“Meanwhile, these hicks in Oregon want to call out the National Guard,” added Lawrence.
“Why the over reaction?”
Meredyth explained. 'Turns out he's a millionaire two or three times over, something to do with jet airline appliances and solutions.
I don't know, but the family'll be wanting to feel some closure as soon as possible, and that'll mean releasing the body-or what's left of it-over to them.”
“I see.” Murder always left more victims than the dead one. “And if it is connected to Mootry and Palmer and Reynolds,” she added, “the man's immediate family could also be in danger.”
“Mootry didn't have any immediate family, but if what Dr. Sanger has uncovered has any validity, apparently family members of victims have also been targeted by this creep, so we're letting authorities in this guy's hometown know what's going down as well. Meantime, Stonecoat, you're our guy in Oregon, along with-”
“Yes, sir, Commander.”
“-Dr. Sanger here, and I want you two to report directly to Phil. Anything I need to know, he will in turn report to me.
No more going over Phil's head, either, young lady. I'm not in the least impressed by that sort of thing, you understand? I want you three to work together!”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, obviously happy with having been vindicated, but Lucas wasn't yet sure. It might well be that what had occurred in Oregon had next to nothing to do with Palmer or Mootry or the other cases they had examined. He would keep his counsel and withhold judgment.
Together, Lucas and Meredyth left Lawrence's office, and when the door closed behind them, she gave him the high-five sign, but he only frowned, refusing to return it.
She was surprised by his reaction. “What's wrong with you? Don't you get it? This assignment gets you out of the Cold Room.”
“For how long?”
“For as long as it takes; hopefully for good, if we do well in Oregon.”
“Well, I've got a smoldering little problem of my own right here,” he replied, taking her aside, locating the stairwell.
“Are you crazy, Andrew?” asked Lawrence, the moment Sanger and Stonecoat were out of the room.
Bryce remained impassive, silently moving about the room, lifting little knickknacks and items from Lawrence's shelves, staring at the other man's family photos, pictures of Lawrence as a much younger man in a football uniform and then a Marine Corps uniform. Bryce then stated the obvious. “You were a marine, once, I see.”
You know that from my goddamned record, Lawrence's mind screamed. “Wellllll, yeah… but what's that got to do with anything?” he replied.
“Put in for the Marine Corps once myself, but had trouble getting in. I was too young at the time. Moved on from there… A boy grows up… puts wild notions aside…” What's that supposed to mean? wondered Lawrence. It wasn't like Bryce to wax philosophical. “You going to answer me, Commander?”
“Oh, about sending those two to Oregon? It seems the logical thing to do, wouldn't you agree? I mean, what'll they find in Oregon? Meanwhile, it might keep them out of the way of the Mootry investigation.”
'Then you don't believe they'll find any connection in Oregon? You're hoping that they'll become discouraged with this serial killer notion?”
“Maybe… Meantime, Pardee and Amelford aren't hindered.”
Lawrence wondered about the wisdom of this, but he kept silent on that, merely replying, “Yes, sir.” God, he had to bite back bile to show this man respect, he thought. What had Andrew Bryce done to earn anyone's respect? Yes, he had come up through the ranks, but when was the last time he was on the street, the last time he risked a hair on his politically correct head? Bastard.
Bryce seemed to sense his animosity. He grinned at Lawrence. “Give it all time, Phil. Time is a wonderful solvent for many nasty stains we encounter.”
On that note, Commander Bryce abruptly turned and disappeared, leaving Lawrence alone with his office and his own counsel. He turned to the PC behind his desk and called up a bulletin board he liked to play around with; he found it helped him to unwind. Maybe he'd go searching for some familiar log-ins and friends on the Internet. Friends and acquaintances on the Internet seemed controllable, predictable even. These people in the real world, especially those he was supposed to supervise, caused him so much dull pain, he could easily lose control and use his gun on them, or on himself, he thought now.
In the stairwell now where Lucas had taken Meredyth, the two waited for a passing pair of blue-uniformed cops before they spoke.
“Precisely what kind of a problem do you have, Lucas? This is great, what Bryce has done. He's giving us a chance to prove what we know.”
He didn't readily answer, beginning to pace instead.
“Spit it out, Stonecoat.”
He told her of how he'd gone to Mootry's mansion home, and how he'd finagled his way into the crime scene. “Damn! Then it was you! When? How?” She was full of questions.
He gave her the details, including his theory about the cutter being clever in knowing precisely where to cut. “No, the autopsy reports were sealed to protect the integrity of the evidence collection process and to help the detectives.
How could you know that?”
“The lack of blood evidence.”
“I see you've gotten down to it, and here I thought you weren't interested. Silly me.”
“I just went to get the feel of the place.”
“So, whataya think?”
“What do you mean, what do I think? He was murdered, and not in a kind way.”
“Yeah, everybody knows that, Ace Ventura, but you must've come away with more than that.”
“Well, I did… and that's my problem.”
“What do I need here, pliers? What're you talking about, Lucas?”
He told her how he had lain in Charles Mootry's bed, over the very spot where the arrow had gone through the man's heart. “I wanted to become him for that moment,” he explained. He told her how he'd wandered the house and noticed a pair of errant coasters and the two goblets he'd discovered in the dishwasher.
“Wait a minute… are you saying that you took them?”
“They're at Renquist as we speak.”
“The labs?”
“And I need these forms filled out and initialed and stamped by the captain over at the Twenty-second Precinct to get the results and the goblets back.”
“Damn, I knew you were a little loco, Lucas, but this…”
He gave her a self-deprecating little shrug, like a boy, she thought. Then he asked, “What can I say? More to the point, what can I do?”
“I've got a secretary who can help us.”
“A secretary? How's she going to help?”
“You wait and see how he's going to help.”
She guided him to her office two flights up where they found her secretary on the computer. The young man turned and beamed at Dr. Sanger and smiled at Lucas, extending a hand. He was clean-cut and clear-eyed behind a pair of fashionable half-tinted glasses.
“Officer Lucas Stonecoat, this is Randy Oglesby, the best man I ever saw with a computer. If he can't fix your little problem, Lucas, no one can.”
“Maybe, but what I'm asking could get you both into deep… trouble. Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
'Tell Randy your problem, and we'll take it from there. Meantime, I've got to grab a few items from my office in preparation for our trip.”
“Trip?” asked Randy. “What trip. Doctor?”
She explained they must be in Oregon this afternoon. “There's been another crossbow killing, Randy.”
“Jesus God, another one? That's so… so weird, so out there, you know?”
“Yeah, we know what's out there, don't we, Lucas?”
“I wish we knew a little more about what's out there, exactly what we're looking for,” he replied, but she rushed off, only half listening to his complaint. Lucas then turned to the eager young male secretary and explained to Randy about the Twenty-second Precinct voucher forms, finishing with, “I'm sure you can't do a thing about it, so thanks anyway…”