Hotel Old Court

  Dave Russell almost sped passed the ramp to exit the highway, just north of the city limits. His foot came down heavily on the brakes and the car lunged as he quickly jolted it to the right. Headed towards the Downtown area, he was caught off guard, lost in thought as the exit came upon him without warning. This was never going to happen again, he doggedly decided as he carelessly turned off the highway. He usually made hotel reservations well in advance. Unfortunately the nature of this trip made that impractical and he had made a reservation in Columbia for only three nights, expecting to have no difficulty finding a hotel room for the last two nights of the week. But he had not anticipated the occurrence of such a large convention that would occupy every hotel room within a forty mile radius. Now, conventioneers filled apparently every room available. It was almost 5 P.M. and the prospect of having to pass the night in his car was appearing increasingly probable. That was not a very comforting thought for a salesman who needed to look his best on every call. He hoped he might find a less desirable and consequentially, less frequented hotel with an available room somewhere in the downtown State Capitol area. It didn’t have to be anything special. A bed and a shower were all he needed, even if he had to share a room with a few nuisance insects. How he hated walking into a room and finding tiny little pests in the bathroom or on the furniture. He remembered vividly the time he turned down the bedcovers in a hotel and discovered miniscule red bugs scurrying over the sheets. Anything short of that extreme, under the present circumstances, was no longer an issue.
  Driving along the heavily shadowed streets of Davison City, he passed two older and dirty hotels carved among the stone facades of the commercial buildings lining Main Street. Both displayed signs proclaiming that there were no vacancies. Hope was rapidly diminishing. The day was hot and steamy. His clothes clung to his body, even in the air conditioned car. Sales calls were always just long enough for his locked car to become as hot as an oven and, of course, there was insufficient time for it to cool before arriving at the destination of his next call. At the end of the day Dave was feeling quite hot and uncomfortable. He wanted only to rest for the evening. 
  Davison City is a small community, especially considering that it is a state capital. Dave crisscrossed its streets within minutes and was already approaching the east side boundary of the municipality. A small park was situated ahead, on the left. “That’s it,” he conceded as it came into view. “Nothing left now.”
  For twenty five years he had been pounding the pavement of Midwestern towns. Twenty five years and this was all he had to show for it: long days and lonely nights on the road. “Damn,” he finally let it out, driven by his frustration. “How I wish this would end.” But at his age, there was no room for advancement, All the good jobs went to the young and aggressive guys fighting their way up.
  Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw an elderly pedestrian step into the street and pass directly into his vehicle’s path. Once again his foot slammed on the car’s brake pedal. The pedestrian, an old man dressed in a light gray seersucker suit with a golden straw fedora wrapped in a bright blue velvet hat band perched atop his head, was hunched over and not very steady on his feet. The man walked very slowly and with great difficulty, balancing himself with a wooden, rubber tipped cane as he passed directly in front of the car. Dave’s eyes followed him as the old man continued to cross the street, unfazed by the potential traffic hazard and squeal of tires as he approached a revolving door beneath an entrance canopy on the far side of the pavement. Above him, a sign fastened to the bronze framed, deeply dark burgundy canopy read “Hotel Old Court.” Dave thought that strange. How many times he must have gone by this intersection, never before noticing the hotel nor its nameplate. Distracted for the moment by the building’s sudden appearance, his foot still on the brake pedal, Dave continued to watch as the old man pushed against the revolving door and disappeared in the darkness beyond it. A beam of sunlight, caught by the movement of the polished metal framework of the door, bounced off the bronze and reflected back into his eyes. Leaning forward and looking upward through the windshield, he spotted an enormous blocked lettered sign mounted to a metal trellis fastened to the roof. Large white letters spelled out the name: HOTEL OLD COURT. “How could I have missed that?” he wondered aloud. (Being alone on the road as much as he was, he often found himself talking as if there was someone to listen to him).
  Constructed of rich, off-white sandstone and trimmed with ornate scrollwork of magnificent workmanship, the hotel was a splendid old building. Despite the long shadows of a late summer’s afternoon its surface glistened with a soft, alabaster glow which shimmered as with the haze of a mirage. Bright pastel colored curtains fluttered above, swaying in the breeze through scattered open windows, high over the empty street below. It suggested to him how a magnificent hotel of yesteryear might have looked. How fortunate, he thought. Perhaps his luck had changed and he’d find a room in this beautiful and quaint old establishment in a quiet, out-of-the-way corner of the municipality.
