Read Online Penance by David Housewright - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Housewright
Tags: Mystery
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forced to walk three blocks to Thoreau’s house from the nearest open parking space.
The house was in the middle of the block. It was a small, weathered two-story in need of paint and surrounded by a neglected lawn. There was an unattached one-car garage in back facing a rutted dirt alley that must have been tough to negotiate in winter. I knocked on Thoreau’s door and waited. I knocked again and waited some more. I walked around the house, looking through the windows. The front windows showed me nothing. However, through a side window I could see a man wearing a royal blue bathrobe lying on the carpet between the front door and the bottom of the staircase. I went back to the front door and worked the lock with a pick and wire I keep hidden in the lining of my sports jacket—it’s illegal to carry burglary tools in Minnesota. It gave easily enough and I squeezed through the opening, trying not to disturb the body by bumping it with the door.
“Oh Christ!” I cried when the odor hit me, and I fought off a sudden urge to vomit. It was the kind of smell that you never forget, that you never confuse with anything other than what it is: the odor of decaying flesh, the smell of death. When I worked Homicide, I used to stick cigarette filters up my nostrils to mask the smell. Sometimes I would smoke a cigar; a lot of wagon men would smoke cigars. Unfortunately, I had long since given up smoking.
I found myself taking short, shallow breaths as I bent to the body, trying hard not to gag; beads of sweat formed on my forehead and my eyes began to water. He was nude except for the bathrobe. From C. C.’s description, I guessed it was Thoreau; his eyes were open, they were brown. There was a single bullet hole just above his right eyebrow but not much blood—a dark, dry ring encircled the hole; a dribble, also dry, followed the contour of Thoreau’s nose to the floor. The back of his head was intact—no exit wound. He had been shot with a small caliber, a .22 maybe. I guessed by the odor he was at least three days dead.
Travel brochures littered the floor around his body, most of them for the Caribbean. One brochure, for Martinique, was wedged under his thigh. Was that where he planned to go with the money?
I did a quick three-sixty. The house was a shambles; it had been systematically destroyed, searched by someone who knew what he was doing. Chair cushions had been ripped open, carpet taken up, light fixtures removed; in the kitchen, food packages had been emptied onto the table and floor. I debated returning to my car for the rubber surgical gloves I keep—where else?—in my glove compartment. I decided against it and hunted slowly through the rubble for something that might have been overlooked, being careful not to touch anything that might hold a print. I found nothing. It was a very professional job and must have taken hours. I went upstairs and found more of the same—even the toilet tank had been torn away from the bathroom wall. In the bedroom, the king-sized mattress had been cut open, the box spring overturned. The contents of Thoreau’s bureau had been strewn around the room.
It was while standing in the bedroom, sweating like a pig, that I heard it: the sound of a car door slamming. I went to the window, tripping on a tripod in my haste. Three squad cars bearing the distinctive blue stripe of the St. Paul Police Department had gathered in the middle of the street. One officer was standing next to his vehicle, looking at the house—I guessed one of Thoreau’s neighbors must have seen me pick his lock and called it in. I cursed and moved away from the window. Again I tripped on the tripod. “Dammit,” I swore, then thought better of it. The tripod was attached to a video camera; apparently it had been set at the foot of the bed. I checked the camera and was amazed to find it contained a tape. I yanked it out and glanced through the window again. The officers were approaching cautiously, hands on their
The house was in the middle of the block. It was a small, weathered two-story in need of paint and surrounded by a neglected lawn. There was an unattached one-car garage in back facing a rutted dirt alley that must have been tough to negotiate in winter. I knocked on Thoreau’s door and waited. I knocked again and waited some more. I walked around the house, looking through the windows. The front windows showed me nothing. However, through a side window I could see a man wearing a royal blue bathrobe lying on the carpet between the front door and the bottom of the staircase. I went back to the front door and worked the lock with a pick and wire I keep hidden in the lining of my sports jacket—it’s illegal to carry burglary tools in Minnesota. It gave easily enough and I squeezed through the opening, trying not to disturb the body by bumping it with the door.
“Oh Christ!” I cried when the odor hit me, and I fought off a sudden urge to vomit. It was the kind of smell that you never forget, that you never confuse with anything other than what it is: the odor of decaying flesh, the smell of death. When I worked Homicide, I used to stick cigarette filters up my nostrils to mask the smell. Sometimes I would smoke a cigar; a lot of wagon men would smoke cigars. Unfortunately, I had long since given up smoking.
I found myself taking short, shallow breaths as I bent to the body, trying hard not to gag; beads of sweat formed on my forehead and my eyes began to water. He was nude except for the bathrobe. From C. C.’s description, I guessed it was Thoreau; his eyes were open, they were brown. There was a single bullet hole just above his right eyebrow but not much blood—a dark, dry ring encircled the hole; a dribble, also dry, followed the contour of Thoreau’s nose to the floor. The back of his head was intact—no exit wound. He had been shot with a small caliber, a .22 maybe. I guessed by the odor he was at least three days dead.
Travel brochures littered the floor around his body, most of them for the Caribbean. One brochure, for Martinique, was wedged under his thigh. Was that where he planned to go with the money?
I did a quick three-sixty. The house was a shambles; it had been systematically destroyed, searched by someone who knew what he was doing. Chair cushions had been ripped open, carpet taken up, light fixtures removed; in the kitchen, food packages had been emptied onto the table and floor. I debated returning to my car for the rubber surgical gloves I keep—where else?—in my glove compartment. I decided against it and hunted slowly through the rubble for something that might have been overlooked, being careful not to touch anything that might hold a print. I found nothing. It was a very professional job and must have taken hours. I went upstairs and found more of the same—even the toilet tank had been torn away from the bathroom wall. In the bedroom, the king-sized mattress had been cut open, the box spring overturned. The contents of Thoreau’s bureau had been strewn around the room.
It was while standing in the bedroom, sweating like a pig, that I heard it: the sound of a car door slamming. I went to the window, tripping on a tripod in my haste. Three squad cars bearing the distinctive blue stripe of the St. Paul Police Department had gathered in the middle of the street. One officer was standing next to his vehicle, looking at the house—I guessed one of Thoreau’s neighbors must have seen me pick his lock and called it in. I cursed and moved away from the window. Again I tripped on the tripod. “Dammit,” I swore, then thought better of it. The tripod was attached to a video camera; apparently it had been set at the foot of the bed. I checked the camera and was amazed to find it contained a tape. I yanked it out and glanced through the window again. The officers were approaching cautiously, hands on their
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