A Grave Talent (3 page)

"Maybe we'll luck out. Do you know if this is the same Tyler who runs a big medieval weekend every year? It seems to me it's held at a place called Tyler's Barn, everyone in costume, archery contests, that kind of thing."

"Sure to be. The place is bristling with lances and broadswords and God knows what. Here we are. And somebody's tipped the press."

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It was an impressive sight, despite the ominous and growing cluster of press vehicles lined up on the seaward side of the paved road, from beat-up sedans to two shiny vans whose letters proclaimed their channels and whose silver mobile transmitters jutted toward the lowering sky. Tyler's Barn sat on the edge of a twenty-acre clearing, which at this time of year was green enough to be called a meadow. Two huge, pale horses turned their rumps to the human fuss and grazed. Hills covered in redwoods rose dramatically beyond. There actually was a barn, though from here it was nearly hidden behind a big, old wooden house (lodge was the word that came to mind) and a vast, open-sided shed with a rusting, corrugated metal roof draped with leafless vines. The shed seemed to be filled with automobiles and farm machinery, but from the Road it was nearly obscured by the high wire fence, intertwined with more bare vines, that had lined the Road for the last few miles and that continued solidly around the next curve, broken only, Kate saw now, by three gates.

The first gate was a simple, sturdy metal affair wide enough for a truck, and from it the double ruts of a dirt track climbed through the meadow to disappear into the trees. The gate was mounted on a pair of what looked like telephone poles, from which was suspended a tired wooden sign, the width of the gate, which proclaimed this as TYLER'S ROAD. A heavy chain and padlock held the gate shut, and a man with a uniform and regulation rain slickers, sitting in a police car, ensured it stayed that way.

A quarter of a mile down the Road they came to a second gate. This one was simple, low, and wooden, graced by an archway and more vines (some leaves on these--were they roses?), tastefully accompanied by another large uniform and slickers. The third gate was metal like the first, but twice as wide, and opened into the barn's yard. At Hawkin's directions Kate turned into this gate, which was standing open, and held up her ID. The guard waved them through into an acre or more of gravel, a rough triangle edged by the long shed, the house (which was even larger than it had appeared from the Road), and the sprawling barn, to which sheds and lean-tos of various shapes, sizes, and eras had been attached like barnacles to a host shell. She pulled up next to the house, and a slim young man in a beautifully cut gray suit emerged from the door of one of the barn's appendages and trotted across the gravel to greet them.

"Morning, Inspector Hawkin, and you must be Inspector Martinelli. I'm Paul, Paul Trujillo."

"Casey," she offered in return. His handshake was trim like the rest of him, his hands neat, his dark eyes friendly under black, carefully tousled hair. At the moment the wouldn't-you-like-to-run-your-fingers-through-my-hair effect was flattened somewhat by the thousands of tiny pearls of light rain, but Kate could see the intent.

"So, Trujillo, what do we have so far?" Hawkin asked, and the three of them drifted across to the isolation and shelter of the car shed for Trujillo to give his report. Kate was amused to see him actually squaring his shoulders a fraction as if Hawkin were his superior officer rather than officially his counterpart.

"I just got down from the scene about ten minutes ago myself, but Tyler seems to have things here under control. He's giving us three rooms downstairs to take statements in, and the residents are beginning to come in. He's even doing us a lunch."

"What did you find at the scene?" Hawkin demanded, waving away these housekeeping chores impatiently.

"My preliminary findings are being typed up now, you'll have them before you leave, and I told the Crime Scene people not to move anything until you'd seen her. Basically, though, the Medical Examiner estimates the time of death between one and five yesterday afternoon. Strangled, like the others, by a strong right hand of average size. No mutilation, no signs of sexual... no signs of molestation. The Examiner had to leave, but she said she'd be available this afternoon if you want to talk to her. She'll also try to get the autopsy speeded up for us, maybe tomorrow morning. She said to tell you not to expect any surprises."

"Do we have someone who can test for prints on the body?"

"We did that first thing, sir. The Kromekote cards drew a blank, but the Magna brush test gave one very rough partial on the right index finger, from just under her ear."

"More than we got from the other two. Maybe the lab'll get lucky and find some fibers. Have the parents been notified?"

"Yes sir. They'll be at the morgue later to make a positive ID, and they want to talk with you then, they said."

