by John Verdon
“You’re in for a treat, my boy,” he whispered gratingly. “Our precocious DA, youngest in the history of the county, is gracing us with his presence.”
Gurney felt that reflexive antagonism toward Hardwick that he realized was out of proportion to the man’s aimless acidity. Despite his effort not to react, his lips stiffened as he spoke. “Wouldn’t his involvement be expected in something like this?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t expect it,” hissed Hardwick. “I just said you were in for a treat.” He glanced at the three chairs tilted in at the center of the table and, with the curled lip that was becoming part of his face, commented to no one in particular, “Thrones for the Three Wise Men.”
On the heels of his remark, the door opened and three men entered.
Hardwick identified them sotto voce at Gurney’s shoulder. It struck Gurney that Hardwick’s missed vocation was ventriloquism, considering his ability to speak without moving his lips.
“Captain Rod Rodriguez, officious prick,” said the disembodied whisper, as a squat, salon-tanned man with a loose smile and malevolent eyes stepped into the room and held the door for the taller man behind him—a lean, alert type whose gaze swept the room, alighting for no more than a second on each individual. “DA Sheridan Kline,” said the whisper. “Wants to be Governor Kline.”
The third man, sidling in behind Kline, prematurely bald and radiating all the charm of a bowl of cold sauerkraut, was “Stimmel, Kline’s chief assistant.”
Rodriguez ushered them to the tilted chairs, pointedly offering the center one to Kline, who took it as a matter of course. Stimmel sat at his left, Rodriguez at his right. Rodriguez eyed the other faces in the room through glasses with thin wire frames. The immaculately coiffed mass of thick black hair rising from his low forehead was obviously dyed. He gave the table a few sharp raps with his knuckles, looking around to be sure he had everyone’s attention.
“Our agenda says this meeting starts at twelve noon, and twelve noon is what it says on the clock. If you don’t mind taking your seats …?”
Hardwick sat next to Gurney. The coffee-urn group came to the table, and within half a minute all had settled into their chairs. Rodriguez looked around sourly, as if to suggest that true professionals would not have taken so long to accomplish this. Seeing Gurney, his mouth twitched in a way that could have been a quick smile or a wince. His sour expression deepened at the sight of one empty chair. Then he continued.
“I don’t need to tell you that a high-profile homicide has landed in our laps. We’re here to make sure that we’re all here.” He paused, as if checking to see who might appreciate this Zen witticism. Then he translated it for the dull of mind. “We’re here to make sure that we’re all on the same page from day one of this case.”
“Day two,” muttered Hardwick.
“Excuse me?” said Rodriguez.
The Cruise twins exchanged matching looks of confusion.
“Today is day two, sir. Yesterday was day one, sir, and it was a bitch.”
“Obviously, I was using a figure of speech. My point is that we need to be on the same page from the very beginning of this case. We all need to be marching to the same drum. Am I making myself clear?”
Hardwick nodded innocently. Rodriguez made a show of turning away from him to direct his comments to the more serious people at the table.
“From what little we know at this point, the case promises to be difficult, complex, sensitive, potentially sensational. I am told the victim was a successful author and lecturer. His wife’s family is reputed to be extremely wealthy. The clientele of the Mellery Institute includes some rich, opinionated, troublesome characters. Any one of these factors could create a media circus. Put all three together and you have an enormous challenge. The four keys to success will be organization, discipline, communication, and more communication. What you see, what you hear, what you conclude is all worthless unless it is properly recorded and reported. Communication and more communication.” He glanced around, letting his eyes dwell longest on Hardwick, identifying him not so subtly as a prime violator of the recording and reporting rules. Hardwick was studying a large freckle on the back of his right hand.
“I don’t like people who bend the rules,” Rodriguez went on. “Rule benders cause more trouble in the long run than rule breakers. Rule benders always claim they do it to get things done. The fact is, they do it for their own convenience. They do it because they lack discipline, and the lack of discipline destroys organizations. So hear me, people, loud and clear. We are going to follow the rules on this one. All the rules. We will use our checklists. We will fill out our reports in detail. We will submit them on time. Everything will go through proper channels. Every legal question will be addressed with District Attorney Kline’s office before—I repeat, before—any questionable action is taken. Communication, communication, communication.” He lobbed the words like a succession of artillery shells at an enemy position. Judging all resistance quelled, he turned with saccharine deference to the district attorney, who had been growing restless during the harangue, and said, “Sheridan, I know how personally involved you intend to be in this case. Is there anything you want to say to our team?”
Kline smiled broadly with what, at a greater distance, might have been mistaken for warmth. Up close, what came through was the radiant narcissism of a politician.
