Chat - Archer Mayor [28]
“Hey, boss,” Sam greeted him. “You made good time.”
He nodded in response. “Still no ID?” he asked.
“He might as well’ve been dry-cleaned,” another of the figures answered, turning to reveal himself as Lester Spinney, Sam’s exact opposite in both height and demeanor—he, laid back and tall; she, high strung and diminutive. Standing beside each other, they looked like an antiseptic comedy act. The two other detectives, both on their hands and knees, worked for the Brattleboro PD. One, surprisingly to Joe, who had spent decades in that department, he knew only slightly, and not by name. The other, by contrast, was Ron Klesczewski, the chief of detectives, anointed by Joe on his departure, and a close friend. The first man did no more than glance in Joe’s direction before resuming work, scrutinizing the rug inch by inch. Ron, for his part, leaped up and shook hands like a long-lost relative, making Joe realize guiltily that, in fact, they hadn’t seen each other in months, despite their having offices one floor apart.
After pleasantries—and apologies—Joe looked into the bathroom to his right and the open closet door immediately beyond it, making sure not to step off the ribbon of butcher paper laid down from the doorway to the far wall for scene preservation. Both areas appeared untouched, all the way down to the toilet paper end still folded into a point.
Ron caught the meaning of his survey. “He did check in,” he reassured him, “but paid cash.”
“No luggage?” Joe asked.
“Supposedly a small bag. If so, it’s missing,” Lester suggested.
Joe stepped deeper into the room. The body lay facedown on the made bed, fully clothed. The TV was off, the lights on, the curtains drawn. Aside from the dead man, the room looked ready for rental.
There was a knock on the door, and Alan Miller stuck his white-hooded head in. “Okay to come in? I’m all decked out.”
Joe looked to Ron, who was the nominal lead investigator until or unless he ceded control of the case to the VBI.
“Good by me,” he said. “I want to see what he looks like.”
Alan stepped inside cautiously, lugging his metal equipment case. “Any idea who we’ve got?”
“None,” Sam told him. “What you see is everything. I checked his back pockets already, since they were staring at me, but so far, nothing. Feel free to do the honors.”
“No weapon?” Miller persisted.
“We don’t even know if he was murdered,” Lester volunteered cheerfully. “Could be a natural.”
“Or another parachutist,” Sam muttered darkly.
Miller looked at her doubtfully but didn’t ask for an explanation. Instead, he opened his case on the butcher paper, extracted a camera, and took a few shots that would later accompany the body to the ME’s office in Burlington. Beverly Hillstrom liked seeing what her customers looked like in place.
He then began carefully examining the body, first by simply placing his gloved hand on its abdomen to feel its temperature, before moving to the hands, arms, and legs to check for stiffness. A vague rule of thumb had it that rigor mortis takes some twelve hours to reach its peak, before a body’s flaccidity begins reasserting itself. But everyone in the room was experienced enough to know that such rules were notoriously unreliable.
“Okay to move him?” he asked.
Klesczewski nodded, and Miller rolled the body onto its back, farther up onto the bed. A gentle sigh escaped its lungs as it settled into its new position.
They all studied the man’s face, as if expecting him to deliver a name. He was about five feet ten, on the edge of going fat, dressed in jeans, a chamois flannel shirt, and sneakers. He had thick, curly hair, a narrow, neatly bearded face, and absolutely nothing to say to any of them.
To satisfy Sam, whose habits he knew all too well, Miller checked the decedent’s front pockets first. “Nothing,” he announced.
The rest of his examination came to about the same conclusion. Clothing was opened and shifted, but not removed—again according to the ME’s wishes—but no wounds,