I took off the blood-soaked booties, put them in one of the many plastic baggies I keep in my pockets, and went over to the picture window, which covered most of the far wall. The view was expensive, overlooking Lake Shore Drive from forty stories up. Boaters swarmed over the surface of Lake Michigan like little white ants, and the street was a gridlock of toy cars. Summer was a busy time for Chicagoans— criminals included.
I motioned for Crouch, and he heeled like a chastened puppy. Beat cops were getting younger every year; this one barely needed to shave. He had the cop stare, though—hard eyes and a perpetual scowl, always expecting to be lied to.
“I need you to do a door-to-door. Get statements from everyone on this floor. Find out who knew the victim, who might have seen anything.”
Crouch frowned. “But she killed herself. The only way in the apartment is the one door, and it was locked from the inside, with the safety chain on. Plus there was a sofa pushed in front of it.”
“I'm sure I don't need to remind you that suicides are treated as homicides in this town, Officer.”
He rolled his eyes. I could practically read his thoughts. How did this dumb broad get to be Homicide Lieutenant? She sleep with the PC?
“Lieut, the weapon is still in her hand. Don't you think...”
I sighed. Time to school the rookie.
“How many cuts are on her wrist, Crouch?”
“One.”
“Didn't they teach you about hesitation cuts at the Academy? A suicidal person usually has to work up the courage. Where was she found?”
“On the floor.”
“Why not her bed? Or the bathtub? Or a comfy chair? If you were ending your life, would you do it standing in the middle of the living room?”
He became visibly flustered, but I wasn't through yet.
“How would you describe the temperature in this room?”
“It's freezing.”
“And all she's wearing is a slip. Little cold for that, don't you think? Did you read the suicide note?”
“She didn't leave a note.”
“They all leave notes. I've worked these streets for twenty years, and never saw a suicide where the vic didn't leave a note. But for some strange reason, there's no note here. Which is a shame because maybe her note would explain how she got the multiple contusions on her face and arm.”
Crouch was cowed, but he managed to mumble, “The door—”
“Speaking of doors,” I interrupted, “why are you still here when you were given an order to start the door- to-door? Move your ass.”
Crouch looked at his shoes and then left the apartment. Herb raised an eyebrow.
“Kinda hard on the newbie, Jack.”
“He wouldn't have questioned me if I had a penis.”
“I think you have one now. You took his.”
“If he does a good job, I'll give it back.”
Herb turned to look at the body. He rubbed his mustache.
“It could still play as suicide,” he said. “If she was hit by a sudden urge to die. Maybe she got some terrible news. She gets out of the shower, puts on a slip, cranks up the air conditioning, gets a phone call, immediately grabs the knife and with one quick slice...”
He made a cutting motion over his wrist.
“Do you buy it?” I asked.
Herb made a show of mulling it over.
“No,” he consented. “I think someone knocked her out, sliced her wrist, turned up the air so the smell wouldn't get too bad, and then...”
“Managed to escape from a locked room.”
I sighed, my shoulders sagging.
Herb's eyes scanned the view. “A window washer?”
I checked the window, but as expected it didn't open. Winds this high up weren't friendly.
“There's no other way in?” Herb asked.
“Just the one entryway.”
I walked up to it. The safety chain hung on the door at eye level, its wall mounting and three screws dangling from it. The doorframe where it had been attached was splintered and cracked from Crouch's entrance. There were three screw holes in the frame that matched the mounting, and a fourth screw still remained, sticking out of the frame about an inch.
The hinges on the door were dusty and showed no signs of tampering. A black leather sofa was pushed off to the side, near the doorway. I followed the tracks that its feet had made in the carpet. The sofa had been placed in front of the door and then shoved aside.
I opened the door, holding the knob with two fingers. It moved easily, even though it was heavy and solid. I closed it, stumped.
“How did the killer get out?” I said, mostly to myself.
“Maybe he didn't get out. Maybe the killer is still in the apartment.” Herb's eyes widened and his hand shot up, pointing over my shoulder. “Jack! Behind you!”
I rolled my eyes.
“Funny, Herb. I already searched the place.”
I peeled off the gloves and stuck them back in my pocket.
“Well, then there are only three possibilities.” Herb held up his hand, ticking off fingers. “One, Crouch and Johnson and the superintendent are all lying. Two, the killer was skinny enough to slip out of the apartment by going under the door. Or three, it was Houdini.”
“Houdini's dead.”
“Did you check? Get an alibi? ”
“I'll send a team to the cemetery.”
While we waited for the ME to arrive, Herb and I busied ourselves with tossing the place. Bank statements told us Janet Hellerman made a comfortable living and paid her bills on time. She was financing a late model Lexus, which we confirmed was parked in the lot below. Her credit card debt was minimal, with a recent charge for plane tickets. A call to Delta confirmed two seats to Montana for next week, one in her name and one in the name of Glenn Hale.
Herb called the precinct, requesting a sheet on Hale.
I checked the answering machine and listened to thirty-eight messages. Twenty were from Janet's distraught mother, wondering where she was. Two were telemarketers. One was from a friend named Sheila who wanted to get together for dinner, and the rest were real estate related.
Nothing from Hale. He wasn't on the caller ID either.
I checked her cell phone next, and listened to forty more messages; ten from mom, and thirty from home buyers. Hale hadn't left any messages, but there was a 'Glenn' listed on speed dial. The phone's call log showed that Glenn's number had called over a dozen times, but not once since last week.
“Look at this, Jack.”
I glanced over at Herb. He set a pink plastic case on the kitchen counter and opened it up. It was a woman's toolkit, the kind they sold at department stores for fifteen bucks. Each tool had a cute pink handle and a corresponding compartment that it snugged into. This kit contained a hammer, four screwdrivers, a measuring tape, and eight wrenches. There were also two empty slots; one for needle nose pliers, and one for something five inches long and rectangular.
“The utility knife,” I said.
Herb nodded. “She owned the weapon. It's looking more and more like suicide, Jack. She has a fight with Hale. He dumps her. She kills herself.”
“You find anything else?”
“Nothing really. She liked to mountain climb, apparently. There's about forty miles of rope in her closet, lots
