Chapter 1 #2
“No,” I say. “But I am certain whoever did this understands both lighting and staging for photography. Check with local papers about their photographers. Interview anyone with their own equipment. Search their darkrooms. Take measurements of the indentations on the rug and match them to tripods.”
“What about the body?” de Lange asks, one blond eyebrow rising in disdain. “I thought you were supposed to be an expert on that, not on cameras.”
Truth be told, I’m not an expert on cameras. I only know about the new machines because my mother receives journals and publications from all over the world and delights in telling me about new technology almost as much as she delights in telling me about the ravages of new infectious diseases.
I give him a flat look. “Left hand and both feet nailed to the floor to prevent escape. Minimal tearing of the nail wounds, which means there was little to no struggle. No obvious head trauma.”
“Why didn’t he struggle then?”
Another image, unbidden. My father, lying on the floor. What I mistook for a dark vest revealed to be his crisp white shirt, soaked with blood. His chest, cut open. No defensive wounds or indication that he, a solid, hearty, bold man of fifty, did anything to prevent it from happening.
I clear my throat. “He was most likely sedated. Death due to traumatic blood loss from the single incision from throat to pubis. And the placement of his right hand within the chest cavity is—wait. No.”
I lean closer. The scalpel and hammer were both discarded so near to the body. Why would the killer leave them behind? And why keep the victim’s right hand free?
I shift to examine the feet. Judging by the angle of entry, the nails were hammered in while the victim was in a sitting position.
Which would have required the killer to straddle the victim.
Why do it that way, when there was no struggle?
I move in line with the body, leaning back and staring down at my own torso, then at his.
The pathway of the cut, veering slightly to the right at the bottom.
I trace the line down myself, then look at him again.
His right hand. “Shine a light on his chest,” I say.
I peer as closely as I can. There’s no way to be sure until Joren examines the body, but I’m almost positive the right hand is clutched around the victim’s heart. As if…
Good God. I straighten and address de Haas. “He nailed himself to the floor, feet first, and then his left hand. Then he cut himself open and tried to remove his own heart. That was as far as he got before he died.”
De Haas shares a look with de Lange. They already suspected this and didn’t bother telling me. How many more of these little tests will I have to pass before they realize I’m better at this than they are? I saw exactly what they did, but I also noticed what they didn’t.
The young officer looks close to contaminating the scene with the contents of his stomach. “He did this to himself while someone watched?”
“It appears that way,” I say. “This whole thing was dispassionate, meticulous. Curious.”
De Lange raises an eyebrow. “What about it makes you curious?”
“I’m not curious,” I snap. “Whoever stood where you are and observed the entire thing was curious. If the victim did this to himself, he was a willing participant. The nails weren’t about preventing escape so much as restraint. They were to keep him within the camera frame.”
What kind of man would choose this death and agree to have it recorded? I turn to de Haas. “What do we know about him?”
“Not much. A clerk for his uncle’s shipping company. No criminal record, no complaints.”
“Maybe someone just wanted to make it look like he did it to himself?” the young detective suggests. “And the heart being removed—was it Jack? Didn’t he take…things?”
“I sincerely doubt Jack the Ripper retired from killing for seven years only to pop up in Amsterdam.” I smile in an effort to make my tone less sharp so he won’t feel foolish.
He was probably barely past childhood when Jack the Ripper terrorized England so gruesomely we heard all about it here, too.
“Besides, the methodology is different. The Whitechapel murders targeted women working as prostitutes. The crime scenes were notoriously chaotic. Jack certainly never attempted to make it look like they’d done it to themselves. ”
I take in the room one last time. What happened here? If I hadn’t noticed the flash scent and the tripod indentations, I would have been certain this young man did everything on his own.
“Find that camera and you’ll have answers.” I’m tempted to tell de Haas how to conduct the next stages of the investigation, but that’s not my job. If I overstep, they’ll likely stop calling on me at all. “Get Van Engelenhoven for the autopsy,” I say. “He’ll be thorough.” And he’ll update me.
Normally I would stay and search for more evidence.
Clothing fibers, hairs, something left behind in the frenzy of killing that I can examine with the microscope Dávid bought me before things ended and he went back to Budapest. Surely the observer left something behind other than the scent of smoke and the indentations of a tripod.
But the icy scent in the air is making me itch to get out of here. It’s just the open window, but it smells exactly like that night. I’m distracted. I’m worried if I stay longer I’ll slip up and give de Lange an excuse to cut me out of this investigation and any others to come.
“Please notify me of any developments,” I ask, though I know they don’t have to. I always hope they will anyway.
“Would you like an escort home, Miss Van Helsing?” de Haas asks. The young officer straightens, an eager readiness in his face that I don’t have the heart to deal kindly with.
“No, thank you. You know where to find me if you have any further questions.” I step into the hallway, ignoring the doors cracked open as other residents try to sneak glimpses of the horror that will forever taint their building.
I feel for the woman who runs the house.
Murder—even self-murder—isn’t good for business.
I’m tempted to go into the bathroom with hydrogen peroxide to test for the presence of blood, to step into the kitchen and interview the landlady, to knock on doors and ask for memories of tonight, to track down the camera evidence I’m certain will unlock this case, but I have to accept that de Haas will do it. I know he cares.
I just never trust men to care as much as I do.