3 The Case of Tiffany's Epiphany Page 11

  “In the back there has to be a ramp to the underground parking. Go down to the first floor door there and wait for me to open it up.”

  “Really?”

  “No problem.”

  I make my way to the back of the building, find the ramp, head down one level, and find the door which requires an electronic pass card to open. I do my best to stay on the back side of the mounted security camera while I wait. Three minutes later Tiffany opens the door.

  “How’d you do that?”

  “When you grow up in a penthouse condo, you learn all the tricks.”

  We find the elevator and take it to the 41st floor. As soon as the doors open, my senses tell me something isn’t right.

  Down the hall we stop at 4112. I knock. No answer. I knock harder. Again, no answer. My senses are kicking in big time. “You smell that?”

  Tiffany sniffs the air. “Public restroom?”

  I get down on my hands and knees and smell the space between the door and the carpet. Not good.

  “I hope you don’t expect me to do that,” Tiffany says.

  I try the door. It’s locked.

  A couple of years ago, one of the better second-story jewel thieves in town by the name of Shervy Reckless passed along to me his favorite lock pick set in an attempt to convince me he’d given up the business. Two weeks later a diamond the size of my little toe was stolen from a woman who lived on the sixty-fourth floor of a building on Lakeshore Drive. I couldn’t bust Shervy for the theft, but I did get a nice lock pick set out of the experience.

  I go to work on the door. It takes less than a minute to unlock the knob lock. It takes me about five to get the deadbolt open. I open the door a crack, but stop Tiffany as she moves forward to enter. “Wait,” I pull my handkerchief out of my back pocket and hand it to her, “you’re going to need this.”

  “Are you going to give me a cold and I’m going to start sniffling?” she asks.

  “No, but trust me, you’re going to need it.”

  I open the door, we step inside, and the stench almost dyes our hair.

  No matter what any cop, criminal, soldier, hit man, or mass murderer tells you, nobody likes the odor of a decomposing corpse. The stench is unimaginable and extremely unbearable. Combine the worst farts of a cow, a rhinoceros, an elephant, a family dog, and fat Uncle Louie, and you won’t match the noxious aroma of a decaying body.

  “Don’t touch anything, Tiffany,” I order her as I make my way to the patio door and open it all the way. Windy City air blows in and we get a bit of relief.

  Tiffany follows my path and meets me on the patio. “That smells worse than three dollar perfume.”

  I retrieve my handkerchief. “I’m going back in,” I tell her.

  “I’ll wait out here. I don’t want the smell to get on my new exfoliated skin.”

  I find Bruno, or what was once Bruno, face down on the floor of the bedroom. I’m going to break my rule never to assume and assume that someone took an iron rod to his head because his skull is bashed in and a fireplace poker covered in dried blood is lying not too far away. There’s also a large splatter pattern on the wall behind the bed, hardly artistic. I don’t get too close.

  And to add to my last bit of murder trivia facts, it’s also true, no matter what anyone says, nobody likes discovering the body of a murder victim. It's disgusting. The image stays with you forever. Your stomach churns, your teeth clench, and your sphincter tightens. Today is no exception.

  I back out of the room, return to the outside deck, and call “Wait” Jack Wayt.

  Before I can say a word, Jack says “Wait.”

  “What?”

  “Sherlock, do you know if you can get shingles if you haven’t had chicken pox?” he asks.

  “I don’t know, Jack,” I confess. “You’ll have to ask your doctor.”

  “It’s hard to get a hold of that guy. They always tell me he’s in surgery when I call.”

  “Is he a surgeon?”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “Jack, I don’t want to tell you how I found this, but I got something for you.”

  “A cure for my psoriasis?”

  “No, a murder.”

  “Sherlock, I’m on drugs,” he snaps back in an exasperated tone, “not murder.”

  “This one may be related.”

  “In my condition, I really don’t need any more aggravation,” Jack tells me. “I could have a bipolar relapse.”

  “What do you want me to do, Jack?”

