by Alan Russell
“There have been other deaths here, of course,” he said, shading in a section with a critical eye, “but none like these. I remember, though, two very troubling suicides.
“Very different deaths,” he added. “The first victim was a girl. Must have happened thirty-five—no, forty years ago. Dick Murray was the house dick then.
“I’ve told you about Murray, Holden. He was a tough SOB, a little guy with a big chip on his shoulder. He always had his nose in the Racing Form. This was one instance where he took it out long enough to find out about this girl. Real melodrama, that. She was in love with a naval officer, believed he shared her same feelings, but learned differently. When she took an overdose of pills, she didn’t only kill herself: apparently she took the life of the young child in her womb.”
Wallace stopped talking, chewed on his lip for a moment, brought out the eraser, and delicately removed some of the lead. “Murray went and found that officer,” he said. “He called him out. They say he gave up six inches, and sixty pounds, but he still beat the tar out of him.”
The artist thought for a moment, then nodded, as if agreeing with a long-lost voice. “The other suicide was a drowning. Man went swimming in the ocean and didn’t come back. Guess that happened thirty years ago. Murray looked into that one, too.
“Everyone just assumed it was a drowning. But Murray didn’t like something. He made a few calls and found out the man’s business was going under and the creditors were moving in. As it stood, it didn’t look like he was going to be left with a proverbial pot to pee in. Murray figured he couldn’t stand the thought of poverty. The guest lived like a king his last few days at the Hotel. His final meal was chateaubriand and a French wine, after which he went out and took that fateful swim. There were those who believed the rich meal made him cramp up, but after Murray found out what he did, he said it just fueled him on to the deed.”
Wallace stopped working for a moment, bit softly on the pencil he was holding. “Murray told me he went to the Del Mar track that day and won a bundle on a horse named Big Splash. Said he never bet hunches, except that one time.”
Wallace eyed his effort critically. “I’m almost there,” he said. “I must say he doesn’t look like one of those faces you see on America’s Most Wanted, though.”
Am and Sharon both stood up to take a look at the sketch, but Wallace held them off with a hand. “Holden, Miss Baker, I will signal the time for the unveiling.”
Impatiently they both returned to their seats. Wallace asked the witnesses a few more questions, and started a few more arguments. He wanted to know about moles, wrinkles, birthmarks, clefts, and dimples. Mostly, though, he wanted a “feel” for the face, an idea of what the man was.
“Don’t think of him as a murderer,” said Wallace. “If you saw him on the street, you’d probably think he was a . . . ”
“Baker,” said Augustin.
“Accountant,” Henry said.
“Store manager,” said Teresa.
“One of those technical kinds of people,” Albert said. “The kind who are always working on their smart phones or tablets.”
“Pedophile,” said T.K., hoping for a laugh but not getting one.
Wallace explored their reasons (except for T.K.’s), and their answers made him alter his drawing slightly. He examined his work with one long, last look and finally decided that it would have to do. He turned around the sketch and held it aloft for all to see.
The four witnesses were the first to respond. Although they hadn’t been able to come to verbal terms with the man, they did agree on the result. What was represented was their collective man; or at least a close facsimile thereof.
But it was T.K., Sharon, and Am who were the most vocal. “I know that dude,” said T.K.
“I’ve seen that man,” Sharon said.
Am, who claimed to never forget a face, said, “I’ve seen that face before.”
“I know,” said T.K., snapping his fingers. “I checked him into the Hotel.”
“Yesterday morning,” said Sharon, her tone one of disbelief, “he took the Hotel tour with me.”
“I saw him,” said Am, straining for the memory. “I saw him . . . ”
Then, triumphantly, “I saw him in the rumba line.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The actors were hung over, and most of the Bob Johnsons were hung over. No one had gotten enough sleep, and tempers were short.
Carlton hadn’t slept much, either, but he wasn’t suffering in the same way as those around him. The night before, he had walked Bobbi to her door. There, they had kissed for the first time. It was the purest moment of ecstasy Carlton could ever remember.
So much had happened in the last few days. He had experienced betrayal, murder, discovery, and passion. It felt as though he had died and been born again. He had stayed up most of the night trying to sort things in his mind. He had never given much credence to those multiple personality types, but at the moment he felt like one. Everything was churning inside. He had performed the most heinous crime imaginable. To take those moments back, he would do almost anything. What he had done had destroyed a part of himself. But since meeting Bobbi, he felt like that bird that was consumed by fire, then raised itself from its own ashes. That Tucson. Or was it toucan? No, it was a phoenix. Maybe that’s what love was. You burn up inside to nothing. You erase all the sins that were there and become a better person, another person. With Bobbi, it felt as if he had been offered a chance for a new life. There were so many things about her that he liked, from her generous lips to the way she dotted the i in her name with a little heart.
She sat next to him, and with her there, all was right. Bobbi felt his eyes on her. She looked up, smiled at him, then returned her attention to what was going on. Damn, now what was happening? Turn your head, and you miss everything. Not like soap operas. She could tune in once a week and still know what was going on. But this here was sure confusing. The actors kept jumping around, and things kept popping up—like bodies. There was a lot of flapping of hands. What she would have preferred was the flapping of more flapjacks. ’Course that didn’t make things any easier to follow, what with the waiters serving brunch between all the folderol.
