The only thing remotely linking David Ryan Gunther to the other deaths was the large Bowie knife sunk to its hilt that-according to the coroner's report-had been driven in with such force as to pin the body to the ground. The huge blade had been discovered still straight up after some eight years, while the body had decayed around the knife and bones. And with the cranium missing, there wasn't an opportunity to even guess at his facial features. It was presumed that the skull was either pulled off by animals and taken to a den somewhere, or that the killer had taken Gunther's head away with him for some bizarre ritual or dark purpose. With no one claiming the body or coming forward with any information, the remains were buried in a city cemetery at cost to the taxpayers.
Again she asked, “What do you think about the Gunther body being discovered where it was, as it was?”
He gave her a deprecating shrug. “Obviously, there are a few tenuous links that you've already examined and judged. Obviously, you've buzzed about on the VICAP and other computer systems in your search for similarities in killer MO and victim profile, and the big bulletin board must have alerted you to the Gunther case along with the others. Then, for a closer and more personal and detailed look-see, you found your way down to the Cold Room for the actual files.”
“But?”
“But I don't think it washes, especially in the Gunther case.”
“Still, what about the link between the Gunther kid's body and where it was unearthed? I mean, someone had him dig his own shallow grave, lie down in it, and take a hit from that Bowie knife that pinned him to the grave. After which his head was removed, and he was covered over.”
Lucas threw up both hands. “Whoa, you're making twenty assumptions there, none of which you know for sure.”
“His body was unearthed by a dog out on a walk in the woods very near the Charlton Whitaker estate. This geographical link seems a bit eerie and uncanny.”
“Yeah, but Whitaker's murder and the subsequent destruction of the Whitaker family crypt came much later in time. It's most likely just a curious coincidence, coincidences being more common now that computers and computer cross-referencing are a fact of life. More coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“A beer?”
She shook her head no.
“Well, if you'll excuse me a moment.” Lucas went to the bathroom and splashed cold water into his eyes and face, staring for a long moment at what remained of his youth and vigor in the mirror, seeing the scars, incised worry lines and crow's feet instead. Since the accident, gray strands of hair had become his, entwined amid the thick black weave, finding a permanent home now at each temple. Some people said it gave him more character, others called it credibility, as if the gray meant more wisdom or vision, and this, along with his Indian blood, had had the naive among the white rookies at the academy coming to him for advice! Advice ranging from money matters and relationships to the best scoped rifle to use on a deer hunt. He doubted that hair of any color had much to do with wisdom or power, but the illusion certainly was there. And as every good magician or Indian shaman or good cop knew, mirage, mirrors and chimera-the appearance of things-usually meant far more to people than the reality behind a fantasy. But no amount of phantasm was going to be of any help here and now as he weighed the relative wisdom or foolishness of either accepting or turning down Meredyth Sanger's 'request for assistance. She was not likely to be taken in by anyone's hocus-pocus.
She was waiting in the next room for an unequivocal answer.
He toweled off. There was more to sift through waiting for him in the other room. He returned to it, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, his resolve to remain objective stronger than his resolve to remain awake.
“I need to look a little deeper,” he told her, stalling for time.
She began pointing items out to him, facts he had already considered. It became annoying. A few minutes later, he stood and paced, went for a hefty tumbler of whiskey, offered her some, which she declined, and drank long and sighed heavily afterward.
He saw that she watched him with one eye-the eye of retribution and rebuke-while her other eye filled with a pleading appeal. She felt like, smelled like, sounded like, and probably would taste like Katharine Hepburn in African Queen, he thought. Given half a chance to get near his kitchen, she'd likely pour out every ounce of booze he owned and tell him it was better than Drano for the pipes.
“You took some documents from the Palmer file,” he accused.
She dropped her gaze. “I haven't been completely forthcoming, no.”
“No, you haven't. Now, do you want to tell me why?”
They were both seated again now, she leaning in toward him as if she must whisper what would come next. “I left the Gunther report in to test you; see if you were as good as they say.”
“As good as who says? My superiors in Dallas weren't exactly handing out laurels when I left.”
“No, but you had a number of supervisors up till then, and no one could change your record.”
“You sure do your homework, lady. So, Gunther was a ringer? To see if I was paying attention.”
“Not at first, but I decided to use it as such. See what you had to say about it.”
“And what about information on Alisha Reynolds? Or do I have to call Atlanta for that tomorrow?”
She snatched her purse to her and rummaged through it, pulling forth a folded cache of papers. “Here's all that was in the file. I didn't have time to make you a copy, too.”
“These are the originals? Police property…”
She frowned. 'They are and you know it. Read them over.”
Lucas first stared at the ceiling overhead. Do I really want to get into this any deeper than I already am? he wondered.
“Just look them over,” she urged. 'Then we'll talk about threads and coincidences, Lucas.”
The police report on Palmer's fiancee, Alisha Reynolds, was a fax some ten plus years old, dated as it was 1985 . Atlanta and Houston obviously were ahead of the times, having faxes so early on in the game. At that time, many law enforcement officials used a nearby college or university in faxing information back and forth. The report wasn't as detailed as it might have been, but close enough attention was given to Alisha Reynolds's death to sort out a few things in Lucas's mind. The woman's death was ruled a murder in the first, and it had taken place at Palmer's home just after the breakup of a party that evening. Alisha Reynolds had actually been cut down by a steel-shafted arrow fired from a crossbow through a closed window.
“The dead woman's name-Alisha Reynolds-corresponded with the would-be in-laws, who became suspects in Palmer's death the next year,” said Meredyth, her voice like a narrator of some dark documentary. “Very little was done in the way of background on her here in Houston. She was an Atlanta socialite, expecting to marry well, and all seemed right with her world when a mindless random act of violence took her.”
“Could there have been a jealous suitor? Someone smart as well as enraged? Someone who wanted to make it look like a maniac had done Palmer and his intended in, in order to cast the shadow of suspicion away from himself? Perhaps another doctor who worked alongside Palmer at Georgia Baptist Memorial Hospital in Atlanta? Did Palmer engage in crossbow hunting? Did anyone, friend or acquaintance, ever take up the weapon?” All these questions escaped Lucas's mouth, and he could see that she could see that his mind raced with curiosity over the oddities here.
Just how much of me are you wanting to take, Dr. Sanger? Lucas wondered. He had on occasion used a crossbow himself on deer hunting excursions, but she probably had unearthed that bit of information as well.
The high-tech crossbow weapons of today were damnably, horribly accurate and cleanly deadly.