  “I’ll take care of it, but if my stress level gets any higher and that tick I used to have over my left eye kicks back in, you’re to blame.”

  I give him the address, the floor, the condo number, and tell him the doorman on duty is a jerk.

  Tiffany sits on one of the four outdoor dining chairs close to the state of the art barbeque. I don’t understand why people spend so much money on gas-fired, outdoor cooking extravaganzas. It’s the same gas that the kitchen stove uses when you broil indoors. The only difference I can see is one grill you clean, the other you don’t. So, people shell out thousands of dollars for gas-fired outdoor grills for the sheer taste that a filthy grill gives their steaks and burgers.

  I look over at Tiffany; she seems lost in thought, which is a pretty tough thing for her. “Are you okay?”

  “Not really.”

  “The smell still getting to you?”

  “That and my current state of mental health.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not really,” she says. “It’s hard to talk about stuff when there’s a dead body close by.”

  “Good point.”

  I cover my face and go back through the unit to the front door. Once there, I notice the dead bolt on the side of the inner door. It’s new, but the door is old. I turn back to rejoin Tiffany and see that one fireplace piece is missing from the set in front of the fake marble fireplace. Why anyone would want a fake fireplace in their home is beyond me. A fireplace without wood burning capability is like a car with no engine, a snake without fangs, or a daughter of mine without an attitude.

  I pause as I pass by the decorative unit and give the mantel an odd glance; something’s not kosher. The bottom edge of the wood mantle is worn in a weird way. With one hand holding the handkerchief against my face, I use my other hand to reach up inside the opening at the weird spot and feel around. If I were a physician, this is where I’d say “Cough.” Satisfied with my diagnosis, I hurry back to the deck, hang my head over the railing to get the freshest air, and breathe deeply.

  Three minutes later, the first person to come through the door is detective Neula “No-No” Noonan. What did I do to deserve this?

  “No, no,” is her reaction to seeing me. “What are you doing here, Sherlock?”

  “I just happened to be in the neighborhood …”

  “No, no, save it Sherlock,” she cuts me off. “I’ve been lied to by enough men in my life, don’t add yourself to the total.”

  “The body is in the bedroom.”

  “No-No" Noonan reaches into her purse and takes out a pair of latex gloves and mesh booties. She pulls the gloves on first and has to hold onto a chair to balance to get the booties over her shoes. Considering her size, this isn’t the easiest of tasks. Before she heads into the bedroom, she gives me one final order, “Don’t move.” She disappears into the room and dashes out three minutes later with a face that’s a lighter shade of pale.

  “No-No” joins Tiffany and me on the deck. “No, no,” she says between gasps of breath. “This is not my idea of a good way to start my day.” She hits one number on her cell phone and says, “Come on up, we got a ripe one.”

  “No-No” sits down in the chair next to Tiffany. “What are you, about ninety pounds?”

  “One-oh-two this morning,” Tiffany tells her.

  “I got thighs that weigh more than that,” she admits.

  “No-No” relaxes a
bit to catch her breath, as much from the stench as from the sight.

  “You want to know how much I weigh?” I ask.

  “No, no, I don’t.”

  Neula “No-No” Noonan has been a CPD detective for over twenty years, each year of service adds to her pension--and her girth; it’s a toss-up which addition is greater. Svelte she’s not, but she has become somewhat of a legend and not entirely due to her size. “No-No” Noonan one time figured out, after three previous detectives had failed, that the body of a man found dead in the middle of a field with absolutely no discernible clues (no footprints, no tire tracks, no nothing) was not a murder victim at all but a guy stowed away in the belly of a jetliner who fell out when the landing gear opened up coming into O’Hare. Another time, she deduced that a jealous wife had used a turkey baster to extract her husband’s man juice from her own female parts and inject it into her husband’s mistress’ female portal, after she bludgeoned the much younger woman to death with a tire iron. Neula “No-No” Noonan has a knack for the bizarre; to be a great murder detective, it helps.

