news media had disappeared. For this latter fact, Lucas was grateful. He didn't want anyone videotaping his going up to the gate, didn't want his license number on the eleven o'clock news.
A guard at the gate seemed both sleepy and bored. With a little Cherokee chutzpah, Lucas believed he could bully his way inside.
His air conditioner blowing in his face, lifting his long strands of hair, he dropped the car into drive and motored ahead for the gates. The place was palatial. The judge obviously had made wise investments of one sort or another over the years. Maybe he was crooked… Maybe he was into mob business, racketeering, fixing big-ticket items for serious wise guys who played hardball if they felt the least slighted by you. Maybe they arranged for the sensational way in which the judge met his maker. They-the mob-certainly had the talent and the muscle for all of the above, but Lucas didn't want to lock down too soon on any one theory or suspect.
He had given the judge's case a great deal of thought throughout the day, despite what he'd told Meredyth. While he didn't particularly relish the idea of teaming up with a female police shrink on the case, he did know that cracking such a high-profile case meant promotion through the ranks, and he had asked himself over and again, Why not me, why not now?
He'd have to run his investigation the way a private eye might, outside police circles, and he couldn't expect this guy, Fred Amelford, or his partner, Jim Pardee, to be especially happy to learn of his interest in their case any more than they were when they no doubt learned from Lawrence about Dr. Sanger's interest. While Amelford and Pardee were working out of the Twenty-second, there seemed little doubt in Stonecoat's mind that the captain of the Thirty-first would not have talked to the captain of the Twenty-second about Meredyth's interest in the case. There was no reason to suspect otherwise.
So, if he were to pursue this matter, he knew it would be risky and problematic at best. Cops working a case didn't want other cops shadowing their efforts. It was as old as the Texas Rangers, probably older, this unspoken law. It was a white cop's way, a white man's path, which no doubt served Allan Pinkerton and his first secret- servicemen well during the Civil War. No, the two cops working the case would really be pissed off to learn he was here snooping around in their territory, sleuthing their case tonight.
He knew all this, and he also knew that if he were to pursue this matter, it'd have to be on his own time for the most part; however, given his insomnia problems, his own time meant a lot of time, so he believed if he could get nearer the crime scene and the crime scene evidence, perhaps he might find an angle others had overlooked.
Only then, when he had something tangible to take to Lawrence, might he tip his hand. The Cherokees hadn't invented poker, but they had invented the poker face.
And if he had to fall back on someone for help, for inside assistance, for whatever, then and only then would he go crawling back to Dr. Meredyth Sanger.
Lucas brought the automatic window down, and he slowly allowed his solemn features to be softened by a wide smile, asking the guard what he thought of the Houston Astros' chances this year, all the while flashing his gold shield from Dallas.
'Those bums?” replied the officer in blue, frowning sourly over the mention of the baseball team. “What can I do for you?”
“We got a call about some of the particulars in the Mootry case, how they might match a similar crime up in Dallas-Fort Worth area, you know?”
“Oh, yeah? Really? I hadn't heard…”
“Just speculation for the moment.”
The uniformed cop nodded as he took it all in. “I see.” Stonecoat quickly added, “They asked me to come have a look.”
“Who asked you?”
Lucas saw it as his password. “Some guy on the case named Amelford, another one named Hardy-no, Pardee; you know, the guys whose case it is?” The guard eased his stance, a good sign. “All right, and you'd be?”
“Detective Plumber, Dallas PD.”
“All right, go on through. But I don't know what you expect to find.”
“How's that?”
“Coroner and his sister and everybody else have been through the scene twice already.”
“Well, let's just say I want to get a general feel for the place, where it happened, exactly how, so I can compare it to what happened up in-”
“All right, save me the details. Go on through…”
“Thanks.”
He was invited in, but he expected to be challenged again at the door. Rounding the large, circular drive, he parked some distance from the house. He didn't want anyone reading his tags, and later, on exiting, it might be wise to be as discreet as possible. To his right, some bushes protected windows on the ground floor. He noted their proximity to his car before walking back toward the main entrance, where as expected there stood another uniformed cop, who asked, “Can I help you, sir?” in a tone that revealed his weariness.
There were only a few lights on inside the mansion, and the guard was munching on a sandwich he'd likely put together for himself from what he could find on the inside, using whatever mayonnaise, mustard and cold cuts he could locate in the deceased's refrigerator. Here on the porch, the light subdued by a moonless night, Lucas's skin tone went unnoticed by the guard.
For the occasion, Lucas had found one of his old sports coats and a tie, and now he once again flashed his huge Dallas gold shield. But not to belabor this formality, he quickly began playing with a pair of latex gloves, cursing as he tried to pull them over his large, hairy hands-the show entirely for the guard. Still, the guard radioed his companion at the gate, asking, “This guy check out?”
He got an affirmative reply. “Amelford sent 'im over.”
Now the uniformed man simply nodded and gestured for him to go on through. Lucas wasted no time. Now he was really inside.
He had read enough about the case to know that forensics investigators with the HPD crime lab had thoroughly gone over the bedroom where the body was discovered, but he still felt a need to see the area just the same.
Bed sheets had been removed, leaving only the mattress and the gaping hole that would have been aligned perfectly with the old man's heart.
It was a remarkable sight. No doubt about it. The killer leaned in over the victim where he lay motionless, asleep or helplessly tied down-his eyes wide open perhaps? God forbid-and when the killer placed the crossbow directly against the chest, he or she fired, sending the arrow clean through the heart, out the back, and through mattress and box spring, the shaft being driven into the floor below the bed where it had been recovered by Houston detectives, the body staked to the bed.
Not much detection necessary to know what killed Mootry, but plenty of detection required to learn why and by whose hand he was murdered.
The tunnel or bore created through the mattress was neat, like a bullet hole, the weapon cutting a prim and straight-arrow incision through the material. A wedge of the surface had been dug out, most certainly by the medical examiner or one of his people. Talk about care and overkill in evidence collection. They would examine the blood in the fibers of the mattress to be certain it was Mootry's, even though he obviously bled out his back here where the arrow opened up a hole through him and his heart.
Why the heart? Lucas wondered. Was there a great significance placed on destroying the heart in the mind of the killer? Like a deer hunter, the killer wanted an instant kill, instant results. If the M.E. found no marks on the wrists or ankles to indicate Mootry had been bound and had fought against his restraints, then this would further prove out the fact his killer was not interested in any sort of sadistic torture of the victim. Then what was to be made of the attack on the body after death? The insane mutilation and the missing body parts?
The killer was skilled, practiced, most assuredly a hunter of one sort or another. The killer was quite capable of getting within inches of his prey. The killer might be a trusted person, someone close to Mootry.
Lucas lay down on the bed, placing his heart over the position of the hole created by the killer's arrow. He stared around the room, taking it in from this unusual vantage point. The walls were covered with expensive paintings, etchings, prints of all sort, mostly of historical themes relating to Texas and her birth. None of the old