“Herring and sour cream,” the server advised, dropping off yet another serving dish for the table.
The herring had been dyed red. Bobbi covered her eyes with a napkin. Fish in the morning. How disgusting. Didn’t these people know what real food was? And it was red, mashed fish. Ugh.
Carlton noticed Bobbi’s discomfiture. It matched his own. He was tired of the actors serving up murder. It was enough that he had to live with what he had done without their bombastic reminders.
“Are you all right?” he asked Bobbi.
Bob was such a dear, always so considerate. “Fine,” she said, but she did wrinkle up her nose at the fish.
“Would you like to leave?” he asked hopefully. “We could go to the . . . ”
He almost said zoo. But Carlton didn’t want to see caged animals. “Around San Diego. See the sights.”
Bobbi thought about it. It seemed a little unfair to be skipping out on her kindred Johnsons, but most of them were acting a bit, well, grumpy. And she did want to be with Bob. Why, last night that kiss of his had made her knees go weak. She had almost invited him into her room.
“Uncle Charles!” screeched one of the actresses.
“Yes, Charlie,” said the other actor. “Known as Good Time Charlie!”
She, aggrieved: “But you don’t really mean Uncle Charles?”
He, triumphant, raising his eyebrows high for the audience: “Yes, I do.”
“Let’s get out of here,” said Bobbi.
Chapter Forty
Before everyone dispersed from Wallace’s room, Am reminded them of the need for secrecy. All took a vow of silence, promising to say nothing about the sketch or the possible murderer. The cabal went their separate ways, except for Am and Sharon, who walked together. When they couldn’
t be overheard, he ventured, “I suppose that gives us an hour before everyone knows.”
Sharon had more faith in humanity. She thought it would be two hours.
“We’re looking for a man who has murdered,” said Am, his tone suddenly very serious. “In the security hut there’s a stun gun. I’m going to get it, then I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
He started off at a trot, remembered something, and ran back, handing her Wallace’s rolled sketch as if it were a relay baton. “Better make some copies of this. Who knows, we might need help finding him. Use the copy machine in reservations to shrink it down to a less conspicuous size—say, five inches by five.
“And,” he added, “find out where the Bob Johnsons are meeting.”
She nodded, and he was off. The idea of Am getting a gun, any kind of gun, was sobering. Sharon wondered, not for the first time, whether she should call the police. Instead she went and made copies. Or at least tried. The copy machine was state of the art and wouldn’t have looked out of place in a video arcade. It had lights, flashing arrows, and multicolored trays. Let’s see, she thought, trying to determine whether she was in a shrinking or enlarging mode. Wasn’t that Alice’s dilemma? But this wasn’t Wonderland. And Alice would never have gotten there if she’d had to make copies all day.
Typical male, she thought. Given any excuse, they revert to the primordial. Me hunter, you gatherer. I’ll get the gun and you make the copies. Or coffee.
Her first effort at shrinking the sketch failed, which didn’t make her any happier. She moved her face closer to the keypad and was trying to make out some impossibly small print when a voice behind her asked: “May I help you?”
Sharon turned around and eyeballed the name, rank, and serial number of the man doing the offering: Roger, Front Office Manager, Racine, Wisconsin. The one Am called Casper.
“Why, yes, thank you. I’m trying to shrink this to a smaller size. About so big.”
She motioned, and Roger did his gauging. “About ten inches?”
Sharon had been told that the reason women had difficulty estimating sizes was that they were always being told by men that six inches was a foot. “A little smaller,” she said.
Roger confronted the machinery with a knowing air, pressed a button, and a moment later the miniaturized copy popped out. “Do you only need one?”
“Several, please,” she said.
“You’re the intern?”
“Yes.”
“How do you like it here?”
“Never a dull moment.”
The copies she wanted appeared. Belatedly, Roger began to think he should have made the process appear much more involved than it was. He was usually expert at doing such.
He handed Sharon back her original and all but one of the copies. Because he had helped, he assumed that gave him the right to analyze the work “they” had done.
“So, what is this?”
Sharon wanted to say, “None of your business,” but instead replied with the obvious: “A sketch.”
“Do you draw?” he asked.
“I dabble.”
“It’s good,” said Roger. “Who’s the guy?”
“Just a fellow.”
“Your boyfriend?”
Her first impulse was to laugh. Yes, she always hung around with murderers. Bank robbers, too. Where did this weenie come off asking personal questions?
“I suppose it shows,” she said, attempting dewy eyes.
Roger tried to hide his disappointment. He started to pass her the copy, but stopped the hand-off just short of her hand, examining it once more.
“I think I’ve seen him before,” said Roger.
God, she thought. Was there an employee in the Hotel whom this murderer hadn’t run into?
“He’s not a guest, is he?” asked Roger.
Sharon shook her head. “Of course not.”
“Because,” Roger said piously, “fraternization with guests is forbidden.”
“I would hope so,” said Sharon. “And with managers, too?”
