“Is that a problem?” she asked.
“No problem at all. The more the merrier.”
After ending the call, he sat gazing at the comings and goings in the sporting goods store parking lot, his mind on the potential personality conflicts at the upcoming dinner, on Kyle’s somewhat unsettling portrait of Kim Corazon, on the Gerry Mirkle wild card, and on the unquantifiable possibility of danger—which brought him back to the two Lerman murders.
That in turn reminded him of a conversation he’d been meaning to have. He scrolled through his contact list until he found Rebecca Holdenfield, the high-profile forensic psychologist with whom he’d worked on several murder cases.
Her left a message.
“Becca, this is Dave Gurney, with a request. I’d love to have your opinion of a recent trial—NY State v. Z. Slade. You can see the video in the Murder on Trial section of the RAM website. I’m hoping you’ll be able to find the time to take a look and tell me what you think of the evidence, attorneys, witnesses, and Slade himself.”
He avoided any promises of being forever in her debt—knowing they would only irritate her. She was one of those individuals who valued both honesty and brevity.
HE WAS PARKING in his usual spot by the mudroom door when Madeleine emerged with their shotgun in one hand and retractable measuring tape in the other.
“I want to measure the opening in the shed, so we can start making the door,” she explained as he was getting out of the car.
He nodded, shifting his mind from his Lerman-Slade-Stryker problems to the simplicities of carpentry. “I’ll give you a hand in a minute. I just need to take care of something.”
He gathered his purchases from the front seat and brought them into the house and on into the bedroom. He opened the pistol and ammunition boxes and loaded the Glock magazine with the legal maximum of eight rounds. He took off his jacket, strapped on his new shoulder holster, slipped the gun in place, and put his jacket back on. The Glock, he decided, would remain on his person or within easy reach until there was no longer any cause for concern.
On his way through the kitchen, he picked up a pad and pencil to take down the doorway measurements. He found Madeleine out at the shed on her toes, trying to hold the metal tape steady across the top of the door opening. The shotgun was resting on a nearby straw bale.
He made some suggestions for successive placements of the tape, then jotted down the numbers Madeleine called out.
“Okay,” she said after the final measurement, “time to make the door.”
He hadn’t planned to spend the afternoon that way but, craving some balance between his two worlds, he agreed. With a satisfied smile she picked up the shotgun, and they walked together down to the barn.
Gurney performed a careful inspection, first of the perimeter, then the interior, with particular attention to the partitioned room that housed the woodworking equipment they’d be using—equipment that came with the property but which he’d rarely taken advantage of—a table saw, chop saw, planer, power sander, jointer, and router.
From one of the equipment cabinets he retrieved a drill, screws, clamps, exterior wood glue, outdoor paint, and brushes. From the lumber stacked along the barn’s sidewall he chose the best two-by-fours and a sheet of furniture-grade plywood.
Four hours later, they were able to step back and admire the product of their labor—a solid door with perfect ninety-degree corners, painted bright yellow and equipped with a black iron latch and matching hinges.
They carried it up through the pasture to the shed, positioning it in the opening to check for fit. Satisfied that it was ready to be installed, they decided to delay that tricky step until the following morning. It was getting dark, and it wasn’t the sort of job to be done with flashlights.
Their joint achievement cast a pleasant glow over dinner and the rest of the evening, including an earlier-than-usual retreat to their bedroom.
Later, as Gurney was drifting off to sleep, his phone rang. He picked it up from the night table, where he’d placed it next to his new Glock. The name on the screen was Rebecca Holdenfield. He assumed with a pang of disappointment that her rapid response meant that she was calling to let him know she wouldn’t have time to review the video. He took the call in the den to avoid disturbing Madeleine.
As usual, Holdenfield got to the point immediately. “You’re in luck. The outfit I’m consulting with is closed for Thanksgiving week. I was able to spend the afternoon and evening viewing the trial. So, what do you want to know?”
He settled into his desk chair. “For starters, what was your impression of the evidence?”
“Vivid facts, nicely strung together. Nothing a jury would find difficult to swallow.”
“How about the prosecutor?”
“Smart, controlled, brittle.”
“Brittle?”
“Could crack under pressure. Or explode.”
“And Marcus Thorne?”
“Clever, careless, self-important. Coasting on the glory of past victories.”
“How about the witnesses?”
“Nothing unusual in the ones I saw. No signs of prevarication.”
“The ones you saw? Meaning what?”
“A likely witness was missing.”
“Bruno Lanka?”
“Having him describe his experience of finding the body would have been a natural way to engage the jury. I felt like I was looking at a group photo with a face cropped out.”
“How about Ziko Slade?”
“Ah, yes, Ziko. The interesting one. Like a Buddhist who’d achieved satori. Startling disconnect with the monster the prosecutor was describing.”
“Which Ziko would you say is the real one?”
“Difficult question. What I saw in him was the opposite of what was said about him.”
“Do you think he killed Lenny Lerman?”
Holdenfield paused before answering, a rarity with her. “My impression was that he was baffled by the evidence that seemed to prove he did.”
“So, the guilty verdict was . . . ?”
“A reasonable response to the prosecution narrative . . . but possibly a mistake.”
47
HOLDENFIELD’S COMMENTS KEPT GURNEY AWAKE INTO the wee hours of the following morning, not because they surprised him, but because they reinforced what he was already inclined to believe. He decided to make a return trip to Garville later that day for a closer look at Bruno Lanka’s store and the man in Tess Larson’s sketch.
He finally fell asleep in the gray light of dawn, only to wake up an hour later with a dull headache and a stiff neck. He eased himself out of bed, swallowed a couple of ibuprofens, and took a long, soothing shower. By the time he’d shaved, dressed, and made his way out to the kitchen, the headache had faded. Madeleine, waiting for the coffee machine to warm up, appeared to be her energetic morning self.
“I don’t start at the clinic until ten,” she announced cheerily, “so we’ll have plenty of time to install the shed door.”
With his focus on the Garville excursion, he’d forgotten about the door, but he chose not to mention either of those facts.
After breakfast, while Madeleine dealt with the dishes, he strapped on his Glock and went down to the barn for the mounting screws, the power driver, and the shims and clamps that would hold the door in place while the hinge flanges were attached to the opening. He brought the necessary materials up to the shed, where Madeleine was waiting, her work gloves on.
Half an hour later, the job was completed. The door’s position in the opening required no hinge-shimming or other adjustments, confirming that the abutting surfaces were plumb and level. It gave him a simple sense of closure that the murkier work of homicide investigations rarely did.