The Alibi

From this perspective, Smilow could see several moisture rings, now dried, where Pettijohn had set down his drinking glass without a coaster beneath it. His eyes moved slowly across the glass surface, taking it an inch at a time. The fingerprint tech had discovered what appeared to be a handprint on the edge of the table.

Smilow came to his feet and tried to mentally reconstruct what could have happened. He backed up to the far side of the table, then moved toward it. “Let’s suppose Lute was about to pick up his drink,” he said, surmising out loud, “and pitched forward.”

“Accidentally?” one of the detectives asked. Smilow was feared, generally disliked, but no one in the Criminal Investigation Division quarreled with his talent for re-creating a crime. Everyone in the room paused to listen attentively.

“Not necessarily,” Smilow answered thoughtfully. “Somebody could have pushed him from behind, caused him to lose his balance. He went over.”

He acted it out, being careful not to touch anything, especially the body. “He tried to break his fall by catching the edge of the table, but maybe his head struck the floor so hard he was knocked unconscious.” He glanced up at Madison, his eyebrows raised inquisitively.

“Possibly,” the medical examiner replied.

“It’s fair to say he was at least dazed, right? He would have landed right here.” He spread his hands to indicate the outline on the floor that traced the position in which the body had been found.

“Then whoever pushed him popped him with two bullets in the back,” said one of the detectives.

“He was definitely shot in the back while lying face down,” Smilow said, then looked to Madison for confirmation.

“It appears so,” the M.E. said.

Detective Mike Collins whistled softly. “That’s cold, man. To shoot a guy in the back when he’s already down. Somebody was pissed.”

“That’s what Lute was most famous for—pissing off people,” Smilow said. “All we’ve got to do is narrow it down to one.”

“It was somebody he knew.”

He looked at the detective who had spoken and indicated for him to continue. The detective said, “No sign of forced entry. No indication that the door lock was jimmied. So either the perp had a key or Pettijohn opened the door for him.”

“Pettijohn’s room key was in his pocket,” one of the others reported. “Robbery wasn’t a motive, unless it was thwarted. His wallet was found in a front pocket, beneath the body, and it appears intact. Nothing missing.”

“Okay, so we’ve got something to work with here,” Smilow said, “but we’ve still got a long way to go. What we don’t have are a weapon and a suspect. This complex is crawling with people, employees as well as guests. Somebody saw something. Let’s get started with the questioning. Round them up.”

As he trudged toward the door, one of the detectives grumbled, “We’re headed toward suppertime. They ain’t going to like it.”

To which Smilow retorted, “I don’t care.” And no one who had worked with him doubted that. “What about the security cameras?” he asked. Everything in Charles Towne Plaza was touted as state of the art. “Where’s the videotape?”

“There seems to be some confusion with that.”

He turned to the detective who had been dispatched earlier to check out the hotel security system. “What kind of confusion?”

“You know, confusion. General screwup. The tape is temporarily unaccounted for.”

“Missing?”

“They wouldn’t commit that far.”

Smilow muttered a curse.

“The guy in charge promises we’ll have it soon. But, you know…” The detective raised his shoulders as though to say with deprecation, Civilians.

“Let me know. I want to see it ASAP.” Smilow addressed them as a group. “This is going to be a high-profile murder. Nobody talks to the media except me. Keep your mouths shut, got that? The perp’s trail gets cooler with each minute, so get started.”

The detectives filed out to begin the questioning of hotel guests and employees. People automatically resented being questioned because it implied guilt, so it would be an unpleasant and tiresome task. And Smilow, they knew from experience, was an unrelenting and merciless taskmaster.

He now turned to Dr. Madison again. “Can you get this done quickly?”

“A couple of days.”

“Monday?”