  The homicide team enters the condo wearing gloves, hairnets, booties, and breathing apparatus; some people really know how to dress for the occasion. “Let me get them going, Sherlock, then I’ll be back,” she informs me.

  Tiffany and I wait on the patio.

  “I’m worried about my life, Mr. Sherlock,” Tiffany tells me right out of the blue.

  “Why?”

  “Because I no longer see my life as being positive.”

  “Really?”

  “Afraid so.”

  The next question is quite obvious. “When did you last see your life as positive?”

  “I’m not sure, but it was sometime before last Friday night,” she tells me in a somewhat concerned voice.

  I’m about to ask another question, but she beats me to the punch. “I had a vision.”

  “A vision?”

  “When I was roofied and passed out on the floor of the bar,” she says in all seriousness. “I had a vision.”

  “What did you see?”

  “My life flashed before my eyes.”

  “Really?”

  “I was in an old pair of ratty jeans, Keds, and a red T-shirt that had Bioche and Proud of It written on the front in big purple letters.”

  I’m not really sure how to respond, “Okay.”

  “The jeans and the Keds were bad enough, but the worst part was the T-shirt,” she pauses. “I never wear red. Red is for losers. And red with purple is a real fashion fox pac.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “The vision was telling me, my whole life, my whole fashion sense, has been an ultimate failure. A sham, a shame; squandered in a sea of senseless senselessness.”

  “Did you make that up?”

  “No, I read it in People Magazine,” Tiffany admits. “It might have been a quote from Lindsey Lohan.”

  Tiffany takes a breath. This is hard for her. “Every time I think I can forget the vision, it comes to me in a recurring dream.”

  “What?”

  “The same dream, over and over, like a Seinfeld re-run. It’s a constant awful reminder of my failure to have a positive aura.”

  “I’m really sorry to hear that Tiffany.”

  “No-No” Noonan returns. We have to table our discussion.

  “All right, Sherlock,” she says making me get up from the chair. “Tell me everything and no bullshit.”

  “Wait.”

  “Wait” Jack Wayt comes onto the patio deck.

  “No, no. Not you too,” “No-No” says seeing Jack.

  “Does anybody know what the symptoms of muscular dystrophy are?” Jack asks.

  “Yeah,” a weakening of the commitment muscle,” “No-No” says.

  Did I mention that “Wait” Jack Wayt and Neula “No-No” Noonan had a past and now have issues concerning their past?

  “There always seems to be a little more Neula, every time I see you, Noonan,” Jack says taking a good-sized pinch of her upper arm fat.

  “I’m surprised you could even remember with the onset of dementia you must be experiencing right now,” she shoots back at him.

  I cut this off before it gets ugly. “As I was saying, Tiffany here …”

  “That’s me,” Tiffany qualifies.

  “… gets a roofie slipped to her last Friday night in the Zanadu Club.”

  “I know that place,” “No-No” says.

  “How?” Jack questions. “They don’t have a buffet there.”

  “Don’t push me, “Wait” Jack Wayt.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not that strong.”

  “In mind or body,” she qualifies for him.

  I continue, “Bruno, the guy in the other room, was a bartender at Zanadu.”

  “No, no, don’t tell me,” “No-No” interrupts. “You just happened to stop by today to pick up his recipe for mojitos.”

  “No,” I say. “I haven’t been able to find him. I’ve been looking for him all week.”

  “Mystery solved,” “No-No” says. “Case closed. Go home, Sherlock.”

  “Tell her about the kidnapping and getting shot at,” Jack says.

  I go through pretty much the rest of the sordid tale, leaving out the parts about my working for D’Wayne DeWitt and my problems with Mrs. Whiner and the girls’ basketball team. I end with, “It’s all connected somehow.”

  “So were we,” “No-No” Noonan says looking over at “Wait” Jack Wayt.

  One of the CSI techs comes out of the bedroom, lifts his breather, and yells out, “You can come in now.”

