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“Maybe.” Jason pulled out his cell phone and rang de Haan.
He wasn’t really expecting an answer. De Haan’s phone had appeared to be dead e
arlier, but as they stood there silently waiting, de Haan’s cell started ringing from inside the room.
Jason swore quietly. He glanced at the clerk, who was watching him with wide eyes. “I need you to open the door and then stand aside.”
The kid hesitated, read Jason’s expression, and unlocked the door. His hands were shaking.
“That’s great. I’ll take it from here.” The clerk didn’t budge. Jason moved him to the side, and pushed the door open. “Hans?” he called.
It took his eyes a second or two to adjust to the dimness, but he didn’t need to see the motionless form on the bed to know the worst. His stomach rose in instinctive protest at the smell rolling out of the room.
Even the kid knew what that was.
He gulped. “Oh no! Is he dead?”
Jason nodded, found his voice. “Yeah. Call 911.”
For a moment the kid just stared at him, chest rising and falling, and then he stumbled away and ran down the walkway, his sneakers soundless as a ghost’s as he sprinted away.
Jason let his head fall back, drew a deep breath.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
How the hell— No, why the hell had this happened?
It made no sense.
Zero sense.
Unless… Why was he assuming that de Haan had met with foul play? Maybe it was a natural death. That wasn’t out of the question. De Haan was a middle-aged guy under a lot of stress, with a fondness for steak sandwiches. Maybe he’d had a stroke or a heart attack. These things happened a lot more frequently than murder.
Jason felt for his gloves. He slipped them on and stepped into the gloomy interior of the room. He took a moment to scan the layout of the possible crime scene, to consciously absorb his first impressions.
TV and lights were off. Air conditioner was cranked. De Haan’s cell phone rested on the table beside the bed. It was plugged in and charging.
A suitcase lay open on a wooden luggage stand, its contents neatly folded. De Haan’s closed laptop sat on the desk.
No obvious signs of violence. No obvious signs of any disturbance at all.
Jason studied the floor around the bed. Nothing on the carpet indicated…anything. A pair of balled-up socks rested at the foot of the nightstand.
He approached the bed.
Hans lay face up on top of the neatly made spread. He was not wearing his spectacles but he was fully dressed, down to his shoes and socks. The shoulders and front of his shirt were soaked with blood. The blood was brown and completely dried.
“What the hell, Hans…”
Jason bent down. Even without turning on the lamp, he could see part of the ghastly wound on the top of de Haan’s skull and deduced most of the damage had been done from behind.
He touched de Haan’s wrist. His skin was ice cold, advanced rigor was present, fixed lividity, the corneas of his eyes were cloudy. Jason straightened, stepped back from the bed, and considered.
You didn’t have to be a forensics expert to tell de Haan had been dead several—probably between six to eight—hours. He remembered yesterday evening’s phone call, which he’d dismissed as a misdial. That had come in around eleven, but then taking into account the temperature of this room… Yeah, maybe you did need to be a forensics expert.
He could still draw a few conclusions from this crime-scene-that-was-not-a-crime-scene.
Obviously, de Haan had not been in bed when he’d been attacked. No attempt had been made to stage the death scene. Had he even been in the room? Highly doubtful.
