Lost

“Evidence. That's what detectives do. It's what we use to support a case. It turns hypothesis into theories and theories into cases.”

“I'm a case.”

“A work in progress.”

That was the truth of it. I couldn't say what I was looking for until I found it—clothing, fingerprints, binding material, videos, photographs, a seven-year-old girl with a lisp . . . any of the above.

“I want a lawyer.”

“Good. You can use my phone. Afterward we'll go outside and hold a joint press conference on the front steps.”

“You can't take me out there.” The television cameras were lined up along the pavement like metal Triffids, waiting to lash out at anyone who left the building.

Howard sat down on the staircase, holding on to the banister for support.

“I can smell bleach.”

“I was cleaning.”

“My eyes are watering, Howard. What were you cleaning?”

“I spilled some chemicals in my darkroom.”

There were scratches on his wrists. I pointed to them. “How did you get those?”

“Two of Mrs. Swingler's cats got loose in the garden. One of your officers left the door open. I helped her get them back.”

He listened to the sound of drawers being opened and furniture moved.

“Do you know the story of Adam and Eve, Howard? It was the most important moment in human history, the telling of the first lie. That's what separates us from the other animals. It has nothing to do with humans thinking on a higher plane or having easily available credit. We lie to each other. We deliberately mislead. I think you're a truthful person, Howard, but you're providing me with false information. A liar has a choice.”

“I'm telling you the truth.”

“Do you have any secrets?”

“No.”

“Did you and Mickey have a secret?”

He shook his head. “Am I under arrest?”

“No. You're helping us with our inquiries. You're a very helpful man. I noticed that right from the beginning when you were taking photographs and printing flyers.”

“I was showing people what Mickey looked like.”

“There you go. Helpful. That's what you are.”

The search took three hours. Surfaces were dusted, carpets vacuumed, clothes brushed and sinks dismantled. Overseeing the operation was George Noonan, a veteran scene of crime investigator who is almost albino with his completely white hair and pale skin. Noonan seems to resent searches where he doesn't have a body to work with. For him death is always a bonus.

“You might want to see this,” he said.

I followed him down the hallway to the sitting room. He had sealed off all sources of light by blacking out windows and using masking tape around the edges of the doors. He positioned me in front of the fireplace, closed the door and turned off the light.

Darkness. I couldn't even see my feet. Then I noticed a small pattern of droplets, glowing blue-green on the carpet.

“They could be low-velocity bloodstains,” explained Noonan. “The hemoglobin in blood reacts to the luminol, a chemical that I sprayed on the floor. Substances like household bleach can trigger the same reaction but I think this is blood.”

“You said low velocity?”

“A slow bleeder—probably not a stab wound.”

The droplets were no bigger than bread crumbs and stopped abruptly in a straight line.

“There used to be something here—possibly a carpet or a rug,” he explains.

“With more blood on it?”

“He may have tried to get rid of the evidence.”

“Or wrapped up a body. Is there enough to get DNA?”

“I believe so.”

My knee joints creaked as I stood. Noonan turned on the light.

“We found something else.” He held up a pair of child's bikini briefs sealed in a plastic evidence bag. “There don't appear to be traces of blood or semen. I won't be sure until I get it back to the lab.”

Howard had waited on the stairs. I didn't ask him about the bloodstains or the underwear. Nor did I query the 86,000 images of children on his computer hard drive or the six boxes of clothing catalogs—all featuring children—beneath his bed. The time for that would come later.

Howard's world had been turned upside down and emptied like the contents of a drawer yet he didn't even raise his head as the last officer left.

Emerging onto the front steps, I blinked into the sunshine and turned to the cameras. “We have served a search warrant at this address. A man is helping us with our inquiries. He is not under arrest. I want you to respect his privacy and leave the residents of this building alone. Do not jeopardize this investigation.”

A barrage of questions came from beyond the cameras.

“Is Mickey Carlyle still alive?”

“Are you close to making an arrest?”

“Is it true you found photographs?”

Pushing through the crowd I walked to my car, refusing to answer any questions. At the last moment, I turned back and glanced up at Dolphin Mansions. Howard peered from the window. He didn't look at me. Instead he stared at the TV cameras and realized, with a growing sense of horror, that they weren't going to leave. They were waiting for him.

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