So much for the easy way out. I wanted the bastard to be obviously guilty. Then I could walk away from this whole mess with a clean conscience.
But there was a glimmer of a possibility that Michael Winter was innocent. If so, he had paid the price for someone else’s crimes. And his sister would go on paying for years.
I stood up and reached for a cigarette. My pack was empty. I crumpled it up and tossed it into the recycling bin on my way to the kitchen.
I rummaged through the kitchen drawers. No smokes.
“House, where are my cigarettes?”
“There are two packs of cigarettes in the top drawer of the nightstand in your bedroom. There is a partial pack in the right pocket of your tan jacket in the hall closet. There are three full cases and one partial case in the storeroom. There are...”
“Okay, okay. I’ve got it.” I walked into the bedroom and grabbed one of the packs from the nightstand.
I peeled the foil wrapper off the top of the pack. A neat little disclaimer paragraph printed on the foil reminded me to keep my cancer immunizations up to date, so that I could continue to enjoy the flavor of a good cigarette without serious risk to my health. I opened the pack and lit one. I knew it was going to be a long night, so I asked House to make some coffee.
A few minutes later, I returned to the den with a cigarette in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. I sat back down at the computer and started reviewing the crime scene reports.
Half a pack of cigarettes and two pots of coffee later, something caught my eye. It was an inventory of items found in the hotel room where Michael had killed himself. Except for the gun (I had been right, it was a Glock) and the Japanese kitchen knife, there was nothing unusual in the items found on the body. Six key chips on a shark tooth key ring, a packet of breath mints, a spray can of solar block and a wallet containing five wallet-sized trids, two credit chips, an address chip, two condoms, and 205 Euro-marks in cash.
The police had found no cigarettes on the body, or anywhere in the hotel room. So what had given me the idea that Winter was a smoker? I was certain that Sonja hadn’t mentioned it, but somewhere I had picked up the impression that the man had smoked.
I loaded the recording of Winter’s suicide, fast-forwarding until I came to the part I was looking for. I froze the picture just as Winter was reaching into the right pocket of his jacket for the knife. I advanced the recording, one frame at a time. There . The front of the jacket was bloused open, revealing a stretch of expensive white European shirt. There was something in the left breast pocket of the shirt; something the size and shape of a pack of cigarettes.
I punched a few keys, dragging a green wire-frame box around a portion of the image. Another keystroke enlarged the boxed image until the holographic projection floating over my computer consisted entirely of the man’s pocket and a little of his shirt front.
The object in the pocket was a brightly colored box. I keyed a command for digital enhancement into the computer. The resolution of the image increased slowly. By the time the machine beeped to signal maximum enhancement, I could read the brand name off the pack: Ernte 23 . German cigarettes. I saved the enhanced image under a separate file name, and backed out of the recording.
It took me a few minutes of searching to find what I was looking for: the report by the cops who had discovered Michael’s body.
According to the report, at 12:10 a.m., LAPD Tactical had received a report of gunshots from the Velvet Clam Hotel. Two uniformed officers were dispatched to check it out. They arrived on scene in about ten minutes. Witnesses pointed them to room 216. They knocked on the door and got no answer. They were about to kick the door in when the night manager showed up with a pass chip. Officers Reba Brock and
But there was a glimmer of a possibility that Michael Winter was innocent. If so, he had paid the price for someone else’s crimes. And his sister would go on paying for years.
I stood up and reached for a cigarette. My pack was empty. I crumpled it up and tossed it into the recycling bin on my way to the kitchen.
I rummaged through the kitchen drawers. No smokes.
“House, where are my cigarettes?”
“There are two packs of cigarettes in the top drawer of the nightstand in your bedroom. There is a partial pack in the right pocket of your tan jacket in the hall closet. There are three full cases and one partial case in the storeroom. There are...”
“Okay, okay. I’ve got it.” I walked into the bedroom and grabbed one of the packs from the nightstand.
I peeled the foil wrapper off the top of the pack. A neat little disclaimer paragraph printed on the foil reminded me to keep my cancer immunizations up to date, so that I could continue to enjoy the flavor of a good cigarette without serious risk to my health. I opened the pack and lit one. I knew it was going to be a long night, so I asked House to make some coffee.
A few minutes later, I returned to the den with a cigarette in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. I sat back down at the computer and started reviewing the crime scene reports.
Half a pack of cigarettes and two pots of coffee later, something caught my eye. It was an inventory of items found in the hotel room where Michael had killed himself. Except for the gun (I had been right, it was a Glock) and the Japanese kitchen knife, there was nothing unusual in the items found on the body. Six key chips on a shark tooth key ring, a packet of breath mints, a spray can of solar block and a wallet containing five wallet-sized trids, two credit chips, an address chip, two condoms, and 205 Euro-marks in cash.
The police had found no cigarettes on the body, or anywhere in the hotel room. So what had given me the idea that Winter was a smoker? I was certain that Sonja hadn’t mentioned it, but somewhere I had picked up the impression that the man had smoked.
I loaded the recording of Winter’s suicide, fast-forwarding until I came to the part I was looking for. I froze the picture just as Winter was reaching into the right pocket of his jacket for the knife. I advanced the recording, one frame at a time. There . The front of the jacket was bloused open, revealing a stretch of expensive white European shirt. There was something in the left breast pocket of the shirt; something the size and shape of a pack of cigarettes.
I punched a few keys, dragging a green wire-frame box around a portion of the image. Another keystroke enlarged the boxed image until the holographic projection floating over my computer consisted entirely of the man’s pocket and a little of his shirt front.
The object in the pocket was a brightly colored box. I keyed a command for digital enhancement into the computer. The resolution of the image increased slowly. By the time the machine beeped to signal maximum enhancement, I could read the brand name off the pack: Ernte 23 . German cigarettes. I saved the enhanced image under a separate file name, and backed out of the recording.
It took me a few minutes of searching to find what I was looking for: the report by the cops who had discovered Michael’s body.
According to the report, at 12:10 a.m., LAPD Tactical had received a report of gunshots from the Velvet Clam Hotel. Two uniformed officers were dispatched to check it out. They arrived on scene in about ten minutes. Witnesses pointed them to room 216. They knocked on the door and got no answer. They were about to kick the door in when the night manager showed up with a pass chip. Officers Reba Brock and
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