Джеймс Паттерсон: The Summer House

“You’re quite correct, Sheriff,” Cook says. “And we’re not here to obstruct or take over the investigation.”

“Then why are you here, and all the way from Virginia?” the sheriff asks, pleasant steel still in her voice. “Twice I’ve had run-ins with your boys from Hunter Airfield, once for a DUI that ended in a jeep crash and the other for a brawl. Both times I worked with the Hunter MPs. How come you’re here and they aren’t?”

Cook tells the sheriff exactly what he had reminded Connie of that morning. “It’s our job,” he says. “We have a team that consists of investigators, an Army JAG lawyer, and an Army psychiatrist. We want to get to the facts of the case as soon as possible so that justice is done.”

“What kind of justice?”

“The kind that means if we—working with you—determine that there is clear evidence of their guilt, we’ll make sure it gets to the right hands, either your office or your district attorney’s.”

The sheriff runs a finger alongside one of the manila folders. “I suppose that also means if you think these four are being railroaded or set up or somehow are innocent, you’ll put that out as well.”

“We will,” Connie’s boss says.

“Sounds like you’re more interested in a cover-up than getting to the truth,” she says.

Cook says, “Then perhaps I’m not making myself clear. My team is here to get to the truth, whatever it may be. And again, we respect your position and authority. We would just like to work here with your knowledge and cooperation.”

The sheriff slowly nods. “All right, then. Nice to make everything clear and out in the open. What first?”

Cook says, “My apologies, but all we know is that you’ve arrested four soldiers from the Fourth Ranger Battalion, stationed at Hunter Army Airfield. Could you confirm their names and ranks for us?”

Sheriff Williams goes right to the top of the pile, passes a file folder over to Connie. “I had a duplicate made of their personnel information and their booking photos.” She opens the top drawer of her desk and puts on a pair of reading glasses as Connie opens the folder and slides out four color booking photos with names and IDs printed below.

The sheriff leans over her own copy of the information and says, “Here we go. Top to bottom. Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson, age twenty-eight. Corporal Curtis Barnes, age twenty-six. Specialist Vinny Tyler, age twenty-three. And Specialist Paulie Ruiz, age twenty-four. All belonging to…let’s see, Second Platoon, Alpha Company, Fourth Battalion. The rest of the staff sergeant’s squad are out on medical leave for various wounds and injuries.” Williams looks up, taking off her reading glasses. “That’s who they are. All residing either at or near the air base.”

As the sheriff read off the names, Connie gave each photo a good hard stare. The senior NCO, Jefferson, is African American with a shaved head, small ears close to his skull, and a confident, staring look into the police camera. Corporal Barnes is white, Specialist Ruiz is Hispanic, and Specialist Tyler is also white. Ruiz is like Jefferson, staring into the camera with quiet confidence, black hair trimmed short. Corporal Barnes’s hair is nearly white-blond, and his face is a blank slate. The last specialist, Tyler, has red hair—also trimmed short—and he’s the only one who looks out of place, like he can’t believe he’s having his photo taken as part of a multiple-homicide investigation.

All four are lean, muscular, and wearing civilian shirts, from checked short-sleeves to polos.

“Tough-looking crowd,” Williams says.

“That’s their job,” Cook says. “Tough and smart.”

“What next?” Williams asks.

Connie expects the major to ask questions about the victims and is surprised when Cook goes in another direction.

“I’d like to take a look at the murder house,” her boss says.

Sheriff Williams clasps her hands together on top of her desk and says, “Well, that’s going to be our first disagreement.”

“Excuse me?” Cook asks.

“The scene of the crime,” she says. “It’s sorta well-known around here. It’s called The Summer House and is on its way to getting on the National Register of Historic Places…Lots of famous folks stayed there, including FDR when he was visiting Warm Springs.”

The sheriff’s face hardens. “And sorry, I’m not giving you or anyone else from the Army access.”

Chapter 7

I’M GOING STARE to stare against this county’s sheriff, and I realize I’ve just struck the first shoal of the investigation.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry if I’ve crossed a line, Sheriff Williams,” I say, trying to make my voice as quiet and reasonable as possible. “May I ask why you won’t give us access?”

“Because,” she says, “it’s our department’s policy only to allow sworn Georgia peace officers and forensics specialists access.”

“I see,” I say. My NYPD style of dealing with competing law enforcement agencies by raising my voice and pounding the desk won’t work here. “Well, perhaps we should move on. The victims. Do you have an accounting of who they are?”

The sheriff goes to another file folder, and I have to admire her for her neatness.

“All right,” she says, “and I warn you, it ain’t going to be pretty.”

“Warning taken,” I say.

The first color photo comes to Connie and me. A man on his back on an old, wide-planked wooden floor, eyes open, forehead and nose torn away by bullet wounds. Lots of blood and exposed flesh and bone. Long brown hair. Upper part of a black T-shirt.

“Gordon Tilly,” she says. “Age twenty-one. Student at Savannah Technical College, studying commercial truck driving.”

The next photo is not as graphic. A young man sprawled out on an overturned couch, the couch covered with a dark gray blanket. The back of his head is a mess of hair, bone, and blood.

“Randall Gleason,” she says. “Age nineteen. Not sure of his status.”

Another flip. A woman this time. Black T-shirt as well. Eyes closed, mouth open, thick brown hair, neat round hole in her forehead. Resting on the same old battered wood floor.

“Sally Tisdale,” the sheriff says. “Also nineteen. A student at the Athens Beautician School in Savannah.”

The next photo shows a woman crumpled up against the base of a wall, the back of her skull a familiar mess.

“Gina Zachary, age twenty,” she says. “Dropout from Savannah Technical College. Her body was on the second floor, in a bedroom.”

The sheriff pauses, and realizing her hesitation, I say, “The next one is bad, I gather?”

Williams purses her lips. “The worst.”

The photo comes over, there’s a sudden intake of breath from Connie, and I stare and look away, remembering the first time I saw something similar, back on the job, and the only way I kept it together was to pretend I was looking at a doll someone had broken. And I also remember Duffy, a detective counting out the days and weeks before retiring, and him telling me, Most of this new tech is good shit, helping us break cases, but I do hate color crime-scene pics. Black-and-white…you didn’t get as sick to your stomach.

Sheriff Williams nearly whispers. “A little girl, around two years of age…I…I just don’t know.”

We three sit there for a dark few seconds, and she says, “Last two.”

Flip. Dead man in a rumpled bed, eyes and mouth open in surprise, another neat bullet hole, in his forehead. “Stuart Pike. Twenty-two. The dump was rented in his name. Also a dropout of Savannah Technical College.”

Flip . I take a breath. Thank God, the last one.

An older woman, and I instantly see she doesn’t fit. More mature, early thirties, a bit of makeup, the top of her blouse showing some taste and dollars, and the look on her face isn’t that of surprise but of terror. The right side of her head is a gaping, bloody hole.