Code 61

EIGHTEEN

Monday, October 9, 2000 (Columbus Day)

08:39

I woke up about 08:02, to a ringing phone. I answered it, sleepily.

“Yeah?”

There was about a one second pause, then, “Hello, my name is General Norman Schwartzkopf, and I'm calling you on behalf of… ”

I hung up. Iowa was predicted to be a close contest in the upcoming presidential elections, and we were getting a lot of automated phone calls. I turned over, thinking I could get another thirty minutes of sleep. I lay there thinking about that extra sleep for thirteen minutes.

I rolled out at 08:15, and drank my first cup of coffee in relative peace. Always a good way to begin a day. I'd just missed Sue. Education did not wait for Columbus and his day. I called the office as I poured my second cup.

“Houseman? We thought you'd be up here by now.” Sally.

“Mmm? Who's 'we'?”

“Hester and me.” She giggled. “Really, we thought you older folks needed less rest.”

“Thanks, brat. So, anything happening?”

“I'd better let Hester take that one,” she said, and I found myself on hold. We'd installed hold music about a year earlier. The only good, reliable station we got was a country amp; western FM outfit that played music all day long. Unfortunately, they had an amateur portion during their broadcast day that began at 08:00 and lasted until 10:45.

“Carl?” Hester's voice interrupted some unfortunate young man's rendition of “Sixteen Tons.” It was sort of too bad, because I'd never really heard somebody so close to being a tenor sing it before.

“What's up?”

“You can forget our interview this morning.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Ms. Hunley was called away on urgent business.”

“You're kidding?” Damn.

“Nope. Her 'awnt,' ” she said in a pretty good imitation of a downstairs maid, “with whom she resides, was suddenly taken ill.”

“I'll bet. And she of the iridescent hair went, too?”

“Oh, yeah. Tatiana had to go with. It's a two-or three-hour drive, you know.” She sounded a little aggravated. “At least, that's what Attorney Junkel said when I called. He said they left really early this morning.”

“Right.” Well, shit. “Gone to Lake Geneva, then?”

“You bet. Located on the other side of America's Dairy Land.”

Eastern Wisconsin put them out of our reach, at least for a while. “Well,” I said, trying to make the best of it, “we can always let you beat up Toby.”

She laughed at that.

It occurred to me that, while she might be out of our reach, Jessica Hunley was now within the grasp of one Investigator Harry Ullman, Conception County's best. A silver lining, maybe.

I'd pretty much decided to spend Columbus Day playing catch-up with the case, anyway. That originally had meant interviewing Jessica Hunley and Tatiana Ostransky, the five remaining residents of the Mansion, and then sorting through all the garbage I'd dumped into the evidence room last night. Since Jessica and Tatiana were gone, I thought I might as well go straight to the garbage, to see just what we had, and then get to the five sometime in the early afternoon. Very early if the garbage search didn't pan out.

The phone rang again. “Hello?”

The familiar pause, and then “My name is Senator Tom Harkin, and… ”

Click.

I always stayed on just long enough to hear who the recording was. It was becoming a big thing at the post office, kidding each other about what important recording had called. It had kind of a baseball trading-card aspect. “Hey, I got two Colin Powells, but no Jimmy Carters.” “Really? I got a Jimmy and a call from Tipper. Beat that!”

I got to the office at 09:09, where I met Borman, who was standing at the counter and talking with Sally in Dispatch.

“Ready to get going?” I asked him.

“Not really.” He was acting kind of funny, not looking right at me, and obviously pretending to fiddle with some papers on a clipboard.

“There a problem?” I really hated to ask.

He didn't say a word. Sally broke the awkward little silence with “He's been suspended for a day.”

Well, damn. It had to be the warning shots from last night. “With or without pay?” was the first thing I asked. It was important, but not for the money. Without, and he only had one more screwup and Lamar would fire him. With, and he'd be able to erase it with good performance over the next three months.

“With.” He was honest-to-God petulant. Twenty-five years old, and pouting.

“Well, that's good,” I said. “Why don't you just go home, and come back in tomorrow like you had a day off?” He'd gotten off pretty easy, I thought, because warning shots were prohibited by department policy.

“He wants to ask you something first,” said Sally.

I looked at her. Her tone of voice told me she was at least half on his side, for some reason.

“Well, go ahead,” I said, remembering in the nick of time not to say “Shoot.”

“You had to tell Lamar, I suppose,” he said. “Didn't you?”

Honest. That's what he said.

“You shouldn't even have to ask that,” I replied. “Of course I did. I was present, I was senior officer, and it was my responsibility and duty to do so. You know that.”

Silence for a few seconds. Then he asked what I considered the second dumb question in a row. “I don't suppose you could have waited for me to tell him first, then, could you?”

It wasn't only a dumb question, there was resentment creeping into his voice. If I hadn't liked him I just would have told him to grow up. Instead, he got a bit more than he bargained for.

I looked at my watch. “Okay. Sit down.” He looked blank. “I said to sit down.”

He did.

“Deadly force is justified only to protect your life or that of another, right?”

“Sure.” He couldn't really say anything else. That was the fact of the matter.

“And only if there's no other way to accomplish that protection. Right again, no?”

“Yeah,” he said, “sure. Of course.”

I looked at Sally. “Since you're carrying a gun as a reserve, you knew that, too, didn't you?” She nodded. She damned well better have.

