by John Verdon
Gurney leaned toward the monitor. “Do you have any idea what they’re saying?”
Hardwick focused intently on their faces, tilting his head as though that might heighten the discrimination of his hearing.
On the screen, the girl said something and smiled, Ashton said something and gestured. Then he walked purposefully down the center aisle and stepped up onto a raised portion of the floor, presumably the area the altar had occupied in the time of the building’s liturgical use. He turned to face the assembly of students, his back to the camera. The murmur melted away, and soon there was silence.
Gurney looked inquiringly at Hardwick. “Did you catch anything?”
He shook his head. “He could have said absolutely anything to her. I couldn’t pick the words out of the background noise. Maybe a lip-reader could tell. Not me.”
On the screen, Ashton began speaking with a natural-sounding authority, his chocolate baritone composed and satiny—and deeper than usual in the resonant Gothic nave.
“Ladies,” he began, inflecting the word with an almost reverential gentility, “terrible things have happened, frightening things, and everyone is upset. Angry, frightened, confused, and upset. Some of you are having trouble sleeping. Anxiety. Bad dreams. Just not knowing what’s really happening may be the worst part of it. We want to know what we’re facing, and no one is telling us.” Ashton radiated the angst of the mental states he was referring to. He had turned himself into a depiction of emotion and understanding, and yet at the same time, perhaps through the steady richness of his voice, its almost cellolike timbre, he was managing to communicate at some unconscious level a profound reassurance.
“Man, that’s good shit,” said Hardwick, in the tone of one admiring the legerdemain of a superior pickpocket.
“Definitely a pro,” agreed Gurney.
“Not as good as you, ace.”
Gurney screwed up his face into an uncomprehending question mark.
“I bet he could learn a thing or two from your academy gig.”
“What do you know about my acad—”
Hardwick pointed at the screen. “Shhh. Let’s not miss anything.”
Ashton’s words were moving like clear water over polished rocks. “Some of you have asked me about the progress of the criminal investigation. How much do the police know, what are they doing, how close are they to catching the guilty person? Logical questions, questions a lot of us are wondering about. I think it would help if we knew more, if we each had the opportunity to share our concerns, to ask what we want to ask, to get some answers. That’s why I’ve invited the key detectives working on the case to come here to Mapleshade tomorrow morning—to talk to us, let us know what’s happening, what’s likely to happen next. They’ll have questions, we’ll have questions. I believe that it will be a very useful conversation for all of us.”
Hardwick grinned. “What do you think of that?”
“I think he’s—”
“Smooth as a greased pig?”
Gurney shrugged. “I’d say he’s good at managing the way people see things.”
Hardwick pointed at the screen.
Ashton was taking a cell phone from a clip on his belt. He looked at it, frowned, pressed a button on it, and put it to his ear. He said something, but the girls in the pews had resumed talking to one another, and his words were again lost in the background chatter.
“Are you catching any of that?” asked Gurney.
Hardwick watched Ashton’s lips, then shook his head. “Same as before, when he was talking to the blonde. He could have said anything.”
The call ended, and Ashton replaced the phone in his pocket. A girl far in the back was raising her hand. Unseen or ignored by Ashton, she stood and waved it side to side, and that seemed to get his attention.
“Yes? Ladies … I think someone has a question, or a comment?”
The girl—who happened to be the almond-eyed blonde to whom Hardwick had just referred—asked her question. “I heard a rumor that Hector Flores was seen here today, right here in the chapel. Is that true?”
Ashton appeared uncharacteristically flustered. “What … Who told you that?”
“I don’t know. People were talking in the stairwell in the main house. I’m not sure who it was. I couldn’t see them from where I was standing. But one of them said she saw him—that she saw Hector. If that’s true, that’s scary.”
“If it were true, it would be,” said Ashton. “Maybe the person who said she saw him can tell us more about it. We’re all here. Whoever said it must be here, too.” He looked out at the assembly in an expectant silence, letting a protracted five seconds pass before adding with an avuncular tolerance, “Maybe some people just like to spread scary rumors.” But he didn’t sound entirely at ease. “Are there any more questions?”
One of the younger-looking girls raised her hand and asked, “How much longer do we have to stay in here?”
Ashton smiled like a loving father. “As long as the process is helpful and not a minute longer. I would hope that in each of your groups you’re sharing your thoughts, concerns, feelings—especially the fears that have naturally been triggered by Savannah’s death. I want you to express everything that comes to mind, to take advantage of the help your group facilitators can provide, the help you each can offer one another. The process works. We all know it works. Trust it.”
Ashton stepped down from the raised platform and began circulating around the room, appearing to offer a word of encouragement here and there but mainly observing the group discussions in progress in the pews. Sometimes he would appear to be listening carefully, other times withdrawing into his own thoughts.
As Gurney watched, his attention was drawn again to the fundamental weirdness of the scene. Deconsecrated though it might be, the building still looked, sounded, smelled, and felt very much like a church. Combining that with the wild and twisted energies of Mapleshade’s current residents was disconcerting.
