Strangers in Death (In Death #26)(11)

“Yeah, and people noticed guys got boners when they were publicly hanged, back in the good old days, and thought: Hey, maybe if I choke myself during sex I’ll make really good wood. People are really stupid.”

“Difficult to argue that point, as you and I often see them at their most terminally stupid. So, as to our current guest: Erotic—or auto-erotic if you’re going solo—asphyxiation decreases oxygen, and pumps up the endorphins to heighten sexual pleasure. It’s responsible for a considerable number of accidental deaths annually, and many deaths that are officially termed suicide.”

“This wasn’t suicide.”

“No, indeed.” Morris looked down on Anders. “I believe it took him between fifteen and twenty minutes to die, slowly choking. Yet, there’s no bruising on his wrists or ankles. However cushioned the rope, when a man slowly chokes to death he’ll fight, he’ll struggle, and velvet restraints or not, there would be ligature marks. Even here.” He gestured again, then offered Eve a pair of microgoggles. “Here, where the rope tightened, cut in, cut off his oxygen, there’s no evidence he fought against it, writhed, strained. The bruising here is almost uniform.”

“So he just lay there and died.”

“Essentially.”

“Even if a guy wants to self-terminate, the body fights it.”

“Exactly so. Unless—”

“It can’t. How long for the tox?”

“I flagged it. But I can give you something now. Look here.”

She bent over Anders again, scanning the bruising under the right ear until she saw it. The faint, circular mark was nearly obscured by the more traumatic bruising. “Pressure syringe.”

“Yes, my bright young student. An odd place for self-medicating—especially by a right-hander—which he was.”

Shoving up the goggles, Eve put herself back in Anders’s bedroom. “Killer comes in, crosses to the bed. Sealed up, all sealed up, booties over the feet to muffle any sound. Lots of thick carpet anyway. Tranqs Anders while he’s sleeping. Quick, clean. Guy could’ve slept right through that—even if he started to wake up, a good tranq would take him under in seconds. Then you truss him up, set the scene, walk out, and leave him to die. Pick up the security discs. You’ve already shut down the system, but you take the discs. You’re either anal or hoping we’re just incredibly stupid and that’ll throw us off and make us think it was an accident.”

“Incredibly stupid we aren’t.”

“Either way, he’s dead.” She paced away, among the steel and comps, back again. “If you’re going there to do the guy, why just tranq him? Why not load him up so he ODs? Okay, you don’t slit his throat or beat him to death with a bat because maybe you’re squeamish, or you prefer more passive methods. But why the elaborate and demeaning when a lethal dose of barbs or poison or any number of substances would’ve done the job?”

“It was too personal for that.”

She nodded, appreciating a like mind, and her grin was fierce. “See? Incredibly stupid we aren’t. As soon as you get the tox back, Morris.”

“As soon as.”

When she strode into the Homicide bullpen at Cop Central, Eve saw Peabody sucking down something from a mug the size of the Indian Ocean while she worked at her desk. It reminded Eve that she was probably about a quart low on coffee. She signaled her partner, jerked a thumb toward her office, and turning, nearly plowed into one of her detectives.

“Make a hole, Baxter.”

“Need a sec.”

“Then fall in line.” She moved through to her office with its single, stingy window, battered desk, and sagging visitor’s chair. And hit the AutoChef for coffee.

Taking the first slug, she studied Baxter over the rim. He was slick, savvy, and smart enough to wait to have his say until she’d kicked in some caffeine. “What’s your deal?”

“Case I caught about a couple months ago, it’s stalled.”

“Refresh me.”

“Guy gets his throat slashed and his works sliced off in a rent-by-the-hour flop down on Avenue D.”

“Yeah.” She flipped through the files in her head. “Came in with a woman nobody remembers, and nobody remembers seeing said woman leaving.”

“Maid service, and I use the term loosely, found him the next morning. Custer, Ned, age thirty-eight, worked in building maintenance for an office building downtown. Guy left a wife and two kids.”

“Cherchez la femme,”Eve said, thinking of Peabody’s comment that morning.

“I’ve been cherchez ing the damn femme. Got zip. Nobody remembers her—not clearly. We dug, found the bar—using that term loosely, too, where they hooked up, but other than her being a redhead with a sense she was a pro, nobody can paint her picture. Guy was a player. A little pushing with his friends and associates got that much. He screwed around regular, cruised bars and clubs once or twice a week to score—usually paying for it. The kid and I,” he continued, speaking of his aide, Officer Troy Trueheart, “we’ve put in hours trolling dumps, dives, and dens of iniquity. We’re stalled, Dallas. It’s going stone-cold.”

“What about the wife? Did she know he was dipping strange?”

“Yeah.” Baxter blew out a breath. “It didn’t take more than a poke to get her to cop to it. And to admit they fought about it. He tuned her up now and then, too. She copped to that, and neighbors verified.”