I begin examining the burns through a lens while Berger moves near me to observe. I note fibers and dirt adhering to blistered skin, and I find abrasions at the corners of his mouth and on the inside of his cheeks. I push up the sleeves of his red warm-up jacket and look at his wrists. Sharply angled ligature
marks have left pronounced indentations in the skin, and
when I unzip his jacket, I find two burns directly centered on the navel and left nipple. Berger is leaning so close, her gown brushes me. “Rather cold to be out with just a warm-up suit and no T-shirt or anything beneath it,” I point out to Marino. “Were his pockets checked at the scene?”
“Better to wait and do it here where you can see worth a damn,” he answers.
I slide my hands into the pockets of the warm-up pants and jacket, finding nothing. I pull the pants down and blue running shorts underneath are soaked with urine, and the ammonia smell sends an alert through my psyche, and tiny hairs all over my flesh stand up like sentries. The dead rarely frighten me. This man does. I check the pocket inside the waistband and pull out a steel key etched with Do Not Duplicate, and written on it in permanent Magic Marker is the number 233. “A hotel or house, maybe?” I wonder out loud as I place the key inside a transparent plastic bag and am pricked by more paranoid feelings. “Maybe a locker.” Two-thirty-three was my family’s post office box number when I was a child in Miami. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that 233 is my lucky number, but it is one I have frequently used for pass codes and lock combinations, because the number isn’t obvious and I can remember it.
“Anything so far that might suggest what killed him?” Berger asks me.
“Not so far. I don’t guess we’ve had any luck with AFIS or Interpol yet?” I say to Marino.
“Didn’t get a cold hit, so whoever your motel guy is, he ain’t in AFIS. Nothing from Interpol yet, which ain’t necessarily good, either. If it’s obvious, you usually know in an hour,” he says.
“Let’s print this guy and get him into AFIS as fast as we can.” I try not to sound anxious. With a lens I check the hands, front and back, for any obvious trace evidence that might be dislodged by my getting fingerprints. I clip fingernails and place them in an envelope that I label and leave on a counter-top with the beginnings of the paperwork, then I ink the fingertips and Marino helps me with the spoon. I take two sets of prints. Berger is silent and keenly curious during all this, her scrutiny like the warmth of a bright lamp. She watches my every move, listens to my every question and instruction. I don’t focus on her but am aware of her attention, and in the far reaches of my consciousness, I know this woman is making assessments that I may or may not like. I gather the sheet around the body and zip up the pouch, motioning to Marino and Berger to follow me as I roll the gurney to the cooler against one wall and open the stainless steel door. The stench of death blasts out in a frigid front. Our residents are few this night, only six, and I check the tags on pouch zippers, looking for the John Doe from the motel. When I find him, I uncover his face and point out his burns, and the abrasions at the corners of his mouth and around his wrists.
“Jesus,” Marino says. “What the hell is this? Some serial killer going around tying up people and torturing them with a blow-dryer?”
“We need to let Stanfield know about this right away,” I answer him, because it is apparent that the death of John Doe from the motel may be connected to the body dumped in Mosby Court. I glance at Marino, reading his thoughts. “I know.” He makes no effort to disguise his disdain at telling Stanfield anything. “We’ve got to tell him, Marino,” I add.