Big Sick Heart: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery (4 page)

“You know, Robin,” I said, “you’re disgusting.” I
turned to Ryan, who was laughing at me. “What are you laughing at, Semen Boy?
You’re as bad as she is. In fact, you two’d make a truly disgusting couple.”

“How about the three of us getting some
breakfast?” Ryan said, wearing a big grin.

“Sounds good,” Robin said. “I could show you how
to check the water glasses for
e. coli.
What do you say, Karen?”

“Good Lord,” I said, shaking my head, my hands up
in front of me. “I gotta get away from you two. Ryan, you canvass that
direction,” I said, pointing to the rooms to the east. “And the room under this
one. I’ll do this direction. I’ll meet up with you downstairs when you’re
done.”

He looked at the clock on the night table: 6:45.
“They’re not going to be happy.” I gave him a look. “I’ll start the canvass,”
he said.

It didn’t take long to canvass my half of the second
floor of the hotel. Fourteen of the rooms were occupied the previous night, and
the guests responded concisely to my questions about if they’d seen anyone or
heard anything out of the ordinary. I got a couple of spirited explanations of
the meaning of the Do Not Disturb sign. I declined an invitation from one
gentleman to come in and make myself comfortable.

*  *  *

When I finished the
canvass, I took the stairs down to the lobby. The killer probably used the
elevator, or more likely walked back to his or her room, but no harm looking at
the stairs to see if anything caught my eye. Nothing. I walked over to the
reception desk and pulled my shield out of my bag and hung it around my neck.
The clerk on duty, a pasty-faced boy with gelled hair sticking straight up,
looked petrified when he saw it.

“Peter,” I said, reading his name off the badge on
his sport jacket, “I’m Detective Seagate, Rawlings Police Department.” He tried
to talk, but he couldn’t even manage a stammer. “Peter, take it easy. Nothing
to get upset about, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, Detective.”

“Okay, Peter, here’s what I need you to do.” He
picked up a pen and started to take notes. “First, figure out who was on the
desk last night between 7:00
pm
and 6:00
am
today. Phone them and
get them in here. Second, what’s the manager’s name?”

“Mr. Carlucci.”

“Call Mr. Carlucci, have him come in. If you need
someone else to work the desk while you do this, go back there right now and
get someone. I need you to do this immediately. I’m gonna be right here in the
lobby if you have questions. Okay?”

“Yes, Detective. Immediately.” He ducked back into
the manager’s office and came out with a young woman to work the desk. His face
was all earnest determination as he hurried over to the computer and started to
type.

Seeing that the boy was on the case, I went over
to the reception area and sat on a couch where I could see the desk and the
front door. The young woman from behind the desk came over and asked if I
wanted some coffee and something to eat.

“You know, that’d be terrific. Coffee, black, and
some kind of roll or muffin or something. Anything with some calories in it.”
She returned in a minute, carrying a small tray with orange juice, coffee, a
muffin, and a Danish. “Thanks so much,” I said to her. “Really appreciate it.”
I ripped into the Danish, realizing the only calories I’d had in the last
sixteen hours came out of a bottle.

I was finishing the food when I saw a forty-year
old guy wearing the hotel blazer, hair still damp, rush in and head for the
desk. The young woman pointed to me, and he scooted toward me, like he had a
silk scarf tied around his knees. He stood before me, bent slightly at the
waist, hands clasped together, head cocked.

“Detective Seagate? My name is Steven Carlucci.
I’m the manager of the Courtyard.”

I stood and shook his hand. “Thanks for coming in.
I need to talk with you.” By this time, the news of Arlen Hagerty’s death had
made the radio and TV news, but I wasn’t sure if Carlucci had heard it. “Do you
know what happened here?”

“All I know is what my clerk told me on the phone:
there was a death here last night.”

“It was a murder.”

“Oh, my goodness,” he said, his fingers coming up
to his mouth. He was wearing a fresh flower in his lapel. Apparently, he was
the kind of hotel manager who gets a call there’s been a death in his hotel and
thinks, this outfit could really use a boutonniere.

“The victim was Arlen Hagerty, the guy who was in
that debate last night at the university.”