  A small bronze plate fastened at the corner of the building indicated parking was available around the corner. Dave switched on his directional signal and turned at the intersection, finding a second canopied entrance available on this totally shaded side of the building. Between the hotel on one side and an Office building on its other, a small parking lot sat behind a low brick wall topped by a short, black wrought iron picket fence. He pulled into the emptied lot slowly, taking a space and parking head-on against the wall of the hotel. In stark contrast, this facing wall of the building was dirty and worn with weathered and grimy brick. Windows had been painted over as the hotel’s name appeared, spread across the building’s surface with long faded and dimmed paint. In the shadows, it was almost illegible. “No consequence,” Dave thought. Probably no one would see it anyway since the high-rise Office building blocks it from the sight of any passersby.

  He exited the car and quickly moved through the warm but drying breeze of the sunless street. He felt the air’s cooling effect upon his skin and entered the hotel via the entrance on this shaded side of the building. Excited with the prospect of possibly having found a room, he just wanted to be done with it and relax for the evening. But he left his luggage in the car. He had thought twice about it and didn’t want to drag the bags with him until he knew for certain that there was a room available. Empty handed, he pushed against the revolving door. It struck him as being very old. It was quite heavy and difficult to move. As he pushed, he squinted to see inside the building but the door’s glass was darkened. There was nothing to see on its other side. With quickened resolve, he pushed harder and, with a whooshing sound, the door suddenly gave way, transporting him into the lobby; a world of rich and ornately textured heavy, dark wooden furniture. A multitude of lavish oil paintings and mosaics hung from the walls. Thick, large carpets were scattered over a tiled floor. The lobby, though heavy and dark was enormous - with the humidity of an ancient and inefficient air conditioning system weighing heavily with a chilly dampness, upon the artifacts of the large expanse. Despite the room’s size, he could smell its mustiness and felt it crowd against him. Blood red velvet walls lined with gothic furnishings and thickly cushioned, patterned carpet seemed so out of place. It was a strange contrast, he thought. The building’s exterior was so light and fanciful. Yet its interior was so heavy laden and ponderous. Not to worry: a room was all he cared about. Gigantic brushed gold finished chandeliers lent a sullen pallor to the large two story lobby and it took a few seconds before Dave’s eyes adjusted to the almost mystical lighting. Spotting the blue velvet hat band, he saw the old man from the street standing in the distance at the check-in desk, along a far end wall.
  The sharp ring of a bell resounded through the heavy air. An old bellhop, unmistakably dressed in his red uniform with brass buttons and golden epaulettes leisurely ambled to the desk, nodded and escorted the elderly pedestrian as they made their way to a bank of elevators on another wall. Dave turned and looked over his shoulder to watch them as he approached the desk. A chime sounded. The elevator door opened and the two old men stepped into it as a third operated the controls.
  “May I help you Sir,” the man behind the desk demanded somewhat impatiently.
  “I certainly hope so. Do you have a room available for the night?” Dave asked, turning his attention back to the purpose of his visit. Under normal circumstances he would have been put off by the deskman’s day old facial stubble, dandruff flecked black jacket and the lingering scent of body odor permeating over the counter top of the desk. The tattered and soiled shirt collar was almost too difficult to see in the dank and dungeoned surroundings of the hotel lobby. 
  “Yes, Sir. We have a few rooms remaining for the evening.”
  “Great. I’ll take one,” Dave replied with a beaming smile and a sigh of relief which was almost visible and certainly audible in the dank air.
  “That will be $33, Sir.”
  Dave quickly reached into his back pocket, retrieved his wallet and paid with cash.
  “Room 516, Sir. I’ll have someone show you the way.” The deskman announced, raising his hand to come down on the bell.
  “Wait. I have to get my luggage,” Dave signaled, his words stopping the deskman’s hand in mid air. “I’ll be right back.”
  “Of course, Sir,” the deskman agreed with a demure, if not coy little smile.
    “I should have asked him about air conditioning,” Dave thought to himself as he recalled the fluttering curtains in the opened windows while retrieving his luggage from the car. Over the years he’d become quite proficient at packing and was able to include everything he needed for a full 5 day road trip in a single large suitcase. Grasping it and his work case, he made his way back to the hotel entrance and squeezed both himself and his bags into the tight compartment shaped by the revolving door. He felt conspicuously awkward and clumsy as he tried to pull it all around the door, bumping into the glass walls and inching forward step by step. Again, the door took it upon itself to speed his delivery and with a large whoosh - he found himself standing upon the lobby’s edge. 
