The Dead Room

by Robert Ellis

  He looked around and spotted the canvases leaning against the wall. There were five stacks, ten to twelve paintings deep. Teddy flipped through the paintings as quickly as he could. It was difficult because he realized Holmes’s talent was genuine. Holmes had a way of playing with color that drew out the viewer’s emotions. A hill might be black, the sky red. It was a singular view of seeing the world. A unique vision. There was a certain violence in the work, but it seemed to be a part of Holmes’s natural style. And there were people as well, but they lacked detail. They looked like shadows, silhouettes—almost as if you took an abstract photograph of a strange landscape with the sun behind your back, casting your shadow across the foreground in a field of deep blue grass.

  The works of art were remarkable.

  It suddenly occurred to him that there wasn’t a single painting by Holmes hanging in his sister’s house. Sally and Jim Barnett had shown him the renovation of their home in detail, and Teddy had walked through every room. He would have remembered the style if he’d seen it before. As he thought it over, he played back the words the Barnett’s had used to describe Oscar Holmes in his head. Odd. Different. Holmes never seemed to fit in and always had to do things his own way. Teddy looked back at the paintings. No wonder Holmes was having problems with depression. He wasn’t a mailman who painted on the side. Holmes was an artist forced to deliver the mail in order to make a living. He wasn’t odd, but special. While Van Gogh had his brother Theo behind him, all Holmes had were Sally and Jim Barnett. Two people who could have helped him, but didn’t get it and seemed obsessed with the idea of making him fit in. Two people, who on the day of his arrest, wouldn’t even take his phone call. Teddy felt sorry for them, for everyone involved, whether Holmes was guilty of the murders or not.

  He looked up and saw Jackson standing in the doorway with an open flask.

  “We came here tonight for a look at paintings?” the detective said.

  Teddy stood up, his eyes on the flask. “Do you drink on duty, Jackson?”

  The detective smiled. “I already told you I punched out. It’s been a long day, kid. You want a hit or what?”

  The flask was fitted in a leather case. Inside the strap was a shot glass that covered the neck of the flask and the cap.

  “No thanks,” Teddy said.

  “Suit yourself. But a shot or two would keep you warm. It feels like they got the heat turned down in here. Like everybody but you knows the guy ain’t coming back.”

  It wasn’t made of Sterling silver. Teddy’s eyes rose from the flask to the detective’s face. His bad-boy smile. He wondered if Jackson wasn’t toying with him. Taunting him.

  Teddy moved to the worktable and quickly thumbed through a stack of sketchbooks. If Jackson had been the man who clubbed him on the head and ran over Barnett’s legs, then he would’ve known Teddy got a good look at the shot glass he found in the snow. The tall ships and whales etched into the silver. Jackson was smart enough to switch flasks. The fact that he was drinking and talking about keeping warm on a cold night seemed like a play though. Some sort of warning without details that hung over the night like Holmes’s shadow cast in a field of blue.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The strange looks and long stares began the moment Teddy stepped out of the elevator. The receptionist at the front desk skipped her usual banter and remained quiet. When he strode down the hall to the kitchenette, he could feel everyone turning away.

  He poured a cup of coffee and walked down to his office wondering what was up. Dumping his briefcase on the couch, he threw the morning papers onto his desk and sat down. The coffee tasted stale, yet it was only 8:00 a.m. Still, the blast of hot caffeine felt soothing, and he sipped the brew trying to wake up. It had been another sleepless night. Between nightmares of a delusional artist dissecting his models with a razor-sharp knife and dreams of making love with Carolyn Powell, the idea of a decent night’s rest seemed ludicrous.

  Teddy tossed the Inquirer aside and flipped over his copy of the Daily News. When he unfolded the newspaper and caught his first glimpse of the front page, he felt his pulse rocket upward and set the mug down.

  Someone in the district attorney’s office had leaked details from the crime scenes to the press. Even worse, someone had gotten to Holmes.

