Читать книгу: «Jupiter’s Bones», страница 2
“There’s two hundred and thirty-five of them—”
“Two hundred and thirty-five?”
“Including children, yes. Still, I think we could wrap it up in a half hour … forty-five minutes.”
Little made a face. “Can we put him on ice?”
“Will it mess up your tests?” Decker asked.
“It’s certainly not ideal.” She smiled, showing big, yellow incisors. “You want to do this for them, Pete?”
“It would give me a chance to look around and allow my homicide team to finish up with the bedroom. Once we’re kicked out of here, we may have a hard time getting back in.”
“Someone going to stand guard here to make sure they don’t screw up the body?”
Decker winced. “They’d like to dress him … throw on his royal robe.”
“Royal robe? What the hell is a royal robe?”
“Some purple silk job with gold embroidery. Wouldn’t mind having it for a smoking jacket.”
“You smoke?”
“If stressed enough, I even burn. They also want him to hold his royal scepter. Can they squeeze his fingers around the staff without screwing you up?”
“This is all very odd.”
“Can they do it? Yes or no?”
Little smiled. “Sure, dress him in a robe. Put the scepter in his hand. And while you’re at it, add a crown on his head and a ruby in his naval. Let them pay homage to their Grand Imperial Poobah!”
3
The processional gave Decker the opportunity to skulk around. Assigning two uniforms to watch over the body, he slipped away just as Pluto took center stage. As he left, he caught a glimpse of the guru, who still wore his blue silk robe, but had overlaid it with a long, purple vest, which was no doubt meaningful of something.
Carefully, he tiptoed down a hallway which held one door after another, like a hotel corridor. He jiggled a couple of knobs—closed but not locked. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw nary a soul.
Just a quick peek.
He opened a door.
The space was spare and tiny. Bare walls except for a postage-stamp, square window opened to let in a wisp of cool air. On the floor was a cot with a brown blanket. A shelf above the bed held a pot, a mug, a ceramic bowl and several black-spined books. More of a prison cell than a bedroom.
Again he looked around.
The foyer was empty.
He went inside, managing to squeeze his giant frame into a cavity’s worth of square footage. Then, he shut the door.
Time’s a tickin’. If you’re gonna do it, get to it.
He took the pot from the shelf. It had been used, but was scrubbed clean. The mug was also clean, and contained one tablespoon and one teaspoon. The pottery bowl held ashes of burnt incense. Decker sniffed. Sandalwood maybe? No evidence of pot. He put the accoutrements back. The books turned out to be videotape cases. No labels. He hesitated, then took a tape at random, and tucked it under the strap of his shoulder harness. He buttoned his jacket.
Just borrowing, he told himself. No harm in that.
No sign of a closet. With care, he crouched down and peered under the bed. A suitcase. He pulled it out. Inside were two neatly folded white cotton robes, and two pairs of denim jeans along with two white T-shirts. Several pairs of woman’s white cotton briefs—the only indication that the room’s occupant was female. Gingerly, he restored everything back to pristine condition, and stowed the valise under the bed.
No connecting doors to any room. Ergo, no connecting bathroom.
And that was that. Opening the door a crack, he scanned the foyer. Still empty. In a swift move, he glided out to safety, then came through another corrider, opening several doors and peeking inside. Replicas of the bedroom he had just seen. Spartan surroundings, even for those without material attachments. Were they also without emotional attachments? Maybe, but maybe not. There had been a lot of weeping following Father Jupiter’s death.
Eventually, the pathways led Decker to a set of double doors. He pushed on one, revealing the Order’s kitchen. It was cavernous and industrial with metal cabinets, stainless-steel counters, massive sinks and a built-in refrigeration system. It was also flooded with light from the ceiling’s giant glass dome.
The cooking area was devoid of people but not of smells. A wave of something savory tickled Decker’s nose, causing his stomach to do a little tap dance. He checked his watch—ten forty-two. Twenty-three minutes had passed since the procession had begun.
