Jeffery Deaver - The Lesson of Her Death

The day too was perfection itself. The sun was like the round face of a sky tiger and the wind blew through the new leaves so crisp and fast you could hear the voices of the trees calling to each other.

Sarah strolled outside and played a game Dr. Breck had taught her. She looked at the lawn and she said out loud, "G-R-A-S-S." Then came T-R-E-E and C-L-O-U-D. And she got the giggles when she pointed to Mrs. Clemington next door and spelled, "T-R-O-L-L."

She pointed to a cow, ten feet away, separated by the post-and-rail fence. The animal gazed at her eagerly as if it was milking time.

She lay down in her circle of stones and took her tape recorder out of her backpack.

Another good thing about today: she was going to finish the last chapter of her book. This one was her favorite story. She'd been working on it for days and hadn't told anyone about it. It filled almost half a cassette and she hadn't even gotten to the climax of the story yet. She'd give the tape to Dr. Parker, and her secretary would type out the words and Sarah would get the story back in a few days. Then she would copy it into the notebook and show it to Dr. Breck. She wanted desperately to impress him and had worked particularly hard on this story.

Sarah rewound the tape to the start of the chapter to see what she had written so far. She hit the Play button.

Chapter fifteen. The Sunshine Man… Once upon a time, deep in the forest, there lived a wizard…

The deputies got a kick out of Wynton Kresge – a man who owned more law enforcement books than they knew existed and who could outshoot any of them, either-handed, on the small arms range at Higgins. As far as they could remember there'd never been a black deputy in New Lebanon and it made the office seem like a set on a Hollywood buddy movie.

They were sitting around this evening, debating where Gilchrist might have gone. Prosecutor Dwayne Lovell had gotten a bench warrant issued and faxed to Boston and San Francisco, both cities having been Gilchrist's home at one time, then Corde added Gilchrist's name to the Criminal Warrants Outstanding Bulletin and Database for state and major city law enforcement agencies.

"What will they do?" Kresge asked Corde.

"Boston and San Francisco'll prioritize it. The others? Nothing. But if they happen to pick him up for something else and find his name in the computer they'll give us a call. It's not for sure but we can sleep a little better knowing we've done it."

"Looking for a tick on a dog," Kresge muttered as he dialed Boston PD. After a brief conversation, he learned that Gilchrist had no criminal record in Massachusetts.

Earlier that day Corde had granted Kresge's fervent request that he be allowed to interview Dean Larraby about Gilchrist. It was a long interview and she hadn't been much help though Kresge clearly had enjoyed himself. In searching Gilchrist's office and the other departments at Auden, the men had found that the professor had stolen most of the files containing personal information about himself. The Personnel Department, the Credentials Department, the English and Psych Departments – they had all been raided. Computer files erased. Cabinets emptied.

Kresge and Corde interviewed other professors. None of them knew much about Gilchrist or had snapshots that included him. They could not recall any school functions he had attended.

Brian Okun, Corde learned in a second antagonistic interview, said he knew the professor as well as anyone and could offer no clues as to where Gilchrist might have gone. "He's resourceful." Okun said then added with eerie sincerity, "It's troubling you don't know where he is. The evil we can't see is so much worse than that which we can, don't you think, Detective?"

Corde didn't know about that but one thing he did know: Gilchrist was Jennie Gebben's killer. Sayles had been correct; Gilchrist's fingerprints were on the tie-down rope cut from the Ford truck. The rope also contained two of Jennie's partials from trying to fight off the strangulation and one of her hairs. Another strand of her hair was found on a shirt in Gilchrist's closet He also had several red marking pens whose ink matched those on the newspaper clipping he had left for Corde the morning after Jennie's murder and on the back of the threatening Polaroids. Gilchrist's prints were also found on the back door, window and armrest of Jim Slocum's cruiser. It wasn't necessary to dust for those prints; they had been made with Randy Sayles's blood. But, as Corde knew and as Wynton Kresge was learning with great disillusionment, finding a criminal's identity is not the same as finding the criminal. Gilchrist had vanished.

Corde got a deputy to call car rental agencies. No one named Gilchrist had rented a car, the deputy announced, and Corde and Kresge looked at each other, both concluding simultaneously and silently that he wasn't going to be using his real name.

Corde, tapping the butt of his gun with a forefinger, began to say, "When we got Sayles to the ER -"

Kresge finished the question, "Did they find his wallet?"

"I don't know," the deputy said.

Corde continued, "Find out and if not call back the car companies and ask if someone named Sayles rented a car."

Kresge didn't wait to find out about the wallet. He got on the horn and called Hertz. A supervisor told him that a Randolph Sayles had rented a car the day before at Lambert Field in St Louis. He'd rented it for two weeks and was paying a. drop-off charge to leave the car in Dallas. Kresge got the description and plate number of the car and told them it had been illegally rented. "Have them notify us as soon as he returns it. Is that right, I mean, the right procedure?"

Corde realized Kresge had looked up from the phone and was speaking to him. Corde, who had never before had a car-renting felon, said, "Sounds good to me."

"Okay, it's a green Hertz Pontiac," Kresge announced, and sang out the license number. Corde had him send that information out over the wire to the county and state.

They checked the Midwest Air commuter flights. No one matching Gilchrist's description had flown from Harrison County Airport to Lambert Field in the past two days and there had been no private charter flights.

State DMV showed a car registered to Gilchrist, a gray Toyota, but no record of a state driver's license. After two hours on the phone, Miller found out that Gilchrist had a Massachusetts license. They'd fax a picture within three days.

That's the best they can do.

"And I had to beat them up to get that." Kresge said, "So he drove his car to St Louis, dumped it, rented another one and is going south."

"Maybe. Maybe he's trying to throw us off. Fax Dallas in any case." Corde pondered. "You know, maybe he's flying someplace and just rented the car to cover his tracks. Left it in the airport. Call the airlines, everything that flies out of St Louis. Let's hope he used Sayles's credit card again. And check the airport long-term parking for his own car or the rental."

Kresge said, "That's pretty good. How'd you know this stuff?"

"You pick it up as you go along," Corde said.

"I've got a lot to learn," Kresge said.

"He's gone over state lines," Corde said, then added reluctantly, "We could get the FBI in if we wanted to."

"How's that?"

"Teddies aren't interested in state crime unless there's interstate flight or you've got a kidnapping, drugs or bank robbery."

"Why don't we want them in?" Corde decided it was too early in Kresge's career for this kind of law enforcement education. "Because," he answered.

Slocum strolled up. "Bill, one thing I was thinking."

"Yup?"

"I'm not so sure this is just a fleeing felon thing." Corde wondered what trashy paperbacks he'd been reading.

Slocum continued, "I was trying to psych him out. I mean, look what he did to Sayles." When Corde kept staring blankly he added, "Well, it could've been a revenge situation."