Innuendo (7 page)

Still, he had to know, it had to be said, and in a deep, slow voice, Todd demanded, “Jordy, who was Andrew sleeping with?”

“Are you going to hurt me if I tell you?”

“No, absolutely not,” replied Todd, his voice shaking.

Andrew sat there for a second, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, then stared at the floor and said, “It was him, your… your boyfriend, Rawlins. That's who did it, who took Andrew away from me.”

It took more willpower,
more self-control, than Rawlins thought he had.

He stepped through the front door of the apartment building, continued down the half-flight to the basement, and then just stopped and stood there. Leaning against the cool wall with one hand, he put the other to his head. You've got to get yourself under control. You can't let anyone see. You can't let anyone know.

He took a deep breath, then lowered his right hand and studied it. Seeing it violently tremble, he grabbed it with his left and clutched it. Just stop it! That little shit's dead and there's nothing you can do!

Jesus Christ, he thought. Todd hadn't guessed, had he? He couldn't possibly suspect anything, could he? Already Todd knew him better than almost anyone, not simply through the actual time they'd spent together, but through their long hours of conversation, during which Rawlins had divulged more about himself than he ever had to anyone else. It seemed as if he'd told Todd every secret, every fear, every hope, and every lust. Every lust, of course, but one. So had Todd just caught a glimpse of that through Rawlins's tears? Had he sensed the truth in Rawlins's panic?

Oh, shit.

Just be cool. This was going to be the worst. If he could get through tonight, even the next fifteen or twenty minutes, then he was sure he'd be able to handle it. He'd nearly vomited when he'd first gone in and seen Andrew lying there, his eyes covered with that black mask, his naked body half concealed by the sheet, and the river of blood that had flowed from his neck onto the bed and floor.

“Sergeant?”

Rawlins turned to see a young officer before him, her wiry brown hair cut short beneath her hat, her face sincere and plain. She was just about Rawlins’ s height, and she wore a gun belt with ease, but Rawlins had never seen her before. That didn't mean much, however, since the force had in the past few years expanded from slightly over seven hundred to just under a thousand officers. There were tons of younger cops like this one—seventy percent of the force had less than two years’ experience—and Rawlins wondered how long this woman had been at it. She was obviously into what was going on here tonight, there was no doubt about that, but that could simply stem from the fact that she'd been the first one on the scene. She'd been on patrol nearby, and dispatch had sent her over. Finding the victim DOA, she'd sealed the scene, called her supervisor, who in turn had called Cars 1110 and 21. All exactly according to the book.

Right, thought Rawlins. Just follow procedure. You know how these things are supposed to go. Just do it.

Rawlins wiped his mouth, cleared his throat, and said, “Yeah?”

“I've checked with several different people in the building, and as far as anyone knows, the victim was the only one residing in the apartment.”

Rawlins knew that of course, but he asked, “How about the mailbox in the lobby?”

“Only one name on it.”

“Good.”

“Anything else for now?”

Rawlins looked down the hallway, saw his partner, Neal Foster, stepping out of the apartment, and said, “Yeah, get two other officers and canvas the building. I want a complete list of the residents’ names. And I want to know everyone's schedule—who was here this afternoon and when, who was at work and when they returned. Be sure and see if anyone heard anything or noticed anything—including anyone unusual in the past few days.”

“Yes, sir.”

His gut cinched tight, Rawlins proceeded down the stark hall. Overhead ran a series of pipes and wires, and he continued past a door labeled BOILER ROOM and met Foster halfway. Rawlins immediately felt the older man's eyes studying him, and Rawlins stopped, scratched his chin, and leaned against a wall. Just be cool.

“You okay?” asked Foster.

Just a year short of retirement, Foster had gray hair, a chubby body, a round face, and a smile that was reticent, reflecting of course the years and years of gore he'd seen as a homicide investigator. It was Foster who had plucked Rawlins out of the juvenile division and brought him into homicide after they'd successfully worked a bridge case, that of a teenage murder. Foster was also the first person Rawlins had come out to as a gay man, and perhaps he'd also be the first person on the force Rawlins would come out to as being HIV-positive.

