The Dead Room

by Robert Ellis

  He cleared his throat and looked at her. “I guess I am,” he said.

  She sat up in the chair, straightening her back. She was upset but trying not to show it. Her voice was quiet, just above a whisper, but steady and strong.

  “Listen to me,” she said. “Andrews may be a phony. That goes with the territory. He may even have made one or two mistakes in his past. Who hasn’t? But there’s no way he had anything to do with what happened last night. He didn’t run over Barnett, and he’s not responsible for that bump on your head. I thought you were joking.”

  “But I wasn’t, Carolyn. Someone was out there. When I found the shot glass, someone hit me.”

  She looked down at the table, her voice sarcastic. “Maybe it was Dawn Bingle.”

  Teddy pushed his coffee aside, ignoring her attitude. “This time it was a man,” he said. “At least I think it was. I couldn’t really see.”

  She shook her head without a response like he was crazy. As Teddy thought it over, he realized that he couldn’t be sure of what he’d seen last night. Not sure enough to testify under oath. It had been dark. As he lay in the snow, he saw a figure and assumed it was a man. But maybe it wasn’t.

  “Andrews needs this case,” Teddy said. “With Barnett out of the way, it’s just me against all the physical evidence. After last night, his chances went from one hundred percent to a sure thing.”

  She was speechless. When their breakfasts arrived, she looked away from her plate.

  “I’m sorry we made love,” she whispered after the waiter walked off. “You’re not the person I thought you were.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Her briefcase was on the chair beside her. She pulled a file folder out and tossed it on the table.

  “Our chances of winning this case became a sure thing a half hour ago when I picked up the DNA results at the roundhouse,” she said. “Read the report while you’re enjoying breakfast. That’s your copy for the murder book. The knife found in Holmes’s mailbag had blood on it matching both Darlene Lewis and Valerie Kram. Holmes’s blood was found on it, too. It’s a statistical lock, Teddy. Your client murdered both of them.”

  With that, she grabbed her things and marched for the door. She was in a hurry, too angry to get into her coat until she was outside. Teddy pushed his breakfast away, watching her through the window. When she vanished down the street, he asked the waiter for their bill.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Nash sat back in his desk chair with the DNA report on his lap, listening to Teddy recount his story. Except for making love with Powell, Teddy didn’t leave anything out, describing the tracks he found in the snow, the Sterling silver shot glass, and the events leading to the point where he was knocked unconscious. On occasion, Nash would interrupt and ask for more details. Once he was satisfied, he’d nod with a troubled look in his eyes and Teddy would move on. He seemed particularly intrigued by the knowledge that Holmes was Barnett’s brother-in-law. He found the idea that Barnett and his wife were trying to keep it a secret fascinating, though naive. When Teddy got to this morning’s breakfast meeting with Powell and his accusation that Andrews might be responsible for the attacks, crimes that amounted to attempted homicide by the district attorney, Nash let out a smile and shook his head.

  “I’m not that cynical, Teddy. Andrews may be a lot of things, but I don’t think he’d be that stupid. You’re right when you say he’s the primary beneficiary, and the idea’s certainly worth considering. But there could be more than one explanation for what happened last night. A rogue cop like that detective you mentioned, working on his own, or even the man who murdered Darlene Lewis. And what about this woman who led you to the boathouse? There’s a lot we don’t understand yet, and it would seem we can’t go to the police until we’ve reached certain conclusions. When Barnett’s able to talk about it, we’ll pay him a visit together. Let’s just be grateful that he’s going to survive, and you’re okay, too.”

  Teddy’s eyes rose from the jury table. He noticed that Nash had tacked the missing persons bulletins to the wall, one after the next in a long row. As he looked at their pictures, he pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket. It seemed early, but he lit up anyway. His problems with Carolyn Powell seemed minuscule in comparison to the job that lay before them.

  “The DNA found on the knife connects the Lewis murder to Valerie Kram,” he said.

  “That’s right,” Nash said.