Go for it, he told himself. Worse came to worst, he could say he was just looking for a drink of water.
He walked into the area, running his index finger along the countertop. Spotless and dustless. Lots of heavy cauldrons hanging from an oval-shaped central rack secured by chains from the ceiling. Four mammoth-sized kettles sat on the cooktops. Using the cloth of his jacket as a pot holder, Decker lifted a lid and got a faceful of steam. Blinking back the heat, he was looking at some kind of soup or stew. He replaced the lid, then pulled forward on one of the oven doors. Warm, but not hot air. A pan with loaves of bread still in the rising stage. He returned the door to its original position, hoping he didn’t screw something up.
Lots of light coming down from on top, but still, not much in the window department. There were long but narrow fenestrations running along the top of the walls. Hands on his hips, he looked around.
Alone.
He opened one of the cabinets above the counter—sacks of flour, a dozen packets of dried yeast and jars of dried spices. Another had the same contents. A third held a dozen canisters of different types of teas. The cupboards seemed to hold provisions only. The bottom storage area was filled with water bottles—at least a hundred five-gallon jugs. He closed the doors and leaned against the counter.
No plates, no bowls, no cups, no eating utensils and no other cookware except the hanging kettles. Soup or stew in the cauldrons, and a small pot and a mug in each room. Probably stew or soup was the sect’s usual fare, and each person was allotted an individual pot and spoon for his or her portion. Maybe a personal cup for the tea. And that was that for tableware. It would sure save on the kitchen labor if each person took care of his or her own vessels.
Pulling the handle of one of the built-in refrigerator doors, Decker saw rows of jars, each labeled with a specific fruit or vegetable. Some of the produce was pickled, others had been made into purees or sauces. Some of the citrus fruits had been candied. He had to hand it to the Order. The members were earthquake-ready, better prepared than he was. In the case of absolute shut-down, the sect could go on for months.
He took out his pad and made a quick sketch of the physical layout. As his eyes panned over the room, Decker noticed another door along the back wall. It opened to an immense garden with rows of produce, sided by orchards of fruit trees. The plot seemed big enough to qualify as commercial agriculture.
Tucking his notepad into his jacket, he climbed down the three steps, then ambled along a dirt path lined with trellises woven with plant material—vines of tomatoes and cucumbers dotted with their small, yellow flowers. The twisted suckers of pole bean plants climbed along a steel vegetable cage. There were also raised beds made out of brick. They housed squash plants abloom with mustard-colored flowers, two-foot-high eggplant with purple blooms and a panoply of pepper plants. Also included were remnants of the winter vegetables—lettuce and spinach heads on the verge of bolting. Sprinkled among the edibles were beds of flowers—newly planted marigolds and petunias. Aesthetically pleasing as well as practical because marigolds were insecticidal. Strike another notch for the Order’s self-reliance. The patch was damn impressive.
The area looked to be about a couple of acres with two fruit orchards sandwiching a vegetable garden. Beyond the arable portion was scrubland overrun with wild fauna and airborne spores: dandelions, orange nasturtiums, purple statice, wild daisies, sage plants and chaparral. Copses of silver eucalyptus gave the land some texture and height. Gnarled California oaks sat dormant in ground water, grumbling because El Niño had overwatered the turf.
Decker stopped walking, his ears hearing more than ambient sounds. Dogs barking—the Dobies. He hoped they were locked up somewhere, but suspected they were close at hand. Stupid to explore with them on the prowl. Yet he kept going.
He came upon a good-sized tool and potting shed—around two hundred square feet. The usual stuff—trowels, claws, rakes, hoes, weeders. Shelves with terra-cotta pots, and dozens of plant starts sitting in egg cartons. There were also shelves containing bags of fertilizers, boxes of nutrients, plant food sprays and aerosol cans of weed killer. There were also jars of rat killer, all clearly marked with the skull-and-crossbones logo, some pest traps and animal cages as well. Apparently the Order of the Rings of God had decided that bugs and pests took a backseat to human needs.
