“Something under the body.”
We followed him over. The black uniform had his arms folded and his eyes were aimed at a small scrap of white paper, maybe two inches square.
“It's probably nothing,” the first cop repeated, “but it was under her and there's something typed on it.”
I saw the letters.
Hooks squatted. “D-V-L-L. That mean anything to anybody?”
The cops looked at one another.
“No, sir,” said the first.
“Maybe the devil,” said the second.
“Any gang using that moniker?”
Shrugs all around.
“And since when do gang bangers type,” muttered Hooks. “Okay, you're the eagle eye, Officer… Bradbury. Do me a favor and check that graffiti on the school buildings over there, see if the same thing comes up anywhere.”
“Yes, sir.” As Bradbury approached the yellow-tape border, the teachers backed away. But they watched as he scanned the graffiti.
“DVLL,” said Hooks. “Mean anything to you, Milo?”
“Nope.”
“Me, neither. And seeing as she was laid down by the janitor, it was probably just something lying there on the cement before she got here. Maybe a piece of school memo or something.”
The paper remained motionless in the static, metallic air.
“Should I not bother to tell the techs?” said the black cop.
“No, tell them to bag it, take a picture,” said Hooks. “We wouldn't want to be accused of shoddy police work by some scumbag lawyer, would we?”
12
Milo drove out to the street and parked behind my Seville.
“Ah,” he said, looking in the rearview mirror. “Finally, the games begin.”
Behind us, a TV van from a local station had just pulled up, disgorging a gear-toting crew that sprinted for the gate. As the uniform checked with Hooks, a small gray car pulled away from the curb and passed us. The driver, Hispanic and wearing the same institutional-gray Montez had on, glanced at us for an instant and continued to Western.
“A diplomat's kid on the West Side and a crack-kid down here,” said Milo. “What do you think?”
“Some physical resemblance between Irit and Latvinia, both of them retarded, death by strangulation, no sexual assault on Irit, no evidence so far of an assault on Latvinia. And the position of the body. But Latvinia wasn't strangled with broad force and the janitor moved her.”
“The janitor.”
“You like him?”
“Sure. Because he was there.
“Sparing the grandchildren,” I said. “Janitors clean up. Janitors use brooms.”
“Something else, Alex: He cuts her down, arranges her respectfully but doesn't tuck the tongue back in her mouth? Hooks asked him about that and he said when he realized she was really dead he didn't want to mess things up. Make sense to you?”
“The average person seeing a hanging body would probably run for the phone. But if Montez is action-oriented, a family man, with strong attachments to the school, it could fit. But so does another scenario: Montez has a date with Latvinia- he admitted knowing her. They meet on the schoolyard because it's his turf. He kills her, hangs her, then realizes students are going to show up soon, maybe there isn't enough time to get rid of the body. So instead he plays hero.”
“Or it was colder: There
“Another thing,” I said. “Montez wears a uniform. His is gray and the park worker I saw mowing at the conservancy was wearing beige, but someone else might not draw the distinction.”
His eyes narrowed. “Irit.”
“To her it might have connoted someone official. Someone who belonged and could be trusted. Most people relate to uniforms that way.”
“Montez,” he said. “Well, if there's anything to learn about him, Hooks is as good a detective as any.”
“That piece of paper,” I said. “DVLL.”
“Mean something to you?”
“No. I'm sure it's nothing- what Hooks said, a scrap of school memo.”
He turned to me. “What, Alex?”
“It just seemed too cute. Move the body and there it is. Nothing like that was found near Irit. According to the files.”
“Meaning?”
“Sometimes,” I said, “small things get overlooked.”
He frowned. “You think Montez or whoever killed Latvinia left a message?”
“Or it was in her pocket and fell out, either when she was hung or when Montez cut her down.”
He rubbed his face. “I'll get to the morgue and look at the evidence bags personally. That is, if the stuff hasn't been returned to the family. Speaking of which, Carmeli called me this morning, said he has copies of the consulate crank mail, I should come by and pick them up. I'll do it around five, after I play phone tag to see if anyone's got deaf or retarded victims that look interesting. If I drop the letters off this evening, could you analyze them?”
“Be happy to, for what it's worth. Quick cooperation on Carmeli's part. Attitude adjustment?”
“Maybe he was impressed 'cause I brought along a psychologist.”
“Sure,” I said. “That and the tie.”
I got home at two-thirty. Robin and Spike were out and I drank a beer, went through the mail, paid some bills. Helena Dahl had phoned an hour and a half ago- not long after her session- leaving her work number. And Dr. Roone Lehmann had returned my call.
The Cardiac Care Unit clerk told me Helena was in the middle of a procedure and couldn't come to the phone. Leaving my name, I phoned Lehmann.
This time no service; an answering tape with a low, dry-but-mellow male voice picked up, and as I introduced myself, the same voice clicked in.
“This is Dr. Lehmann.”
“Thanks for getting back to me, Doctor.”
“Certainly. Officer Dahl's sister called, too, but I thought I'd speak with you first. What exactly is she after?”
“Some understanding of why he killed himself.”
“I sympathize,” he said. “Of course. But can we ever really understand?”
“True,” I said. “Did Nolan leave any clues?”
“Was he despondent or profoundly depressed, overtly suicidal or making oblique cries for help? Not when I saw him, Dr. Delaware, but- hold on.”
He was off the line for thirty seconds, came back sounding rushed. “I'm sorry. Something came up and I can't talk at length right now. Not that I could, anyway. Even though the patient's dead and even though the courts have
