“I’m not sure where to begin.”
She lowered her mug to the table. “With what’s bothering you the most.”
He took a moment to collect his thoughts. “I had a bright idea for discovering how Lorinda Russell would react to an extortion attempt by someone claiming to know that the shooting of Chandler Aspern wasn’t what it appeared to be. My idea turned into a nightmare.”
“I know. You told me all about it at two o’clock this morning.”
“I just can’t get it out of my head that I concocted this plan, and nine people ended up dead.”
“Was that your goal?”
“Of course not.”
“Was it something you imagined could happen?”
“No.”
“Why did it happen?”
“Morgan hijacked the plan for his own purpose.”
“What purpose was that?”
Gurney looked back out at the swaying branches of the apple tree. “My guess is that he wanted to make up for his own selfish behavior, his own mistakes, by killing the bad guys and going out in a blaze of glory. Or maybe he was feeling trapped and angry at himself and wanted to commit suicide in the most destructive way possible. Who the hell knows?”
“Do you feel responsible for his actions?”
“No.”
“Then what part of it can’t you let go of?”
He lifted his coffee mug, then put it down.
“Maybe I’m uncomfortable with the way I’m finessing the facts. At the scene last night, I avoided disclosing that I set up the trap. I shifted responsibility for the idea to Morgan by dropping the phone I used for my text to Lorinda near his vehicle. I told myself that raising my hand and claiming credit for the idea would only suck me into the murderous mess Morgan created—without my admission adding any clarity to the investigation.”
“And that has you tied up in knots?”
“Yes.”
“For his own selfish, erratic, suicidal reasons Morgan subverted your plan into a flaming disaster, and you’re bothered by the fact that you’re not broadcasting your ownership of the original version of the idea?”
Gurney sighed uncomfortably. “Yes.”
“Why does it bother you that you’re not accepting responsibility for something that is, in point of fact, not your responsibility?”
“Maybe because I’m being less than truthful, less than open about my part in it.”
She stared at him. “My God, do you have any idea how absurd that is?”
He didn’t reply.
“Perfection is a direction, not a goal. And perfectionism is a vice, not a virtue. You’re a human being, doing the best he can. And by the way, your ‘best’ is head and shoulders over most people’s. But you keep thinking it’s not good enough. Do you honestly believe that you should stand up and shout, Hey, it was my idea that this nutcase took advantage of in his own twisted way? Would that add a single speck of useful truth to anyone’s understanding of the whole Larchfield horror story? It wouldn’t. It would be nothing but a distraction. You know that. For God’s sake, accept it!”
They sat in silence until Madeleine added in a brighter tone, “Apart from the time you’re setting aside for self-flagellation, what’s on your schedule today?”
“There’s a noon meeting in Larchfield. I expect the DA will be taking control of the investigation herself or referring it to the state police.”
“It sounds like the people they’d want to talk to are all dead.”
It occurred to Gurney that he’d had the same thought after Aspern’s death.
The predictably huge media presence on Cotswold Lane, as well as in the police headquarters parking area, made getting from his Outback into the building a bit of a challenge. The sketchiness of what had leaked to the media overnight gave the questions shouted at him a wild scattershot quality.
“Is it true that a local pastor was burned to death?”
“Is this being treated as a hate crime?”
“Is there a connection to the zombie murders?”
“Is it true the attackers were armed with flamethrowers?”
“Are you exploring the Satanism angle?”
“Are you bringing in the FBI?”
“Is it true the police chief was involved in the shooting?”
“Is this connected to the murder of Angus Russell?”
“How many people were killed?”
“Was there a political motive?”
“Dave, can I ask you just one question?”
Gurney recognized the sharp voice, blond hair, and red blazer of Kelly Tremain of RAM News. It was the same just-one-question ploy she’d tried on him a week earlier. It hadn’t worked then, and it didn’t work now. He hurried past her into the big Victorian.
“Meeting’s in the conference room,” said the desk sergeant.
Gurney started down the hall, but stopped when his phone rang. He saw Hardwick’s name on the screen. He checked the time—11:54 a.m.—and decided to take the call.
“Gurney here.”
“Bad news, Sherlock. Gant’s not your man.”
“How do you know?”
“I have an app that tracks the latest news items mentioning any name I enter. On the night Aspern was killed, Gant was the featured speaker at a rally in West Virginia—sponsored by the Armed Ministers Movement. So Lorinda must have had a different helper.”
“Thanks. I’ll talk to you later. I need to go into a meeting. By the way, did you—”
“Did I return the borrowed device, without incident, scrubbed of all video and location data? Affirmative.”
Gurney ended the call and went into the conference room.
Cam Stryker was standing at the end of the long table, just finishing a call of her own. Hilda Russell was sitting across from Dr. Ronald Fallow. Brad Slovak was sitting across from Kyra Barstow. Gurney sat next to Slovak.
Stryker sat down, tapped a few icons on her phone, and laid it in front of her on the table. She began by asking Slovak to present a summary of the previous night’s Harrow Hill mayhem.
He stretched his neck, as if trying to loosen a cramp. “Fortunately, ma’am, we recovered a text message we believe Chief Morgan sent to Lorinda Russell the day before the mayhem. It gave us an insight into what happened, so maybe we should start with that?”
“Let’s see it.”
Slovak slid a printed copy over to her and passed others around the table.
As her eyes moved down the page, her expression, not pleasant to begin with, hardened. She read it again, slowly, then dropped it on the table as though the paper itself had become offensive.
“Proceed,” she said.
Slovak described a chain of events that matched in all significant details what Gurney had observed on the drone monitor—including Morgan’s dispatching of the Patriarchs with an Uzi, his use of the flamethrower on Gant and the fallen Patriarchs, and his own immolation.
He went on to list the names of the dead, and Gurney noted without surprise that Otis Strane was among them. He concluded with the fact that the burned bodies of Lorinda Russell and Silas Gant had been found in the house.
Stryker asked Fallow if he had any pre-autopsy comments on the bodies.
He declined to offer any.
Stryker asked Barstow if she had anything to add.
Based on the petrochemical residues, she offered her opinion that the overall fire, as well as the direct burns on the bodies of the Patriarchs, Gant, and Morgan, were caused by the gasoline-fueled flamethrower held by Morgan. She said that a more detailed report would be coming from Denzil Atkins, the county’s forensic fire expert.
“There was one unusual thing,” she added. “The phone found at the scene had no fingerprints on it. Odd for a phone.”
Apart from a momentary frown, Stryker showed little interest in the absence of prints. “Any other forensic developments I should be aware of?”