In the chapel scene on the screen, Ashton was continuing his leisurely stroll among the students and their “facilitators,” but Gurney had stopped paying attention.
He closed his eyes and rested his head against the velvet back cushion of his chair. He concentrated as best he could on the simple feeling of his breath passing in and out through his nostrils. He was trying to clear his mind of what felt like an incoherent tangle of debris. He almost succeeded, but one little item refused to be swept away.
One little item.
It was a comment by Hardwick that had been gnawing at the edge of his consciousness—the comment he’d made when Gurney had asked him if he could tell what Ashton was saying to the girl who’d walked over to him when he entered the chapel.
Hardwick had replied that Ashton’s voice, amid all the others in the chapel, was indistinct, the words indecipherable.
He could have said absolutely anything to her.
That notion had been bothering Gurney.
And now he knew why.
It had triggered a memory, at first below the level of consciousness.
But now it came vividly to mind.
Another time. Another place. Scott Ashton in earnest conversation with a young blonde on the broad sweep of a manicured lawn. A conversation that could not be overheard. A conversation whose words were lost in the undertone of two hundred other voices. A conversation in which Scott Ashton could have said anything to Jillian Perry.
He could have said anything. And that single fact could change everything.
Hardwick was watching him. “You all right?”
Gurney nodded slightly, as if any greater movement might jar apart the infinitely delicate chain of possibilities he was considering.
He could have said anything. There really was no way of knowing what he said, because the actual voices couldn’t be heard. So what might he have said?
Suppose what he said was, “No matter what happens, don’t say a word.”
Suppose what he said was, “No matter what ha
ppens, don’t open the door.”
Suppose what he said was, “I have a surprise for you. Shut your eyes tight.”
Good God, suppose that’s exactly what he said! “For the biggest surprise of your life, shut your eyes tight.”
Chapter 76
Another layer
“The hell’s the matter?” demanded Hardwick.
Gurney just shook his head, not ready to answer, as he followed the logical chain of possibilities in his mind with an animal excitement that brought him to his feet. He began to pace, slowly at first, across the antique carpet in front of Ashton’s desk. The large porcelain lamp on the near corner cast a soft circle of light, illuminating the intricate garden design in the carpet’s fine weave.
If he was right—and it was at least possible that he was right—what would follow from that?
On the screen, Ashton could be seen standing next to one of the dark red drapes that covered portions of the chapel walls, his gaze drifting benignly over the assembly.
“What is it?” demanded Hardwick. “The hell’s on your mind?”
Gurney stopped his pacing long enough to lower the sound slightly on the computer monitor in order to better focus on his own train of thought. “That comment you made a minute ago? That Ashton could have said anything?”
“Yeah? What about it?”
“You may have demolished one of the key assumptions we’ve been making about Jillian’s murder.”
“What assumption?”
“The biggest one of all. The assumption that we know why she went into the cottage.”
“Well, we know why she said she went in. On the video she told Ashton she wanted to persuade Flores to come out for the wedding toast. And Ashton argued with her. Told her not to bother with Flores. But she went right the fuck in, anyway.”
Gurney’s eyes gleamed. “Suppose that conversation never happened.”
“It was on the video.” Hardwick looked as annoyed by Gurney’s excitement as he was confused by what Gurney was saying.
Gurney spoke slowly, as if each word were precious. “That conversation isn’t actually on the reception video.”
“Of course it is.”
“No. What’s recorded on the video is a meeting between Scott Ashton and Jillian Perry on the lawn, at the reception, in the background of the scene—too far in the background for the camera to record their voices. The ‘conversation’ you’re recalling—and that everyone who’s seen that video has been recalling—is Scott Ashton’s description of the conversation to Burt Luntz and his wife, after it occurred. The fact is, we have no way of knowing what Jillian actually said to him or what he said to Jillian. And until now we’ve had no reason to question it. All we really have is what Ashton claims was said. And as you commented a minute ago on his inaudible conversation with that blonde in the chapel, he could have said anything.”
“Okay,” said Hardwick uncertainly. “Ashton could have said anything. I get that. But what do you think he actually said to her? I mean, what’s the point of this? Why would he lie about Jillian’s reason for going into the cottage?”
“I can think of at least one horrible reason. My point is—once again—we don’t know what we thought we knew. All we really know is that they spoke to each other and she went into the cottage.”
Hardwick began tapping impatiently on the carved arm of his thronelike chair. “That’s not all we know. Don’t I remember someone going to get her? Knocking at the cottage door? One of the catering people? And wasn’t she already dead—or at least not able to answer the door? I’m not getting where the hell you’re going with this.”
“Let’s start at the beginning. If you look at the actual visual evidence and forget the narrative we’ve been given, the question is, is there another credible narrative that’s consistent with what we see happening on the screen?”
“Like what?”
