Most of the tables were empty. They chose a booth against a wall near the back under an air vent. The coffee shop was deep and narrow, with a counter that ran most of the length of one side. Salt and pepper shakers and a cream dispenser were corralled into a wire rack and a laminated menu was trapped between the rack and the wall.
O’Shannon was seated facing the door. The air vent rattled overhead. A waitress started toward the table, but O’Shannon waved her away. They were three blocks from the abandoned apartment building. Coburn figured it stood directly south and east of their table.
The detectives stared at him without expression.
“Tell us more about yourself,” O’Shannon said, carefully folding the handkerchief.
“What do you want to know?” Coburn asked.
“Start with the basics.”
“My name is John Coburn and I was born at a very young age.”
“Occupation?” O’Shannon clicked a ballpoint pen, scratched on a lined pad.
“Doctor,” Coburn said.
“Where did you attend med school?”
“Harvard.”
“Age?’
“38.”
“Marital status?”
“Divorced.”
“Care to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Home?”
“Next.”
“You are visiting from out of state?”
“Yes.”
“What brought you to New York?”
“My father died. After the funeral I felt like getting away. New York wasn’t my first stop, but it has certainly been the most trouble.”
“And you arrived in town the same evening that you claim to have encountered Brian Ripley with the murder victim?”
Coburn nodded.
O’Shannon made small marks on the pad.
Coburn made no attempt to read whatever he had written down.
“Where do you work, Dr. Coburn?”
“I’m unemployed.”
“By choice?”
“Absolutely.”
“How do you live without money?”
“I’ve never had a problem with money. My needs are met.”
“Did your father leave you money when he passed?”
“Yes. Some. But I could do without it.”
“Dr. Coburn, have you ever suffered from any kind of mental illness?”
“No.”
“Anything at all?”
“No.”
“Are you on any kind of medication?”
“No.”
More notes on the pad.
“Have you ever suffered from depression or been diagnosed as depressive?”
“No.”
Detective Weaver stood and walked away from the table. She stood by the window, watching Coburn in the pale reflection.
O’Shannon continued. “Ever spend any time in a mental institution?”
“No.”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
Coburn sighed. “Only Casper.”
“How is your vision?”
“Fine.”
“Do you wear prescription lenses?”
“No.”
There was a mirror along the back wall. Coburn kept an eye on Weaver over O’Shannon’s shoulder. Her face was turned away but he could feel her watching and listening.
The waitress circled again then busied herself behind the counter. She smiled at Coburn.
Coburn was finding O’Shannon’s approach troubling. They didn’t believe him about Ripley, and that was fine, but now the detective was questioning his psychological stability.
“Let me save you some time, Detective,” Coburn said. “I’m not crazy. I’m not making anything up. My eyes are fine. I’m perfectly sane. I simply know who and what I saw last night. We can sit here until dawn arguing the accuracy of your database, but Brian Ripley is in New York City. He was last night and still is. I’d say it’s a safe bet he’s within a few blocks of us even as we speak. You don’t believe me, and maybe I’ve given you no reason to, but questioning my mental state is just burning empty calories.”
O’Shannon put his pen away. He stared at Coburn a long moment without blinking.
“You’re not convinced,” Coburn said.
O’Shannon shook his head. He laced his fingers on the table. A minute passed.
Coburn said, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I think you killed the girl,” the detective answered.
27
Coburn had a very bad feeling. It started when O’Shannon voiced his suspicion that Coburn had killed the girl. It continued when Weaver took a call on her cell as she stood at the door of the coffee shop. And it escalated significantly when Weaver whispered into O’Shannon’s ear and they hurriedly ushered Coburn out the door to the car where the cops in the black and white peeled off the curb and sped away with the light bar flashing.
Coburn saw the black and white parked up ahead, lights splashing the surrounding streets and buildings. Pedestrians slowed to gawk. The two uniformed officers were already out of the car and performing crowd control.
O’Shannon’s car had soft brakes in need of new rotors and he pumped them as they whooshed to a stop at the curb behind the black and white. Coburn’s stomach dropped.
They were sitting outside the hotel where he had stayed the previous night.
“Why are we here?” Coburn asked.
“Let’s find out together.”
The cops escorted him into the lobby. He recognized the woman behind the reception desk. She was speaking to a bald man in a crisp blue suit with a silver nameplate pinned to his breast. She glanced up at the cops and Coburn.
The uniformed officers waited with Coburn while both detectives stepped away to speak privately with the man in the blue suit. The man’s posture and air of authority made him easy to place as the hotel manager.
Coburn stood and waited with the cops and didn’t say a word. The phone rang at the desk and the woman working reception answered it. Then she hung up and disappeared into the same room where the manager had taken the detectives. Three minutes later they were back. The four of them shuffled out together. The woman from the desk returned to her post. O’Shannon took Coburn aside and handed him a printout.
“This is a guest receipt from a room that was paid for last night. It has your name on it. Says you paid with a credit card. Is this information correct?”