Not that Decker found that philosophy objectionable. He embraced the Jewish philosophy that had animals serving people, and not the other way around. God had given the human race the gift of reason, although in Decker’s line of work he rarely saw it utilized. That being said, people—with their theoretical gift of reason—had obligations to their animals. Cruelty was strictly forbidden. As a matter of fact, pets and livestock had to be fed before sitting down to one’s own meal, the rationale being that though people don’t forget to eat, they are occasionally remiss about that bowl of dog chow. Tsar Ba’alei Chayim—kindness to animals.
The shed was neat, the garden implements hanging on the walls or stowed in one of the built-in slots. There were several plastic trash cans for dirt and leaves. The floor had been swept clean.
Cleanliness and godliness—hand in hand.
Decker mulled over the adage.
The sect must believe in some type of a god. Why else name yourself the Order of the Rings of God? Why not just … Order of the Rings. Or just plain Rings. Much thought often goes into naming. Decker remembered how he and Rina had endlessly debated baby names even after they decided to name Hannah Rosie after Rina’s grandmothers. Then how much more important would the name be if it denoted a personally tailored philosophy? Or a new religion? Each word would be important.
Decker heard a throat clear, and turned around. The man wasn’t as tall as Decker, but must have cleared six feet. He appeared to be in his late thirties with a thin face and brown eyes. He sported a goatee, and had a black ponytail, which fell between his shoulder blades. Like Pluto, the man wore a blue silk robe overlaid with a purple silk vest. Decker wondered about his name. Mars? Maybe Uranus. That would be fitting. Because the whole investigation was a big pain in the ass.
The man walked over to Decker and held out his hand. “Bob,” he announced.
Involuntarily, Decker let out a chuckle. He shook the proffered hand. “Lieutenant Decker.”
“You find me funny?”
“Just the name.”
“Why’s that? Bob’s a common name.”
Again, Decker smiled. “Yes, sir, it is indeed. I hope I’m not trespassing—”
“You are. You’re lucky I locked the dogs up. With the police coming and going, I had no choice. They don’t like strangers.”
“Good guard dogs never do.”
“You’d better believe it.” Bob smiled. “Their names are Dormer, Dancer and Rudolph. Santa has his reindeer, I have my friends.”
“They’re your dogs?”
“No.” Bob wiped sweat from his brow. “They belong to the Order. But I’m outdoors a lot so we enjoy a personal relationship.”
Decker sensed an underlying message—a veiled warning that said, “Don’t mess with me.”
Bob said, “When I first arrived, Father Jupiter asked if I wanted to change my name to something more … far-reaching—celestial or heavenly, if you will. That was the trend. To follow our great leader’s lead. But, being an individualist and a bit of an oppositionalist, I declined. Unlike most of the people here, I wasn’t running away from myself per se. Just running to something better, my spirit being my compass.”
Decker nodded, waiting for more.
Bob mulled over his words. “I’ve found peace that had previously eluded me. I found my personal god.”
Decker kept his face flat. “Father Jupiter is your personal god?”
“Perhaps that’s an overstatement.” Bob smiled, showing tea-stained teeth. “He’s not a god, but a leader. Showing me the way. My own personal … Tao. I feel that we were birthed from the same matter.”
“Is he related to you by blood?”
Bob chucked. “How I wish.” His eyes swept over the vista. “Look around, sir. This is a type of modern-day Eden. Rephrasing it into scientific parlance, I’d say here we have ideal Newtonian physics—a perfect world of action and reaction, and absolute time. Out there …” He cocked a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s strictly Einstein where everything’s relative. Or Max Planck and quantum mechanics where things are random and unpredictable.”
Decker waited a beat. “You tend the garden by yourself?”