  The same red uniformed bellhop he saw before stood there, beside the door, waiting for him. “Allow me, Sir,” the old man offered, extending his hand to take the suitcase from him.
  “Thank you,” Dave said, relinquishing the pull handle to the old bellhop. In the little light penetrating the building through the darkened door, Dave could see the satiny sheen of the old man’s much worn, red uniform. “Funny, I never noticed this hotel here before,” he said, simply making conversation as they made their way across the thickly cushioned carpets to the bank of elevators.
  “This is an old and venerable institution, Sir. It has served its clientele appropriately for many a year. I myself have been here more than sixty five years.”
  “Is that so?” Dave marveled as the chime sounded and the elevator door opened. Its operator appeared even older than the bellhop. He sat on a wooden stool, feebly gesturing for his passengers to step back. The bellhop moved to the back of the cab, turned to face forward and pulled the suitcase close to him. Satisfied his two passengers were safely secured in the car, with shaking hand, the operator reached forward and pulled the inner door shut. It clanked as the outer door followed and also closed. He turned his control knob and quietly, the lift began to rise.
  It struck Dave that not a word was spoken, yet somehow, the elevator stopped on 5, his floor. The old, feeble operator reached out, again with shaking hand, and opened the door. “Five,” he announced with an aged but determined voice as the lift’s doors opened.
  “This way, Mr. Russell,” the bellhop directed his charge as he pulled the suitcase off the lift and turned to the left.  Dave followed. The ambience of the corridor closely resembled that of the lobby with heavy, though not as cool, but dank air filling its length. Tiffany style sconces hung along either side wall provided minimal light. Despite the low illumination, Dave easily recognized the worn, frayed, and badly stained carpet beneath his feet. “This is like walking into a nightmare,” he thought with hesitant levity.
  “Five sixteen, Sir,” the bellhop announced as he set the suitcase still. He bent over at the waist, unlocked the door, flipped on a light switch and pulled the suitcase into the room as his guest followed. “I hope everything is to your satisfaction, Sir,” he said with a smile as his eyes drilled into Dave’s.
  “It’s as hot as hell in here,” Dave complained as a blast of warm air hit him in the face.  He quickly moved toward the window Air Conditioner mounted on the far side of the room.
  “I’m sorry, Sir. That is broken. You will need to open the other window.”
  “Well, it is really hot for this time of the year. Is there a room available that does have air?”
  “No, Sir. Not any more. I’m sorry,” the old man answered with a downcast apology. His demeanor quickly turned more amiable as he raised his head and looked Dave in the eye. “Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Russell. Sleep well. Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” he said with a chuckle, as if a joke.
  “Yeah. Thanks,” Dave replied, not at all comfortable with the prospect of inoperative air conditioning. He was already walking across the room to fidget with the closed window beside the air conditioning unit. He tried to pry it loose and raise it. Apparently it hadn’t been used in quite some time and was stuck shut. It finally gave way and jumped up its track as the old bellhop exited and shut the door behind him. The chain lock fastened to the inside of the door rattled as it closed.
  The slight breeze slipping in from the street was at least better than was the clammy air it pushed aside. Dave let out another sigh of relief, welcoming the influx of cooler air and knowing that at least he had a bed in which to sleep. But, to his dismay, investigation of the room revealed a soft, sagging, uncomfortable looking bed with a collapsed mattress covered by a frayed corduroy bedspread laden with dust. An ancient, frayed, upholstered armchair sat beside it and opposite a vintage TV.
