by Lisa Gardner
“We don’t follow the blood trail. Sorry. But this is real-world policing, so I’m stuck with telling you the truth. Instead, we search the man’s clothes, then the bed, then the nightstand next to the bed. ID, people. Wallet, cell phone, car keys. We want to know who DG is.”
D.D. rolled her eyes, took another sip of coffee. Her audience was disappointed. They really did want the severed limb.
“Fine, you win. I’ll speed up. No wallet, no cell phone, no keys. So in addition to our DG being dismembered, we also assume he was robbed. And given the way the clothes are folded neatly on the bed, I already have some theories on that subject. But we’ll return to that. Because now, what you’ve all been waiting for. We follow the blood trail down the grimy carpet. We peer inside the tiny, freezing-cold, misty bathroom, where not one but two cockroaches are already making tracks through the blood.
“And we behold the severed leg. Packed in dry ice, in a plastic-lined tub.”
• • •
Hand in the air. Mop top from the back.
“Yes,” D.D. called on him.
“Dry ice is the lie. I mean, who hacks off a limb and places it in dry ice?”
“Better yet, who brings dry ice to a squalid motel?” D.D. commented, then shook her head. “No, dry ice is not the lie, but I’ll be the first to admit, an unusual element at a crime scene. In addition to the dry ice, we found rubber gloves—blood-soaked—and a hacksaw—also blood-spattered—on the floor next to the toilet. In the sink, we discovered several round green pills. Being a savvy detective, my partner Neil ran the number stamped on the pills through the drug ID website and determined they were OxyContin.”
Fresh hand in the front.
“Yes.”
“The drugs are a lie. Who brings painkillers to a dismemberment?”
“Great question. Who indeed? The pills are not a lie, but a clue. Given the lack of a prescription bottle, most likely they’re illegal, a street buy, and, finally, something I would expect to find in this type of motel. Meaning maybe this is why our rich DG ended up in this place—for the narcotics.”
“Dry ice and painkillers,” someone commented from the back. “Hey, wait a minute—”
“No, no, no,” D.D. interrupted. “No skipping ahead. A crime scene is like a novel. One thing at a time here. So by this stage, my partner Phil is back from meeting with the night manager. He has the name DG used to rent the room: George Clooney. We went out on a limb and agreed this was an alias. Man paid cash, of course. And yes, there’s a video camera for the parking lot, which the night manager let Phil watch. Unfortunately, all Phil can see is the back of a man, carrying an enormous duffel bag, walking down to the room, then unlocking the door. DG definitely has two legs at this point, and appears to be a well-dressed gentleman, maybe a business executive. But that’s about all Phil can tell.
“At this stage, Phil and I exit the motel room to allow the ME to move in. I leave Neil behind, because, being a former EMT, he likes to conduct his own study of the body.
“Neil gets the body. Phil and I fan out around the parking lot to see if we can find DG’s vehicle, which would hopefully include registration information with his name. But we strike out. If DG drove, he didn’t park out front. I get the bright idea to have a patrol officer canvass the nearby area and shoot photos of the license plates. We can check back in twenty-four hours and see which vehicles have never moved—maybe one of them belongs to the deceased.
“Now, we reach a lull in our investigative efforts. We have an unidentified DG missing a limb. Yeah, we have some leads. Dry ice for one. Can’t be that many places where you can buy it. We can visit the nearest distributors, see if one of them can identify our DG, but that’ll have to wait till morning business hours and I don’t want to wait. I’m a homicide detective. I need leads I can pursue now, because every single hour that goes by decreases the odds of me solving the case.”
“What about the duffel bag?” a woman toward the back spoke up. “You said the video shows the man carrying a duffel bag, but you never mentioned it in the room.”
“Ah, give that woman a prize. Where is the duffel bag, because it’s not in the room. It’s missing, much like that man’s wallet.”
D.D. paused, let her audience think it out.
“Phil has to watch more of the security tape,” someone called out. “Someone must’ve arrived after the man.”
“Phil is not an idiot. Phil watched the rest of the tape. No one arrived after our DG.”
Karin Slaughter did the honors. “Then the person arrived before. The second person was already waiting for the man. It’s not who entered the room after the dead guy. It’s who exited.”
“And we’re back to partial credit. Upon further investigation, turns out the security video is a digital loop. Records over itself every two hours. So it’s possible someone arrived before our DG and the security camera had already recorded over it. Your theory is correct: Most likely, our mysterious second person arrived before the deceased.”
“Then exited after the murder,” someone else in the room prodded.
D.D. shrugged. “You would think so, except here is where things get complicated: On video, we can watch the complete sequence of the DG entering the room with duffel bag, to night manager appearing, then barfing, to rookie officer taking control of the scene. In that entire span, no second person magically exits the room.”
“That’s not possible.” A man in the back of the room.
“Fair enough. No one exited out the front. But the motel room has a rear window. Small. Certainly nothing a grown man could fit through. But when Phil and I reenter the room to address this issue, we discover the window unlocked and slightly ajar. As if, yes, someone had recently opened it. Which is right about the same time that Neil discovers the glitter.”