“I have help. But I’ve been here longer, so I get to wear the blue robe and purple vest.”
“Which means?”
“I’m an official privileged attendant to our Father Jupiter. Like Socrates, we get to sit at his feet and listen his words. We hold the title of guru. So I’m officially Guru Bob. But you may call me brother. After all, we’re one big family.”
The guru’s face remained neutral, but Decker suspected that Bob was speaking tongue-in-cheek.
Bob explained, “There are four of us who hold the rank.”
“Ah. I see. I’ve only met—”
“Pluto. He’s quite the organizer.”
Decker said, “I had assumed he was the acting head of the Order now that Father Jupiter is gone.”
Bob continued to be unreadable. “I suppose you could call him the partial acting head. He certainly is a talking head.”
“He has opinions.”
“That is true,” Bob answered. “Let’s get back to Newtonian physics. Because basically that’s the same concept we’re dealing with. For our everyday reactions, Newton’s laws hold. You know his laws, right?”
“Refresh my memory.”
“A body at rest stays at rest … a body in motion stays in motion. The orbits of the planets. What comes up, must come down. Any of this sound familiar?”
“The up and down part.”
“The specifics are not important. What is consequential is that his laws hold in ordinary life, but they break down when objects start approaching the speed of light. Then time no longer is absolute, but is relative and lumped into this category called space time. Not to mention the effects of the space warp—the curved topology of our universe. And the effect of huge gravitation bodies we can’t see called black holes. In other words, you get massive distortions, you understand what I’m saying?”
“The analogy is eluding me, sir—”
“Bob.”
“Bob, then.” Decker paused. “Were you a scientist in your past life?”
“A graduate student in astrophysics at Southwest University of Technology. I worshiped Dr. Ganz as a scientist, as a physicist, as a cosmologist and as a brilliant philosopher and thinker. I devoured his texts, could quote his writings word for word. He became the idealized father I never had. Mine was a washed-out old coot. Even after he made money, he wasn’t happy.”
“But you hadn’t met Ganz before he disappeared.”
“Of course not. My hero was pure fantasy because I, like others, had thought him dead. When I found out that Ganz was still alive, I rejoiced. My hero had leaped from the dry pages of publication and into real life. When others ridiculed his abrupt transformation, I had to find out for myself what brought about his startling change. So I came here. I heard him speak, I talked to the man, thought about his ideas. Once I entered his world, I never left. To me, Father Jupiter is still king of the universe.”
Melach Haolam, Decker thought. A hefty title for a mere mortal. “So you’ve been with Father Jupiter how long?”
“Fourteen years. But getting back to Newton’s absolute time versus Einstein’s relative time, the analogy is this: I have no objection to Guru Pluto stepping in as acting head of the Order under most circumstances—i.e., Newtonian physics. Just as long as he doesn’t try to impose absolute time under Einsteinian conditions. Because if he does, I’m going to clean his relative clock, so to speak.”
Decker opened his mouth and closed it. “Are you saying he can act as the Order’s head just as long as he doesn’t overstep his bounds?”
“Precisely,” Bob stated. “You’re quick for a cop.”
Decker stared at him.
Again, Bob grinned. He swept his arm over the vista. “Father Jupiter loved the garden. Next to the heavens, he loved this world the most. Can’t say that I blame him.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“You know, to get here from the front of the compound is quite a trek. Certainly not within arm’s reach from the procession … which is where you’re supposed to be. Been doing a little space travel, sir?”
“I got lost.”
“I’ll bet.” Bob scratched his head. “I don’t care, but the dogs wouldn’t like it. Certainly, Pluto wouldn’t approve.”
“And that matters to you, Bob?”
The guru thought about that. “Let’s put it this way. At the moment, Pluto’s nerves are frayed. It’s best that you don’t taunt him. He’s handy with an ax.”
Decker was surprised by the implicit threat. “I beg your pardon?”
