by John Verdon
Whatever the specifics, the questions were the same: Who was Hector Flores, really? What awful transgression had brought so determined a killer to Ashton’s doorstep? A killer of such deception and foresight that he’d inveigled an invitation to live in a cottage in his eventual victim’s backyard. A web in which he’d waited. Waited for the ideal moment.
Hector Flores. A patient spider.
Gurney went to the cottage, unlocked the door.
Inside, the place had the bare look of an apartment for rent. No furniture, no possessions, nothing but a faint odor of detergent or disinfectant. The simplest of floor plans: a wide all-purpose room in front and two smaller rooms behind it—a bedroom and a kitchen, with a tiny bathroom and closet sandwiched between them. He stood in the middle of the front room and let his gaze travel slowly over the floor, walls, ceiling. His brain was not wired to accommodate the notion of a place having an aura, but every homicide scene he’d visited over the years affected him in a way that was both strange and familiar.
Responding to a call from the uniformed 911 responders, stepping into a violent crime scene with its blood and gristle, splintered bones and splattered brains, never failed to ignite in him a certain set of feelings: revulsion, pity, anger. But visiting the site at a later date—after the inevitable scouring, all tangible evidence of butchery removed—was just as deeply affecting, but in a different way. A blood-soaked room would slam him in the face. Later, stripped and sanitized, the same room would lay a cold hand on his heart, reminding him that at the center of the universe there was a boundless emptiness. A vacuum with a temperature of absolute zero.
He cleared his throat loudly, as if relying on the noise to transport him from these morbid musings to a more practical frame of mind. He went into the little kitchen, examined the empty drawers and cabinets. Then he went into the bedroom, straight to the window through which the killer had exited. He opened it, looked out, then climbed out through it.
The ground outside was only about a foot lower than the floor inside. He stood with his back to the cottage, peering out into the dreary copse. The atmosphere was humid, silent, the herbal redolence of the gardens yielding here to a woodsier scent. He made his way forward with long, deliberate steps, counting his paces. At 140 he caught sight of a yellow ribbon atop a plastic stake driven like a thin broomstick into the ground.
He went to the spot, looking around in all directions. His route was circumscribed on his right by a steep-sided ravine. The cottage behind him was hidden by the intervening foliage, as was the road that he knew from the Google satellite photos to lie fifty yards ahead. He examined the ground, the area of leafy soil where the machete had been partly concealed, wondering what might explain the inability of the K-9 team to follow the trail any farther. The idea that Flores had changed his shoes at this point, or covered them with plastic, and proceeded on through the woods to the road, or through the woods to another house on the lane (Kiki Muller’s?) seemed unlikely. The question that had bothered Gurney before still had no answer: What would the point be of leaving half a trail, a trail to the weapon? And if the goal was for the weapon to be found, why half bury it? And then there was the little mystery of the boots—the one personal item Flores had left behind, the boots that the scent-tracking dog had keyed on. How did they fit into Flores’s escape scenario?
Since the boots were found in the house, did that suggest that the trail to the machete could have been one leg of a round trip? Might Flores have come out here from the cottage, disposed of the machete, and returned the way he came—back through the window? That solved part of the scent-trail conundrum. But it created a new and greater difficulty: It put Flores back in the cottage at the point when the body was discovered, with no way of leaving it again unobserved prior to the arrival of the police. On top of that, the out-and-back hypothesis didn’t answer the other question: Why would Flores leave a trail out to the machete to begin with? Unless the whole idea was to create the impression that he’d left the area, when really he hadn’t … to create the impression that he’d run off through the woods, hurriedly hiding the machete on his way, when he was actually back in the cottage. But back in the cottage where? Where could a man hide in such a tiny building—a building fine-combed for six hours by a team of evidence techs whose whole expertise lay in missing nothing?
Gurney made his way back through the woods, climbed through the cottage window, and reexplored the three rooms, looking for access points to spaces above the ceiling or below the floor. The roof pitch was low, likely a truss structure that would have a limited area toward the middle where a man could sit or crouch. However, as with most such useless spaces, there was no entry point. The floor also appeared seamless, with no way down into whatever space might exist beneath it. He went from room to room, checking the position of each wall from each side of it to make sure there were no unaccounted-for interior spaces.
The notion that Flores had returned from the woods in those boots and secreted himself and remained undetected in this little twenty-four-by-twenty-four building was unraveling as rapidly as it had been conceived. Gurney locked the door, put the key back under the black rock, and returned to his car. He rummaged through his case folder and located Scott Ashton’s cell number.
The soft baritone recording, the essence of tranquillity, invited him to leave a message that would be returned as soon as possible, conveying through its chocolate tone the feeling that all the troubles in a person’s life were ultimately manageable. Gurney identified himself and said he had a few more questions about Flores.
He checked the dashboard clock. It was 10:31. Might be a good time to check in with Val Perry, share his initial thoughts on the case, see if she was still eager for him to pursue it. As he was about to place the call, the phone rang in his hand.
