stench of overfried fish.
For some bizarre reason, I was smiling. It was like remembering my mom’s coffee—horrifying and wonderful all at once. I was young again, a kid in Coney Island; my life just one long summer’s day of basketball, stickball, touch football, and friends; a life of the Cyclone, the boardwalk, and the beach; a life of first kisses. My smile vanished as quickly as it had come, because beneath the nostalgic stench of the fried fish my nose detected the dark grace notes of another sickening scent. This brought me back, too, but not to the Cyclone or to first kisses. I was twenty when death introduced itself to me. I recalled that night in more detail than the night I’d lost my virginity. It was February of 1967. That first whiff never leaves you, and as a uniformed cop I had breathed in its rancid glory a hundred other times.
I forced myself to be calm. There was no reason for me to believe that death was calling from Siobhan’s apartment, or that it was even human death. Pets die, too. People go on vacation and their refrigerators break down. Meat rots. Flies lay eggs. I lied to myself that it was just as likely a broken fridge as anything else, but as I’d told Mr. Roth only moments before he passed, I wasn’t very good at self-deception. I’d smelled human death too many times, and I was too old to pretend. I couldn’t even manage to convince myself the odor wasn’t coming from beneath the white metal door marked 5E. As I got closer, the smell got stronger. And when I got to the door I knew.
My right hand clenched so tightly that the edges of the keys dug into the skin of my palm. They hadn’t drawn blood, not yet, but my skin had been cut. I had decisions to make. There was no turning back, no phoning this in anonymously. Caller ID had kind of put an end to that trick. The doorman might not have seen me, but the Japanese leather twins had—even if they paid me no mind—and I had counted at least three security cameras that had followed my progress. No, the only decision I had to make was whether to call the cops now or wait until I’d had a look around the flat. The former choice would be easier and smarter; the latter, foolish and of questionable legality. I put the key in the lock, turned it, used the pinky side of my right hand to move the door handle, and stepped inside.
Bang!
The rank stench of death, of feces and urine, caught me full in the face. So much for the broken refrigerator theory. It was all I could do not to puke. I held my right hand tight against my mouth. It didn’t help. I knew there was never any getting used to the odor, but experience had taught me that if I held the nausea off for just a little bit longer, I could stop myself from being overwhelmed by it. So I stood there, taking slow, shallow breaths. As I did, I scanned the place. The apartment smelled nearly as powerfully of money as of death. The place looked like something out of a snooty-assed magazine or designer showcase. Everything was just so, and just so expensive. The one thing missing, from what I could see, was a body.
Now I had another decision to make. Every step I took deeper into the apartment, every surface I touched, meant I was contaminating a possible crime scene. Still, I’d come this far, and if anyone was going to find Siobhan Bracken’s body, it felt right somehow that it should be me. Don’t ask me why, but I got the sense Nancy would find solace in that. Having buried so many people close to me, I didn’t want to rob Nancy of even an ounce of solace. As I stepped toward the bedroom, the odors got stronger, and then I saw long streaks of dried blood on the hardwood flooring in the passageway between bedroom and bathroom. That was enough. I called it in, but hung up on the 911 operator before she could ask me any particulars. The responding uniforms could get those in person.
I knew I had about two minutes to find the body, and stopped tiptoeing about. It didn’t take me more
For some bizarre reason, I was smiling. It was like remembering my mom’s coffee—horrifying and wonderful all at once. I was young again, a kid in Coney Island; my life just one long summer’s day of basketball, stickball, touch football, and friends; a life of the Cyclone, the boardwalk, and the beach; a life of first kisses. My smile vanished as quickly as it had come, because beneath the nostalgic stench of the fried fish my nose detected the dark grace notes of another sickening scent. This brought me back, too, but not to the Cyclone or to first kisses. I was twenty when death introduced itself to me. I recalled that night in more detail than the night I’d lost my virginity. It was February of 1967. That first whiff never leaves you, and as a uniformed cop I had breathed in its rancid glory a hundred other times.
I forced myself to be calm. There was no reason for me to believe that death was calling from Siobhan’s apartment, or that it was even human death. Pets die, too. People go on vacation and their refrigerators break down. Meat rots. Flies lay eggs. I lied to myself that it was just as likely a broken fridge as anything else, but as I’d told Mr. Roth only moments before he passed, I wasn’t very good at self-deception. I’d smelled human death too many times, and I was too old to pretend. I couldn’t even manage to convince myself the odor wasn’t coming from beneath the white metal door marked 5E. As I got closer, the smell got stronger. And when I got to the door I knew.
My right hand clenched so tightly that the edges of the keys dug into the skin of my palm. They hadn’t drawn blood, not yet, but my skin had been cut. I had decisions to make. There was no turning back, no phoning this in anonymously. Caller ID had kind of put an end to that trick. The doorman might not have seen me, but the Japanese leather twins had—even if they paid me no mind—and I had counted at least three security cameras that had followed my progress. No, the only decision I had to make was whether to call the cops now or wait until I’d had a look around the flat. The former choice would be easier and smarter; the latter, foolish and of questionable legality. I put the key in the lock, turned it, used the pinky side of my right hand to move the door handle, and stepped inside.
Bang!
The rank stench of death, of feces and urine, caught me full in the face. So much for the broken refrigerator theory. It was all I could do not to puke. I held my right hand tight against my mouth. It didn’t help. I knew there was never any getting used to the odor, but experience had taught me that if I held the nausea off for just a little bit longer, I could stop myself from being overwhelmed by it. So I stood there, taking slow, shallow breaths. As I did, I scanned the place. The apartment smelled nearly as powerfully of money as of death. The place looked like something out of a snooty-assed magazine or designer showcase. Everything was just so, and just so expensive. The one thing missing, from what I could see, was a body.
Now I had another decision to make. Every step I took deeper into the apartment, every surface I touched, meant I was contaminating a possible crime scene. Still, I’d come this far, and if anyone was going to find Siobhan Bracken’s body, it felt right somehow that it should be me. Don’t ask me why, but I got the sense Nancy would find solace in that. Having buried so many people close to me, I didn’t want to rob Nancy of even an ounce of solace. As I stepped toward the bedroom, the odors got stronger, and then I saw long streaks of dried blood on the hardwood flooring in the passageway between bedroom and bathroom. That was enough. I called it in, but hung up on the 911 operator before she could ask me any particulars. The responding uniforms could get those in person.
I knew I had about two minutes to find the body, and stopped tiptoeing about. It didn’t take me more
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