  Teddy’s eyes worked over the picture of Holmes filling out the entire front page—another distorted and particularly grizzly shot of Holmes as a monster. Instead of a headline, the editors had gone with the quote I DON’T EVEN EAT MEAT!, attributing it to Holmes and tagging him as the Veggie Butcher.

  It was done. Holmes was serial killer with a nickname. The Veggie Butcher.

  Teddy’s heart almost stopped.

  He turned the page, trying to remain calm as his eyes took in the headlines. Holmes was branded a cannibal for all the world to see. There was an old snapshot of Holmes behind the counter at his butcher shop, sharpening a long knife in front of three old ladies with big, wide-open eyes. Another of Darlene Lewis in a bikini by the pool. Then a third photo of the girl’s corpse inside a body bag as it was wheeled out the front door of her home.

  Teddy began reading, the words zipping by at high speed. Holmes had cut Darlene Lewis up and eaten her, a source close to the investigation told the paper. When Valerie Kram’s body was fished out of the icy water along Boathouse Row, the medical examiner found the girl’s internal organs disturbed, another unnamed source said. In his own defense, Holmes confronted the charges with the apparent claim that he couldn’t have eaten their flesh because he was a vegetarian.

  Teddy flipped the page, so nervous his hand was trembling. The words THE SKIN GAME leaped out at him. Beneath the headline was a photo of Jim Barnett. It was the same photo printed in Philadelphia Magazine’s Power 100 issue. A reporter had been digging into Holmes’s past and discovered that Barnett and Holmes were brothers-in-law. The secret was no longer a secret. Barnett wouldn’t achieve his dream of making the top ten list this year.

  Teddy threw the newspaper in the trash, thinking he might be sick. He heard someone enter his office and turned as he stood. It was Larry Stokes, cofounder of the firm, glaring at him.

  “What have you done?” Stokes shrieked.

  Teddy froze, spotting Jill down the hall waving her hands in warning. He looked back at Stokes. The man was seething, his eyes filled with venom, but also a large measure of fear—Jill’s warning a moment too late.

  “You’re blaming me for this?” Teddy said.

  “You bet I am,” Stokes said. “Building this firm’s reputation has taken me a lifetime. Look what you’ve done in just three months. Barnett said we weren’t putting up a defense. There wouldn’t be any headlines. You’re obviously not doing what you were told.”

  Teddy remained quiet, his anger rising. If he said what was on his mind, he knew the idiot would fire him on the spot.

  “He wants to see you right away,” Stokes said. “I just got off the phone with him.”

  Teddy sat down in his desk chair.

  “Not later,” Stokes shouted. “Right away. He’s in room three-fourteen.”

  Teddy grabbed his briefcase and left the room. As he passed Jill, she took a step back and cringed. Before turning the corner at the end of the hall, he glanced back at his office and saw Stokes still glaring at him from the door.

  “Get out,” the man said, rocking on his heels.

  * * *

  He found Barnett’s room at Bryn Mawr Hospital. The shades were drawn, the man cloaked in darkness with a copy of the Daily News beside him and three needles in his arm. Barnett’s legs were still held in place by a maze of steel tubing, his face more white than pale. After a moment, Barnett sensed his presence and lowered his gaze from the ceiling. His eyes were hollow and sick. Teddy didn’t feel any anger emanating from Barnett, just devastation and terror. When he checked the medications hanging beside the bed, he realized the man was on morphine.

  “Jesus, Teddy,” he whispered.

  Teddy pulled a chair ov
er to the bed and sat down. Barnett took his hand and gave it a squeeze, not wanting to let go. Teddy didn’t feel uncomfortable holding Barnett’s hand. The gesture was an act of friendship, the kind of thing a father and son would do.

  “Have you ever felt like shit?” Barnett asked, slurring his words.

  “Yes.”

  “Well this is worse than that.”

  “The doctor says you’re doing good.”

  “The doctor’s full of shit.”

  Barnett smiled, releasing Teddy’s hand to adjust the hose feeding oxygen into his nostrils. As he moved, he groaned and tried to catch his breath.

  “What the hell happened?” he asked after a moment.

  “There’s been a leak,” Teddy said.

