What Have You Done(8)
“Who’s here from Homicide?”
“Heckle and Keenan. Keenan’s upstairs. Heckle’s interviewing the owner in the office over there.”
“Thanks, we got it from here.”
“All yours.”
As Liam and his team made their way to the second floor, they pulled on their latex gloves and prepared to investigate.
Detective Keenan met them at the top landing and escorted them to the room. Keenan was a large man, tall and thick. His blond hair was a mop on his head, his face showing old acne scars from his youth. He’d played football all his life and still ran back punts for the department in the fall league. He towered over everyone who walked by. “In there,” he said.
The team made its way into B11. Liam stopped to survey the scene. The death had been violent. The smell of Lysol and wet dog was now replaced with the stench of murder that could not, in any way, be mistaken for anything else. Perspiration, bodily fluids, waste, blood—it welcomed him with the repulsion his job had forced him to develop a tolerance for. The bouquet of multicolored paper flowers was under the victim, stained with her blood. For the second time that day, Liam thought about his mother.
“All right,” Liam said aloud. “Let’s get everything we can. Jane, I want pictures and prints. Rob, get me blood samples. Teddy, you deal with sample fibers from everything in this room. Mattress, sheets, comforter, carpet… everything. When we’re done, we’ll cut her down and bag her. I want an autopsy and tissue analysis once we’re in the examination room. Go.”
The team broke off and began unloading equipment. Liam had been a forensic detective for the Philadelphia Police Department for the last six years. He was the leader of his team and one of the most dedicated and decorated in his division. With the skill of a scientist and the mind of a detective, he was able to uncover clues to countless homicides throughout the city’s jurisdiction by using methods still considered state-of-the-art in the twenty-first century. He was a member of the mayor’s Terrorism Task Force and a part-time instructor at the police academy. He’d seen crime scenes as bad as this one and written papers on most of them. Murder intrigued him.
As he watched the others get to work, he pulled a camera from his bag and began snapping pictures. The victim was naked, her body a dark shade of blue. Her head was shaved in random places and hung limp to one side. Drying blood ran from a wound across her stomach and down her legs to the floor. This was violence in the worst way. He stepped closer and aimed his camera, and that’s when he saw it. The light that was coming from the hallway hit her in just the right way, and Liam recognized her immediately. He stopped breathing and almost jumped backward, catching himself at the last minute. “Uh, what’s her name?” he asked as calmly and as slowly as he could.
Keenan opened his notepad. “Miller. Kerri Miller.”
The name shot through him like a bolt of lightning. His knees grew weak to the point he thought he might fall over.
“We took her ID from her purse,” the detective continued. “Got ID, cash, credit cards. No cell phone, though.”
Liam backed away. Despite all the times he’d run his fingers over her smooth skin, all the times he’d kissed those lips, felt her touch, her embrace, he hadn’t recognized her. He looked around the room. There didn’t seem to be any sign of a struggle. The telephone, digital clock, and lamp remained in place on the nightstand. The bed was still made and free of any wrinkles. The shades were open. Only two chairs were out from under the table, one on the opposite side of the room in the corner, the other turned over against the bed.
“Where’s the victim’s hair?” he asked.
Keenan shrugged. “No sign of it. We’re guessing the killer took it.”
Kerri Miller.
Liam stepped around the body and walked into the hallway. “I gotta make a call. Be right back.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll just be a sec.”
The hotel was empty but for a few scattered police officers roaming the lobby. Liam staggered down the stairs to the first floor and jogged out the front entrance, almost stumbling his way into the parking lot as his world tilted and sagged. He climbed into the Forensics van and could feel his heart thumping in his chest. His breath caught in his throat, and he let out a noise that didn’t sound human. Tears welled in his eyes as he pulled out his phone and dialed his brother’s number. Across the street, a small crowd of onlookers and several television vans were waiting to hear something that might tell them what was taking place inside the Tiger Hotel. Adrenaline coursed through him as a shaking hand held the phone up against his ear.
Kerri was dead. Kerri Miller.
His lover.
6
It looked as though the entire Philadelphia Police Department had overtaken the second floor trauma unit of Temple University Hospital. On one side, officers, sergeants, two lieutenants, and a handful of detectives loitered around the main desk, waiting for word on young Officer Samson, who had been shot by Cutter Washington during his attempted escape. The mood was sullen. Voices had fallen to whispers out of respect. Each of the men who waited for an update knew, without a doubt, that it could have been him lying in that operating room. It was a risk they took every day.
On the other side of the floor, there were only Sean, Don, and the two uniforms who had been assigned to guard Cutter when he came out of surgery. None of them spoke. Instead, they looked toward the opposite end of the corridor and hoped for the best as their eyes wandered from cop to cop, the scenes from that morning playing endlessly in their minds.