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Windows on two sides were wide open to vent the room, making it seem colder inside the apartment than it was on the street.
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nbsp; The deceased was on her back in the middle of the floor, arms and legs akimbo, a pose that made her defenseless against both the original attack and now the poking and prodding of strangers. The woman appeared to be in her early sixties.
There was blood coming from the back of her head. I saw that it had soaked into the pale gray carpet, the stain parting around a leg of the piano.
And the piano was wrecked!
What was left of the keyboard was blood-smeared and smashed. Keys were dislocated and broken, and many were scattered on the floor as though someone had hammered at the keys repeatedly.
Dr. Germaniuk had set up portable lights to illuminate every corner of the room. It was both well-lived-in and recently furnished. I saw a scrap of plastic wrap still clinging to one of the sofa legs.
Dr. G. said hello to me, pushed his glasses up on his nose with the back of his hand, and put his camera away.
“What have we got?” I asked him.
“Very interesting,” Germaniuk said. “Except for the piano and every gas jet on the stove being turned on, nothing else looks disturbed.”
The crime scene was organized — that is to say, neat — which nearly always meant that the crime was planned and the killer was smart.
“The victim suffered trauma to her head, front and back,” said Dr. G. “Looks to me like two different implements were used. The piano was one of them.
“I’ll give you more after I get Mrs. Wolkowski on my table, but I’ll tell you this much right now: She’s got no rigor — she’s warm to the touch, and blanching lividity is just starting. This lady’s been dead only a couple of hours, probably less. We just missed the killer.”
Chapter 70
I HEARD CINDY’S VOICE at the doorway and broke away from the murder scene long enough to throw my arms around her in the hallway.
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” she murmured. “I just got your messages.”
“Did you know the victim?”
“I don’t think so. Not by name anyway. Let me see her.”
The crime scene was off-limits and she knew it, but it was a battle I’d fought and lost with Cindy before. She had that look in her eyes now. Stubborn. Intractable. Canny.
“Stand to the side. Don’t touch.”
“I know. I won’t.”
“If anyone objects, you have to leave. And I want your word you will not write anything about the cause of death.”
“My word,” she said, giving me lip.
I pointed to an empty corner of the room, and Cindy went there. She blanched at the sight of the dead woman on the floor, but as one of the swarm of people in 5J, she went unquestioned.
“That’s Cindy?” Conklin asked, tipping his chin toward where she stood on the fringes.
“Yeah. She’s trustworthy.”
“If you say so.”
I introduced Rich to Cindy as Irene Wolkowski’s body was wrapped in sheets, zipped into a body bag. We talked over our theories of the crime as the cold wind blew through the apartment.
I said to Conklin, “So let’s say the killer is someone she knows. Guy who lives in the building. He rings the bell. Says, ‘Hi, Irene. Don’t let me interrupt you. That sounds really nice.’ ”
“Okay. Or maybe it was her husband,” Conklin said. “Came home early, killed her, and split. Or maybe a friend. Or a romantic interest. Or a stranger.”
