Sachs stepped closer and examined the building carefully. But she found no one and decided her eyes had played tricks on her. She turned back to the hotel and, breathing shallowly, stepped inside. At the front desk she flashed her badge to the hopelessly overweight clerk. He didn't seem the least bit surprised, or troubled, that a cop was here. She was directed toward the elevator. It opened to a foul stench. Okay, the stairs.
Wincing from the strain on her arthritic joints, she pushed through the door on the sixth floor and found room 672. She knocked, then stepped aside. "Police. Mr. Jorgensen? Please open the door." She didn't know what connection this man might have to the killer so her hand hovered near the grip of her Glock, a fine weapon, as dependable as the sun.
No answer but she believed she heard the sound of the metal cover of the peephole.
"Police," she repeated.
"Put your ID under the door."
She did.
A pause, then several chains were undone. And a deadbolt. The door opened a short way but was stopped by a security bar. The gap was bigger than that left by a chain but not large enough for someone to get through.
The head of a middle-aged man appeared. His hair was long and unwashed, his face marred with an unruly beard. The eyes were twitchy.
"You're Robert Jorgensen?"
He pe
ered at her face, then at her ID again, turning the card over and holding it up to the light, though the laminated rectangle was opaque. He handed it back and unhooked the security bar. The door swung open. He examined the hall behind her, then gestured her in. Sachs entered cautiously, hand still near her weapon. She checked the room and closets. The place was otherwise unoccupied and he was unarmed. "You're Robert Jorgensen?" she repeated.
He nodded.
She then looked over the sad room more carefully. It contained a bed, desk and chair, armchair and ratty couch. The dark gray carpet was stained. A single pole lamp cast dim yellow light, and the shades were drawn. He was living, it seemed, out of four large suitcases and a gym bag. He had no kitchen but a portion of the living room contained a miniature fridge and two microwaves. A coffeepot too. His diet was largely soup and ramen noodles. A hundred manila file folders were carefully lined up against the wall.
His clothes were from a different time in his life, a better time. They seemed expensive but were threadbare and stained. The heels of the rich-looking shoes were worn down. Guessing: He lost his medical practice due to a drug or drinking problem.
At the moment he was occupied by an odd task: dissecting a large hardcover textbook. A chipped magnifying glass on a gooseneck stand was clamped to the desk and he'd been slicing out pages and cutting them into strips.
Maybe mental illness had led to his downfall.
"You're here about the letters. It's about time."
"Letters?"
He studied her suspiciously. "You're not?"
"I don't know about any letters."
"I sent them to Washington. But you do talk, don't you? All you law enforcers. You public-safety people. Sure you do. You have to, everybody talks. Criminal databases and all that . . ."
"I really don't know what you mean."
He seemed to believe her. "Well, then--" His eyes went wide, looking down at her hip. "Wait, is your cell phone on?"
"Well, yes."
"Jesus Christ in heaven! What's wrong with you?"
"I--"
"Why don't you run down the street naked and tell every stranger you see your address? Take the battery out. Not just shut it off. The battery!"
"I'm not doing that."
"Take it out. Or you can get the hell out right now. The PDA too. And pager."
This seemed to be a deal breaker. But she said firmly, "I'm not dumping my memory. I'll do the phone and the pager."