it. On the bed. Down the side of the bed. On the wall behind. In the slipper beside. Smeared everywhere on the floor.
“Janice Beck,” the responding officer said. “Thirty-one, lives alone according to the call-in, a neighbor, but evidence of both a male and a young child.”
“Tags?”
“Estranged husband.”
Classic tag. Right up there with the live-at-home son, discharged lover, double-dipping boss. Sayles looked over to where Graves stood by the splatter on the wall, holding his hand just over it the way people sometimes do over paintings at museums, moving the hand around. Patterns.
“Recent?”
“Better than a year, neighbor says.”
“Child?”
The officer shrugged.
“And no body, Dispatch said.”
“Just this.” He nodded toward the bed. “Car’d been in the driveway three, four days, maybe longer, no sign of activity. Neighbor came over, no response, called it in.”
Sayles looked at the borders of the pool by the bed. “Blood’s not that old. Three, four days.”
“Starts to congeal in three to five minutes once it’s exposed to air,” Graves said as he joined them. “Depending on temperature and—”
“Large woman? Small?”
“Five-six or so, by the neighbor’s judgment.”
“Then, that much blood, it’s gotta be better than forty percent of her volume. There’s a body. You did the walk-through, right?”
“Right. After we spoke with the neighbor, came in and found this.”
“Entry?”
“Took a crowbar to the front door. Locked—back one, too.”
“Air’s set at sixty-eight,” Graves said from the hall. “Dishes washed and in the drainer. Towels, washrags hung neatly in the bathroom, look fresh. Over-the-counter sleep aid, bottle of Claritin that looks almost full.”
“Closets?”
The officer nodded. “Clothes, boxes, shoes. Couple of unused suitcases, tags still on them. And no, I didn’t touch anything. Eyes only.”
Sayles took a closer look, thinking they mostly looked like kids these days. But this one didn’t. The odometer had been around a time or two. Fiftyish, but with the attitude of someone much younger. Interesting. “I didn’t ask,” he said.
“And I appreciate that.”
Sayles could hear Graves moving around in the front room. Out the window he watched the officer’s partner pace the afterthought of a backyard and alley. His age, mid-twenties, with that brush-cut hair, you could bet on his calling it checking the perimeter.
Graves hollered in, “Lab’s on the way.”
The officer stepped to the window and tapped at it, beckoned. “You okay with the scene here, Jack and I’ll get started on the house-to-house.”
“Sure thing. Good job, by the way.”
“Not my first time at bat.”
Sayles walked to the other side of the bed, opened the drawer of the mismatched nightstand there, shut it, and peered into the space between headboard and wall. Honeycombs of cobwebs in there. The bed wasn’t square to the wall. The nightstands weren’t square to wall or bed. Even the ceiling looked off plumb, cockeyed. Settling? Or just hasty workmanship?
The floor was laid with tiles from the fifties. Sayles remembered his old man putting down tiles like these in the house on Fisher Road, covering up what he now knew to be a gorgeous old wood floor. Some kind of sealer that never quite dried, then a paste of black, tarlike goop. The tiles were thick as dinner plates. Had to cut them, carefully, with a knife like Captain Hook’s hand, press them in place with a roller that went toe to toe with the old man in weight. Sayles was four or five at the time.
And something now was nibbling at his heels, trying to break through into consciousness.
He paced the room, over to the ancient oak dresser with silver-spotted mirror, no photographs or keepsakes stuck in at the join of wood and glass, back to the bed, to the shelves on L brackets by the door (a bud-shaped flower vase half filled with coins, seven well-read historical novels in paperback,
“Janice Beck,” the responding officer said. “Thirty-one, lives alone according to the call-in, a neighbor, but evidence of both a male and a young child.”
“Tags?”
“Estranged husband.”
Classic tag. Right up there with the live-at-home son, discharged lover, double-dipping boss. Sayles looked over to where Graves stood by the splatter on the wall, holding his hand just over it the way people sometimes do over paintings at museums, moving the hand around. Patterns.
“Recent?”
“Better than a year, neighbor says.”
“Child?”
The officer shrugged.
“And no body, Dispatch said.”
“Just this.” He nodded toward the bed. “Car’d been in the driveway three, four days, maybe longer, no sign of activity. Neighbor came over, no response, called it in.”
Sayles looked at the borders of the pool by the bed. “Blood’s not that old. Three, four days.”
“Starts to congeal in three to five minutes once it’s exposed to air,” Graves said as he joined them. “Depending on temperature and—”
“Large woman? Small?”
“Five-six or so, by the neighbor’s judgment.”
“Then, that much blood, it’s gotta be better than forty percent of her volume. There’s a body. You did the walk-through, right?”
“Right. After we spoke with the neighbor, came in and found this.”
“Entry?”
“Took a crowbar to the front door. Locked—back one, too.”
“Air’s set at sixty-eight,” Graves said from the hall. “Dishes washed and in the drainer. Towels, washrags hung neatly in the bathroom, look fresh. Over-the-counter sleep aid, bottle of Claritin that looks almost full.”
“Closets?”
The officer nodded. “Clothes, boxes, shoes. Couple of unused suitcases, tags still on them. And no, I didn’t touch anything. Eyes only.”
Sayles took a closer look, thinking they mostly looked like kids these days. But this one didn’t. The odometer had been around a time or two. Fiftyish, but with the attitude of someone much younger. Interesting. “I didn’t ask,” he said.
“And I appreciate that.”
Sayles could hear Graves moving around in the front room. Out the window he watched the officer’s partner pace the afterthought of a backyard and alley. His age, mid-twenties, with that brush-cut hair, you could bet on his calling it checking the perimeter.
Graves hollered in, “Lab’s on the way.”
The officer stepped to the window and tapped at it, beckoned. “You okay with the scene here, Jack and I’ll get started on the house-to-house.”
“Sure thing. Good job, by the way.”
“Not my first time at bat.”
Sayles walked to the other side of the bed, opened the drawer of the mismatched nightstand there, shut it, and peered into the space between headboard and wall. Honeycombs of cobwebs in there. The bed wasn’t square to the wall. The nightstands weren’t square to wall or bed. Even the ceiling looked off plumb, cockeyed. Settling? Or just hasty workmanship?
The floor was laid with tiles from the fifties. Sayles remembered his old man putting down tiles like these in the house on Fisher Road, covering up what he now knew to be a gorgeous old wood floor. Some kind of sealer that never quite dried, then a paste of black, tarlike goop. The tiles were thick as dinner plates. Had to cut them, carefully, with a knife like Captain Hook’s hand, press them in place with a roller that went toe to toe with the old man in weight. Sayles was four or five at the time.
And something now was nibbling at his heels, trying to break through into consciousness.
He paced the room, over to the ancient oak dresser with silver-spotted mirror, no photographs or keepsakes stuck in at the join of wood and glass, back to the bed, to the shelves on L brackets by the door (a bud-shaped flower vase half filled with coins, seven well-read historical novels in paperback,
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