  If there was the remotest possibility of finding another hotel with an available room, Dave would have immediately vacated the premises and not look back. However, considering the circumstances, he knew that was not going to happen. He decided to make due with what he had. Hopefully the air would continue to cool the room once the sun set. He wouldn’t dare sleep in the bed, but would sleep in the armchair and take a quick shower in the morning. At least it was better than sleeping in the car. Here he had privacy; could complete his paperwork for the day; hopefully get some sleep; and change his clothes in the morning. He decided he would look for another hotel tomorrow. Walking to the bathroom to see what it was like, he felt his throat swell, only to drop like a heavy weight, in dismay. A calcium and rust stained tub with a scum-coated shower curtain ready to surround it extinguished his last ray of hope for a tolerable stay. He was glad he had his rubber flip-flops with him. He wouldn’t dare stand barefooted in that porcelain incubator of germs and fungus. Returning to the room, he switched on the TV to a black and white news broadcast masked behind a field of static and snow. Voices were mumbled and virtually unintelligible as he leaned into the TV, intent upon hearing what was said. Almost totally indiscernible, he could recognize only bits of the sound. He thought he heard a couple of words, but couldn’t be sure. They sounded like “Welcome” and “dome,” but nothing more. “Huumph,” was the most he could concede. He loosened his necktie, slipped it over his head and dropped it on his suitcase before he grabbed the ice bucket and room key and went looking for an ice machine. A drink would take most of his concerns away.
  Standing in the dark and odorous corridor, the room door clicked shut behind him. He looked down the hall to the right, then to the left. At its far end he saw the three letter sign that would help him escape: “ICE”. It wasn’t until he’d returned to his room and dropped four ice cubes into an already carefully inspected plastic cup that he saw the black specks embedded in the ice. “Shit,” he exclaimed. ”It’s one thing after another,” he complained to himself as he opened the suitcase, reached into it, pulled out a half full bottle of Johnny Walker Red and poured half a cup of scotch. At least there was enough to get him through this night, even if he did have to drink it warm. He walked to the door and inserted the chain into its lock.
  In the still warm room, very tired and stressed by the ordeal, he was exasperated by it all; the discomfort of the unseasonably hot day; the concern of not finding a room; his disappointment and frustration with his surroundings. His knees buckled, his shoulders folded and he fell backwards, sinking into the collapsed armchair. He took a sip of scotch from the plastic cup and balanced it upon the chair’s arm, holding it lightly between his fingertips. He’d sit there a while, enjoy his scotch and then make his way down the lobby dining room, he decided. Later, he’d do his paperwork. But for now, he’d simply sit there and try to forget. There was still the call to Janice, his bride of 28 years. Dave called her every night; just to say hello and remind her how much he loved her. But for now, he’d just relax. The static and broken bars running across the TV screen soon went unnoticed. A few more sips of scotch and his mind began to drift. 

  A rolling boom rumbled its way into the far back reaches of his consciousness, pulling him from the depths of the weary slumber into which he had fallen. His eyes opened wide, startled by the sudden noise. They blinked and tried to adjust. An illuminated sphere, an illusion suspended from above and surrounding him in the middle of the now darkened room lent an eerie glow to its confines, its soft amber light from the ceiling fixture still radiating since earlier, when the bellhop had turned it on. Surveying for some telltale sign, his eyes frantically searched the room for the source of the noise. Beyond the reach of the eerie light everything paled into indistinguishable shadows. At its far edge, on the desk sitting across from his chair, his suitcase passively assumed the shape of a silent, hunched observer. It took a second for him to remember where he was. The television flickered as noisy snow continued to fill its screen. He tried to understand the broken tones of distant and muffled voices coming from it. He believed it was the late night news broadcast. A clock mounted to the wall ticked away the seconds, announcing the time as 10:30P.M. He must have fallen asleep, he surmised. Curiously, he looked at the plastic cup seated between his fingertips questioningly. He had not tipped over the cup which remained perched atop the chair’s thickly upholstered arm. But it was empty. Several feet away, next to the suitcase, the almost empty bottle of scotch also puzzled him. He didn’t remember pouring any additional whiskey. The chill of saturated air settled upon him. The room was almost moist; cool with the same heavy humidity of the lobby. A soft buzz droned out of the darkness. Following the sound with his eyes, he looked into the shadows across the room. Curtains, like drifting appendages hinged upon the Hotel’s wall, lightly floated on the heavy air, waving into the room on a breeze driven by the malfunctioning air conditioner. “That’s funny,” he thought. “Now it’s working?” Suddenly he realized with immediate apprehension that someone must have been in his room. Perhaps they were still there. The other window, the one which he’d opened, was now closed and the Air Conditioner had been turned on and was blowing a most uncomfortable combination of wet and mildew laden air. The noise that awoke him must have been the unit’s compressor kicking on - but obviously it wasn’t working. It must have a refrigerant leak, he decided. But why would someone come in to switch it on? Had they also drank his scotch? He turned his glance to the door. In the darkened shadow of the distant corner he could see the chain was still in place. How could anyone have gotten into the room? He wondered. And how could they have exited with the chain still in place?
