Touched By Blood

by Craig Buckhout

  Nick walked over to the bed and stood there, looking down at the victim. Her eyes looked back at him through half closed lids. She was young he thought, hardly more than a kid. She had also been beautiful.

  He wondered what her story was. Why hooking? The answer to his question really didn’t matter, though. Somebody killed her. Who was the more important question to answer.

  Nodding his head at the victim, he asked, “How long you figure?”

  “A few hours. She’s stiff. I’ll let you know what the medical examiner says as soon as I hear it,” Fran replied.

  “Can you get me a shot of her face from the chin up?” he asked. “Something I can take with me.”

  Without saying anything, Fran bent over the body and took a photograph. She then walked to a work table she’d set-up and plugged into a portable printer.

  While the photograph was being printed, Nick squatted down and examined the stuff that was scattered on the floor. There was no wallet, no cell phone, nothing that would immediately identify the victim. Maybe Fran picked something up already, he thought.

  “You find any ID?” he said.

  “No, not yet.”

  He returned his attention to the items from the purse, scattered on the floor. He saw a business card; EB Photography. Weddings, events, fashion, portraits. He copied down the information, took the photograph of the victim from Fran, and walked back out into the hallway where Al was eating the last of his pie and ice cream.

  “Anyone in the rooms on either side?” Nick asked.

  “In one of them, but they checked out before we were even called. They live in Toronto. The police there will make contact and have them call me as soon as they arrive. The hotel desk is putting together a list of the entire floor for us. Of those we’ve contacted, nobody saw or heard anything.”

  “Who rented the room?” Nick asked.

  Al handed Nick his plate and pulled his notebook from his inside coat pocket.

  “Misty Brown. The address she gave is phony and who ever really names their kid Misty.”

  “How about the Department of Motor Vehicles?”

  “Nope, no record.”

  “Didn’t they ask for a credit card or something? There’s got to be a name on that.”

  “That may be what they asked for, but what they got was a prepaid debit card in her name, with a balance of eight hundred on it. Apparently it was paid for in cash. I got one of the guys in Fraud following up on it. Maybe he can find something out.”

  “Anybody do a canvass?”

  “Yeah, patrol knocked on all the doors on the floor. They got nothing useful out of it.”

  “Okay, how about following me back to the department so I can drop my truck off and then let’s check out EB Photography? There was a business card with her stuff in the room.”

  Al took back his plate and finished off his pie.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Ahhhh, goddamnit! Why is this happening to me?”

  Nolan St. Claire abruptly turned onto his right shoulder, pulled the blanket over his head, and laid there with his eyes closed, wide awake. Sleep was hopeless now, and he knew it. Still, he laid there, the anger baking inside him like over-cooked meatloaf.

  He had tried everything to get to sleep. Nothing worked. When the images of the previous night came into his head, he at first tried thinking of something else — golf, a business deal, someone he knew, the new pair of boots he’d ordered, anything else but her. When that didn’t succeed, he started counting to himself; slowly, deliberately, and picturing each of the numbers as he mentally called them out. But that didn’t help either. In fact, he discovered that he could actually say the number, visualize it, and think about what happened in that hotel room all at the same time. He then tried staring at a single spot on the ceiling of his darkened room. That only lasted for about five minutes before he decided to change tactics completely. He closed his eyes again and replayed the whole sordid affair, from start to finish. It was his thought that if he did that, he’d get it out of his system and finally doze off. All that got him for his trouble was an endless loop of an image, complete with dialogue, of how he wished the night had gone.

  St. Claire finally gave up, opened his eyes, threw back the covers, and swung his feet over the edge of his bed. “Shit!” he shouted.

  It felt like someone was sitting on his chest. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. It didn’t help. He tried it again with the same result.

  He looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was almost noon. He could see the light squeeze-in through the crack where the two drape panels came together. He heard the air conditioning kicked on and felt the cool air. Out in the hallway a door slammed and then another farther away.

  “I need sleep,” he told himself, as if somehow complaining about it out loud would change things.

  He hunched over and rested his forearms on the tops of his pale, spindly thighs, staring at the web of tiny blue veins under the skin. After a moment, he sat up straight and rubbed one of his hands through his graying hair. As he did so, he felt a prick of pain to his cheek, so gently probed his damaged face. He worked an index finger up the length of the crust that had formed and then down again. In several places it had the texture of pealing bark, and in other places it was still tacky.

  “Great. Just great,” he said out loud before falling deathly silent.

  Voices in the hallway. He heard them, men, two or three of them at least. He was sure of it, and they seemed to fade to a whisper just outside his door. How could they find out so fast? It was impossible. But the last was more of a question, than a statement.

  He stared at the door so hard that everything around it washed to gray. He could picture them, the cops; big beefy ones with bent noses, grim faces, and long barreled revolvers, lined up and ready to bust in. He would be humiliated. His photo would be all over the news. His enemies would openly laugh and celebrate and circle for the kill. His ex-wives; they’d dance a happy jig and say to anyone who would listen, “I knew something like this would happen. It could have been me.”

