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Authors: Dean Koontz
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murder.
The right hand, however, was clenched tight. Chloroformed, he would have relaxed the fist.
She jotted down these observations in her notebook and then said, "So who found the body?"
" A morning-shift librarian," Harker said. "Nancy Whistler. She's in the women's lav. She won't come out."
CHAPTER 16
THE WOMENS REST ROOM smelled of pine-scented disinfectant and White Diamonds perfume. Regular janitorial service was the source of the former, Nancy Whistler of the latter.
A young, pretty woman who put the lie to the stereotypical image of librarians, she wore a clingy summer dress as yellow as daffodils.
She bent to one of the sinks and splashed cold water in her face from a running faucet. She drank from cupped hands, swished the water around her mouth, and spat it out.
"I'm sorry I'm such a mess," she said.
"No problem," Carson assured her.
"I'm afraid to leave here. Every time I think I just can't puke again, I do."
"I love this job," Michael told Carson.
"The officers who did a perimeter check tell me there are no signs of forced entry. So you're sure the front door was locked when you arrived for work?" Carson pressed.
"Absolutely. Two deadbolts, both engaged."
"Who else has keys?"
"Ten people. Maybe twelve," said Nancy Whistler. "I can't think names right now."
You could only push a witness so far in the aftermath of her encounter with a bloody corpse. This wasn't a time to be hard-assed.
Carson said, "E-mail a list of keyholders to me. Soon."
"All right, sure. I understand." The librarian grimaced as if she might hurl again. Instead she said, "God, he was such a toad, but he didn't deserve that." Michael's raised eyebrows drew an explanation from her: "Bobby Allwine. The guard."
"Define toad," Michael requested.
"He was always looking at me, saying inappropriate things. He had a way of coming on to me that was just weird."
"Harassment?"
"No. Nothing forceful. Just weird. As if he didn't get a lot of things, the way to act." She shook her head. "And he went to funeral homes for fun."
Carson and Michael exchanged a look, and he said, "Well, who doesn't?"
"Viewings at funeral homes," Whistler clarified. "Memorial services. For people he didn't even know. He went two, three times a week."
"Why?"
"He said he liked to look at dead people in their caskets. Said it relaxed him." She cranked off the water faucet. "Bobby was sort of a geek. But why would someone cut out his heart?"
Michael shrugged. "Souvenir. Sexual gratification. Dinner."
Appalled, repelled, Nancy Whistler bolted for a toilet stall.
To Michael, Carson said, "Oh, nice. Real nice."
CHAPTER 17
PEELING PAINT, crumbling stucco, rusting wrought iron, sagging trumpet vines yellowing in the heat, and a pustulant-looking fungus flourishing in the many cracks in the concrete walkway established a design motif carried out in every aspect of the apartment building.
On the patchy lawn, which looked as if someone had salted it, a sign announced APARTMENT AVAILABLE / ONLY LOSERS NEED APPLY.
Actually, only the first two words were on the sign. The other four didn't have to be spelled out; Carson inferred them from the condition of the place as she parked at the curb.
In addition to the sign, the front lawn actually contained a flock of seven pink flamingos.
"Bet my ass there's a couple plastic gnomes somewhere around here," Michael said.
Someone had painted four of the flamingos other tropical hues-mango green, pineapple yellow-perhaps hoping that a color change would render these lawn ornaments less absurd if not less tacky. The new paint had worn off in places; the pink shone through.
Not because of the implication of borderline
The right hand, however, was clenched tight. Chloroformed, he would have relaxed the fist.
She jotted down these observations in her notebook and then said, "So who found the body?"
" A morning-shift librarian," Harker said. "Nancy Whistler. She's in the women's lav. She won't come out."
CHAPTER 16
THE WOMENS REST ROOM smelled of pine-scented disinfectant and White Diamonds perfume. Regular janitorial service was the source of the former, Nancy Whistler of the latter.
A young, pretty woman who put the lie to the stereotypical image of librarians, she wore a clingy summer dress as yellow as daffodils.
She bent to one of the sinks and splashed cold water in her face from a running faucet. She drank from cupped hands, swished the water around her mouth, and spat it out.
"I'm sorry I'm such a mess," she said.
"No problem," Carson assured her.
"I'm afraid to leave here. Every time I think I just can't puke again, I do."
"I love this job," Michael told Carson.
"The officers who did a perimeter check tell me there are no signs of forced entry. So you're sure the front door was locked when you arrived for work?" Carson pressed.
"Absolutely. Two deadbolts, both engaged."
"Who else has keys?"
"Ten people. Maybe twelve," said Nancy Whistler. "I can't think names right now."
You could only push a witness so far in the aftermath of her encounter with a bloody corpse. This wasn't a time to be hard-assed.
Carson said, "E-mail a list of keyholders to me. Soon."
"All right, sure. I understand." The librarian grimaced as if she might hurl again. Instead she said, "God, he was such a toad, but he didn't deserve that." Michael's raised eyebrows drew an explanation from her: "Bobby Allwine. The guard."
"Define toad," Michael requested.
"He was always looking at me, saying inappropriate things. He had a way of coming on to me that was just weird."
"Harassment?"
"No. Nothing forceful. Just weird. As if he didn't get a lot of things, the way to act." She shook her head. "And he went to funeral homes for fun."
Carson and Michael exchanged a look, and he said, "Well, who doesn't?"
"Viewings at funeral homes," Whistler clarified. "Memorial services. For people he didn't even know. He went two, three times a week."
"Why?"
"He said he liked to look at dead people in their caskets. Said it relaxed him." She cranked off the water faucet. "Bobby was sort of a geek. But why would someone cut out his heart?"
Michael shrugged. "Souvenir. Sexual gratification. Dinner."
Appalled, repelled, Nancy Whistler bolted for a toilet stall.
To Michael, Carson said, "Oh, nice. Real nice."
CHAPTER 17
PEELING PAINT, crumbling stucco, rusting wrought iron, sagging trumpet vines yellowing in the heat, and a pustulant-looking fungus flourishing in the many cracks in the concrete walkway established a design motif carried out in every aspect of the apartment building.
On the patchy lawn, which looked as if someone had salted it, a sign announced APARTMENT AVAILABLE / ONLY LOSERS NEED APPLY.
Actually, only the first two words were on the sign. The other four didn't have to be spelled out; Carson inferred them from the condition of the place as she parked at the curb.
In addition to the sign, the front lawn actually contained a flock of seven pink flamingos.
"Bet my ass there's a couple plastic gnomes somewhere around here," Michael said.
Someone had painted four of the flamingos other tropical hues-mango green, pineapple yellow-perhaps hoping that a color change would render these lawn ornaments less absurd if not less tacky. The new paint had worn off in places; the pink shone through.
Not because of the implication of borderline
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