Think of a Number

Kline’s assistant left the room, but not before Gurney caught the knowing Mona Lisa smile on her face that confirmed his own view of the situation.

Kline poured both coffees. The china looked antique and expensive, yet he handled it with neither pride nor concern, reinforcing Gurney’s impression that the wunderkind DA had been to the manner born, and law enforcement was a step toward something more consistent with patrician birth. What was it Hardwick had whispered to him at yesterday’s meeting? Something about a desire to be governor? Maybe cynical old Hardwick was right again. Or maybe Gurney was reading too much into how a man held a cup.

“By the way,” said Kline, leaning back in his chair, “that bullet in the wall, the one they thought was a.357-it wasn’t. That was just a guess based on the size of the hole in the wall before they dug it out. Ballistics says it’s actually a.38 Special.”

“That’s odd.”

“Pretty common, actually. Standard sidearm in most police departments until the 1980s.”

“Common caliber, but an odd choice.”

“I don’t follow.”

“The killer went to some trouble to muffle the sound of the shot, make it as quiet as possible. If noise was a major concern, a.38 Special was an odd weapon to choose. A.22 pistol would have made a lot more sense.”

“Maybe it’s the only weapon he had.”

“Maybe.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“He’s a perfectionist. He’d make absolutely sure he had the right gun.”

Kline gave Gurney a cross-examiner’s stare. “You’re contradicting yourself. First you said that the evidence shows he wanted to keep the shot as quiet as possible. Then you said he picked the wrong gun to do that. Now you’re saying he’s not the kind of guy who’d pick the wrong gun.”

“Keeping the shot quiet was important. But maybe something else was more important.”

“Like what?”

“If there’s a ritual aspect to this affair, then the choice of gun could be part of that. The obsession with carrying out the murder in a certain way could take precedence over the sound problem. He’d do it the way he felt compelled to do it and deal with the noise as best he could.”

“When you say ritual, I hear psycho. Just how crazy do you think this guy is?”

“Crazy is not a term I find useful,” said Gurney. “Jeffrey Dahmer was judged legally sane, and he ate his victims. David Berkowitz was judged legally sane, and he killed people because a satanic dog told him to.”

“Is that what you think we’re dealing with here?”

“Not exactly. Our killer is vengeful and obsessed-obsessed to the point of emotional derangement, but probably not to the point of eating body parts or taking orders from a dog. He’s obviously very sick, but there’s nothing in the notes that reflect the DSM criteria for psychosis.”

There was a knock on the door.

Kline frowned thoughtfully, pursed his lips, seemed to be weighing Gurney’s assessment-or perhaps he was just trying to look like a man not easily distracted by a mere knock on the door.

“Come in,” he finally said in a loud voice.

The door opened, and Rodriguez entered. He couldn’t entirely conceal his displeasure at seeing Gurney.

“Rod!” boomed Kline. “Good of you to come over. Have a seat.”

Conspicuously avoiding the couch on which Gurney sat, he chose an armchair facing Kline.

The DA smiled heartily. Gurney guessed it was at the prospect of witnessing a clash of viewpoints.

“Rod wanted to drop by to share his current perspective on the case.” He sounded like a referee introducing one fighter to another.

“I look forward to hearing it,” said Gurney mildly.

Not mildly enough to keep Rodriguez from interpreting it as a provocation in disguise. He required no further urging to share his perspective.

“Everybody’s focused on the trees,” he said, loudly enough to be heard in a much larger room than Kline’s office. “We’re forgetting the forest!”

“The forest being…?” asked Kline.

“The forest being the huge issue of opportunity. Everybody’s getting tangled up in motive speculation and the crazy little details of the method. We’re being distracted from Issue Number One-a houseful of drug addicts and other criminal slimebags with easy access to the victim.”

Gurney wondered if this reaction was the result of the captain’s feeling his control of the case threatened or if there was more to it.

“What are you suggesting should be done?” Kline asked.

“I’m having all the guests reinterviewed, and I’m having deeper background checks done. We’re going to turn over some rocks in the lives of these cokehead creeps. I’m telling you right now-one of them did it, and it’s only a matter of time until we find out which one.”

“What do you think, Dave?” Kline’s tone was almost too casual, as though he were trying to hide the pleasure he derived from provoking a battle.

“Reinterviews and background checks could be helpful,” said Gurney blandly.

“Helpful but not necessary?”

“We won’t know until they’re done. It could also be helpful to address the question of opportunity, or access to the victim, in a broader context-for example, inns or bed-and-breakfasts in the immediate vicinity that might be almost as convenient as the guest quarters of the institute.”

“I’ll lay odds it was a guest,” said Rodriguez. “When a swimmer disappears in shark-infested waters, it isn’t because he was kidnapped by a passing water-skier.” He glared at Gurney, whose smile he interpreted as a challenge. “Let’s get real about this!”

“Are we looking into the bed-and-breakfasts, Rod?” asked Kline.

“We’re looking into everything.”

“Good. Dave, is there anything else that would be on your priority list?”

“Nothing that’s not already in the pipeline. Lab work on the blood; foreign fibers on and around the victim; brand, availability, and any peculiarities of the boots; ballistics matches on the bullet; analysis of the audio recording of the perp’s call to Mellery, with enhancements of the background sounds, and originating transmission- tower ID if it was a cell call; landline and cell records of the current guests; handwriting analysis of the notes, with paper and ink IDs; psych profile based on communications and murder MO; cross-check of the FBI’s threatening- letters database. I think that would cover it. Am I forgetting anything, Captain?”

Before Rodriguez could answer, which he seemed in no rush to do, Kline’s assistant opened the door and stepped into the office. “Excuse me, sir,” she said with a deference that seemed designed for public consumption. “There is a Sergeant Wigg here to see the captain.”

Rodriguez frowned.

“Send her in,” said Kline, whose appetite for confrontation seemed boundless.

The genderless redhead from the BCI headquarters meeting entered, wearing the same plain blue suit and carrying the same laptop.

“What do you want, Wigg?” asked Rodriguez, more annoyed than curious.

“We discovered something, sir, that I thought was important enough to bring to your attention.”

“Well?”

“It’s about the boots, sir.”

“Boots?”

“The boots in the tree, sir.”

“What about them?”

“May I place this on the coffee table?” asked Wigg, indicating her laptop.

Rodriguez looked at Kline. Kline nodded.

Thirty seconds and a few keystrokes later, the three men were looking at a split-screen pair of photos of apparently identical boot prints.

“The ones on the left are actual prints from the scene. The ones on the right are prints we made in the same