"Does she seem like the type who'd yell about him to her brother-in-law?"
"The night before Gwen's birthday Brock told Priscilla that he was having an affair. She was furious about it. Still is. When she picked up Archie the next day, she snapped, blew off steam."
"You believe that?"
"Yeah. She had to do something, or go crazy."
"I'd have blown it off on Brock."
"She couldn't. He spent the night with the new girl."
The press conference was held in a first-floor courthouse conference room. Merci stopped in the doorway, unhappily baffled by the crowd.
George and Natalie Wildcraft were there, sitting with Gwen's parents, Lee and Earla Kuerner. Who told them?
Likewise, civil rights lawyer Connie Astrahan and a cadre of three women who sat at the end of the front row of fold-up chairs, murmuring like conspirators,
Likewise, the head of the Sheriff Deputy Association, an attorney named Dave Dunphy, who glanced at her dismissively then turned back to his group of deputies. She knew them-all sergeants or higher-loyal remnants of Chuck Brighton's old guard who thought that she had betrayed the department by telling the truth about it.
Likewise, at the other end of the chairs, a loose coalition of what Merci privately referred to as "my people," mostly younger deputies who had stuck with her through those dark and agonizing days winter.
Dr. John Stebbms sat at a table beside the podium, talking Gary Brice.
CNB's pretty Michelle Howland was there, as were reporters two of the networks. Merci recognized half a dozen print journalists who specialized in the crime beat, and attendant photogs. And two columnists who specialized in human interest, cheer-the-underdog stories. A magazine writer. And the publisher of Orange County's native newspaper,
County Weekly.
CBS and KFWB radio were there, even a reporter from the campus PBS station at UC Irvine.
The podium was already awash in light, the twin blow-ups of Wildcraft easeled on either side like candidate posters at a political rally. The one on the right was taken from Brice's video footage, and showed Archie by the pool in one of his less maniacal moments, crop the shoulders to omit the shotgun.
"I hate these things," she muttered to Zamorra.
"Never let 'em see you sweat."
"That's all they see me do."
Merci butted between Stebbins and Brice, nodding to the surgeon and turning to the reporter. "That stunk, what you did to Wildcraft."
"I didn't plan it that way."
"You made him look crazy for a story."
"I did? But not the shotgun or the threats or the somewhat destabilized glare in his eyes?"
"I wish you knew your place," she said. "But you don't, too late for you to learn. Will you excuse me for a minute while with the doctor? Beat it, Gary."
Brice tried to cover his humiliation with a smile but his red face a giveaway. Merci looked at Stebbins and shrugged. She didn’t have anything to say to him, her words to Brice were just a way of shoving him around a little.
"Sorry about this," she said.
"It's okay. Do I have to answer questions?"
"You can tell them about Archie's medical condition, then walk out of here if you want. The marshal will let you through the back door."
"I'm going to take you up on that."
She walked over to the Kuerners and the Wildcrafts and said hello to them. The men shook her hand, but Earla looked away and Natalie peered at her like a wolverine ready to jump. Merci felt the new chill, the clear message that she was out to get Archie, under the guise of wanting to protect him.
Rayborn reluctantly squared herself behind the podium and waited for everyone to take a seat.
She thanked them for coming.
She introduced Dr. John Stebbins, who nervously took Merci's place at the microphone and spoke of Deputy Wildcraft's medical condition: threat of infection, threat of edema, threat of seizure, threat of bleeding; loss of memory, possible hallucination, confabulation and erratic behavior.
"Is he suicidal?" asked Michelle Howland.
"That's not my area. I can't answer that."
"Is he dangerous?"
Stebbins cast a panicked glance at Rayborn, who shrugged encouragingly, trying to indicate the doctor could answer or not, up to him.
"I can't answer that, either. He's unpredictable," said Stebbins. "We just don't know. We've got to get him back under medical care. That is the only thing I can tell you for certain. I'm due in surgery in one hour. Thank you."
Stebbins banged his knee on the table leg on his way toward the back door, but the marshal had it open and waiting, and the doctor sidled out like a spy.
Rayborn went to the podium, looked up and focused on the CNB shooter because she'd never met him and he was a neutral being to her. She tried her best to sound like the cops she'd seen on TV, but she wasn't very good at talking that talk.
"We called this conference because we need Deputy Wildcraft to turn himself in to the nearest medical or law enforcement facility as soon as possible. We ask that anyone who has information on Mr. Wildcraft's whereabouts contact us immediately. It's for his own good. Mr. Wildcraft has a bad head wound, and as you know, the bullet still lodged in him. He needs medical attention, as Dr. Stebbins said. I want to stress that Deputy Wildcraft is not under warrant for arrest. We want to talk to him about the murder of his wife, Gwen, because he's a possible witness. No charges have been filed in regard to the confrontation with Mr. Brice on Monday morning. We need to question Deputy Wildcraft. We understand that the deputy is despondent over the death of his wife, is suffering a bad wound, and possibly feel hounded by certain members of the media. We're with you, Archie," she said, mustering a small smile. "Come back and talk to us. Questions?"
Perfect, she thought: that came out just right.
CBS News Radio: "Has Deputy Wildcraft contacted you since disappearing?"
Rayborn: "Yes. He appears to be feeling fine but is reluctant seek medical care."
"Why?"
"He is angered by a reporter trespassing on his property early on Monday morning. He thinks he may be seen as a suspect in the dead of his wife."
He thinks his wife is talking to him and he thinks he can track down a three-hundred-pound killer named Vorapin but I'm not at liberty to tell you this. And if I were, I wouldn't anyway.
"Is he a suspect in Gwen Wildcraft's murder?"
"I already told you he isn't."
"Sergeant Rayborn! Sergeant Rayborn-Michelle Howland, CNB. Can you tell us why Deputy Wildcraft is not a suspect in the death his wife, if his gun was used to kill her, and his fingerprints were on that weapon, and a paraffin test for gunshot residue came up positive
Rayborn could have killed her, would have if there weren't many witnesses around. She felt like blood was boiling out of her ears. She imagined Howland being run over by a speeding armored c; then by a steamroller, then by a…
"Sure," she said evenly. "Because there's a lot more to a homicide case than fingerprints and gunshot residue. Come on, even you know that."
A hush, then.
"That's all you're going to say?"
"What else is there to say?"
Merci had already traced the invisible path of disclosure from Jim Gilliam's crime lab to the rosy red lips of Michelle Howland: DA Clay Brenkus to ADA Ryan Dawes to news rat Gary Brice to Michelle the Belle. She imagined Dawes freefalling through a canyon again, his extreme-sports shorts tightly gripping his butt in the fatal descent.
But Michelle wasn't done: "I was wondering why you claimed recently that the weapon was stolen from Arizona, and that the fingerprinting was inconclusive. We have those statements on tape. Which of your stories is the true one, Detective?"