Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

I shook off his comment and sat down on the bed next to him.

"So are you going to tell me?" I pressed.

"Situation's kind of delicate, Hunter," Walter said. He shifted uncomfortably and the bed creaked in protest.

"Everything you touch is delicate. What's so different this time?"

"Do you realize the extent of the scandal if it gets out that a former Secret Service agent's responsible for murdering upward of twenty people?" He turned his large head to me, and I could see the pain behind his slick brow. "Christ, Hunter, it'll be ten times worse than all the screaming over the Iraq campaign. It'll lend weight to the naysayers who're preaching that our government is allowing the murder of innocents in order to justify the invasion. Hell, if they find out the Harvestman has had free rein for over four years, do you think for one moment they'll believe it wasn't with the blessing of the government? Next thing you know, the crazies will be swearing that he's still on our payroll and has been taking out people who knew the truth behind JFK's assassination."

"Are you telling me that you've been aware of him for four years? That nothing's been done to catch the crazy son of a bitch? Makes me wonder if he's still on the payroll."

"He's only recently come to our notice," Walter said. "FBI have been investigating a number of random killings spread the length and breadth of the country. It hasn't been an easy task, simply because most of the bodies have never been found. People were reported missing, presumed dead. Others, well, you know the headlines, they've turned up missing body parts. Other than the MO nothing could tie the murders together."

"What? No forensics? I find that a little hard to believe." Frustration made me get up and stomp the length of the bedroom. I leaned on a dressing table that wouldn't have looked anachronistic in the 1970s. Hands on the cabinet, I stared at my re?ection in the mirror. It wasn't a face I recognized. Or liked. "This is all bullshit, Walter!"

Walter eyed me with not a little annoyance. "It's the truth, Hunter." I turned around so I could hold his gaze. "Walter, you wouldn't know the truth if it sneaked up and bit you on the ass." "I'm telling you the truth."

Returning to the bed, I again sat down next to him. "So what alerted you to the Harvestman's identity? I mean, considering that you haven't found any forensics? Did he start sending you taunting letters challenging you to catch him?"

Walter made a noise in his throat. "There's no need for sarcasm. And anyway, I didn't say there were no forensics. You said that," he said.

This time I didn't bite.

"The thing is, the forensics have only just recently come to our notice," Walter went on. "The FBI didn't have access to the USSS DNA records. We did. We only became aware of the Harvestman's identity following the murders of the couple at the motel out in the desert."

"You mean the murders that my brother's been blamed for?"

"Exactly."

"Yeah, but you know it wasn't John," I said.

"I know. But it served our purpose to put that story out."

"Served your damn purpose? Walter, you know I love you, but sometimes you're a complete asshole!" I was challenging him to disagree with me. In reply, he could only shrug.

"Comes with the job," he said.

Yes, I suppose it did. "So you tipped the media about John? What for? To draw out the real killer? You thought his ego would get the better of him and he'd show himself in order to take back the glory? Or was it a ploy to conceal the Harvestman's true identity?"

"A bit of both, I suppose," Walter said.

"Christ, Walter! Even when you're being truthful I can't get a straight answer out of you."

"Okay, I'll explain. That way you'll have everything I have." With a grunt he rose and walked away from me, fumbling the cigar to his lips. "Are you familiar with the book of Genesis?"

"I've read it, don't necessarily believe it," I answered.

"It's not necessary that you believe it, only that you have some idea of its content."

"I remember there are a lot of people with odd names begetting one another. Everything else I know I learned from Charlton Heston movies."

Walter shook off my sarcasm. "You've heard the story of Cain and Abel?"

"Yes."

"It's nothing new for some demented bastard to take on the name of Cain," Walter said. "In fact, the psyche of a murderer is often referred to as the Cain Complex. Murderers often look up to the great grandpappy of all murderers as to some sort of godhead in his own right. They think they're carrying out his work on earth and all that bullshit."

"And your sicko is no exception?" I asked.

"No, no, no. Not the Cain."

"Who then?"

"I'll come to that in a minute. First a little background on our man," Walter said. "His name is Martin Maxwell." "Doesn't ring any bells." "It won't. He didn't use that name when he was on active duty.

Called himself Dean Crow. Thought it sounded tougher than Marty Maxwell. More be fitting a U.S. Secret Service agent."

"Sounds like a complete peckerhead," I offered. "But I must admit I do recall something about him. Some low-level scandal involving a presidential candidate's wife, wasn't it?"

"He was relieved of duty after he was found supposedly looting the good lady's wardrobe for what he called in an interview 'a token of his skill.' "

"He's a damn panty sniffer?" I asked. Walter shook his head. "Nothing so gross. He cut a patch from one of her blouses is all." I recalled the missing piece of cloth from the old woman's blouse after she'd been held hostage next door. I was about to say this when

Walter added, "I say supposedly. The truth is the good lady was wearing her blouse at the time. Marty said he took the token to show her how vulnerable she was, how much she relied on him at all times."

"Crazy," I said.

"Yeah. Supremely crazy."

"So how'd he get through the net? Surely the psych tests should've singled him out before he achieved agent status?"

"Some psychos are good at covering their true identities. Up to that point Marty Maxwell was well respected and had seniority. It was a surprise to?nd that one of their most able men was crazy as a fox."

I grunted. "And all that happened was that he was discharged from service? Why didn't anyone keep an eye on him? Surely the signs were there, that he was capable of spiraling out of control?"

"Secret Service kept an eye on him as best they could. Only thing was-crazy or not-he was no fool. He knew that he'd be under surveillance for the foreseeable future. He wasn't prepared to let that happen."

"He went underground?"

"More than that. He faked his death. Supposedly, in an act of shame, he killed himself. And the other members of his family. Wife and two kids."

"Oh, God…"

"Shot them dead in their beds, turned the gun on himself, stuck it under his chin, and blasted off his head. He'd set up an incendiary device to burn the lot of them. Left only charred corpses in the burned-out ruin of their home." Walter hung his head in shame, but I guessed it wasn't in memory of Maxwell's wife and children. "Their identity wasn't in dispute. That was an end to it. They messed up."

"You're telling me. Obviously the DNA wasn't matched or they'd have known before now that he was still on the loose."

"I don't fully understand the science. They were happy it was Marty Maxwell. Considering he'd blown away half his head, they had no teeth for a dental comparison. His fingerprints had been burned off down to the bone. With the odds-on favorite that it was him, where would you have put your money?"

"Considering the training he'd had, what he'd have known, I'd have looked at the possibility that there was more to his death than met the eye. Who was the fourth body? If not Marty Maxwell? His father? A brother?"