and I wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Marshall stood in the lot at the Reliable rental agency in Akron and watched the forensics team going over the car again. The preliminary notes were in his hand, and he knew that what the two women and two men were doing now was wasting time. In his twenty-two years as an agent he had watched this ritual hundreds of times. The F.B.I.’s big edge was in lab work. If there was something in the car that they had missed the first time—really, the first four times, because there was only room in the car for one person to search—then it was probably a sample that wasn’t big enough for the lab to analyze.
The car had a few hairs left by unidentified people, none of whom happened to be a female with long dark hair or a gray-haired male over fifty. There were fingerprints of the sales agent who had moved the car to the cleaning area, the man who had vacuumed it, hosed it off, and wiped the chrome and windows, then filled the gas tank and parked it in the ready space. It had a few prints on the hood latch, the air filter cover, and the gas door from the man’s colleagues in Youngstown.
The part about Youngstown had brought its own complex of worrisome facts. The car had been rented in Youngstown by a woman named Kathy Sirini, whose credit card bills went to a P.O. box in New York City. Someone had turned the car in at Akron, fifty miles west of Youngstown and a day later. Marshall’s experience told him that things didn’t look good for Kathy Sirini. Someone—presumably Kathy Sirini—had been seen at a gas station, heading west in this car with a man suspected of killing another woman. The car was left in the rental lot at the airport, but Kathy Sirini hadn’t bought a ticket. She hadn’t rented another car. She hadn’t made any new charges with her credit card, although it had been three days since then and she was far from home.
The New York office was trying to find her apartment now, but the P.O. box made it difficult. A lot of young single women in New York lived with roommates or boyfriends who had signed the lease—or in rent-controlled apartments in the names of people who had moved on decades ago. It was possible that whoever cared about Kathy Sirini wasn’t going to report her missing until she was a week late at the end of her vacation, or she missed the family reunion in Nebraska. Kathy Sirini was almost certainly dead.
The case had begun with the kind of disorder that most undermined Marshall’s sense of well-being. The death of a young woman doctor was disturbing: it seemed to have exacerbated the sense of waste that he always felt when he came close to a killing. The probability that she had been murdered by a man like Richard Dahlman made Marshall feel jumpy and unsettled. The case seemed to want to force its own conclusion on the investigator, and the conclusion was that sanity was only a fragile and temporary balance in the human organism, like perfect tuning. At any second, any human being might subtly, invisibly change and start coldly, methodically butchering his friends and neighbors. It was not inconceivable that such a thing could happen, and a good many people close to the case seemed to have accepted it already. But from the beginning, Marshall had been turning up facts that didn’t fit, and didn’t go away.
Richard Dahlman was the wrong kind of man for the sudden, self-destructive kind of murder. The ones who did this were younger—fifty at the oldest. They were rarely successful in life, and seldom well-educated. They were modern society’s casualties: men who kept getting dead-end jobs and then losing them, getting connected with some woman and then losing her too, because the failure or the bitterness or the accumulating evidence that the future was never going to be any different drove her off. Each time one of them loaded all of the clips for his assault rifle and barricaded himself in his apartment, the newsmen would say it was totally unexpected, and it was. But after the investigation had been completed, Marshall always found a list of incidents—threats that got more and more specific, outbursts that were more and more violent—that retroactively charted a kind of downward trajectory.
Dr. Dahlman seemed to have no trajectory. He had succeeded at everything. He had maintained what appeared to be a loving marriage for over thirty years, until his wife’s death, and nobody had yet found any evidence that her death had been suspicious. He had raised a set of normal, or at least high-functioning, children, and had managed to gain the respect of a couple of generations of other doctors.
The evidence the police had found seemed to show that Dahlman had quietly developed some festering mental delusion that had led him to kill his partner. The strange little shrine to his secret hatred of his victim was standard, recognizable evidence of madness. There were the usual photographs, the little possessions like pens and notes that he could have taken without her missing them. That was what searches turned up when a killer heard supernatural voices and saw the act as sacrifice or fulfillment of some metaphysical destiny. But the killing itself didn’t fit the pattern. It should have been ritualized in some way, not faked as an interrupted burglary. That was what killers did when they wanted to collect on an insurance policy.
The premeditation, the ability to lie with conviction, the habit of looking at any new configuration of human beings as an opportunity, suggested something far more ominous than a simple mental breakdown. And Dahlman’s behavior since the killing was carefully calculated and self-preserving. He was not acting like someone who had lost control, but like someone who was exerting control of a very special sort. It was just possible that when Dr. Dahlman had constructed his little shrine he had not been gearing up for the killing: he had been coldly, rationally thinking about the risk that something might go wrong, and building himself a defense. It was the sort of thing a sociopath would do, and they usually had histories. They didn’t wait until they were sixty-seven. This train of thought led Marshall back to Kathy Sirini, the girl with the long dark hair who had rented this car.
He sighed. He could see that every part of the car that was covered with black fingerprint powder also had tape marks where the print had already been lifted. The forensic people were beginning to give one another inquiring glances.
“What do you say?” he asked. “Think you’ve found everything?”
The senior specialist, who would have been a fair match for Dale Honecker’s description of the woman in the gas station, said, “We’ve got about all we’re going to get. I guess we can release it now.”
“Better have the local police store it for the moment,” he said. “Somebody may want to look it over again later.”
“Later?” She cocked her head.
“If her body turns up.”
She nodded with no trace of surprise and turned away to take charge of the preparations. He could tell she had thought of the possibility that she wasn’t just verifying a sighting of a fugitive and looking for fibers from what he was wearing. If the next big rain washed Kathy Sirini’s body out of some hillside between here and Youngstown, the car would be evidence in a second murder trial. It was just possible that by the time this was over and enough of Dahlman’s history was known to make it coherent, there would be indications that there had been other bodies in other places.
17
The big stone house under the maple trees, where Carey McKinnon and his father and grandfather and all of the McKinnons since the 1790s had lived, built on land that before the McKinnons had arrived had belonged to her own relatives, the house where she had come to stay with him and be his wife, was now a prison.
Outside the front window one of the guards jogged past in a dark blue sweatsuit. The woman’s hair was gathered in a ponytail and in her ear was what looked like the earphone for a transistor radio, but there was no reason for a person to talk back to an AM station.
If Jane stood to the side of the front window she could just see the corner of the Water Department van parked two doors down the street. The day after she had come home the van had appeared; two men in coveralls had set up highway cones and reflectors and gone back inside. Each morning they had taken out their equipment— toolboxes, surveyor’s transits, even a compressor, and then done nothing.
Jane had spent the following two days cleaning. The microphone in the dining room attached to the underside of the antique sideboard was so amateurish that she was sure it was there to get her to take it out and assume there wasn’t another somewhere else. The ones in the living room were relatively good: nobody but Jane was likely to manipulate a hand mirror and a flashlight to see a microphone stuck to the inner wall of a chimney, and the
