Killer Takes All

CHAPTER 20

Tuesday, March 8, 2005

11:15 p.m.

Spencer stood on the sidewalk in front of the dilapidated fourplex, waiting for Tony. The other man had arrived just behind him, but had yet to emerge from his vehicle. He was on his cell phone; his conversation appeared to be a heated one. No doubt the infamous teenager Carly, Spencer thought. Back for round twelve.

He turned his attention to the street, the rows of homes, most of them multifamily units. On a desirability scale, this Bywater neighborhood ranked no better than a three, though he supposed that depended on one’s perspective. Some would die to live here, others would kill themselves first.

One corner of his mouth lifted in a grim smile. And some, simply, would have death thrust upon them.

He shifted his gaze to the fourplex. The first officers had cordoned off the area and yellow crime-scene tape was draped across the front porch. In its youth, the structure had been a nice middle-class home, roomy enough for a big family. Sometime during its life, as the area had slid into disrepair and disfavor, it’d been divided into a multifamily residence, its handsome facade replaced with that awful tar-paper siding popular after World War II.

Spencer turned at the sound of a car door slamming. Tony had finished his conversation; though by his thunderous expression Spencer suspected it was far from over.

“Have I told you I hate teenagers?” he said as he reached Spencer.

“Repeatedly.” They fell into step together. “Thanks for coming.”

“Any excuse to get out of the house these days.”

“Carly’s not that bad,” Spencer said, grinning. “You’re just old, Pasta Man. ”

Tony glowered at him. “Don’t mess with me, Slick. Not now. The kid’s pushed me to the breaking point.”

“Cop goes postal. Sounds ugly. Very ugly.” Spencer lifted the crime-scene tape for Tony, then ducked under himself. A scrawny dog stood at the neighbor’s chain-link fence, watching them. He hadn’t barked the entire time, a fact Spencer found odd.

They crossed to the first officer, a woman his brother Percy had dated. It hadn’t ended well. “Hello, Tina.”

“Spencer Malone. I see you’ve moved up in the world.”

“Livin’ large in the Big Easy.”

“How’s that no-good brother of yours?”

“Which one? I’ve got several who answer to that description.”

“That you do. Present company included.”

“No denials from me, Officer DeAngelo.” He smiled. “What’ve we got?”

“Upper-right unit. Victim in the bathtub. Fully dressed. Rosie Allen’s her name. Lived alone. Tenant directly below called it in. Water dripping from the ceiling. She tried to rouse the woman, couldn’t and called us.”

“Why’d you call us and not DIU?”

“This one had ISD written all over it. Killer left us a calling card.”

Spencer frowned. “The neighbor hear anything? See anything that seemed suspicious?”

“No.”

“What about the other neighbors?”

“Nothing.”

“Crime-scene guys called?”

“On their way. Coroner’s rep as well.”

“Touch anything?”

“Checked her pulse and turned off the water. Moved the shower curtain. That’s it.”

Spencer nodded; he and Tony started up the walk. When he reached the unit’s open door, he stopped and turned. “I’ll tell Percy you asked about him.”

“If you want to die. No problem.”

Chuckling, he and Tony climbed the stairs, which emptied into the unit’s living room. It had been converted into a workroom, complete with two sewing tables fitted with sewing machines, both commercial-quality machines, from the look of them. Baskets heaped with clothing sat along one wall, along another, racks of hanging garments, one entirely costumes. The kind that got big applause at the gay fashion show during Carnival. Lots of sparkle. Overdone to the extreme. Against the far wall sat an old couch. In front of it a battered coffee table. A stack of paperback novels sat on its top, one upside down, propped open. Beside it a pretty china teacup and saucer. Old-fashioned-looking. Feminine.

Spencer crossed to the table. The cup was empty save for the dregs of the beverage. A half-eaten cookie perched on the saucer.

He shifted his attention to the books. Romances. A few mysteries. Even a western. He didn’t recognize any of the titles.

“No TV,” Tony said disbelievingly. “Everybody has a television.”

“Maybe it’s in the bedroom.”

“Maybe.”

From behind them came the sound of the techs arriving. Like a herd of cattle tromping up the wooden stairs. Not waiting to greet their colleagues, Spencer motioned Tony toward the bathroom. They’d been the first to arrive; they’d earned the right to be first to examine the scene.

The unit had one bathroom, located at the back of the apartment, between the bedroom and the kitchen. An inch of water stood on the black-and-white checked tile floor. Nothing looked out of place-save for the slippered feet and bony legs sticking out of the end of the claw-footed tub.

Spencer skimmed his gaze over the room. A virgin scene told tales, in a whisper, drowned out by too many warm bodies. Not always. But sometimes…if they were lucky.

Spencer stepped into the room. And he felt it, a kind of presence. A kind of echo of the act that made his skin crawl.

He swept his gaze over the room, hardly big enough for the tub, nestled against the far wall. The vinyl curtain, mounted on a circular rod, had been pushed to the backside of the tub.

They crossed to the tub. Tony muttered something about his shoes being ruined. Spencer didn’t acknowledge him. He couldn’t take his eyes from the woman.

