felt as if he were looking back into time and deep into the history of his race when men competed with the wolf for the kill and the carrion, a time before the day when man had turned his need for death upon himself and converted hunting to murder. The coyote was honest in his blood lust, and unashamed. Only men tried to disguise their need for it. Some of us anyway, Becker thought. Some of us hide it. Some of us get paid for it-and still try to hide it.
The coyote finally turned and loped off in its unhurried way, the wings of the owl dragging on the ground, the rabbit, now still, trailing in the death grip of the owl's talons.
He made his way to the site of Kiwasee's death battle and stood there a long time in the dark before wading through the water to the grave. Once more he stood for a long time, feeling as much as thinking, letting his senses work, trying to put himself into Johnny's mind. Entering his soul was not that difficult, feeling the way he felt was not the problem. Becker tried to make himself think the way Johnny thought.
After a time Becker left the crime scene and walked toward McNeil's house, which was one hill and a valley away. He came to the edge of the woods and halted, surveying McNeil's house and yard. It took him a moment to recognize a four-legged shape as a sawhorse, even Ion er to define the formless side of the house that appeared 9 to undulate in the breeze. He realized finally that it was a builder's tarpaulin, sucking and flapping leisurely in the wind.
The house was dark but a light shone feebly in the garage. The light moved, a shadow blocked it, projecting a distorted shape onto the lawn; then the light came through again.
Becker eased out of the woods, traveling in a running crouch until he gained the side of the garage. As he moved toward the window, the light inside continued its gyrations. It was a muted, furtive light, pointed downward, Becker thought, as someone sought to hide it from view.
Becker stepped well back from the window so that he would not be easily visible in the outer darkness, and peered into the garage. Tee stood by a workbench, a pen light in his mouth, wearing gardening gloves. As Becker watched, his friend opened a small chest and took out an X-Acto knife. Tee's eyes flicked guiltily around the interior of the garage before he carefully wiped the knife with a cloth andreplaced it in the chest. Tee glanced around nervously again, the penlight in his mouth moving with his eyes, then stopping abruptly at the window. Becker saw Tee's startled reaction flash past his eyes, then subside, and realized that he had not seen Becker but his own reflection in the glass.
I was going to do that for you, Becker thought. It would have been better if I had, you don't need it on your conscience or affecting your investigation of McNeil. That's what friends are for.
Tee started out of the garage and then stopped, his attention caught by something in the corner by the overhead door. Becker watched as the chief of police approached a roll of carpet standing upright against the wall. Partially tucked within the roll, as if hastily hidden there, was an object that shone dully in the beam from the penlight. Tee studied the part that protruded from the roll for a moment, then gently pulled it out in his gloved hands, as if it were fragile. His head was briefly out of synchronization with his hands, and the penlight beam danced across the side wall of the garage, revealing a motley of bicycles without wheels, garden tools, a straight- backed chair with the caning used for its seat dangling beneath it like the roots of an aerial plant.
When Tee squared his head with his hands again, Becker saw him holding a figurine of elegantly blown glass. Tee puzzled over it, leaned his head in close to scrutinize the figurine, as if reading something, and then, shaking his head in bewilderment, held it away from himself again.
Finally he replaced it, tucking it back within the roll of carpet so that only the top of the figurine was visible. From Becker's vantage point it had looked like a sports figure, a golfer or possibly a batter, and the tip of the golf club or bat stuck out of the rug, reflecting the last of Tee's flashlight beam like a raindrop.
Becker followed Tee into the night as the big man made his way clumsily down the dirt road, through a stretch of trees, and into his car, which was parked just off the asphalt. Only when Tee's taillights had vanished around a bend in the road and Becker was certain that his friend was safe and undetected did he return to his bicycle and make his way home through the darkness. He could have turned his headlight on but he preferred to glide through the night unseen, whether stealth was required or not.
16
Grone said hello to Becker but made little effort to be polite to Kom, whose presence insulted him. Kom seemed not to notice, greeting Grone as enthusiastically as if they were old friends, then turning his attention to the body parts arranged on the table. They were still chilled from storage in the cooler.
'They're the same marks,' Kom said to Becker. 'I see what you mean.' He picked up an upper arm, turned it to examine both ends. 'Two little slashes, almost parallel, on both ends of the humerus. Same on the left arm. Slashes on the ulna, too. Again on both ends of the femur and on the exposed ends of both tibiae… Seems pretty obvious now, I don't know why we didn't see it in the beginning. It's certainly not caused by his technique.'
'You'll find it in my report,' Grone said to Becker. 'Along with everything else you need to know.'
Becker touched Grone's arm, trying to placate him. 'I know it.' He glanced at Kom, who was absorbed in a study of the torso. 'Politics,'
Becker whispered to Grone. 'Nothing personal.'
'It must be hard to determine the cause of death when a body is decaying like this,' Kom said.
'Not at all,' said Grone brusquely. 'Really? Not my field, of course.
You guys do great work… What did she die of? I don't see any gross wounds.'
'It's all in my report,' Grone said, again addressin himself to Becker.
'Humor him,' Becker said under his breath. 'I'll explain later.' He hoped he would not have to explain. Grone would not be sympathetic to the idea that Kom was allowed to handle his corpse because Associate Deputy Director Karen Crist wanted him to be Becker's friend.
Grone stood and extended his outstretched fingers toward Becker's neck.
'Strangled her.' He pressed his thumb and fingers against either side of Becker's neck, applying a slight pressure. 'Cut off the blood to her brain.'
Kom touched the corpse's neck with his gloved finger. 'Did he crush the windpipe?'
Grone continued to address Becker, lifting his eyebrows to display his impatience with Kom's remarks. 'He didn't suffocate her, he just killed her brain. The body followed.'
'Can that be done? Just with the hand?' Kom asked incredulously.
'Apparently,' Becker said quickly, forestalling something nastier welling up in Grone. 'Actually, it's not that uncommon. It's a known technique, let's put it that way.'
'They teach you guys that? In the Bureau?' Kom had taken to referring to the FBI as the Bureau in emulation of Karen and Becker.
'It's not easily done with an adult,' Becker said. 'The victim just has to move his neck a little to start the blood flow again. Under most circumstances it wouldn't work.'
'How do you walk around with all that kind of thing inside you, John? I mean the… I don't know what I mean.'
Grone rolled his eyes and turned away.
'Yeah, well,' Becker said, letting the words serve for an answer.
'Was she in pain, do you suppose?' Kom asked, troubled.
'Can't feel good,' Grone offered. 'But a lot better than the way some people go. It probably doesn't hurt at all. It would be the fear that would be the problem.'
'Do you think they knew what he was doing to them? Surely not.'
'Why not?' Grone asked impatiently. 'He was killing them. Why wouldn't they know it?'
'I would think… I don't know. I just hate to think they knew what was going on. I hate to think they suffered,'
'That doesn't mean Johnny hates it,' Grone said. 'He probably enjoys the fear.' He looked to Becker for confirmation. Becker looked away, giving him no satisfaction. 'Did you manage to get a good photo?' Becker asked.
'Passable, I suppose. There's only so much you can do with a body that far gone.'