“This is terrible.” He looked like he was going to
start crying. “There will be reporters, and cameras—”

“Yes, there will,” I interrupted. “And there’s
nothing you can do about that. The best thing to do from that standpoint is
just forget about them and work with us. The more help you can give us, the
quicker we’ll be out of here, and the quicker you can get back to normal.”

“I understand completely,” he said, his eyes drawn
to the squad cars parked out in front of the main entrance. “Is there any way I
can get your people to move their cars to the lot on the west side of the
building so they are not so visible from the road?”

“No, there isn’t, Mr. Carlucci.” He was starting
to panic, his eyes scanning the lobby, as he noticed the uniform near the
elevator. “Mr. Carlucci, I need you to look at me now.” He turned to me,
looking like a little boy who had to go to the bathroom right away. “And pay
attention. All right?”

“Yes, it’s just that—”

“It’s just that this is a murder investigation,
and you have one more chance to focus on what I’m saying or I’ll shut down the
entire hotel because it’s a crime scene. Do you understand what I’m saying, Mr.
Carlucci?”

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and
exhaling slowly. “Yes, Detective, I’m sorry. I’ve been in the hospitality
industry for more than twenty years, and I’ve never had something like this
happen to me.”

“I understand, sir, but looking at it from another
point of view, it didn’t so much happen to you as it did to Mr. Hagerty, which
is why I’m here. Come with me, please,” I said, taking his elbow and steering
him over to the reception desk. “Heather,” I said, reading her badge, “could
you get me a floor plan of the hotel and point me to an empty meeting room. And
when my partner, Detective Miner, comes down from the second floor and asks
where I am, direct him to the room, okay?”

“Yes, Detective,” she said, handing me the
photocopy of the floor plan. “The Willoughby Room, right around the corner on
the right.”

“Thanks,” I said, leading the manager to the room.
I closed the door behind us and told him to sit down. “Okay, Mr. Carlucci.” I
slid the floor plan in front of him. “How many entrances are there on the main
floor?”

“Four.” He pulled a designer pen from his inside
jacket pocket and started drawing X’s on the map.

“Okay, good. And they’re locked or unlocked.”

“Locked 9:00
pm
until 6:00
am.
”

“I appreciate this information. Now, tell me about
closed-circuit security cameras.”

“We’ve got two in the lobby area, one in the
exercise room, and one in the pool. Shall I mark them on the map?”

I looked up at him. “Yes, that would be helpful.”

“Shall I use a ‘C’ for camera?”

“C would be fine, Mr. Carlucci. I’ll remember
that. C for camera.”

“Would you like the tapes from those cameras?”

I paused, wondering what it would be like to work
for this guy. “Just the two in the lobby. From 7:00
pm
last night through 6
am
today.”

“I can do that,” he said.

“Yes, you can,” I said, giving him a smile. “And I
would appreciate it.” Just as I was thinking about whether Carlucci could
manage to make time literally stop, Ryan came into the room. “Steven Carlucci,
Detective Ryan Miner.” The two shook hands.

I said to Ryan, “Can you go back out to the lobby
and see if the clerks from last night have shown up yet?” He nodded and left.
He was back in a minute, leading a young man and a young woman.

“This is Michael Harper and Melissa Pierson.
Detective Seagate,” Ryan said.

“Please sit down, both of you. Just a couple
questions.” The two had saucer eyes. “First, do either of you have any memory
of anyone phoning for Mr. Arlen Hagerty in room 213, or leaving a message for
him?” Both of them shook their heads no. “Did anyone come to the desk and ask
about him or leave a message there with you?” Again, no. “Any recollection of
anything having to do with Mr. Hagerty or room 213? Did he make any calls to
you, or did anyone call you to report any unusual noise coming from that room?”
No. “All right, thank you both,” I said, standing. “We appreciate you coming
in.” I handed each of them my card. “You think of anything, give me a call.”
They nodded and left.

“Okay,” I said, sitting down again. “Just one more
question. What dry cleaner does the hotel use?”

“Downtown Dry Cleaning, on Eighth Street.” Ryan
jotted down the name in his skinny notebook.

