The luggage looked brand new.
Using new suitcases would make sense if you were a killer who was trying to avoid leaving physical evidence that might be traced back to you-not just DNA, hair, or trace evidence, but also scratches or scuff marks that could give us clues as to where the luggage had been.
I had a feeling these killers would have thought of that.
Using my cell phone, I snapped half a dozen photos of the arrangement of the four suitcases.
Then I stared at the largest bag.
Knelt beside it.
As I did, I caught the faint whiff of the odor I’ve smelled at far too many crime scenes. And though I tried to reassure myself that the smell would have been more pungent, more sickening by now, I was aware of the methods of taking care of that problem: wrap the item in plastic… use chemicals…
My fingers trembled slightly as I rolled the suitcase away from the others in the stack and tilted it toward the floor.
It was very heavy and settled onto its side with a disquieting, moist thump.
Heart hammering, I reached for the zipper.
A bellhop rolled these suitcases right past everyone…
Right past you.
Carefully, I guided the zipper along its track, making sure it didn’t catch on the fabric, didn’t snag on my glove. Or get caught on anything else.
Why those two rooms on the eighth floor?
What’s the connection between these killers and the assassination attempt six years ago?
The zipper reached the end of its track.
Heart beating.
Beating.
I took another picture with my phone.
Then I braced myself.
And lifted the unzipped flap of the suitcase.
Just as the door behind me swung open.