Page 105 of 56 Days
On November eighth, Richard St Ledger posted a picture of himself posing next to one of those cars.
Richard was the family Maurice was visiting. The St Ledgers are related to the Kennedys. Kennedy could even be Oliver St Ledger’s mother’s maiden name, which would make him choosing it as his new name entirely plausible.
Ciara goes back to the bio on KB Studios and stares at the text until it blurs.
This could actually be him. The only person left who really knows what happened on that day in 2003.
The person who could, potentially, provide her with the answers she seeks.
But how is she supposed to ask him her questions?
Today
“Just try not to think about it,” Tom says, his voice muffled by his mask and the papery layer of forensic coveralls over Lee’s ears. “Take shallow breaths. Focus on the scene. We won’t be in there long. You ready?”
Lee nods.
“Then let’s go.”
Tom turns and steps over the threshold of apartment one, and she follows him.
A series of metalstep-plateshave been placed in the hall; they move carefully from one to the other, as if navigating stones set across afast-movingriver.
Voices and rustling noises from the living room tell Lee that thescenes-of-crime officers are still at work in the other rooms. Just as they reach the bathroom, the next open doorway—the smaller of the two bedrooms—flares with a bright camera flash.
“After you,” Tom says, waving a hand. “Step into the far corner for me, to your right.”
When she enters the bathroom, she sees their reflections in the mirrored wall above the sink: two earthbound astronauts inill-fittingspacesuits, their true selves only visible for the two inches of skin between the top of their face masks and the hood of the coveralls.
There’s no danger of catching anything while walking a crime scene, that’s for sure.
She goes to thestep-plateTom has directed her to and then carefully rotates on the spot, shuffling her covered feet until she’s facing the body.
It’s in the same position as it was on her previous visit, but the surfaces around it—tiled wall, sink, mirror, what remains of the glass—are now dirty with smudges of black fingerprint dust. A portablescene-lighthas been erected in the opposite corner to where Lee stands, on a diagonal from the body, its harsh white bulbs pointed down at it. Someone has collected the safety glass pebbles.
Tom takes up a position a couple of feet away, closer to the deceased. Between them, the portable light and the bathroom fittings, there is no room left for anyone else to enter the room without disturbing the body or the area immediately around it.
It’s also starting to feel like some kind of terrible sauna where not only do you have to wear your own clothes, but layers of them. Lee feels a warm bead of sweat slide down her spine and settle in the small of her back.
“You okay?” Tom asks.
“Yes. No.” She waves a gloved hand. “Let’s just get this over with.”
He turns toward the body. “All preliminary at this stage, as you know. Caucasian male, late twenties, about six foot. Dead, at my best guess for now, for round about two weeks. No flies because the apartment was as good as sealed to the elements, which I think you’ll agree we’re all very grateful for today. The deceased is lying facedown in the remnants of the shower door with some shards of it on his clothing and in his hair, suggesting that it was his fall through the glass that caused it to break. He has a wound to his left temple”—Tom points at the head, then at the brownish smudge on the bathroom wall, which, since she saw it last, has gained a small piece of yellow tape with a number written on it stuck just alongside it—“which corresponds with this bloodstain here, indicating that that is the point at which he hit his head immediately after he went through the shower door.”
The stench feels like it’s gotten so thick that it’s taken on a solid shape, and that shape is coiling around Lee’s neck like a deadly python, slithering and tightening, making her windpipe dangerously small.
“Accident?” she asks, being economic with her words so as to avoid letting the python inside.
“The fall was possibly, yes, but I don’t think that’s what killed him. The scalp tears easily and bleeds a lot, so lacerations can look a lot worse than they actually are. Their impact is mostly aesthetic. Of course, I’ll have to wait until we do the postmortem to prove it, but I’d be surprised to find a skull fracture. He’d really have to have walloped himself off the wall there with some mighty force in order to sustain a fatal head injury and”—Tom holds out his arms—“you can’t swing a cat in here. You wouldn’t have the space to build up to it and going through a pane of glass would slow you down.” He pauses. “Let’s talk aboutwhyhe fell. Did you look in the medicine cabinet when you were in here before?”
Lee nods. “There’s Rohypnol in there.”
“He has a prescription for it, I’d say. We know it for its more nefarious uses, but it’s primarily a tranquilizer used to treat things like chronic insomnia. But I’m confused as to why, if he’d taken it—and we have to wait for toxicology to confirm that—he was in here in the first place, still mostly dressed, walking around. There are more pills missing from the pack in the cabinet, so presumably, he’d taken them before. He must have known it’d be a wise idea to already be in bed when he swallows them.”
“The blankets,” Lee says. “They were pulled back on one side. So he was probablyinbed...”
“I think so, yes. And then he got up for some reason. Although he’s not dressed for bed, but that’s neither here nor there. Anyway”—Tom winks at her—“are you ready for the riddle?”
