“Thanks, Bill.”
Bill hit the disconnect button, then dialed his office at the FDA in Maryland, hoping that someone was there early. Luckily, a secretary picked up.
“Hello, Dr. May. How’s the sleep research?”
“Exhausting. Laura, can you look up Mike Bitner’s number and address for me?”
“Sure, just a sec.”
“Have you heard from Dr. Bitner lately?”
“No, not for a while. Here it is.”
Bill memorized the information and thanked her. When he called, he got Mike’s answering machine. There were at least ten seconds of beeps, indicating unheard messages. Bill hung up.
“The police have to investigate.” Bill said it to reassure himself, but it didn’t help. As the duty officer had repeated over and over, “There’s no crime without a body.”
Bill was positive Mike was dead, but if a video of his murder wasn’t enough proof, maybe he could find more.
Bitner lived in Roscoe Village, only fifteen minutes away. Bill took a cold shower to wake himself up. After dressing in chinos, a polo shirt, and an older blazer, he hit a corner store and bought a large coffee and a bottle of ma haung weight loss pills. He choked down four.
The sun was up by now and the city was opening its eyes. Bill’s condo came with a garage, which he shared with three of his neighbors. He climbed in his Audi and headed north. Traffic was sparse, but there were a good number of joggers and bikers out. The caffeine and ephedrine hadn’t kicked in yet, so Bill paid careful attention to his driving.
Bill took Addison to Hoyle and located Bitner’s two-flat without difficulty. It was brick, slightly lighter brown than the buildings on either side of it. The porch light was on. He parked in front of a hydrant and waited until a roller blader passed.
Instead of trying the front door, Bill walked straight to the gate leading into the back yard. The rear entrance was attached to a deck, where a wooden chaise without a cushion and a somewhat rusty gas grill kept a silent vigil. Checking either side of him for witnesses, he approached a window and peered inside. It was dark, quiet.
Bill could hear his heart, pounding with a combination of fear and stimulants. He contemplated returning to his car and leaving; other than traffic violations, Bill had never broken the law in his life. Breaking and entering was a felony, right?
The police won’t help you. You need more evidence. Just do it.
He took off his jacket, put it up against the pane, and hit it with the heel of his hand.
The glass cracked with the sound of a gunshot, and the falling pieces seemed to tinkle forever. He locked his knees and refused to run away. Searching for the latch to unlock the window reminded Bill of the first time he assisted in surgery as an intern, trying to find the appendix while all eyes were on him.
A dog barked, a few backyards away. Bill probed the inside of the window frame for a full minute before locating the lock. Two seconds after that, it was up and he was in.
It was the kitchen. The only light was streaming in from the opening he’d crawled through. A steady hum from the refrigerator seemed to exaggerate the silence. He stepped clear of the broken glass and made his way into the hallway.
The drapes had all been drawn, and seeing was tough. He took a minute to let his eyes adjust, and then began poking around, careful not to touch anything.
There was a stereo, hundreds of CDs organized in a rack. An entertainment center hugged the wall, flanked by two large floor plants that were going brown. The sofa and loveseat were black leather. He searched a bookshelf and found some current bestsellers, magazines, some medical texts.
Nothing in the hall closet, nothing in the bathroom. Bill located the basement stairs and flipped on the light. He descended, slowly.
The odor hit him halfway down. It was a smell he knew well, and one he always hated. Musky, putrid, clinical, final.
At the bottom of the stairs, Bill went right. A hand was over his face, and when that no longer worked, he covered his nose with his shirt bottom. The basement was unfurnished, the walls and floor bare concrete. In one corner was a washer, dryer, and an oversized utility sink. Some cardboard boxes were stacked in the center. The furnace and water heater were side by side, next to a large PVC pipe that stretched down from the ceiling and into the sump hole.
To the left of all that, a concrete wall with a door in the middle of it. Much as he hated to, he made it his destination.
When Bill pushed the door open the smell enveloped him like a dry heat. He had to take several steps back or risk vomiting.
Bill decided to examine the rest of the house first, allowing time for the death room to air out. He went up to the second floor and located the bedroom. The dresser and closet contained nothing extraordinary. The bed was unmade. A nightstand drawer revealed a remote control for the TV, some Kleenex, and a Robin Cook paperback.
Bill headed across the upstairs hall and found a study. The drawers had been pulled out of the desk, their contents strewn over the carpet. A large file cabinet had been similarly disturbed, files and papers littering the floor. Bill didn’t think poking through it would provide any answers. It was doubtful that whoever made the mess left anything important.
On a hunch, Bill went back to the bedroom. Many doctors took their work to sleep with them. He looked under the bed, behind the nightstand, and eventually found the file wedged between the nightstand and the bed. The tab on the manila folder read N-SOM. It was thick, held closed by a large rubber band. Bill tucked it under his arm and went into the adjoining bathroom.
In the closet was an old tube of Ben Gay. He dabbed some on his upper lip. It burned, but it was a small price to pay to smell menthol rather than rot. Then he pushed aside his trepidation and walked back down to the basement.
The door was waiting for him. Bill approached without enthusiasm, knowing what was in there, knowing he had to look anyway. When he pushed it open, the stench surrounded him like a tropical breeze. He pulled the cord on a hanging bulb.
The tarpaulin-covered bundle in the middle of the floor was the source of the odor, and the shape left no doubt as to its contents. Bill still had to be sure, and holding his breath he pulled back the canvas.
Mike Bitner’s eyes were open, two white marbles stuck in a pink, bloated face. Bill looked lower, saw the exit wound in the chest. The amount of dried blood staining the floor around him left no doubt that this was where he died. They’d videotaped Bitner’s murder in his own basement.
Bill left the room and tried to think it through. He had to get the authorities to see this, without them knowing he’d been here. Maybe he could leave an anonymous tip. Pretend he was a neighbor, complain about a smell coming from the house. Or even say he heard shots, or saw someone breaking in.
Once the police found the body, they’d have to protect him.
Bill walked over to the stairs, planning the call in his head. The creak took him by surprise.
It had come from the floor above. Bill stopped, and heard it again, louder this time.
There was someone upstairs.
Jack Kilborn
Disturb
“That window could have got broken weeks ago.”
Franco came up next to Carlos, the broken glass crunching underfoot. Carlos shook his head and scratched at his graying goatee. He had a dark face, all sharp angles, and it suited his personality.
“Floor’s dry. It rained two, three days ago. This is recent.”
Franco shrugged, but he took out his weapon just the same, a laughably large Coonan 357 Magnum with a six inch barrel. Carlos’s Colt Model 38 was already in hand, a reliable gun that never jammed like Franco’s cannon.
“So you want to search the place?”
Carlos thought it over. If someone had been here, that someone might be coming back with heat. He didn’t want to waste any time.
