'Used the jar like a hammer,' she said.
'Some glass had to get on whoever drove that pencil in his eye,' Danny said.
'Maybe even blood,' Lindsay said.
'Get that back to the lab,' Danny said. 'See what you can find. I'll bring the representatives of the future of our country back for tea, cookies and more conversation.'
'Anything else we should be looking for? If there is I'd like to find it before I have to make another trip.'
Danny stepped out of the storeroom and stood next to Lindsay, who had placed the jar in a evidence bag and marked the time, date and location on the label.
'We spend half our time just driving from scene to scene and to the lab,' Danny said. 'That's a fact. There was a study. Mileage was checked. Travel time was checked. Half our time.'
'That's a fact?' she said.
'That's a fact,' Danny said, deadpan. 'Would I lie to you, Montana?'
'Never,' she said.
'That's why our evidence kits keep getting bigger and bigger,' he said. 'So we can run more tests in the field and don't have to do as much moving evidence to the lab.'
'And I thought it was about new forensic technology,' she said.
'We live and learn, Montana.'
'I'm enlightened,' she said. 'Thanks.'
'You're welcome,' he said. 'Give me a call if you find something.'
'It's been bad for Keith,' the woman said into the phone.
'He and Adam were close,' Mac heard a man say on an extension.
Both Eve and Duncan Yunkin sounded as if they were at least seventy. Mac knew that they were both fifty- three, but it had been a hard fifty-three years.
'If Keith were here when Adam- ' she began.
'He couldn't have been,' said Duncan. 'He was out of his mind for more than a month. The leg.'
'The leg,' Eve Yunkin said. 'Shattered.'
'They cut it off,' said Duncan.
'How did it happen?' asked Mac.
'He was working in Africa,' she said. 'Security work for Klentine Oil. They're British.'
'He was a mercenary, plain and simple,' said Duncan.
'His Jeep turned over,' Eve said.
'He ran into a wall,' Duncan said impatiently.
'Spent four months- '
'Five, almost six,' he said.
'In rehabilitation. When he got out, there was some trouble.'
'Trouble? He beat up three men in a bar,' said Duncan. 'Almost killed two of them. He said they were homosexuals who tried to pick him up. He went to prison for it. One year.'
'Do you know where your son is?' asked Mac.
'Adam is dead and buried,' said Duncan Yunkin. 'Dead and buried. He killed himself.'
Mac could hear the man's wife sobbing.
'I meant Keith,' said Mac.
'Who knows? We haven't heard from him in more than nine months.'
'Eleven months and one week,' his wife said.
'Did he and Adam stay in touch?'
'Adam wrote,' Eve said. 'They would tell each other things they'd never tell us.'
'Last question,' said Mac. 'The three men he attacked in the bar. What did he use on them?'
'His fists,' said Duncan.
'And the little knife,' she added.
'And the knife,' Duncan concurred.
'What kind of knife?' asked Mac.
'Army Ranger knife,' said Duncan. 'Stainless steel, fit in the palm of his hand, opened with a flip with either hand. Keith was always fascinated by knives. I don't know why. He showed it to us. Is he dead too?'
'I don't think so,' said Mac.
'Then what's the problem?'
Your son has murdered three people, Mac thought. And I think he's about to try to kill a fourth.
'Why did Adam kill himself?' Mac asked.
'Depression,' said the boy's father.
'Depressed about what?'
'We don't know. The doctors didn't know. They said it was teenager stuff. Loneliness. Loss of a sense of self-worth. Humiliation by a girl. Lack of friends. There's a name for it. I don't care what the name of it is. Giving it a name won't bring Adam back. That answer your questions?'
'Yes, thanks,' said Mac.
'He hurt some more people, didn't he?' Duncan asked.
'It looks that way.'
'If you find him…' Eve trailed off.
'I'll have him get in touch with you,' said Mac.
He could hear the woman crying softly. Someone hung up the phone.
You can't protect a person if you can't find him. By the same token, whoever was trying to kill Paul Sunderland probably couldn't find him either. Mac was reasonably sure that the someone was Keith Yunkin.
Twenty minutes later, in Sunderland's apartment, which was in the same building as his office, Mac watched the therapist throw some things together into a worn leather garment bag, including cuff links and two watches, one of them a Movado, a real one, not a knockoff you could buy for fifteen bucks from a midtown sidewalk stand.
'I could just take a train or get a flight out of town,' said Sunderland. 'I could stay in touch and you could tell me when you've caught Adam.'
'His name is Keith,' said Mac. 'Adam was his brother.'
'I don't understand,' said Sunderland.
'He wasn't a sexual predator,' said Mac. 'He was pretending to be one.'
'I see,' said Sunderland, 'but why can't I-?'
'We don't know what his resources are,' said Mac. 'I'd say he's very resourceful. We'd like you where you can be under police protection.'
'And if I don't want to be?' asked Sunderland.
'We'll insist,' said Mac.
Mac used Sunderland's computer and found a Web site that sold military knives- American, German, British, Italian, you name it. Mac named it and searched the photographs. Two fit the rough description Keith Yunkin's father had given. Mac called the number on the site. It was for an address in Queens. He ordered six knives at twelve dollars each and told the woman who took his order that he needed them sent to the crime scene lab by courier.
'I'm not sure…' the woman who took his order said. She sounded young. She sounded New York.
'I am,' said Mac flatly. 'I'm a police office investigating a murder and I want to stop another one.'
'I'm sending it,' the woman said. 'Cash, check or credit card?'
He gave her a credit card number and expiration date.
Mac glanced out of the window. Even though the rain had stopped, the sky was still dark, rumbling, ominous.