  “A leak? When a dam breaks it’s not a leak. It’s the end. What do you think the chances are that Holmes will get a fair shake in court now?”

  The answer was none. The jury pool had been poisoned. If it went to court, the Veggie Butcher was dead.

  Teddy glanced at the morphine again, doubting Barnett was in any condition to handle an update on the case. He did it anyway, briefing him on what had happened since he was run over by the car. Barnett seemed particularly shaken by the fact that the district attorney had widened the scope of the investigation to include ten more missing women. Still, Teddy noted the glimmer of hope in the man’s eyes when he mentioned that Nash thought Holmes was innocent. The hope faded just as quickly, however, as Teddy brought up their theory that they were looking for an artist. When Teddy was finished, Barnett picked up his copy of the Daily News and rested it on his lap.

  “This is exactly what I’d been hoping to avoid, Teddy.”

  “Nash seems to think we’re making progress.”

  Barnett sighed and shook his head. “You still don’t have any evidence,” he said. “You’re still counting on best guesses and a theory that sounds like it’s built on hope. Holmes is an artist, but maybe he’s not the artist you’re looking for. Rosemary Gibb is missing, and may or may not be a victim of the same man you don’t have any proof even exists.”

  Barnett may have been mainlining morphine, but it hadn’t impaired his judgment after all.

  “Let me ask you a question,” Barnett said. “Imagine we’re in trial and you’re not a member of the defense. Instead, you’re sitting with the jury on this one.”

  Teddy nodded, ready to listen.

  “The prosecution presents its case,” Barnett said. “A young woman is brutally murdered. A man is seen running from her house. The cops find the murder weapon in the man’s car. DNA links the man to the murder weapon, and the weapon to the victim. But the DNA also links the man to another murder that occurred some time ago, and there are ten more missing women who look just like the first two victims. Bloody clothes are found in the man’s trash. The man’s an oddball from the word go. Everyone in the jury can see it with their own eyes, including you. Even better, the oddball freely admits being at the crime scene but can’t remember what happened. The prosecution fills in the blanks with photographs of the victims, a shot of the accused with blood all over his face, fingerprints found on the corpse, and charts of the DNA results proving their match is a statistical lock. You with me so far?”

  Teddy nodded hesitantly. He knew where Barnett was headed. He’d been down the same road himself.

  “So now it’s the defense’s turn,” Barnett said. “Remember, you’re still a member of the jury. You don’t live in a vacuum, so you’re aware of the case before trial. The Veggie Butcher case. You remember reading about the murders because the Veggie Butcher is a cannibal and eats people. You saw the stories on TV, but you haven’t made up your mind yet because you’re either dead from the neck up or a damn good liar. The defense steps up to the plate. The defense says that the Veggie Butcher couldn’t have done it because he takes care of this little neighbor girl. The Veggie Butcher couldn’t have done it because serial killers aren’t known to run away from crime scenes. While the defense agrees that the man responsible for these gruesome murders is an artist, it couldn’t be the Veggie Butcher because he paints landscapes. The defense shows you a novel about the life of Michelangelo. They even read a passage from the book. And guess what—the defense has something more up their sleeve. There’s another victim out there. Lucky thirteen. Another girl who looks something like the others and disappeared after the Veggie Butcher’s arrest. This proves, of course, that the Veggie Butcher couldn’t be the real murderer. Although he’s odd looking, he isn’t really a cannibal. He may have been a butcher, but all that’s behind him now. The defense shows you a copy of this newspaper, points to the front page and raises a question. How could the Veggie Butcher be the one when he doesn’t even eat meat?”

  It was a performance Teddy knew he would never forget. A summation of the facts and arguments so complete and concise, nothing had been left out. Barnett sank back into the bed and groaned. It had cost him considerable physical effort, but he’d made his point and lived up to his reputation as a master at the end game during trial. They’d spent a lot of time on the big ride to nowhere.

  “Send me a copy of the profile,” Barnett whispered after he caught his breath. “Have someone drive it out tonight when you’re through.”

