The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes & Impossible Mysteries (47 page)

Murex frowned darkly.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Knuckles said. “Why would a single guy rent an expensive hotel room less than three miles from home?”

“Maybe he needed a quiet place to do his thing?”

“Let’s see how quiet the home front really is.”

The house was a triple-decker, dark chocolate brown, at the top of Parker Hill. Murex and Knuckles had to climb nearly 100 cracked concrete steps to get to the front door. The black woman who answered was the landlady.

“A few questions about John Doom, ma’am,” Murex said, showing his shield.

“Come on in then.”

They were let into the top-floor apartment.

“Lived here five years,” the landlady was saying. “Quiet man. Kept to himself.”

“What did he do for a living?” Murex asked.

“Had different jobs. Didn’t talk much about it. Traveled a lot. I wouldn’t see him for a week or two at a time, and he was always saying as how he’d been to Baltimore or San Diego, or somesuch place. Never said why.”

There were two bedrooms. One was a standard setup with a twin bed, and the usual furniture. The other was something else.

“What the hell he done with this room!” the landlady burst out.

The second bedroom room was all gray-ceiling, walls, even the inside of the door. The windows were hung with blackout shades. Gray, too. Even the rug was battleship gray. In the middle of the rug was a thin futon, gray as mold.

Murex said, “It’s a gray room.”

“I can see that!” the landlady sputtered. “But what—”

“Could you excuse us, please?”

“Fine. I need to call a painter anyway . . .” She bustled out.

Murex huddled with Knuckles.

“Grandmaison had one in his cellar. I didn’t see the inside. They remote view in gray rooms for some reason.”

“Then why did Doom go to a hotel, if he had this setup handy?”

“Good question.”

They looked around. A bookcase was crammed with books and microcassettes in labeled boxes. Murex selected one, loaded it into a recorder from his pocket.

A male voice began saying:”9746 0458 April 3rd 9746 0458 My perceptions of the target are . . .”

Murex hit stop. He popped in the other cassette. The same voice recited different coordinates and a date.

“Doom was really into this stuff,” Knuckles muttered. “I wonder if it’s any good for police work . . .”

Murex shot him a dark look. They began looking for address books and cancelled checks with the deceased’s signature on it. It didn’t take long.

“This look like the registration signature?” Knuckles asked.

Murex frowned. “No. Not even close.”

A commotion came from down below. Exiting, they found the landlady complaining to a UPS man who was hand-trucking a big burlap-covered box up the 100 steps.

Knuckles demanded, “What’s this thing?”

The landlady huffed, “A damned steamer trunk. Belonged to John. Fool hotel sent it over. What am I supposed to do with it?”

They examined the trunk. It was empty.

“We’ll take this off your hands, ma’am,” Murex said.

Back at the Park Plaza, the hotel manager was saying, “Yes, we did ship the trunk back.”

Knuckles demanded, “Didn’t you understand that it could be evidence?”

“But it was stored outside the room. I was told not to remove anything from the room proper. We have a basement storage facility for large items.”

“Did John Doom arrive with this trunk?” asked Murex.

“The desk clerk will know.”

The clerk didn’t look happy to see Ray Murex.

“Did John Doom check in with a steamer trunk?”

“No, it was delivered later. I don’t remember the company. He requested that it be sent up to his room, and then a few hours later, asked that it be placed in storage.”

“What do you remember about this trunk?”

“Well, the bellman complained that it was pretty heavy.”

“I want to talk with that bellman.”

The bell captain had a poor memory. He couldn’t describe John Doom, but he recalled one thing clearly: “That trunk was very heavy going up, and a lot lighter coming down.”

Murex asked, “What color were Doom’s eyes?”

“Grayish.”

“Not greenish?”

“No, grayish.”

“Thank you.”

Murex and Knuckles conferred. Murex growled, “Doom’s eyes were green as seawater.”

“If it was Doom who checked in,” countered Knuckles.

“My money says that it wasn’t.”

“Your money’s no good in court, Ray.”

“Here’s how I see it. The victim was delivered to the hotel in that steamer trunk. Bellman takes the trunk up to the hotel room, after which the unknown person who checked in under Doom’s name removes the victim from the trunk, lays him out on the bed, calls for the trunk to be removed, then exits quietly.”

“You think he was dead going in?”

“Exact time of death will establish that. But where was he for four days that he didn’t eat, and didn’t decompose if he was already dead?”

“And what really killed him, and how?” said Knuckles.

“I don’t buy death by remote viewing,” Murex muttered.

“Let’s talk to the ME then.”

The Medical Examiner was busy trisecting a human liver. He didn’t even look up from his work. “Heart failure. Your DOA expired of natural causes on or about last Friday, the 21st.”

“Are you sure?” Murex pressed.

“I’m never sure. But I am positive. A contributing factor appears to be malnourishment and dehydration.”

“Could he have been scared to death?” asked Knuckles.

“There’s no known medical test for that. But yes. Could have. It’s within the realm of possibility. But heart failure is what I will certify.”

“Anything else?”

“Under three fingernails I found gray deposits. Paint chips.”

Murex and Knuckles examined these under a microscope.

“Looks like scrapings,” decided Murex.

Knuckles nodded. “Yeah. Probably from his gray room.”

“Except for one thing. These scrapings are slate gray. Doom’s gray room was battleship gray. A lighter shade.”

“Good catch.”

On the drive up to New Hampshire the next morning, Bob Knuckles was saying, “The guy dies of a heart attack while doing his thing in a gray room. Whoever has charge of the gray room in question needed to cover it up for some reason. So he transports DOA Doom to the Plaza and stages it to look like the death happened there.”

