A Different Blue(2)

the dumpy motel. A neon traveler's trunk with a head poking up out of the lid fizzled in the

afternoon heat. Officer Moody had lived in Reno all of his twenty-eight years, and he knew as

well as anyone that a good night's rest wasn't the reason people frequented the Stowaway. He

heard the wail of an ambulance. Obviously the desk clerk had made more than one call. He had had

a gurgling gut ache all afternoon. Damn burritos. He had wolfed them down gleefully at noon,

loaded with cheese, guacamole, shredded pork, sour cream, and green chilies, but he was paying

for it now. He really needed to go home. He desperately hoped the desk clerk was wrong about the

guest in an upstairs room and he could wrap things up quickly and be done with the day.

But the desk clerk wasn't wrong. The woman was dead. No mistake. It was August, and she had

probably been closed up in room 246 for 48 hours. August in Reno, Nevada was hot and dry. And

the body reeked. The burritos threatened, and Officer Moody, without touching anything, made a

hasty retreat, telling the paramedics hurrying up the stairs that they wouldn't be needed. His

supervisor would have his head if he let them trample all over the scene. He closed the door to

room 246 behind him and told the curious desk clerk that police would be swarming all over the

premises and that they would need her assistance. Then he called his supervisor.

[page]“Martinez? We've got a woman, obviously dead. I've secured the scene. Paramedics have

been turned away. Requesting assistance.”

An hour later, the crime scene tech was snapping pictures, police were canvasing the area,

questioning every guest, every nearby business, every employee. Detective Andy Martinez, Officer

Moody's supervisor, had commandeered the surveillance camera. Miracle of miracles, there

actually was one at the Stowaway. The coroner had been called and was en route.

When questioned, the desk clerk claimed they had not been renting out the room because the air

conditioner was broken. Nobody had been in or out of the room for more than two days. A

repairman had been scheduled, but fixing the air conditioner had not been a huge priority.

Nobody knew how the woman had gotten into the hotel room, but she definitely hadn't signed in

and used something as helpful as a credit card to pay for her stay. And she didn't have any ID

on her. Unfortunately for the investigation, the woman had been dead for two days or longer, and

the hotel wasn't one that attracted long stays. The Stowaway sat just off the freeway on the

outskirts of town and whoever may have seen or heard anything from the night she had died was no

longer at the motel.

When Officer Moody finally made it home at eight o'clock that night, he felt no better than he

had earlier, and they still hadn't made an identification of the woman found dead with nothing

with the clothes on her back to guide the investigation. Moody had a bad feeling about the whole

thing, and he didn't think it had anything to do with the burritos.





AUGUST 6, 1993



“Any luck making an ID?” Officer Moody hadn't been able to get the woman out of his head. It

bothered him all night. It wasn't his case. Patrolmen didn't head investigations. But Martinez

was his supervisor and was willing to share, especially when the case seemed to be coming to a

rapid close.

“Coroner rolled her prints,” Detective Martinez offered.