  When Teddy tried to speak, Barnett waved him off and closed his eyes saying he needed to get some rest. It looked as if his mental anguish was even greater than the pain emanating from his broken legs. Teddy slid the chair away from the bed and left the room.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  He checked the time. When he punched Nash’s office number into his cell phone and reached his assistant, Gail Emerson, he told her that he had two stops to make but would be in as scheduled following lunch.

  It would be a morning of putting out fires—suppressing his anger. If he couldn’t douse the flames and kill them, at least he would confront them.

  Teddy forced the issue with the warden at Curran-Fromhold. Holmes had been quoted in the Daily News. Someone had gotten to him at the prison, and Teddy demanded an explanation and a look at his client’s cell. The warden protested. Teddy struck the visitor’s list with a closed fist. No one from the paper had made a trip out to the prison. No one other than Teddy had signed in. The warden finally agreed, calling the request unusual and escorting Teddy up to the quarantine pod in building B himself.

  Teddy had expected to find the inmates locked in rows of cells behind steel bars. As he entered the pod, he was surprised to see this wasn’t the case. It was a large, open room that reminded him of a cafeteria in a high school. Twenty or so modern tables with stools were set into the floor. A short set of steps led down to a sitting area where a TV hung from the ceiling. Beyond the chairs were a row of ten steel doors. Each cell door was painted a bright yellow and included a small window. Teddy noted a stairway off to the side leading up to an open level above and another set of ten yellow doors.

  Two guards sat at a table within the pod by the entrance. As Teddy followed the warden over and checked in, he looked for Holmes among the fifteen inmates milling about. His client didn’t appear to be in the pod. When he heard the sound of a basketball, he turned to his right and saw two inmates shooting hoops on the other side of a glass wall. Holmes wasn’t with them either.

  Well aware that the inmates were keeping an eye on him, Teddy followed one of the guards down the steps to a cell in the far corner by an open shower stall. The guard pointed at the yellow door, saying it wasn’t locked and that Holmes rarely came out of his cell or mixed with the others.

  Teddy glanced at the inmates and saw the uneasy looks on their faces as he reached for the door handle. The leak at the DA’s office was in play even here. Holmes was no longer a common murderer. He was the Veggie Butcher now.

  Teddy swung the door open and found Holmes sitting on the floor with a piece of charcoal and a sketchbook. Holmes seemed more than a little edgy by the interruption.

  “If I need help,” Teddy said to the guard, “I’ll scream.” T
hen he gave the man a hard look and slammed the door closed.

  Holmes dropped his piece of charcoal on the floor. The cell was the size of a closet, and without bars, the space felt particularly confining. Two beds were bolted into the wall overtop one another. There was just enough room left in the cell to fit a stainless steel bench and a john. Although there was a narrow window over the beds, the glass was frosted and didn’t offer a view.

  Teddy noticed the newspapers spread out on the top bunk—each paper folded to the crossword puzzle. Holmes had filled the words in using a crayon. On top was today’s copy of the Daily News.

  “You like crossword puzzles, Holmes?”

  Holmes nodded, but didn’t say anything. His eyes were bloodshot, his face wasted like he’d been driving all night without rest or stopping for gas.

  “Well, at least you don’t have a cellmate,” Teddy said, glancing at the john and taking a seat on the bench.

  “I read the paper,” Holmes said. “They’re saying I did things.”

  “That’s why I’m here. Who have you been talking to?”

  Holmes looked through the window at the guard staring at them from the other side of the door.

  “Not him,” he said in a voice that wouldn’t carry. “There’s others who come in at night. They’re taunting me.”

  “With what?”

  “Steaks,” Holmes said. “And real coffee.”

  Teddy didn’t understand and gave him a look.

  “The prison only serves turkey,” Holmes said. “You know how you feel after Thanksgiving dinner?”

  “Sleepy,” Teddy said.

  “It’s the tryptophan in the meat. Turkey’s cheap and has lots of tryptophan. It works like a natural tranquilizer. That’s all they serve here. Three meals a day. And nothing with any caffeine.”