• • •
“What do we know at this point? Sometimes in an active investigation, you need to stop, back up, take stock. We have a presumably wealthy DG discovered on the floor of an hourly-rate strip motel. We know he arrived alone, on foot, with a duffel bag. Once inside the room, the man removed his clothes. Given how neatly they’re folded, I’m guessing he did it willingly. We know the man had illegally obtained drugs. He wouldn’t be the first successful type to develop on addiction to prescription narcotics, so maybe he’s an addict. We know something definitely went wrong that resulted in the man’s leg being sawed off and stuck in a bathtub. At which point he made a valiant attempt to save his own life by fashioning a tourniquet? This series of events is murky for me. But we definitely know his duffel bag, wallet, personal possessions—say, cell phone and/or keys—are all missing. And now, thanks to Neil, we know the silk tie used to fashion the tourniquet is streaked not with just blood but silver glitter.”
“That’s the lie.” Fresh voice from the front. “If the tie is soaked in blood, how can you see the glitter?”
“Glitter is sparkly. Blood isn’t. Now, I’m not an expert in trace evidence. The forensics value of glitter is beyond me. What I do know is there’s no obvious source of silver glitter in the rest of the motel room. Meaning . . .”
“Locard’s principle.” Finder again.
“Exactly. The glitter must have come from our perpetrator. Who then exited out of a very small rear window, with the DG’s personal possessions in tow. A theory that gains even more credence when we find traces of blood and glitter on the windowsill. Come on, people, tell me what I need to know.”
“The hooker,” half of the room volunteered.
D.D. nodded her approval. “Told you. This is a story involving a seedy motel, a hooker, and a dismembered leg. And now, it’s time to identify our first person of interest, the hooker.”
• • •
“First thing we do is call the district detectives. In most urban police departments, you have a vice unit, which covers such crimes as prostitution. In Bosto
n, however, ‘morality’ offenses are handled by the various district offices. Basically, the local detectives. Given that working girls, much like cops, stick to certain beats, all we have to do is provide the address of the motel and we receive a couple of names in a matter of minutes. Now we’re off and running again. Phil and I leave Neil with the body, and hit the streets.
“We locate the first potential girl, Sasha, almost immediately, working two blocks from the motel, and pissed that the police presence is scaring off her business. She’s too composed to be who we’re looking for. Instead, in the interest of getting rid of the patrol cars sooner versus later, she agrees to tell us where several of the girls hole up. There’s an apartment building not far away. Falling apart, rotten plumbing, and even shittier management, we’re told, but that’s where most of the girls live.
“Phil and I head over. We start going door-to-door, knocking, banging, and getting nowhere. Till the third floor. When we come upon a door with blood on the knob.
“We identify ourselves. We order the occupant to open up.
“Then, when nothing happens, Phil races downstairs to wake the manager. Now technically speaking, a landlord doesn’t have the authority to grant police access to an apartment without the tenant’s permission—that would violate the tenant’s expectation of privacy, otherwise known as the Fourth Amendment. But the blood on the doorknob combined with the fact no one is answering our calls works in our favor, providing something called exigent circumstances. We can argue that the blood trail plus lack of response gave us reason to believe the safety of the person inside was at imminent risk, so of course we had to access the apartment. It wasn’t for our sake; it was for the occupant’s. Honest! Trust me when I say the building manager isn’t going to argue with us. And as long as we can make a reasonable argument before a judge . . .
“Manager unlocks the door, mutters about having to clean up blood . . . again . . . then disappears back down the hall. Whatever is going to happen next, he doesn’t want to know. Phil assumes the lead, I take his back, and we get down to business.
“First thing we spot upon entering is a black duffel sitting near the door. After that, the dank, one-bedroom appears empty. Neither of us, however, are buying it. Inch by inch, we scour the unit. Sure enough, fifteen minutes later we discover Harmony LaFab, as she’s called, hiding under her bed. I do the honors of grabbing her ankle and dragging her out.
“Harmony turns out to be five foot nothing, rail thin, with more poufy blond hair than bones in her body and, yes, arms streaked with blood. She’s definitely who we’ve been looking for.
“Now this is the crazy part: I don’t even get a chance to read her her rights before she starts talking.
“‘It’s not what you think, it’s not what you think, it’s not what you think,’ she babbles immediately.
“‘It never is,’ I assure her, reaching for my cuffs.
“‘But I didn’t do nothing. Just brought the Oxy. The leg . . . He did it himself. Swear to God. Fool idiot chewed up a bunch of Oxy, then sawed his own damn leg off!’”
• • •
“Back to our game. Three truths and a lie. How are we doing?”
“She’s lying,” a woman to the left spoke up immediately. “She’s covered in blood, has the victim’s possessions. Of course she’s lying.”
“It’s a good theory,” D.D. agreed. “Certainly, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had an obvious murder suspect who still felt a need to deny, deny, deny. Most of the stories I get from suspects, witnesses, even the victim’s supposed loved ones, involve at least some lies. But in my experience, it’s always a mistake to rush to judgment. Even when dealing with a blood-soaked suspect, first thing a good detective does is listen.
