Prolonged Exposure

Chapter 32

Approached from the interstate, the Posadas Inn looked about as cheerful and clean as neon and plastic could make it. The front of the motel faced southeast, with a covered portal. The generous parking lot circled the building. As we approached from the village, I could see the flutter of yellow tape under the harsh illumination of the parking lot’s sodium-vapor lights.

The barricade had been set up to include a service entrance, the sidewalk in front of it, and about a third of an acre of the parking lot itself. A November night hadn’t attracted many guests to Posadas, and if anyone had parked around behind the motel, they had evidently been asked to move.

Under normal circumstances, a homicide would have attracted enough patrol cars to equip a sizable fleet. Every law officer in whistling distance would want a share, or, at the very least, a private tour-if for no other reason than to break the monotony.

But the place was damn near vacant. I recognized Martin Holman’s brown Buick, and one of our department’s older marked units. Parked on the opposite side of the roped-off area was one of the Posadas Village Police units, its red lights pulsing.

Sheriff Holman, a portable radio in one hand and a cellular phone in the other, stood near the door marked SERVICE ONLY. He was in animated conversation with DeWayne Sands, the night manager of the motel, gesticulating over his shoulder as he talked.

DeWayne did not look happy. He was well over fifty and going to flab. Standing outside in the chill November night while watching police take over his motel to find out who had whacked one of his guests was enough to make his blood pressure go over the top. I recognized all the signs, even from across the parking lot.

Holman saw us and said into the handheld radio, “Back door over here, Bill.” By then, I was already out of the patrol car, concentrating on keeping up with Estelle’s dogged pace. She ducked under the ribbon when she reached the sidewalk that skirted the bank of heat-pump units.

“DeWayne,” Holman was saying as we approached, “you’re going to have to make doubly sure that no one comes or goes until we say otherwise. And I mean no one, and I mean from the entire motel. I don’t care if their room is a mile away on the other wing. No night staff, no maintenance crew, no patrons. If you’ve got a long-haul trucker who needs to leave, make sure you clear him through me or Chief Martinez. No one comes and no one goes. Understood?”

“Well, sure, but-”

“No buts,” Holman said, and he steered Sands away from the door. Sands trudged off down the sidewalk, muttering to himself. “In here, Bill, Estelle.”

The service door opened into a small foyer. Immediately on the left was a flight of stairs. Yellow plastic taped it off top and bottom. Directly ahead of us, a hallway stretched beyond the limits of my eyesight, ending eventually, I knew, in the front foyer, with restaurant to the left and check-in desk to the right.

Another hallway took off to the right, beyond the game room and the ice and soda machines, and that’s where Marty Holman led us. He walked on the right side of the hallway, sticking close to the wall.

“The victim’s name is Roberto Madrid,” he said over his shoulder. “At least that’s what some rental-car paperwork we found in the room says. Other than that, we don’t know.”

The rooms began with 140 on the right and 141 on the left. About halfway down the hallway, Holman stopped. That was just as well. I was running out of breath. It wasn’t exercise, but anxiety, the kind of awful jolt to the nerves that I hadn’t felt in more than a decade.

He pointed at the door at the far end. Standing beside it were Chief Eduardo Martinez and one of his part-time officers, George Bohrer. “That door leads to the west parking lot. It’s one of those deals that’s locked after nine P.M. under normal circumstances. There’s some evidence that the door was used by the assailant.”

“Martin,” I started to say, but the sheriff held up a hand. He lowered his voice. “I wouldn’t have called you over here if I didn’t think it was important.”

We stopped in front of the door to 167, two rooms from the end of the hall. Holman held up a hand again, like a cavalry trooper halting his patrol. The door was open, and, looking inside, I could see two chairs crashed together against one wall, the mattress askew, and glass from the shattered TV’s picture tube scattered across the pale blue carpet.

“Who did prints?” Estelle asked quietly.

