“And how do you know one of the parents was killed downstairs and the other dragged down later?”
“That is, admittedly, an assumption. But it is the only one that matches the evidence. We are dealing with a lone killer, and it seems unlikely he would have fought both parents, downstairs, simultaneously. This arranging of the parents is another staged element of the attack — a grisly detail, intended to sow additional fear and unrest.”
Chivers shook his head in disgust and disbelief.
“So.” The chief could hardly bring himself to ask the question he knew he had to. “What makes you think there might be more killings like this?”
“This was a crime of hatred, sadism, and brutality, committed by a person who, while probably insane, was still in possession of his faculties. Fire is often the weapon of choice for the insane.”
“A revenge killing?”
“Doubtful. The Baker family was not well known in Roaring Fork. You yourself told me they appear to have no enemies in town and only spend a couple of weeks here a year. So if not revenge, what is the motive? Hard to say definitively, but it may not be one directed at this family specifically — but rather,
A silence. “And what does this family represent?” Morris asked.
“Perhaps what this entire town represents.”
“Which is?”
Pendergast paused, and then said: “Money.”
19
Corrie entered the history section of the Roaring Fork Library. The beautiful, wood-paneled space was once again empty save for Ted Roman, who was reading a book at his desk. He looked up as Corrie entered, his lean face lighting up.
“Well, well!” he said, rising. “Roaring Fork’s most infamous girl returns in triumph!”
“Jeez. What kind of a welcome is that?”
“A sincere one. I mean it. You and that FBI agent really nailed Kermode. God, it was one of the best things I’ve ever seen in this town.”
“You were at the town meeting?”
“Sure as hell was. It’s about time someone took down that…well, I hope you won’t be offended if I use the word, but here goes: that
“No offense here.”
“And not only did the man in black cut Kermode off at the knees, but he took on that cozy little triumvirate, her, the police chief, and the mayor. Your friend just about had the three of them soiling their drawers — Montebello, too!” He almost cackled with glee, and his laugh was so infectious Corrie had to join in.
“I have to admit, it was satisfying to hear the story,” Corrie said. “Especially after spending ten days in jail because of them.”
“I knew as soon as I read you’d been arrested that it was bullshit…” Ted tried to smooth down the cowlick that projected from his forehead. “So. What are you working on today?”
“I want to find out all I can about the life of Emmett Bowdree — and his death.”
“The miner you’ve been analyzing? Let’s see what we can find.”
“Is the library always this empty?” she asked as they walked over to the computer area.
“Yeah. Crazy, huh? The prettiest library in the West and nobody comes. It’s the people in this town — they’re too busy parading down Main Street in their minks and diamonds.” He aped a movie star, sashaying as if on a fashion runway, making faces.
Corrie laughed. Ted had a funny way about him.
He sat down at a computer terminal and logged on. He began various searches, explaining what he was doing while she peered over his shoulder.
“Okay,” he said, “I’ve got some decent hits on your Mr. Bowdree.” She heard a printer fire up behind her. “You take a look at the list and tell me what you want to see.”
He fetched the printed sheets and she scanned them quickly, pleased — in fact, almost intimidated — by the number of references. It seemed that there was quite a lot on Emmett Bowdree: mentions in newspaper articles, employment and assay records, mining documents and claims, and other miscellanea.
“Say…” Ted began, then stopped.
“What?”
“Um, you know, considering how you stood me up for that beer last time…”
“Sorry. I was busy getting myself arrested.”
He laughed. “Well, you still owe me one. Tonight?”
Corrie looked at him, suddenly blushing and awkward and hopeful. “I’d love to,” she heard herself say.
20
The chief had held press conferences before, usually when some bad-boy celebrity got in trouble. But this was different — and worse. As he observed the audience from the wings, he felt a rising apprehension. These people were seething, demanding answers. Because the old police station building only had a small conference room, they were back in the City Hall meeting room — site of his recent humiliation — and the reminder was not a pleasant one.
On the other hand, he had Pendergast on his side. The man who had started out as his nemesis was now — he might as well admit it — his crutch. Chivers was furious, and half his own department was in revolt, but Morris didn’t care. The man was brilliant, even if he was a bit strange, and he was damn grateful to have him in his corner. But Pendergast wasn’t going to be able to help him with this crowd. This was something he had to do on his own. He had to go in there looking like the Man in Charge.
He glanced at his watch. Five minutes to two — the hubbub of voices was like an ominous growl.
Reviewing his notes one last time, he stepped out on stage, walking briskly to the podium. As the sound of voices dropped, he took another moment to observe the audience. The room was packed, standing-room only, and it looked like more were outside. The press gallery, too, was crammed. His eye easily picked out the black blot of Pendergast, sitting anonymously in the public area in front. And in the reserved section, he could see the ranks of officials, the mayor, fire chief, senior members of his department, the M.E., Chivers, and the town attorney. Conspicuously absent was Mrs. Kermode. Thank God.
He leaned over, tapped the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen.”
The room fell silent.
“For those who may not know me,” he said, “I’m Chief Stanley Morris of the Roaring Fork Police Department. I’m going to read a statement, and then I will take questions from the press and the public.”
He squared his papers and began to read, keeping his voice stern and neutral. It was a short statement that confined itself to the indisputable facts: the time of the fire, the number and identity of the victims, the determination it was a homicide, the status of the investigation. No speculation. He ended with an appeal for all persons to come forward with any information they might have, no matter how trivial. He of course did not mention Pendergast’s suggestion that there might be more such events; that would be far too incendiary. Besides, there was no evidence for it — as Chivers had said, it was mere speculation.
He looked up. “Questions?”
An immediate tumult from the press gallery. Morris had already decided whom he was going to call on and in what order, and he now pointed to his number one journalist, an old pal from the
