All Mortal Flesh

your family, processing your loss and dealing with your grief.”

“I appreciate your concern. But right now, the only thing I want to process is the perpetrator’s county lock-up papers.”

Cameron glanced toward Garry Greuling. Russ remembered him from high school, when he had been the super-cool science teacher who grew sideburns down to his jaw and assigned Star Trek as homework. “Russ,” he said, “as I recall, the department regulations say any officer who’s undergone a traumatic experience gets a minimum one-week suspension with pay.”

“They’re supposed to seek counseling, too,” Bob Miles added.

“That’s for an on-the-job event, like a shooting,” Russ said.

“Shooting a criminal is more traumatic than having your wife killed?” Miles sounded incredulous.

“Dammit, can we not tippy-toe around why we’re here?” Ron Tucker had a surprisingly soft voice for a man of his size. “Russ, everybody in town’s flapping their gums over this thing, and half of them are sayin’ you had a hand in it.”

“What?” He had once taken a bullet to the chest. The body armor he had been wearing saved his life, but the force of the impact, smashing the air out of his lungs, hammering him to the ground, had convinced him he was dying. That was how he felt now.

“Easy on,” Tucker said. “We all know it’s a load of horsepuckies. But it sure in’t gonna help your investigation any. We gotta deal with this”-he looked for the first time at the woman, who had been sitting calmly throughout the discussion-“conflict of interest.”

“Is she a lawyer?” Russ was surprised to find he still had a voice. “Does this have something to do with the town’s liability? You’re worried someone’s going to sue you if I’m not shunted off to the sidelines?”

“Slow down, Russ.” The mayor spoke quietly. “This is Investigator Jensen from the state Bureau of Criminal Investigation.” She tilted her head in acknowledgement. “I spoke with Captain Ireland of Troop F last night, and he told me Investigator Jensen was the woman we wanted.”

Russ looked at him, incredulous. “Wanted for what?” He glanced at Jensen. “No offense, detective, but I was working homicides while you were still learning to tie your shoes. I was born and bred here, I’ve headed up this department for seven years, and I know half of Millers Kill by name and the other half by reputation. What can you possibly bring to this investigation?”

She held up one manicured finger. “Objectivity.” A second. “The ability to function, not as your coworker or friend, but as an impartial observer.” A third finger. “Another trained investigator for an eight-man department that must be strained to the breaking point by this crime.”

“We can handle a murder investigation.”

“I didn’t mean strained to the breaking point because of the demands of the case. I meant psychologically. Emotionally.” She leaned forward, spidering her hands on the table. “Chief Van Alstyne, I guarantee you, every officer in your department is walking around with the same nasty thought in the back of his head: Could it happen to me? Is someone I love going to die next?”

He cleared his throat. “There’s no evidence we’re dealing with some sort of pattern.”

She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. It’s what’s here”-she tapped her heart-“and not here.” She tapped her head.

“Russ, the decision’s been made.” Jim Cameron didn’t look happy, but Russ knew that wouldn’t stop him from doing what he thought was right. “You and the department need the support, and the public needs to know that there’s someone on the case who isn’t involved personally. I want you to take Investigator Jensen back to the station and put her experience to good use.” He stood up. The rest of them followed suit. “We all want the same thing. We want the person responsible for this atrocity behind bars.”

“Or strapped to the gurney in Clinton,” Eddie Palmer mumbled.

Russ stood to one side. “Get your coat and your things,” he said to Jensen. “I’ll walk you over to the station.”

She tripped past him in high heels. He hoped she’d brought something more sensible, or her feet’d be frostbit by nightfall. The aldermen trailed her through the door. The mayor would have followed, but Russ stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“I just want to get one thing straight. Was it the gossip that decided you to call Captain Ireland at Troop F? Or did the board put you up to it?”

Cameron looked surprised. “I didn’t call Ireland,” he said. “He called me.”

NINETEEN

She did have boots. In the time it took for Russ to get the mayor’s two-by-four between the eyes-I didn’t call Ireland. He called me-she had changed into mukluks and was zipping up a midsized duffle. “This way,” he said, jerking his head. He didn’t register leaving the town hall and walking to the station. All his attention was inward, trying to construct some Rube Goldberg logic machine that would enable him to believe the staties hadn’t been tipped off by someone in the Millers Kill Police Department.

He couldn’t do it.

They had been keeping a near-blackout in the press. The Post-Star reported the MKPD was investigating “a suspicious death,” a semifiction they carried off because the department, with MacAuley as its affable spokesman, was usually transparent to the local media. It might have become an item of gossip around town, but what civilian would know to call the state police and get them involved? One of the aldermen? But no, Jim Cameron would have said something.

It had to have been one of his own.

“Hey, you’re back.”

Russ blinked. He was startled to find himself standing in front of Harlene, who was staring at Jensen with open curiosity.

“Uh,” he said. “Harlene, this is Investigator Jensen. She’s here from the Troop F BCI to help us with the investigation. This is our dispatcher, Harlene Lendrum.” He didn’t quite turn toward Jensen.

“Chief? That you?” Mark Durkee strode into the dispatch area, his hands full of manila files.

“What are you doing here?” Russ asked.

Mark stared at Jensen stripping off her wool coat, then at Russ. “I got put-I’m on day duty now, remember?”

He didn’t, but that was fine. Mark was the perfect person to unload his unwelcome guest on. “This is Investigator Jensen of the New York State BCI,” he said. “She’s going to be joining us for the investigation.” Durkee’s eyes widened. “Show her the file and get her up to date on everything.” He spun on his heel and disappeared behind his closed office door before either of them could reply.

He needed more information. Who could he call? He leaned against one of the window frames, watching the traffic crawl down Main Street. The plows had shoved the remains of Sunday’s storm off the road, but the parking spots on either side were still clotted with snow. Trucks and SUVs that forced their way into the compacted mess stuck out into the roadway, narrowing the thoroughfare into a single lane at spots. He would have to call in Duane and Tim, the part-time officers, to hand out a few tickets and get the TEMPORARILY CLOSED TO PARKING signs up.

Nathan Bougeron. Of course. He had been a talented young officer when Russ took over the MKPD seven years ago. Too talented-within two years he had been wooed away by the staties. He was in Lafayette now, in plainclothes. Russ dropped into his chair and riffled through his Rolodex. He punched the number in.

“Investigator Bougeron.”

“Nathan, it’s Russ Van Alstyne.”

“Hey, Chief! Good to hear from you. How’s it going?”

The commonplace nicety threatened to swallow Russ whole.

“Chief?”

He decided to skip over the end of his life as he knew it. “I’ve got a situation here, and I was hoping you could give me some information.”