“Where the fuck are all these stories coming from? They’re fascinating stories, but…”
“But what?”
“But zero solid evidence for any of them.”
Hardwick fell silent, but Gurney sensed that the man had more to say.
“And…?” he prompted.
Hardwick shook his head, as if unwilling to say more, then spoke anyway. “I used to believe that my first wife was a fucking saint.” He fell into a distant silence for a long minute or two, staring out at the passing landscape of wet fields and old farmhouses. “We tell ourselves stories. We miss the real evidence. That’s the problem. That’s the way our minds work. We love stories way too much. We need to believe them. And you know what? The need to believe can suck you right down the fucking drain.”
Chapter 73
Once they’d passed the exit for Higgles Road, Gurney’s GPS indicated that they’d be arriving at Mapleshade in another fourteen minutes. They’d taken Gurney’s conservative green Outback, which seemed more appropriate than Hardwick’s red GTO with its rumbling exhaust and hot-rod attitude. The mist had increased to a heavier drizzle, and Gurney upped the wiper speed. Weeks earlier an irritating squeak had developed in one of the wiper blades, which was overdue for replacement.
“How do you picture this guy we’ve been calling Hector Flores?” asked Hardwick.
“You mean his face?”
“All of him. What do you picture him doing?”
“I picture him standing naked in a yoga pose in Scott Ashton’s garden pavilion.”
“See what I mean?” said Hardwick. “You read about that in the interview summaries, right? But now you’re picturing it as vividly as if you saw it.”
Gurney shrugged. “We do that all the time. Not only do our minds connect the dots, they create dots where there aren’t any to begin with. Like you said, Jack, we’re wired to love stories-coherence.” A moment later he had a sudden, seemingly unrelated thought. “Was the blood still wet?”
Hardwick blinked. “What blood?”
“The blood on the machete. The blood you told me a minute ago couldn’t have come directly from the murder scene, because the machete wasn’t the murder weapon.”
“Of course it was wet. I mean… it looked wet. Let me think a second. What I saw of it looked wet, but it had dirt and leaves stuck to it.”
“Christ!” interrupted Gurney. “That could be the reason…”
“The reason for what?”
“The reason Flores half buried it. Buried the blade. Under a coating of damp leaves and earth.”
“So the blood on it wouldn’t dry?”
“Or wouldn’t oxidize in a way noticeably different from the blood around the body in the cottage. The point is, if the blood on the machete appeared to be in a more advanced state of oxidation than the blood on Jillian’s wedding dress, that’s something you or the techs would have noticed. If the blood on the machete was older than the blood on the victim…”
“We’d have known that it wasn’t the murder weapon.”
“Exactly. But the wet soil on the blade would have slowed the drying of the blood, plus it would have obscured any oxidation, any observable difference from the color of the blood found in the cottage.”
“And that’s not something the lab would have picked up, either,” said Hardwick.
“Of course not. The blood analysis wouldn’t have been done until the following day at the soonest, and at that point a difference of an hour or two in the origination time of the two samples would have been undetectable-unless they were running a sophisticated test to examine that specific factor. But unless you or the ME had flagged it, they wouldn’t have had any reason to do it.”
Hardwick was nodding slowly, his eyes sharp and thoughtful. “It kicks the foundation out from under some basic assumptions we’ve been making, but where does it take us?”
“Hah. Good question,” said Gurney. “Maybe it’s just one more indication that
The efficient female voice of Gurney’s GPS directed him to proceed another half mile, then turn left.
The turn was marked by a simple black-and-white sign on a black wooden post: PRIVATE DRIVEWAY. The narrow, smoothly paved drive passed through a pine copse with branches overhanging from both sides, creating the feeling of a sculpted horticultural tunnel. Half a mile into this extended evergreen arbor they drove through an open gate in a tall chain-link fence and came to a stop at a raisable bar that was in its down position. Next to the bar was a handsome cedar-shingled security booth. On the wall facing Gurney, an elegant blue-and-gold sign read MAPLESHADE RESIDENTIAL ACADEMY. VISITS BY APPOINTMENT ONLY. A thickly built man with thinning gray hair emerged from the booth. His black pants and gray shirt gave the impression of an informal uniform, and he had the neutral, appraising eyes of a retired cop. His mouth smiled politely. “Can I help you?”
“Dave Gurney and Senior Investigator Jack Hardwick, New York State Police, here to see Dr. Ashton.”
Hardwick pulled out his wallet, extended his BCI ID toward Gurney’s window.
The guard eyed it carefully and made a sour face. “Okay, just stay right here while I call Dr. Ashton.” While keeping his gaze on the visitors, the man keyed in a code on his phone and began talking. “Sir, a Detective Hardwick and a Mr. Gurney here to see you.” A pause. “Yes, sir, they’re right here.” The guard shot them a nervous glance, then spoke into the phone. “No, sir, no one else with them… Yes, sir, of course.” The guard handed the phone to Gurney, who put the receiver to his ear.
It was Ashton. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me in the midst of something. I’m not sure I can see-”
“We only need to ask you a few questions, Doctor. And maybe someone on your staff could show us around the grounds afterward? We’d just like to get a feel for things.”
Ashton sighed. “Very well. I’ll make a few minutes for you. Someone will come to pick you up shortly. Please put the security man back on.”
After confirming Ashton’s authorization, the guard pointed to a small gravel area extending off the side of the pavement just past the booth. “Park over there. No cars beyond that point. Wait for your escort.” A moment later the bar across the driveway rose and Gurney drove through to the small designated parking area. From that position he could see a longer stretch of the fence than was visible as he was approaching it. He was surprised to see that apart from the portion adjoining the road and the booth, the fence was topped with spiral coils of razor wire.
Hardwick had noticed it, too. “You think it’s to keep the girls in or the local boys out?”
“I hadn’t thought about the boys,” said Gurney, “but you may be right. A boarding school full of sex-obsessed young women, even if their obsessions are hellish, could be quite a magnet.”
“You mean
The guard, still standing in front of his booth, gave them a curious look-friendlier now that they’d been approved for entry. “This about the Liston girl who worked here?”
“You knew her?” asked Hardwick.
“Didn’t
“You know him?”
“Again, more to see him than to talk to him. He’s a little-what would you say?
“Standoffish?”
“Yeah, I would say he was standoffish.”
“So he’s not the guy you report to?”
“Nah. Ashton doesn’t really have anything to do with anybody. A little too important, you know what I mean? Most of the staff here report to Dr. Lazarus.”
