Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (16 page)

‘I don’t know how people live like this.’ Jan said.

I holstered my Glock. ‘You’d be surprised. I’ve seen worse. To some people this is their idea of heaven.’

‘Well, not mine.’

‘Detectives!’

The three of us turned in unison. The holler had come from the rear bedroom.

‘I think you’re going to want to see this!’

37

^{___________________________}

We clambered our way to the back of the house. Slipping and sliding over hillsides of girlie magazines and sun-crisped newspapers. There was no door to the bedroom – just a bead curtain with missing strands. I swept it out of the way and the three of us pushed inside.

The room was small. Cluttered. No bed. No wardrobe. No drawers. Something like black sackcloth covered the window, so that the sunlight was heavily reduced but not completely blocked out. Grubby posters were stapled to peeling walls. Horror movies and porn. Some porn horrors. Shelves of old VHS tapes with handwritten labels. Something in the corner that looked like a fluid bag stand stolen from a hospital. Rubber tubing. A battered gas canister. A white-faced cop standing beneath an exposed light bulb dangling from a wire near the ceiling.

I heard Jan say: ‘Well I’ll be damned.’

There was a matching pair of suitcase stands opened up in the middle of the room – like the kind they provide in some of the nicer hotels. Sitting on top of these collapsible frames was a long, shiny black casket with polished brass handles.

A coffin. Lid closed. Pristine.

It was the cleanest thing in the whole house.

It took everyone a few seconds to get over the realization.

Fred gave me the nod. ‘Your case, Gabe. You have the honor.’

‘Thanks, Fred.’

‘No problem.’

Everybody gathered round. I snapped on Latex gloves. Took a deep breath. Wedged nervy fingers under the rim of the lid. It didn’t take much strength to lever it open. Everyone was holding their breath. Leaning close in morbid fascination. The lid swung up and to the side on well-greased hinges.

There was a man lying on the puffed pink satin lining the casket. A slightly chubby man in his mid-twenties. With thick, black-framed glasses and a three-day-old stubble. Except for a pair of dirty-white boxers, he was otherwise naked.

‘I take it this is Walden Coombs?’

His hands were clasped across his chest in the customary pose of interment. Clasped over something that shouldn’t have been there. I could see thin white wires running up to his ears.

‘Is that an iPod?’ Jan breathed as we all peered closer.

I reached down. Placed two fingers against Coombs’ jugular.

Walden Coombs flung open his eyes and let out a blood-curdling scream.

Everybody jumped.

If Fred had still been holding his gun he would have shot the guy dead, then and there.

38

^{___________________________}

Lifestyles are a matter of taste. We might not like what the guy next door does with his house, or the way he lives in it, but that’s his choice. Walden Coombs had chosen to live his life in squalor and sleep in a coffin. It was mild compared with some.

A thorough search of the Coombs residence turned up blank. Aside from a few health violations, he was squeaky clean – at least on paper. There were no traces of roses. No urns filled with ash. No hint that Coombs could be
The Undertaker
. Not even a single tube of superglue in the entire house. We did find a couple of empty bell jars and several bottles of distilled vinegar. But no pickled pets.

Coombs was taken back to the Station House for questioning. As a matter of courtesy we’d allowed him to get dressed before taking him in. Now he was sat at a bolted-down table in one of the interview rooms. Wearing a pair of faded jeans, a grubby tee-shirt with the sleeves cut off and a scowl from ear to ear.

‘I won’t let you get away with this.’ Coombs promised as I pulled out a metal chair and sat down facing him. ‘And you’ll be hearing from my attorney. For wrecking my house.’

‘Your parents’ house.’ I corrected. ‘Which, by the way, looked like you’d already done a pretty good job of wrecking for yourself.’

Coombs glared at me from beneath a sweaty brow. He was trying to be cool as a cucumber, but his body language was chili pepper red.

‘Don’t sit in judgment of me.’ He said with a sneer. ‘You don’t even know me.’

‘I know what you are.’

‘Oh, really?’ Coombs had an evil twinkle in his eye.

I didn’t like it; I knew what was coming.

He leaned forward, just to intimidate. I could smell body odor mixed with something sickly sweet. Like cleaning fluid.

‘Well, I guess that makes two of us.’ He said. ‘Because I know what you are, defective. You’re the celebrity cop child-killing piece of shit I seen on the news. Surprised you still have a job. But then again, you the man. Right? Got to look out for the man.’ He gave me a conceited look. I wanted to wipe it off his sweaty face with the back of a hand.

