Chapter 13 Chapter Thirteen

It was dark when we left Elaine's house, and the streets were crowded with get off work hours.It was raining again, and the annoying rain slowed down the pace of people going home.I looked at the traffic and wondered if Elaine's tax lawyer was sitting in one of them.I thought about him and tried to guess how he would react when he found out that she had given her a fake phone number. If he really wanted to find her, it wouldn't be difficult.He knows her name.Although the phone company would not disclose her unregistered phone number, if he had any relationship, he should be able to ask someone to help.Even if it didn't work, it wouldn't be too difficult for him to track her down through the hotel where she was staying.They could tell him about her travel agent, and he'd find out where she lived.I used to be a policeman, so I naturally thought of these methods, but wouldn't others investigate like this?For me, it's not a hassle.

Or, he might feel hurt when he finds out that the phone number is fake.Maybe after knowing that she didn't want to see him, he didn't want to see her either.But wouldn't it occur to him that it was just an accidental mistake?After he couldn't find her phone number after calling the directory desk, he should have guessed that the number she gave might have just reversed two digits accidentally, so why didn't he continue to look it up? Maybe he never called her and didn't know the number was fake.Perhaps on the way back to his wife and children, he had thrown her number down the toilet on the plane.

Perhaps thinking of the art restorer waiting on the phone made him occasionally feel guilty.Perhaps he will regret his hasty decision.After all, there's no need to throw away her phone number.He could have dated her now and then.She will not know that he has a wife and children.Hell, she'd probably be thankful that someone would take her away from oil paint and turpentine. On the way home, I stopped by a deli and bought a sandwich, soup and coffee. There was a ridiculous story in the Post.Two Queens neighbors have been feuding for months over one of them's dog barking non-stop when its owner is out.While the owner was walking the dog the night before, the animal had urinated next to a tree in front of a neighbor's property.A neighbor happened to see him shoot the dog with a bow and arrow from an upstairs window.The dog's owner ran home and pulled out a Worser .38, a World War II souvenir.The neighbor also ran out with a bow and arrow, and the dog's owner shot him dead on the spot.The neighbor is eighty-two years old, and the dog's owner is sixty-two years old. The two men have lived side by side for more than twenty years.The age of the dog is unknown, but newspapers showed pictures of it struggling to free itself from the leash, being led by a uniformed police officer.

The North City Precinct was just a few blocks from my hotel.In the evening, when I got there just after nine o'clock, the rain was falling in fits and starts.I stopped at the reception and a young man with a mustache and blown hair pointed me to the stairs. Up to the second floor, I found the detective's office.There were four plainclothes police officers sitting at the desk, and two of them were watching TV.The three young black men in the brig took one look at me as I approached and lost interest when I realized I wasn't their lawyer. I walked over to a nearby table.A balding policeman put down his report and looked up.I told him I had an appointment with Detective Durkin.A policeman at another table looked up to meet my gaze.

"You're Scudder," he said, "I'm Joe Durkin." His handshake was too strong, almost a wrist test.He waved for me to sit down on a chair, then sat down, snuffed out a cigarette in an already overstuffed ashtray, lit another, leaned back, and looked at me.His eyes are the kind of light gray that can't read any message. He said, "Is it still raining outside?" "Stop and stop." "Bad weather. Want some coffee?" "no thanks." "what can I do for you?" I told him I wanted to see all the material he had on the Kim Duckinen murder.

"why?" "I promised a man to investigate the case." "You promised someone to investigate the case? You mean you have a client?" "Let's put it that way." "who is it?" "I can't tell you." - Stick School · E Book Group - The muscles on the underside of his cheek twitched.He was about thirty-five, and a little overweight, which made him look older than his age.His hair was still on top, dark brown, almost black, brushed close to his head.He should borrow a hair dryer from the guy downstairs. "You can't hide. You don't have a business license, and even if you did, you have no right to withhold information," he said.

"I didn't know we were in court." "That's not true. But you came to ask me to help—" I shrugged. "I can't tell you the client's name. He wants to see her killer come to justice. That's all." "He thinks hiring you will speed things up?" "Obviously so." "You think so too?" "I thought I had to earn a living." "God," he said, "who isn't?" I said dialogue.To him, I'm not a threat now, just a guy who goes through the motions to earn some money. He sighed, patted the tabletop, stood up, and walked across the room to the rows of filing cabinets.He was a stocky, bow-legged man with rolled-up sleeves and an open neckline, who swayed from side to side like a sailor when he walked.He brought a fawn-colored folding file bag, sat down on a chair, found a photo from the file and threw it on the table.

"Here," he said, "feast your eyes." It was a five-by-seven-inch black-and-white photo of Kim, but it was hard to recognize without knowing it was her.I looked at the photo, suppressed the nausea, and forced myself to look at it. "That's pretty hard on her," I said. "The medical examiner said maybe sixty-six cuts with a machete or something like that. Would you like to count? I don't know how they keep counting. I bet this job is worse than mine." "There was so much blood." "You're lucky to see black and white photos. Color ones are worse."

