“Will do. Matt, let’s go.” There was a clunk of metal hitting metal as the gorilla shouldered his camera and followed her.
Russ ducked under the tape and jogged to his cruiser, popping open the door to reach the radio. He watched the mortuary assistants leaving the thicket. The bag boys— Lyle’s name for them—picked their way through the brush, careful not to dislodge the contents of their pallet. The mound of shiny black plastic suddenly made Russ think of the fat blood sausages his grandmother Campbell used to urge on him. The image made his stomach churn. The Channel 6 cameraman was following the body’s progress from the brush to the back of the van.
Russ gave his instructions to one of the Glens Falls dispatchers who handled Millers Kill 911 calls between 10:00P.M. and 6:00 A.M. Sheena Bevin was working her way through the remaining spectators, asking questions, occasionally pulling out the little microphone. He finished up with the Glens Falls dispatcher and headed over to help Lyle and Durkee finish up.
He was a good fifteen yards away from the scene, twist-tying tape to a flexible plastic pole, when a flash of light in the corner of his eye made him look up, just in time to see the camera trained on Clare. Even from that distance, he could see her body language had changed from shocked and horrified to…well, righteous indignation was probably the right description, seeing as she was a priest. Their conversation in the hospital corridor outside the waiting room resurrected itself: Clare, arms akimbo, swearing to march on the police station if there was one more attack. “Oh,” he said. “Oh no. No, no, no.” The Reverend Clare Fergusson on a crusade was likely to say anything.
He dropped the tape and strode toward the small cluster of trees where Clare, now gesturing widely, was making her point. God, why hadn’t he put duct tape over her mouth and locked her in the squad car when he’d had the chance? He kept himself from breaking into a jog, but double-timed his steps until he was close enough to hear, “lack of respect for common humanity and basic civil rights—”
“Clare!” he said. Clare and the reporter both jerked their heads in his direction. He propped what he hoped looked like a smile on his face and tried again in a less threatening tone of voice. “Reverend Fergusson? I hope I don’t have to remind you that giving out some information could jeopardize this investigation.”
“How?” she asked.
He sucked in air between gritted teeth, but before he could reply, Bevin and the cameraman had pivoted toward him. “Chief Van Alstyne, we’ve heard that tonight’s murder victim and the victims of the two assaults in Millers Kill this past week were all gay men. Can you comment on this?”
“No,” he growled.
“Are the police investigating this as a hate crime? Are you linking it to the other assaults?”
“We pursue any murder to the fullest extent of our resources, whether you label it a hate crime or not. I’m of the opinion every murder is a hate crime, and I’m not going to treat one differently from another because of who the victim was.”
“So tonight’s victim was gay?”
He wanted to strangle Bevin. No, he wanted to strangle Clare. The camera light pinned him like an interrogation lamp.
“I can’t comment on the victim until we’ve notified the next of kin.”
“How about the assault victims?”
“Look, I’m not going to comment on this. I’m not going to out anyone on the eleven o’clock news.”
“Would you advise area residents who might be homosexual to take extra precautions?”
“Whoever did this tonight is on the loose until we bring him in. I’d advise
Bevin slid a finger along her throat in exactly the same line that the garrote had taken when it cut through Ingraham’s neck. The cameraman killed the light. “We know that the dead man is the president of BWI Development,” the reporter said, “and we’ll sit on his identity tonight. But I’ll give you fair warning that we’re going to run it on the five-thirty show tomorrow. This is going to be a big story.”
He waited until Bevin and the gorilla had decamped before taking Clare’s elbow. “You,” he said, his voice barely audible. “In the car. Now.”
“What about the dogs?”
“In the back.” He steered her toward the squad car. “I’m going to sign out with MacAuley and Durkee.” He reached through the window on the driver’s side to unlock the back doors. “Then you and I are going to have a little talk.”
Things were winding down. Dr. Scheeler was gone, the mortuary van was pulling out, and the Channel 6 news team was loading their equipment. Durkee was bent over the electrical cords running from his car to the lamps. All but a few hard-core spectators had drifted away.
“Make sure you clear out the last of those,” he said to Lyle, jerking his thumb at the remaining handful of gawkers. One of the tungsten lights blinked out, and the thicket was suddenly half-dark, heavy with mist and shadows. The pole clattered as Durkee telescoped it down. “I’m taking Reverend Fergusson home.”
“Hey, you’ve had a long day,” Lyle said, folding his arms across his chest. “Why don’t you head on home and let me take care of her? I want to go back to the station anyway, to get my report down.”
“Do you know what she did? She told that reporter it was Ingraham.
“Let me handle it, then. Give yourself a chance to calm down.”
“Oh no. I want to tell her exactly how bad she’s screwed us. When I get done, she’s not going to pick up her newspaper at the front door without running it past me first.” He exhaled.
Lyle opened his mouth and then shut it again. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
