July 4th

Author: James Patterson (USA)
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-06-01
Features: The story takes place at nearly 4 a.m. on an ordinary workday. Before Jacoby even gets the car to the front of the hotel and stops slowly, my mind is already racing. The Lorenzo Hotel is a shabby, cheap tourist hotel that charges by the hour for its rooms, located in a neighborhood in San Francisco's Tenderloin District. From the outside, it's an intimidating place, even the sun wouldn't dare to visit. Three police cars, black and white, have already been parked along the curb. A Con police officer who had just arrived at the scene was pulling up a long caution tape to secure the area. Another officer named Les Aru was doing the same thing. "How's it going?" I asked Con and Aru. "It's a white male, Captain. Early twenties, bulging eyes—he's gone for sure," Con replied to me. "Room number 21, no signs of forced entry. The victim is in the bathtub, just like the last case." Jacoby and I walked into the hotel together, and at the same time, a strong stench hit us in the face. Here, there are no bellhops, no elevators, no customer service. The night crew had disappeared into the pitch-black night, except for a pale-skinned young prostitute who pulled Jacoby aside at that moment. "Give me twenty dollars," she said. "I'll write down the license plate." Jacoby took a ten-dollar bill from a wad of cash and gave it to her, receiving a thin slip in return. He turned and walked to the front desk of the hotel to ask about the victim: Does anyone else live with him in the room? Does he have a credit card? What are his habits? Ied around a drug addict near the staircase well and climbed to the second floor. The door to Room 21 was open, and a rookie cop was standing in the hallway inside the room, guarding it. "Good evening, Boyle Captain," he said. "It's already morning, Christie." "Yes, ma'am," he replied. He recorded my name in his logbook, then turned his notepad around and asked me to sign. This was a room twelve feet long and twelve feet wide, much darker inside than the hallway. The fuse had blown, and thin curtains hung over the windows, casting ghostly shadows under the streetlights. I was trying to figure out how to solve the mystery, trying to determine what could be evidence and what couldn't, careful not to step on anything I shouldn't. Damn it, there were too many things in the room, everything was there, but the lighting was terrible. The beam of my flashlight fell on some bottles used to store cheap, potent cocaine on the floor. The mattress showed faded bloodstains, and there were piles of stinking garbage and clothes scattered everywhere. In the corner, there was a very basic kitchenette, with the iron plate on the electric stove still warm. Drug paraphernalia was thrown in the sink. The air in the bathroom was thick and almost misty. My flashlight beam fell on a wire from an extension cord, running from an outlet near the sink, through a clogged toilet, and into the bathtub. When my flashlight hit the dead boy, my stomach churned. He was a naked boy with blonde hair and blue eyes but extremely thin, with no chest hair, half-sitting in the bathtub, bulging eyes, foam around his mouth and nostrils. The other end of the wire was connected to an old bread toaster that could toast two slices at a time. Through the water in the bathtub, I could see it flickering. "Damn it, another one!" I cursed. At that moment, Jacoby also walked into the bathroom. "He really is toast now," Jacoby said. As the commander of the homicide detective team, I didn't really need to get involved in the specific investigation work. But in this situation, I couldn't just stand by. Another young man had been electrocuted. Was this just another random act of violence, or was this a case targeting him personally? In my mind, I pictured this scene: as the current passed through the boy's body, shutting down his heart forever, how his body struggled and twisted in pain. At that moment, water from the cracked tile floor, where it had been pooling, was slowly seeping up my two legs. I lifted my foot and kicked the bathroom door open with my toes, already expecting what I would see behind it. The hinges seemed to have never been oiled, and they made a dull, piercing long groan. Behind the door, some words had been sprayed with paint. I stared at the words, wondering for the second time this week what they meant: What did they represent? "No one cares." P4-5