John Verdon - Think of a Number

“Temporary arrangement with the DA. Just wanted to take another look at the scene. Sorry to interrupt, but I thought you might want to know I was here.”

“In the bushes?”

“Behind the barn. I was standing where the killer was sitting.”

“What for?”

“Better question would be what was he there for?”

Hardwick shrugged. “Lurking in the shadows? Taking a smoke break in his fucking lawn chair? Waiting for the right moment?”

“What would make the moment right?”

“What difference does it make?”

“I’m not sure. But why wait here? And why arrive at the scene so early you have to bring a chair with you?”

“Maybe he wanted to wait until the Mellerys went to sleep. Maybe he wanted to watch until all the lights went out.”

“According to Caddy Mellery, they went to bed and turned out the lights hours earlier. And the phone call that woke them was almost certainly from the murderer-meaning that he wanted them awake, not asleep. And if he wanted to know whether the lights were out, why station himself in one of the few spots where he couldn’t see the upstairs windows? In fact, from the position of that chair, he could barely have seen the house at all.”

“What the hell is all that supposed to mean?” blustered Hardwick, his tone belied by an uneasy look in his eyes.

“It means either that a very smart, very careful perp went to great lengths to do something senseless or that our reconstruction of what happened here is wrong.”

Blatt, who’d been following the conversation as if it were a tennis game, stared at Hardwick.

Hardwick looked like he was tasting something unpleasant. “Any chance you could track down some coffee?”

Blatt pursed his lips by way of complaint but retreated into the house, presumably to do what he was told.

Hardwick took his time lighting a cigarette. “There’s something else that doesn’t make sense. I was looking at a report on the footprint data. The spacing between the prints coming from the public road to the chair location behind the barn averages three inches greater than between the prints going from the body to the woods.”

“Meaning that the perp was walking faster when he arrived than when he left?”

“Meaning exactly that.”

“So he was in a bigger hurry to get to the barn and sit and wait than to get away from the scene after the murder?”

“That’s Wigg’s interpretation of the data, and I can’t come up with another one.”

Gurney shook his head. “I’m telling you, Jack, our lens is out of focus. And by the way, there’s another odd bit of data bothering me. Where exactly was that whiskey bottle found?”

“About a hundred feet from the body, alongside the departing prints.”

“Why there?”

“Because that’s where he dropped it. What’s the problem?”

“Why carry it there? Why not leave it by the body?”

“An oversight. In the heat of the moment, he didn’t realize he still had it in his hand. When he noticed it, he tossed it. I don’t see the problem.”

“Maybe there isn’t any. But the footprints are very regular, relaxed, unhurried-like everything was proceeding according to plan.”

“What the hell are you getting at?” Hardwick was showing the frustration of a man trying to hold his groceries inside a ripped bag.

“Everything about the case feels super cool, super planned-very cerebral. My gut tells me that everything is where it is for a reason.”

“You’re telling me he carried the weapon a hundred feet away and dropped it there for a premeditated reason?”

“That would be my guess.”

“What goddamn reason could he have?”

“What effect did it have on us?”

“What are you talking about?”

“This guy is as much focused on the police as he was on Mark Mellery. Has it occurred to you that the oddities of the crime scene might be part of a game he’s playing with us?”

“No, that did not occur to me. Frankly, it’s kind of far out.”

Gurney restrained an urge to argue the point and said instead, “I gather Captain Rod still thinks our man is one of the guests.”

“Yeah, ‘one of the lunatics in the asylum’ is how he puts it.”

“You agree?”

“That they’re lunatics? Absolutely. That one of them is the murderer? Maybe.”

“And maybe not?”

“I’m not sure. But don’t tell Rodriguez that.”

“Does he have any favorite candidates?”

“Any of the drug addicts would be okay with him. He was going on yesterday about the Mellery Institute for Spiritual Renewal being nothing but a pricey spa for rich scumbags.”

“I don’t get the connection.”

“Between what?”

“What exactly does drug addiction have to do with Mark Mellery’s murder?”

Hardwick took a final thoughtful drag from his cigarette, then flicked the butt into the damp earth beneath the holly hedge. Gurney reflected that this was not the sort of thing one was supposed to do at a crime scene, even after it had been fine-combed, but it was exactly the sort of thing he’d gotten used to during their former collaboration. Nor was he surprised when Hardwick walked over to the hedge to extinguish the smoldering butt with the toe of his shoe. That was the way the man gave himself time to think about what he was going to say, or not say, next. When the butt was thoroughly extinguished and buried a good three inches in the soil, Hardwick spoke.

“Probably not much to do with the murder, but a lot to do with Rodriguez.”

“Anything you can talk about?”

“He has a daughter in Greystone.”

“The mental hospital down in New Jersey?”

“Yeah. She did some permanent damage. Club drugs, crystal meth, crack. Fried a few brain circuits, tried to kill her mother. The way Rodriguez sees it, every other drug addict in the world is responsible for what happened to her. It’s not a subject he’s rational about.”

“So he thinks an addict killed Mellery?”

“That’s the way he wants it to be, so that’s what he thinks.”

A damp, isolated gust of wind swept across the patio from the direction of the snow-covered lawn. Gurney shivered and stuck his hands deep into his jacket pockets. “I thought he just wanted to impress Kline.”

“That, too. For a dickhead he’s pretty complicated. Control freak. Nasty little bundle of ambition. Totally insecure. Obsessed with punishing addicts. Not too happy about you, by the way.”

“Any specific reason?”

“Doesn’t like deviations from standard procedure. Doesn’t like smart guys. Doesn’t like anyone closer to Kline than he is. Who the fuck knows what else?”

“Doesn’t sound like the ideal frame of mind for leading an investigation.”

“Yeah, well, what else is new in the wonderful world of criminal justice? But just because a guy is a fucked-up asshole doesn’t mean he’s always wrong.”

Gurney contemplated this bit of Hardwickian wisdom without comment, then changed the subject. “Does the focus on the guests mean other avenues are being ignored?”

“Like what?”

“Like talking to people in the area. Motels, inns, B &Bs…”

“Nothing is being ignored,” said Hardwick with sudden defensiveness. “The households in the vicinity-there aren’t that many, less than a dozen on the road from the village up to the institute-were contacted within the first twenty-four hours, an effort that produced zero information. Nobody heard anything, saw anything, remembered anything. No strangers, no noises, no vehicles at odd hours, nothing out of the ordinary. Couple of people thought they heard coyotes. Couple more thought they heard a screech owl.”

“What time was that?”

“What time was what?”