  Three of us rise. Tiffany stays put. “I’m good,” she says.

  The CSI techs are kind enough to delay covering the body so the three of us can feast our eyes upon the disgusting mess. A small amount of darkened blood escaped from the wounds when the techs turned the body over for a more intimate look, adding a brighter sheen to the remains. There was one blow to the back of the head, and one to his left side, just above the temple. By the craters in Bruno’s head, it seems obvious that whoever killed him was able to freely swing for the fences. There are no signs of a struggle. It was obviously wham, bam, and thank you, Bruno. There are pieces of skull on both wounds. What could be brain tissue, but probably isn’t, has oozed out. Rigor mortis has set in. Bruno is as stiff as the fireplace poker that killed him. The carpet is soaked with the blood from his head wound. If these floors are cheap, and gravity has its way, the unit beneath is going to have one revolting stain on its ceiling.

  “He comes in first,” “No-No” says walking through a scenario, “gets whacked from behind, and gets spun around.” She points to the wall. “That’s the first splatter.”

  Jack picks up the story. “He gets hit again before he goes down. Right here.” Jack steps over the blood puddle.

  “Right handed batter,” I add.

  “When?” “No-No” asks the CSI tech.

  “A few days at least,” the CSI tech says. “For a bartender, he’s fermented quite well.”

  “Wrap him up,” she says to the boys.

  While the CSI techs are wrapping Bruno up for take out, I snag a pair of latex gloves, put them on, and start opening drawers. It doesn’t take long. “Bingo.”

  The two detectives join me at Bruno’s chest of drawers. One of them pulls out two tins that used to hold crackers or cookies, but now hold an assortment of the most popular thrill pills.

  “Zanax, Oxy, Roofie, Seconal, Depacote…” Jack knows his business. “I like the way he kept them in their own little sections.”

  “There’s no stack of cash,” I point out.

  “He’s a bartender, he’d have cash,” “No-No” says. “But this doesn’t scream robbery to me.”

  “A crime of passion?” Jack wonders out loud.

  “What would you know about passion?” “No-No” asks Jack.

  “I know it takes two to have some,�
� Jack replies.

  Tiffany’s voice interrupts the verbal post-relationship tête-à-tête. “Mr. Sherlock, I’m going downstairs. This is all, like, making me sick.”

  The comments or the situation? I wonder.

  “I’ll meet you at the Starbucks,” she says.

  “Which one?” There’s a Starbucks on every corner in downtown Chicago.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Just keep Starbucking along until you find me.”

  “Okay,” I yell back. “And don’t look this way when you leave the condo.

  I wait a few seconds, and hear, “Oh, gross!”

  Nobody listens to me.

  CHAPTER 10

  I find Tiffany in the third Starbucks I visit.

  “Tiffany, why don’t you go home and take a beauty rest?” I suggest. “Or whatever will make you feel better.”

  “My vision was a life-changing event, Mr. Sherlock.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  “My entire existence passed before my eyes,” she reminds me.

  “Maybe not, Tiffany. Drugs can do funny things to your system. They could have flipped some switch in your brain and caused a hallucination.”

  “No way,” she says, “The powers of the universe are telling me I have to change.”

  “How?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  I try to think this through, although there’s not much here to think through. “So, you might want to become less selfish and self-centered?”

  Her face snaps toward me, as she asks, “You think I’m selfish and self-centered?”

  “No.”

  “Then what made you say that?”

  “I was just repeating what you told me before, Tiffany.”

  “That’s not what it sounded like to me,” she quips quickly. “You think I’m as bad as Alix Fromound.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do,” she says. “You just said it.”

  “No, I didn’t.” I can’t win here. I should quit while I’m only this far behind.

  “You’re not helping, Mr. Sherlock.”

  “But I’m trying.”

  Tiffany grips her head with both hands, gives a poor rendition of Edvard Munch’s The Scream, and cries out, “The pain, the pain in my brain is almost unbearable.”