Mind Scrambler by Chris Grabenstein Page B

you postulate as the time of death for Ms. Landry?”
    â€œNine. Maybe nine-fifteen. Definitely before the show was over.”
    â€œYou’re certain?”
    â€œAbsolutely. Used the Glaister equation. Ninety-eight point four minus measured rectal temperature divided by one point five.”
    Great. He took Katie’s temperature. That way.
    â€œExtremely reliable in this instance what with, you know, the temperature inside being thermostatically controlled since the room is windowless and all. So, like I said, I like Glaister in this particular instance.”
    Yeah. Me, too. Except for the rectal thermometer bit. Nine or nine-fifteen means I didn’t do it.
    â€œThat tape?” Flynn says to Parker.
    â€œYeah. I’ll go grab it.”
    Ceepak raises a finger as if he has a question, which, I guess, he does.
    â€œHmmm?” says Flynn.
    â€œIf we have established that Danny was in the theater at the time of death, why do you still need to see the tape?”
    â€œI’m looking for her.”
    â€œMs. Landry?”
    â€œYeah. How come, if you see Mr. Boyle walking down the hall, you don’t see her?”
    Oh, yeah. I love this guy.
    We ask the same kind of questions.

 
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15
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    Around 11:00 PM Parker heads back to his office to deal with the impending PR crisis.
    I think the general manager of the Xanadu is coming in for a meeting with his security chief. Probably bringing lawyers and spin doctors. Kinky sex, celebrities, backstage romance, murder, death. This is the stuff
Access Hollywood
and
ET
live for. The Xanadu will try to keep a lid on it.
    The Rocks have sent their children upstairs to a regular hotel room. One of their wardrobe supervisors from the show has agreed to be the kids’ nanny for the night. Little Richie was still clutching his tiger backpack to his chest. Britney? She wanted her special synthetic down pillow because she’s allergic to feathers and threw a temper tantrum when the Atlantic City cops guarding her old room told her she couldn’t go in and get it. Kid wailed all the way up the hall. Sounded worse than that singer destroying the Motown oldies out in the lounge.
    I follow Ceepak and Detective Flynn into AA-4. When I walk past the two bicycle cops still stationed outside the door, they both nod grimly, glad, for the moment, that they’re riding bike patrols instead of being me.
    Yeah, I wish I wasn’t me, too, because it’s time to examine the crime scene. Again.
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    Â 
    Detachment.
    This was one of the first tricks Ceepak taught me back when we first started working together. He advised an otherworldly separation between your personal feelings and the demands of the job. A cold, analytical approach to stuff that would otherwise tear your guts out. I guess it’s how he survived over in Iraq. Yes, your buddies are getting blown to bits by improvised explosive devices but if you freak out about it, you won’t be able to save your own ass or help your buddies who are still alive stay that way.
    You forget that the body you’re examining for clues is the same body you used to admire in a tight white one-piece on Oak Beach when you were both fifteen and that body held all the secrets to everything you ever wanted to know.
    â€œDanny?” says Ceepak. “Is this how you found the crime scene?”
    â€œYeah.” I find just enough voice to push out the one syllable.
    â€œWe know the victim,” Ceepak says to Detective Flynn.
    He nods. Gestures toward Katie’s naked, trussed-up body, her grisly S and M death pose. “This sadomasochism situation consistent with what you know of her history?”
    â€œNegative,” says Ceepak.
    I just shake my head.
    â€œHunh.” Flynn squats into a crouch, rubs his chin, stares at Katie.
    So, I look again, too.
    We’re in what I’ll call the sitting room of the two-bedroom suite because there’s a couch, two chairs, a