Jeffery Deaver - The Lesson of Her Death

"Morning, Tom." Corde picked up the Register from the driveway and held the screen door open for the deputy.

"Howdy, Detective. Nice house you got here."

Corde introduced him to the family. Diane offered him some coffee. He declined regretfully as if this were a slap at her cooking.

The deputy retreated to the comfort of his Dodge watchtower parked in the driveway and the family sat down to breakfast. Jamie and Diane were talking about something, animated, near to an argument. Sarah sat quietly but was overjoyed at the news that she could stay home from school today. ("Only today, mind you, one day. Just one, but no more absences for the rest of the year, you understand, young lady?" – Oh, yes, and how many times had they said the same thing?)

Corde wasn't listening to his wife and son and he wasn't observing his daughter's elation because he was reading a short article in the Register and he was shocked.

Cult Suspected in Auden Co-ed Murder

He set his coffee on the table and knocked the syrup over. He didn't notice it fall. Diane glanced at him, frowning, and righted the bottle.

… Sheriffs Department investigators are looking into the possibility that a cult or religious killer may be stalking the town of New Lebanon…

His eyes jumped through the article.

… and robbery was not a motive. Because she was killed on the night of the first quarter of the moon, there has been speculation that Miss Gebben may have been a sacrifice victim, possibly one in a chain of such killings. Sources close to the Sheriffs Department also disclosed that death threats have been made against its personnel…

Threats plural?

…Sheriff Steve Ribbon stated emphatically, however, that they would in no way impede the investigation. "We aren't going to be bullied by these people, whoever they are, however sick they might be," Ribbon said. "We have some strong leads and we're pursuing them real hard."

"Damn," Corde muttered, bringing an end to breakfast table arguments and meditations on freedom. He looked over the paper to find his family staring at him.

"What is it, hon?"

He handed Diane the article and told the children it was nothing. Jamie glanced over his mother's shoulder as she read.

"A cult?" he asked.

Diane finished the article. Jamie picked it up and continued to read.

His wife asked him, "What's wrong with the story? I don't get it."

"Too much publicity," he muttered. "I think it's best to play cases like this close to your chest."

"I suppose," she said, and began clearing away dishes.

Corde stood to fetch his gunbelt but before he left the kitchen he glanced at his wife. She was intent on dishes and seemed to have missed what was so troubling to him – that this story was a huge sign for the killer, which said, in the vernacular of Steve Ribbon, You may've threatened Corde but no matter. He's going ahead full steam and he don't give a good goddamn about your threats. You do your worst, you aren't stopping our boy BUI.

They wouldn't go so far as to blurt out, "I was at a frat party", or "I was on a date the night it happened" or "You can ask anyone, I didn't even see her that night", even though that's what they wanted to blurt. But they were defensive and they were scared. Dodging Corde's cool green eyes, the boys glanced from his face to his gun, the girls to the floor. Some of them seemed inconvenienced, some were near tears. Often they did cry.

Room 121 in the Student Union had never been put to such a sorrowful purpose.

The room was worse than any interrogation cubicle at the New Lebanon Sheriffs Department. It was painted beige and smelled of adolescent perfume and aftershave lotion, chalk, poster paints, bitter bad coffee and food cooking in grease. Corde sat at a lightweight metal desk he could lift with his knees by flexing his toes and he felt ridiculous. Lance Miller was in the opposite corner of the room.

Throughout the morning students and staff workers of the school gave Corde their version of the essay "The Jennie Gebben That I Knew." They put their words to many uses – exonerating themselves, pressing the wound of loss, putting their names into the public record.

Some even tried to help him catch a killer.

In the morning alone Corde filled two packs of three-by-five cards. At one p.m. they took a break. Corde opened his briefcase to get a new pack of cards. As he cracked the cellophane wrapping, Miller glanced into the briefcase and noticed Corde staring at a photo taped to the inside. It was the one of Jennie Gebben, face shiny with sweat. Corde was aware of Miller's watching him and closed the lid. Miller went to the cafeteria to buy sandwiches.

After lunch Miller looked out the window and said, "Oh, boy, here he comes again." Corde looked up and saw Wynton Kresge coming up the sidewalk. "What's that man want?" Corde asked.

The security chief entered the small room, carrying an envelope.

"Hiya, Wynton," Corde said. "What can we do for you?" Kresge set an envelope on Corde's desk. "What'd this be?" the detective asked.

"I don't know. I was over to Town Hall and I saw Detective Slocum there. I mentioned I was going to be nearby the Student Union and he asked me if I'd mind dropping this off and I said I'd be happy to." He stopped abruptly, looking pleased he'd given the explanation so smooth. On the outside was stamped: Forensic Lab Interoffice Use Only – Fredericksberg. Kresge asked him, "They have a division in the state that looks for clues?"

"This's the county lab. Jim Slocum was in the office? He's supposed to be checking out the roads and the mall," Corde snapped.

Kresge asked, "You want me to check out anything at the mall? I'd be happy to."

"No." Corde was miffed. He walked out of Room 121 to a phone booth disfigured with innocuous messages. Kresge remained in the activity room for a moment looking awkwardly at the blackboard. Then he left, walking past Corde and waving good-bye. Corde, the phone crooked under his neck, nodded and watched his broad trapezoidal back disappear down the corridor. A deputy in the office said that Slocum wasn't there. Did Corde want him to call in? Corde answered, "No," and hung up angrily. He returned to the room and looked inside the envelope Kresge had brought.

"Oh, no."

Miller looked at him.

"We missed ourselves a knife."

"At the crime scene?"

"Yup." Corde was looking at a bad photocopy. The technician had merely laid the weapon on the copier platen. The edges were out of focus and the background was smudged black. It was a short folding stiletto with a dark handle and a thin blade, which looked about four inches long – two shorter than the state limit for concealed weapons. There was a design on the handle – an insignia of some kind – in the shape of crossed lightning bolts. It looked vaguely like a Nazi insignia, Corde thought.

He read the brief report from the Harrison County Crime Scene Division. The knife had been found in the flowers beneath where Jennie Gebben had lain, the blade closed. It had not been used on her – there were no traces of blood tissue on the blade – though it might have been used to cut the rope the killer strangled her with.

Steve Ribbon had added a handwritten note. Bill – Offering? Sacrifice? More evidence of Cult action. You should follow up.

"Stupid of us, Lance. Damn stupid, missing something like this. And I went over the site twice. Slocum and I both." Corde's skin felt hot from this lapse. He pulled another report from the envelope – about the newspaper clipping and its threatening message. There had been no fingerprints. The red ink, in which were found several marker fibers, was from a Flair pen, sold in millions of stores around the country.