was a public library just down the street, and chances were they had an atlas of anatomy he could have used, but what kind of penance would that have been? Sorting the maddening little bones was frustrating, but because it didn’t require anything like coherent thought— it was basically a matter of comparing bone to bone, nodule to nodule, foramen to foramen—it untethered and relaxed his mind, allowing it to float off on its own.
And it was while he was in this drifting, hovering state that the repugnant thought that had been niggling away at the borders of his mind broke through his defenses and entered. Julie had suggested that Joey could have been killed because he knew who had murdered Villarreal, and the killer had silenced him before he could tell anyone. And Gideon had rejected it because Joey’s death had come when everyone still thought the remains were Pete Williams’s, and how could anyone predict that he, Gideon, would identify them as Villarreal’s the next day? But now… now he realized that there was indeed someone who might have foreseen just that.
A crime of passion, Clapper had called it, and most assuredly it was. But crimes of passion were hardly limited to sexual jealousies, let alone resentments over academic disputes or prima donna status. There were other possible causes. And while the specific cause he was thinking about now was as improbable as it was repugnant, it had to be looked into. If nothing else, it was the only thing—the only thing he’d thought of so far—that might conceivably explain Joey’s murder.
The skeletal inventorying had waited this long; it could wait a little longer. He put down the left cuneiform bone he’d been holding in one hand and the ballpoint he’d had in the other, and went to Robb’s computer but didn’t have the password to access the Internet. Instead, he locked up the station and walked a block down Garrison Lane to the little public library—the Scillies’ one and only—where he plunked down five pounds for an hour’s Internet access at one of the two computers. He brought up the ProQuest search engine, typed in “Selway-Bitterroot AND Villarreal AND grizzly OR grizzlies,” clicked to sort the results by date, and waited while seventy-five references scrolled down the page. The last one, the oldest, was the one he wanted, and he brought it up.
CANADIAN COUPLE KILLED, PARTIALLY EATEN BY GRIZZLY
Bill Giles The Associated Press
Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness, MT—In a horrific incident at Lost Horse Creek campground, on the Idaho— Montana border about forty miles southwest of Missoula…
TWENTY-TWO
WHEN the Fellows of the Consortium of the Scillies reconvened after a late lunch, they were surprised to find Sergeant Clapper awaiting them in the Victorian lounge, seated on the piano bench, his back to the upright piano.
“I’ll take but a minute of your valuable time,” he said convivially, as they placed themselves on the red, overstuffed chairs. “I wanted to inform you that the premises of Star Castle will be examined again this afternoon. Is that all right with you, Mr. Kozlov?”
“Me? Sure. What I got to hide? Just don’t break nothing.”
“Very well, then—”
Donald Pinckney’s forefinger went up. “Do you mean you’ll be searching our rooms again, Sergeant?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Again?” Rudy Walker said. “You’ve already gone through all our things once.”
“Yes. It’s not that pleasant to have someone pawing through your personal things, you know,” Donald said. “I mean, well, my wife doesn’t appreciate having some stranger…”
Clapper’s eyebrows drew together. “I don’t expect anyone will be interfering with your wife’s personal things at this time. Or yours, either.”
“Oh, I see” Donald said, quick to show that he wasn’t objecting, not really. “It’s just a sort of general search, then. For clues and things.”
“Exactly.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right, then.”
Not with Victor Waldo. “Look, I understand this is Vasily’s house, but as his guests, don’t we have some rights to privacy? I ask as a matter of principle.”
Clapper waited to see if there were other protestations. When none came, he said: “Yes, sir, of course you have rights, and those rights have been observed.” He held out a folded sheaf of papers. “I have here a search warrant authorized by the magistrate in St. Mary’s this morning, applicable to all rooms in the house, including those occupied by guests. You’re welcome to examine it.”
“No, of course not, there’s no need for that.”
“Don’t you have to have specific cause in order to get a search warrant?” Liz Petra asked. “I know we do in the States.”
“Yes, we certainly do.”
He could see that Liz and several others were on the edge of demanding to know his cause, but no one had the nerve to ask. He waited a moment longer and then said, “I must request that no one enter his or her room again until the room has been examined.”
“Oh, brother,” Liz grumbled. “That’s really a pain.”
“It should be much quicker than yesterday’s search,” Clapper assured her. “I expect we’ll be done by dinner. Oh, and should any of you wish to be present in your room during the execution of the warrant, you may do. Anybody?”
Nobody took him up, although for a moment Liz and Victor seemed close to it.
“Very well, then—” he began again, and again he was interrupted. This time it was by Robb, who came in to tell him that the crime-scene examiner that he had requested from Exeter had arrived and would like to begin as soon as was convenient.
“Well, then,” Clapper said with evident enthusiasm, placing his hands on his thighs and pushing himself up, “shall we get on with it?” He tipped an invisible hat to the attendees. “Do enjoy your afternoon.”
