clear indications of electrical bills, water bills, and sewage lines going to the property. It’s not empty land. So who owns that chunk of D.C.?”

A second later, and he was taking in the results of his search, frowning.

“What is it?” Matt said, leaning forward as if he could peer around Leif and see whatever he was reading.

“The owner of the property at 2545 Decatur is the Roman Catholic Diocese of Washington. It’s St. Adelbert’s Church.” Leif glanced at his friend. “Which means you either misread the list — or T. Flannery is using a fake address.”

“The list was printed out,” Matt said. “That address was probably the only part of the letter that hadn’t been scratched over and edited.” He thought for a moment, then shook his head decisively. “I don’t think I messed it up.”

“Then we have somebody hiding behind a church. Somebody—” Leif’s triumphant speech was interrupted by another sneeze.

“Gesundheit,” Matt said. “I’m glad I’m only here in holoform. I’d hate to catch what you’re spreading.”

“Thanks for all the sympathy,” Leif said with considerable irony. “We’re looking here at somebody who would maybe make a reasonable suspect for prying around in sealed records,” Leif pressed on, then went for broke. “Somebody who might even have a reason to shut Saunders up — permanently.”

“Oh, please!” Matt burst out. “That was an accident. Tomorrow’s news reports are going to be full of the statistics from this storm. X number of inches of snow. X number of car accidents. So many people injured by mishaps on the ice.”

“And so many dead.” Leif tilted his head, a look of grudging admiration on his face. “If you wanted to get rid of somebody, it would be a perfect time.”

“Even David’s father hinted that he didn’t see anything more than an accident — and he’s a homicide detective.” Matt crossed his arms, the man with the proof.

“A homicide detective called to a scene where usually you get a couple of patrol cops, the local sergeant, and somebody from the medical examiner’s office. That’s the way they do it in New York.” An elderly neighbor of the Andersons had abruptly dropped dead in their condominium lobby. Although she was wealthy — anybody who lived at that address would have to be — that was as far as the NYPD went on a case of doubtful death.

Matt, however, wasn’t really listening. He was still wrestling with the problem of another address. “Could this T. Flannery be homeless?” he suggested. “I know the problem’s a lot better than it used to be, but it’s not completely fixed. I know that churches sometimes offer the homeless a place to stay.”

“And, of course, access to their computer systems, so the homeless folk can play detective games,” Leif added, shaking his head. “It doesn’t add up, Matt.”

He turned back to his computer. “Well, there’s one way we can find out.” He asked for the communications code for St. Adelbert’s Roman Catholic Church, then told his system to connect with that number.

A second later the image of a young man in a sport shirt appeared beside Matt. The guy was sitting behind a office desk, holding some papers. “St. Adelbert’s Church,” he said pleasantly.

“I’m trying to get hold of a T. Flannery, and this was the number I was given,” Leif responded.

The young man on the other end of the connection smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid Father Tim is at the hospital right now. All those accidents this evening. Is it something about the youth ministry? I could help you with that. Or would you like to leave a message?”

“A message for Father Tim. Yes, maybe that’s the best way.” Leif fought to control the grin tugging at his lips. He gave his name and communications code. “Tell him it’s about a mystery — a sorrowful mystery.”