“Woodcutting.” Bob smirked. “I’ll show you a shortcut back.”
“Actually, if you could show me to Father Jupiter’s bedroom, I’d be much obliged.”
Bob tapped his foot. “Ordinarily, that’s off-limits. But since a birdie has told me that you’ve parked a couple of your lackeys there, guess I might as well show you the proverbial light. Or at least the way.” Bob started walking, but Decker didn’t follow. Bob stopped. “Yes?”
“You all going to be all right here? Maintain status quo, so to speak?”
Bob said “You all? Much obliged? Originally from the South, sir?”
“I guess that’s true if you consider that Florida was part of the Confederacy.” Decker turned grave. “I have concerns, Bob. I don’t want any unbalanced members trying to join Father Jupiter. An individual adult suicide is one thing. But mass suicide that includes children, well, that qualifies as murder.”
“And you’re wondering who would you arrest as the culprit if we were all dead?”
“Bob, I’m not screwing around anymore. I’m very concerned for the kids.”
Bob said, “Here we believe in free will. Father Jupiter said that nothing is sincere if it’s done under coercion. As far as I know, there are no plans for us to jump to the next level. Not that I can predict anyone’s individual behavior any more than I could predict the position of a photon at any given moment. But I do understand what you’re saying.”
Decker wasn’t too sure about that. “And if you hear anything about mass suicide, you’ll let me know immediately, correct?”
Bob said, “I don’t recall you being assigned to our welfare and safety.” A tap of the foot. “I suppose I could take your concern as a compliment. You care.”
“Especially when it comes to protecting kids.”
“Lieutenant, I live here, but I don’t live in a vacuum. I have a son. I want to see him grow to be a man.”
“So we have an understanding.”
“Up to a certain point.”
“Meaning?”
“As long as Newtonian physics hold, we’re fine. But when we get to Einsteinian travel in space time … what can I say? Things get pretty warped out there. I’ll show you the way to Father Jupiter’s bedroom now. Once you’re there, Lieutenant, you’re on your own.”
4
Guru Bob walked Decker back to the Order’s entryway before deserting him for the young girl van driver known as Terra. He whisked her away, leaving Decker to flounder among the white-robed mourners. Standing solo, Decker felt as welcome as a leper. He hunted around the hallways until he saw yellow crime tape strung across a doorway. He stepped over it and went inside the room. The scene wasn’t much to speak about. In general, overdose suicides weren’t messy or bloody. It was just a matter of finding out which specific agent stopped either the breathing or the beating of the heart. More a matter for a doctor than a detective.
Ganz’s bedroom was significantly larger than his parishioners’ cells, but not grandiose by any means. He had a queen-sized bed instead of a cot, a dresser for his clothing instead of a trunk under the bed, and a wall of bookshelves. Most important, he had an attached bathroom. The techs had just finished dusting; black powder covered Ganz’s nightstand, bookshelves and bedposts. At the moment, Scott Oliver was rifling through Ganz’s clothes. Marge Dunn was scribbling in her notepad. She wore beige slacks, a white blouse and a black jacket. On her feet were basic black loafers with rubber soles. There were gold studs in her ears—no other jewelry. The simplest necklace could become a noose when dealing with a violent felon. She wore no perfume either, because alien scents can screw up evidence.
She looked up. “Lieutenant.”
“Detective.” A smile. “What do you have?”
“A headache.” Marge pushed blond bangs from her brown eyes. “You have any Advil on you, Pete?”
“Always.” Years ago, Decker had been shot in the shoulder and arm. The wound had healed without motor nerve damage, but pain lingered like an unwanted relative. He tossed her his bottle. She took off her gloves and plunked out two pills, swallowing them dry. Then she hurled the bottle back. Decker caught it with one hand.
“According to Pluto …” Marge dropped her voice. “Have you met Pluto?”
Decker smiled. “I have met Pluto.”