She stared up at him from her watery grave, her eyes a faded blue. Had they faded with age? he wondered. Or death? Her hair circled her head like gray sea grass, weightless. Her mouth was open.

She wore a chenille robe, the same color as her eyes. A white cotton gown underneath. The pink fuzzy slippers perched on her feet were dry.

Those eyes, her unseeing gaze, called to him. Seemed to beg him to listen.

Spencer leaned closer. Tell me. I’m listening.

She’d been ready for bed. Reading. Enjoying a cup of tea and a cookie. Judging by the condition of the bathroom and the dry slippers, she hadn’t fought her attacker.

Her hands, hovering helplessly below the water’s surface, looked clean.

“This is a strange one,” Tony said. “Where’s that calling card?”

“Good question. Let’s check-”

“Smile, boys, you’re on Candid Camera.”

They turned. The camera’s flash popped, and the tech-squad photographer grinned at them. Employed by the NOPD but not sworn officers, some of the tech guys were downright bizarre, Ernie Delaroux among them. Spencer had heard rumors that the man kept a personal album of photos from every scene he’d shot-his own little book of horrors.

“Screw off, Ernie.”

The man only laughed and splashed noisily into the room, like a five-year-old through a puddle.

Chasing away the whispers, Spencer thought. Before he’d had the chance to make them out.

“Loopy bastard,” Tony muttered, making room for the man to get his shots.

“I heard that,” he called, sounding almost gleeful.

“Hello, boys.”

The greeting came from Ray Hollister. “Hello, Ray. Welcome to the party.”

“A dubious honor.” He squinted at the floor. “This is going to ruin my shoes. I liked these shoes.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Tony said.

The Orleans Parish coroner employed six pathologists. Those six, also called coroner’s investigators, visited the scene of every death in the parish. At the scene with them was a driver, also employed by the Coroner’s Office, whose duty it was to secure and load the body-and to photograph the scene. Not only did the Coroner’s Office want their own photographic record, but the dual records often proved invaluable in court.

It was imperative that the photos be taken before the body was disturbed.

Ray waited while the two men snapped their shots. “What happened here?” he asked.

“We were hoping you’d tell us.”

“Sometimes there’s a rabbit in my hat, sometimes there’s not.”

Spencer nodded. Any cop worth his salt knew that’s the way it worked. Some cases closed so easily and quickly, it was as if by magic. Others presented one brick wall after another-no matter how skilled or conscientious the crime-scene team.

The nature of the beast.

“Victim appears to have drowned,” Spencer said. “Position of legs and feet indicate a homicide, but there’s no sign of a struggle. Weird.”

“I’ve seen weirder, Detective Malone.” Both photographers finished and went on to capture the rest of the scene on film. Ray fitted on gloves and crossed to the tub. “Evidence is going to be a bitch, because of the water.”

“Tell us something we don’t know.”

“I’ll try, Detectives. Give me a few minutes.”

Spencer and Tony made their way to the front room. The fingerprint techs were already at work. Spencer and Tony circled around them and into the bedroom. Bed neatly turned back. Dirty clothes in a hamper. Untouched glass of water on the bedside table; a small white pill waiting beside it.

Nothing out of order. Not a single sign of anything amiss.

Like a stage set, Spencer thought. A moment frozen in time. It gave him the creeps.

They thumbed through the closets and drawers, then headed for the small kitchen. It was in good order like the rest of the apartment. A tin of butter cookies sat on the counter. A box of tea beside it. Sleepytime, Spencer saw.

“Love those cookies,” Tony said. “Wife refuses to buy ’ em anymore. Too much fat, she says.”

Spencer looked at his partner. “She’s a smart lady, Pasta Man. You should listen to her.”

“Kiss mine, Slick.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass. Big hairy butts aren’t my thing.”

Tony chuckled. “So what do you think? What happened to Rosie?”

“She was ready for bed. Robe, slippers, bed turned back.”

Tony nodded and took over. “She’s sitting on the couch, having a cup of tea and a cookie, reading a few pages before turning in.”

“The doorbell rings. She answers and bam! Goodbye, Rosie.”

“Knew the guy, I’m thinking. That’s why she opens the door in her robe, lets the guy in. That’s why there’s no struggle.”

“But wouldn’t she have resisted when she realized the situation was going south? It still doesn’t work for me.”

“He incapacitates her, my friend.”

“How?”

“Maybe Ray can tell us that.”

When they reached the bathroom, they saw Ray already had the victim’s hands bagged.

“Hands look clean,” the man said, not looking at them. “No blood, no bruising. Nothing appears broken. I suspect we’ll find water in her lungs.”

“No sign of a blow to the head, anything like that?”

“Nope.”

“Can you give me anything, Ray?”

He looked over his shoulder at them. “Got yourself a real mystery, boys. Take a look at this.”

He pushed the shower curtain away from the back wall. Spencer sucked in a sharp breath. Tony whistled.

The calling card. A message scrawled on the tile wall behind the curtain, in what appeared to be lipstick. A god-awful shade of orange.

Poor Little Mouse. Drowned in a pool of tears.