lying on the tangled sheets and blankets.
“Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum,” Jack said. “Powerful enough to blow a
hole as big as a fist right through anyone in its way.”
Being a revolver instead of a pistol, it wasn’t fitted with a silencer,
and Rebecca said, “Fired indoors, it’d sound like a cannon. They’d have
heard it from one end of this floor to the other.”
To Mulgrew, Jack said, “Does it look as if both guns were fired?”
The M.E. nodded. “Yeah. Judging from the expended shell casings, the
magazine of the pistol was completely emptied. Ten rounds. The guy
with the .357 Magnum managed to get off five shots.”
“And didn’t hit his assailant,” Rebecca said.
“Apparently not,” Mulgrew said, “although we’re taking blood samples
from all over the suite, hoping we’ll come up with a type that doesn’t
belong to one of the three victims.”
They had to move to get out of the photographer’s way.
Jack noticed two impressive holes in the wall to the left of the bed.
“Those from the .357?”
“Yes,” Mulgrew said. He swallowed hard; his Adam’s apple bobbled. “Both
slugs went through the wall, into the next room.”
“Jesus. Anyone hurt over there?”
“No. But it was a close thing. The guy in the next room is mad as
hell.”
“I don’t blame him,” Jack said.
“Has anyone gotten his story yet?” Rebecca asked.
“He may have talked to the uniforms,” Mulgrew said, “but I don’t think
any detectives have formally questioned him.”
Rebecca looked at Jack. “Let’s get to him while he’s still fresh.”
“Okay. But just a second.” To Mulgrew, Jack said, “These three victims
. . . were they bitten to death?”
“Looks that way.”
“Rat bites?”
“I’d rather wait for lab results, the autopsy-”
“I’m only asking for an unofficial opinion,” Jack said.
“Well . . . unofficially . . . not rats.”
“Dogs? Cats?”
“Highly unlikely.”
“Find anydroppings?”
Mulgrew was surprised. “I thought of that, but it’s funny you should. I
looked everywhere. Couldn’t find a single dropping.”
“Anything else strange?”
“You noticed the door, didn’t you?”
“Besides that.”
“Isn’t that enough?” Mulgrew said, astonished.
“Listen, the first two bulls on the scene had to break down the door to
get in. The suite was locked up tightfrom the inside. The windows are
locked from the inside, too, and in addition to that, I think they’re
probably painted shut. So . . . no matter whether they were men or
animals, how did the killers get away? You have a locked room mystery
on your hands. I think that’s pretty strange, don’t you?”
Jack sighed. “Actually, it’s getting to be downright common.”
Ted Gernsby, a telephone company repairman, was working on a junction
box in a storm drain not far from Wellton School. He was bracketed by
work lights that he and Andy Carnes had brought down from the truck, and
the lights were focused on the box; otherwise, the man-high drainage
pipe was filled with cool, stagnant darkness.
The lights threw off a small measure of heat, and the air was naturally
warmer underground than on the windswept street, although not much
warmer. Ted shivered. Because the job involved delicate work, he had
removed his gloves. Now his hands were growing stiff from the cold.
Although the storm drains weren’t connected to the sewer system, and
although the concrete conduits were relatively dry after weeks of no
precipitation, Ted occasionally got a whiff of a dark, rotten odor that,
depending on its intensity, sometimes made him grimace and sometimes
made him gag. He wished Andy would hurry back with the circuit board
that was needed to finish the repair job.
He put down a pair of needle-nose pliers, cupped his hands over his
mouth, and blew warm air into them. He leaned past the work lights in
order to see beyond the glare and into the unilluminated length of the
tunnel.
A flashlight bobbled in the darkness, coming this way. It was Andy, at
last.
But why was he running?
Andy Carnes came out of the gloom, breathing fast.
He was in his early twenties, about twenty years younger than Ted; they
had been working together only a week.