Shut Your Eyes Tight

It might be helpful to know the originating cell tower location, but that was a process with some sticky strings attached.

Since the intrusion of the doll into the house had been reported, it had the status of an open investigation. In that context an anonymous text message referring to the doll was a form of evidence that should be reported. However, a cell-records warrant with its ensuing data search would reveal that previous text messages had been sent to Gurney’s number from the same phone, and that he had replied to them. He felt trapped in a box of his own making, a box in which every solution would create a bigger problem.

He cursed himself for his ego-driven agreement to take on one more murder case no one else could solve; for his ego-driven willingness to let Sonya Reynolds back into his life; for his ego-driven blindness to the Jykynstyl deception; for his ego-driven desire to keep the consequences, and possible photographs, from Madeleine; for the absurd and dangerous bind in which he now found himself.

But cursing himself for his failings was getting him nowhere. He had to do something. But what?

The phone ringing on the kitchen sideboard answered the question for him.

It was Sheridan Kline, exuding his oiliest enthusiasm. “Dave! Glad you picked up. Get on your horse, my friend. We need you here pronto.”

“What’s happening?”

“What’s happening is that Darryl Becker of Palm Beach’s Finest found Ballston’s boat, just like you said he would. Guess what else he found.”

“I’m not a guesser.”

“Hah! Fact is, you made a damn good guess about that boat-and the possibility that the Palm Beach techs would find something on it. Well, they did. They found a tiny bloodstain… which generated a rush DNA profile… which triggered a CODIS near hit… which produced a change of heart on the part of Mr. Ballston. Or at least it produced a change in his legal strategy. He and his attorney are now in full-cooperation-to-avoid-lethal-injection mode.”

“Back up a second,” said Gurney. “The CODIS near hit-whose name popped up?”

“Worked the same way it worked with Melanie Strum-a first-degree family relationship, in this case a convicted child molester by the name of Wayne Dawker. Same last name as a Mapleshade girl, Kim Dawker, who went missing three months before Melanie. Turns out Wayne is Kim’s older brother. Ballston’s lawyers might be good enough to wiggle around one dead girl on his hands, but not two.”

“How’d they get the CODIS response so fast?”

“The phrase ‘serial murder conspiracy’ could be a motivator. Or maybe somebody in Palm Beach just happens to have the right phone number.” Kline sounded envious.

“Either way is fine with me,” said Gurney. “What’s next?”

“This afternoon Becker will be conducting a formal interrogation of Ballston, which Ballston has agreed to. We’ve been invited to participate through a computer-conferencing process. We witness the interrogation on a computer monitor and transmit any questions we want asked. I’ve insisted you be included.”

“What’s my role?”

“Submit the right question at the right time? Figure out how forthcoming he’s being? You’re the one who knows this creep best. Hey-speaking of creeps-I heard you had a little unauthorized-entry incident at your house.”

“You could call it that. Kind of unnerving at first, but… I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“Looks like someone doesn’t want you on the case-you figure that’s what it is?”

“I don’t know what else it could be.”

“Well, we can talk about it when you get here.”

“Right.” In fact, Gurney had no desire whatever to talk about it. As long as he could remember, he’d recoiled from the discussion of anything remotely connected to his own vulnerability. It was the same dysfunctional form of damage control that was keeping him from being less than forthcoming with Madeleine about his Rohypnol fears.

The police academy’s computer-video equipment had been updated more recently than BCI’s, so it was in the academy’s teleconferencing center that everyone gathered shortly before two that afternoon. The “center” was a conference room whose main feature was a flat-screen monitor mounted on the front wall. A semicircular table with a dozen chairs faced the screen. The attendees were all familiar to Gurney. Some, like Rebecca Holdenfield, he was happier to see than others.

He was relieved to note that they all seemed absorbed in their anticipation of what was about to occur-too absorbed to start asking about the doll and its implications.

Sergeant Robin Wigg was sitting at a small separate table in a corner of the room with two open laptops, a cell phone, and a keyboard with which she seemed to be controlling the monitor on the wall. As she tapped at the keys, the screen displayed a series of digital artifacts and numerical codes, then sprang to high-definition life-and quickly became the focus of everyone’s attention.

It showed a standard interrogation room with concrete-block walls. In the center of the room was a gray metal table. On one side of it sat Detective Darryl Becker. Facing him on the other side were two men. One looked like he’d stepped out of a GQ article on America’s best-dressed attorneys. The other was Jordan Ballston, in whom a devastating transformation had taken place. He looked sweaty and rumpled. His body sagged, his mouth was slightly open, and his hollow gaze was fixed on the table.

Becker turned crisply to the camera. “We’re about ready to get started. Hope we’re loud and clear at the remote location. Please confirm that.” He stared at the screen of a laptop facing him on the table.

Gurney heard Wigg tapping on her keyboard.

A few moments later, Becker smiled at his screen and gave a happy thumbs-up sign.

Rodriguez, who’d been conferring in whispers with Kline, stepped to the front of the room. “Listen up, people. We’re here to witness an interrogation, to which we’ve been invited to contribute. As the result of the discovery of new evidence on his property-”

“Bloodstains on his boat, found as the result of Gurney’s nudging,” interrupted Kline. He loved to stir the pot, keep the animosities boiling.

Rodriguez blinked and continued. “As a result of this evidence, the defendant has changed his story. In an effort to escape the certainty of the Florida death penalty, he’s offering not only to confess to the Melanie Strum murder but to provide details regarding a larger criminal conspiracy-a conspiracy that may relate to the apparent disappearances of other Mapleshade graduates. You should note that the defendant is making this statement to save his life and may be motivated to say more than he actually knows about this so-called conspiracy.”

As if to discount the captain’s caution, Hardwick called across the room to Gurney, who was seated at the opposite end of the half-moon table. “Congratulations, Sherlock! You ought to consider a career in law enforcement. We need brains like yours.”

A voice from the monitor on the wall redirected everyone’s attention.

Chapter 66

The monstrous truth, according to Ballston

“It’s now 2:03 P.M., September twentieth. This is Detective Lieutenant Darryl Becker of the Palm Beach Police Department. With me in Interrogation Room Number One are Jordan Ballston and his attorney Stanford Mull. This interrogation is being recorded.” Becker looked from the camera to Ballston. “Are you Jordan Ballston of South Ocean Boulevard, Palm Beach?”

Ballston answered without raising his eyes from the table. “Yes, I am.”

“Have you agreed after consultation with your attorney to make a complete and truthful statement regarding the murder of Melanie Strum?”

Stanford Mull put his hand on Ballston’s forearm. “Jordan, I must-”

“Yes, I have,” said Ballston.

Becker went on. “Do you agree to answer fully and truthfully all questions put to you in regard to this