“Hey,” Marino quips to her above the noise of sawing, “you’ll probably get business from the publicity.”
She gives him a black look. “Those types can just stay the hell away.”
FROM THE PHOTOGRAPHS STANFIELD SHOWED ME, I
recognize the area of wall where the body was propped up and I get the general idea where the clothing was found. I imagine the victim nude on the bed, his arms strung up by rope threaded through the eyebolts. He might be kneeling or even sittingonly partially hoisted up. But the crucifixion position and gag would impair his breathing. He is panting, fighting for breath, his heart palpitating furiously in panic and pain as he watches someone plug in the heat gun, as he hears air blow out when the trigger is pulled. I have never related to the human desire to torture. I know the dynamics, that it is all about control, the ultimate abuse of power. But I can’t comprehend deriving satisfaction, vindication and certainly not sexual pleasure out of causing any living creature pain.
My central nervous system spikes and surges, my pulse pounds. I am sweating beneath my coat even though it is cold enough inside the room to see our breath. “Mrs. Kiffin,” I say as Marino strokes the saw, “five daysa business special? This time of year?” I pause as confusion dances across her face. She is not inside my mind. She does not see what I see. She can’t begin to imagine the horror I am reconstructing as I stand inside this cheap motel with its secondhand prison mattresses. “Why would he check in for five days the week of Christmas?” I want to know. “Did he say anything at all that might have given you a hint as to why he was here, what he was doing, where he was from? Aside from your observation that he didn’t sound local?”
“I don’t ask.” She watches Marino work. “Maybe I should. Some people talk a lot and tell you more than you want to know. Some don’t want you in their business.”
“What feeling did you get from him?” I keep prodding her.
“Well, Mr. Peanut didn’t like him.”
“Who the hell is Mr. Peanut?” Marino reaches down with a ceiling tile that is attached by an eyebolt to a four-inch section of joist.
“Our dog. You probably noticed her when you came in. I know it’s kind of a funny name for a female that’s had as many puppies as that one, but Zack named her. Mr. Peanut just barked her head off right when that man showed up at the door. Wouldn’t come near him, the fur just standing up on her back.”
“Or maybe your dog was barking and upset because someone else was around? Someone you didn’t see?” I suggest.
“Could be.”
A second ceiling die drops, and the ladder shakes as Marino descends. He goes back into his toolbox for a roll of freezer paper and evidence tape and begins wrapping the ceiling tiles in neat packages as I walk into the bathroom and shine the light around. Everything is institutional white, the top of the counter scarred with yellowish burns, probably from guests parking lit cigarettes while they shave or put on makeup or fix their hair. I see something else Stanfield missed. A single strand of dental floss dangles inside the toilet. It is draped over the edge of the bowl and trapped under the seat. With a gloved hand, I pick it up. It is about a foot long, several inches of it wet from toilet water, and the mid-section of it pale red, as if someone flossed his teeth and his gums bled. Because this latest find isn’t perfectly dry, I don’t seal it in plastic. I place it in a square of freezer paper which I fold into a jeweler’s envelope. We probably have DNA. The question is, whose?
Marino and I return to his truck at one-thirty, and Mr. Peanut flies out of the house when Kiffin yanks open the front door to go back inside the house. The dog chases us as we pull out, barking. I watch in the side mirror as Kiffin yells at her dog. “You get here right now!” She angrily claps her hands. “Come here now!”