  The telephone rang. His body quickened. His head spun sharply and he stared at the phone as it sounded its raw, impertinent noise a second time. His thoughts turned to Janice. He had not called her. She would be concerned and worried. The phone rang again. Had she somehow found him? Was it she who was calling? He grabbed for the handset and placed it to his ear.
  “Hello,” he self-consciously acknowledged his presence.
  There was no answer.
  “Hello?”
  Rough, distant static, like the sound of an old, worn phonograph stylus racing its way over a plastic record’s grooves scratched itself into his ear. Blending into it with broken and feebled tones, an ancient voice finally spoke. “Welcome to the Hotel Old Court, Mr. Russell…,” it reverberated, the sound of his name blurring and drifting into the scratching noise behind it. The voice stopped and there was a brief pause as the rasping sound continued in its silence. The voice resumed. “…and to the dome of despair,” was all it spoke as it again drifted off into the background, once more giving way to the scratchy noise of the needle . “Excuse me,” he insisted. There was no response. Only the sound of the needle remained as it dragged across an invisible plastic surface, continuing to grate against his ear. Sitting rigidly, bewildered as he pondered who could be calling and what they wanted; waiting for the voice to resume, he felt a plop as something hit his leg.
  A viscous substance splattered upon his pants, just above the knee, producing a quarter-size spot upon his trouser leg. He felt its wetness through the fabric. Again, another plop landed. Hanging up the handset, he turned and looked up from whence it came. An elongated stream of the substance hung from beneath the ceiling fixture, precisely where a long bolt firmly held the glass sphere of the fixture in place. Another drop was already taking form at its bottom, stretching under its own weight, setting up and taking aim. Moving black specks danced from within the glass dome of the fixture. “Bugs!” he exclaimed with vile disdain.
  A shadow of movement caught his eye, a ripple racing across the top of his suitcase. Another flashed off to the periphery of his left eye, this one scampering under the surface of the wall as if the wake of a body’s limb beneath the blanket of a bed, nondescript but conspicuous though hidden beneath its cover. He bolted as he felt a pinch upon his calf. It burned with a soreness that quickly spread, coursing up his leg. A quiet chirping noise crawled into his head, growing louder and louder until it crowded out the sound of its only competition: the noise of the malfunctioning window air conditioner. Another pinch upon his leg followed; this one more severe and twice as painful. He tried to raise his hand and touch his leg, but he could not move. As if frozen, his arm was immobilized, locked in place on the arm of the chair. A frenzy of movement increased behind the domed fixture over his head. He looked up to watch. The blackened specks, rapidly increasing in number and growing in size; the room became darker as the light from above was masked and dimmed.  Fear filled him and he tried to scream but his voice was lost in the rapidly deafening noise of the bugs. He trembled and his eyes begged, as in desperation they searched the darkness. Was there no way out? Was there no one to help?  Another pinch pierced his leg. He saw something crawl out of the fabric of the chair’s arm, determinedly pushing its way through the weave to scurry over his hand and up his sleeve. He whimpered with another pinch, this one upon his arm.
  In the deep shadows near the door, peering out of the darkened wall, two white orbs took shape and protruded into the room. Dave watched them as they blinked, turned and stared at him with an expression of intrigue, if not curiosity. Disembodied, without a face, staring from within the wall, they were the eyes of the old bellhop. The corners of Dave’s mouth shaped themselves into a plea. His eyes filled with panic. The eyes in the wall stared back, once again drilling into his. Their expression turned to one which could be mistaken as one of cruelty. But it was not. Nor was it one of vindication. Rather, it was an expression of complacence. What was done, was done. They were present merely to bear witness.
  The chirping sounds prevailed, crescendoing into a screaming chatter as the frenzy within the fixture’s dome maddened with an agitated multitude of bugs scurrying and clamoring within. With the intensity of the pressing noise and the weight of untold fear, Dave watched as the ceiling fixture shattered and gave way in an explosive display. Jagged glass flew to the floor, pieces carried into the darkness. A mass of shining, thick black insects fell upon him, pouring forth with the onrush of an endless wave. They covered his body, a flowing, tumbling horde with the momentum of a singular, purposeful entity. He felt it upon his flesh as it enveloped him; up his legs, up his sleeves, down his neck. The bugs poured into his ears and up his nose. His eyes burned and his nose stretched. He couldn’t breath. They pierced his flesh and rushed in.  He felt them within his body as they feasted upon it. He pursed his lips closed to keep them out until he felt them rushing up his throat. He gasped and his lips parted to let out a wail and cry. They poured out his mouth.
