Think Of a Number (2010) (43 page)

Nardo raised a weary but curious eyebrow.

“A certain Dr. Holdenfield, who wrote the state-of-the-art study of serial murder, believes he’s reached a critical stage in the process and is about to launch some sort of climactic event.”

Nardo’s jaw muscles rippled. He spoke with fierce restraint.
“Which would make my slaughtered friend on the back porch a warm-up act?”

It wasn’t the kind of question one could, or should, answer. The two men sat in silence until a slight sound, perhaps the sound of an irregular breath, drew their attention simultaneously to the doorway. Incongruously for such a surreptitious arrival, it was the NFL-size hulk who’d earlier been guarding the driveway. He looked like he was having a tooth drilled.

Nardo could see what was coming. “What, Tommy?”

“They’ve located Gary’s wife.”

“Oh, Christ. Okay. Where is she?”

“On her way home from the town garage. She drives the Head Start school bus.”

“Right. Right. Oh, fuck. I should go myself, but I can’t leave here now. Where the fuck is the chief? Anybody find him yet?”

“He’s in Cancún.”

“I know he’s in freaking Cancún. I mean, why the fuck doesn’t he check his messages?” Nardo took a long breath and closed his eyes. “Hacker and Picardo—they were probably closest to the family. Isn’t Picardo the wife’s cousin or something? Send Hacker and Picardo. Christ. But tell Hacker to come see me first.”

The gigantic young cop went as quietly as he’d come.

Nardo took another long breath. He began speaking as though he’d been kicked in the head and hoped that speaking would help him clear his mind. “So you’re telling me they were all alcoholics. Well, Gary Sissek wasn’t an alcoholic, so what does that mean?”

“He was a cop. Maybe that was enough. Or maybe he got in the way of a planned attack on Dermott. Or maybe there’s some other connection.”

“What other connection?”

“I don’t know.”

The back door slammed, sharp footsteps approached, and a wiry man in plainclothes appeared at the door. “You wanted to see me?”

“Sorry to do this to you, but I need you and Picardo to—”

“I know.”

“Right. Well. Keep the information simple. Simple as you can. ‘Fatally stabbed while protecting the intended victim of an attack. Died a hero.’ Something like that. Jesus fucking Christ! What I mean is, no awful details, no pool of blood. You understand what I’m trying to say? The details can come later if they have to. But for now …”

“I understand, sir.”

“Right. Look, I’m sorry I can’t do it myself. I really can’t leave. Tell her I’ll come by the house tonight.”

“Yes, sir.” The man paused at the doorway until it was clear that Nardo had nothing more to say, then marched back the way he came and closed the rear door behind him, this time more quietly.

Again Nardo forced his attention back to his conversation with Gurney. “Am I missing something, or is your understanding of this case pretty much theoretical? I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but I didn’t hear anything about a list of suspects—in fact, no concrete leads to pursue at all, is that right?”

“More or less.”

“And that shitload of physical evidence—envelopes, notepaper, red ink, boots, broken bottles, footprints, taped phone calls, cell-tower transmission records, returned checks, even messages written in skin oil from this freaking lunatic’s fingertips—none of that led anywhere?”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

Nardo shook his head in a manner that was getting to be a habit. “Bottom line, you don’t know who you’re looking for or how to find him.”

Gurney smiled. “So maybe that’s why I’m here.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I have no idea where else to go.”

It was a simple admission of a simple fact. The intellectual satisfaction of figuring out the tactical details of the killer’s MO was little more than a distraction from the lack of progress on the central issue so plainly articulated by Nardo. Gurney had to face the fact that despite his eureka insights into the peripheral mysteries of the
case, he was almost as far from identifying and capturing his man as he’d been on the morning Mark Mellery brought him those first baffling notes and asked for his help.

There was a small shift in Nardo’s expression, a relaxation of its sharp edge.

“We’ve never had a murder in Wycherly,” he said. “Not a real one, anyway. Couple of manslaughter plead-outs, couple of vehicular homicides, one questionable hunting accident. Never had a killing here that didn’t involve at least one completely intoxicated asshole. At least not in the past twenty-four years.”

