Naomi Wilde frowned as she bent over for a look. “But why a straw, of all things?”
O’Banion was virtually breathing fumes from his sour stomach down Alli’s neck. “Why don’t you ask her?”
Saunderson turned his half-dead face up to Wilde. “Like sucking an ice-cream soda, you can control the volume of flow.”
A deep and horrific silence ensued, which ended abruptly with O’Banion’s bray. “Doc, please, you’re telling us that Ms. Carson might be a vampire?”
“You’ve been seeing too many horror films, O’Banion.” The ME shook his head. “No, this is something far worse. Your perp is a deeply disturbed individual—a psychopath, though there’s nothing textbook about him. He —”
“Or she.” O’Banion stared at the back of Alli’s head with newfound venom.
Saunderson took a breath. “Your killer is both a sadist and, I would venture to guess, insane, or at least has become unhinged.”
“Traumatized,” Willowicz said. He, too, was watching Alli as if she were already in a cage. “As from a terrible ordeal.”
Saunderson, clueless as to his true meaning, nodded. “Something in the past, yes, that’s a distinct probability with psychosis.” He tapped the straw. “Who else would think of varying the flow of blood in order to prolong a victim’s agony?”
HARRISON JENKINS, Carson’s attorney, drove up minutes after Jack had exited the car. Carson was walking back and forth over the frosty ground like a caged animal impatient to be fed. Jenkins was one of those sleek men you see giving sound bites on CNN or Fox News. His gray hair was thick, and long enough to cover the tops of his ears, his cheeks were a healthy pink, and, Jack noted, he had perfectly manicured nails that shone like ten tiny mirrors. He gave the impression of being tall, but up close he was less than median height, maybe five six. He was carrying a battered leather briefcase. His expensive overcoat was open, revealing a steel-gray suit, white shirt, and a striped red tie. There was an enamel pin of the American flag on the lapel of his overcoat. All he needed, Jack thought, was a bald eagle perched on his shoulder. He walked like a lawyer should, as if he owned the ground over which he strode. Jack supposed he should be grateful for Jenkins’s appearance, but something about the man chilled him.
Carson whirled around when he saw his attorney approach.
“Anything more you can tell me?” Jenkins asked as he pumped Carson’s hand.
Carson shook his head. When he introduced Jack, a small, secret smile played briefly across Jenkins’s face. Then he asked Jack to brief him on Alli’s recent history.
When he had finished, the attorney said, “In your opinion, as of today, is she of sound mind?”
“Absolutely,” Jack said.
“I strongly disagree,” Carson responded.
Jenkins blew air through his nostrils like a racehorse at the starting gate. Then, putting his PDA to his ear, he walked several paces away from them and spoke into it for several moments. When he returned, he said, “Right, let’s get this show on the road.”
Following the directions they’d been given, they skirted the obstacle course, where shapes reared up out of the gloom of a false dawn like pieces of a wrecked ship, then they descended a shallow embankment via a set of narrow stairs, and almost immediately turned left, threading their way through a copse of old trees that smelled of leaf mold and loam. Up ahead was a fierce pool of light, as concentrated as a key spot illuminating an actor on stage. In this case, however, the actor wasn’t moving.
Jack felt as if he were in an elevator whose cable had been cut.
“Jesus Christ,” Carson muttered, “what the hell is this?”
Then Jack saw Alli walking toward them out of the blinding light. She was between two suits who looked to him like Metro police detectives. Behind them came Naomi, McKinsey, and Commander Fellows, but Jack’s attention was riveted on Alli. She was in handcuffs. He began to make a move, but Jenkins, anticipating him, grabbed his arm to restrain him.
“In these matters I’ve found that methodology is better than instinct,” he said softly, so only Jack could hear.
“For God’s sake, she’s been arrested.”
“Mr. McClure, let me handle it.”
Jack, after a moment’s thought, allowed Jenkins, whatever his reaction to the horror of the crime scene, to take point. The lawyer strode toward the semicircle of people, with Jack and Carson flanking him, as if they were a raiding party. The moment she spied Jack, Alli’s eyes lit up, but despite how well she seemed to be holding up Jack could tell that she was badly shaken.
“Do you think that’s a wise move, Detective O’Banion?” Jenkins said.
O’Banion looked blankly at Jenkins. “Who the hell’re you and how d’you know my name?”
“I’m Ms. Carson’s attorney, Harrison Jenkins.”
O’Banion sneered. “An ambulance chaser.”
“Watch yourself, Officer,” Jenkins said.
“I’m a detective.”
“Then act like one.”
When O’Banion continued to glower at him, Willowicz stepped up. “Alli Carson is under arrest for the murder of William Penn Warren.”
“I assume, Detective Willowicz, that you’re referring to the victim strung up behind you,” the lawyer said as he picked his way among the trees.
“D’you know what’s in my service jacket, as well?” Willowicz said in a mild tone of voice.
Jenkins nodded. “Everything I need to know. Wounded twice in the line of duty, a medal of honor.”
All this from the one phone call Jenkins had made. Jack was impressed, despite himself. He despised lawyers almost as much as O’Banion, because they had a knack of knitting a skein of gray areas and half-truths into a story a jury could believe in.
“Jack, this is a crazy mistake,” Alli said. “Please listen to me.” She recounted what had happened and how she had come to be a suspect in William Penn Warren’s torture and murder.
“All of this is circumstantial,” Jenkins said, unperturbed.
Willowicz nodded. “True enough.” He held up a plastic evidence bag. “On the other hand, our forensic team found a vial with traces of Rohypnol under Ms. Carson’s bed and this bloody knife in a trash bin behind her dorm room.”
“Please hand them over, and whatever other evidence you have,” Jenkins said.
“What?” O’Banion stood with his feet planted in a clearly combative stance. “Back off, windbag, this is our jurisdiction.”
The small, secret smile Jack had noticed earlier had returned to Jenkins’s face. “Tell me, Detectives, just how did you wind up at the scene of the crime?”
“We caught Commander Fellows’s call,” Willowicz said.
“So, what you’re telling me is that the commander invited you here to Fearington.”
“That’s right,” O’Banion said.
Jack could already see the changed situation dawning on Willowicz’s face.
“Fearington is federal property,” Jenkins said.
“What?” both detectives said at once.
“The federal government bought this parcel three years ago.”
Jack knew a cue when he heard it. Stepping forward, he presented his ID. “Jack McClure, Department of Homeland Security. You have no jurisdiction here. I’ll be taking over this case, Detectives.”
“Oh, you’ve fucking got to be kidding,” O’Banion said.
Willowicz said nothing because he knew which way the wind was blowing. He handed over the bags with the vial and the bloody knife.
“What’s this?” The ME appeared out of the trees. “Those are my evidence bags.”
Jack showed his ID. “Not anymore.”