  “And you still don’t think Holmes did it.”

  “His blood was found on the knife, but we already knew that it would be.”

  “Because of the cuts on his hands,” Teddy said.

  Nash nodded. “All the DNA report confirms is that the same murder weapon was used to kill two women. It doesn’t tell us who the murderer is or who placed the knife in Holmes’s mailbag.” Nash turned back to the report and began paging through it until he found what he was looking for. “But there’s something more interesting here. I count six additional samples. Six good reads that can’t be identified.”

  “Other victims.”

  “I think so,” Nash said. “The murders are linked by the DNA. It’s confirmed. Without question, we’re talking about a serial killer now.”

  Nash turned back to the report. Teddy stubbed out his cigarette and moved to the window. As he gazed outside at a man buying a paper at the newsstand on the corner, he couldn’t help thinking about the evidence. It was mounting up along with the body count, and every new piece pointed to Holmes. Although Nash didn’t seem concerned with the DNA results, Teddy knew that it wouldn’t have the same effect on a jury. In Holmes’s defense, all they had were best guesses, pure conjecture. A theory that it was possible Holmes had stumbled onto the scene delivering mail as Darlene Lewis was being murdered. A supposition that because of his seemingly close relationship with his neighbors, Holmes couldn’t have kept Valerie Kram in his apartment for a month without someone noticing. The holes in each idea seemed overwhelming, and Teddy began to think that Barnett might be right. Holmes did it because each new fact said he did. It was in Holmes’s best interest to do everything they could to force the DA to make a deal that would save the man’s life.

  Teddy moved to the jury table and sat down. “But what if we’re wrong?” he said. “What if Darlene Lewis fought back? What if Holmes cut himself during the struggle?”

  “It’s possible, but not likely. The science is starting to come in. The results are piling up against Holmes. I imagine that will continue. You better get used to it, Teddy. We’re looking for someone who’s taken great pains to cover his tracks.”

  “But even Holmes thinks he did it. How can you be so sure he didn’t?”

  Nash picked up his cigar and crossed the room. As he walked past the row of pictures tacked to the wall, the girl’s faces seemed as if they were staring at him again. Nash stopped at the very last one, removing it from the wall and placing it on the table before Teddy.

  Nash had posted the bulletins in chronological order. Teddy looked down at the flyer, expecting to see Valerie Kram’s picture. Instead, he found himself gazing at someone new. Another missing persons bulletin off the FBI’s national computer database.

  “This only became official last night,” Nash said. “Her name’s Rosemary Gibb. Holmes has been in prison for four days. Rosemary’s been missing for two.”

  Teddy stared at the photograph. Gibb was another obvious Darlene Lewis look-alike. Another missing twin.

  “Powell didn’t mention it,” he said to Nash.

  “She probably doesn’t even know about it.”

  “But they’re looking for the other victims.”

  Nash smiled. “Do you really think so? Let’s assume they’re not. You tell me why.”

  Teddy got up and started pacing. At first he wondered if Nash wasn’t enjoying his role as a teacher and playing a mind game. But as he thought it over, he saw the man’s point. Andrews had said at his press conference last night that they’d isolated ten missing pe
rsons and would be meeting with their families to brief them. It could’ve been a political move to buy time. He may have said it for show.

  Teddy turned and found Nash studying him as he figured it out.

  “It’s because of the evidence,” Teddy said. “Andrews will concentrate on the Darlene Lewis murder because he’s got Holmes in a cell and that’s where all the evidence is.”

  “Keep going,” Nash said.

  “Assuming Andrews thinks Holmes is guilty, if he gets him for one murder then that’s just as good as getting him for all twelve. Holmes is locked up and out of the way, and that would be the DA’s only concern. Even if he could bring the others in during trial, he wouldn’t because that might weaken his case against Holmes for the Darlene Lewis murder. He wouldn’t take the chance. You wouldn’t either. No one would. If someone in the jury didn’t think Holmes murdered one or all of the victims, Holmes could be acquitted and walk.”

