But where?
A tux wasn't exactly a nickel bag of drugs. It was a big article, hard to hide. He knew all too well what a good search could uncover. Nothing was safe. Not bed mattresses, not ceiling tiles, not floorboards, not locked cabinets, not holes in the wall, not anything.
He thought about cutting the monkey suit up into strips and dissolving it in acid. Rejected the idea. It wouldn't work because he couldn't get 100 percent results. All the cops needed was a single thread for fiber analysis.
He thought about cutting it up into shreds and burning it. But again, a fire wasn't foolproof. If Decker sorted through ashes, he'd find something. And also, with that much scissors work, there'd be too many loose threads.
No, he had to hide the thing in toto.
Slowly he got up from the kitchen counter and started looking around for a spot.
Living room had nothing. The cushions of the couch would be opened, the entire frame would probably be checked. The chair was a no-go as were the floorboards under the carpet. He looked up, regarded the spotlights recessed into the ceiling. The holes were too small to accommodate something that big.
He opened the front door, spotted a potted banana plant.
He could plant the damn thing under the tree's roots. But then the 115
dirt would be freshly turned. And he knew he'd spill dirt while he was doing the transplanting.
He closed the front door and walked into his bedroom. He searched through his closet and removed the tux, laying it on the bed. Initially, he'd been going to drop it off for dry cleaning first thing in the morning. But instead, he had elected to leave the tux for later and drive by Terry's house, hoping she'd be up... explain to her what had happened. That Cheryl had waylaid him. But she'd been dealt with, he was going to say. Now they could run off together. But Terry's shades had been drawn and he hadn't wanted to wake her. Hadn't wanted to arouse suspicion in her bitch stepmother... .
He snapped back to the present, to the formal wear resting on his quilt. He picked it up and sniffed. It smelled strongly of marijuana, booze, and cum. Shaking his head, he walked onto his balcony and laid it over a chair, hoping to air it out.
He went back inside, into the second bedroom that doubled as a practice room. He rooted through the closet where he kept his instruments and his weights. No sense hiding it there. Closets would be the first places the cops would look. His eyes fell on his cello case worth about a thousand dollars because it was custom-made. But he'd sacrifice it if it would do him any good. He took it out, opened it, and removed his Rowland Ross. His fingers palpated the padding. The insides had been specifically designed to accommodate his cello. Any increase in the padding and the instrument wouldn't fit. Besides, it would be nearly impossible for him to open and resew the lining without leaving telltale signs. If Decker had any sort of an eye, he'd know the case lining had been tampered with.
Don't push it, he thought. Something will come up.
He sat on his stool. Picking up his cello, he placed it between his knees, setting the spike into the right groove. He brought the instrument to his body and drew the horsehair bow across gut strings, sustaining sweet notes with a gentle vibrato. The sound box emitted soft moans like a woman in the throes. His hands fingered automatically as his mind took to fantasyland. The music was so pure, it hurt.
Wondering what Terry would have been like, if she would have made any sounds. When he kissed her, she had responded with body as well as soul. He knew that given enough time for the virginal rawness to dissipate, she would have been a beautiful lover. Sadly, he also knew that now she'd remain a mystery to him. The realization cut deeply.
He stopped playing, touched his fingers to his forehead. Despite 116
his calm, he knew it was bad. He was going down and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. He picked up the bow and again started playing. Then he abruptly stopped and clipped his left thumbnail with his incisors.
Only a matter of time before Decker charged in with the warrant.
Like the commercial said just do it!
He laid down his cello, went to the hall closet, and sorted through the art suppies he stored there. Thank God he was organized. He easily found his round-tip putty knife and, with his fingernails, picked off scabs of dried paint. Once it was free of debris, he wiped it on his T-shirt and pocketed the clean implement. He lugged out both cellos the Rowland Ross as well as his cheap knockabout and brought them into the kitchen. Carefully, he placed them on their side ribs.
Next, he retrieved his tux from the balcony and sniffed it deeply. It didn't smell wonderful, but it was decidedly less odiferous than it had been twenty minutes ago. He laid the shawl-collared jacket and satin-striped pants on the kitchen counter, spreading them out like a dead body.
Shit, this was going to hurt!
He pulled a sharp scissors from a kitchen drawer, carefully snipped off the sleeves, then cut the trunk of the jacket into two pieces. Next he bisected the pants at the crotch. Carefully he scanned the countertop, picking up even the most minute piece of thread. Because under a microscope, minute pieces looked very large. When he was satisfied that everything was clean and perfect, he turned his attention to his instruments.
First, he loosened the strings of his Rowland Ross, carefully depressurizing the tension until the bridge was movable. He took off the strings, then removed the bridge and unscrewed the tailpiece from the body.
Now the hard part.