“Gurney.” It was a hard habit to break, having answered his phone that way for so many years at the NYPD.
“This is Scott Ashton. I got your message.”
“I was wondering … did you take Flores in your car with you from time to time?”
“Occasionally. When there was heavy shopping to do. Plant nurseries, lumberyards, that sort of thing. Why?”
“Did you ever notice him trying to avoid being seen by your neighbors? Hiding his face, anything like that?”
“Well … I don’t know. It’s hard to say. He tended to slouch. Wore a hat with a brim that curved down in front. Sunglasses. I suppose that might have been a way of hiding. Or not. How would I know? I mean, I did from time to time employ other day laborers on Hector’s days off, and they may have behaved in a similar way. It’s not something that I keyed in on.”
“Did you ever take Flores to Mapleshade?”
“To Mapleshade? Yes, quite a few times. He had volunteered to install a little flower garden behind my office. As other projects came up, he offered to help with them as well.”
“Did he have any contact with the students?”
“What are you getting at?”
“I have no idea,” said Gurney.
“He may have spoken to a few of the girls, or they may have spoken to him. I didn’t witness it, but it’s possible.”
“When was this?”
“He volunteered to help with the work at Mapleshade shortly after he arrived here. So about three years ago, give or take a month.”
“And that continued how long?”
“His trips to the school? Until … the end. Is there some significance I’m missing?”
Gurney ignored the question, asked another of his own. “Three years ago. At that time Jillian would still have been a student there, is that right?”
“Yes, but … Where are you going with this?”
“I wish I knew, Doctor. Just one more question. Did Jillian ever tell you about people she might have reason to be afraid of?”
After a pause long enough to make Gurney think the connection had been broken, Ashton replied, “Jillian wasn’t afraid of anyone. That may have been what killed her.�
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Gurney sat in his car in Ashton’s driveway, gazing out past the ivied trellis at the site of the fatal wedding reception, trying to make sense of the bride and groom as a couple. Fellow geniuses they may have been, if Ashton were to be believed, but matching IQs were hardly a sufficient motive for marriage. Gurney remembered Val claiming that her daughter had an unhealthy interest in unhealthy men. Could that include Ashton, seemingly a paragon of rational stability? Not likely. Could Ashton be so much of a caretaker that he would be attracted to someone as patently troubled as Jillian? He didn’t appear to be. True, his professional specialty lay in that direction, but there was no evidence in the man himself of that nosy, parental protectiveness that characterized caretaker personalities. Or was Jillian just another material girl selling her young body to the highest bidder—in this case Ashton? Nothing about it felt that way.
So what the hell was the mystery factor that made that marriage seem like a good idea? Gurney concluded that he wasn’t going to figure it out sitting in the driveway.
He backed out, stopping just long enough to enter the number for the call he’d intended to make to Val Perry, then headed slowly down the long, shaded lane.
He was surprised and pleased when she answered on the second ring. Her voice had a subtle sexiness, even when all she was saying was, “Hello?”
“It’s Dave Gurney, Mrs. Perry. I’d like to fill you in on where I am and what I’m doing.”
“I told you to call me Val.”
“Val. Sorry. Do you have a couple of minutes?”
“If you’re making progress, you can have as much of my time as you want.”
“I don’t know how much progress I’m making, but I want you to know what’s on my mind. I don’t think the arrival of Hector Flores in Tambury three years ago was an accident, and I don’t think what he did to your daughter was a sudden decision. I’d bet that his name isn’t Flores, and I doubt that he’s Mexican. Whoever he is, I believe he had a purpose and a plan. I believe he came here because of something that happened in the past involving your daughter or Scott Ashton.”
“What sort of thing in the past?” She sounded like she was struggling to remain calm.
“It may have to do with why you sent Jillian to Mapleshade to begin with. Do you know of anything Jillian ever did that might make someone want to kill her?”
“You mean did she fuck up the lives of some little children? Did she give them nightmares and doubts they’ll have the rest of their lives? Did she make them frightened and guilty and crazy? Maybe crazy enough to do to someone else what she did to them? Maybe crazy enough to kill themselves? And might someone want to see her rot in hell for that? Is that what you mean?”
He was silent.
When she spoke again, she sounded weary. “Yes, she did things that might make someone want to kill her. There were times I could have killed her myself. Of course, that’s … that’s exactly what I ended up doing, isn’t it?”
A platitude about self-forgiveness passed through Gurney’s mind. Instead he said, “If you want to whip yourself to death, you’ll have to do it another time. Right now I’m working on an assignment you gave me. I called to let you know what I’m thinking and that it’s the opposite of the official police position. That collision may create problems. I need to know how far you’re willing to take this.”
“Follow the trail wherever it goes, whatever it costs. I want to get to the bottom of this. I want to get to the end of it. Is that clear?”
“One last question. You may find it in bad taste, but I have to ask it. Is it conceivable that Jillian was having an affair with Flores?”
“If he was male, good-looking, and dangerous, I’d say it was a lot more than conceivable.”