Coburn nodded. “Yes.”
“The printout shows that you slept in room 407. Do you have any memory of your room number?”
Coburn hesitated a beat, then said, “That was my room.”
“The girl at the desk says she recognizes you.”
“She was here last night. She was at the desk when I checked in. I think my busted nose freaked her out a little.”
O’Shannon said, “Something was found in that room, and the manager himself went up to take a look. Then the manager called the police.”
Coburn’s uneasiness deepened.
“What did he find?”
“The manager didn’t touch anything. He left the room exactly as he found it. And he says no one has checked into the room since you left this morning.”
“What did he find?” Coburn asked again.
“He’s going to take us up and show us.”
28
The doors opened and the hotel manager was first out of the elevator.
“After you,” O’Shannon said to Coburn.
One of the boys in NYPD blue had remained behind in the lobby. The second uniform had ridden with his back to the back wall of the elevator. Weaver had stood to one side, her eyes steadfast on Coburn, trying to decipher him, to understand, to look for cracks in his calm facade. Whenever his eyes found hers she refused to show weakness, refused to look away. O’Shannon followed Weaver out and the uniform brought up the rear.
They stopped at 407.
The hotel manager was a compact man. He was not short, but had narrow shoulde
rs cloaked in a tailored suit and a cleanly shaved scalp. He seemed to be meticulous and efficient. He swiped the key card and held the door open.
“It’s in the shower,” he said with a brisk nod of the head.
O’Shannon entered ahead of Weaver and Coburn. The uniformed officer remained in the hallway. The bathroom light was already on. O’Shannon looked comically oversized in the cramped little hotel bathroom. He had to turn his shoulders to squeeze through the door. He paused, his eyes taking in the details. The shower curtain was closed.
Weaver and Coburn waited outside the restroom, both of them watching the detective’s movements.
O’Shannon pulled the shower curtain. He stared in for a moment without speaking. After a full minute he said, “Weaver.” She stepped in beside him.
A duffel bag sat in the middle of the shower floor, in a shallow pool of pinkish water, blocking the drain. The duffel was zipped, and it clearly was full of something.
“Blood?” Weaver asked.
O’Shannon grunted, offered a nod.
Weaver called over her shoulder, “Mr. Cassel?”
The hotel manager tipped his head into the open door.
“Yes, detective?” said Mr. Cassel.
Weaver had a forearm braced against her partner for balance. “Mr. Cassel, was the water running when you discovered the bag?”
He shook his head. “No. The room is as I found it. I didn’t open the bag, or even touch it.”
“Thank you.”
Mr. Cassel returned to the hallway. He had told them during the short conference downstairs that he had not touched the bag, nor had he opened it.
“Coburn,” O’Shannon said. “Get in here.”
Weaver backed out of the way.
Coburn hesitated a beat, then eased past Weaver who was already standing with her hip pressed against the bathroom countertop.
O’Shannon turned his shoulders so Coburn could see past him into the shower stall. Coburn stared at the duffel bag and the soupy pink puddle. Whatever he had imagined finding, this wasn’t on his radar.
“What is it?’ he asked.
“That bag belong to you?”
“No.”
“Ever seen it before?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“That’s not my bag.”
“You were the last person to stay in this room, so how do you suppose it got there?”
“You are the detective. Do your job.”
Coburn didn’t know if O’Shannon believed him, but he didn’t necessarily care.
“Ask Cassel whether or not this room was cleaned prior to the anonymous call,” he suggested to O’Shannon, who agreed it was a sound idea and made the inquiry.
Once again the manager’s head tipped into view as he answered. “Yes, I looked at the housekeeping cleaning schedule. This room was fully cleaned shortly after checkout.”
“Did the maid make any comment about a bag leaking blood in the shower stall?” O’Shannon asked, frowning at the absurdity of his own question.
“Absolutely not, Detective.”
“Someone grab me a clothes hanger or something,” O’Shannon said, his voice booming in the strange acoustics of the confined space.
Cassel handed a plastic hanger from the closet through the open door to Weaver who in turn passed it to O’Shannon. O’Shannon rested his weight on the toilet seat and leaned into the shower stall, feeding one end of the hanger through the nylon handle on the side of the duffel bag. He tested the weight of the bag, lifted it a few inches above the shower floor and heard the water begin to drain.
Coburn gave him room as he lifted the bag from the shower stall and transported it to the sink where it landed with a wet sucking sound. Now the sink basin turned pink as bloody water flushed from the bag. He pulled the stopper so the water wouldn’t drain.
The detective poked the side of the bag with the hanger.
“Seems soft,” O’Shannon said. Even with A/C coming from a ceiling vent he was perspiring heavily. Beads of sweat were visible all the way around his thick neck.
“Soft like what?” Coburn asked.
“Like something other than body parts or bombs.”
Coburn nodded. “Point taken.”