“Torrez,” Holman replied. “And myself. But we’ve got a lot more to do.” He indicated the outline of the body, white chalk on blue carpet. “There’s no one else staying in this wing, which is peculiar. But one of the other patrons who had come down for some ice heard a ruckus. He says one or two gunshots, not very loud. Maybe three shots at the most-he’s not sure. And then he heard what might have been a loud groan. He’s not sure about that, either.”

“Where’s this he?” I asked.

“Waiting up in the manager’s office,” Holman said. “The body was lying in a fetal position on its right side, facing the bed.” He stepped closer to the outline. “Maybe he was trying to reach the telephone here on the nightstand. I’m not sure.” Holman sighed. “At any rate, he didn’t make it.”

“Who actually came into the room first?” I asked.

“The night manager.”

“The victim was dead?”

“No. The manager-”

“Is this DeWayne you’re talking about?”

“DeWayne Sands, right. He says he entered the room, and that the victim was gasping and appeared unconscious. At any rate, he didn’t respond to questions. The night manager says he saw blood on the victim’s shirt and went directly to call police. Bob Torrez says it was a small-caliber weapon, like a twenty-two. Bob Torrez was the first to arrive, and the man was still alive at that time. EMTs transported him, and they said he was alive when they reached the hospital. Still unconscious, but alive.”

“No blood on the carpet,” I said. “That’s interesting. So who the hell is Roberto Madrid, and what was it that you wanted us to see that’s connected to…” My voice trailed off, refusing to frame the words.

“Look over here.” Holman walked around the outline of the man’s body and circled the bed. “We’ve got a blood splash here,” he said, pointing down by the second nightstand, “that continues up onto the wall. There’s more blood back here by the sink. And then right here, on the entrance to the bathroom.”

I nodded. “Other wounds on the victim?”

Holman shook his head. “He was shot twice, once under the left armpit, once in the back. Like I said, small-caliber weapon. He didn’t bleed much.”

“Then what accounts for all this?” I said.

“Someone else was here, and got hurt,” Holman said. “Badly. Step over here really carefully.” He motioned me toward the bathroom. Estelle hung back, her eyes locked on the chalk outline on the floor.

The doorknob and doorjamb were smeared with blood, heavy smears that indicated serious bleeding. A splatter of blood dotted across the counter and the bathroom sink, and there was a partial handprint on the polished vinyl, smeared into the blood as if the person had staggered and caught himself.

“Right here,” Holman said, and knelt down. The blood on the floor was more than spots. Whoever had been bleeding had fallen, or slumped here. One of the blood sprays had been smeared by a footprint, so clear and well defined that it sent chills up and down my spine. I could see the imprint of the toes, the narrow curve past the high arch.

“Estelle, come in here,” I called. My response to what I was seeing was automatic. It was only after the words were out of my mouth that I regretted them. In a moment, I could feel her presence behind me. I straightened up and stepped out of the way.

She didn’t say anything, but I could hear a little sigh of breath.

The footprint was tiny, no more than five or six inches long.

Estelle stood for almost a full minute, gazing down at it. I could see that her breath was coming in rapid, shallow spurts. Then she turned back toward the doorway, her eyes fastened on the tile floor. She was deathly pale, and with one hand, she reached out to me like a blind person, fumbling her way. The other hand went to the door-jamb.

“Come on outside, sweetheart,” I whispered.

She shook her head. “No. Look. There’s only one print.”

I hesitated, still holding her hand, not sure what to say.

Martin Holman cleared his throat. “The child was picked up,” he said. “If he had walked out of the bathroom, there would be other prints-at least one other footprint.”

He knelt down and pointed. “Here’s a right foot here. It’s almost four feet to the door. That would put a left foot about here,” and he reached out and touched the tile. “And the right foot again, just before the threshold. Or even on the carpet.” He looked up at me. “But there’s just the one print.”

“He was picked up and carried out,” I said.

“Right,” Holman nodded.

“Then whose blood is it?” I asked, and felt Estelle’s grip tighten.

“And which child?” she whispered.