“That how long you’ve been on the job?”

“Yep. Only guy in the department longer than me is … was … Gary. He was just shy of twenty-five. His wife wanted him out at twenty, but he figured if he stayed another five … Damn!” Nardo wiped his eyes. “We don’t lose many guys in the line of duty,” he said, as though his tears needed a rational explanation.

Gurney was tempted to say he knew what it was like to lose a colleague. He’d lost two in one bust gone bad. Instead he just nodded in sympathy.

After a minute or so, Nardo cleared his throat. “You have any interest in talking to Dermott?”

“Matter of fact, yes. I just don’t want to get in your way.”

“You won’t,” said Nardo roughly—making up, Gurney supposed, for his moment of weakness. Then he added in a more normal tone, “You’ve spoken to this guy on the phone, right?”

“Right.”

“So he knows who you are.”

“Right.”

“So you don’t need me in the room. Just fill me in when you’re through.”

“Whatever you say, Lieutenant.”

“Door on the right at the top of the stairs. Good luck.”

As he ascended the plain oak staircase, Gurney wondered if the second floor would be any more revealing of the occupant’s personality than the first, which had no more warmth or flair than the
computer equipment it housed. The landing at the top of the stairs echoed the redundant security motif established downstairs: a fire extinguisher on the wall, a smoke alarm and sprinklers in the ceiling. Gurney was getting the impression that Gregory Dermott was definitely a belt-and-suspenders guy. He knocked at the door Nardo had indicated.

“Yes?” The response was pained, hoarse, impatient.

“Special Investigator Gurney, Mr. Dermott. May I see you for a minute?”

There was a pause. “Gurney?”

“Dave Gurney. We’ve spoken on the phone.”

“Come in.”

Gurney opened the door into a room darkened by partly closed blinds. It was furnished with a bed, a nightstand, a bureau, an armchair, and a tablelike desk against the wall with a folding chair in front of it. All the wood was dark. The style was contemporary, superficially upscale. The bedspread and carpet were gray, tan, essentially colorless. The room’s occupant sat in the armchair facing the door. He sat tilted a little to one side, as though he’d found an odd position that mitigated his discomfort. To the extent that the underlying personality was visible, it struck Gurney as the techie type one might expect in the computer business. In the low light, his age was less definable. Thirty something would be a reasonable guess.

After studying Gurney’s features as if trying to discern in them the answer to a question, he asked in a low voice, “Did they tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“About the phone call … from the crazy murderer.”

“I heard about that. Who answered the phone?”

“Answered it? I assume one of the police officers. One came to get me.”

“The caller asked for you by name?”

“I guess …. I don’t know …. I mean, he must have. The officer said the call was for me.”

“Was there anything familiar about the caller’s voice?”

“It wasn’t normal.”

“How do you mean that?”

“Crazy. Up and down, high like a woman’s voice, then low. Crazy accents. Like it was some kind of creepy joke, but serious, too.” He pressed his fingertips against his temples. “He said that I was next, then you.” He seemed more exasperated than frightened.

“Were there any background sounds?”

“Any what?”

“Did you hear anything other than the caller’s voice—music, traffic, other voices?”

“No. Nothing.”

Gurney nodded, looking around the room. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

“What? No, go ahead.” Dermott gestured broadly to the room as though it were full of chairs.

Gurney sat on the edge of the bed. He had a strong feeling that Gregory Dermott held the key to the case. Now, if only he could think of the right question to ask. The right subject to raise. On the other hand, sometimes the right thing to say was nothing. Create a silence, an empty space, and see how the other guy would choose to fill it. He sat for a long while staring down at the carpet. It was an approach that took patience. It also took good judgment to know when any more empty silence would just be a waste of time. He was approaching that point when Dermott spoke.

“Why me?” The tone was edgy, annoyed—a complaint, not a question—and Gurney chose not to respond.

After a few seconds, Dermott went on, “I think it might have something to do with this house.” He paused. “Let me ask you something, Detective. Do you personally know anyone in the Wycherly police department?”

