He looked around at his place; it was a shambles of opened and unopened boxes. He had never fully relaxed here, wasn't one hundred percent sure he meant to stay. There was a guy across the hall who sometimes sent out banshee wails when he went into delirium tremens, a real alcoholic of the old school: He lived on booze alone. The man looked like death walking. Fleckner was his name, and every time Stonecoat looked into his dead eyes, he feared the reflection, knowing that he himself could be Fleckner at any time, anytime he wanted to give up and give in…
ELEVEN
Over a shared pot of black coffee, the former detective and the police psychiatrist stared at one another. Meredyth got up from the single chair in the apartment, which he'd graciously offered her, to walk about the place and comment on its hardwood floors, and the pictures he'd hung, and the Cherokee blanket hanging from one wall. She began to think aloud as she gazed about the place, saying, “Your Indian bearing, your surroundings, and your natural good looks remind me of Lou Diamond Phillips, the actor, but you're taller, more broad-shouldered.”
Lucas remained stonily cool to all her remarks, some of which were designed to bring him out, to relax him. He knew what she was trying to do. “So,” she finally said, “what'd you think of the fifth case, the Gunther case?”
This case took place back in 1979, and it involved a younger man who really seemed to have nothing whatever in common with the other victims, as he was not a home owner or successful or wealthy in any sense of the word. In fact, he was a metalworker, something to do with automotive bodywork. His name was David Ryan Gunther, but he'd been somewhat new to the greater Houston area, and no one knew from where he had arrived. His body, or what little remained of it, had been discovered in a wooded area, in a little pit hastily covered over by brush and stone and earth, the head severed and missing while all other limbs and parts and members had remained intact. His name was known because of an ID found in the shallow grave. But after repeated police requests for help, including an appearance on the tube by cartoon Officer Take-a-bite-outta-crime, no one had ever come forward to claim the young man's remains.
The only thing remotely linking David Ryan Gunther to the other deaths was the large Bowie knife sunk to its hilt that-according to the coroner's report-had been driven in with such force as to pin the body to the ground. The huge blade had been discovered still straight up after some eight years, while the body had decayed around the knife and bones. And with the cranium missing, there wasn't an opportunity to even guess at his facial features. It was presumed that the skull was either pulled off by animals and taken to a den somewhere, or that the killer had taken Gunther's head away with him for some bizarre ritual or dark purpose. With no one claiming the body or coming forward with any information, the remains were buried in a city cemetery at cost to the taxpayers.
Again she asked, “What do you think about the Gunther body being discovered where it was, as it was?”
He gave her a deprecating shrug. “Obviously, there are a few tenuous links that you've already examined and judged. Obviously, you've buzzed about on the VICAP and other computer systems in your search for similarities in killer MO and victim profile, and the big bulletin board must have alerted you to the Gunther case along with the others. Then, for a closer and more personal and detailed look-see, you found your way down to the Cold Room for the actual files.”
“But?”
“But I don't think it washes, especially in the Gunther case.”
“Still, what about the link between the Gunther kid's body and where it was unearthed? I mean, someone had him dig his own shallow grave, lie down in it, and take a hit from that Bowie knife that pinned him to the grave. After which his head was removed, and he was covered over.”
Lucas threw up both hands. “Whoa, you're making twenty assumptions there, none of which you know for sure.”
“His body was unearthed by a dog out on a walk in the woods very near the Charlton Whitaker estate. This geographical link seems a bit eerie and uncanny.”
“Yeah, but Whitaker's murder and the subsequent destruction of the Whitaker family crypt came much later in time. It's most likely just a curious coincidence, coincidences being more common now that computers and computer cross-referencing are a fact of life. More coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“A beer?”
She shook her head no.
“Well, if you'll excuse me a moment.” Lucas went to the bathroom and splashed cold water into his eyes and face, staring for a long moment at what remained of his youth and vigor in the mirror, seeing the scars, incised worry lines and crow's feet instead. Since the accident, gray strands of hair had become his, entwined amid the thick black weave, finding a permanent home now at each temple. Some people said it gave him more character, others called it credibility, as if the gray meant more wisdom or vision, and this, along with his Indian blood, had had the naive among the white rookies at the academy coming to him for advice! Advice ranging from money matters and relationships to the best scoped rifle to use on a deer hunt. He doubted that hair of any color had much to do with wisdom or power, but the illusion certainly was there. And as every good magician or Indian shaman or good cop knew, mirage, mirrors and chimera-the appearance of things-usually meant far more to people than the reality behind a fantasy. But no amount of phantasm was going to be of any help here and now as he weighed the relative wisdom or foolishness of either accepting or turning down Meredyth Sanger's 'request for assistance. She was not likely to be taken in by anyone's hocus-pocus.
She was waiting in the next room for an unequivocal answer.
He toweled off. There was more to sift through waiting for him in the other room. He returned to it, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, his resolve to remain objective stronger than his resolve to remain awake.
“I need to look a little deeper,” he told her, stalling for time.
She began pointing items out to him, facts he had already considered. It became annoying. A few minutes later, he stood and paced, went for a hefty tumbler of whiskey, offered her some, which she declined, and drank long and sighed heavily afterward.
He saw that she watched him with one eye-the eye of retribution and rebuke-while her other eye filled with a pleading appeal. She felt like, smelled like, sounded like, and probably would taste like Katharine Hepburn in African Queen, he thought. Given half a chance to get near his kitchen, she'd likely pour out every ounce of booze he owned and tell him it was better than Drano for the pipes.
“You took some documents from the Palmer file,” he accused.
She dropped her gaze. “I haven't been completely forthcoming, no.”
“No, you haven't. Now, do you want to tell me why?”
They were both seated again now, she leaning in toward him as if she must whisper what would come next. “I left the Gunther report in to test you; see if you were as good as they say.”
“As good as who says? My superiors in Dallas weren't exactly handing out laurels when I left.”
“No, but you had a number of supervisors up till then, and no one could change your record.”
“You sure do your homework, lady. So, Gunther was a ringer? To see if I was paying attention.”
“Not at first, but I decided to use it as such. See what you had to say about it.”
“And what about information on Alisha Reynolds? Or do I have to call Atlanta for that tomorrow?”
She snatched her purse to her and rummaged through it, pulling forth a folded cache of papers. “Here's all that was in the file. I didn't have time to make you a copy, too.”
“These are the originals? Police property…”
She frowned. 'They are and you know it. Read them over.”
Lucas first stared at the ceiling overhead. Do I really want to get into this any deeper than I already am? he wondered.
“Just look them over,” she urged. 'Then we'll talk about threads and coincidences, Lucas.”
The police report on Palmer's fiancee, Alisha Reynolds, was a fax some ten plus years old, dated as it was 1985. Atlanta and Houston obviously were ahead of the times, having faxes so early on in the game. At that time,
