Bullard’s eyes were blinking again, as though clicking off possibilities. “Suppose not all the victims were primary targets.”
“And the ones that weren’t-what were they?
Gurney had already explored that avenue with Hardwick, and it had led to scenarios too unlikely to take seriously. “Not mistakes,” said Gurney. “But secondary, in some way.”
“Secondary?” repeated Daker. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I don’t know yet. It’s still just a question.”
Trout let his hands fall on the table with a bang. “I’ll only say this once. There comes a time in every investigation when we have to stop questioning the basics and concentrate on the pursuit of the perpetrator.”
“The problem here,” responded Gurney, “is that no serious questioning process ever got started.”
“Okay, okay,” said Bullard, raising her hands in a double “Stop” gesture. “I want to talk about action steps.”
She turned to Clegg, who was seated on her left. “Andy, give us a quick review of what’s happening.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He pulled a slim digital device out of his jacket pocket, tapped a few keys, and studied the screen. “Tech team has released the crime scene for general access. Physical evidence bagged, tagged, and entered in the system. Computer transported to computer forensics. Latent prints processed through IAFIS. Prelim ME report in hand. Autopsy report and full tox screens in seventy-two hours. Site and victim photos entered in the system, ditto incident report. CJIS report, third update, in the system. Status of door-to-doors: forty-eight completed, projected total sixty-six by end of day. Initial verbatims available, summaries to come. Based on two eyewitness observations of a Humvee or a Hummer-style vehicle in the vicinity, DMV is compiling ownership lists of all similar vehicles registered in central New York State.”
“Planned utilization of these lists being what?” asked Trout.
“A database against which we can run the names of any ID’d suspects, as they become available,” said Clegg.
Trout looked skeptical but said nothing more.
Gurney was uncomfortable with the fact that he already had the answer Clegg was chasing. Normally he favored maximum openness. But in this instance he feared that disclosure would only create a distraction and waste valuable time by diverting attention toward Clinter. And Clinter, after all, couldn’t be the Good Shepherd. He was peculiar. Possibly crazy. But evil? No, almost certainly not evil.
But he had another motive for silence, a less objective one. He didn’t want to appear too familiar with Clinter, too allied with him, too much on his wavelength. He didn’t want to be tarred by the association. Holdenfield had tossed that PTSD diagnosis into his lap during their lunch in Branville. At some point Max Clinter had also gotten a PTSD diagnosis. Gurney didn’t like the echo effect.
Clegg was winding up his report. “Tire-tread impressions made in the parking lot of Lakeside Collision are being processed, photos have been sent to vehicle forensics for original equipment and aftermarket matches. We got a decent side-to-side double impression. Crossing our fingers for a unique axle-width measurement.” He looked up from the screen of the device from which he’d been reading. “That’s as much as I’m aware of at the moment, Lieutenant.”
“Any promised callback time on the physical analysis of the Shepherd message-ink, paper, printer data, latents on the address form, inner envelope, et cetera?”
“They said they’d have a better idea within the next hour.”
Bullard nodded. “And the outgoing notifications?”
“Just starting that process. We have a preliminary list of family members in the background materials provided by Agent Daker. I believe Ms. Corazon is being contacted now for her own list of current phone numbers, per Mr. Gurney’s suggestion. Carly Madden in Public Information is helping to formulate an appropriate message.”
“She understands the communications objective
“She’s been made aware of that.”
“Good. I’d like to see the draft before the live calls. Let’s move on that front ASAP.”
Gurney’s sense of the woman was firming up. She devoured stress like vitamins. Her job was probably her sole addiction. “ASAP” was almost certainly the way she wanted everything to happen. And adversaries should take care.
She looked around the table. “Questions?”
“You seem to have your fingers on a lot of buttons at the same time,” said Trout.
“So what else is new?”
“What I’m saying is that there’s a point beyond which we all need some help.”
“No doubt. Feel free to call me if you ever find yourself in that position.”
Trout laughed-a sound as warm and musical as a car starter with a dying battery. “I just wanted to remind you that we have some resources at the federal level that you may not have in Auburn or Sasparilla. And the fact is, the clearer the linkage between this new homicide and the old case becomes, the greater the institutional pressure will be on both of us to bring federal resources to the table.”
“That might happen tomorrow. But today is today. One day at a time.”
Trout smiled-a mechanical expression consistent with his laugh. “I’m not a philosopher, Lieutenant. Just a realist pointing out how things are and where this case is bound to end up. I suppose you can choose to ignore that, until the moment it occurs. But we do need to spell out some ground rules and lines of communication, starting now.”
Bullard glanced at her watch. “Actually, what’s starting now is a brief lunch break. Twelve noon on the dot. I suggest we reconvene at twelve forty-five to discuss those ground rules and lines of communication-and then do some actual work, ground rules permitting.” Her sarcasm was softened by a smile. “The coffee and the snack machines in this building are pretty awful. Would you Albany folks like a recommendation for a local lunch place?”
“No need for that. We’ll be fine,” Trout answered.
Holdenfield looked pensive, restless, far from fine.
Daker looked like he felt nothing at all-beyond a general desire to liquidate all the troublemakers in the world, painfully, one by one.
Bullard and Gurney were seated in a horseshoe-shaped booth in a small Italian restaurant with a bar and three inescapable television screens.
They each had a small antipasto and were sharing a pizza. Clegg had remained at the unit to monitor progress on the multiple initiatives that had been put in motion. Bullard had been quiet since they’d arrived. She was segregating the hot peppers on the rim of her salad plate. Once she’d uncovered and moved the last of them, her gaze rose to Gurney’s eyes. “So, Dave, tell me. What the hell are you up to?”
“Put a finer point on that question and I’ll be happy to answer it.”
She looked down at her salad, speared one of the hot peppers with her fork, popped it into her mouth, chewed it and swallowed it without a hint of discomfort. “I sense a lot of energy in your involvement.
He smiled. “Did Daker by any chance tell you that RAM wants me to do a program of critical commentaries on failed police investigations?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, I have no intention of doing it.”
She gave him a long, appraising look. “Okay. Do you have any other financial or career interests in the current situation that you haven’t told me about?”
“None.”
“Okay. What is it, then? What’s the attraction?”
“There’s a hole in the case big enough to drive a truck through. Also big enough to keep me awake nights. And peculiar things have happened that I believe were designed to discourage Kim’s pursuit of her project and to discourage my participation. I have a perverse reaction to efforts like that. Pushing me toward the door makes me want to stay in the room.”