“No.” He was tempted to ask the reason for the question but assumed he’d soon enough discover it.

“No one at all, present or past?”

“No one.” Seeing something in Dermott’s eyes that seemed to
demand further assurance, he added, “Before I saw the check-mailing instructions in the letter to Mark Mellery, I didn’t even know Wycherly existed.”

“And no one ever told you about anything happening in this house?”

“Happening?”

“In this house. A long time ago.”

“No,” said Gurney, intrigued.

Dermott’s discomfort seemed to exceed the effects of a headache.

“What was it that happened?”

“It’s all secondhand information,” said Dermott, “but right after I bought this place, one of the neighbors told me that twenty-some-odd years ago there was a horrible fight here—apparently a husband and wife, and the wife was stabbed.”

“And you see some connection …?”

“It may be a coincidence, but …”

“Yes?”

“I’d pretty much forgotten about it. Until today. This morning when I found—” His lips stretched in a kind of nauseous spasm.

“Take your time,” said Gurney.

Dermott placed both his hands to his temples. “Do you have a gun?”

“I own one.”

“I mean with you.”

“No. I haven’t carried a gun since I left the NYPD. If you’re worried about security, there are more than a dozen armed cops within a hundred yards of this house,” said Gurney.

He didn’t look particularly reassured.

“You were saying you remembered something.”

Dermott nodded. “I’d forgotten all about it, but it came back to me when I saw … all that blood.”

“What came back to you?”

“The woman who was stabbed in this house—she was stabbed in the throat.”

D
ermott’s recollection that the neighbor (now deceased) had placed the event “twenty-some-odd years ago” meant that the number could easily be less than twenty-five—and that, in turn, would mean that both John Nardo and Gary Sissek would have been on the force at the time of the attack. Although the picture was far from clear, Gurney could feel another piece of the puzzle starting to rotate into position. He had more questions for Dermott, but they could wait until he got some answers from the lieutenant.

He left Dermott sitting stiffly in his chair by the drawn blinds, looking stressed and uncomfortable. As he started down the staircase, a female officer in scene-of-crime coveralls and latex gloves in the hallway below was asking Nardo what to do next with the areas outside the house that had been examined for trace evidence.

“Keep it taped and off-limits, in case we have to go over it again. Transport the chair, bottle, anything else you’ve got to the station. Set up the back end of the file room as a dedicated area.”

“What about all the junk on the table?”

“Shove it in Colbert’s office for now.”

“He’s not going to like it.”

“I don’t give a flying—Look, just take care of it!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Before you leave, tell Big Tommy to stay in front of the house, tell Pat to stay by the phone. I want everyone else out knocking on
doors. I want to know if anyone in the neighborhood saw or heard anything out of the ordinary the past couple of days, especially late last night or early this morning—strangers, cars parked where they aren’t normally parked, anyone hanging around, anyone in a hurry, anything at all.”

“How large a radius you want them to cover?”

Nardo looked at his watch. “Whatever they can cover in the next six hours. Then we’ll decide where to go from there. Anything of interest turns up, I want to be informed immediately.”

As she went off on her mission, Nardo turned to Gurney, who was standing at the foot of the stairs. “Find out anything useful?”

“I’m not sure,” said Gurney in a low voice, motioning Nardo to follow him back into the room they’d been sitting in earlier. “Maybe you can help me figure it out.”

Gurney sat in the chair facing the doorway. Nardo stood behind the chair on the opposite side of the square table. His expression was a combination of curiosity and something Gurney couldn’t decipher.

“Are you aware that someone was once stabbed in this house?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Shortly after Dermott bought the place, he was told by a neighbor that a woman who’d lived here years ago had been attacked by her husband.”

“How many years ago?”

Gurney was sure he saw a flicker of recognition in Nardo’s eyes.

“Maybe twenty, maybe twenty-five. Somewhere in there.”

It seemed to be the answer Nardo expected. He sighed and shook his head. “I hadn’t thought about that for a long time. Yeah, there was a domestic assault—about twenty-four years ago. Not too long after I joined the force. What about it?”

“Do you remember any of the details?”