The Alibi

“That includes everybody. No exceptions.”

“Yes, sir.”

Having made his orders emphatic, Detective Rory Smilow nodded to the uniformed officer and entered the Charles Towne Plaza through the hotel’s main doors. The staircase had been touted by numerous design magazines to be an architectural triumph. Already it had become the signature feature of the new complex. Epitomizing southern hospitality, two arms of wide steps swept up from the lobby floor. They seemed to be embracing the incredible crystal chandelier, before merging forty feet above the lobby to form the second-story gallery.

On both levels of the lobby policemen were mingling with hotel guests and employees, all of whom had heard by now that there had been what appeared to be a murder on the fifth floor.

Nothing created this kind of expectant atmosphere like a killing, Smilow thought as he assessed the scene.

Sunburned, perspiring, camera-toting tourists milled around, asking questions of anyone in authority, talking among themselves, speculating on the identity of the victim and what had provoked the murder.

In his well-tailored suit and French cuff shirt, Smilow was conspicuously overdressed. Despite the sweltering heat outside, his clothing was fresh and dry, not even moist. An irritated subordinate had once asked beneath his breath if Smilow ever sweated. “Hell, no,” a fellow policeman had replied. “Everybody knows that aliens don’t have sweat glands.”

Smilow moved purposefully toward the bank of elevators. The officer he’d spoken with at the entrance must have communicated his arrival because another officer was standing in the elevator, holding the door open for him. Without acknowledging the courtesy, Smilow stepped in.

“Shine holding up, Mr. Smilow?”

Smilow turned. “Oh yeah, Smitty. Thanks.”

The man everyone knew only by his first name operated three shoeshine chairs in an alcove off the hotel lobby. For decades he had been a fixture at another hotel downtown. Recently he had been lured to the Charles Towne Plaza, and his clientele had followed him. Even from out-of-towners he received excellent tips because Smitty knew more than the hotel concierge about what to do, and where to go, and where to find whatever you were looking for in Charleston.

Rory Smilow was one of Smitty’s regulars. Ordinarily he would have paused to exchange pleasantries, but he was in a hurry now and actually resented being detained. Curtly he said, “Catch you later, Smitty.” The elevator doors slid closed.

He and the uniformed cop rode up to the top floor in silence. Smilow never fraternized with fellow officers, not even those of equal ranking, but certainly not with those of lower rank. He never initiated conversation unless it pertained to a case he was working on. Men in the department who were fearless eno

ugh to try chitchatting with him soon discovered that such attempts were futile. His bearing discouraged comradeship. Even his natty appearance was as effective as concertina wire when it came to approachability.

When the elevator doors opened on the fifth floor, Smilow experienced a thrill he recognized. He had visited countless murder scenes, some rather tame and unspectacular, others remarkably grisly. Some were forgettable and routine. Others he would remember forever, either because of the imaginative flair of the killer, the strange surroundings in which the body had been discovered, the bizarre method of execution, the uniqueness of the weapon, or the age and circumstance of the victim.

But his first visit to a crime scene never failed to give him a rush of adrenaline, which he refused to be ashamed of. This was what he had been born to do. He relished his work.

When he stepped out of the elevator, the conversation among the plainclothes officers in the hallway subsided. Respectfully, or fearfully, they stepped aside for him as he made his way to the open door of the hotel suite where a man had died today.

He made note of the room number, then peered inside. He was glad to see that the seven officers comprising the Crime Scene Unit were already there, going about their various duties.

Satisfied that they were doing a thorough job, he turned back to the three detectives who’d been dispatched by the Criminal Investigation Division. One who’d been smoking a cigarette hastily crushed it out in a smoking stand. Smilow treated him to a cold, unblinking stare. “I hope that sand didn’t contain a crucial piece of evidence, Collins.”

The detective stuffed his hands into his pockets like a third-grader who’d been reprimanded for not washing after using the rest room.

“Listen up,” Smilow said, addressing the group at large. He never raised his voice. He never had to. “I will not tolerate a single mistake. If there’s any contamination of this crime scene, if there’s the slightest breach of proper procedure, if the merest speck of evidence is overlooked or compromised by someone’s carelessness, the offender’s ass will be shredded. By me. Personally.”

He made eye contact with each man. Then he said, “Okay, let’s go.” As they filed into the room they pulled on plastic gloves. Each man had a specific task; each went to it, treading lightly, touching nothing that they weren’t supposed to.

Smilow approached the two officers who had been first on the scene. Without preamble, he asked, “Did you touch him?”

“No, sir.”

“Touch anything?”

“No, sir.”

“The doorknob?”

“The door was standing open when we got here. The maid who found him had left it open. The hotel security guard might have touched it. We asked, he said no, but…” He raised his shoulders in a shrug.

“Telephone?” Smilow asked.

“No, sir. I used my cellular. But again, the security guy might have used it before we got here.”