Chapter 14

IT WAS A STANDOFF.

The crime scene was on the floor below Johanna Apollo's, and the front room was similar to her own, differing only in furniture and bloodstained drapes. The tension ratcheted higher and higher as men in suits and uniforms squared off against one another. Detective Janos, a large man with a thug's face, was flanked by two patrolmen, and all three were engaged in a quiet staring contest with an equal number of New York FBI agents. The police detective glanced at his wristwatch, and Johanna guessed that he was expecting reinforcements. The corpse on the carpet seemed almost incidental to this dogs' war over territory, but no one had yet pissed on the walls to stake a claim. The atmosphere was charged, and more energy was added with each person to enter the room. The outer hall, a contrast of noisy conversations, was filled with crime-scene technicians, men and women with nothing to do until this matter was settled.

The tension doubled when a fourth agent, Marvin Argus, returned from a hallway skirmish with a man from NYPD Forensics. And now the Chicago agent made a tactical error as he knelt down by the body – not his body, not yet. When Johanna had first entered this room in Argus's company, the New York agents had given the man a dour reception. His own people considered him an intruder on this crime scene, and he had made things worse by assuming an air of command unsupported by rank. The local FBI men now seemed more closely allied with the police, all but spitting in Argus's direction.

An imposing gray-haired man with a military air and posture stood in the neutral zone near the front door, and he was looking her way. With the evidence of his expensive suit and a medical bag at his feet, Johanna guessed that he was no minion, but the chief pathologist himself. He towered over his own people, two men wearing jackets emblazoned with the initials of the medical examiner's office, and they called him Dr. Slope. Though this distinguished man was a stranger to her, he gave her a nod of hello. Earlier, his face had been expressionless stone, but fault lines of kindness had since appeared. She would not describe his gaze as simple curiosity. No, after fine-tuning her intuition, she decided that his eyes held merely deep sadness on her account, and there was more to it than pity for the hunchback. The aspect was closer to empathy. For the first time since entering the hotel room, Johanna felt that she was not alone. She smiled at this good doctor, who was wasted on the dead.

More detectives, a score of them all flashing badges, came barreling through the door to make a stand behind Janos. Mallory, the only woman, stood shoulder to shoulder with the men to form a wall of police, and, though none of them held a weapon, the room was electrified, as if all the guns had gone off at once, and real violence could only be moments away. Riker, the last to arrive, broke through the ranks and aimed his whole body at Marvin Argus. No one had time to stop him – assuming that they would want to. He took Argus down with one closed fist to the face. The hapless agent lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling and bleeding from his nose.

The sudden mayhem shook Johanna with revulsion – and it was also oddly satisfying. This latter reaction was shared all around the room. She might have expected the New York agents to close ranks around one of their own, but they stood very still with their hands in their pockets, perhaps as a precaution against spontaneous applause.

"You stupid bastard." Riker stood over the fallen Argus, shouting, "I handed that poor man over to you! You were supposed to take care of him last night – all night! Did you go to sleep on the job?" He pointed to the corpse lying near the window and partially covered by a fallen set of bloodied drapes. "And why would you bring him to this hotel? You knew the Reaper was following Johanna. You knew he was watching this place. It's like you invited that freak inside for a clear shot at murdering MacPherson."

Apparently, this detail was news to the agents from the New York bureau. The senior man hailed one of the police by name, saying, "Lieutenant Coffey – a word?"

When the two men returned from their brief conference in the next room, the dispute over turf had been settled. Possession of the corpse was yielded to the force with the greatest numbers.

Very wise.

Or had the police lieutenant purchased this crime scene with a promise of silence on the embarrassing matter of federal incompetence?

The three New York agents were walking toward the door, then suddenly turned back and, as an afterthought, picked up the debris of Marvin Argus, lifting him from the floor and removing him from the room before his own blood could confuse the evidence by mingling with MacPherson's.

"Guys?" A nod from Lieutenant Coffey cleared more people from the room. "Watch where you step – not like it'll help much. Jesus. Did the crime-scene techs get any time in here?"

"Yeah," said Janos. "Everything was photographed and diagrammed before the feds showed up." The detective accepted a large, clear-plastic bag from a man in uniform, then held it up so his lieutenant could examine the dark clothing inside. "This suit and cap belong to the bellman. We found the guy half naked and stuffed in a trash bin. The suit was thrown on top of him. He's still breathing, but not making much sense. So I figure the Reaper hit him from behind and used this suit to protect his own clothes from blood splatters."

"Maybe we'll get lucky with hair and fibers." Coffey turned to face Johanna. "Dr. Apollo, you saw Agent Kidd's crime scene. Notice anything different here?"

"The writing on the wall." She turned to the single line of block letters scrawled in dried blood: Ten down and two to go. Beneath these words was the trademark reported in the newspapers, a red scythe. "Timothy Kidd's murderer didn't leave a drawing or a message." She watched the medical examiner roll the dead man on his back. "I think you'll find that his trachea is cut. That's different, too. Mac was drowning in his own blood." She turned to the smudges of blood on the wall by the window. "See those fist marks? That's frustration and a call for help. He couldn't cry out. All he could do was bang on the walls, but no one heard him."

Coffey glanced at the medical examiner, who nodded in the affirmative. The lieutenant turned his attention back to Johanna. "Anything else you can tell us?"

She pointed to sections of wall on both sides of the front door. "No blood in that area. The killer didn't cut him right away, not the second he walked in. There was probably time for a few words of conversation." She walked ten paces along an adjacent wall and paused by the line of red spots across a framed painting. "That's the fly of blood from the knife. Mac was standing here when he was cut." And this was only one of the lessons from her months as a crime-scene cleaner. She stared at other areas marked by fountains of MacPherson's blood. "At least one carotid artery was severed. That would account for those splashes on the wall. A cut to the jugular vein would've been more like a leak – more like Timothy Kidd's murder. Mac's death was quicker."

She pointed to a corner that was free of bloodstains. "That's where the killer stood – watching Mac die." Her head bowed as she studied the drops and small puddles of blood on the floor. "Mac was moving in circles. I would've expected that. He was losing so much blood – so fast. The larger puddles have a different pattern. No focus anymore, just mindless ambling, spending his blood, dying in profound shock and absolute terror." She turned to face the lieutenant. "Forgive me. I'm telling you things that you already know. I didn't mean to – "