‘Sit back.’ I said.

Coombs stayed leaning over the table for another second or two longer. I stared him out. He gave me more of that smug look. Then he settled back in the chair. Sneered some more.

‘So, remind me again, Mr. Celebrity Cop: why am I being held here against my will?’

There was a video camera standing on a tall tripod behind my shoulder. Taping everything. Legally, there were limitations to how long we could hold Coombs without charging him. Limitations on what I could and couldn’t say.

The trick to a successful interview is to stay objective. Far too many inexperienced cops let their emotions cloud their responses. Coombs had riled me up with one sentence. I was annoyed with myself. I took a moment to calm down before answering:

‘Mr. Coombs, you’re here as part of an on-going police investigation.’ I said coolly. ‘This is just routine questioning. You’re free to leave anytime you like.’ I saw his muscles tense as he was about to stand. Added: ‘But if you walk out that door before answering a few simple questions you will be placed under arrest.’

Coombs relaxed. ‘Fascist. Arrested for what?’

‘At least a dozen health and safety violations. Then there’s the matter of the stolen hospital equipment. Maybe some underage porn on one of those VHS tapes of yours.’

Coombs banged both fists against the metal table hard enough to make the sound boom. He stared at me with his little piggy eyes. Ground some teeth.

‘Hit a raw nerve?’ I asked.

Coombs blew out steam. Shook himself. ‘No. I’m just no kiddie fiddler. Got that? Pedophiles make me sick. They’re vermin. They should be exterminated. Go ahead and watch the tapes. You’ll soon get the gist of what I’m into.’

I’d seen the posters on his bedroom wall; I had a good idea what excited Walden Coombs.

‘Where were you Saturday morning?’

‘Which Saturday morning?’

‘The one we just had.’

‘Probably at home.’

‘With your mother?’

‘No. Not with my mother. I haven’t seen that bitch in months.’

‘Anyone else who can corroborate your whereabouts?’

‘Anyone else who can corroborate your whereabouts.’ He repeated sarcastically. ‘No. Why? Am I being charged with something?’

‘How about Sunday morning?’

‘Which Sunday?’

I made a face. Some interviews are like extracting teeth.

‘This last Sunday?’ He pretended to think about it. ‘Well, I wasn’t in church, if that’s what you mean. Reading the broadsheets? Enjoying breakfast in bed? Is this going somewhere, defective?’

‘How well did you know Jeffrey Samuels?’

‘Who?’

‘Your professor at the USC.’

‘I don’t.’

‘But you were under his tutelage.’

‘Him and about five others. I wasn’t there long. But I’m betting you already know that.’

‘What did you think of the professor?’

‘Far as I remember he was gay.’

‘Was that a problem for you?’

‘I’m not homophobic, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Tell me about the basement.’

Coombs sat back and folded his arms. Narrowed his eyes until they almost disappeared. I could see him thinking through his reply. Making sure he didn’t incriminate himself.

We’d found an operating table down there. One of those large multi-bulb theater lamps. A metal trolley full of surgical tools. Stainless steel kidney bowls. Everything you’d need to carry out minor surgical procedures. Nothing in a sterile environment. Everything filthy.

‘We all have secrets in our basements.’ He said. ‘Mine is I’m interested in anatomy. Call it a hobby.’

 
‘Mr. Coombs, you understand that carrying out unauthorized surgeries on live animals is against the law? It also contravenes umpteen housing codes. All of which means a hefty fine. Maybe even community service.’

‘So issue the fine.’ Coombs said nonchalantly. ‘You have nothing on me, defective. Check your facts. I’m doing nothing illegal. So I dissect dead animals. So what? They’re already dead. Birds I find in the park. Poisoned rats. There’s no crime in that. I know my rights.’

I wondered if he knew anything about animal rights.

He sat forward again, suddenly enthusiastic. ‘I like to see how they tick.’ He said. ‘It’s fascinating. Biological mechanisms. So I collect samples. Slice them open. Connect muscles to batteries. Then stimulate and observe. Sometimes I swap their organs. A rat’s heart in a bird’s body. Different brains. It’s cutting edge. You’ll see. I’m the new Dr Frankenstein.’

He was licking rubbery lips. Rubbing sweaty palms together.

I got up and left the room.