Jupiter’s Bones. Faye Kellerman

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СКАЧАТЬ morgue for a complete autopsy. Once Dr. Little formally declares this a suicide, we can button this case up.”

      “So let’s load the body into the meat wagon.”

      Decker shook his head. “Not yet. Let me talk to the Doc. If she sees no overt sign of homicide, I’m inclined to let these guys have their shrine and their last good-byes.”

      “Why? Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

      “Patience. I’d like to give you and Marge more time to check out the bedroom. It would also give the people here some closure. Maybe make them feel a little less hostile toward us. And maybe that would mean fewer problems if we need to come back.”

      “Body temperature hasn’t dropped much. I’d guestimate that he’s been dead for less than six hours. No rigor, but it was cool last night. If the room wasn’t heated, the lower temperature could have delayed its onset. Lividity was shot to hell because the body was moved.” Little consulted her notes. “No stab wound, no gunshot wounds, no overt bruises, contusions or ligature marks. Nothing to suggest foul play by brute force.” She leaned over the body. “But there are subtler ways of doing a guy in.”

      Decker’s interest perked up. “Meaning?”

      “He had a few puncture marks in his arm—the left bicep. A neat job. No evidence of hitting a vessel or a subdural hematoma. Just a tiny prick. See this little dot right here?”

      “Sure do. Is it self-inflicted?”

      “Possibly,” Little said. “He also had some punctures in his buttocks. Could be harmless, but I won’t know anything definitive until I get the bloods and gases back. I’m about done here … ready to take Professor Ganz to the chophouse—”

      “Uh yeah, that might be a problem—”

      “They don’t want to autopsy the body.”

      “Exactly.”

      “It’s the law.”

      “Exactly.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “How much time before the body chemistry starts changing?”

      “The sooner I get him in a meat locker, the better.”

      “The folks here want to have some kind of processional, walk by the body to say good-bye to their leader.”

      “How long?”

      “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, СКАЧАТЬ