  He was suddenly overwhelmed with the sensation of being trapped. His eyes shot around the room as if some place of concealment would reveal itself to him. His gaze fell upon the closet, but he immediately dismissed that thought as useless. It would be the first place they’d look. He kneeled down and peered under the bed, but access was blocked off. After a moment, he quietly got up and tip-toed to the desk and turned towards the door with his arms crossed over his chest and his chin up. He thought that maybe he should face them standing up, defiant, dignified, as the CEO of a multi-million dollar real estate empire. But standing there in his underwear, with his cheek torn to bloody hell, what dignity was there in that? So he changed his mind and moved to one of the arm chairs and sat down with his legs crossed. But seconds later, he regained his feet and went back to the same spot on the bed where he was in the first place.

  He wondered what he should say to them when they came in. Whatever it was, it would be remembered and repeated in court. He’d act surprised. That’s what he’d do. “Who are you? What’s this all about?” Maybe he’d even yell for help; ask someone to call the police. No, even better, he’d stand-up and run for the bathroom yelling, “Somebody call 911.” No, no, no, that sounded too phony. Instead, he’d just yell, “Help.” Yeah, that’s what he’d say; something nice and simple. Sure it would make him sound weak, but so what, he had to keep his priorities in mind.

  A new idea came to him. They might even jump on him and take him to the ground. He could say that’s how his face got injured. The cops scratched him while trying to put him in a headlock. He’d make a complaint of brutality. He’d sue. Sure, it wasn’t much, but it was something. A good lawyer could make reasonable doubt out of something like that. He had good lawyers, too. And if he needed more, he’d get more. If OJ could get off, he certainly could.

  A frozen thirty seconds ticked by, then a minute, and then two. What were they doing out there?
Maybe they weren’t sure he was in the room and they were trying to listen at the door.

  After a few more seconds he couldn’t stand it anymore. St. Claire got up and chanced a look out the little peephole, hoping not to go eye to eye. He stood there for a full two minutes, in his boxers and wrinkled V neck tee shirt stretched tight across his gentleman’s belly, staring out into the hallway. No eye, nothing moved, nobody passed, no more whispers.

  Did I imagine the whole thing, he wondered? Am I going crazy here? Sitting and waiting was the worst, the absolute worst.

  At this point he promised himself to never, ever be put in this position again. Next time he’d make absolutely sure there was a clear agreement as to what he expected. He’d also take steps to better conceal his identity. Yeah, he’d learn from this little experience and do it differently next time. No, he’d do it better.

  He went back to the desk and poured three fingers of scotch. He had to get out of here; a few more hours, just a few more hours. The message light on his phone was blinking. He ignored it.

  St. Claire carried his drink into the bathroom.

  First, he looked at his face straight on. It wasn’t too bad, not from this angle. He could see something there, but he was also looking for something to see. If someone came at him from the front, he’d probably be okay. People generally don’t stare anyway, especially if you meet their look.

  But to see him from the side was another matter entirely; a completely different story. His face was a total wreck. There’s no way they’d miss that, and for him to see it now pissed him off all over again.

  “Damn her,” he said out loud.

  He refaced the mirror and took a mouthful of scotch, held it on his tongue, and swallowed it down.

  He leaned in towards the mirror with his head turned again. Up close it was worse yet. The two deep gouges were only partially scabbed over. The rest was covered in a yellowish crust that readily split and oozed at the slightest stretch of the skin. The third mark wasn’t as bad, but there was still no mistaking what it was. They told the whole story better than a signed confession. That’s why he had to get away. His face was their best witness against him. It was more damning than if the little blonde tart could somehow point him out.

  He picked at the edge of the yellow gunk where it had seemingly dried on undamaged skin but gave up when it looked like the whole scab was going to lift off. Taking a tissue from the box on the bathroom counter, he lightly pressed it against a spot where clear liquid was seeping. For the second time, he wondered if he’d have to have plastic surgery.

  Maybe a beard would cover it up, he thought. He considered that for a moment and tried to visualize how he’d look with a beard, when he noticed a light flash on the bathroom phone indicating an in-coming call. He let the messaging feature pick it up, but it reminded him that there were already two messages waiting. He ignored them all. It was time for the news.

  Taking another swallow of scotch, thank God for that, he sat on the bed and switched on the television. The anchor, grey suit, gray hair, red tie, highlighted the top stories that included the one he was interested in and then went to a commercial break. He muted the sound and worked through the process to retrieve his messages.

  The first was from his pilot Stan, responding to the earlier message St Claire had left for him. In this message, Stan acknowledged that he would fly the jet back without his employer on board.

  The second was from Peter Blaine, the man who invited him to speak at the conference. He was expressing his concern about St. Claire missing his assigned speaking time. After listening to the first few words, St. Claire just skipped it.

  The third message was from Fielding, his caretaker at the cabin in Vancouver. But before he could play that message, the news came back on, so he hung up and restored the sound.