He turned on the front burner of his stove top.
Take your time. Take your fucking time!
He heated his putty knife until it nearly glowed red, then picked up his stringless Rowland Ross. Deftly, he inserted the searing-hot knife into the glue joint between the soundboard and the instrument's side rib, meticulously moving the blade through the space, carefully following the cello's curvature. The smell of sizzling glue assaulted his nostrils. Hot glue but not burning wood.
Thank you, Holy Mother, for a steady hand.
It took many reheats of the knife and several trips around the cir- 117
cumference, but eventually the glue had become soft and sticky and the soundboard loosened. A little bit of jiggling and the top popped off.
He breathed a deep sigh of relief and repeated the procedure on his knockabout. Then he studied the insides of the instruments. The easiest way was to tape the fabric to the backs of the instruments, but he immediately discarded that idea. Better to line the upper side ribs and upper top just in case Decker shone a light through the f-holes.
Probably an unnecessary precaution. Because who but a select few knew that most classical-stringed instruments were held together not by mechanical joints and screws but by glue specifically meant to be softened for ease of repairs. Maybe Decker was aware of that fact. But he was betting the sergeant wasn't.
Not even a day old and the Diggs file already took up half a drawer's worth of space. Decker had sheets of paper with details that he'd probably have to review at least fifty times before the case was over. Listed first were names and statements of Whitman's friends at the hotel. On superficial glance, the kids' accounts seemed to agree with Steve Anderson's story. But that didn't mean much. Tomorrow, he'd go over all the statements line by line. If everything made sense, he'd progress to his analysis by constructing a "time and place table" for every major player in the show.
Decker rubbed his eyes. Eleven-thirty at night. Yet he wasn't quite ready to crash. Push, push, push. He flipped through the paperwork. More lists the names and statements of the hotel personnel. The officers had done a decent job. There were the desk clerks, the bellhops, the maids, the workers at the hotel coffee shop, as well as the patrons unlucky enough to be rooming at the Grenada West End when the murder occurred. He'd leave those for tomorrow when his eyes were fresh and his brain had been recharged.
Finally, there was the preliminary autopsy report.
Decker picked that up, scanned the findings.
Most probably, Cheryl had died of asphyxia
tion consistent with strangulation. Deep bruises encircled her neck, those on the left side of her neck slightly more pronounced than those on the right. Her vagina had been full of semen, but there was no indication of the typical bruising usually associated with rape. There was no indication of anal or oral intercourse. And yes, Cheryl had been pregnant, the fetal age about eight to ten weeks.
He read further, forcing his lids to remain open. Fluids extracted 118
from the condoms found in the room as well as from Cheryl's vagina had been sent to the lab for analysis. At present, he couldn't find any lab work that compared the two samples. He made a note to ask Dr. Craine about it in the morning.
He skimmed through the rest of the pages. The pubic comb... blond hairs not associated with the victim found in pubic/genital region ... black hairs not associated with the victim also found in the pubic/genital region.
Just as he had thought. It looked like Cheryl had been involved with two separate men. Whitman was blond and probably a natural one. Decker put him down as the owner of the blond hairs. All the other boys in the group had dark hair, so it was anyone's guess. At a glance, it looked like the party that Steve Anderson had described had gone beyond simple fooling around. It might indeed have been an orgy.
Call Craine in the morning. Decker paused. What the hell. Why should he be the only dedicated soul in this ordeal? Besides, the deputy ME was already sick. He ran down his Rolodex, found the number, and dialed. Jay wasn't happy to be awakened at midnight. But he was coherent.
"I thought you might call." Craine sneezed into the receiver. "However, I had hoped it might be earlier."
"Just got back from doing some interviews. I want to go over something with you."
"You're wondering about the two different types of pubic hairs, am I correct?"
"You are correct."
"Both samples went straightaway to the lab. The blond hairs are consistent with a blond male Anglo, the black hairs are consistent with a black male African American "
Decker suddenly sat up. "What?"
"Yes, I was quite surprised by the results, in light of the population of your area. But it does appear as if our Cheryl had sex with a black man. Having said that, I can't tell you if the black pubic hair ... excuse me."
Craine sneezed.
"I can't say if the black pubic hair matches the semen taken from the condom or from the vagina. For that, we'll need to run additional tests. And that will take time, Sergeant."
"Do it."
"Perhaps a DNA blueprint might be in order." A pause and a sniffle. "Yes, that might be just the trick."
"Sounds great, Jay." 119
"Also, let me posit this to you. To the naked eye, the vaginal sex appeared to be consensual, based on the lack of vaginal bruising and microscopic hemorrhages usually associated with physically forced rape. But despite that observation, sex still might have been nonconsensual. She could have been too drunk to resist. Did you notice her blood-alcohol level?"