Marge rolled her eyes. “A piece of work.”
“Wouldn’t want him for a houseguest.”
She smiled. “Anyway, Pluto’s story is that Ganz was found roughly in this kind of position.” She flung her hand back, opened her mouth and flopped her arms out at her side. “Rag doll style. Head and left arm hanging off the side of the bed. He was lying on the diagonal, the body skewed to the left. You can still see part of the outline on the sheets.”
Decker examined the depression in the rumpled coverings. It ran from the left top of the bed to the right bottom corner. “Who found him?”
“Venus—Jupiter’s significant other—did.” She paused and thought. “You know, there’re only nine planets. Wonder what the rest of the group call themselves?”
“There’re always the asteroids,” Oliver said as he rooted through the pockets of Jupiter’s purple robes. “Isn’t a mile-long asteroid gonna hit earth in something like twenty years?”
“Yeah, I heard something like that on the news.” Marge scratched her head. “Wonder if I should take an early retirement?”
“Where’s Venus?” Decker asked. “And please nobody say second rock from the sun.”
“At the processional, washing Jupiter’s feet as the people pass by,” Oliver answered. “It’s a full-time job because his followers keep kissing Jupiter’s big toe. And no, I don’t know what that means.”
Decker said, “Mennonites wash their feet before praying.”
“Why’s that?” Marge asked.
“I think Jesus used to wash the feet of his followers before praying out of humility. So did Abraham—he did it out of kindness. Of course, way back when, washing feet was a standard Middle Eastern custom. You live in the desert and wear sandals, you’re going to have dirty feet.”
Marge said, “Most of the people here wear tennis shoes.”
Decker thought a moment. “You know, Jews wash the dead bodies before corpses are buried. In addition to their own philosophy, maybe the Order co-opted bits and pieces from different, established religions. A little of this, a little of that.”
Oliver asked, “What is the group’s philosophy?”
“I’m not sure.” Decker pulled out the videotape. “Maybe this’ll help us find out.” He dropped it into a plastic bag.
“Where’d you get that, Loo?” Oliver asked.
“I’ll return it. Don’t worry.” Quickly, Decker changed the subject. “What time did Venus find the body?”
Marge said, “Pluto said around five in the morning.”
“Pluto said,” Decker stated. “Has anyone talked to Venus?”
“I’ve tried but she’s been in seclusion,” Oliver said. “Incommunicado until she took her place at the processional.”
“She’s going to have to be interviewed.” Decker rubbed his eyes. “So all the information about Jupiter’s death is via Pluto?”
Oliver nodded. “He’s the official spokesperson.”
“I don’t know about that.” Decker explained the cult’s pecking order, mentioning that there were three other privileged attendants. He told them about Bob.
Oliver said, “So who are the other two?”
Decker said, “Count the purple vests.”
“Venus was wearing a purple vest,” Oliver stated. “That leaves one more. Want me to go out to the processional and take a look, Loo?”
“Are you done here?”
Oliver shut the dresser drawer. “I’m done. I don’t know about Detective Dunn.”
Decker turned to Marge. “Find anything to suggest that this was anything other than a suicide?”
“Nothing at first glance, at least.” She consulted her notes. “Empty fifth of vodka under the bed, empty vial of … let me get the exact name …” She paged through her notes. “Nembutal sodium capsules … twenty milligrams per capsule. Vial was empty, prescribed originally for ten capsules, no refills. I also bagged a vial of diazepam—”
“Valium,” Decker said. “Diazepam is the generic name.”
Marge looked up. “Whatever you say. I don’t use that stuff. I found an empty vial prescribed for twenty tablets, also twenty milligrams per tablet.”
“Ganz’s name on the labels?”
“Not Ganz, Father Jupiter.”
Decker said, “The label read ‘Father Jupiter’?”
“Yes.”
Decker said, “Where’d you find the empty vials?”