“The only thing I want to say is that I’m here to help. Help any way I can. You guys are pros. Trained, experienced, talented pros. You know your business. It’s your show.” The hint of a chuckle reached Gurney’s ear. Rodriguez blinked. Might Rodriguez be that attuned to Hardwick’s frequency? “But I agree with Rod. It could be a very big show, a very difficult show to manage. It’s sure as hell going to be on TV, and a lot of people are going to be watching. Get ready for sensational headlines—‘Gory Murder of New Age Guru.’ Like it or not, gentlemen, this one’s a candidate for the tabloids. I do not want us to look like the assholes in Colorado who screwed up the JonBenét case or the assholes in California who screwed up the Simpson case. We’re going to have a lot of balls in the air with this one, and if they start dropping, we’re going to have a mess on our hands. Those balls—”
Gurney’s curiosity regarding their final disposition was left unsatisfied. Kline was silenced by a cell phone’s intrusive chime, which drew everyone’s attention with varying degrees of irritation. Rodriguez glared as Hardwick reached into his pocket, produced the offending instrument, and earnestly recited the captain’s mantra: “Communication, communication, communication.” Then he pressed the “talk” button and spoke into the phone.
“Hardwick here …. Go ahead …. Where?… They match the footprints?… Any indication how they got there?… Any idea why he did that?… All right, get them to the lab ASAP …. No problem.” He pressed the “disconnect” button and stared thoughtfully at the phone.
“Well?” said Rodriguez, his glare warped by curiosity.
Hardwick addressed his answer to the redheaded woman in the genderless suit who had her laptop open on the table and was watching him expectantly.
“News from the crime scene. They found the killer’s boots—or at least some hiking boots that match the boot prints leading away from the body. The boots are in transit to your people in the lab.”
The redhead nodded and began typing on her keyboard.
“I thought you told me the prints went off into the middle of nowhere and stopped,” said Rodriguez, as though he’d caught Hardwick in some sort of lie.
“Yes,” said Hardwick, without looking at him.
“So where were these boots found?”
“In the middle of the same nowhere. In a tree near where the tracks ended. Hanging from a branch.”
“Are you telling me your killer climbed a tree, took his boots off, and left them there?”
“Looks that way.”
“Well … where … I mean, what did he do then?”
“We don’t have the faintest go
ddamn idea. Maybe the boots will point us in the right direction.”
Rodriguez uttered a harsh bark of a laugh. “Let’s hope something does. In the meantime we need to get back to our agenda. Sheridan, I believe you were interrupted.”
“With his balls in the air,” said the ventriloquist’s whisper.
“Not really interrupted,” said Kline with an I-can-turn-anything-to-my-advantage grin. “The truth is, I’d rather listen—especially to news coming in from the field. The better I understand the problem, the more I can help.”
“As you wish, Sheridan. Hardwick, you seem to have everyone’s attention. You might as well give us the rest of the facts—as briefly as possible. The district attorney is being generous with his time, but he has a lot on his plate. Bear that in mind.”
“Okay, kids, you heard the man. Here’s the compressed-file version, one time only. No daydreaming, no stupid questions. Listen up.”
“Whoa!” Rodriguez raised both hands. “I don’t want anyone to feel they can’t ask questions.”
“Figure of speech, sir. Just don’t want to tie up the district attorney any longer than necessary.” The level of respect with which he articulated Kline’s title was just exaggerated enough to suggest an insult while remaining safely ambiguous.
“Fine, fine,” said Rodriguez with an impatient wave. “Go ahead.”
Hardwick began a flat recitation of the available data. “Over a three- to four-week period prior to the murder, the victim received several written communications of a disturbing or threatening nature, as well as two phone calls, one taken and transcribed by Mellery’s assistant, the other taken and recorded by the victim. Copies of these communications will be distributed. Victim’s wife, Cassandra (aka Caddy), reports that on the night of the murder she and her husband were awakened at one A.M. by a phone call from a caller who hung up.”
As Rodriguez was opening his mouth, Hardwick answered the anticipated question. “We are in touch with the phone company to access landline and cell records for the night of the murder and for the times of the two previous calls. However, given the level of planning involved in the execution of this crime, I would be surprised if the perp left a followable phone trail.”
“We’ll see,” said Rodriguez.
Gurney decided that the captain was a man whose greatest imperative was to appear to be in control of any situation or conversation he might find himself in.
“Yes, sir,” said Hardwick with that touch of exaggerated deference, too subtle to be pounced on, that he was adept at. “In any event, a couple of minutes later they were disturbed by sounds close to the house—sounds she describes as animals screeching. When I went back and asked her about it again, she said she thought it might be raccoons fighting. Her husband went to investigate. A minute later she heard what she describes as a muffled slap, shortly after which she went to investigate. She found her husband lying on the patio just outside the back door. Blood was spreading into the snow from wounds to his throat. She screamed—at least she thinks she screamed—tried to stop the bleeding, wasn’t able to, ran back into the house, called 911.”
“Do you know whether she changed the position of the body when she tried to stop the bleeding?” Rodriguez made it sound like a trick question.
“She says she can’t remember.”
Rodriguez looked skeptical.
“I believe her,” said Hardwick.
Rodriguez shrugged in a way that assigned a low value to other men’s beliefs. Glancing at his notes, Hardwick continued his emotionless narrative.
“Peony police were first on the scene, followed by a sheriff’s department car, followed by Trooper Calvin Maxon from the local barracks. BCI was contacted at one fifty-six A.M. I arrived on the scene at two-twenty A.M., and the ME arrived at three twenty-five A.M.”
