backseats of federal cars seemed never to work.
“He worked for a pharmacist once, apparently while he was still in college. Delivering prescriptions. The DEA had his prints on file for the standard security procedures because he was handling prescription drugs and controlled substances. What do you want to bet that’s where he learned about PMBL? Probably stole some from the supply room. A gallon jug would last him for life. So we got his real name, his family background, and his source of supply all from the same search. Talk about serendipity.”
“We didn’t find any gallon jug of PMBL in his house. Where is his supply?”
“I mean we found out where he probably got it.”
“If he got it ten years ago, does that mean he’s been killing men for that long? Or did he take a sample of PMBL just in case he might someday want to start drugging his victims?”
“When we find him, you can ask him. We might be digging up kitchen floors for a week just to keep up with him.”
“You find him. I’ll ask him when he’s behind bars in a straitjacket.”
“What are you afraid of, Becker?”
Hatcher regretted the remark immediately. Becker turned slowly away from the traffic and looked into Hatcher’s eyes. He didn’t appear to be angry, Hatcher thought. His gaze was pitying, murderous, maybe, but not angry.
“Sorry,” said Hatcher.
“Who’s his family?”
“Well, as you know, his real name isn’t Dyce, it’s Dysen. Norwegian, right? The kind he’s looking for, but his mother wasn’t Norwegian; that’s the strange thing. Her maiden name was Cohen. Jewish.”
Becker nodded. “Jewish.”
“Your theory on the stones and the grave markers? Okay, you may be right about that, but not in the cemetery in Clamden. He has no family there. You’re wrong on that one. If he went there to commune when he picked up the stones, he wasn’t communing with family. We went back to his great grandparents on both sides and none of them is in the Clamden graveyard.”
Becker shrugged. “The stones were just gravel, they could have been from anywhere.”
“What’s wrong, Becker? You don’t like your own theories anymore?”
“I guess I don’t like them when they become yours. Hatcher.”
“Have you lost your touch all of a sudden? Have you lost the legendary Becker feel of a case?”
“I wish,” said Becker.
“Well, we didn’t need it anyway, did we? We cracked this one with ordinary detective work. The kind the less gifted among us can still perform.”
“More power to you.” Becker leaned forward slightly and caught the driver’s eye in the mirror. “Reynolds, after you drop Hatcher at the airport, you can swing me back toward Clamden.”
Reynolds, reduced now to just eyes and brows in the mirror, sought out Hatcher for confirmation.
Hatcher said, “You can still be useful up there, Becker. You’re the only one who knows what Dyce looks like.”
“Tee saw him in the hospital, too.”
“Who, the local sheriff? Come on.”
“He’s a good man and he knows as much about this case as anybody.”
The car nosed in front of traffic and came to a halt at the terminal amid the honking of horns.
Hatcher got out and leaned toward Reynolds.
“Get a hold of Sheriff Terhune. I want him in Waverly as fast as you can arrange it.” Hatcher slammed the door closed. “And take Becker wherever he wants to go.”
They watched Hatcher stride quickly into the terminal. He was thick through the hips and his toes splayed out to either side like a dancer’s. In a hurry, he looked like a duck. Behind his back the men called him Donald.
As the car backed into traffic then spun away from the curb, Reynolds was already on the radio.
Chapter 14
Special Agent Ty Hoban’s full name was Tyree Zorro Hoban after the legendary masked swordsman and a character in an old John Ford Western. Being a black in Boston and somewhat beleaguered by life, Hoban’s father usually sided with the Indians, but something about the character of Tyree caught his fancy as he watched the late movie on the TV in the hospital waiting room while his son was being born. Hoban was only grateful that his father hadn’t been watching Tammy at the time-or Gidget Goes Hawaiian. His mother was Hispanic, so Hoban’s father threw in the Zorro as a nod to the only Spanish hero he could think of. By the time Hoban’s mother came out of the recovery room, the deed was done.
If anyone in the FBI other than the clerk in personnel who handled birth certificates knew Ty Hoban’s full name, they had been smart enough not to let on. People generally did not tell Ty Hoban things that might annoy him, since he had inherited his father’s huge, muscular frame to go with a name that was asking for trouble. Hoban was not terribly well-coordinated-a bit on the clumsy side, in fact-and had never played football or basketball, despite his height and heft, but if other people wanted to think he was an ex-linebacker and gave him the commensurate respect, he was not one to disabuse them.
The disadvantage to being a six-foot-four black man in a business suit was that it made being inconspicuous extremely difficult, not to say ludicrous, particularly in a small Connecticut town like Waverly. Keeping a low profile was not within Ty Hoban’s range of abilities, although he had many others. Selecting an agent on the basis of his race or appearance was strictly forbidden within the Bureau’s code of bureaucratic behavior, however, and so Hoban, the closest man at the time, was sent to the insurance agency in Waverly as the advance scout of the larger troop of agents that would be there later in the day.
A brown-haired man with a full beard looked up questioningly from his desk as Ty Hoban entered the office, temporarily filling the doorway.
“May I help you?”
“Ty Hoban,” said the agent, extending his huge hand.
The man half rose to shake hands. “Roger Cohen,” he said. “Pleased to meet you. What can I do for you?”
“Well, Mr. Cohen, I hope someone can sell me some insurance. I just bought a house in Waverly and the bank tells me I have to have homeowner’s insurance before they give me the mortgage.”
“I can certainly help you with that. It will take about ten minutes.”
“Everyone else gone to lunch?” asked Hoban. “It seems awfully quiet.”
“It’s a quiet town,” said Cohen. The owner and I are the only ones who work here and you’re right, he’s at lunch. Did you want to wait for him?”
“That would be Mr. Rice?”
“Rice? No, his name is Hogg. Charles Hogg.”
“Really? The people at the bank told me I should see Mr. Rice. Maybe I have the name wrong? Rice? Tice? Something like that.”
Hoban watched the man closely. His eyes looked vacant as he slowly shook his head.
“No, no one like that here. As I said, there’s just the two of us.”
“Was it Dice, maybe? I’m sure they said there was somebody around like that.”
Cohen continued to shake his head.
“I guess I just misunderstood,” said Ty. He leaned back in his chair, relaxed and casual, but his eyes never left Cohen’s face. He fit the description only in hair color and age, but it wouldn’t be the first description that was wrong. Ty had been told to A amp;D. Ascertain the suspect’s whereabouts and deploy forces until the order to apprehend. Deploying would be a little tough since Ty was the only force at his command at the moment, but as for ascertaining, it looked to him as if someone had screwed up again. If this puny little thing was the man who collected bones under his kitchen floor, then his appetites were one hell of a lot fiercer than his appearance. Ty
