The three chairs nearest the center of the oblong table had been tilted against it, as before. As Gurney headed for the coffee, Hardwick grinned like a shark.
“Detective First Class Gurney, I’ve got a question for you.”
“Hello, Jack.”
“Or, better yet, I’ve got an answer for you. Let’s see if you can guess what the question is. The answer is ‘a defrocked priest in Boston.’ To win the grand prize, all you got to do is figure out the question.”
Instead of responding, Gurney picked up a cup, noticed it wasn’t quite clean, put it back, tried another, then a third, then went back to the first.
Sigourney was tapping her foot and checking her Rolex, a parody of impatience.
“Hi,” he said, resignedly filling his stained cup with what he hoped was antiseptically hot coffee. “I’m Dave Gurney.”
“I’m Dr. Holdenfield,” she said, as if she were laying down a straight flush to his pair of deuces. “Is Sheridan on his way?”
Something complex in her tone got his attention. And “Holdenfield” rang a bell.
“I wouldn’t know.” He wondered what sort of relationship might exist between the DA and the doctor. “If you don’t mind my asking, what sort of doctor are you?”
“Forensic psychologist,” she said absently, looking not at him but at the door.
“Like I said, Detective,” said Hardwick, too loudly for the size of the room, “if the answer is a defrocked Boston priest, what’s the question?”
Gurney closed his eyes. “For Christ’s sake, Jack, why don’t you just tell me?”
Hardwick wrinkled his face in distaste. “Then I’d have to explain it twice-for you and for the executive committee.” He tilted his head at the tilted chairs.
The doctor looked again at her watch. Sergeant Wigg looked at whatever was happening on her laptop screen in response to the keys she was tapping. Blatt looked bored. The door opened, and Kline entered, looking preoccupied, followed by Rodriguez, carrying a fat file folder and looking more malevolent than ever, and Stimmel, looking like a pessimistic frog. When they were seated, Rodriguez gave Kline a questioning glance.
“Go ahead,” said Kline.
Rodriguez fixed his gaze on Gurney, his lips tightening into a thin line.
“There’s been a tragic development. A Connecticut police officer, dispatched to the home of Gregory Dermott, reportedly at your insistence, has been killed.”
All eyes in the room, with various degrees of unpleasant curiosity, turned toward Gurney.
“How?” He asked the question calmly, despite a twinge of anxiety.
“Same way as your friend.” There was something sour and insinuating in his tone, which Gurney chose not to respond to.
“Sheridan, what the hell is going on here?” The doctor, who was standing at the far end of the table, sounded so much like the hostile Sigourney of Alien that Gurney decided it must be on purpose.
“Becca! Sorry, didn’t see you there. We got a little tied up. Last-minute complication. Apparently another murder.” He turned to Rodriguez. “Rod, why don’t you bring everyone up to date on this Connecticut cop thing.” He gave his head a quick little shake, like there was water in one of his ears. “Damnedest case I’ve ever seen!”
“Damn right,” echoed Rodriguez, opening his file folder. “Call was received at eleven twenty-five this morning from Lieutenant John Nardo of the Wycherly, Connecticut, PD regarding a homicide on the property of one Gregory Dermott, known to us as the postal-box holder in the Mark Mellery case. Dermott had been provided with temporary police protection at the insistence of Special Investigator David Gurney. At eight A.M. this morning-”
Kline raised his hand. “Hold on a second, Rod. Becca, have you met Dave?”
“Yes.”
The cool, clipped affirmative seemed designed to ward off any expanded introduction, but Kline went on, anyway.
“You two should have a lot to talk about. The psychologist with the most accurate profiling record in the business and the detective with the most homicide arrests in the history of the NYPD.”
The praise seemed to make everyone uncomfortable. But it also made Holdenfield look at Gurney with some interest for the first time. And although he was no fan of professional profilers, now he knew why her name sounded familiar.
Kline went on, determined, it seemed, to highlight his two stars. “Becca reads their minds, Gurney tracks them down-Cannibal Claus, Jason Strunk, Peter Possum Whatshisname…”
The doctor turned to Gurney, her eyes widening just a little. “Piggert? That was your case?”
Gurney nodded.
“Quite a celebrated arrest,” she said with a hint of admiration.
He managed a small, distracted smile. The situation in Wycherly-and the question of whether his own impulsive intervention with the mailed poem had any bearing on the death of the police officer-was eating at him.
“Keep going, Rod,” said Kline abruptly, as though the captain had caused the interruption.
“At eight A.M. this morning, Gregory Dermott made a trip to the Wycherly post office, accompanied by Officer Gary Sissek. According to Dermott, they returned at eight-thirty, at which time he made some coffee and toast and went through his mail, while Officer Sissek remained outside to check the perimeters of the property and the external security of the house. At nine A.M. Dermott went to look for Officer Sissek and discovered his body on the back porch. He called 911. First responders secured the scene and found a note taped to the back door above the body.”
“Bullet and multiple stab wounds like the others?” asked Holdenfield.
“Stab wounds confirmed, no determination yet regarding the bullet.”
“And the note?”
Rodriguez read from a fax in his folder. “‘Where did I come from? / Where did I go? / How many will die / because you don’t know?’”
“Same weirdo stuff,” said Kline. “What do you think, Becca?”
“The process may be accelerating.”
“The process?”
“Everything up till now was carefully premeditated-the choice of victims, the series of notes, all of it. But this one is different, more reactive than planned.”
Rodriguez looked skeptical. “It’s the same stabbing ritual, same kind of note.”
“But it was an unplanned victim. It looks like your Mr. Dermott was the original target, but this policeman was opportunistically killed instead.”
“But the note-”
“The note may have been brought to the scene to place on Dermott’s body, if all had gone well, or it may have been composed on the spot in response to the altered circumstances. It may be significant that it is only four lines long. Weren’t the others eight lines?” She looked at Gurney for confirmation.
He nodded, still half lost in guilty speculation, then forced himself back into the present. “I agree with Dr. Holdenfield. I hadn’t thought about the possible significance of the four lines versus eight, but that makes sense. One thing I would add is that although it couldn’t have been planned the same way the others were, the element of cop hatred that is part of this killer’s mind-set at least partially integrates this killing into the pattern and may account for the ritual aspects the captain referred to.”
“Becca said something about the pace accelerating,” said Kline. “We already have four victims. Does that mean there are more to come?”
“Five, actually.”
All eyes turned to Hardwick.
The captain held up his fist and extended a finger as he enunciated each name: “Mellery. Rudden. Kartch. Officer Sissek. That makes four.”
“The Reverend Michael McGrath makes five,” said Hardwick.
“Who?” The question erupted in jangled unison from Kline (excited), the captain (vexed), and Blatt (baffled).