Code 61 - Donald Harstad [19]
“I pretty much stopped at the door,” said Borman.
“We got to her,” said Herb. “Close enough to check vitals. But with that wound in the neck, you could tell there was no point before you even started.”
“The neck?” The look I got from him made me add, “I haven't approached the body yet; just did a long look at the room.”
“Big, open slash on the right neck. Deep. Really deep. Got the jugular, at least.”
“Oh.” I was about as noncommittal as I could be. Neck? Two neck wounds in forty-eight hours, within ten miles of each other, in a basically rural area?
“The knife's down by the right leg,” he said. He thought he was rubbing it in. “We didn't touch it.”
“Saw it,” I said. “Glad you left it alone.” Well, at least it wasn't a fencing pliers. I had to take a moment to regain my focus. I wanted very badly to rush in and check that neck wound. But first things had to come first.
I hung both the camera bag and the camera around my neck with their straps, and straightened up, looking around the room. Neat room. As in tidy. Even the bunch of little jars and bottles on the vanity looked organized and orderly. To one side of the vanity top was a large, transparent blue plastic box, with seven rows of four doors. The rows were labeled for the days of the week, and the little doors were labeled for times of day. It was a pillbox, for somebody taking prescriptions. I made a mental note to point that out to the ME, and to get a photo.
Some photos, of mostly youngish people, adorned the vanity mirror. Very neat, in organized rows. One of those large, preconfigured frames with about a half dozen oval cutouts, filled with photos of a little kid, hung above the mirror. Maroon velvet or velour jewelry box. Queen-size bed, with what was now just about an obligatory brass frame. The bed was made, with a paisley bedspread. A nightstand, with a brass lamp. What I guessed to be a door to a closet was closed. Tidy, again. There were a couple of stuffed animals on the top of the bookshelf: a teddy bear, a little stuffed vampire with blue skin and a black cape, and one of those little troll dolls with the vertical red hair, like Don King. Boom box, stack of CDs, about a dozen books on the shelves. There was a small table and a chair against the hallway wall, with an older PC on top. Clunky, with no printer, just a keyboard and mouse pad. On the wall at the head of the bed, between the two windows, was a wood-framed embroidered sign, proclaiming in a homey way that “Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fonder.” That one made me smile. A nice, normal room, with nothing unusual to catch the eye. Absolutely nothing. The bedroom of a neat, organized person.
The unusual part was what wasn't there. As far as I could see, there was no clothing laid out on the bed, nor on the back of a chair, nor on the chest of drawers. And no sign of the little pile of clothes you might expect to find in the wake of someone on her way to the bath. No underwear, no bra, no shoes or socks. Nothing.
“I'd appreciate it,” I said, “if you two would go out into the hall, and not let anybody in unless it's Lamar or the ME.”
“You do know who this dead girl is, don't you, Carl?” asked Herb.
“Hadn't got to see her face, Herb, so, no. Just that she's been called 'Edie.' Do you know who she is?”
“Edith Younger.” I must have given him a blank look, because he added, “You know. Lamar's sister's kid. She's Lamar's niece.”
FIVE
Saturday, October 7, 2000
08:36
I thought, Son ofa bitch. I said, “Damn.” Sure it was. I'd always known her as Edith. I looked at Borman. “Does Lamar know who it is yet?”
Borman gave me a blank look. “How do I know?”
I sighed. “Go get on the phone, call Dispatch, and see if they know if he knows. If he does, fine, but if he doesn't, when he gets here, tell him I want to talk to him before he gets in here, and then come get me. Got it?”
“Sure,” said Borman, heading for the hallway.
“And NO RADIO TRAFFIC, got that?”
“Yes sir.” He did a phony pout. “You old guys