Behind the wheel, Murex growled. “It doesn’t fit.”

“Sure it fits. What do you mean, it doesn’t fit?”

“What are you covering up? Heart attacks happen.”

“So do lawsuits. Guy doesn’t want to be sued for negligence by the fatality’s relatives.”

“Trade a lawsuit for criminal mischief and felony transport of a body across state lines? I’ll take the lawsuit any day. It was staged. The date of the tape was Monday, not last Friday.”

“If you’re going to stage a death by remote viewing, why use a TIRV folder?” Knuckles countered.

“Because you’re not TIRV. You’re a rival RV school. Kill two birds with one stone. Dispose of inconvenient body and screw competition.”

“Makes more sense to just dispose of the body, and hope for no traceback.”

“I don’t see it,” Murex insisted.

They were silent for a while. Fresh snowflakes were blowing in the backwash of vehicles ahead. Winter was settling in. After a time, Knuckles spoke. “Try this: it’s a murder.”

“Murder how?”

“Let’s say RV works like they say. No, follow me on this. Victim Doom wants to RV a really hot target. Perpetrator has a reason to want him off the planet. Maybe he knows Doom has a weak ticker. Figures one good scare might – just might – flatline him.”

“Okay. It’s plausible so far as to motivation.”

“Good. So he drops him into the scariest place possible.”

“Which is?”

“Hell.”

“Hell!”

“Hear me out now,” Knuckles said. “What did Doom describe on that first tape? Going down into the Earth and finding himself in a giant barbecue pit with blazing eyes looking up at him. What would that be except Hell?”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Listen to it again.” Knuckles replayed the tape.

“5688 7854 January 23.5688 7854. My perceptions of the target are . . .”

Murex suddenly pulled over. “Wait a minute. Stop! Give me that.”

Ray Murex popped out the cassette and inserted one taken from John Doom’s apartment. He let it play for two full minutes.

“Sound like the same guy to you?” Murex asked.

“Not even remotely,” Knuckles returned.

“Ouch.”

They checked other tapes. All the voices matched. Except for the tape found on the body of John Doom.

“Scratch the theory he died doing what he loved best,” Knuckles muttered as Murex got the car back into northbound traffic.

“Suddenly I like Trey Grandmaison,” said Murex.

“Doesn’t fit.”

“What do you mean, doesn’t fit?”

“Whoever staged Doom’s death scene wouldn’t use TIRV paraphernalia if he was connected to TIRV.”

“I still like him. He bears a general resemblance to the mystery man who checked into room 314. And he has gray eyes. Let’s see how he takes our showing up unexpectedly.”

“You still carrying his business card?”

“Yeah.”

Knuckles grinned. “Then maybe he’ll be expecting you.”

“I’ve been expecting you,” said Trey Grandmaison at the door.

Murex kept his voice flat. “You have?”

“Well, either you were going to solve it, or return for more information. Either way, I expected another visit.”

“I’m Bob Knuckles. We’d like to know more about RV.”

“I’m on my way to teach a class. But follow me.”

Grandmaison led them to the barn.

“What is the purpose of a gray room?” asked Knuckles.

“That started in the unit – Stargate. We needed a quiet sealed environment in which to do our work. Gray is a neutral color that won’t influence the viewer’s imagination.”

“Uh-huh,” said Murex.

Knuckles said, “We think John Doom died in a gray room. Could we see yours?”

“Not much to see. But come on.”

The gray room was a flat hue from floor to ceiling. Behind a drop ceiling hung a battery of indirect lights. A gray blanket covered a floor mattress. It was very cold.

Murex asked, “No heat?”

“Ceiling lights will warm it up enough. Most sessions last less than 50 minutes. And I’ve had survival training. Cold doesn’t bother me.”

“What would you call this shade of gray?”

“Slate.”

“Doom had a room like this. But it was lighter in color.”

Grandmaison cocked an eyebrow. “He had a gray room? Then what was he doing RVing in a hotel?”

“That’s what we’d like to know. Where were you over the weekend, Mr Grandmaison?”

Grandmaison didn’t blink. “I returned from teaching an Advanced Applications class in Richmond, Virginia on Sunday morning.”

“How long were you there?”

“All week. Class started that Monday morning.”

“Witnesses?”

“Over 60 people took my AARV class. I can give you their contact information.”

“We may or may not need it,” Murex said glumly.

Knuckles scratched at the inner door. Gray paint flaked off. “Ever lock yourself in by accident?”

“Impossible. There’s no exterior lock.”

Knuckles looked. “You’re right. My mistake.”

“Where was Mrs Grandmaison last week?” asked Murex.

A vein in Trey Grandmaison’s forehead began throbbing. “With me. She assists me on the road. Is there anything else? I have to begin my ERV class.”

Knuckles asked, “Would you mind if we observe? I’m kinda curious about this RV stuff.”

“Happy to. Come on.”

The barn was insulated inside, and quartz space heaters radiated warmth from all four corners. It was barely enough. About a dozen people ranging in age from twentyish to fiftysomething sat on pine folding chairs facing a long table. Behind that stood a portable blackboard. Most shivered in their coats.

Grandmaison announced, “We have two guests from the Boston police investigating a mysterious death in the RV community.”

A woman raised a hand. “Are we going to work it?”

“If we were, you know I wouldn’t frontload you first, would I?”

The class laughed.

“Detectives Murex and Knuckles are just here to satisfy their curiosity.”

Murex stepped forward, showing a morgue photo. “Does anyone here know this man? John Doom?”