'Frankly, I don't think it just turned up on his blankets,' Maier said.
'Why?' Commander Penn asked him.
'Why would Gault want to carry it from Cherry Hill? Why not just leave it and be on his way?' he said.
'Maybe there was something in it,' I said.
'Like what?' Marino asked.
'Like anything that might identify her,' I said. 'Maybe he didn't want her identified and needed a chance to go through her effects.'
'That could be,' Commander Penn said. 'Certainly we have found nothing among her belongings that would seem to identify her.'
'But in the past Gault hasn't seemed to care whether we identified his victims,' I said. 'Why care now? Why would he care about this head-injured, homeless woman?'
Commander Penn did not seem to hear me, and no one else answered. The medical examiners had begun undressing Davila, who did not want their help. He held his arms rigidly folded across his torso, as if blocking blows in football. The doctors were having a terrible time getting the commando sweater free of limbs and over his head when a pager went off. We involuntarily touched our waistbands, then stared toward Davila's table as the beeping continued.
'It's not mine,' one of the doctors said.
'Damn,' the other doctor said. 'It's his.'
A chill swept through me as he removed a pager from Davila's belt. Everyone was silent. We could not take our eyes off table five or Commander Penn, who walked there because this was her murdered officer and someone had just tried to call him. The doctor handed her the pager and she held it up to read the display. Her face colored. I could see her swallow.
'It's a code,' she said.
Neither she nor the doctor had thought not to touch the pager. They did not know it might matter.
'A code?' Maier looked mystified.
'A police code.' Her voice was tight with fury. 'Ten-dash-seven.'
Ten-dash-seven meant End of tour.
'Fuck,' Maier said.
Marino took an involuntary step, as if he were about to engage in a foot pursuit. But there was no one to chase that he could see.
'Gault,' he said, incredulous. He raised his voice. 'The son of a bitch must've got his pager number after he blew his brains all over the subway. You understand what that means?' He glared at us. 'It means he's watching us! He knows we're here doing this.'
Maier looked around.
'We don't know who sent the message,' said the doctor, who was completely disconcerted.
But I knew. I had no doubt.
'Even if Gault did it, he didn't have to see what was going on this morning to know what's going on,' Maier said. 'He would know the body was here, that we would be here.'
Gault would know that I would be here, I thought. He wouldn't have necessarily known the others would.
'He's somewhere where he just used a phone.' Marino glanced wildly around. He could not stand still.
Commander Penn ordered Maier, 'Put it on the air, an all-units broadcast. Send a teletype, too.'
Maier pulled his gloves off and angrily slammed them into a trash can as he ran from the room.
'Put the pager in an evidence bag. It needs to be processed for prints,' I said. 'I know we've touched it, but we can still try. That's why his coat was unzipped.
That's why his coat was unzipped.'
'Huh?' Marino looked stunned.
'Davila's coat was unzipped and there was no reason for that'
'Yeah, there was a reason. Gault wanted Davila's gun.'
'It wasn't necessary to unzip his coat to get his gun,' I said. 'There's a slit in the jacket's side where the holster is. I think Gault unzipped Davila's coat to find the pager. Then he got the number off it.'
The doctors had returned their efforts to the body. They pulled off boots and socks and unfastened an ankle holster holding a Walther.380 that Davila shouldn't have been carrying and had never had a chance to use. They took off his Kevlar vest, a navy police T-shirt, and a silver crucifix on a long chain. On his right shoulder was a small tattoo of a rose entwining a cross. In his wallet was a dollar.
9
I left New York that afternoon on a US Air shuttle and got into Washington National at three. Lucy could not meet me at the airport because she had not driven since her accident, and there was no appropriate reason for me to find Wesley waiting at my gate.
Outside the airport I suddenly felt sorry for myself as I struggled alone with briefcase and bag. I was tired and my clothes felt dirty. I was hopelessly overwhelmed and ashamed to admit it. I couldn't even seem to get a taxi.
Eventually, I arrived at Quantico in a dented cab painted robin's-egg blue with glass tinted purple. My window in back would not roll down, and it was impossible for my Vietnamese driver to communicate who I was to the guard at the FBI Academy entrance.