Rawlins replied, “Yeah.”

When he'd first walked into that room down there, it was almost more than he could take. Speechless, Rawlins had struggled not to hurry to Andrew's side and cry out. Foster, who knew him so very well, had sensed something like that, and of course he'd seen Rawlins's eyes redden and swell as he turned and darted out of the room.

Feeling a need to explain, Rawlins now said, “I met him a few times—down at this gay center for teens. Todd and I gave a talk there. He was a good kid. He was interested in law enforcement, and I… I was helping him try to figure out some career stuff. It's just such a shock, that's all.”

“Sure.” Foster, a sweet but gruff kind of guy, ran a hand over his mouth and looked judgmentally at Rawlins. “You gonna be able to handle this one? It's not gonna be a problem, is it?”

It wasn't that unusual for a cop to know a murder victim. Over the course of his police career Rawlins himself had known roughly ten men and women—mostly drug dealers, but others who'd been abused or been involved in previous crimes—who'd ended up dead one way or the other. So it wasn't a problem for a cop to investigate the death of someone he knew unless, of course, there was a relationship, either platonic or romantic. And that's what Foster was asking here, that's what he wanted to know: Was this going to be a conflict of interest for Rawlins?

Rawlins looked down at the floor and simply said, “No.”

“Good. Come on, I got the girl who found him.”

Relieved that he'd gotten over that hump—and certain that Foster would never bring it up again—Rawlins followed his partner through the first door on the right and into the laundry room. Like everywhere down here, the concrete floors were painted a glossy battleship gray and the walls an old, dull white. The room itself was a large space, holding only an old table and chair, two deep sinks, two mustard-colored coin-operated washers, and two coin-operated dryers. On the outside wall were three high, narrow windows that peeked onto a walk alongside the building.

Near one of the washing machines stood one tall cop, and next to him sat one distraught young woman.

The officer, a big guy with a dark goatee and a rather severe look on his face, had obviously been grabbed from the perimeter and now stood nearly motionless. The girl, somewhere in her twenties, sat on a ratty orange chair, her dark brown hair tumbling down and around her round face. Wearing ragged jeans, a baggy Carleton College sweatshirt, and only socks, she fiercely clutched a wad of tissues and stared down at the floor in shock.

“Rawlins,” began Foster in a soft voice, trying to sound sensitive, “this is Kathy Diedrich. She lives in the building and she's the one who found the body. Ms. Diedrich, this is my partner, Sergeant Steve Rawlins. Together well be investigating what happened here tonight. Thanks for talking to us.”

She slowly looked up at Rawlins, her red but dry eyes studying him for an odd moment. A flash of panic zipped through Rawlins. Did she recognize him? Had she seen him here in this very building?

Her gaze then falling slowly to the floor, she said, “I've never seen a dead body before—never.”

Rawlins managed to say, “I'm sure it was a shock.”

“My grandfather died last year, but… but I didn't see anything.” Her bottom lip started to quiver. “It was a closed casket, you know.”

It flashed through Rawlins's head: Girl, do you have any idea how lucky you are? Do you know how many I've seen? Then he took note again of her sweatshirt. A Carleton grad. Okay, so she was probably smart. Probably from an upper-middle class family. Relatively sheltered. This was probably her first apartment, her first time living in the city. And her first real taste of tragedy.

“Can you tell us,” asked Foster, “why you came down to the apartment and what you found?”

She looked at him, shrugged, and in a small voice said, “My sink backed up. I didn't have a plunger, so…so I came down to ask Andrew for one. I mean, he was the caretaker and everything so… so…”

“About what time was this?” asked Rawlins.

“Eight-twenty.”

“You're sure?”

