Adrian speaks on the phone a while longer with the captain, as I write down information from the past 'ghosts' that have been seen at the motel. The other victims were all more than 250 miles away, with a majority of them from Bullhead City, and others from Willow Beach, Arizona, and Kingman, Arizona, also more than a six-hour drive away from the motel. Apparently, though, the first two victims were from the same Las Vegas hospital, which is also quite far away.
Including the first two victims, the deceased were all found to be very close to each other in proximity. It seemed to me to be a really random sweep of people dying in a little region, because obviously, people die every day.
After getting off the phone with the captain, Adrian seeks to question the guests a bit more, since he's adamant against staying for any extended length of time here.
"I'd like to speak to every guest that stayed here last night," he tells me. "And I'd like to further question the… manager…."
"Alright," I say. "I'm ready to do that." After realizing the guests have dispersed, probably back in their rooms for more shut-eye, we head to room 1, our first personal interview.
The only thing we acquire from the interview is the fact that the guest and his wife had only been there one night in the midst of their travels to Las Vegas and had never heard of the 'ghost' phenomenon. They had not seen the image. We continue on, and find that out of the 24 rooms in the motel, the only ones that saw the image were the ones that had stayed two nights or more, consisting of about 16 of the rooms. When heading to room 15, we find that the family had checked out several minutes before, and Adrian immediately looks to me with hope in his eyes.
"You can stay here for the night," he says giddily, touching the doorknob, and then wiping his hand on his pants. "It's vacant."
I look up the corridor to see a group of people around the concierge's desk. "Not anymore," I grumble, subtly gesturing toward the new guests. He sighs loudly in frustration.
Most of the guests are of the gothic run, and don't mind the disturbingly grotesque living quarters; they just put out more money when it comes time to check out in their common quest to see the future deceased.
"I…think… this place is housing some kind of cult," the detective says, shuddering. "Most of the people here… feel the same way about the images of the deceased…and it's really disturbing…." He's getting worked up now. "And they actually don't mind living in such filth!" he exclaims, emoting with his hands. "I wouldn't be surprised if they hoped I didn't figure out what's been going on, so they can continue with their sick fet…."
"Listen, Adrian," I say, putting my hands on his shoulders and looking at him. "The people here, no matter what you think, are harmless. They're just a different brand of people, and this is what gives them their kicks."
"I think I'd like to question the… manager now," he says, averting his eyes to the end of the hallway.
We head over to the desk, where the sloppy man is filling out information about the new guests.
"Hello—excuse me," Adrian stammers, making the man look up from his work. "You remember us from yesterday, Mr.—" He pauses, not knowing the man's name.
"Pratt," the concierge finishes.
"Now, Mr. Pratt," Adrian carefully states, staring at the man's cluttered desk, "you said you've never seen the ghosts?"
"Nope."
He leans slightly, glancing at some manuals on the man's desk. "Why did you not come to the police with this information?"
"It's not hurtin' nothin'," Pratt responds. "The guests are seein' random dead people; what's so illegal about that?"
"Nothing," the detective says. "It seems quite strange that supposedly they're seeing images of dead people before they've died."
"Heck, don't look at me!" the concierge says, throwing his hands in the air. "You explain it, detective; that's not my job!"
"Do you have any other employees working here?" Monk asks.
"Nope, don't need 'em."
"—With all this income, would it really hurt to hire a maid… or two, or thr—"
I kick him in the ankle, making him wince and stop with his comment. Mr. Pratt seems to accept this fact, and doesn't even seem angered by the comment.
The detective is practically staring a hole through the various manuals on the desk. "Have you been teaching yourself electronics?" he asks the man, who is caught off guard. Pratt shuffles the manuals into a neat single pile, clearing his throat.
"Yes, as a matter of fact. Someday this dump'll fall apart, and I'll be out of a job."
"So you're not married?" Monk asks.
Pratt shakes his head. "Nope."
The detective is let down, and I can see his entire body slouching. We are at square one, just where the previous cops were.
Mr. Pratt's desk is covered with papers, mostly of guest lists, electronics manuals, and brochures. It wouldn't seem that such a guy would be interested in learning, let alone about something as complicated as electronics.