  The reporter, an Asian woman with a round face and black eyes, was already talking, “… Regency Hotel when the cleaning staff found the body of a woman in one of the rooms. After an initial investigation, the police have classified the death as a homicide, the thirty seventh of the year. Although the investigator in-charge refused to speculate on the cause of death until after an autopsy has been performed, Channel 13 has learned that the victim showed signs of a violent struggle. The police also declined to reveal the identity of the victim until her next of kin have been notified. This is Rita Chung, Channel 13 News.”

  The station went back to the anchor, so St Claire shut the TV off and re-accessed his messages.

  He skipped to the message from Fielding. It said that everything was arranged. He would have the cabin all to himself for two weeks. The heat had been turned on and sufficient food put away. Fielding would be visiting family on the east coast so wouldn’t be available if he should need anything.

  St. Claire clicked off and called the front desk.

  “Yes Mr. St. Claire, how may we help you?”

  “I’m leaving early tomorrow so require you to close out my charges. Put everything on my card and bring a copy of the bill to my room by 4 AM. Also, at that time, I want room service to deliver a turkey club sandwich and a pot of coffee. Include a twenty percent gratuity on my bill. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir. Is there anything else you’ll require? Should we arrange a car for you?”

  He liked the way he was addressed as sir. “No, that’s taken care of; just make sure everything is done on time.”

  He hung-up and poured more scotch into his glass. In a few more hours he’d be out of danger. And after a long drive and two or three weeks in Vancouver to heal, he’d be home free. He decided to give sleep another try so arranged a wake-up call and finished his drink.

  CHAPTER SIX

  E B Photography was located on North Seventeenth Street in a white with green trim, single story residence, built in the 1920’s. It had a raised and covered wooden porch, and a detached, single car garage set back in a deep, narrow lot.

  Nick rang the bell and the door was opened by an attractive woman of about thirty. She had dark brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, except for the several strands that had escaped confinement and dangled over an eye the color of a cut emerald. If she wore make-up it didn’t show, and her appearance suggested that receiving company wasn’t part of her plans for the day. She had on a spaghetti strap cotton shirt with a dirt smudge on the rib area, a pair of cuffed khaki shorts, and was barefoot. On the inside of her right ankle, Nick noticed a butterfly tattoo. On the left, she wore a gold ankle bracelet. No ring on any finger.

  “This E B Photography?” Al asked.

  “Yes.”

  “We’re from the police department, if you don’t mind we’d like to come in and talk with you.”

  She looked from Al to Nick and then said, “You look like the police I guess, but may I see some identification?”

  They both exposed the badges on their belts.

  The woman focused on Nick and asked, “Do you have something with a photograph on it?”

  Oh, oh, Nick saw it then, the subtle similarities in her face to that of the victim’s. God, how he hated to be the one to do this. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the similarities were just coincidence. He handed her his identification.

  The woman stared at it for several seconds before looking up at Nick’s face again.

  “You can just call me Nick, everyone has trouble with it.”

  “Mikolaj (MEE Ko Lo) Zajac, it’s Polish right?”

  “Yeah, not too many people know that. For some reason, most think it’s Russian.”

  “I spent some time in Warsaw. Come on in. My name is Ellen Banks. Hope this isn’t about my parking tickets.”

  As Nick started through the door he saw her wave at someone behind him. He turned to look, but didn’t see anyone.

  “It’s just my neighbor,” Ellen said. “We keep an eye out for one another.”

  He noticed a gray haired woman standing on the other side of a picture window in the house directly across the street.

  Nick and A
l walked past Ellen directly into the living room, which was a perfect restoration of early twentieth century architecture from the built-ins with glass doors and detailed woodwork, to the hardwood floors. The furniture matched the period, but everything was lost in clutter. A jacket was thrown over the back of a chair, a soda can was on a table, two pairs of shoes and a pair of sandals were in different places on the floor, and there was unopened mail and magazines just about everywhere.

  Ellen cleared the couch of one Oprah, two People, and a photography magazine featuring a SLR camera on the cover, in an invitation for the two of them to sit. She took a place on the arm of a nearby chair. She didn’t try to apologize for the mess and maintained direct eye contact.

  “Nice place,” Al said.

  Folded up on the couch like he was, Al looked like the parent of a six year old, sitting in his kid’s chair, at a parent-teacher conference.

  “Thanks, I bought it about six months ago. It’s perfect for me. I’ve got my studio in the basement and there are even a couple of places in the garden that are good for portrait shots. Now, what can I do for you guys? I’m sure you didn’t come here just to admire my house.”

  Al looked at Nick who reached into his inside coat pocket and took out his notebook.

  “Well, we’re trying to identify someone who had one of your business cards in her belongings,” Nick said.

  Ellen’s face tightened.

  “And I assume she can’t or won’t identify herself or you wouldn’t be here.”

  There was a slight increase in pitch to her voice as well.

  “That’s right, she’s dead,” Al said.

  Whoa, easy now partner, Nick thought. He figured Al must have missed the facial similarities. Hope he doesn’t do one of his Polish jokes next.

  “Dead? …You mean …What’s she look like? …Do you have a name? …What am I talking about, of course you don’t have a name or you wouldn’t be here? …Is there someplace I need to go, you know, to see her; to try to identify her?”