“Speaking of Thrasher,” said Rodriguez angrily, “did he call anyone to say he’d be late?”
Gurney glanced along the row of faces at the table. They seemed so inured to the medical examiner’s odd name that no one reacted to it. Nor did anyone show any interest in the question—suggesting that the doctor was one of those people who was perennially late. Rodriguez stared at the conference-room door, through which Thrasher should have entered ten minutes earlier, doing a slow burn at the violation of his schedule.
As if he’d been lurking behind it, waiting for the captain’s temper to boil, the door popped open and a gangly man lurched into the room with a briefcase pinned under his arm, a container of coffee in his hand, and seemingly in the middle of a sentence.
“ … construction delays, men working. Hah! So say the signs.” He smiled brightly at several people in succession. “Apparently the word working means standing around scratching your crotch. Lots of that. Not much digging or paving going on. None that I could see. Pack of incompetent louts blocking the road.” He peered at Rodriguez over the top of a pair of reading glasses that were askew. “Don’t suppose the state police could do anything about that, eh, Captain?”
Rodriguez reacted with the weary smile of a serious man forced to deal with fools. “Good afternoon, Dr. Thrasher.”
Thrasher put his briefcase and coffee on the table in front of the one unoccupied chair. His gaze darted around the room, coming to rest on the district attorney.
“Hello, Sheridan,” he said with some surprise. “Getting in early on this one, are you?”
“You have some interesting information for us, Walter?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. At least one small surprise.”
Patently eager to keep his grip on the helm of the meeting, Rodriguez made a show of steering it where it was already going.
“Look, people, I see an opportunity here to turn the doctor’s lateness to our advantage. We’ve been listening to a rundown of the events surrounding the discovery of the body. The last fact I heard concerned the arrival of the medical examiner at the scene. Well, the medical examiner has just arrived here—so why don’t we incorporate his report right now into the narrative?”
“Great idea,” said Kline without taking his eyes off Thrasher.
The ME began speaking as if it had been his intention all along to make his presentation the moment he arrived.
“You get the full written report in one week, gentlemen. Today you get the bare bones.”
If that was a witticism, mused Gurney, it went by unappreciated. Perhaps it was so often repeated that the audience had grown deaf to it.
“Interesting homicide,” Thrasher went on, reaching for his coffee container. He took a long, thoughtful swig and replaced the container on the table. Gurney smiled. This rumpled, sandy-haired stork had a taste for timing and drama. “Things are not exactly as they first appeared.”
He paused until the room was on the verge of exploding with impatience.
“Initial examination of the body in situ led to the hypothesis that cause of death had been the severing of the carotid artery by multiple slash and puncture wounds, inflicted by a broken bottle later discovered at the scene. Initial autopsy results indicate, however, that cause of death was the severing of the carotid artery by a single bullet fired at close range into the victim’s neck. The wounds from the broken bottle were subsequent to the gunshot and were inflicted after the victim had fallen to the ground. There were a minimum of fourteen puncture wounds, perhaps as many as twenty, several of which left shards of glass in the neck tissue and four of which passed completely through the neck muscles and trachea, emerging at the back of the neck.”
There was silence at the table, accompanied by a variety of puzzled and intrigued looks. Rodriguez placed his fingertips together to create a steeple. He was the first to speak.
“Shot, eh?”
“Shot,” said Thrasher, with the relish of a man who loved discovering the unforeseen.
Rodriguez looked accusingly at Hardwick. “How come none of your witnesses heard this gunshot? You told me there were at least twenty guests on the property, and for that matter, how come
his wife didn’t hear it?”
“She did.”
“What? How long have you known this? Why wasn’t I told?”
“She heard it, but she didn’t know she heard it,” said Hardwick. “She said she heard something like a muffled slap. The significance of that didn’t occur to her at the time, and it didn’t occur to me until this minute.”
“Muffled?” said Rodriguez incredulously. “Are you telling me the victim was shot with a silencer?”
Sheridan Kline’s attention level shot up a notch.
“That explains it!” cried Thrasher.
“Explains what?” Rodriguez and Hardwick asked in unison.
Thrasher’s eyes glinted triumphantly. “The traces of goose down in the wound.”
“And in the blood samples from the area around the body.” The redhead’s voice was as gender-unspecific as her suit.
Thrasher nodded. “Of course it would be there, too.”
“This is all very tantalizing,” said Kline. “Could one of you who understands what’s being said take a moment to fill me in?”
“Goose down!” boomed Thrasher as though Kline were hard of hearing.
Kline’s expression of cordial confusion began to freeze over.
Hardwick spoke as the truth dawned on him. “The muffling of the gunshot, combined with the presence of goose down, suggests that the silencing effect might have been produced by wrapping the gun in some sort of quilted material—maybe a ski jacket or a parka.”
“You’re saying that a gun could be silenced just by holding it inside a ski jacket?”
“Not exactly. What I’m saying is that if I held the gun in my hand and wrapped it around and around—especially around the muzzle—with a thick enough quilted material, it’s possible that the report could be reduced to something that might sound like a slap, if you were listening from inside a well-insulated house with the windows closed.”
