Part 3 (1/2)

”Sunset Motel. Owner thinks one of the guests might be dead.”

”Uniforms?”

”Dutch is there. He says he can't get in. Door's blocked or something.”

”On it,” she said. ”Tell him to sit tight. And call the school. Tell them I can't make it.” She did a smart U-turn and headed for the highway. She never liked giving lectures, anyway.

The Sunset Motel faced east and never saw a sunset, while half a klick further south on Highway 35, the windows of the Sunrise Motel faced due west. Neither operation was particularly concerned by the incongruity, nor, to anyone's knowledge, had the owners considered swapping monikers. A second patrol car was pulling into the parking lot as Stacy arrived. A uniformed officer climbed out and headed for unit fourteen. Dutch Scheider was standing by the door. Stacy recognized the new arrival, Drummond, ”Drum”: barrel chest, always sticking it out. The motel manager came scuttling across the lot in her direction. ”You can't park there,” she said. ”People need to get in and out.”

Stacy flashed her badge. ”Who rented the room?”

”Mr. Smith,” she said. ”Probably not his real name.”

”You think?”

”He paid cash.”

”And you haven't seen him this morning?”

”Not since he checked in yesterday.”

”Was he alone?”

”Far as I know.”

”Okay, just wait in the office please. We'll see what's what.”

”The girl can't get in to clean, I've got people coming, I don't want police all over the place all day.”

”Just wait over there please, ma'am. Let us do our jobs.”

”If there's a body, I don't want a big mess.”

”That will depend on what's in the room, won't it?”

Dutch gave Stacy a small salute as she approached. The other uniform was leaning on the door, trying to force it. ”You call for backup, Dutch?” she asked.

”Just pa.s.sing by, Detective,” said the newcomer. Stuck out his chest. Yeah, that was him.

”Drummond, right? Listen, don't shove on the door any more. If that's a body in there, we don't want to smear it across the rug. Dutch, any other way in?”

”There's a bathroom window 'round back. It's kind of high up. And a tight squeeze.”

She pulled on a pair of gloves. ”Show me.”

There was a muddy path flanked by a bank of dirty snow along the back of the cabin. The bathroom window was high and narrow, partly open. ”Footprints under the window,” Stacy said. ”Yours?”

”I stayed back here.”

”Good. Pay attention to where my feet go.” She skirted the prints and edged close to the wall. ”Those marks? Ladder maybe? Give me a boost.”

Dutch made a stirrup of his hands and hoisted her high enough to grab the sill. She pulled herself up with arm strength and hung for a moment checking the window frame. ”Some scratches under the window.” She slid it all the way open and pulled herself through. She was standing in the shower stall. ”Mr. Smith? Dockerty Police.” There was no response. ”Go around the front,” she called out. ”I'll open the big window.”

”Right,” she heard Dutch say.

She slipped off her wet boots, left them in the shower stall and checked the bathroom. The toilet seat was up. There was a towel on the floor.

The bedroom was dark, the drapes were drawn. The body of a man, naked except for boxer shorts and one red sock, was crumpled on the rug, his head and shoulders wedged against the bottom of the door. There was a lot of blood. Stacy crouched, placed two fingers against his throat. No pulse, the skin cold. She pulled back the drapes.

”Got a body in here,” she said.

”Dead?”

”Oh yeah. Shot in the head, looks like. Phone it in, Dutch.”

Drummond leaned in to get a look at the body. ”Self-inflicted?”

”Don't see a gun yet,” Stacy said. ”Start knocking on doors, see if anyone heard anything, saw anything.”

He stuck his chest out again. ”On it,” he said.

There was a red smear from the doork.n.o.b to the body, and a wad of blood in the man's hair. There was a splatter of blood and fragments of bone and tissue surrounding the bullet hole in the door jamb, higher than her head, as high as a tall man's head. She stood on her toes in front of the impact area and looked back. The line of sight went through the open bathroom door to the window above the shower stall.

Dutch reappeared. ”Medical examiner on the way. Got an ID?”

A jacket and a pair of pants were draped over the back of the chair by the telephone table. She tugged a leather folder out of the jacket pocket. There was a badge and a photo ID card. ”Oh c.r.a.ps,” she said. ”He's a cop, Dutch. Metro. Name's Delisle.”

”Jesus H. Christ.”

”Can't see his weapon.” She put the ID and badge on the coffee table and stood in the middle of the room. The bedclothes were rumpled. An open leather bag was on the chair beside the bed - clean s.h.i.+rt, toiletries kit. There was a condom wrapper on the carpet beside the bed, a bottle of Jack Daniels on the bedside table, opened, mostly full, two gla.s.ses, both empty, one with lipstick traces. ”He had female company. They had drinks. They had s.e.x.” She moved carefully around the room, talking more to herself than to Dutch. ”Nothing broken. Neat and tidy. Except for the body.” She slid open the closet door with her hand on her weapon, half expecting to see a cowering woman. There was a Burberry trenchcoat hanging. She patted the pockets, heard keys jangling. ”Find out which car is his,” she said.

”Right,” Dutch said.

Still no sign of his weapon.

”Cavalry's coming,” said Dutch.

She could see vehicles pulling into the parking lot, the ambulance, an OPP unit, even the Chief's big 4x4. Hi folks, she thought, good luck shoving me to the sidelines this time. I'm first on the scene.

An OPP investigative unit was in place before noon, and shortly thereafter four detectives from Metro's homicide unit had arrived and taken over the case. Orwell had been introduced to at least three of them, but hadn't bothered to commit their names to memory. The four were uniformly unpleasant, behaving as though the town was complicit in the brutal murder of one of their own. Definitely herrisch behaviour, Orwell decided. He gave two of them the gist of his conversation with Delisle. The other pair grilled Stacy and then as much as told her to stay the h.e.l.l out of their way. She found a desk and attended to the paperwork demanded by the discovery of a murder victim inside the town limits, keeping any resentment well hidden. Orwell admired her composure.

The Metro cops split up, one team checking on Anya Daniel, the other pair calling on Dr. Ruth. The provincial police, and as much of the Dockerty force as they cared to use, were canva.s.sing the other motel patrons, checking Delisle's credit cards, cellphone records, working to pin down his movements since hitting town.

Orwell retreated to his office. Entirely too much excitement for one day. Everything would be taking a back seat to the homicide. Overtime, s.h.i.+fting s.h.i.+fts, interlopers taking up s.p.a.ce. Roy Rawluck would handle the details, he was good at keeping unnecessary annoyances off the Chief's back, but whenever outside police departments came to town, Orwell got the uncomfortable feeling of jabbing elbows and shoulders. It made him cranky.

”Chief. Mr. Rhem on two.”

”Thank you, Dorrie. I'm taking it. h.e.l.lo, Georgie.”

”Yeah, Stonewall, done some checking. We have to pet.i.tion for a hearing by the 'consent-granting authority.' Whoever they may be.”