 
    Captain Jim Reynolds, Chief of Detectives for Davison City, slowly opened the car door, twisting his body out of the passenger seat. Several patrol cars and a Police van were already crowded into the small lot and a few onlookers gathered around, wondering what all the excitement was about. Distracted, his foot landed in the middle of a stagnant puddle of green and brown water. “Shit. I hate it when that happens,” he complained wearily. With 22 years on the job, even in a small Midwestern town, he had seen all there was to see. Nothing shocked him. The things people did to one another, the pain they inflicted without remorse; it had all worn him out. Divorced, paying alimony and child support for more years than he wished to think about; going home after long hours of work with nothing to look forward to other than which frozen dinner to nuke while downing a beer, he was far distant from the case at hand. “Where’s the body?” he asked the Patrolman waiting for him.
  “Room 516,” was the response.
  Reynolds face twisted in surprise. “How’d you find it so fast?”
  “There was an open window. Figured that was suspicious,” the Patrolman responded confidentially.
“That’s his car?” Reynolds assistant and driver, Bob Hayes asked with a nod of the head towards the automobile parked on the other side of the parking lot. Three men in coats with the word POLICE written across the back busied themselves as they searched the vehicle.
  “Yeah. A woman in that Office building called it in. She said it was sitting here all day yesterday and was still there this morning behind the chain that blocks the lot’s entrance.”
  “Okay. Let’s go take a look,” Reynolds decided.
    The three men exited the lot, walking passed the short brick wall with the black wrought iron picket fence atop it, and approached the hotel entrance door. A large, thick sheet of plywood, covered with old and long-faded posters laid on the pavement, six penny nails along its edges pointing downwards. “How in hell did he manage to get that off?” Hayes wondered.
  “Must have taken a lot of determination,” the Patrolman responded. “It was pulled away from the building just enough for him to squeeze in. I had a hard time getting it down with a crowbar.”
  Reynolds walked around the plywood and pushed against the swinging door. “This damn thing doesn’t move too well, does it?”
  “Yeah. He really had to work to get in there,” the Patrolman agreed with a chuckle. “And it looks like he went through the revolving door, which is even harder to move.”
  “Wasn’t it padlocked?” Hayes wondered with a degree of surprise.
  “It was. But the chain was evidently broken sometime ago. It’s possible somebody else had also tried to get in here,” the Patrolman explained.
  “Where are the stairs?” Hayes asked as they entered the huge expanse of the lobby.
  “Way over there. On the far side,” the Patrolman answered, pointing with his flashlight and leading the way. “Forensics is up there now. Don’t know what they’ve found yet.”
  The air was heavy and foul. The smell of dust, dampness and mildew was thick and suffocating. “How long has this place been shut down?” Reynolds asked only somewhat rhetorically, as if trying to remind himself, his eyes drifting across the featureless and empty expanse of the dilapidated hotel’s lobby.
  “Fifteen years,” his assistant replied. “It’s been scheduled for demolition, then restoration, then demolition again.”
  “This used to be a real showplace, wasn’t it?” the Patrolman interjected.
“Yeah, until too many bodies began showing up in it,” Reynolds explained. “That’s when they shut it down.”
  The Patrolman looked at the Detective ominously but remained silent.
  The heavy door to the stairwell creaked as Hayes pushed it open. He found the stairs in the beam of his flashlight and began to climb. “What in the world was he thinking, coming in here?”
  “Maybe he needed a room,” the Patrolman joked.
“On the fifth floor?” Reynolds pointed out.
The Patrolman shrugged his shoulders.
They remained speechless as, with panting breath, they walked down the un-illuminated hallway of the fifth floor until arriving at the entrance to Room 516. Several people were already in the room, each of them wearing coats with POLICE written across the back, each armed with tweezers, magnifying glasses and brushes, busy and attentive to any detail they may discover. Off to the side of the room a few men were crowded together where, kneeling or bent at the waist, they were observing a body. Reynolds crossed the threshold and entered the room. He caught his breath before speaking. “What’s up?” he inquired abruptly in an attempted booming voice. This was his case and he was in charge. He was making sure everyone knew it. The occupants all immediately turned toward him, with the men gathered around the body, standing and parting to reveal an old, dust laden armchair with what was left of Dave Russell cradled within it.
