“What is it?” I ask. I’ve been careful not to stare directly at the body. I’m not particularly squeamish about blood, but I haven’t been in the presence of too many dead people.
“I’m seeing other signs of trauma. Unless this guy was in a bar fight recently, he’s got some ’splaining to do. See?”
Jake shows me an ugly raised bruise on the upper right arm.
“Seems like someone pummeled him.”
“And here.” On the left shoulder, another bruise.
The manager tries to step forward at this point, but is pushed back by Mollie.
“Officer,” he says to me.
“Detective.”
“Detective, I should tell you that this man checked in under another name. As Jonathan Tinley.”
One of the women with him speaks. “I was the one who registered him. He paid cash, so I didn’t ask for ID.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I tell her, then add, remembering my training, “and neither did he. There’s nothing wrong with staying at a hotel anonymously. Wanting privacy isn’t a crime.” When Peter and I go on our low-budget vacations, he delights in giving ludicrous names when we check into the Motel 6. Mr. and Mrs. Tiny Thumb. Rapunzel and Vice Chancellor Charming. He’s still a boy, really, that Peter.
“Depends on what he wanted the privacy for,” says Jake, still kneeling on the floor over the body. “And cash in a place like this?”
“How much do the rooms cost?” I ask.
“The rates fluctuate depending on demand, but mostly four hundred dollars plus a night,” says the manager. “We rarely have cash customers, so Emma actually remarked upon it to me when she ended her shift. Apparently, he pulled out four one-hundred-dollar bills.”
“How long was his stay with you?”
“Just last night.”
“Who found him?”
“Rosa,” says the manager, and points to the woman in uniform. “One of the maids. Our checkout time is 11 AM. She knocked on the door at noon, and when she didn’t get an answer, let herself in.”
Jake makes a noise. I turn to him.
“Here’s something else. On the upper back.” He stretches the neck of the T-shirt to expose the man’s shoulder.
I lean over and squint where he is pointing. I can’t see anything. Jesus, this man has one hairy body. On the whole, I like furry men. But this is almost grotesque. Underneath the hair the skin is mottled red and white.
“It’s small, but it’s there,” says Jake. “A slight puncture. Like a hypodermic needle would make. Can’t you tell? The small hole with the raised flesh around it?”
I squint again, but shrug. “If you say so.”
“I do say so. And I’m going to need to do a more complete examination at the lab. We definitely need an autopsy on this one.”
“What does that mean?” calls the manager from outside the room. He has that look people get when they’re trying to appear concerned but they’re really eager for dirt of some kind. We both ignore him.
“Have we got a wrongful death here, Jake?” I ask.
The manager can’t contain his excitement, and lets out an ohhh. The news will be all over the hotel the minute we leave the premises.
“No, not definitely.” Jake rubs his thinning hair with a gloved hand. “Just that I’m not signing off on this right away.” He picks up his cell phone and begins dialing.
I feel at a loss. I walk over to Mollie, my fellow newbie. “I guess our first step is to notify next of kin.” Jake nods at me as he waits for his call to be picked up on the other end of the line. “Whoever it is—I assume a wife,” I gesture at the wedding ring on the man’s left hand. “They’ll have to do a positive ID of the body as well.”
Mollie isn’t happy.
“Yes, I’m afraid that’s you, dude,” I say. “And you,” I point at Henry. “Go to his house in Palo Alto. Hopefully someone will be home.”
Mollie leaves with Henry, and I close the door to the room before turning to Jake, who still has the phone pressed to his ear. The photographer continues to take photos of the room, even the parts that look innocuous to me, like the professionally made bed.
“I dunno,” Jake says, covering the mouthpiece. “I have a feeling about this one.”
So do I.
I think longingly of Peter waiting at home with a fresh pot of veggie chili, pull my notebook and pen out of my backpack and say, “Okay. Let’s get to work.”
2
San Francisco Chronicle
Prominent Stanford Doctor
Found Dead in Palo Alto Westin
May 12, 2013
PALO ALTO, CA—Dr. John Taylor, a prominent plastic surgeon and head of the Taylor Institute of Plastic Surgery, was found dead of a presumed heart attack in the Palo Alto Westin on El Camino Real on Saturday, May 11, 2013.
Colleagues expressed shock on hearing of the demise of Dr. Taylor, who specialized in helping children with facial deformities due to trauma or birth defects. “John Taylor will be sorely missed, both in his personal life, and for the advances he has made in reconstructive surgery,” said Dr. Mark Epstein, a partner at the Taylor Institute.