“This is the story we get from Harmony LaFab: The night manager of the seedy motel has a side gig. He sells illegal drugs. Also, he sets up business for the local girls for a fee. Harmony’s evening starts with a call from the manager. He has a customer who wants Oxy, plus some companionship. Manager—let’s call him Shaggy—told his customer to return in two hours. During this window, Harmony is put in charge of the drugs and goes to the room—allowing enough time to pass to delete her presence from the security video. Eliminating questions for both her and the night manager, right?
“According to Harmony, when our DG first enters, she’s a little surprised. Not by the nice clothes—her clientele runs the gamut—but that the guy is beaming. He seems both extremely happy and a bit nervous. The prospect of drugs, sex, who knows, but in Harmony’s line of work, very few people are as up as this guy.
“He sets down the duffel bag, then he starts talking. It’s the strangest proposition Harmony has ever heard—and trust me when I say a woman in her line of work gets a lot of unusual propositions. First, he wants to see the Oxy. He wants to know the dose, which he then proceeds to look up on his phone. Apparently, far from being an addict, he claims he doesn’t have much experience. He’d like to know her professional opinion on how many he should take to effectively dull the worst of the pain but remain conscious.
“Conscious for what, Harmony wants to know.
“DG opens the black duffel bag to reveal a small cooler of dry ice, rubber gloves, a knife, a hacksaw, and a hammer. Harmony starts to freak out. Oh no, oh no, oh no, the guy rushes to assure her. This has nothing to do with her. It’s all for him. The whole evening, the Oxy, the setup, it’s about his leg. It doesn’t belong to him. It never has. From the time he was a toddler, he knew his leg was alien. He’s tried to adapt, he assured her. To convince himself, even if he couldn’t love it, he should accept it, pretend it was a prosthetic or maybe a plastic leg. He even saw a therapist for a while. But nothing has worked. And he just can’t keep living with an alien anymore. The leg must come off. It’s time.
“He’ll do the hard part. He just needs a little help from her. And in return, he’ll pay her five thousand dollars. For one night’s work. Deal?
“Harmony doesn’t know what to say. She’s still pretty confused. Then there’s not really time for talking. The man is already in motion. First, he downs three Oxy with a handful of water from the sink. He’s worried it’ll either be too much or not enough, so he says he must move quickly. He lines the tub with a trash bag, then, donning the rubber gloves, dumps in the dry ice. He’s very polite, according to Harmony. Warns her not to touch the dry ice with her bare hands. It freezes at a temperature even lower than regular ice and can cause instant frostbite.
“He positions his tools in the bathtub. Then he comes back out to the main room and carefully removes all his clothing. This is it, Harmony figures. Man’ll want a quickie, some sort of last hurrah with both legs intact before he completes his journey to the land of completely crazy.
“But no, he piles his clothes neatly. Carries his phone back to the bathroom and sets it on the toilet seat. Then he comes back and picks up the tie. He’s getting a little bit sloppy now, his eyelids heavy as the Oxy starts to kick in, but if anything that seems to make him more determined.
“This is what he’s going to do, he explains to Harmony: He’s going to fashion a tourniquet with the tie above his right knee to eliminate blood flow to his lower leg. Then, he’s going to position himself on the edge of the bathtub, which, having seen green slime rimming the tub, Harmony already knows is the action of a desperate man. He’s going to place his lower leg in the bath of dry ice.
“This will hurt, he tells her. Even with the Oxy in his system, it will be excruciating. In fact, maybe he should take another right now. Just to be safe. Because he’s got to do it. It’s very important. The limb must freeze.
“Because as painful as the dry ice will be, it’s nothing compared to how it will feel if he saws through his leg unfrozen.
“Harmony doesn’t know what to do. For one thing, she’s still not sure she believes him. Who cuts off their own leg? Who goes through life thinking the
ir own limb is an alien? But as she watches, the man calmly wraps his silk tie above his knee and pulls it so tight, she can watch his thigh turn red, while below the knee, his lower leg slowly but surely goes white.
“‘Perfect,’ the man declares.
“Now, in order for her to earn the five thousand dollars, this is what he needs. He’ll do the hard part, don’t worry. But . . . this is going to be difficult. He’s studied it, researched it, planned it. And based on everything he’s read, as much as he wants his own leg gone, the process is agonizing and it’s going to come down to a matter of will.
“He’d like her to hold his hand. Perhaps dole out more painkillers, in case he needs them. He’d really appreciate it. For the record, he doesn’t want to die. He just wants the leg gone. He’s willing to do the amputation part himself, but based on what he’s read, he might pass out. It’s a distinct possibility. At which time, he needs her to call nine-one-one for him. He has it all programmed in his phone, ready to go. She just needs to hit the button.
“Now here’s the catch. When the EMTs arrive, they won’t just load him on the stretcher, they’ll take his leg, too. Medical protocol. Save the limb to be reattached. And because the limb will just be frozen, maybe some crack surgeon will be able to sew it back on while the man’s unconscious and can’t protest.
“Basically, he needs her to take the hammer to the leg. Given its frozen state, it should shatter easily. At least according to what he’s read online. So if she could please deliver a couple of good whacks to the offensive body part, that should do it. He’ll finally be free.
