Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [138]
Crime scene—the phrase popped into his head, even though at first glance it appeared to be a suicide.
Lee approached Samuel’s body. Unlike the girls he had left in the churches, who looked so lifelike even in death, Samuel looked dead. There was no color in his face—it was the sickly color that comes when all the blood has been drained away from the skin, leaving a grayish white pallor. The eyes were wide open, and Lee felt an accusation in the stare of those dead eyes, as though Samuel somehow blamed him—for what?
The suicide note was short and to the point:
I have done many bad things, and I am sorry for everyone that I hurt. It is best this way--I can’t hurt anyone else. I love you, Mother.
--Samuel
The first thing that struck Lee as odd was that it was typed. Who types out a suicide note? Did he write it before he left for the convention? If so, why go to Philadelphia to kill himself? And why did he type the note? Presumably, he could have used the computers in the hotel, but why go to the trouble of typing the note? Why not just write it by hand on hotel stationery? And why did he tell his mother he loved her when he had brutally killed her hours earlier?
The questions swirled around Lee’s mind as he worked his way through the room, taking note of everything he saw. A suitcase of clothes lay open on the bed. He looked through the clothes, all neatly packed—underwear, socks, shirts, enough for three days. Another puzzle. Why take clothes for three days if you planned to kill yourself the night you arrived?
A musty, sweet odor hung in the air. It smelled familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
He went over to the body to examine it more closely. Samuel was fully dressed, in black slacks and a pressed white shirt, with conservative oxfords and argyle socks. Why hang yourself wearing shoes? He tried to think of seeing any photos when he was enrolled at John Jay of people wearing shoes when they hanged themselves, but couldn’t think of any.
He examined the footstool that lay beneath the body. When he stood it up, it was not tall enough to reach Samuel’s feet. Lee felt a surge of adrenaline through his veins. Samuel could have looped the rope through the rafters without the help of the stool, but if he had hanged himself standing on the stool, it would have to be at least tall enough to reach his feet.
There was no doubt in Lee’s mind now that this was a staged crime scene. Someone had killed Samuel and then tried hard to make it look like a suicide—but not hard enough. The details didn’t add up. Either the murderer lacked knowledge of forensics, or he was in a hurry.
Lee went over to the suitcase full of clothing. Perhaps it held a clue, something to help identify the murderer. He searched the clothes, but found nothing helpful. Seeing the hotel phone on the bedside table, he punched the Speaker Phone button, and, on an impulse, hit the Redial button.
The musical pattern of the numbers was so familiar to him that he didn’t even have to wait for the voice mail to pick up. In an instant, everything became horrifyingly clear to him. In a flash, he saw every misread clue, every wrong turn in the road, every false lead. He knew now what the musty, sweet scent in the air was.
His hand trembling, he put the receiver back in its cradle.
Depression began to tug at him, seeping into his stomach like poison, threatening to spread upward, turning his limbs to stone as surely as if he had seen Medusa herself.
“No!” he muttered through clenched teeth, fighting it off with all his might. “Not this time you don’t!”
He took a last look around the room. There was nothing more he could do for poor Samuel. He would leave the crime scene untouched for the local police to ponder.
He had to go, now—before it was too late.
Chapter Sixty-four
Dr. Azarian’s house was not hard to find. A handsome Edwardian brick structure in an affluent neighborhood,