John Verdon - Shut Your Eyes Tight

“You said Flores ‘slips out the back window and escapes without a trace’ after killing her. You mean that literally?”

“Well,” said Hardwick, pausing dramatically, “I’d have to say… yes and no.”

Gurney sighed and waited.

“The thing is,” said Hardwick, “Flores’s disappearance has a familiar echo about it.” Another pause, accented by a sly smile. “There was a trail from the back window of the cottage that went out into the woods.”

“What’s your point, Jack?”

“That trail out into the woods? It just stopped dead a hundred and fifty yards from the house.”

“What are you saying?”

“It doesn’t remind you of anything?”

Gurney stared at him incredulously. “You mean the Mellery case?”

“Don’t know of a whole lot of other murder cases with trails stopping in the middle of the woods with no obvious explanation.”

“So you’re saying… what?”

“Nothing definite. Just wondering if you might have missed a loose end when you wrapped up the Mellery lunacy.”

“What kind of loose end?”

“Possibility of an accomplice?”

“ Accomplice? Are you nuts? You know as well as I do there was nothing about the Mellery case that suggested even the remote possibility of more than one perp.”

“You a little touchy on that subject?”

“ Touchy? I’m touchy about time-wasting suggestions based on nothing more than your demented sense of humor.”

“So it’s all a coincidence?” Hardwick was striking the precise supercilious note that went through Gurney like nails on a blackboard.

“ All what , Jack?”

“The MO similarities.”

“You better tell me pretty damn quick what you’re talking about.”

Hardwick’s mouth stretched sideways-maybe a grin, maybe a grimace. “Watch the movie,” he said. “Only a few minutes to go.”

A few minutes passed. Nothing of significance was happening on the screen. Several guests wandered over to the flower beds that bordered the cottage, and one of the women in the group, the one Hardwick had earlier identified as the lieutenant governor’s wife, seemed to be conducting a kind of botanical tour, speaking energetically as she pointed at various blooms. Her group moved gradually out of the frame as though attached by invisible threads to its leader. The camera remained focused on the cottage. The curtained windows revealed nothing.

Just as Gurney was about to question the purpose of this segment of the video, the view switched back to one showing Scott Ashton and the Luntzes in the foreground and the cottage in the background.

“Time for the toast,” Ashton was saying. All three were looking toward the cottage. Ashton glanced at his watch, raised his hand in a summoning gesture, and called to a member of the serving staff. She hurried over with an accommodating smile.

“Yes, sir?”

He pointed toward the cottage. “Let my wife know it’s past four o’clock.”

“She’s in that cute little house over there by the trees?”

“Yes, please tell her it’s time for the wedding toast.”

As she headed off on her assignment, Ashton turned to the Luntzes. “Jillian tends to lose track of time, especially when she’s trying to get someone to do what she wants.”

The video showed the young woman crossing the lawn, arriving at the cottage door, and knocking. After a few seconds, she knocked again, then tried the knob with no success. She looked back across the lawn toward Ashton, turning her palms up in a gesture of bafflement. In reply he mimed a more energetic knock. She frowned but made the repeat effort, anyway. (This time the sound was loud enough to register on the sound track of the camera, which Gurney reckoned must have been around fifty feet from the cottage.) When there was no reply to her final attempt, she turned up her palms again and shook her head.

Ashton muttered something, seemingly more to himself than to the Luntzes, and strode off toward the cottage. He went straight to the door, knocked loudly, then yanked and pushed roughly at the knob, at the same time calling, “Jilli! Jilli, the door is locked! Jillian!” He stood scowling at the door, his body language conveying frustration and confusion, then turned and walked briskly to the back door of the main house.

Perched on the arm of Gurney’s couch, Hardwick explained, “He went to get a key. Told us he always kept an extra in the pantry.”

A moment later the video showed Ashton emerging from the main house. He went back to the cottage door, knocked again, apparently got no response, inserted a key, opened the door inward. From the perspective of the camera recording all this, about forty-five degrees to the cottage, very little of the building’s interior was visible and only Ashton’s back, but there was an abrupt stiffening in his body. After a momentary hesitation, he stepped inside. Several seconds later there was an awful sound, a howl of shock and anguish-the word “HELP” screamed desperately once, twice, three times, and then, seconds later, Scott Ashton came staggering out the door, tripping over his own feet, falling sideways into a flower bed, screaming “HELP” so primally and repeatedly that it ceased being a word at all.

The wedding videographer’s stationary cameras, positioned at their four key viewpoints on the lawn, continued to run for another twelve minutes after Ashton’s collapse, creating a comprehensive video record of the ensuing chaos-at which point they were switched off and impounded by Chief Luntz for their evidentiary value.

The full twelve minutes of hyperactivity were included on the edited DVD that Gurney was watching with Hardwick-twelve minutes of shouted orders and questions, horrified shrieks, guests running to Ashton, into the cottage, backing out, a woman falling, another tripping over her, falling on top of her, guests helping Ashton up from the flower bed, guiding him to the back door of the main house, Luntz blocking the door of the cottage and frantically working his cell phone, guests turning this way and that with crazed looks, the four musicians entering the scene, one violinist with his instrument still in his hand, another with just his bow, three uniformed Tambury cops running up to Luntz as he guarded the doorway, the president of the British Heritage Society vomiting on the grass.

At the end of the recording, after a final digital jitter, Gurney sat back slowly on his couch and looked over at Hardwick.

“Jesus.”

“So what do you think?”

“I think I’d like to know a little more.”

“For instance?”

“When did BCI arrive at the scene, and what did you find in the cottage?”

“Uniformed troopers arrived three minutes after Luntz shut down the cameras, which would be fifteen minutes after Ashton discovered the body. While Luntz was calling in his own uniforms, guests were calling 911-which got passed along to the trooper barracks and the sheriff’s department. As soon as the uniforms took a peek in the cottage, they called BCI, call got routed to me, and I got to the scene maybe twenty-five minutes later. So the customary clusterfuck was in high gear in no time at all.”

“And?”

“And the prevailing wisdom was that the whole deal should get dumped ASAP into BCI’s lap-which meant Senior Investigator Jack Hardwick’s lap. Where it remained for approximately one week, until I had the urge to inform our beloved captain that his approach to the case-the approach he insisted I follow-had certain logical flaws.”

Gurney smiled. “You told him he was a fucking idiot?”

“Words to that effect.”

“And he reassigned the case to Arlo Blatt?”