"I'll bet. Tell them I'm occupied up here. No, don't say that, they'll drive up here and we'll have a circus on our hands. Tell Mrs. Donaldson I'll telephone her tonight at her home."

Trujillo pulled a maroon leather pad from his trouser pocket and a gold pen from inside his jacket and made a note.

"Deputy Harris will be at the morgue, too--" he began.

"Who?"

"Harris, the man in charge of investigations from Santa Clara County. If she died there, which the doc thought likely, there's the question of jurisdiction."

"God, you'd think they'd all be wanting to give it away, and instead of that we've got four counties fighting for it. I'm surprised the FBI hasn't grabbed it away from us."

"Well, sir, Agent Pickard has been--"

"Oh, Christ, Pickhead himself is in on it now, is he? Okay, let's see." Hawkin put his thumbs through his belt and drew in a deep breath of air that carried equal parts of salt, evergreen tree, wet rust, and fumes from the van generators across the way. "Right. We'll arrange a meeting with you, Martinelli, and me, and Alameda, Santa Clara, the FBI, Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all." Trujillo made another note. "Let's just hope we can keep Mrs. Donaldson out of it. Tell them all that I want them to bring complete reports to the meeting, so we're not just making noise. We'll want the postmortem results, the Crime Scene findings, and anything the lab has ready. Also the complete interviews with the families and all the neighbors of all three girls, diagrams of the kidnap sites, and psychological profiles of all three victims."

Trujillo looked up, aghast.

"But, that'll take days."

"So much the better. Now, what can we give Pickhead to keep him out of our hair? Ah, VICAP. Tell him I want a list of every child dead or kidnapped across the country who fits the description of our three. Limit it to the last ten years. I also want a detailed profile of the killer. Have you ever talked to VICAP, Casey?"

"I submitted a case to them last year."

"The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program," he mouthed scornfully. "Submit the completed form to your local Criminal Profile Coordinator, who forwards it to the Behavioral Sciences Investigative Support Unit, who feed it into the Almighty Central Adding Machine. And do you know what the profile will read? 'White male, middle income, above average intelligence, grew up in a dysfunctional family, juvenile record of minor crimes involving fire-setting and cruelty to animals, may or may not be married, all his neighbors find him likeable but quiet.' End quote."

Kate wondered if she was expected to say something along the lines of, "Remarkable, Holmes!" It was just a bit too easy to mock the FBI's profile system, which, give it credit, occasionally pulled off a real coup of identification. Hawkin seemed to realize this, because he shook himself and subsided, and cleared his throat.

"As I was saying. A meeting of all and sundry when we have the paperwork together. Use the word 'brainstorming,' Trujillo," he directed. "They'll like that. Press conference so we can all prove to the taxpayers how busy we are. Find out how long it's going to take them to assemble their reports, and I'll work it in. Thursday or Friday, the early afternoon."

"Great," said Trujillo, and snapped his notepad shut. "Did you want to see Tyler now, or go straight up to the scene?"

"I'd better see him first, it'll only take a minute."

"He's in his workshop, around back of the barn."

"I know where it is," said Hawkin, and walked off across the gravel.

Kate and Trujillo followed him through the door into the little building, where two men looked up from their contemplation of the object on the workbench in front of them. For a wild instant Kate thought it was a dismembered arm, until her eyes took in the metallic gleam and she recognized it as the detached arm of the suit of armor that stood in the corner. The Japanese man remained seated, but the other, older man stood up and, wiping his hands on a white cloth, came around to meet them. He was a small man, barely taller than Kate, about forty years old, and he moved with a heavy, twisting limp. His shoulder length hair, brown streaked with gray, was gathered into a pony tail, and his beard was trimmed low on his jaw. He wore a loose homespun shirt, more nearly a blouse, tucked into faded but ironed blue jeans, and soft leather boot-moccasins on his small feet.

"Hello, Inspector Hawkin," he said. "I cannot say I am exactly glad to see you again, considering the reason you're here, but you are welcome."

"Thank you, Mr. Tyler. This is my assistant, Inspector Casey Martinelli. I appreciate your allowing us to bring half the county to your house."

Tyler waved it aside. "The house is used to it. Some of the residents are setting up the tables Paul asked for. I left it to them; hauling furniture around isn't my specialty, and I had to come out here and get Toshiro started." He looked embarrassed. "I would have asked him to come some other time, but I made the arrangements months ago for him to be here, and I couldn't reach him this morning to cancel them. I hope it doesn't--." He broke off, though Kate could finish the sentence in her head: "--seem callous."