O’Shannon set his hanger aside. He pulled the zipper. More bloody water flushed into the white basin. The zipper snagged slightly but he forced it open.
The bag was full of clothes. O’Shannon used the plastic hanger to pick through the contents.
Coburn watched his progress in the big mirror over the counter. The water flushing from the bag had a higher concentration of blood than the standing water in the shower stall had. The water was a much darker shade of pink than before.
“Looks like at least one full change of clothes in here.”
“Where is the blood coming from?” It was Weaver, crowding in to get a better look.
O’Shannon shrugged. “The clothes are soaked in it. The good news is I don’t see any arms or legs or heads.”
“Thank God,” Mr. Cassel sighed, having overheard the detective’s comment from his post near the hallway.
O’Shannon continued to pick through the mess. He fished out a men’s long-sleeved dress shirt, light blue, perhaps, though it was now badly stained. He glanced at the tag.
“Men’s large,” he said.
It was not the answer Coburn might have hoped for. That shirt could have easily come from his own closet. Coburn understood the world. Perception and reality aren’t the same thing, and perception was all that mattered. Unfortunately, it looked like the growing perception here was that he had been a larger participant in this situation than was first suspected. That didn’t bode well for himself, he thought.
O’Shannon draped the wet shirt over the faucet. It hung there formlessly. Bits of grass and dirt were visible among the folds in the fabric.
O’Shannon continued to rake through the bag.
He said over his shoulder to Weaver, “Call in the crew. I want all of this bagged and tagged. We need water samples and to have the blood run through the lab.”
Weaver was already on her cell.
“Maybe you should wait before doing any more poking around,” she said.
He seemed to see the wisdom in her suggestion and took a step away from the bathroom counter.
Weaver consulted with Cassel and the uniformed cop and they agreed that the fourth floor should be sealed and the hotel exits locked down. No one was to come or go. Cassel used the landline inside the room to call down to the desk. He gave orders to cooperate with any officers in the lobby to secure all exits on the ground level.
Weaver was on her cell calling for backup. They needed more warm bodies onsite for the tasks of watching exits and for going door to door to question current guests.
Coburn watched Cassel. He was actually impressed by the man. Cassel seemed cool under pressure. He was cooperating, and his administrative procedures seemed well oiled and well practiced. Coburn considered briefly whether Cassel was a former military man, but doubted it. He was more likely just good at his job.
The tech’s arrived with their equipment.
The room was now a crime scene.
29
The elevator at the end of the hall went down and back up, dumping three more officers onto the fourth floor. Coburn was asked to wait in the hallway. He was surrounded by cops. The door to 407 remained open and Coburn watched the techs crowd into the tiny bathroom. The techs removed the clothing from the duffel one piece at a time and bagged each item in plastic bags that they then placed into a Rubbermaid tub that stood open on the floor. The process was quick and efficient.
Soon the contents of the duffel were inventoried and filed away inside the Rubbermaid tub. There were two shirts, a gray short sleeve, and the blue button-up dress shirt O’Shannon had removed. Additionally there were denim jeans, a pair of gray socks and a pair of Nike running shoes. All of it appeared in good condition, except that the tread pattern o
n the bottoms of the shoes were caked with dried clods of dirt. One of the techs was carefully bagging some of the dirt from one of the shoes.
Coburn tried to edge closer for a better look.
“Back up, sir,” one of the NYPD boys said.
Coburn nodded.
O’Shannon surveyed the room. He left the techs to their work and drifted to the window, brushing aside the blinds and glancing out at mid-evening in Greenwich Village.
The room was small and crowded with enough bodies working briskly that Detective Weaver eventually stepped into the hallway. She looked nonplussed.
Coburn attempted small talk with her.
“How did you get partnered with Andre the Giant?”
“His former partner dropped dead of a heart attack on the job. If you can believe it. I was transferring in from Chicago, so the powers that be used me to fill the vacancy. It was supposed to be temporary. It’s been three years.”
“You make a cute couple.”
She shrugged. “He’s a good cop.”
“How does he like being teamed with a woman?”
“No complaints, at least none that I’ve heard.”
“Would you know if he complained?”
“Word filters down. I would hear things. But there’s nothing to hear. O’Shannon doesn’t play games. He’s a good cop and a good man. He has treated me with respect from day one. We are a good contrast. And the boys on the force worship him.”
Coburn listened to her tone and decided she was being mostly genuine and only slightly diplomatic.
“Chicago wasn’t cold enough for you?”
“My sister lost her husband in an accident. I transferred to New York to be close to her.”
“Only sibling?”
Weaver nodded. “Just us two girls.”
“You don’t look like a cop.”
“What do I look like?” she asked.
“A hot young soccer mom,” Coburn said with a slight smile.
“Soccer moms are married with children. Therefore, I don’t qualify.”
“Do you think I’m crazy?”
She tilted her face, considering, her eyes studying him. “Might be.”
Never Back Down Page 8