Decker flipped to the fluids. BAL was 1.7. He whistled into the phone. "I wonder if she was even conscious."
"Anyone's guess. I did order her fluids through gas chromatography to bring up the regular battery of common recreational drugs. If she had mixed drugs with that level of alcohol, she might even have been close to death, perhaps even unconscious, before the murderer got his hands around her neck. Still, it is my belief that she was alive when she was strangled. Lung analysis is quite consistent with death by asphyxiation."
"Has anyone matched up the condom semen with the vaginal semen to see if it's from the same person?"
"Not yet. All the fluids are still... excuse me ..."
"Bless you," Decker said.
A sneeze. "Thank you. All fluids are still under analysis at the lab."
Decker was quiet. "Are you sure the black hairs were from an Afro-American man?"
"Secure enough to state it in court."
Well, that sure threw a monkey wrench into the investigation. All of Cheryl's friends were white.
Decker said, "Can you tell which sexual activity came first the condom sex or the unprotected sex?"
"Am I able to date the age of the semen? No. I can tell you that there were fewer live sperm in the condom semen. Which makes sense since the vagina is a protective environment. Sperm deposited inside would on the average probably live much longer. Especially because the particular condoms used in this case had also deployed a spermicide. Even if the condom user had been the first one to have sex with Cheryl, his sperm might still look older and deader than the sperm deposited inside her vagina."
"So there's no way to know."
"Not unless someone had a video camera inside the room."
Decker blew out air, wondering exactly how hinky the group might have been. Maybe someone took pictures, although he couldn't imagine any of them callous enough to sit by idly, watching Cheryl get trussed up and strangled to death. 120
"An African American," Decker said into the phone.
Craine said, "Yes, Sergeant, the pubic-hair pattern is consistent with those of black descent."
Decker's lids were dropping despite his iron will to stay awake. It was time to call it quits. "Thanks, Doc."
"Any other questions you might have, Sergeant, feel free to call me." The doctor paused. "In the morning. Shall we get some sleep?"
"Indeed," Decker said.
Sleep sounded like a dandy idea. 121
Arriving before sunrise, Decker had free access to the computer. He managed to enter all seventy-six names that had come up during his investigation of the Diggs case. The first list was arranged in alphabetical order. The second roster was fashioned in order of importance, Christopher Whitman at the top. Printouts in hand, he took the papers to his desk and proceeded to mark the race of each name known to him. Not surprisingly, all the knowns were white. But there were still fifty-odd unknowns clerks, bellhops, restaurant personnel, and the other guests at the hotel.
He started making phone calls. By eight-thirty in the morning, he had identified three blacks out of thirty-five names. Five minutes passed and Lieutenant Davidson walked inside the squad room, taking an empty seat next to Decker. He was big and broad, his scalp freshly mowed into his favored crew cut. He placed his beefy hands on the table and leaned back in the chair, nearly breaking it with his weight.
"There's another crew outside from the networks, Pete. Get rid of them."
Decker continued marking his papers. "Sure you don't want to field it, Loo?" He grinned. "I heard you did a bang-up job yesterday with the media."
Davidson snarled. "Go."
"Can I just finish what I'm doing?"
"What's that?"
Decker turned serious. "Jay Craine did a pubic comb on Diggs. 122
Two different types of foreign hairs were found one type was blond, corresponding to a white Anglo male "
"Whitman," Davidson interrupted.
"No doubt," Decker agreed. "The other type corresponded to a black male. I've gone down the names and marked the black males on the list. As soon as I've got the entire list completed, I'll call up all the blacks and ask them for a sample. See if we can't come "
"You're going to ask the black males on your list for a pubic hair sample?" Davidson interrupted.
"Yes," Decker said. "There are only three so far. It should be easy."
"And what if they don't comply?"
"Then that tells us something, doesn't it?"
"Maybe."
Decker paused. "What do you mean?"
"It may tell us that they have something to hide. Or it may tell us that they don't want to cooperate with the honky white-ass police in crackerville valley." Davidson faced him. "Are these blacks also friends of Cheryl Diggs?"
Decker regarded the names. "No. One was a bellhop, one was a guest, the last one was "
"You can stop right there," Davidson said. "Since they're not friends of Diggs, you can't single them out unless you're planning to get a pubic sample of ever
y male on your list. Otherwise, your investigation could be charged with racism."
Decker paused. "What?"
"You're asking for blacks, why not whites?"
Decker said, "If I can't get a match from the obvious white males that is, Cheryl's friends I will go through all the whites on the list. I'm doing the easiest first."
Davidson rubbed his nose and dropped his voice. "Pete, there are intervening factors here. You start accusing blacks in what looks like a white murder, you don't just have a homicide, you have a loaded situation."
He swiped a quick glance over his shoulder.
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