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I carefully navigated the room and made my way to the body, all the while thinking about the contamination I was introducing to the scene. Flecks of blood stained the doona and a smear ran down the sheets to where she lay. I squatted next to the body. It wasn’t Tamsin, and the more I looked at her, the more I recognised her from the photo Tamsin posted in her Flickr gallery—the one labelled ‘Renee and me.’
Her shirt had ridden up, exposing a two-inch-wide, blood-mottled stab wound a finger width below her stomach. Her tracksuit pants were low on her hips and strands of hair lay across her face.
She’d put up a fight.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ the security guard said behind me.
I checked her wrist for a pulse. Her pale skin was cool to the touch.
The guard groaned. ‘Jesus Christ. Leave her alone.’
I said, ‘Call the police.’
‘I will! Get the fuck out of the room up so I can lock it up.’
The second bed appeared freshly made with clean sheets and the pillow untouched. On my way out, I noted a single toothbrush in a plastic cup sat by the bathroom sink, and a small pile of dirty clothes sat piled on a small basket by the shower receptacle.
After I stepped out, the guard closed and locked the door, then jiggled the handle a few times. Once satisfied, he looked at me, ashen-faced, but we didn’t say anything. Downstairs, he made the call while I waited in the foyer and ran the scenarios through my head.
What were the odds of Tamsin’s roommate being found dead on day one of the case? Was Tamsin caught up in something that endangered her life, as well as her roommate’s?
A police car arrived within minutes and two officers approached the guard at the front desk. They eventually made their way to the back elevator. After another twenty minutes a station wagon appeared, and two men climbed out. The passenger, a solid man dressed in a grey suit, a pink and white striped tie with grey cropped hair and red spots across his face, pushed through the glass door and made a beeline for the front desk, carrying a thick notebook.
The driver grunted as he pulled himself out of the car, his bearded porcine face shiny in spite of the overcast sky, and did his best to catch up to this partner. A security van showed up and three security personnel climbed out. One took up position outside, while the remaining two joined the suits, and they all retreated in a huddle down the back hallway to the elevators.
Two young men tried to enter the foyer and were promptly declined entry by the guard outside. They stood nervously nursing coffee cups, and eventually took to swiping their phones.
The art of conversation is truly lost.
After about forty minutes, the grey-suited man re-appeared with the original security guard who’d let me into the room, and he eyed me from the elevator. He leaned forward and summoned me with a crooked finger.
