Chapter 2
I looked at the clock on the dashboard, where it read 5:17 PM, then unfolded my fingers and leaned back, squinting through the windscreen. It had taken twenty-three minutes. The journey along Fifth Street had been a continuous struggle: there were brake lights, honks of the horn, and from time to time the engine would sputter as someone attempted to move forward. The air conditioner fan was blowing hot air towards my face and caused the vents to rattle like loose change in a cup. I had intended to get that repaired for weeks, but there I was, my shirt already damp with sweat.
The Paramount was situated two blocks ahead with its windows boarded up, looking like sunken eyes. The presence of rusted steel beams and crumbling brick showed that I was in the industrial district, half the buildings being empty and the other half ought to be. Patrol cars were parked outside in a line, their light bars cutting through the dusk. A group of onlookers was gathered on the sidewalk, holding cheap popcorn and curiosity. It was always the same kind of scene.
I moved slowly into the space behind the cruiser, switched off the engine, and at once sensed the throb in my right knee. I ought to have taken an ibuprofen before I left and should have expected to have to climb those stairs. As it was, I hadn't, and each pulse of pain served as a reminder to me.
I could barely see the faded red letters through the broken marquee: "PAR OUNT THE TER". A jagged tag had been spray-painted across the front doors, though it was too small to read from this viewpoint. I opened my door and caught hold of the frame, my muscles complaining as I straightened myself. The uniform next to the yellow tape was completely wet. Twenty-five, perhaps.
“Detective Vance?”
“Yeah.”
“Second floor. Main auditorium.”
I went under the tape and my knee made a loud popping sound which I could hear above the noise of the crowd, but the policeman didn't react in the slightest. A brick was keeping the front doors open. Inside, the lobby took the light: the walls were yellow with mould, the air stank of urine and of something very sweet that might be decaying fruit, with the smell of mildew underneath. In a corner there was a sleeping bag that was half-flattened, a mess of empty bottles, fast-food wrappers, and a fresh heap of excrement.
A number of officers climbed the creaking staircase. Each step complained under the pressure of my body; the rail shook, which is why I held on to it as if it were a lifeline. There were always sixteen steps in this place. The landing was covered with torn carpet and had walls with gouges as though someone had pulled out copper wires. I had once arrested a boy in 2009 who fell through a church roof while looking for scrap.
The door of the auditorium was left open and within it the rows of torn seats cast deep cavernous shadows. There was a hole in the projection screen and water stains flowed down the back wall like tears. At the front yellow evidence markers were glowing and a photographer's flash pierced the darkness.
A young woman was sitting straight up in a wooden chair with a straight back. Her blonde hair was spread out over her shoulders and as white as chalk. The ropes, which were thick and tan, were tied around her wrists and secured behind the chair with a red silk ribbon tied in a perfect bow. The frayed curtains had been pulled aside, bringing her into view like a horrible portrait.
My pulse beat loudly in my ears and I looked at her hands—they were tan rope, three-eighths of an inch in thickness and marine grade. The knots: a bowline on the left wrist and a clove hitch secured to the chair—these I knew at once.
“Detective?” said Morrison from behind me, rather far away.
I had a hard time swallowing and my hands began to tremble. The knotwork and ribbon were in the spotlight, the head leaning forward, all the details matching.
Who was it that found her? My voice broke.
Kids—they broke in through a side window at about noon and called the authorities.
I climbed the three steps to get onto the stage, disregarding the jolt of pain. The photographer moved back. I bent down, looked at the red ribbon, seeing the silk threads picking up the diminishing light, and the rope, which was tight but not cutting into the skin. There was a folded piece of paper lying next to the chair and it had not been touched.
I asked, "Anyone touch that?"
“Not quite. The forensics people are coming.”
I put on a pair of latex gloves, which were skin-tight and clammy, and then reached for the note. At that moment Morrison cleared his throat.
“Vance, wait, ”
Nevertheless, I opened it out. The ink was black and the letters neat and looping:
For Detective Vance
Welcome back
My stomach did a somersault and I read it once more: "Welcome back". My sight focused entirely on the ribbon, the rope, the knots. It was October 14, 1984, in an alley off Ninth Street near the old Rialto. Eleanor Marsh, thirty-one, was seated with her hands folded in her lap and a red ribbon tied at her throat. At the time I was twenty-six and a brand new officer. That year there were three women victims—the Red Ribbon Killer—and we never managed to catch him.
Morrison moved a bit nearer. "What is that?"
I gave him the note without even raising my eyes. My name was written in a spidery hand on the paper. The journal, together with my private case notes which had been stolen from my garage five years before, was open on the stage and had been written in someone else's hand. All the theories that I had scrawled out at two in the morning, all the obsessive details: the knots, the ribbon, the way the scene had been set — had been used as if it were an instruction manual.
"MJesus Christ," Morrison whispered, in a low voice.
I turned my eyes away from the body and looked at him. A suspicion showed itself behind his eyes. "1984", I said, "the Red Ribbon Killer—this is exactly the same."
He frowned and said, "That case has been cold for forty years."
“I know,” I whispered.
“So who the hell, ”
I didn't know," I said, though of course I did. It was this person who had lived in my notebooks, having been present in every twisted line. Now another woman was dead on the stage, starved for justice, and I was the only one who knew what had taken place. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.