“Great, thanks,” I said. “I really appreciate all
your help, Mr. Carlucci. Here’s my card. We’re gonna do everything we can to
speed up our investigation at the hotel and get out of your hair.” I stood and
shook his hand. He turned left, stopped, and turned right, like he was
disoriented, before walking back toward the reception area.

“Okay, Ryan. Tell me what we know and what we
don’t know.”

“Let’s see. We think it was a crime of rage.
Someone with some decent physical strength. Probably someone who knew Hagerty,
unless he was in the habit of letting strangers into his room. Or someone from
the hotel, but that’s not likely. This is all based on the premise there was no
forced entry and it wasn’t a robbery.”

“Right,” I said. “And what do we know about the
vic?”

“Good-time Charlie, got along well with Jonathan
Ahern. We think he had sex last night with someone in his room, then took a
shower. He was watching TV, probably from bed, then he probably let someone in
his room. Then he got ventilated.”

“And what don’t we know yet?”

“Almost everything. We don’t know who’s here in
town as part of the debate. We don’t have a motive, and we don’t have a weapon.”

“That’s right. Good.” I paused, closing my eyes to
think. “Yeah,” I said, finally. “That’s the way I see it, too. All right,
here’s what I’d like you to do next.” He turned the page in his notebook and
nodded. “First, check with the reception desk and get a list of everyone
accompanying Hagerty. Second, check with the dry cleaner. If anything came in
from the hotel since, I don’t know, 10
pm
,
tell them to hold it.”

“In case there’s some biologicals we can link up
to anyone from the debate.”

“Right. Next, check with Housekeeping. They
haven’t cleaned the rooms today, but see if for any reason they were called to
any of the rooms from the debate people in the last twelve hours.”

“Got it.”

“And we need a murder weapon. Have the uniforms
check all the trash from the hotel, the dumpsters outside, see if anyone from
the debate could have thrown anything out a window. The windows open, right?”

“The skinny vent windows on either side of the big
window open.”

“Yeah. And one other thing. I want the uniforms to
check every public trash can and dumpster in a half-mile radius.”

“They’ll love that.”

“That’s why I’m having you tell them.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Hey, two months ago, you’d’ve been diving
yourself.”

“I
really
appreciate that.”

“Okay, any questions?”

“No,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

*  *  *

Robin’s car was already in
the lot at headquarters when we got there. It was hard to miss: a ’72
Volkswagen Beetle painted with the swirling black and white markings of a
Holstein cow, the rear window covered with decals of punk bands that cut their
own MP3’s in their bedrooms and gave them away online. First time I’d seen it,
I asked Robin if it had been a company car for Gateway Computers or some kind
of ad. Robin looked at me, puzzled, and said no, she didn’t like ads. So, you
painted it that way yourself? Of course, she said. Cool, huh?

Ryan and I went down to Robin’s lab in the
basement. Because she had the place to herself, she controlled the music. It
was horrible. “Hey, Robin,” I said as we walked over to Robin’s bench. She was
hunched over her microscope. On the steel counter extending the length of the
lab were the tools of her trade: four microscopes, a gas chromatograph, an
x-ray diffraction unit, an emission spectrograph, a mass spectrometer, and an
array of personal computers.

“Hi, guys,” she said, lowering the volume of the
music. “Just give me a second here.” She stared into the eyepiece for a moment.
“You like Rancid?”

“What?”

“The music,” Ryan said. “It’s Rancid.”

I assumed that was supposed to mean something.
More and more these days, I feel like I’m in some kind of parallel universe
that makes even less sense than the regular one.

Robin was still looking at her microscope. “Just
what I thought: a bunch of dead boys.”

I noticed the towel on the bench next to the
microscope. “Semen on the towel?”

“Yup,” Robin said. “Not a whole lot. Just a
trace.”

“Are you saying your sample is just a trace, or it
looks like a low sperm count?” Ryan said.

“Actually, both. It’s just a trace of fluid, more
consistent with him washing up in the shower and missing a spot than him
pumping into the towel.”

“How do you know that?” I said.

“If he was pumping and that’s all the fluid he
pulled up, I doubt he could’ve gotten it up in the first place.”

I looked at Ryan for confirmation. He shook his
head. “Makes sense to me, but I have no idea.”