Blood Test

The front office was a glass booth on the other side of a warped plywood door. A thin, bespectacled Iranian with the numb demeanor of a habitual opium smoker sat behind a chipped, hinged plastic counter poring over the Motor Vehicle Code. A revolving rack of combs and cheap sunglasses took up one corner, a low table covered with ancient copies of throwaway travel magazines squatted in the other.

The Iranian pretended not to notice us. I cleared my throat with tubercular fervor and he looked up slowly.

“Yes?”

“What room is the Swope family in?”

He looked us over, decided we were safe, said, “Fifteen,” and returned to the wondrous world of road signs.

There was a dusty brown Chevy station wagon parked in front of Room 15. Except for a sweater on the front seat and an empty cardboard box in the rear deck, the car was empty.

“That’s theirs,” said Beverly. “They used to leave it parked illegally by the front entrance. One time when the security guard put a warning sticker on the windshield, Emma ran out crying about her sick child and he tore it up.”

I knocked on the door. No answer. Knocked again harder. Still no response. The room had a single grimy window, but the view within was blocked by oilcloth curtains. I knocked one more time, and when the silence was unbroken, we returned to the office.

“Excuse me,” I said, “do you know if the Swopes are in their room?”

A lethargic shake of the head.

“Do you have a switchboard?” Beverly asked him.

The Iranian raised his eyes from his reading and blinked.

“Who are you? What do you want?” His English was heavily accented, his manner surly.

“We’re from Western Pediatric Hospital. The Swopes’ child is being treated there. It’s important that we speak to them.”

“I don’t know anything.” He shifted his glance back to the vehicle code.

“Do you have a switchboard?” she repeated.

A barely visible nod.

“Then please ring the room.”

With a theatrical sigh, he dragged himself up and walked through a door at the rear. A minute later he reappeared.

“Nobody there.”

“But their car’s there.”

“Listen, lady, I don’t know cars. You want a room, okay. Otherwise, leave alone.”

“Call the police, Bev,” I said.

Somehow he must have sneaked in a hit of amphetamine because his face came alive suddenly and he spoke and gesticulated with renewed vigor.

“What for police? What for you cause trouble?”

“No trouble,” I said. “We just need to talk to the Swopes.”

He threw up his hands.

“They take walk — I see them. Walking that way.” He pointed east.

“Unlikely. They’ve got a sick child with them.” To Bev: “I saw a phone at the gas station on the corner. Call it in as a suspicious disappearance.”

She moved toward the door.

The Iranian lifted the hinged counter and came around to our side.

“What do you want? Why you make trouble?”

“Listen,” I told him, “I don’t care what kind of nasty little games you’ve got going on in the other rooms. We need to talk to the family in fifteen.”

He pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket. “Come, I show you, they not here. Then you leave me alone, okay?”

“It’s a deal.”

His pants were baggy and they flapped as he strode across the asphalt, muttering and jingling the keys.

A quick turn of the wrist and the lock released. The door groaned as it opened. We stepped inside. The desk clerk blanched, Beverly whispered Ohmigod, and I fought down a rising feeling of dread.

The room was small and dark and it had been savaged.

The earthly belongings of the family Swope had been removed from three cardboard suitcases, which lay crushed on one of the twin beds. Clothing and personal articles were strewn about: lotion, shampoo, and detergent leaked from broken bottles in viscous trails across the threadbare carpeting. Female undergarments hung limply over the chain of the plastic swag lamp. Paperback books and newspapers had been shredded and scattered like confetti. Open cans and boxes of food were everywhere, the contents oozing out in congealing mounds. The room reeked of rot and dead air.

Next to the bed was a patch of carpet that was clear of litter, but far from empty. It was filled with a dark brown amoebalike stain half a foot across.

“Oh no,” said Beverly. She staggered, lost her balance, and I caught her.

You don’t have to spend much time in a hospital to know the sight of dried blood.

The Iranian’s face was waxen. His jaws worked soundlessly.

“Come on,” I took hold of his bony shoulders and guided him out, “we have to call the police now.”

It’s nice to know someone on the force. Especially when that someone is your best friend and won’t assume you’re a suspect when you call in a crime. I bypassed 911 and called Milo’s extension directly. He was in a meeting but I pushed a bit and they called him out.

“Detective Sturgis.”

“Milo, it’s Alex.”

“Hello, pal. You pulled me out of a fascinating lecture. It seems the west side has become the latest hot spot for PCP labs — they rent glitzy houses and park Mercedes in the driveway. Why I need to know all about it is beyond me but tell that to the brass. Anyway, what’s up?”