  “Then you’re telling me Andrews was lying at his press conference,” Nash said. “Andrews doesn’t have any intention of looking for the others. They’re still missing. Still forgotten.”

  Nash was pushing him as he did the night before last. Forcing Teddy to reject the apparent and see what lay on the other side.

  “No,” Teddy said, glancing back at the pictures tacked to the wall. “Andrews wasn’t lying, but that doesn’t mean these victims still aren’t forgotten. He’ll work on them after he’s finished with the Darlene Lewis case. Until then, he’ll do enough to get by. He probably asked the families for DNA samples in order to match the six samples on the knife. But spreading out his resources by wasting staff time to look for them could jeopardize the Lewis case as well.”

  “You’re doing great, Teddy. Now tell me why Rosemary Gibb will never even come up.”

  “Because everything we’ve talked about depends on Holmes’s guilt. Like you said, Holmes has been locked up for four days. Rosemary Gibb has been missing for two.”

  Nash had known it all along, guiding Teddy through the maze until he saw it as well. Rosemary Gibb would slip through the cracks. The DA’s office would have no interest in locating her because they had the killer and there was no reason for them to think otherwise. Andrews had followed the evidence to Holmes and was certain that he had his man. Now the murders were connected by DNA, the scientific results indisputable. The likelihood that Andrews would look beyond the evidence and admit that he’d made another mistake was nil. Even more troubling, the FBI wouldn’t be called in to assist because everyone involved thought the case was over. Why spend time and money on an investigation when the serial killer was already awaiting trial behind bars?

  “Andrews is running out line,” Nash said. “He hasn’t caught his mistake, and he’s in too deep to make a change now. The man’s got blinders on. He always has.”

  Teddy wasn’t thinking about Andrews anymore, or even ADA Powell for that matter. His mind was riveted on Rosemary Gibb. Without Nash and himself, she was in the weeds.

  “The killer’s doing something to the bodies for a reason,” Teddy said. “Valerie Kram was taken away and worn down, then hidden in the water when he was through with her. Darlene Lewis was murdered on the spot. Maybe it was because Holmes interrupted him, but maybe it’s more than that. It’s almost as if he got to Darlene Lewis and rejected her for some reason.”

  Nash turned to him and smiled like he hadn’t thought of it before. It was a look of genuine surprise. Another step down the road.

  “That’s a good point,” Nash said, lighting his cigar. “And with a decent profile of the man and a little luck, that’s just how we’ll find him.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  She was in the bathroom. It had been two days and she was still in there. But Eddie Trisco was patient. Tired of waiting maybe, but patient.

  At least the screaming had stopped. All the crying. She’d quieted down at some point last night after he ran an important errand and ditched her car in the long-term parking lot at the airport. When he returned and checked the lock, he knew she was still alive because she kicked the door and moaned.

  He could drag her out, of course. He could do it any time he wanted. But she had to be willing. That was the key to the whole thing. They had to want to come out. They had to want to be with him. And in the end, everyone of them always did. Even if it took time and a little training from their master.

  The truth was that he’d let her run into the bathroom the same way he’d done it with the others. It was part of the plan. Once he’d helped her down to the basement, he gave her the tour. And like the rest, she’d fled into the bathroom and slammed the door. There were no windows and the light switch was outside the door. Two or three days in solitary without light usually brought them around.

  Eddie checked the water pipes, making certain the valve to the bathroom was shut off. He’d examined the valve five or six times in the last hour. A creature of habit, he told himself. When the toilet bowl was empty, they got thirsty and opened the fucking door.

  The basement was as large as a two-bedroom apartment and offered just as many rooms, including a greenhouse off the main workroom just through the door. Eddie used the basement for his experiments, his work. Even though the house was large and there were plenty of rooms upstairs, he spent most of his time down here. It was safer in the basement. More comfortable. There were too many windows upstairs, and every time he looked outside he could feel his neighbors watching him.