Starchly: “Why, yes.”
He handed her the copy. With it came another quotation of company policy: “The copy machine is to be used for business purposes only.”
Sharon could almost understand why women were known to bare their ass on a copier and anonymously mail (male) the sentiments to their supervisor of choice. She thanked Roger for all of his help and advice, then walked out of the office, doing her best to jiggle her buns like an advertising streetwalker. It wasn’t something that she could ever remember doing before, but in this instance it felt damn satisfying.
Roger’s attention was held for the length of her passage, then, sighing, he decided it was time to be off. The front desk promised to be busy soon, and he didn’t want to be around. But before leaving, he reached down into the recycling bin. Sharon had left her aborted copy attempt, an oversize reproduction of her beau. It was as big as the sketch she had taken with her, eleven inches by seventeen, not the shrunken visage she had wanted. The larger portrait looked even more familiar to Roger. He had seen that face, but where?
While waiting for Am, Sharon had consulted a reader board to learn that the Bob Johnsons were meeting in the Neptune Room for a brunch and “entertainment.” The concierge confirmed the reader board listing and was also able to give Sharon a detail sheet of group activities for the day. The Bob Johnsons had a full agenda. Their brunch wasn’t supposed to adjourn for another half hour, but Sharon hoped Am would hurry, because after their meal the Bob Johnsons would be dividing up, some going to the golf course, others to the tennis courts, and the rest sailing. And maybe one murdering.
Am arrived breathless, carrying a brown bag. The concealed stun gun looked conspicuously like a fifth.
“You look like a wino,” she said.
“I can dream, can’t I?”
“Neptune Room,” she said.
“Not far,” Am said gratefully.
Sharon had already figured out the route and started walking. When you don’t like following, you work out those matters ahead of time. She had also tried to work out the murders.
“There was some forethought in what happened,” she said.
Am, still short of breath, nodded.
“Our Bob Johnson knew the couple. He sent up the wine and cheese to them. He called upon them. Presumably, he killed them.”
Am nodded again.
“Our Bob must have plotted this for some time. He planned a murder, and he also planned to attend a convention. Talk about killing two birds with one stone.”
“Don’t think so,” Am puffed.
“Why not?”
He took a deep breath. “A couple of things. He let too many people see him. If it was as premeditated as you say, everything would have been thought out much better. This strikes me as a crime of passion, a—a . . . ”
The analogy came to him. “A St. Julian-type murder.” He didn’t remind Sharon that she was the one who had originally put that same label to the crime.
“You said ‘a couple of things,’” said Sharon.
“It may be nothing, but when the Bob Johnsons checked in, they were one over on their room allotment. Now I know that’s not uncommon. Sometimes guests who are supposed to double up opt for their own rooms. Or someone who was going to stay with a friend in town decides to check in instead. Or . . . ” He didn’t finish, just shrugged.
“Or a murderer,” said Sharon, “decides to change his name to Bob Johnson and stays around the scene of the crime.”
“Maybe,” said Am.
“Didn’t all the Bob Johnsons guarantee their stays with credit cards?”
“He could have put down a cash deposit.”
“It still doesn’t make sense. You commit murder, and then you check into the same hotel?”
“You’re trying to think logically. Why didn’t he immediately flee the Hotel after the murders? Why did he sleep in the same room with his victims?”
Sharon offered what she though
t was the only obvious answer: “He’s a psychopath.”
“Do you really think so?” asked Am. “Did you sense that when you walked and talked with him?”
Would she have ever been able to guess he was a murderer from their time together on the Hotel tour? No. He was an innocuous sort. She had sensed his melancholy but had also been witness to his curiosity. He had asked all those questions. “For someone who’d killed a couple of people the day before,” Sharon said, “I find it strange that he would have cared about how many petunias were planted here in the spring.”
Her statement implied that the man was mentally ill, but Sharon really didn’t think that. The man might have acted a bit odd, but he didn’t strike her as being either loony tunes or a hardened criminal. “I don’t think he was crazy,” she admitted. “I think he was sad. Lonely.”
“Penitent,” said Am.
As far as she was concerned, that was stretching it. Wasn’t this the man he had spotted in the rumba line? “No doubt like St. Julian?” she asked sarcastically.
Am shrugged, beginning to regret his reference.
“But instead of repenting like Julian,” Sharon said, “and tending to the needs of travelers for the rest of his days, our murderer joins a convention and goes on vacation.”
Am didn’t respond to Sharon’s barb. “The Jane Doe,” he reminded her, “was wearing a wedding ring. And a man’s wedding ring was left in the Bob Johnson hospitality room,” he added.
At first Sharon had trouble speaking. Am’s implication struck her as more than farfetched. “So,” she said, “you murder your wife, and her lover, then you check into a hotel for some well-earned R and R, and what the hell, you dump your wedding ring so that you can pick up some babes.”
Am opted to not defend his speculation. Uttered aloud, it did sound ludicrous.
“It would only be possible . . . ” Sharon almost said “in a nightmare” or “in a madhouse” or “in an opium eater’s deranged fantasy.” But she thought about it and reluctantly finished her sentence:
