on a limited budget. I parked on the street, and entered a lobby as plain and simple as the outside. A bored young man in a gray blazer sat behind the registration desk, reading. An older couple was standing at a rack of tourist brochures, probably trying to decide between standing in line for the Leno show or driving to Anaheim for Knott's Berry Farm. Beyond the registration desk was a set of stairs, and a long straight hall leading to the first-floor rooms.
I wanted to talk to the clerk, but I also intended to search the room even though the clerk probably wouldn't go for it. I knew I would enter the room when I had Chen make the duplicate key, and I knew I wasn't going to wait for the police to get it done. I crossed the lobby like any other registered guest, and went down the hall. Room one-sixteen was in plain view of the couple at the brochure rack, but not the desk clerk. I rapped lightly on the door, listened, then slipped the card into the lock. I pushed open the door, and went in.
The room was empty.
Like the motel, it was spare and plain, with an alcove for a closet and a small bath beyond the alcove. The lights were off, the drapes were pulled, and the air smelled of cigarettes. Everything was neat and tidy because the housekeeper had already made her rounds. Two pairs of men's slacks and two shirts hung in the alcove above a battered gray suitcase. I checked the suitcase for a name tag, but the suitcase was tagless. No telltale clues stood out on the bed or dresser to tie the room to the man in the alley, and the nightstand drawers were empty.
The bathroom was empty, too, except for a small black toiletries case. I was hoping for a prescription bottle showing a name, but it held only the usual anonymous travel articles available at any Rite Aid. I went back to the alcove, and checked the pants hanging on the rail. The pockets were empty. The suitcase was unlocked, so I opened it. A naked woman smiled up at me. She was on the cover of one of those freebie sex newspapers filled with ads for strippers, outcall services, and massage parlors. This one was the Hard-X Times. I lifted it aside, and stared down at myself.
In a way I didn't understand, my chest hurt, as if a pressure had built within me until some part of me cracked and the pressure escaped. The picture was part of an article about me published in a local magazine. The reproduction was poor and murky, like it might have been copied off a library microfiche; my eyes were dark smudges, my mouth was a black line, and my face was mottled, but I knew it was me. I found two more articles under the first, one I remembered from the Daily News and another from the L. A. Weekly.
This was his room.
John Doe #05-1642.
I put the articles aside and searched the rest of his suitcase. I felt through his underwear and three rumpled shirts, then felt along the inside lining of the suitcase for some kind of identification, but instead I found something hard and round inside a roll of socks. I unrolled the socks and counted out $6,240 in twenties, fifties, and hundreds.
I counted the money twice, put it back in the socks, then finished searching the room. Nothing identified the occupant, almost as if he was purposefully trying to hide himself.
I put everything back as I had found it, let myself out, and went back to the lobby. The older couple was gone. A name tag on the clerk's blazer read James Kramer.
I gave him my best cop tone.
"My name is Cole. I'm investigating a homicide, and we believe a person or persons involved might be a guest at your motel. Do you recognize this man?"
I held out the morgue shot, and watched Kramer's mouth tighten.
"Is he dead?"
"Yes, sir, he is. Do you recognize him?"
"He looks kinda different, like that."
They always look different when they're dead. I put away the picture, and took out my notepad.
"We're trying to identify him. We believe he was staying in room one-sixteen. Can you tell me his name?"
Kramer moved to his
I wanted to talk to the clerk, but I also intended to search the room even though the clerk probably wouldn't go for it. I knew I would enter the room when I had Chen make the duplicate key, and I knew I wasn't going to wait for the police to get it done. I crossed the lobby like any other registered guest, and went down the hall. Room one-sixteen was in plain view of the couple at the brochure rack, but not the desk clerk. I rapped lightly on the door, listened, then slipped the card into the lock. I pushed open the door, and went in.
The room was empty.
Like the motel, it was spare and plain, with an alcove for a closet and a small bath beyond the alcove. The lights were off, the drapes were pulled, and the air smelled of cigarettes. Everything was neat and tidy because the housekeeper had already made her rounds. Two pairs of men's slacks and two shirts hung in the alcove above a battered gray suitcase. I checked the suitcase for a name tag, but the suitcase was tagless. No telltale clues stood out on the bed or dresser to tie the room to the man in the alley, and the nightstand drawers were empty.
The bathroom was empty, too, except for a small black toiletries case. I was hoping for a prescription bottle showing a name, but it held only the usual anonymous travel articles available at any Rite Aid. I went back to the alcove, and checked the pants hanging on the rail. The pockets were empty. The suitcase was unlocked, so I opened it. A naked woman smiled up at me. She was on the cover of one of those freebie sex newspapers filled with ads for strippers, outcall services, and massage parlors. This one was the Hard-X Times. I lifted it aside, and stared down at myself.
In a way I didn't understand, my chest hurt, as if a pressure had built within me until some part of me cracked and the pressure escaped. The picture was part of an article about me published in a local magazine. The reproduction was poor and murky, like it might have been copied off a library microfiche; my eyes were dark smudges, my mouth was a black line, and my face was mottled, but I knew it was me. I found two more articles under the first, one I remembered from the Daily News and another from the L. A. Weekly.
This was his room.
John Doe #05-1642.
I put the articles aside and searched the rest of his suitcase. I felt through his underwear and three rumpled shirts, then felt along the inside lining of the suitcase for some kind of identification, but instead I found something hard and round inside a roll of socks. I unrolled the socks and counted out $6,240 in twenties, fifties, and hundreds.
I counted the money twice, put it back in the socks, then finished searching the room. Nothing identified the occupant, almost as if he was purposefully trying to hide himself.
I put everything back as I had found it, let myself out, and went back to the lobby. The older couple was gone. A name tag on the clerk's blazer read James Kramer.
I gave him my best cop tone.
"My name is Cole. I'm investigating a homicide, and we believe a person or persons involved might be a guest at your motel. Do you recognize this man?"
I held out the morgue shot, and watched Kramer's mouth tighten.
"Is he dead?"
"Yes, sir, he is. Do you recognize him?"
"He looks kinda different, like that."
They always look different when they're dead. I put away the picture, and took out my notepad.
"We're trying to identify him. We believe he was staying in room one-sixteen. Can you tell me his name?"
Kramer moved to his
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