Hawkin spoke calmly. "No, of course not, no reason for everything to come to a halt. You go on with it. I have to go up the Road now, but I'll need to talk with you later."

Tyler looked relieved at this forgiving attitude, and Kate wondered if Hawkin was trying to soften him up. They left the two men and went back into the half-drizzle, and before they were out the door Tyler had resumed his conversation with Toshiro the armorer.

"It's the vambrace, you see, that binds when I raise my sword..."

Hawkin took no notice but spoke unceremoniously to Trujillo.

"What have you got to take us up in?"

Kate was relieved that it was not to be her car that tackled the dirt track and stood with him as he looked past the obviously inadequate cars near the house and toward the shed, with its row upon row of bumpers fronting a mind-boggling collection of rust and dents--two, four, and six wheels, round bodies and square, old school buses, campers, pickups, Volkswagen vans and bugs--and half a dozen shapes covered tightly with dusty canvas shrouds.

"The county cars are all pretty busy but Tyler's loaning us his wagon. It'll go anywhere."

He pointed to an object so large, so old, and so apparently immobile that Kate had assumed it was a display, useful for entertaining children, like the hulls of planes and trains that occasionally grace playgrounds. It looked thoroughly rooted to the ground, resting on cracked tires as high as Kate's waist, doors sagging, windows cloudy with the abrasions of the decades. It had once been red.

"That?" Hawkin stared in disbelief.

"Yes, it's great," said Trujillo with enthusiasm. "It used to be a fire wagon in the thirties, and Tyler keeps it up something great. Of course, parts are hard to get, and it won't go more than forty without the doors flying open, but for getting up the hill there's nothing like it."

Hawkin turned his attention from the vehicle to the man.

"I didn't realize you knew him so well."

"Tyler? Known him for years."

"Maybe they should've put somebody else on this case, then."

Trujillo smiled gently. "Inspector, you'd be hard put to find a cop in the county who doesn't know Tyler and consider him a friend. It's a small place."

"I see. Okay, let's get on with it. Are you going to drive this thing?"

"Good God, no. Tyler wouldn't trust me with his baby. Mark Detweiler's the only one who's allowed to touch it. He'll be driving. Mark?" He went to the door and stuck his head inside. "Mark! Anybody seen Mark?"

After a few minutes of confusion a slow mountain of a man, gray braids reaching to the waist of his ancient jeans, plaid shirt hidden by a beard nearly as long, emerged to plant his heavy boots on the plank steps and survey the yard through a pair of smudged horn-rimmed glasses held together by a twist of wire and dirty duct tape. One gold earring glinted through the foliage.

"I'm coming," he rumbled. "Just hold your horses. Just wanted to use the John. Kinda fun to be able to flush." He grinned merrily at them, revealing a missing front tooth amidst the gray fringe, and climbed up into the driver's seat. Hawkin watched, openmouthed, as the man methodically tied the door shut with a hunk of frayed rope, jerked the window up with a pair of pliers and inserted a wedge to hold it almost shut, and fished around in the mends of his jeans for a pocket, from which he pulled a key.

"What's the matter, Al," murmured Kate as she climbed past him. "Didn't have such classy chauffeurs in Los Angeles?" He shook his head, once, and followed her into the back, Trujillo in front. With a roar and a massive cloud of blue exhaust the starter caught, and they rumbled out onto the road, a leviathan among the minnows.

The reporters would get some fine footage for their pain of turning out so early, thought Kate, and saw a scramble to record the parade of wagon, high-axled coroner's van, and the handful of lesser vehicles that brought up the rear.

Trujillo turned as they went through the gate and saw the expression on Hawkin's face.

"We do have the four-wheel drives, but they're both already up the Road. I didn't think you'd mind this thing, and we needed the others to get the teams up there and to go up notifying people. I hope you don't mind," he repeated, hesitantly.

"Oh, no, it lends the proceedings an air of dignified purpose, evoking the ponderous wheels of justice turning. Don't let me forget to use that for the news cameras, Casey, in case they missed the symbolism. It's quite all right, Trujillo, it serves to remind me of the unswerving support given us by our superiors. So encouraging."