  “Damn! What in God’s name happened here?” Hayes exclaimed in horror as he witnessed Dave Russell’s body. “His wife just reported him missing yesterday morning,” he pointed out. “He looks as if he’s been dead for months,” he noted with confusion. The condition of the body was more severe than that, Reynolds determined. Bare bone exposed from the limbs, with the flesh gone from his legs and arms as they extended from his clothing, rested, frozen in time, as if petrified. His eye sockets were empty and his mouth, lips and tongue replaced by a single round hole. What flesh remained was dried and flaked, inflexible and brittle.
  “How do you know it’s him?” Detective Reynolds wanted reassurance.
  “His wallet was still in his back pocket. And that’s his briefcase over there,” an investigator answered. “It’s positive identification.”
  Another uniformed Officer entered the room. “Captain, we found something you should see,” he blurted as he quickly turned and exited the room with Detectives Reynolds and Hayes close behind. “We were looking around and found another body in a room down the hall,” he explained over his shoulder as he scampered down the vilely carpeted corridor. “This one is in the bathtub. It’s naked. Looks like it drowned. There’s no telling how long it’s been there.” 
  The men entered the second room and stood at the bathroom door, trying to make sense of what was going on. Reynolds entered the bathroom first and knelt down beside the tub for a closer look. All his years of experience, all his investigative powers suddenly abandoned him as he stared into the face in the tub. Though cold and dead, it looked at peace with a sense of freedom and calmness reflected in what remained of its eyes. Was he imagining it, or was this body smiling at him. Another Patrolman entered and came up behind them. “There’s more. I found another one down the hall,” he announced matter-of-factly. “This one is in bed.”
  “What the fuck is going on here?” Hayes wondered, bewildered by the eeriness of the thought.
  “We’re going to have to go through the entire building,” Detective Reynolds realized as he rose back up to a standing position, once more assuming an attitude of cold professional habit. It was how he survived. “Let’s get some more people in here. I want every room searched,” he decreed, directing his order to one of the Patrolmen while his eyes remained fixed on the body in the bathtub. “Let’s see what else we find,” he said with the same detachment that carried him through not only his investigations, but through the course of his entire life. This was no longer someone’s son, or husband; no longer a wrong to be vindicated; no longer a person to be mourned. This was no more than a mystery to be solved. The Chief of Detectives’ was well aware of his detachment to the crimes perpetuated here. But he was devoid of emotion. He simply could no longer feel anything about the gruesome and despicable things people did to one another; about the things he saw all day, every day. It was simply a matter of self preservation. He was worn down and could no longer care about this –nor about anything else. He turned to exit and the other men took his lead, turning and exiting in front of him. With Reynolds now trailing behind the others, the last in the group as they were making their way out of the room and back to Room 516, the Chief of Detectives noticed something from the corner of his eye. It was in the darkened shadow of a corner across the room, lying on a chest-of-drawers. “How long has this place been shut down?” he again asked as he changed direction to cross the room and pick up a red bellhop’s cap. The other men stopped and turned to watch him as he ran his hand over the cool crisp fabric of the cap. He particularly noticed the color and freshness of the cloth. He pulled back the curtain of a nearby window and held it to the daylight, which reluctantly  pushed its way into the room. The cap wasn’t new, but was extraordinarily well preserved.
  “There are more bodies in here,” he exclaimed, as if it were a revelation suddenly made clear to him. “I want every room in this hotel gone over with a fine tooth comb,” he ordered. “Every room,” he repeated as the men in front of him again turned to exit. Captain Reynolds returned the bellhop’s cap to its resting place and walked back across the floor, following the rest of his men out of the room. Bob Hayes, the last individual of the group, remained and stopped to wait for him at the doorway. Reynolds abruptly halted and turned. Staring back into the room, his eyes uneasily searched its darkness as if he were looking for something.
  “What is it?” Hayes asked, wondering if there was some nondescript clue of which his boss had suddenly become aware.
  Reynolds stood motionless, his eyes darting as they penetrated the dark corner shadows. “Nothing.” The Chief of Detectives finally responded with a jittery nod of his head, as if he were disavowing some ill conceived notion. “It’s just that, for a second there, I had the strangest feeling that I was being watched.”