* * *
Gurney’s mood, along with his concept of the case, shifted more than once on the drive home.
The idea that Jillian’s murder was related to her chaotic past, a past to which Hector Flores might be connected, gave Gurney a sense of solid footing and a promising direction in which to press his inquiries. The ritualistic presentation of the corpse—with the severed head placed in the center of the table facing the body—was making a warped statement that went beyond simple homicide. It even occurred to him that the murder scene created an ironic echo of the photograph over Ashton’s fireplace, the two shots of Jillian manipulated into one scene: Jillian gazing hungrily at Jillian.
Jesus. Was it a joke? Was it possible that the arrangement of the body in the cottage was a subtle parody of Jillian Perry’s pose in a fashion ad? The thought made him nauseous, a rare reaction for a man whose years as a homicide cop had exposed him to just about everything people could do to other people.
He pulled over on the shoulder in front of a farm-equipment dealership, rooted through the papers on the seat next to him, found Jack Hardwick’s cell number. As it rang, his gaze wandered over the hillside behind the dealership offices, dotted with tractors large and small, balers, brush cutters, rotary rakes. Then he noted something moving. A dog? No, a coyote. A coyote loping across the hillside, traveling in a straight line, purposefully—almost, it struck Gurney, thoughtfully.
Hardwick picked up on the fifth ring, just as the call was going into voice mail.
“Davey boy, what’s up?”
Gurney grimaced—his usual reaction to the sardonic rasp of Hardwick’s voice. The tone reminded him of his father. Not the sandpapery sound itself, but the sharp cynicism shaping it.
“I have a question for you, Jack. When you pulled me into this Perry business, what did you think it was all about?”
“I didn’t pull you into it, just offered you an opportunity.”
“Right, fine. So what did you think this ‘opportunity’ was about?”
“Never got far enough into it to form a solid opinion.”
“Bullshit.”
“Anything I’d say would be pure speculation, so I’m not saying.”
“I don’t like games, Jack. Why did you want me involved? While you’re figuring out how not to answer that one, here’s another one: Why is Blatt bent out of shape? I ran into him yesterday, and he was beyond unpleasant.”
“No relevance.”
“What?”
“No relevance. Look, we had a little shake-up here. Like I told you, some static between me and Rodriguez re the direction of the investigation. So I’m off it, and Blatt’s on it. Ambitious little prick, no ability, just like Captain Rod. I call him Junior Shithead. This is his chance, prove himself, show he can handle a big case. But deep down he knows he’s a useless little turd. Now you come along—big star from the big city, genius who solved the Mellery murder case, et cetera. Course he hates you. The fuck you expect? But there’s no relevance. The fuck’s he gonna do? Keep doing what you’re doing, Sherlock, and don’t lose any sleep over Blatt.”
“Is that why you got me involved? To make Junior Shithead look bad?”
“To see that justice is done—by peeling the layers of a very interesting onion.”
“That’s what you think it is?”
“Don’t you?”
“Could be. Would you be surprised if we found out that Flores came to Tambury with a plan to kill someone?”
“I’d be surprised if he didn’t.”
“So tell me again why you got kicked off the case.”
“I told you—” Hardwick began with exaggerated impatience, but Gurney cut him off.
“Yeah, yeah, you were rude to Captain Rod. Why am I thinking it was more than that?”
“Because that’s what you think about everything. You don’t trust anybody. You’re not a trusting person, Davey. Look, I’ve got to take a wicked piss. Talk to you later.”
Nothing the man liked better, thought Gurney, than to make a wiseass exit. He put down the phone and restarted his car. A thin overcast still hung over the valley, but the white sun-disk behind it was brightening and the telephone poles were starting to cast faint shadows across the deserted road. The array of blu
e tractors for sale, still wet from the morning rain, began to gleam on the green hillside.
During the final half of the trip home, odd bits and pieces of the affair occupied his mind: Madeleine’s comment that the placement of the machete made no sense, the decision by a superrational man to marry a profoundly disturbed woman, Carl’s train going around and around under the tree, the Schindler’s List interpretation of the bullet through the teacup, the morass of sexual disorder in which everything seemed mired.
By the time he’d left the county highway and was following the dirt road that meandered up from the river valley into the hills, his thoughts had exhausted him. There was a CD protruding from the dashboard player. Craving distraction, he pushed it in. The voice that emerged from the speakers, accompanied by some bleak chords on an acoustic guitar, had the whiny singsong rhythm of Leonard Cohen at his bleakest. The performer was a sad-eyed middle-aged folkie by the unlikely name of Leighton Lake whom he and Madeleine had gone to see at a local music venue to which she’d acquired a season subscription. During intermission she’d purchased one of Lake’s CDs. Of all the songs on it, Gurney found the one he was listening to now, “At the End of My Time,” by far the most depressing.
There once was a time
When I had all the time
In the world. What a time
I had then, when I had
All the time in the world.
Lied to my lovers,
Chased all the others,
Left all my lovers behind,
When I had all the time
In the world.
