Shut Your Eyes Tight

Gurney spoke slowly, as if each word were precious. “That conversation isn’t actually on the reception video.”

“Of course it is.”

“No. What’s recorded on the video is a meeting between Scott Ashton and Jillian Perry on the lawn, at the reception, in the background of the scene-too far in the background for the camera to record their voices. The ‘conversation’ you’re recalling-and that everyone who’s seen that video has been recalling-is Scott Ashton’s description of the conversation to Burt Luntz and his wife, after it occurred. The fact is, we have no way of knowing what Jillian actually said to him or what he said to Jillian. And until now we’ve had no reason to question it. All we really have is what Ashton claims was said. And as you commented a minute ago on his inaudible conversation with that blonde in the chapel, he could have said anything.”

“Okay,” said Hardwick uncertainly. “Ashton could have said anything. I get that. But what do you think he actually said to her? I mean, what’s the point of this? Why would he lie about Jillian’s reason for going into the cottage?”

“I can think of at least one horrible reason. My point is-once again-we don’t know what we thought we knew. All we really know is that they spoke to each other and she went into the cottage.”

Hardwick began tapping impatiently on the carved arm of his thronelike chair. “That’s not all we know. Don’t I remember someone going to get her? Knocking at the cottage door? One of the catering people? And wasn’t she already dead-or at least not able to answer the door? I’m not getting where the hell you’re going with this.”

“Let’s start at the beginning. If you look at the actual visual evidence and forget the narrative we’ve been given, the question is, is there another credible narrative that’s consistent with what we see happening on the screen?”

“Like what?”

“On the video it looks like Jillian gets Ashton’s attention and points at her watch. Okay. Suppose he’d asked her to remind him when it was time for the wedding toast. And suppose when he went over to her, he told her that he had a huge surprise for her and he wanted her to go into the cottage, because that’s where he was going to give it to her-just before the toast. She should go into the cottage, lock the door, and be completely quiet. No matter who came to the door, she shouldn’t open it or say a word. It was all part of the big surprise, and she’d understand it all later.”

Hardwick was paying serious attention now. “So you’re saying that she may have been perfectly fine when the catering person knocked on the door?”

“And then when Ashton himself opened the door with his key, suppose he said something like, ‘Shut your eyes tight. Shut your eyes tight-for the biggest surprise of your life.’ ”

“And then what?”

Gurney paused. “You remember Jason Strunk?”

Hardwick frowned. “The serial killer? What’s he got to do with this?”

“Remember how he killed his victims?”

“Wasn’t he the one who chopped them up, then mailed the pieces to the local cops?”

“Right. But it’s the weapon he used that I was thinking about.”

“Meat cleaver, wasn’t it? Razor-sharp Japanese thing.”

“And he carried it in a simple plastic sheath under his jacket.”

“So… what are you saying? Oh, no, come on! You’re not saying that… that Scott Ashton went into the cottage, told his brand-new wife to close her eyes, and then chopped her head off?”

“Based on the visual evidence, it’s just as possible as the story we’ve been given.”

“God, lots of things are possible, but…” Hardwick shook his head. “Then what? After he chops off his bride’s head, he lays it neatly on the table, starts screaming, slips his bloody cleaver back into his plastic-lined pocket, comes stumbling out of the cottage, and collapses?”

Gurney went on. “Exactly. That last bit is recorded on the video-him screaming, stumbling out, collapsing in the flower bed. Everyone comes rushing over, everyone looks in the cottage, and everyone reaches what under the circumstances is the obvious conclusion. Exactly the conclusion Ashton would want them to reach. So there was no reason for anyone to search him. If he did have a cleaver or a similar weapon hidden inside his jacket, no one would ever have known. And as soon as the K-9 team found the bloody machete in the woods, everything seemed perfectly clear. The Hector Flores narrative was set in stone, just waiting for Rod Rodriguez to put his stamp of approval on it.”

“The machete… with Jillian’s blood… but how…?”

“That blood could easily have come from the sample taken for her lithium-level blood test two days earlier. Ashton could have canceled the regular phlebotomy appointment and drawn that sample himself. Or he could have gotten it some other way, pulled some kind of switch-just like we were starting to think Flores might have done. And he could have planted the machete in the woods that morning, before the reception. Could have smeared the blood on it, carried it out through the back window of the cottage, left a drop or two on the back windowsill, left that sex-pheromone trail with the boots for the dogs to follow, then came back in through the cottage. At that point, there wouldn’t have been any cameras running, which would explain how the machete got from the cottage to where it was found with no video record of anyone passing that goddamn tree.”

“Wait a second, you forgot something. How the hell did he swing a cleaver through her neck-through the carotids-without getting sprayed with blood? I mean, I know about that thing in the ME’s report about the blood all running down the far side of her body and my own idea of how the killer could have used the head itself to deflect the flow. But there’d still be some splatter, wouldn’t there?”

“Maybe there was.”

“And nobody noticed?”

“Think about it, Jack-the scene on the video. Ashton was wearing a dark suit. He falls in a muddy flower bed. A bed of rosebushes. With thorns. He was a muddy mess. And as I recall, some helpful guests took him into the house. I’d bet my pension he went to a bathroom. Which would offer an easy opportunity to ditch the cleaver, maybe even switch into a matching suit with some mud already on it. So when he came out, he’d still be a muddy mess, but a mess with no trace of the victim’s blood.”

“Fuck,” murmured Hardwick thoughtfully. “You really believe all that?”

“To be honest, Jack, I have no reason to believe any of it. But I do think it’s possible.”

“There are some problems with it, don’t you think?”

“Like the credibility problem of a famous psychiatrist being a stone-cold assassin?”

“Actually, that’s the part I like best,” said Hardwick.

Gurney grinned for the first time that day. “Any other problems?” he asked.

“Yeah. If Flores wasn’t in the cottage when Jillian was killed, where the hell was he?”

“Maybe he was already dead,” said Gurney. “Maybe Ashton killed him to make it look like he was guilty and ran away. Or maybe the whole scenario I just cooked up is as full of holes as every other theory of this case.”

“So this guy is either a world-class criminal or the innocent victim of one.” Hardwick glanced over at the monitor behind Ashton’s desk. “For a man whose whole world is supposedly collapsing, he looks pretty damn calm. Where did all the despair and hopelessness go?”

“They seem to have evaporated.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Emotional resilience? Putting up a good front?”

Hardwick looked increasingly baffled. “Why did he want us to watch this?”

Ashton was making his way slowly around the chapel, almost imperiously, like a guru among his disciples. Proprietary. Confident. Imperturbable. Radiating more pleasure and satisfaction by the minute. A man of power and respect. A Renaissance cardinal. An American president. A rock star.

“Scott Ashton seems to be a jewel of many facets,” said Gurney, fascinated.

“Or a murdering bastard,” countered Hardwick.

“We need to decide which.”

“How?”