There were two sets of findings, he explained. First, DNA extracted from the blood in Rudy’s room matched not only the bones from the beach, but also made a convincing match with a sample from Villarreal’s sister, thus establishing beyond any conceivable doubt that a) the bones were Villarreal’s, and b) the dried blood in Walker’s bathroom came from Villarreal as well.
But that had been expected; they’d been preparing for that. What had really turned things around was a second analysis that had been done on traces of blood and tissue found lodged in the links of Rudy’s metal watchband.
“They found blood in his watchband?” Julie said. “I didn’t know that.”
“Neither did I. Neither did Mike, who’s pretty much out of the loop at this point.”
“That’s incredible—that it would still be there after two years.”
“No, this wasn’t Villarreal’s; this was fresh.”
A ketchup-dabbed French fry on the way to her lips slowed. “Joey’s?”
“Yup. Blood and scalp tissue, both identified as Joey’s, based on comparisons with tissue from his mother.”
“Wow.”
“Wow is right. That did it, as far as the barrister was concerned. Can you imagine trying to convince a jury that these were not bits of Joey’s head that got dislodged while Walker was bashing it in with a rock?” He grimaced and peered doubtfully at the piece of fish he’d just broken off. “I think I got a little too graphic for my own good there.”
“Much,” Julie agreed. “So, did he say what made him kill Joey?”
“Yes, it’s all down on paper now, signed and sealed.”
“Had he known about Edgar’s murder, was that it?”
“Yes,” Gideon said, “and no.”
He returned to his lunch and continued. Joey had been staying, Julie would remember, in the Marianus Napper Room, which was next to Rudy’s room, the John Biddle Room, which was at the end of the hall. Late on the last night of the first consortium, after the squabble with Pete Williams at Methodist Hall and the nightly poker game, according to Rudy, a still-seething Villarreal had banged on Rudy’s door, sick of being needled by him all week, and determined to get down to the source of it. Or perhaps he had just needed to vent some more after the Methodist Hall incident, or to argue some more. Whichever it was, their voices were soon raised and Joey, trying to sleep in the next room, had thumped on the wall and told them to keep it down.
They had, but it had done nothing to stem their feelings. Villarreal, of course, couldn’t have had any idea of the real reason for Rudy’s hatred, or of its passionate depth, or of the danger in which he had placed himself. After it had gone on for twenty minutes or so, and Villarreal had talked one time too many about how people attacked by animals in the wild had nothing but their own stupidity to blame, Rudy had had more than he could stand. He—
“In other words, he’s saying that he didn’t plan to kill him? It just sort of came on him?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I do. At that point he excused himself, went down to the kitchen for a knife—”
“ ‘Excused himself? Strolled downstairs for a knife? How believable is that?”
“Oh, I can imagine Rudy doing it. He’s pretty good at not showing his feelings when he doesn’t want to. Besides, it doesn’t make sense for him to make up something like that. His barrister never would have let him say it if it wasn’t true, because it shows premeditation. He may not have planned to kill him in the first place, but if you walk down two flights with the intention of getting a weapon and then walk back up and use it, you can hardly claim you hadn’t thought about what you were doing.”
“True.” She finished her first piece of fish and went on to the second. “Go on.”
“Well, he came back upstairs with the biggest kitchen knife he could find, slit Villarreal’s throat after first telling him who he was and why he was doing it, and then couldn’t stop stabbing him, he says.”
Julie looked at her last half dozen fries and decided against them. “I don’t know why, but I don’t quite have the appetite I thought I did.”
“Same here. What do you say we take a walk? The sun’s getting hot anyway.”
Between the back lawn and the Park Service maintenance yard a few hundred yards away was a shade-dappled path that curved through a bit of Pacific Northwest primeval landscape: fragrant wild blackberries and huckleberries in profusion, ferns, salal, vine maple, Oregon grape, and high above everything the cool, green canopy of the firs.
“Ah, this is better,” Gideon said, as they entered. “Smells wonderful in here. So, do you want to hear more?”
“Yes. But no need for additional graphic detail, if that’s all right.”
“That suits me. Okay, once it was over, he goes back downstairs to the toolshed out back for a hacksaw and a supply of garbage bags, and he spends the rest of the night… well, doing what had to be done. Then he takes Kozlov’s car—the key was on a rack in the office—up to Halangy Point and a couple of other places—he doesn’t remember them all—and buries everything in five or six locations. That leaves him time to get back, clean up the room and himself, and catch the ferry with you and Liz in the morning.”
She shook her head. “I’m trying to remember if anything seemed different about him in the morning. I really can’t say I noticed anything.”
“No, of course not. If people acted different after they killed someone, the cops would have an easy job of it.”