“On the video it looks like Jillian gets Ashton’s attention and points at her watch. Okay. Suppose he’d asked her to remind him when it was time for the wedding toast. And suppose when he went over to her, he told her that he had a huge surprise for her and he wanted her to go into the cottage, because that’s where he was going to give it to her—just before the toast. She should go into the cottage, lock the door, and be completely quiet. No matter who came to the door, she shouldn’t open it or say a word. It was all part of the big surprise, and she’d understand it all later.”
Hardwick was paying serious attention now. “So you’re saying that she may have been perfectly fine when the catering person knocked on the door?”
“And then when Ashton himself opened the door with his key, suppose he said something like, ‘Shut your eyes tight. Shut your eyes tight—for the biggest surprise of your life.’ ”
“And then what?”
Gurney paused. “You remember Jason Strunk?”
Hardwick frowned. “The serial killer? What’s he got to do with this?”
“Remember how he killed his victims?”
“Wasn’t he the one who chopped them up, then mailed the pieces to the local cops?”
“Right. But it’s the weapon he used that I was thinking about.”
“Meat cleaver, wasn’t it? Razor-sharp Japanese thing.”
“And he carried it in a simple plastic sheath under his jacket.”
“So … what are you saying? Oh, no, come on! You’re not saying that … that Scott Ashton went into the cottage, told his brand-new wife to close her eyes, and then chopped her head off?”
“Based on the visual evidence, it’s just as possible as the story we’ve been given.”
“God, lots of things are possible, but …” Hardwick shook his head. “Then what? After he chops off his bride’s head, he lays it neatly on the table, starts screaming, slips his bloody cleaver back into his plastic-lined pocket, comes stumbling out of the cottage, and collapses?”
Gurney went on. “Exactly. That last bit is recorded on the video—him screaming, stumbling out, collapsing in the flower bed. Everyone comes rushing over, everyone looks in the cottage, and everyone reaches what under the circumstances is the obvious conclusion. Exactly the conclusion Ashton would want them to reach. So there was no reason for anyone to search him. If he did have a cleaver or a similar weapon hidden inside his jacket, no one would ever have known. And as soon as the K-9 team found the bloody machete in the woods, everything seemed perfectly clear. The Hector Flores narrative was set in stone, just waiting for Rod Rodriguez to put his stamp of approval on it.”
“The machete … with Jillian’s blood … but how …?”
“That blood could easily have come from the sample taken for her lithium-level blood test two days earlier. Ashton could have canceled the regular phlebotomy appointment and drawn that sample himself. Or he could have gotten it some other way, pulled some kind of switch—just like we were starting to think Flores might have done. And he could have planted the machete in the woods that morning, before the reception. Could have smeared the blood on it, carried it out through the back window of the cottage, left a drop or two on the back windowsill, left that sex-pheromone trail with the boots for the dogs to follow, then came back in through the cottage. At that point, there wouldn’t have been any cameras running, which would explain how the machete got from the cottage to where it was found with no video record of anyone passing that goddamn tree.”
“Wait a second, you forgot something. How the hell did he swing a cleaver through her neck—through the carotids—without getting sprayed with blood? I mean, I know about that thing in the ME’s report about the blood all running down the far side of her body and my own idea of how the killer could have used the head itself to deflect the flow. But there’d still be some splatter, wouldn’t there?”
“Maybe there was.”
“And nobody noticed?”
“Think about it, Jack—the scene on the video. Ashton was wearing a dark suit. He falls in a muddy flower bed. A bed of rosebushes. With thorns. He was a m
uddy mess. And as I recall, some helpful guests took him into the house. I’d bet my pension he went to a bathroom. Which would offer an easy opportunity to ditch the cleaver, maybe even switch into a matching suit with some mud already on it. So when he came out, he’d still be a muddy mess, but a mess with no trace of the victim’s blood.”
“Fuck,” murmured Hardwick thoughtfully. “You really believe all that?”
“To be honest, Jack, I have no reason to believe any of it. But I do think it’s possible.”
“There are some problems with it, don’t you think?”
“Like the credibility problem of a famous psychiatrist being a stone-cold assassin?”
“Actually, that’s the part I like best,” said Hardwick.
Gurney grinned for the first time that day. “Any other problems?” he asked.
“Yeah. If Flores wasn’t in the cottage when Jillian was killed, where the hell was he?”
“Maybe he was already dead,” said Gurney. “Maybe Ashton killed him to make it look like he was guilty and ran away. Or maybe the whole scenario I just cooked up is as full of holes as every other theory of this case.”
“So this guy is either a world-class criminal or the innocent victim of one.” Hardwick glanced over at the monitor behind Ashton’s desk. “For a man whose whole world is supposedly collapsing, he looks pretty damn calm. Where did all the despair and hopelessness go?”
“They seem to have evaporated.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Emotional resilience? Putting up a good front?”
Hardwick looked increasingly baffled. “Why did he want us to watch this?”
Ashton was making his way slowly around the chapel, almost imperiously, like a guru among his disciples. Proprietary. Confident. Imperturbable. Radiating more pleasure and satisfaction by the minute. A man of power and respect. A Renaissance cardinal. An American president. A rock star.
