Monroe interrupted. 'We're running that right now. It may tell us who the woman was, maybe not.'
'People are still on the street with the victim's photo,' Olbrich added. Nina had met him several times before, back when Zandt had been on Homicide, and he had impressed her as one of the least showy detectives she'd ever met. 'We know she didn't eat much the day she died, but she drank a whole lot. As of two hours ago I've got three detectives fanning back out from The Knights and hitting local bars and clubs again. Didn't get anything the first time, but…'
'And still nothing on the killer from the room?'
He shrugged. 'No prints, no fibres, nothing on the victim. This guy barely moved the air, by the look of it.'
'So what's with the disk?'
'It was blank,' Olbrich said. 'Except for two things.'
'Two things,' the tech repeated, determined not to lose his moment. 'The largest is a seven-meg. MP3 file, a piece of music'
'The Agnus Dei from Fauré's Requiem,' Monroe said. 'Quite a well-known piece, apparently. There are people trying to work out what particular recording it is, and of course we'll try to track recent CD purchases but I don't have much hope in that direction. It could have been downloaded off the internet, for all we know.'
'And?' she said, bored with prompting.
'You asked me earlier where he'd come from,' Monroe said. 'Said there might be something he was spiralling out from. It's looking like you might be right.'
He pushed the sheaf of papers towards her. 'Read this.'
She read:
'Sleep is lovely. Death is better still. Not to have been born is of course the miracle.'
His mother wouldn't let his grandmother smoke in the house. So there would be days when the old lady's temper was not good, and there would be other days when she would insist on being put out on the porch. She would be left there, no matter if it was too cold or if it rained down hard. His mother would not help her in: she would also forbid him from doing so. God help him if he went against her on that or anything else. Grandma stayed outside until her daughter was good and ready to take her back in. She did so none too gently.
On one of these days, an afternoon so cold that icicles hung from the roof, he asked her what it was it about this thing that made it worth being out there on the porch when it was warm and comfortable inside.
She looked out ahead for a while, until he was beginning to wonder if she'd heard.
'You know that joke,' she said, eventually. 'Why did the chicken cross the road?'
He said yes he did. To get to the other side.
'Well, that's what the cigarettes are like.'
'I don't get it.'
She thought again, for a moment. 'You end up living on the wrong side of the road. Best I can put it. Every night you have to walk across this road, in the dark, to get home. You can't tell if any cars are coming, but that's okay because it's not a very busy road. But the longer you cross back and forth, in the pitch dark, the more likely that sooner or later one of them cars is going to hit you. The cars are called cancer, and they're big and hard and they drive very fast, and if they get you, you die.'
'But… so why keep crossing the road?'
A dry smile. To get to the other side.' She shrugged. 'It's too late, you see. You made your bed, you got to lie in it. The only thing you can do is try to make sure you don't end up living on the wrong side of the road.'
She coughed for a while, then lit another cigarette. She took a long pull, held it to look at the glowing tip. 'Don't you ever start up with this crap, you hear?'
'I won't,' he said.
He did everything he could to take her advice. He was careful with alcohol, never used drugs, and he didn't let food or exercise or reassurance or pornography or collecting china dolls ever take his hand and pretend it was his friend.
And yet still, on a night only seven years later, he stood with blood on his hands and realized he'd found his own smoking road.
'Christ,' Nina said, eventually.
'He's
'People are still on the street with the victim's photo,' Olbrich added. Nina had met him several times before, back when Zandt had been on Homicide, and he had impressed her as one of the least showy detectives she'd ever met. 'We know she didn't eat much the day she died, but she drank a whole lot. As of two hours ago I've got three detectives fanning back out from The Knights and hitting local bars and clubs again. Didn't get anything the first time, but…'
'And still nothing on the killer from the room?'
He shrugged. 'No prints, no fibres, nothing on the victim. This guy barely moved the air, by the look of it.'
'So what's with the disk?'
'It was blank,' Olbrich said. 'Except for two things.'
'Two things,' the tech repeated, determined not to lose his moment. 'The largest is a seven-meg. MP3 file, a piece of music'
'The Agnus Dei from Fauré's Requiem,' Monroe said. 'Quite a well-known piece, apparently. There are people trying to work out what particular recording it is, and of course we'll try to track recent CD purchases but I don't have much hope in that direction. It could have been downloaded off the internet, for all we know.'
'And?' she said, bored with prompting.
'You asked me earlier where he'd come from,' Monroe said. 'Said there might be something he was spiralling out from. It's looking like you might be right.'
He pushed the sheaf of papers towards her. 'Read this.'
She read:
'Sleep is lovely. Death is better still. Not to have been born is of course the miracle.'
His mother wouldn't let his grandmother smoke in the house. So there would be days when the old lady's temper was not good, and there would be other days when she would insist on being put out on the porch. She would be left there, no matter if it was too cold or if it rained down hard. His mother would not help her in: she would also forbid him from doing so. God help him if he went against her on that or anything else. Grandma stayed outside until her daughter was good and ready to take her back in. She did so none too gently.
On one of these days, an afternoon so cold that icicles hung from the roof, he asked her what it was it about this thing that made it worth being out there on the porch when it was warm and comfortable inside.
She looked out ahead for a while, until he was beginning to wonder if she'd heard.
'You know that joke,' she said, eventually. 'Why did the chicken cross the road?'
He said yes he did. To get to the other side.
'Well, that's what the cigarettes are like.'
'I don't get it.'
She thought again, for a moment. 'You end up living on the wrong side of the road. Best I can put it. Every night you have to walk across this road, in the dark, to get home. You can't tell if any cars are coming, but that's okay because it's not a very busy road. But the longer you cross back and forth, in the pitch dark, the more likely that sooner or later one of them cars is going to hit you. The cars are called cancer, and they're big and hard and they drive very fast, and if they get you, you die.'
'But… so why keep crossing the road?'
A dry smile. To get to the other side.' She shrugged. 'It's too late, you see. You made your bed, you got to lie in it. The only thing you can do is try to make sure you don't end up living on the wrong side of the road.'
She coughed for a while, then lit another cigarette. She took a long pull, held it to look at the glowing tip. 'Don't you ever start up with this crap, you hear?'
'I won't,' he said.
He did everything he could to take her advice. He was careful with alcohol, never used drugs, and he didn't let food or exercise or reassurance or pornography or collecting china dolls ever take his hand and pretend it was his friend.
And yet still, on a night only seven years later, he stood with blood on his hands and realized he'd found his own smoking road.
'Christ,' Nina said, eventually.
'He's
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