Seven? Eight?'
'Not that many. Three, four. But they're an irresponsible lot. Hell, they're young, they're looking for something or they wouldn't come here in the first place, they're a couple thousand miles from home, they're stuck in a job wiping kids' noses all day-why wouldn't they take off It's a big country, easy to disappear.'
'Stay on it.'
McNeil shrugged again. 'Sure.'
'And report to me on it.'
'Sure.'
'You want anything else, McNeil?'
'Not if you don't.'
'Then move your car so I can get out of here and go to work.'
McNeil backed up his cruiser, then pulled it parallel to Tee's and leaned out the window.
'Oh, by the way, Chief. Don't forget your blanket,' he said. McNeil removed his glasses and smiled knowingly at Tee. 'You dropped it in the woods just before you crossed the road.'
After Tee recovered the blanket and returned it to the trunk, he took out his map of Clamden and traced all the alternate routes from McNeil's house to police headquarters. None of them went past the reservoir. Tee could think of several possible reasons why McNeil was making such a detour. One, he knew about Tee and his liaison and wanted to make sure that Tee understood that he knew. Two, McNeil had chanced by by coincidence because he was going to work, but not from home-he had spent the night somewhere else. Three, McNeil had come by to look at the orchard himself. But whatever might have caused McNeil to come to the crime scene, it was not duty, it was not diligence. Tee allowed himself to pursue that train of thought as he drove to headquarters. The problem of what he was to do with Mrs. Leigh was put aside to be dealt with later. Kom HANDLED the bones that Becker gave him with the nonchalance of a baton twirler getting the feel of his instrument.
Grone, the criminologist, already aggrieved that Becker had called in a civilian doctor, watched with alarm from his desk, fearing that evidence was about to fall on the floor. Kom held the bones together, turned and twisted them to look at the other side, then artfully placed them in their proper alignment again.
'Bad cutting,' said Kom, moving down the line of 'Becker's beauties,' matching bone to bone. 'Either bad technique or bad nerves. I told you before, John, when you showed me the first one, it's sloppy work, he's cut every one of them.'
'But how?' Becker asked. 'How would you manage to cut both sides of the joint when the bones are that close together? If you have the knife in there, angled one way, and you hit bone, you'd have to pull it out, angle it the other way, and go back into the joint to cut the other bone. And he did it every time. He doesn't seem to learn very fast. '
Kom put a pair of bones together and used a pen from his pocket to simulate a knife. 'I see what you mean. I hadn't thought of it that way… People do develop methods of things though, don't they? I mean, this guy isn't in training for anything, is he? Let's say that he does it the way you suggested the first time. It's not graceful, but it works. He gets away with it. Maybe he just keeps on doing it that way because it seems to be successful.'
Becker stared at the bones under Kom's pen.
'Or,' Kom said, pausing as the idea took shape ii,,N mind, 'maybe he went in this way.' Kom pushed the pen straight between the bones from the side. 'Maybe he just kind of wedged his knife in, you know, like he was making a thrust rather than a cut. That way his knife could cut both bones, both sides of the joint, simultaneously.'
Kom looked to Becker for a response, smiling, proud of his insight.
'Are we talking about a two-sided knife?' Becker asked. 'It would need a cutting edge on both sides of the blade to do that, wouldn't it?'
' There are knives like that, aren't there? Throwing knives, those kung fu things, they're double-bladed, aren't they?'
Grone chortled mockingly and Kom looked at him, hurt.
'Well, I'm not an expert on knives,' he said. 'It's just a thought, John, you know. Maybe I should limit myself to my expertise.'
'No, keep thinking. I'm interested.'
'Well, forget the bad cutting. My question is, why did he cut them into pieces in the first place?'
Grone shook his head in disgust and turned back to his work.
Becker looked at Kom curiously. 'I'm assuming it's to get them to fit into the trash bags.' ' 'Well, if I were doing it,' Kom said, 'I wouldn't go to all the trouble of quartering them like this. That takes time, that's a good deal of work. Look, the girls are dead when he does this, right?'
'I hope to God.'
'So why not just bend them into any shape you want? You've seen gymnasts, contortionists in the circus, whatever, who can cross their ankles behind their heads, right? The only reason we can't do that is because it hurts, our muscles are too tight. Well, it won't hurt a corpse, and if you can't force the legs-I'm sorry. Is this too ghoulish?'
'Go on.'
'Because it sounds pretty unfeeling. I mean, these were girls, they were somebody's daughter, people loved them…'
'It's not ghoulish, it's helpful. Go ahead.'
'Well… if I had trouble forcing the legs behind the head, all it would take would be a couple of cuts here and here.' Kom sliced his hand across the back of his leg. 'Through the hamstring and the gluteus.
Sever those and you could make the leg do whatever you want. Then just bend the arms double so the hand is on the shoulder. I mean, that would fit into a trash bag, wouldn't it? It's a whole lot simpler, it seems to me. Why go to the trouble to hack-I'm sorry. This is your kind of work, not mine. I'm wrong, aren't I? I'm missing something?'
'No,' Becker said. 'I think I am.' He held out his hand. 'Well done, Stanley.'
Grinning eagerly, Kom pumped Becker's hand. 'You mean it? That was helpful?'
'It was of heuristic value,' Becker said. 'I don't know that it taught me anything specific, but it gave me a new slant on things, it helped me to learn.'
'Terrific,' Kom said, beaming. He turned to face Grone, who watched from behind his desk. 'Terrific.' Grone managed a feeble smile.
'Terrific,' he said.
Kom turned back to Becker, rocking onto his toes with new energy. 'So, John. Can I take you to lunch?'
They ate sushi at Becker's suggestion. Kom agreed to the menu immediately but showed a hesitancy when the food arrived. Becker noticed that he studied a package of fish and rice carefully before gamely putting it in his mouth.
'Tell me, John, do you ever think you'd like to switch careers? I mean, I know it isn't very practical, you get into a thing so deep, all those years, all that training you've got invested-but do you ever feel kind of trapped?'
'Often and severely,' Becker said.
'Really? It's not just me?'
Becker toyed with his chopsticks. 'I've actually tried to get out of the Bureau. I was out, as far as you can get out. I have-I have a special talent. They didn't want to lose it. Ultimately, I didn't want to lose it either. It's what I do best, even if I sometimes hate it while I'm doing it.'
'I've heard stories,' Kom said cautiously. 'You never know what to believe…'
'I've heard the stories too,' said Becker. 'Overheard them anyway. Some of them. How I'm supposed to have some kind of sixth sense about serial killers, how I can spot them on the street as if they have an aura that only I can see… It's not true, of course.'
'Of course not.' Kom waited for more as Becker poured himself tea, then held the cup in his hand as if testing it for warmth.
'I just understand them better than most other agents,' Becker said at last. He did not look at Kom but kept his eyes fixed on the back of a patron two tables away.
Kom nodded, encouraging without speaking.
