The Dead Room

“Because there’s the chance Rosemary might have a tattoo where it can’t be seen.”

“You’re forgetting that we interviewed her friend at the gym. She’s seen Rosemary in the shower. There aren’t any tattoos.”

“What about the others?”

“No one mentioned they had any either. You’re right when you said we ask. We always do.”

Teddy closed his phone. He knew that Ferarro didn’t want to end the conversation, but he was losing the signal on his cell as he pulled into the garage. He could tell the detective was suspicious. But keeping Ferarro suspicious was a positive step and reason enough to make the call and keep it short. It was in Rosemary’s best interest. It kept her file on top and might spark an idea in Ferarro’s head. Maybe the detective would hit on something and be moved to work the streets again.

Teddy found a place to park and hurried to the elevator. He found Jill in his office with two paperback copies of the book and a large pizza. Teddy picked up a copy as he sat down. The Agony and the Ecstasy was the novelization of Michelangelo’s life. This surprised him, and he could tell from the expression on Jill’s face that she was equally dumbfounded. He’d expected a book on crime, something that might shed light on the man they were looking for. Instead, this was a novel about the life of an artist. Even worse, the book looked long and the print was small.

“What’s going on?” Jill asked.

Teddy put the book down and reached for a slice of pizza. “Nash seems to think it’s important.”

“What’s Michelangelo have to do with Oscar Holmes?”

Teddy shrugged. “He gave me a riddle. What two things does the city grow best?”

She thought it over as she bit into a slice. Nothing came to mind for her either.

“Nash is weird, Teddy. I told you that before.”

She opened her briefcase, pulled out a paper she’d written in law school and handed it to him. Teddy glanced at the title page. She’d written it for Nash in her first year when criminal law was mandatory.

“It’s about his defense of the Venice Beach Strangler,” she said.

“How’d Nash do?”

“It depends on who you ask. Do you know where Venice Beach is?”

“Sure,” he said. “Just below Santa Monica in California.”

“Right. It’s not Italy, it’s Southern California. There’s a canal that winds through the city a few blocks from the beach. The homes along the canal are expensive. Beautiful.”

Teddy tore a second slice of pizza away from the pie, wondering what Jill was getting at.

“Once a month for six months,” she said, “the people who lived along the canal would wake up in the morning and find a body floating in the water outside their homes. They were always young women, raped and strangled to death. The police had a hard time identifying the bodies. There weren’t any clues and everyone was in a panic. After six months the murders stopped.”

“How’d they get the guy?” Teddy asked.

“The murders started again. Only this time the bodies were found in the hills along Mulholland Drive, just north of Beverly Hills. A homicide detective working out of the Hollywood Division put it together. He was looking for runaway kids that seemed to be disappearing from the streets. He had a house in the hills that he’d rebuilt after the earthquake, and it bothered him that someone was dumping bodies in his neighborhood. He worked the case on his own and discovered that a family had moved from the canals in Venice to Mulholland Drive. The dates and places the bodies were found matched the time of the move. It turned out the murderer was a twenty-year-old kid who still lived at home. He was psychotic. He hated his parents, and was dumping the bodies near the house to shake them up.”

“You’re saying Nash got the kid off?”

“The boy’s father was an executive at one of the movie studios. They had a lot of money. Nash didn’t defend the boy as much as he attacked the detective who caught him. Nash went after the man’s character. The detective had been abandoned by his parents and grown up in poverty. Nash said the detective wasn’t following the evidence, but targeting the boy out of a deep-rooted jealousy. He accused the detective of mishandling what evidence there was, and said the rest couldn’t be trusted. Because of the riots and police scandals, the jury bought it and came back with a not guilty verdict.”

“What happened to the kid?” Teddy asked.

“He was released. Three days later they found him floating in the canal. He’d been strangled to death.”

“It sounds like he deserved it. Who did it? The detective?”

Jill shook her head. “No. He was working a case in Florida. He and his partner left Los Angeles before the trial was over. They were three thousand miles away when it happened. No one knows who murdered the kid. The case is still open.”

“Who do you think murdered him?”

She lowered her slice of pizza, unable to eat. “I don’t know who committed the murder. Maybe it was the brother or father of one of the victims, or some cop who couldn’t take it anymore. That’s not the point. All I’m saying is that Nash plays games, Teddy. I could tell he knew the boy was guilty. Everyone in class could. Nash didn’t get him off because it was the right thing to do. He got him off because he’s smarter than everybody else and he knew how to. Once he’d won the case, he couldn’t have cared less what happened to the kid. His interest was in the game and it was over.”

Teddy checked his watch. It was after six, and Jill’s paranoia wasn’t getting them anywhere.

“We’ve got some reading to do,” he said.

She looked at him and nodded, then let out a faint smile as if she knew her words had fallen by the wayside.

“I’ll get the coffee,” she said.

They made a fresh pot together. When they returned to the office, Jill took the couch and began reading from page 1. Teddy sat behind his desk, opened The Agony and the Ecstasy to page 300 and got started. The read went quickly. Because Teddy had always been interested in art, he found the novelization of Michelangelo’s life fascinating. Still, Jill’s story about the murders in L.A. troubled him, and he often found his mind wandering. Teddy had tried to give her a fair shake and listen to her story because he liked her and admired her and they were friends. Yet as he gazed at her on the couch, he couldn’t help thinking that she was a victim of sorts, a measure of how well the media had been able to color what was happening and point their invisible electric finger at Holmes. It was clear to Teddy that Jill thought Holmes was guilty. It was clear to him that she was afraid that they might find a way to get him off. The press was another player in the mix, Teddy thought. They were shaping the story in people’s heads, jetting their way in the wrong direction with the police. Jill’s fears seemed so outlandish. But then so did reading this book at a time when he knew he should be looking for Rosemary Gibb.

Why had Nash insisted on it? What was the idea he said he needed confirmed? What two things does the city grow best?

“Page two-O-nine,” Jill shouted.

Teddy looked up and saw the terror on her face.

“Two-O-nine,” she said, catching her breath.

He found the page and started reading. It was the story of Michelangelo’s struggle to carve Hercules as a young man. Day after day he stared at the blank stone, unable to find the magic. He felt inept, even unworthy of the subject. How could he approach the stone without first knowing what was inside the man? Any man? He considered the idea of stealing a body from the graveyard for his studies, but realized he couldn’t pull it off without getting caught. Several days passed and a new idea came to mind. The morgue. A place called the dead room.

Teddy’s eyes lit up. The writer likened it to a sign from God. Michelangelo sneaking into the dead room every night with his knife and candle. Ripping the bodies apart with a slice down their chest. Cutting their ribs away, examining their muscles and organs and feeling the tissue in his hands until he understood what a human being was made of.

What two things does the city grow best?

Nash was working up a profile of the killer. He’d been right. He’d been right all along.

“Shit,” Teddy said.

He threw the book down and grabbed the phone. Nash was still in his office and sounded tired, almost as if