"Could you two excuse me?" he says, gripping his pen once more. "I have a ton of stuff to do today."
"Alright," Monk says quietly. "I'll bet you do," he adds in a whisper after we've walked away a good distance.
We get back to our room, and I unlock the door, giving him a perplexed look the entire time. "Do you think he has something to do with this?" I say.
"Ohh, yes…" he says, flashing me a mischievous look. "I don't know how yet, but I have to find out more about the victims…. And I'd like to search his desk." He gives me this funny glance, and I'm immediately scared at what it might mean.
Once I open the door and head into the room with him close behind, he continues to talk. "Is there a way you can… occupy him while I search his desk?" he says carefully, giving me a little smile. "You said it yourself, you're 'cute.'"
"You can't be serious," I tell him. "At least the Vegas bellboy was young and good-looking; this guy is just… disgusting."
"You have to do this. I have to get him away from that desk."
"Can't you just obtain a search warrant and look at it legally?"
"He'll have put all the… controversial stuff away. We need to get this done as soon as possible; he probably realizes we're on to him."
"On to what?" I ask. I didn't notice anything strange about what the guy said. Of course, I'm not a detective, so I shut up quickly.
"Well, he has all those manuals for electronic equipment. And I saw some brochures from—"
"You're going to make me do this over manuals and brochures? Don't you need something better than that to accuse the guy?"
"Excuse me—" he says a bit haughtily—"but I'm the detective here. I know what I'm talking about."
"Okay, your highness," I mutter under my breath. I just feel so useless sometimes…
We wait awhile before I attempt this seemingly impossible deed, and I really doubt that I'm going to get anywhere with him unless he has short-term memory loss.
After an hour of flipping through the channels, and Adrian searching for extra wiring coming off of the TV and VCR for the source of the images (and coming up empty-handed, mind you), the time has come. Adrian's about to tell me something. Maybe he's changed his mind about this whole thing.
"Natalie, I have a plan," he states confidently. "I'm going to… go out to the car, like I'm leaving, and you tell him that we are having trouble with our TV and VCR…."
As he says this, he switches around the cables on the VCR, with the cable from the wall going into the 'out' connector, and the cable to the television going into the 'in' connector. He then bends the central wire in the cable to the television and to the wall, and reconnects them loosely, continuing to speak. "Since he's supposedly 'good' at electronics, he should offer to help you. While he's in here, I'll search around his desk."
"Okay," I say, relieved. "That sounds much easier. Do you want to do this now?"
He nods, so I hand him the car keys. "Wait about… five minutes from when I leave," he says carefully. "I'm heading out then." He opens the door, giving me a big smile as he closes it behind him.
After waiting for the longest five minutes of my life, and hiding our massive array of cleaning supplies under the bed, I head out to the concierge's desk. He's still writing; it surprises me that he's even literate.
"Excuse me, Mr. Pratt?" I ask him, approaching timidly, with my hands behind me. He looks up as I signal toward our motel room. "Our TV and VCR aren't working," I say. "Could you help me? I don't know what's wrong with—"
"Isn't your… partner guy with you?" he asks, suspicion in his voice.
"Um, no." I say, surprised that he didn't see Adrian leaving. "He left, to get some supplies," I say casually. "I really wanted to watch TV; it's really boring now that he's gone for awhile."
"Okay, okay," he says. "I'll take a look at it. I can't look for very long though, cause I got a lot of work to do."
I'm surprised that a guy like this isn't trying to hit on me. I'm not egotistical or anything, but I feel like I was egging him on just a little bit, with the way I phrased things. Oh well, it's a relief that he's not some pervert.
We head down to my room, and I open the door for him. He gapes around the shockingly clean room for a moment, then turns to me.
"Uhh, smells really strong in here," he mumbles.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Mr. Monk, he's a cleaning fanatic, a complete germophobe. He can't stand the smallest hint of dust. But don't worry; he does this everywhere he goes."
"I see." The concierge crosses to the television, not mentioning another word about the lingering chlorine smell. I wasn't even aware of how strong it still smelled in the room.
He eventually figures out what has happened after about 10 minutes of fuddling around with the VCR power button and examining the cable hookups. This guy really needs to read his manuals more. He doesn't even look at me the entire time, seemingly intent on the task at hand. That's admirable, I guess.
