of spikes and beaners, and a picture of her clinging to a cliff. She also has an extraordinary amount of teddy bears. There were so many piled on her bed, I don't know how she could sleep on it.”
“Diary? Computer?”
“Neither. Some photo albums, a few letters that we'll have to look through.”
Someone knocked. We glanced across the breakfast bar and saw the door ease open.
Mortimer Hughes entered. Hughes was a medical examiner. He worked for the city, and his job was to visit crime scenes and declare people dead. You'd never guess his profession if you met him on the street—he had the smiling eyes and infectious enthusiasm of a television chef.
“Hello Jack, Herb, beautiful day out.” He nodded at us and set down a large tackle box that housed the many particular tools of his trade. Hughes opened it up and snugged on some plastic gloves and booties. He also brandished knee pads.
Herb and I paused in our search and watched him work. Hughes knelt beside the vic and spent ten minutes poking and prodding, humming tunelessly to himself. When he finally spoke, it was high-pitched and cheerful.
“She's dead,” Hughes said.
We waited for more.
“At least four days, probably longer. I'm guessing from hypovolemic shock. Blood loss is more than forty percent. Her right zygomatic bone is shattered, pre-mortem or early post.”
“Could she have broken her cheek falling down?” Herb asked.
“On this thick carpet? Possible—yes. Likely—no. Look at the blood pool. No arcs. No trails.”
“So she wasn't conscious when her wrist was cut?”
“That would be my assumption, unless she laid down on the floor and stayed perfectly still while bleeding to death.”
“Sexually assaulted?”
“Can't tell. I'll do a swab.”
I chose not to watch, and Herb and I went back into the kitchen. Herb pursed his lips.
“It could still be suicide. She cuts her wrist, falls over, breaks her cheek bone, dies unconscious.”
“You don't sound convinced.”
“I'm not. I like the boyfriend. They're fighting, he bashes her one in the face. Maybe he can't wake her up, or he thinks he's killed her. Or he wants to kill her. He finds the toolbox, gets the utility knife, makes it look like a suicide.”
“And then magically disappears.”
Herb frowned. “That part I don't like.”
“Maybe he flushed himself down the toilet, escaped through the plumbing.”
“You can send Crouch out to get a plunger.”
“Lieutenant?”
Officer Crouch had returned. He stood by the kitchen counter, his face ashen.
“What is it, Officer?”
'I was doing the door-to-door. No one answered at the apartment right across the hall. The superintendent thought that was strange– an old lady named Mrs. Flagstone lives there, and she never leaves her home. She even sends out for groceries. So the super opens up her door and...you'd better come look.
#
Mrs. Flagstone stared up at me with milky eyes. Her tongue protruded from her lips like a hunk of raw liver. She was naked in the bathtub, her face and upper body submerged in foul water, one chubby leg hanging over the edge. The bloating was extensive. Her white hair floated around her head like a halo.
“Still think it's a suicide?” I asked Herb.
Mortimer Hughes rolled up his sleeve and put his hand into the water. He pressed her chest and bubbles exploded out of her mouth and nose.
“Didn't drown. Her lungs are full of air.”
He moved his hand higher, prodding the wrinkled skin on her neck.
“I can feel some damage to the trachea. There also appears to be a lesion around her neck. I want to get a sample of the water before I pull the drain plug.”
Hughes dove into his box. Herb, Crouch, and I left him and went into the living room. Herb called in, requesting the forensics team.
“Any hits from the other tenants?” I asked the rookie.
He flipped open his pad. “One door over, at apartment 3010, the occupant, a Mr. Stanley Mankowicz, remembers some yelling coming from the victim's place about six days ago.”
“Does he remember what time?”
“It was late, he was in bed. Mr. Mankowicz shares a wall with the vic, and has called her on several occasions to tell her to turn her television down.”
“Did he call that night?”
“He was about to, but the noise stopped.”
“Where's the super?”
“Johnson hasn't finished taking his statement.”
“Call them both in here.”
While waiting for them to arrive, I examined Mrs. Flagstone's door. Like Janet's, it had a safety chain, and like Janet's, it had been ripped from the wall and the mounting was hanging from the door. I found four screws and some splinters on the floor. There were no screws in the door frame.
A knock, and I opened the door. Officer Johnson and the super. Johnson was older than his partner, bigger, with the same dead eyes. The superintendent was a Pakistani man named Majid Patel. Mr. Patel had dark skin and red eyes and he clearly enjoyed all of this attention.
“I moved to this country ten years ago, and I have never seen a dead body before. Now I have seen two in the same day. I must call and tell my mother. I call my mother when anything exciting happens.”
“We'll let you go in a moment, Mr. Patel. I'm Lt. Jack Daniels, this is Detective Herb Benedict. We just have a few...”
“Your name is Jack Daniels? But you are not a man.”
“You're very observant,” I deadpanned. “Did you know Janet Hellerman?”
Patel winked at me. Was he flirting?
“It must be hard, Lt. Jack Daniels, to be a pretty woman with a funny name in a profession so dominated by male chauvinist pigs.” Patel offered Herb a look. “No offense.”
Herb returned a pleasant smile. “None taken. If you could please answer the Lieutenant's question.”
Patel grinned, crooked teeth and spinach remnants.
“She was a real estate lawyer. Young and good looking. Always paid her rent on time. My brother gave her a deal on her apartment, because she had nice legs.” Patel had no reservations about openly checking out mine. “Yours are very nice too, Jack Daniels. For an older lady. Are you single?”
“She's single.” Herb winked at me, gave me an elbow. I made a mental note to fire him later.
“Your brother?” I asked Patel.
“He's the building owner,” Officer Johnson chimed in. “It's the family business.”
“Did you know anything about Janet's personal life?”
“She had a shit for a boyfriend, a man named Glenn. He had an affair and she dumped him.”
“When was this?”
“About ten days ago. I know because she asked me to change the lock on her door. She had given him a key and he wouldn't return it.”
“Did you change the lock?”
“I did not. Ms. Hellerman just mentioned it to me in the elevator once. She never filled out the work order request.”
“Does the building have a doorman?”
“No. We have security cameras.”
“I'll need to see tapes going back two weeks. Can you get them for me?”
“It will not be a problem.”
