C. Lawrence - Silent victim

"My car's outside," Butts said.

"Let's go."

"I'm coming with you," Diesel said. "That's not-" Butts began, but Diesel interrupted. "I'm coming with you." The detective looked at Lee, who shrugged. "The more the merrier," Butts said, opening the apartment door.

Within ten minutes they were barreling down Varick Street, and within twenty had cleared the Holland Tunnel. Butts's car was a massive blue Ford, a rattling old gas guzzler the size of a small boat.

They used Butts's phone to call the Jersey police in Lambertville, the nearest station to Stockton. A patrol car was dispatched to the Perkins place. Repeated calls to Lee's cell had gone straight to voice mail-it was possible the battery had run down. He wished he had thought to give Charlotte the phone charger. Numerous calls to Perkins's office number were picked up by his voice mail recording.

"Nice wheels," Lee remarked as they swung onto Route 78. He was doing his best to keep his mind off what they might find when they reached Stockton.

"Don't knock it till you've tried it," Butts muttered, gnawing on a thumbnail. He always seemed to have something in his mouth-cigars, doughnuts, candy. Failing that, his finger would do. "I wanted to get a smaller car, but the wife was attached to old Blue Bertha, so we kept it. Now I've gotten kinda attached, you know?"

"Doesn't it eat up gas?" Diesel asked from the backseat.

"Not as much as you'd think," Butts said. "It does okay on the highway. The trick is to keep it tuned up and all. One of my sons works for a mechanic, so we get a family rate."

"Hey," Lee said suddenly. "Why did both of you show up at my place?" He craned his neck to look at Diesel in the backseat. He was so enormous that even in this roomy old car he looked cramped. "Have you added law enforcement to your other gigs?"

"No-I was on my way to see you when I ran into Detective Butts."

"What for?"

"I just thought you might need my help."

This wasn't the first time Diesel had turned up at an opportune moment-he seemed to have a nose for trouble.

"One thing surprises me," Butts remarked as they reached the turnoff for Route 202 South. "I wouldn't think that-uh, Charlotte-would know how to do a text message, y'know?"

"That's true," Lee said. "She did tell me she used a cell phone at the hospital where she works. She must have learned how to do it there."

"What do you think the chances are Krieger's still alive?" Butts asked as he steered the big car onto the exit ramp.

"Based on how quickly he's killed the others, not very good," Lee said grimly.

At that moment Butts's own cell phone rang. It was the patrol cop calling from the Perkins house to report that he was sitting in his car outside the place, but it all was quiet inside the house. There had been no answer when he knocked on the door, and no sign of life in the house. There was a car parked outside, however, and when he ran a check on the plates it came up as belonging to Martin Perkins.

Lee didn't know if that was good news or bad, but he asked the officer if he could possibly wait until they arrived to go in, and he said he would try.

Butts didn't need any help finding the way to Stockton-they'd traveled it enough times by now. As they zigzagged down the winding road that led to the town's main street, Lee's stomach twisted with anticipation. He had zoomed down this road so many times on his bike, flying along with the wind rushing in his ears-and now he was driving down it in search of a murderer.

The big car rattled down the modest main street, past Errico's Market, the gas station and liquor store, and the little clump of restaurants around the Stockton Inn. The rain had stopped, and the street was quiet. A couple of kids were playing Hula-hoop on their front lawn, and a young mother was pushing her baby in a stroller on the way to the grocery store. The sun had come out, and the street was bathed in a golden glow. It looked as though nothing could ever be wrong on such a street on such a summer's day. The air of normalcy wasn't convincing. Though he hoped he was wrong, Lee had a bad feeling as they approached the Perkins place.

The police cruiser sat in front of the house. A couple of small boys had stopped by on their bikes to talk to the officer behind the wheel. As soon as he saw Butts pull up, he got out of the car and strode over to greet them. To Lee's surprise, it was Officer Lars Anderson, the young cop they had met at Ana Watkins's house.

"Hi there," he said. "I heard it was you two and volunteered to come on over. You think we have probable cause to go in?"

Lee showed him the text message on Butts's cell phone and explained that, in all likelihood, it came from Charlotte Perkins.

"That's good enough for me," Anderson replied, and led the way up the steps to the front porch. He paused and glanced at Diesel, then back at Butts.

"Undercover," Butts said in a confidential tone, and the trooper nodded.

A round of knocking also brought no response, so Anderson whipped a towel out of his car's trunk, wrapped it around his arm, and broke the bottom pane of glass on the door with one deft punch.

"Looks like you've done that a few times before," Butts remarked as he reached around to unlatch the lock from the inside.

"That's why I keep a towel in the trunk," Anderson replied. "You never know when it'll come in handy."

They followed him into the front hall, which was dark and deserted.

"Anybody home?" Anderson called out, but was met with silence.

They walked through to the living room, where everything looked to be in order. The piano keys gleamed ivory white in the morning sun. There was no sign of life in the first-floor parlor, the kitchen, or the butler's pantry to the side of the kitchen. On the other side of the kitchen was an office that evidently served as a consulting room as well. It contained a couch and several armchairs, as well as a desk and built-in bookcase.

When they had secured the first floor, they proceeded upstairs. The two small bedrooms in what must have originally been the servants' wing were clear, but as they approached the master bedroom, they saw the blood. There were crimson fingerprints on the wall, as well as high-velocity splatter in all directions; some blood had even landed on the windowsill on the other side of the corridor. It was clear that someone had been viciously attacked in this hallway. The four of them stopped walking, and Officer Anderson put a finger to his lips. There was no need for silence, though; it was clear from the heavy stillness of the air that the violence had occurred hours ago. A trail of blood led into the master bedroom, apparently ending behind the slightly open door.

Lee's heart beat wildly as Anderson and Butts drew their revolvers. Butts waved to Anderson to indicate that he should continue down the hall to make sure the far bedroom was clear. The young cop nodded and crept down the hall, holding his gun stiffly in front of him.

Moments later, he emerged from the room and called, "All clear."

Holding his revolver in both hand, Butts pushed open the door to the master bedroom with his foot.

"Stay here," he called over his shoulder as he went in. There was no need-Lee had no desire to enter what was obviously a crime scene. Through the open door, he and Diesel could see into the room-and Lee felt a shiver of relief when he saw the dead body on the floor. The sight that greeted them, disturbing as it was, was not Charlotte Perkins. His relief was followed by shame and disgust-shame at having been relieved, and disgust at what lay before them. Though his worst fears had not been realized, the murder scene was not a pretty sight.

Martin Perkins lay on his back, arms and legs akimbo, his head smashed in by what looked to be a series of blows from a heavy blunt object. Though his face was bloody and disfigured, his eyes had not been removed, and there was no sign of a suicide note. There were, however, signs of frenetic rage and overkill. The expensive-looking carpet he was lying on had soaked up a tremendous amount of blood-no doubt the blood loss alone would have been enough to kill him. It was hard to tell how many times he had been hit, but it was clear that the amount of force used was far in excess of what was needed.