"This is it. Everything we got. There's also a DVD in there, all the same stuff, if you'd rather use a computer. You need Adobe Reader."
"All right," Virgil said. "But boil it down for me. What'd you get, and what are you looking at now?"
VIRGIL WASN'T in Bluestem for Bill Judd, though.
He was there for the Gleasons.
Russell Gleason had been a town doctor for fifty years, retired for ten. He and his wife, Anna, lived in an affluent enclave of businessmen and professionals on a hillock above the Stark River reservoir, a mile east of downtown and handy to the Bluestem Country Club. Anna had been a nurse for a while, when she was younger, and then had gotten elected to the county commission, where she served six terms and then retired for good. They had three children, but the children had gone, two to the Twin Cities, one to Sioux Falls.
Both were in their eighties and in good health. Russell still played nine holes a day at the club, in good weather, and Anna had her women's groups. They had a housekeeper, a Mexican illegal named Mayahuel Diaz who was well liked by most everyone who knew her, and who came in on weekdays.
Three weeks and four days before Virgil came to town, Russell had played a round of golf on a Friday afternoon, the round cut short by rain. He had a few drinks with his golfing pals, then hooked up with his wife. They'd gone to the Holiday Inn for dinner. On the way back home, they stopped at a SuperAmerica-a credit card said it was twelve minutes after nine when they paid for the gas.
At eleven o'clock that rainy night, a neighbor had been sent to town by his wife to get a quart of milk. As he came past the Gleason place, he saw what looked like a strange sculpture, like a dummy or a scarecrow, sitting in the Gleasons' backyard, bathed in yard lights.
He got a quart of milk and came back up the hill, drove past the Gleasons' house, saw the scarecrow or whatever it was, got as far as his driveway, then said, the hell with it, that scarecrow was too strange. He'd just stop and ask if everything was okay.
It wasn't.
The scarecrow was Russell Gleason, propped up with a stick, his eyes shot out.
THE SHOOTINGS had happened inside the house. Anna had been shot to death as she sat on a couch in the living room; shot once in the heart. Russell had been shot three times, once in the lower back, and once in each eye. Then his body had been dragged outside and propped up, staring gap mouthed and blank eyed into the dark.
"It looked like he tried to run, but he couldn't," Stryker said. "That the sequence was, that he was standing up, and Anna was sitting down. The killer shot her in the heart and Russell turned to run, and the killer shot him in the spine, from the back, just as he got to the dining room."
"How far was that? How far did he run?"
"About three steps. I'll get you the key to the house, on the way out the door, we've got a couple in evidence," Stryker said. "Anyway, the dining room is connected to the living room, and it looks like he was shot as he started into the dining room. He went down, and rolled on his back, and the killer stood over him and shot him twice, once in each eye. Goddamnedest thing."
The slugs were.357 hollow points, and exited the back of Gleason's head into the floor, and were recovered, though in fragments.
"The eye thing, propping him up in the yard, in the lights-a ritual of some kind," Virgil said.
"Looks like something, but I don't know what," Stryker said, shaking his head. "The second shot was a waste of good ammunition, I can tell you that. And the shooter took a risk-the Gleasons' house is three hundred fifty feet from the nearest neighbor, and it was raining, so the houses were closed up with air-conditioning. Still, a.357 makes a damn loud bang. If somebody had been walking by…the third shot was an extra risk."
"Excitement? I've seen that," Virgil said. "Guy starts pulling the trigger and can't stop."
"One in each eye? He had to take his time," Stryker said. "I mean, he fired from two feet away, straight down, but you still have to take your time to put it right through an eye."
"So he's nuts. A ritual, a revenge thing…Maybe a warning?"
Stryker sighed. "What the whole situation hints at, when you boil it down, is that it's somebody from here, that we all know. Somebody who went to that specific house, at that specific time, to do the killing. Somebody that they let into the house. No sign of struggle by the entrance. There was a glass of water by Anna's hand, on an end table, like she'd been sitting there awhile."
"Was it dark?"
"Probably. We can't nail it down exactly, but they were wearing the clothes that they wore Friday. Russell was still in his golf slacks with a fresh grass stain on the cuff. So, sometime after they got gas at nine-twelve-take them five minutes to get out to the house after paying-and before they'd changed clothes to go to bed."
"Nobody saw any cars?"
"No. I think the killer-I feel like it's one guy-came up the Stark River on foot, and then around to the front of the house. If he stayed down in the river cut, in the rain, hell, nobody would see him. A guy who knows his way around could walk downtown, almost, without being seen, on a dark night."
"So tell me what you think," Virgil said. "Who did it? Who might've done it?"
Stryker was shaking his head. "I don't know. This is too cold, for around here. There might be guys here who could do it, but it'd be hot. Lots of anger. Then they'd probably turn themselves in, or shoot themselves, or run for it. Or something. So, I don't know. You'll hear that all over town-that I don't know. But nobody else does, either."
"All right," Virgil said. "Give me the rest of the day to look at the paper, and I'll talk to you tonight. I'll be down at the Holiday, you got my cell number if you need me."
"Get you that key on the way out," Stryker said. "When you're done with the house, I'll probably let the Gleason kids have it. They want to get it cleaned out and set up for a sale."
"Nobody's touched it?"
"We've been through it, but we haven't taken anything out. Everything's like it was, but maybe a little ruffled."
THE EVIDENCE ROOM was a closet with a fire door and steel sides. Stryker unlocked it, pulled out a basket, sorted through a dozen Ziploc bags, got the key, and handed it to Virgil. They walked along together to the courthouse door, past a guy painting woodwork.
When they were out of earshot, Stryker said, "Listen, you know how it is in a sheriff's office. Half the guys working for me would like a shot at my job. If they smell a weakness…I'll be in trouble. So. You do what it takes. You need anything from me-anything-you let me know. Any of my people drag their feet, anybody in the courthouse gives you trouble, I want to hear about it."
"I'll talk to you," Virgil said.
THEY STEPPED OUTSIDE, into the sunshine. A woman was going by on the sidewalk, fifty feet away, slender, pretty, small features, white-blond hair on her shoulders. Maybe early thirties? He was too far away to be sure, but Virgil thought her eyes might be green. She lifted a hand to Stryker and he lifted one back, and her eyes caught Virgil's for a beat-an extra beat-and then she went along toward the corner.
"Another thing," Stryker said. "We've got this newspaper here and the editor thinks he's the New York Times. His name is Williamson. He's investigating my investigation, and he says I'm screwing it up. Just a heads-up in case he calls you-and he will."
Virgil nodded, then said, quietly, "Not to step on your train of thought, there, Jimmy, but look at the ass on that woman. My God, where do the genes come from? I mean, that's an artwork. That's the Venus de Milo, and you're a bunch of goddamned Germans."
"Yeah," Stryker said, a noncommittal note in his voice.
Virgil looked at him: "What? She's married to the mayor? You don't even look at her ass?"