"I can imagine." "He cut an artery. Then there was blood everywhere, blood all over the room. I've never seen so much blood." "He must have been covered in blood himself." "Absolutely unavoidable." "Then how did he get out of there without attracting any attention?" "It was cold that night. He probably wore a coat, and when he threw it over him, it covered him up." He took a puff on his cigarette. "Maybe he didn't have anything on when he cut her. Shit, she was naked, maybe he Don't want to dress too much either. Then he'll just take a shower afterwards. There's a nice bathroom and he's got plenty of time, so why not?"

"Have you used the towel?" He looks at me.The gray eyes are still inscrutable, but I feel a little more respect from his attitude. "I don't recall any dirty towels," he said. "The scene in the room is so bloody, it is understandable not to pay attention." "But they should have checked the files." He flipped through the files, "You know their routine, everything is photographed, and anything that might be evidence has to be bagged, tagged, and put in the file. Then I sent them to the warehouse, but when I wanted to investigate this case, I couldn’t find them.”

He closed the portfolio and leaned over. "Want a story? I got a call two or three weeks ago from my sister. She lives with her husband in Midwood, Brooklyn. Are you familiar with that place?" "I used to be very familiar." "Well, it might have been better before, but it's not that bad now. I mean, the whole city is a cesspool, so it's not that bad in comparison. She called because they came home and found it was burglarized. Someone broke in and stole a portable tv, typewriter and some jewellery. She called me to find out how and who to report. I asked her first if she had insurance. She said no, they didn't think it was worth it Insurance. I told her to leave it alone, told her not to report it or it was just a waste of time. She said if they didn't report it, how would they catch those guys? So, I explained that no one is investigating burglaries these days Yes. You write a report and it gets filed. You don't run to see who's working on the case. It's one thing to catch a thief on the spot, but it's fucking impossible to investigate a burglary. No one has time to investigate it She said ok I can understand but what if they happen to find the stolen items? If she didn't report it at all, how did it come back? And then I have to tell her how bad the whole mechanism is. Our warehouse Loaded with seized stolen items, we have a bunch of people filling out reports and documenting what the thieves stole, but we can't return the damn stuff to the owner. I hate to bother you with this, but I don't think she trusts me If not, because I don’t want to believe that things are that bad.” He found a sheet of paper in his file bag, looked at it with a frown, and read: "One bath towel, white. One hand towel, white. Two rags, white. Didn't say whether they were used." He pulled out a stack of glossy photos and flipped through them quickly.From behind him, and over his shoulder, I saw the photograph of the scene where Kim Dakinen was killed.There were only a few pictures of her, and the photographer had fully captured the murder scene, capturing every inch of the hotel room.Unused towels can be seen hanging on the towel rail in one of the bathroom photos. "No dirty towels," he said. "He took it." "Oh?" "Even if he just needs to put his coat over his bloody coat, he'll have to take a bath. And there aren't enough towels. There should be at least two of each kind. In a double room in a fancy hotel, they don't give you just one bath towel." and a hand towel." "Why did he take them away?" "Maybe it's a bag machete." "He should have had a trunk or some sort of bag to take it into the hotel in the first place. Why didn't he get it out the same way?" I agree it's possible. "And why wrap it in a dirty towel? Suppose you take a shower, dry yourself off and want to wrap the machete in a towel and put it in a box. There are clean towels there too. Don't you use a clean towel instead of a wet towel Wrap it up and put it in a bag?" "you are right." "Don't waste time worrying about that," he said, tapping the photo on the table, "but I should have noticed the missing towels. I should have thought of that." Let's go through the archives together.Death check report was nothing special, multiple wounds caused excessive bleeding leading to death.I think that's true.I looked at the witness interview transcripts and all the other forms and documents that might appear in a homicide victim's file.My concentration began to slacken, my head ached, and my thoughts became disorganized. Later, Deggin let me read the rest of the archives by myself, lit a cigarette by myself, and continued typing the report he was typing.When I couldn't hold it any longer, I closed the file and handed it back to him.He put it back in the filing cabinet and walked around to the coffee maker on his way back to his seat. "I've added sugar and milk," he said, setting my coffee in front of me. "Maybe you don't like it." "Good," I said. "Now you know what we know, too," he said. I can't thank him enough. He said, "Listen, your information about pimps has saved me a lot of time and trouble. We owe you a favor. If it can help you make some money, why not?" "What do you do next?" He shrugged. "We investigate as usual. Follow leads, gather evidence, until we have enough evidence to go to the district attorney." "It sounds like a tape is being played." "yes?" "What's next, Joe?" "Oh, my God," he said, "this coffee sucks, doesn't it?" "Very good." - Stick School · E Book Group - "I used to think it was the cup. I bought myself a cup the other day, you know, I switched from plastic cups to porcelain cups. Not any special porcelain cups, you know, just regular porcelain cups, like The kind the coffee shop gives you. You know what I mean." "certainly." "Still tastes just as bad in a real cup. I was writing a report on arresting a mob the day after I bought the cup, and I accidentally knocked the damn cup over and broke it. Where else are you going? " "don't want." "Then let's go downstairs together," he said, "go to the corner shop and sit down."