She nodded. “My favorite show was on at eight-thirty and I didn't want to miss it, so I glanced at my clock just before I came down.”

Rawlins continued, saying, “So you came down the front steps?”

“Uh-uh. The back ones.”

“Did you see anyone else?”

“No.”

“Notice anything strange?”

“Uh, I don't think so.”

Foster cut in, keeping his gravelly voice soft. “And then?”

“Then… then I came down here. His door was open.”

“You mean, unlocked?”

“No, I mean open. You know, cracked open about three or four inches. I called out to him and knocked and just sort of stuck my head in.” She put a hand to her mouth and started softly crying. “He… he was there on the bed and… and there was all that blood.”

Rawlins said, “Did you go in?”

“No, I screamed. I screamed and I ran back upstairs. I was scared that whoever did it was still in there… or somewhere else in the basement.”

“But you didn't see anyone, right?”

“No, not at all.”

“And then?”

“Then I ran straight up to my apartment and called nine-one-one.”

Rawlins looked over at Foster, and they both intuitively knew it. This was as much as they were going to get out of her here and now. Neal Foster raised his brow in silent question, and Rawlins replied with a nod. On to the next phase.

Posing it as a request when actually it was a necessity, Foster asked, “Ms. Diedrich, would you mind coming downtown to the police station? We'd like to get a full statement from you.”

Her eyebrows pinching together in an anxious roof shape, she said, “But… but I don't know anything else.”

“It's just a technicality, that's all.”

“Well…”

“It would help us very much.”

“Okay, sure.” She wiped her nose. “But I don't need, like, a lawyer or anything, do I? I mean, I didn't do anything. I'm not in trouble, am I?”

“No, it's just standard procedure to get a statement from all witnesses.”

“Oh, yeah,” she mumbled, as if she remembered seeing something like that on television. “But can I go up to my apartment? I need to, like, get my shoes. And… and can I call my boyfriend and tell him where I'll be?”

“Of course.” Foster motioned to the tall cop, who had stood quietly this entire time. “You go upstairs and make your call and get your stuff, and then Officer Sandvik here will take you downtown in his squad car.”

She nodded, wiped her nose, and then pushed herself to her feet. Rawlins caught Sandvik's eye and gave him a nod, and the officer followed the young woman out. Once they'd disappeared, Rawlins crossed the room and leaned against one of the beat-up washing machines.

“She doesn't seem to know much.”

“Nope, but we'll just have to see what we can jog loose,” Foster shrugged. “She didn't mention the mask.”

“Maybe she didn't notice it. Maybe she just saw all the blood and…”

“Yeah, probably.” Foster thought for a moment, then said, “Let's not release that to the media—you know, that his eyes were covered.”

“Good idea,” replied Rawlins, hoping to God there wouldn't be any copycat murders.

“From the looks of it—I mean from the way the blood is still pretty wet—I'd say this happened pretty recently, maybe within the last two or three hours. Of course, we won't know for sure until the ME has his say.”

“Now what?”

“The B of I guys are in there goin’ full tilt.”

Right, thought Rawlins, scratching his chin. Technically, at this point the B of I team and Foster and he were the only ones who were supposed to have access to the crime scene itself. Once all the forensic evidence had been gathered, once Rawlins and Foster had completely gone over the scene, then they'd call the medical examiner, who'd remove the body for autopsy.

Rawlins said, “It looks like the kid lived alone.”

“Well, you never know,” replied Foster. “We still need to get a search warrant. I mean, we don't want to lose anything.”

If they didn't and there was something in there that belonged to someone else—say, to a kid who had crashed there for a few days— that evidence would become inadmissible, no matter how valuable. Something like that had happened a year ago on a murder case when a rookie cop had discovered a gun in a closet and taken it without a warrant. It had turned out, in fact, to be the murder weapon, but because it belonged to the victim's sister, who also lived in the house, it was thrown out of court. And the sister, who had become the prime suspect, went free.