  Particularly that house on the corner. When the new people moved in six months ago, they looked like a regular family. But Eddie knew they weren’t regular at all. They were only playing a family. They’d found him and staked out his house, and Eddie had been careful not to go outside during the day ever since. Once their fake kids went to school, the watchers would show up like clockwork. Men dressed like construction workers carrying toolboxes. Trucks delivering construction supplies in containers with the words Home Depot printed in big letters so that Eddie could read them from across the street. In spite of the banging sounds the men made, Eddie Trisco wasn’t fooled. They were fake sounds made by fake workmen. Eddie knew what was really in all those boxes. He knew what they were up to. It was all about eavesdropping. They were setting up their equipment—state-of-the-art equipment—so that they could keep an eye on him and listen in.

  When a satellite dish went up on their roof last week, Eddie began to really worry. The device was pointed just over his house. He’d read a magazine article a few months back about mind reading and the government’s secret experiments with dolphins. The article indicated that there had been some sort of technological breakthrough, and IBM was involved. According to the writer, you could point the device at someone’s head and what they were thinking would appear as text on the FBI’s computer screen. If the subject they were following was Chinese, you could click a button and the words would be translated into English in an instant. If they were dolphins, you were still out of luck because no one could speak dolphin yet. The article said the government was hopeful that someday they’d have a button you could click for dolphin, too. It read like a joke, but Eddie wasn’t sure. He didn’t like jokes. He didn’t like the sound of people laughing.

  Still, that dish on the roof changed everything for Eddie because the kitchen was upstairs, and so was his bedroom. For the past week he couldn’t just run up and grab something to eat. He had to prepare himself, write a scenario and play it in his head just in case the watchers were reading his mind on their computer screen. Sometimes he would make lunch thinking the thoughts he guessed a chef would ponder. I slice onions like this. I grate cheese like that. Other times he played the scenario of a mathematician or professional athlete whipping up dinner on the run. Two plus two equals four. Jesus, man, God bless Jesus. I want more money. Look at my fucking box score! When Eddie got tired, he turned on the TV letting his mind wash out in the rinse cycle and just go blank.

  Eddie heard a noise and surfaced. She was moving around in the bathroom. Grabbing a
stool, he sat down at the large worktable and waited. After a moment, she became quiet again. Not yet, he thought.

  He looked at the newspapers spread out before him, the contents of her purse, and her driver’s license. Rosemary Gibb, twenty years old, five-feet-seven, from the art museum district. The picture didn’t do her justice. He’d spent enough time sipping caffe lattes and watching her work out from the window table at Benny’s Café Blue to know the snapshot wasn’t even close. He tossed the license aside and took another look at the newspapers he’d picked up last night on his way home from the suburbs and that errand. Her disappearance wasn’t even mentioned. Just the story about that mailman. He’d been a butcher, and now he was a serial killer. The world could be a dark place.

  He heard the noise again. The bathroom door cracked open an inch or two, and he could see Rosemary staring at him from the darkness. She was squinting at the light, her body shaking from head to toe.

  “I’m thirsty,” she said in a hoarse voice.

  “I’ll get you something in a minute,” he said. “Close the door.”

  “But my mouth’s dry.”

  “Close the door,” he repeated.

  She looked at him for a moment, then shut the door. She was in the dark again, and Eddie smiled. It was a good plan because it always worked. Be a hard ass, then come to her rescue by becoming nice. On TV they called it the good cop, bad cop scene. Eddie liked the idea, and realized he had the talent and gift to play both parts.

  He walked out of the room, climbing the steps and pausing a moment before he entered the kitchen. He calculated it would take less than a minute to get everything he needed. The curtains were drawn, the view of the corner house concealed. The watchers would never even know he was there. He started counting. Rushing into the room, he grabbed two glasses, a container of orange juice, his mortar and pestle, and the stash of pills he kept hidden in the drawer behind his Sterling silver flatware. Before he even got to twenty-six-Mississippi in his head, he was safely in the basement again. Twenty-six seconds. No harm done at all.