“On his bed stand,” Marge said. “All the vials were dusted and bagged. To me, it plays out like a typical case of mixing drugs and alcohol.”
“What about anything injectable?” Decker asked.
No one spoke for a moment. Then Marge asked why.
“Because the ME found recent IM needle marks in his arm and butt.”
Oliver smiled sheepishly. “Uh … there’s a slew of shit in his medicine cabinet. I wrote it all down, but I didn’t bother to dust or bag it. Not with the two empty vials at his bedside.”
“I’ll bag it,” Decker said.
“It’s not that I screwed up—”
“Who said you screwed up?”
“You’ve got that look on your face, Deck.”
Oliver had screwed up, but Decker let it go. “Go out and find the remaining guru—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Oliver muttered, stepping over the crime tape. Deck wasn’t a bad guy. He never lorded his position over those in his command, and he didn’t buddy up to the brass. Begrudgingly, Oliver was forced to admit that Deck probably made it to the position on merit.
“Come back here when you’re done, Scott,” Decker called out.
“Fine, fine,” Oliver answered.
When he had left, Marge asked, “Needle marks?”
“Yep.”
“Self-inflicted?”
“In the arm, maybe. But in his butt?”
Marge regarded his face. “The empty fifth of vodka … the pills. Everything’s too neat. You have doubts, don’t you? So do I.”
“I just don’t like it when the crime scene has been altered. It would have been one thing if someone had tried to revive the body—moved it just enough to do CPR. But to move a corpse in order to place it in a shrine before contacting authorities? I find that odd. People are usually nervous around dead bodies.”
“The group’s strange. Maybe they have odd ideas about death and bodies.”
“Even so, Marge, someone should have known better. Then you have the fact that the death wasn’t called in by anyone in the group. It was called in by Ganz’s daughter. So how did she find out about it? And if no one in the Order of the Rings called the police, what exactly were they planning to do with the corpse?”
“Bury it on the grounds?” she suggested. “They seem antiestablishment enough to do something like that.”
“That’s certainly true.” Decker slipped on a pair of latex gloves. “We have two immediate tasks.”
“We have to talk to Venus,” Marge said.
“Exactly. Do you want to do it? Might be better woman to woman.”
“Sure. I’m just about done here, so I can do it now. Unless you want me to bag the vials in the bathroom.”
“No, I’ll bag ’em. The second thing we need to know is—”
“Who from the group called Jupiter’s daughter?” Marge interrupted. “Which means someone should talk to her. You’ll do that, right?” She smiled. “Anything to get out of here.”
“Why waste my breath if you know what I’m going to say?”
Marge laughed. “No need to get peevish, Loo. All it means is that you trained me well.”
The bathroom was a closet crammed with a toilet, a washstand and a shower without a stall—a curtain cutting across one of the corners, and a mounted handheld water spray. White tile walls, white tile floors, all of it slippery when wet. A drain had been cut into the floor. Above the washstand was the medicine cabinet. Decker opened the cupboard, plastering his body against the opposite wall to avoid getting hit by the swing-out door. There appeared to be around thirty different white plastic bottles, each with its own label. At first glance, nothing was in duplicate form. Which meant everything would have to be bagged separately. Decker draped a clean cloth over the toilet seat—which was surprisingly in the down position (had a woman been in there?)—and laid the plastic evidence bags down on the clean surface. He also placed a cloth over the washstand. Then he took out his pad and pen.
He started at the left upper corner:
Echinacea Purpura—For supporting the immune system. One hundred capsules at 404mg each.
Decker wrote down the name of the drug, the number of tablets per bottle and the dosage of each pill. Then he spilled out the remaining capsules on the cloth draped over the washstand and counted them. Twenty-six still in the container. Carefully, he picked them up and put them back into the bottle, counting each kerplunk as they dropped to the bottom. Twenty-six tablets on the first count, twenty-six tablets on the second count. It’s a wrap. He bagged and labeled the bottle.
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