After both things are in working order again, I am still nervous as to whether Adrian will still be fiddling around in the guy's desk.
"Are you sure it's fixed?" I say. I pretend to swoon a bit. "How did you figure that out? You're so much smarter than me." I hold back my gagging as he attempts to respond with a new reddish tint to his face and neck.
"It's actually pretty simp—"
"You don't understand, sir," I say. "This is my sole form of entertainment here. I need this TV. So you're sure it's fixed…"
"Yes, ma'am; the cords were switched around, that's all."
I have added maybe about 5 minutes on to the time with airheaded comments and questions, and figure that's enough. I'm not going to try to convince him to stay any longer with idle chat.
Apparently Adrian's already gotten away from the desk, for Mr. Pratt doesn't make a sound as he heads back up the hallway. I sit around in the room, waiting for Adrian's return, and after 10 minutes more, he comes back in.
"Wow, what a quick trip, Adrian," I say, winking at him. He shuts the door and smiles. "What did you find? Anything interesting?"
"Well… his first name is Ron….He has several manuals about VGA converters and computer programs—I'm not sure what they are—and he keeps a laptop computer in his desk. He has a brochure from the Mojave National Preserve, so he's been in the region of the hospital…. There's a lot of wiring running through the floor, probably running to the ceiling through a pipe up the bathroom wall. I also happened to notice a crumpled up ID sticker in the trash can." He takes a small evidence bag out of his pocket, revealing the balled-up neon orange sticker.
"Why do you think there's wiring running through the pipe? I mean, it is in a bathroom."
"Well, the pipe is of a decent diameter, but it runs up the wall across from the sink and toilet, so it has no plumbing use…. There are no other bathrooms nearby…." He starts to unfold the sticker with a pair of tweezers. "We have to see what this sticker says," he states, deeply concentrating.
"I guess that makes sense then. I didn't realize it was across the room from the fixtures." I try to gain some of my dignity back by sounding smart, as I watch him put all of his energy into unraveling the little orange wad.
We call up Captain Stottlemeyer again, but this time Adrian holds the receiver to his ear. I'm not able to hear anything, but I wait in anticipation.
"That's right—a Ron or Ronald Pratt," he says. "—Yes, anything on him at all."
He sighs at whatever response the captain gives him. He then begins to discuss the victims. He hangs up after a while, shifting from foot to foot in the process. He looks to me, as I hold the notepad, ready to write. "The first two victims were found in a Las Vegas hospital after the power went out two nights in a row," he begins with a sigh. "Both were on life support, and apparently the generator didn't kick in right away like it was supposed to, on two consecutive nights, and so one died each night. They don't understand how the second one lived through the first blackout, but he ended up dying the very next day….The guests at this motel saw a picture of the deceased about a half hour before the blackouts ever happened."
"Wow," I say, rapidly taking note of the information, "How is that possible?"
"I think this has all been an inside job," he says, shaking his head. The sticker that is now flattened out is from a hospital, but the writing is so sloppy all over it that it's impossible to tell anything else. And the guy managed to scribble out the typed name of the hospital with an ink pen. A dead end. Adrian continues his explanation as he tosses the useless sticker in the trash can.
"Someone is well-aware of people close to death, or else may actually be causing them, especially in the case of the blackout…." There is a sentimental cast to his eyes, which are focused off into the distance. "I remember another case with a blackout—"
"So, why this motel?" I ask earnestly, cutting him off mid-sentence. He snaps out of his little sentimental reverie with the past case, and gives me a blank look as he shrugs.
"I'm…not sure…."
"Did he say anything about the guy's criminal record, or anything else?"
"He thinks the guy may have given us a fake last name. There is nothing on this guy, not even a high school. I definitely think the concierge is in on all this…."
Meanwhile, at the concierge's desk….
"—None tonight, okay, Sam? There's a… detective staying here, and I think he's on to somethin.'" He stares at the neat piles of papers on his desk as he refrains from speaking for several seconds. "Stuff is… straightened up on my desk; he's definitely been nosin' around…." Ron Pizzone's eyes dart down the hallway, keeping watch for the sleuth and his female partner.
