“What if it’s a serial killer and there are no connections?”
“Even serial killers aren’t random killers. Their victims tend to have something in common-all blondes, all Asians, all gays-some characteristic with special meaning for the killer. So even if Mellery and Rudden were never directly involved in anything together, we’d still be looking for some common ground or similarity between them.”
“What if…” Madeleine began, but the ringing of the phone interrupted her.
It was Randy Clamm.
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but I thought you’d like to know you were right. I took a drive over to see the widow, and I asked that question just like you said I should-sort of matter-of-fact. All I said was, ‘Can I have the whiskey bottle that you found?’ I didn’t even have to bring the Lord into it. I’ll be damned if she didn’t say, just as matter-of-factly as myself, ‘It’s in the garbage.’ So we go out in the kitchen and there it is, sitting there in the garbage pail, a broken Four Roses bottle. I’m staring at it, speechless. Not that I was surprised that you were right-don’t get me wrong-but, Jesus, I didn’t expect it to be so easy. So damn obvious. As soon as I collect my thoughts, I ask her to show me exactly where she’d found it. But then the whole situation suddenly catches up with her-maybe because now I’m not sounding so casual-and she looks very upset. I tell her to relax, don’t worry about it, could she just tell me where it was, because that would be really helpful to us, and maybe, like, you know, would she mind telling me why the hell she moved it. I didn’t put it that way, of course, but that’s what I’m thinking. So she looks at me, and you know what she says? She says Albert’s been so good about the drinking problem, he didn’t have a drink for almost a year. He’s going to AA, he’s doing great-and when she sees the bottle, which was on the floor next to him, next to the plastic flower, the first thing she thinks is that he started drinking again and fell on the bottle, and it cut his throat, and that’s how he died. It doesn’t immediately occur to her that he’s been murdered-it doesn’t even cross her mind until the cops come and they start talking about it. But before they come, she hides the bottle because she’s thinking it’s his bottle, and she doesn’t want anyone to know he had a relapse.”
“And even after it sank into her head that he was killed, she still didn’t want anyone to know about the bottle?”
“No. Because she still thinks it was his bottle and she doesn’t want anyone to know he was drinking, especially his nice new friends from AA.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“So the whole thing turns out to be a pathetic mess. On the other hand, you got your proof that the murders are connected.”
Clamm was upset, full of the conflicted feelings that Gurney was all too familiar with-the feelings that made being a good cop so hard, so ultimately wearying.
“You did a great job there, Randy.”
“Just did what you told me to do,” said Clamm in his rapid, agitated way. “After securing the bottle, I called for the evidence team to make a return visit, go over the whole house for letters, notes, anything. I asked Mrs. Rudden for their checkbook. You mentioned that to me this morning. She gave it to me, but she didn’t know anything about it-handled it like it might be radioactive, said Albert took care of all the bills. Said she doesn’t like checks because there are numbers on them, and you got to be careful about numbers, numbers can be evil-some crap about Satan, crazy religious bullshit. Anyway, I took a look through the checkbook, and the bottom line on that is it’s going to take more time to figure it out. Albert might have paid the bills, but he wasn’t much of a record keeper. There was no reference on any of the check stubs to anyone named Arybdis or Charybdis or Scylla-that’s what I looked for first-but that doesn’t mean much, because most of the stubs had no names, just amounts, and some of them didn’t even have that. As for monthly statements, she had no idea if there were any in the house, but we’ll do a thorough search, and we’ll get her permission to get photostats from the bank. In the meantime, now that we know we’re holding two corners of the same triangle, is there anything else you want to share with me about the Mellery murder?”
Gurney thought about it. “The series of threats Mellery received prior to his murder included vague references to things he did when he was drunk. Now it turns out that Rudden had drinking problems, too.”
“You saying we’re looking for a guy who’s running around knocking off drunks?”
“Not exactly. If that’s all he wanted to do, there’d be easier ways to do it.”
“Like toss a bomb into an AA meeting?”
“Something simple. Something that would maximize his opportunity and minimize his risk. But this guy’s approach is complicated and inconvenient. Nothing easy or direct about it. Any part of it you look at raises questions.”
“Like what?”
“To start with, why would he pick victims who are so far apart geographically-and in every other way, for that matter?”
“To keep us from connecting them?”
“But he wants us to connect them. That’s the point of the peony. He wants to be noticed. Wants credit. This is not your average perp on the run. This guy wants to do battle-not just with his victims. With the police, too.”
“Speaking of that, I need to bring my lieutenant up to date. He wouldn’t be happy if he found out I called you first.”
“Where are you?”
“On my way back to the station house.”
“That would put you on Tremont Avenue?”
“How’d you know that?”
“That roar of Bronx traffic in the background. Nothing quite like it.”
“Must be nice to be somewhere else. You got any message you want me to pass along to Lieutenant Everly?”
“Better hold the messages till later. He’s going to be a lot more interested in what you have to tell him.”
Chapter 37
Gurney had an urge to call Sheridan Kline with the decisive new evidence supporting the peony linkage, but he wanted to make one other call first. If the two cases were as parallel as they now seemed to be, it was possible not only that Rudden had been asked for money but that he had been asked to send it to that same post-office box in Wycherly, Connecticut.
Gurney took his slim case folder out of his desk drawer and located his photocopy of the brief note Gregory Dermott had sent along with the check he’d returned to Mellery. The GD Security Systems letterhead-businesslike, conservative, even a little old-fashioned-included a Wycherly-area phone number.
The call was answered on the second ring by a voice consistent with the style of the letterhead.
“Good afternoon. GD Security. May I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Dermott, please. This is Detective Gurney from the district attorney’s office.”
“Finally!” The vehemence that transformed the voice was startling.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re calling about the misaddressed check?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, but…?”
“I reported it six days ago-six days ago!”
“Reported what six days ago?”
“Didn’t you just say you were calling about the check?”
“Let’s start over, Mr. Dermott. It’s my understanding that Mark Mellery spoke to you approximately ten days ago about a check you’d returned to him, a check made out to ‘X. Arybdis’ and sent to your post-office box. Is that true?”
“Of course it’s true. What kind of question is that?” The man sounded furious.
“When you say that you reported it six days ago, I’m afraid I don’t-”