Murex opened the wallet and confirmed that. Next he looked at the notebook. The page on the left was blank. On the right a set of numbers were centered in 30 point type:
5688
7854
Murex leafed through the rest. Every right-hand page displayed a set of similar numbers. He copied down the exposed set. The binder contained no other writing.
Murex called in the hotel manager, who was waiting outside.
“John Doom, when did he check in?”
“Last night. Reservations were made on Friday.”
“Who saw him last?”
“Not sure. It appears he checked in and went straight to bed.”
“And never woke up,” said Murex. “It happens. Thank you. When can I talk to the desk clerk who checked him in?”
“He comes on duty at 5:00. I’ll call him in early.”
“Appreciate that.”
The ME showed up. Acknowledging Murex, he asked, “What can you tell me about this one?”
“Not much. Found this way in the last hour. Possible natural causes.”
A crime scene photographer took several shots of the dead man.
“Let’s take a look at the color of his eyes.” Carefully, the ME removed the sleep mask. “Hello,” he said.
Murex leaned in. The man’s eyes were wide open, staring. They almost bugged out of his head. Their color was glassy green.
The ME shone a penlight. “Pinpoint hemorrhages, indicating burst capillaries. Normal under certain conditions.”
Murex said, “He looks scared.”
“The
“So can manual strangulation,” Murex reminded.
“Strangulation ivariably triggers bowel elimination, and I smell nothing of the kind.” The ME was examining Doom’s throat. “No ligature marks. No bruises.” He felt of the windpipe. “Larynx is unremarkable.”
Taking one of the dead man’s hands, the ME started to separate them. “Two chipped fingernails. But no defensive – what’s this?”
Murex extracted a thin microcassette recorder from between the man’s fingers. Rewinding, Murex played it back. A murmuring voice emanated from the tiny speaker: “5688 7854 January 23. 5688 7854.” There was a long pause in which measured breathing could be heard.
“Respiration appears regular,” the ME remarked.
The voice repeated “5688 7854.” Then: “My perceptions of the target are of a winding stone stairwell leading into the bowels of the Earth. It feels cold. Air stagnant. A sickly greenish light is emanating from far below…”
Another pause came in which breathy exhalations were the only detectable sounds. After three minutes of disconnected murmurings, Murex paused the recorder. “Sounds like he just fell asleep.”
The ME looked at him. “I wonder what he meant by ‘target’?”
“Suddenly ‘natural causes’ doesn’t trip off the tongue so easily, does it?”
Murex went to the window. Outside, afternoon traffic flowed by the hotel. This was the heart of Boston’s financial district. The blue glass blade of the Hancock Tower stood just a few blocks north, and beyond that the city’s second-largest office tower, the Prudential Building. Murex thought of the twin World Trade Center towers, and shivered.
“I’d better check in with my commanding officer,” he told the ME. Using his cellphone, Murex spoke briefly, recounting his findings. He listened, then snapped the device shut.
“Captain Hurley would like a priority on this autopsy.”
“Okay. I’ll put a flag on it.”
Minutes later, as the body was being removed out a side door, Detective Murex was talking to the desk clerk.
“Do you remember a John Doom checking in?”
“Sure. Hear he died.”
“In his sleep. Anything unusual about him come to mind?”
“No.”
“Any distinguishing features?”
“No. He wasn’t very tall, about five-four, medium brown hair. Paid by credit card. He reminded me of my cousin.”
“Why is that?”
“My cousin’s in the Air Force. This guy gave me that feeling, too.”
Murex nodded. “Remember him well enough to identify him?”
“I won’t have to go down to the morgue, will I?”
“No. Follow me.”
EMTs were rolling the body into the back of an ambulance. Murex called out, “Hold up.”
Stripping the sheet off the corpse’s face, he asked, “This look like him?”
“Yeah. No, wait. That’s not him.”
Murex said, “No?”
“No. His hair was browner and the eyebrows much thicker.”
“Now take a deep breath,” Murex said. “People can appear different in death. Look again. Is this the man who checked in last evening under the name of John Doom?”
“I – Yeah, it is.”
“You are positive?”
“Absolutely. Can I go now? I feel kinda ill.”
“Stay handy.”
A forensics team from the CSI Unit had taken control of Room 314. They dusted for prints, collected hair samples off the bedspread and said hardly a word.
Murex was bagging John Doom’s personal effects when he noticed the black binder had a logo embossed into it: A human eye in a starburst over the letters TIRV. Uncolored, it was detectable only under direct light.
Grabbing the sleep mask, Murex gave it a second look. Over the right eye, in modest white letters, were the same initials. Outlined on the mask’s brow gleamed a tiny white eye in a starburst.
“What have we here?” he muttered.
Reaching into his coat for his cellphone, Murex discovered the tape recorder. It felt warm. He realized he’d left it on pause. Hitting play, Murex sat and listened. The DOA’s breathing continued for a time. He seemed asleep, but came out of it. He began speaking:
“I’m standing in a chamber hollowed out of solid stone. Instead of a floor, I see grates. Iron grates… it feels hot… the air reeks of sulfur… Below me it’s like a barbeque pit… black smoke… leaping flames… I perceive two burning eyes… like very hot coals. And a black face emerging… it’s-”
Suddenly, the voice rose into a panicky strangled sound. The voice began gasping, struggling for air. It soon choked off. The tape hummed white noise. The absence of breathing noises was unmistakable.
One of the CSI team said, “Sounds exactly like a heart attack.”
Murex called his CO. “Looks like natural causes with a funny twist. Scratch that courtesy call to the FBI.”
Back at District A-l headquarters, Murex Googled the initials TIRV. He got one hit: Technical Institute for Remote Viewing of Nashua, New Hampshire. Linking to the site, Murex was confronted by the eye-in-a-starburst motif, white against a black starfield.
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