He pauses to listen to the caller's response. "Ya can't be serious!" he exclaims. "This place'd be swarming with cops then. Why would ya wanna take that risk?" There is a pause as he listens to the reply.
"Okay, but how am I gonna do that?" He's more relieved now, but still on edge. Another pause.
"That can be arranged, but they might stay anyw—" It's the dial tone. The caller has hung up, and Ron is left to think about the new plan.
Back in room 12….
"We need to find out about the recently hired nurses in Mohave Valley Hospital. And the nurses in… Lake Mead Hospital Medical Center, the hospital where the first two victims died. I think then we'll find our perpetrator. There'll be a match somewhere…."
We decide to call Captain Stottlemeyer from a gas station pay phone down the road. Besides, Disher never did refill the tank after his little excursion. We need to eat some lunch and pick up a dinner as well.
The concierge watches us as he pass him in our trek to the vehicle. I'm a little creeped out, but he really is eyeing us up strangely.
The telephone call confirms Monk's suspicions. In the past couple of months, there were two nurses that had transferred from the Las Vegas hospital to hospitals in western Arizona, including Mohave Valley Hospital, Adrian tells me, as we sit in the restaurant section of the gas station eating subs. A male and a female, apparently. The man's name was Nick Johnson, and the woman's, Samantha Morris. Neither had any kind of criminal record, and had been RNs for years.
"Maybe the concierge is a nurse," I remark to the detective. He gives me a look of disbelief.
"I doubt that," he says, shaking his head.
"Why? Because he's a man? What, do you not think men can be nurses too?"
"No," he states. "Think of how… filthy he was, eating that fly-covered—"
"It could be a ploy, though, to lead us on the wrong track."
"Natalie," he scolds like an angry parent, "we didn't know anything at that point. I think he'd only try to steer us in the wrong direction is if we had already known something."
"Well, maybe he thought we knew more about it."
He puts a finger to his chin. "We'll keep an eye on him, if he goes anywhere tonight. Those… locations… seem too far away to get to in one night and back from early the next morning…. I think he's working with someone else—the nurse…."
I nod, and we finish up our meal, and head back to the hotel after picking up a similar meal for dinner from the station.
Immediately I find that the television doesn't work once again, and I am disgusted. I know that the guy had fixed it earlier, and the only reason it was messed up in the first place was because Adrian mixed the cables around. All the cables are intact and plugged into the right places, so I don't see how it's possible that the television isn't working. Adrian even looks at it for me, but can't figure it out either, and we know we can't have the concierge come down here again because it would look suspicious.
All evening the detective examines facts about the case, and compares them to what he had found in the desk. "I think I figured it out… well, some of it," he says, standing up from his seat on the bed. "The concierge—he's been receiving pictures from the… nurse and broadcasts them on the televisions from his desk. Maybe the nurse isn't even aware of what he's been doing with the pictures…. What I don't understand, though, is how the nurse could have taken pictures of dead people before they died in apparently non-homicidal ways. It's just not possible…."
After a silent dinner consisting of side salads, salami subs, and Sierra Springs, the most 'S' dinner I've ever had, Adrian goes to his suitcase to get ready to take a shower. He grabs his pajamas and whatever else, since I've now learned that 'looking at other people's luggage is rude,' and slips off his shoes in front of the bathroom door.
The door is only closed once, and I am relieved. However, I have no idea what I'll be doing during the hour it takes him to take a shower. There's no television, and I am disgusted to think I didn't bring any reading material.
I hear a loud yelp and a gagging sound from the bathroom after the shower's been running for 5 minutes or so. "Are you alright, Adrian?" I ask, hurrying over to the door. There's no response. "Adrian, what's wrong?" I repeat. Oh, I really don't want to have to go in there to check on him…. I almost died the last time I tried to help him….
After knocking on the door and not hearing any more responses, I decide I have to tell him I'm coming in to check (with my eyes covered, of course).
"Adrian, do you hear me? Adrian?" I'm really getting worried now, and I can hear him gagging again. Is he being choked? Oh God….
"I'm coming in there, Adrian, okay? Do you understand? Adrian!" I cautiously open the door, shielding my eyes….
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