His mind was racing. None of it made sense. The mark on Skyler's thigh was clearly significant, and the fact that he and the other members of his "Age Group" — whatever that was — called themselves "Gemini" was also significant. What that significance was, Jude couldn't say. But the mark had triggered an association. Was it a coincidence? Or could the victim in Tylerville have been carrying a similar mark on his thigh? A mark that someone — the killer — felt compelled to obliterate? It seemed that the mystery was widening and deepening at the same time.
At least the clue gave him something to do, a starting point. As a reporter, as someone whose job was based on digging out truths that others didn't want exposed, that's what he needed — a starting point. Now that he was on the trail, he would follow it like a tracker, taking care to pick up more clues and avoid the wrong ones. He would stay the course until it led him to a dead end or to paydirt.
For the moment, he was flying. His destination was New Paltz. The room for Skyler could wait. This was more important.
His first move, after Skyler was cleaned up and wearing a presentable pair of blue jeans and a T-shirt, had been to place a phone call. He'd done it from his kitchen, so that Skyler wouldn't hear. It wasn't that Jude distrusted him. He simply felt that at this point, until things became a little clearer, the less Skyler knew, the better.
"Special Ops," the secretary answered.
Jude gave his name. This time, almost a minute passed before Raymond picked up.
"Hey, kid, how you doing?"
"Good. You?"
"Fine. Just fine."
Jude was making an effort to flatten his voice, to drain it of any sense of urgency, and he had the feeling that Raymond was doing the same thing.
"So I'm just checking in. Still following up that murder in New Paltz. I wondered if you got anywhere — if you were able to get an ID on the victim."
"Shit, yeah. It just came in. I should of called you. I meant to, but you know how it is — I've been busy."
Jude opened up his notebook. "So who is it?"
"Well, that guy McNichol did some job. The one print was no good. But it turned out the guy was in the DNA database — not ours but one of theirs. He sent it through and he got a hit. What sealed it was that the guy was right from there. A judge, I think."
"Do you have the name?"
"Hold on, I'll get the file."
Raymond put the receiver down. Jude heard a rustling of papers, then Raymond's voice again.
"You know, I'm not supposed to do this. It's not our jurisdiction, so this call never happened."
"Okay, understood."
"Where you calling from, anyway?"
Raymond didn't usually ask a question like that. Where did it matter where he was calling from?
"The office."
"Kind of early to be at work."
"I'm trying to clear up a lot of stuff," Jude replied. Then he added: "I'm thinking of going away for a while."
"Oh yeah, where?"
Jude was sorry he'd opened up that avenue. In fact, he wasn't really planning a trip.
"I don't know yet."
Raymond gave a grunt — it seemed a sound of disbelief. "Well, here's the name. Got a pen?"
"Yeah."
"He's a judge, like I said. Joseph P. Reilly. 197 West Elm Drive. Tylerville."
"Got a phone?"
"Unlisted."
"Yeah, but you have ways."
"Like I said, it's not our case."
"Anything more on the judge? What kind of judge is he — was he?"
"Not sure. Some kind of state court, I think."
"Okay, thanks. Oh, one more thing."
"Yeah."
"How come the judge was in the database to begin with? I thought that was for convicted felons."
"Ours is. So's New York's. But some of these agencies freelance. As an officer of the court, he had to set an example. As I understand it, at least according to McNichol, the guy didn't want to at first. It raised a ruckus in the local papers."
"Interesting. Anything else worth knowing?"
"Nope. Strictly routine. Except, of course, the murderer's still on the loose."
"Yeah. Okay, thanks again."
"Don't mention it. You can write a flattering article about me someday — the way you did with McNichol."
A small alarm bell went off in Jude's head. "But that didn't get in. The story was cut to shreds."
"Enough got in. It was a blow job. You should be ashamed."
After the call, Jude had made Skyler promise to stay put in his apartment. He was getting a little tired of playing nursemaid. After the bathtub incident, he'd felt he had to show him everything if he wanted to keep the apartment in one piece: where the light switches were, how to work the stove, and how to lock the door. Again, he'd cautioned him about the telephone — only answer it, he said, if it rings three times and then stops and then rings again. That was their code. He'd told him again to take the sleeping pill and said he'd be back by evening.
Then Jude had grabbed his jeans jacket and tape recorder. As he was closing the door, something in his conversation with Raymond registered. He went back into the kitchen and left a few minutes later, with two filled Ziploc plastic bags stuffed into the left jacket pocket.
McNichol wasn't at his funeral home in Tylerville, so Jude drove over to the hospital in Poughkeepsie. He walked hurriedly by the front desk, ignoring the receptionist who waved to get his attention, and dashed down the staircase. Below was an office he hadn't seen, and the door was slightly ajar. He leaned around it and saw McNichol sitting at a desk, his glasses propped up on his forehead and a pile of papers spread before him.
McNichol did not seem especially pleased to see him, and the bonhomie of the other day appeared to have vanished. As Jude made an apology for bursting in upon him, the M.E. kept looking distractedly — even longingly, Jude thought — at the paperwork on his desk. Jude concluded he must have been miffed because the story had gotten such measly play.
Jude felt he was working on borrowed time, so he went right to the point — flattery.
"I heard you got a successful DNA match. That's good work."
"Well, yes, as far as it goes."
"And the victim turned out to be a judge?"
"Listen, ah… what's your name again?"
"Jude Harley."
"Mr. Harley. As far as anything about that is concerned, you'll have to go to the police. It's all in their hands now." He paused. "I don't understand what happened. It's been nothing but trouble."
Jude understood. The death of a judge could be big news. The M.E. had undoubtedly gotten into a heap of trouble for letting them observe the autopsy. That reporter from the local paper, Gloria, had probably blown him out of the water. Publishing so many details about the cause of death could definitely put a crimp in the police investigation.
"I'm sorry if the story made your life difficult."
"Difficult — that's an understatement. Would you believe somebody broke into my lab? They stole the autopsy specimens. That's never happened to me before."
"Why would anyone do that?"
McNichol shrugged and turned away.
It was time to switch the subject.
"Actually, I'm not here about that," he said. "I'm here because of a mystery, and I wondered if I could ask your help."
At the word "mystery" McNichol seemed to perk up. His eyes forgot his papers, took on a sheen of curiosity, and bored into Jude's quizzically. Jude reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the two plastic bags filled with dark swirls. He held them up, swinging them ever so slightly, like a present. One contained Skyler's hair and the other had a matching swatch; only someone examining the back of Jude's head with a magnifying glass could have said where it had come from.