“This is for you, too. Sort of a refresher. The most dangerous shot you can fire is a warning shot.” I was warming to my task. “Let me tell you why. Number one: You have absolutely no business discharging your weapon if deadly force is not justified. It can't be justified, because you are making a deliberate effort not to hit the individual. You with me?”

He nodded, but was beginning to look bored.

“I'm doing this because I think you have potential, so listen up. Number two: You have no goddamned clue as to where those bullets went, do you?”

“I shot into the air,” he said.

“Exactly. Unless they defied gravity, they came down. Do you know where they came down?”

“No.”

“Damn right, you don't. In some departments, where they have more people and could afford to have you off for a while, you wouldn't get back off suspension until you produced both rounds for the sheriff's inspection. Did you know that?”

No, as a matter of fact, he hadn't.

“Number three: When the bullets stop, if they should because they hit somebody, it damned well isn't anybody who you'd be justified in shooting, is it? We had two reserves in the yard around the other side of the Mansion. What in hell would you have done if one of 'em had come down and hit Old Knockle in the head?” I waited a second. “How about an answer?”

“I don't think they went in that direction.”

“You don't think? Well, that's swell. Do you know?”

“No,” he said, “I don't know, but I know I didn't hit Knockle.”

“That's really lame,” I said. “But don't let's stop there. Number four: The suspect who got you to pop two warning shots may very well have killed Edie in the preceding twenty-four hours.” I saw he was going to say something, and held up my hand. “No, we're not sure. Just a good bet. At the same damn time, the son of a bitch had just slashed you across the chest with a very sharp object, and would have severely injured you if you didn't wear your vest. Right?”

“Yes, but that's why we wear 'em.”

He was starting to piss me off. “Did it ever occur to you,” I said, very slowly and distinctly, “that he was trying to cut your throat, just like he did to Edie? That he just missed because he was in a fucking hurry?”

He got pretty pale, pretty fast. Obviously, it hadn't occurred to him at all.

“So, he was still facing you, he cut at you, and you shot in the air. Assume for a second that you had hit Old Knockle.” I let him think about that for a second. “Can you imagine me telling Lamar that you'd killed Knockle because the man who probably murdered his own niece, and tried to kill you… ” I stopped, and let it sink in. “Now imagine this. Imagine that I'd said to myself, 'Carl, why don't you wait and see if Borman can tell Lamar on his own?' You with me?”

“Yeah.”

“And Lamar hears about this from somebody else. Before you tell him. Now, wouldn't that look like we were both trying to cover it up?”

“It might.” He looked up. “Yeah, it would. I'm sorry. You're right, Carl, you had to do it.”

I turned back to Sally. “You understand this, too?”

“Oh, yeah. You betcha.” She smiled. “Got it.”

“Okay, then.” I looked over at Borman. “Go home. Come in tomorrow fresh and ready to go.”

“You still want me with this investigation?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

“Of course I do. So does Lamar.” But I made a mental reservation. The sulking, plus the arguing, followed up by the sudden agreement and phony “… you had to do it… ” apology really pissed me off. Insincerity? Maybe. Whatever it was, he'd showed me a side of himself that I hadn't seen before. He'd also had Sally half convinced that he'd been wronged by both me and Lamar. That was a new talent he'd revealed, and one that I didn't want to see again. I still thought he should be on the case, because he knew quite a bit about the thing, and because I still had a good impression of him from before it began. Stress might be a factor, but I was going to be watching him.

My little stint as wise and fearless leader over for the morning, I collected Hester from the main office, where she was typing a report, and we went right to the evidence locker. Ugh. It did smell, but not as much as I'd feared. My nose told me that the residents at the Mansion had recently thrown out onions, garlic, and some meat.

My nose was only two thirds right. They'd thrown out onions and garlic, all right. But the third one wasn't meat. It was a bloody body bag. I stopped as soon as I saw it, and called for a little help.

Chris Barnes and the rest of the lab crew were at breakfast, just about to leave for Des Moines. He got to the office in five minutes.

We all stood looking at the bag. It was a white nylon bag, with black nylon handles, and a black zipper. A small label proclaimed it to be a “500 VSA.” A good bag, it was one of the expensive double-thick ones, with reinforcements at the ends and on the bottom. There was quite a bit of blood in it, and a darkish smear on the outside of the bag. Chris looked very closely at that, and said it looked like a wood stain, possibly from where it had been stored.

“Well,” said Chris, “this goes a long way toward explaining the lack of a blood trail.”

“Except for the spots, next to her tub, on the carpet outside her room, and at the bottom of the back stair,” I said.

“Right. Where somebody rested the body, and it was bent forward or to a side, and put pressure on the bag, and forced a bit of blood out of the zipper.” Chris shook his head. “I'd just guess that she hadn't bled out all the way when they bagged her,” he said. “Don't quote me on that, not yet. We gotta test the blood first. See if it's human, and then see if it's hers.” Using a gloved finger, he stirred a little pool of blood that had accumulated in one of the folds of the bag. “It sure as hell should have clotted by now.”

“Right.” That was from Hester. “How long till we can have the results?”

“For human, maybe today, depending on when I get to DM.” He paused when she cleared her throat. “Okay, today, then, for sure. As for the DNA match… hard to say, but as fast as we can get it done.”

“You know,” I said, “having a killer with his own body bag sure makes a case for premeditation. You just can't plan much farther ahead than that.”

We filled out the evidence sheet for the bag. It consisted of a copy of my logging, where I had entered the time I pulled the bags from the big blue box; the time I placed them in the evidence locker, the time I took them out, and the time I signed the body bag over to Chris. My signature by every entry, and his and mine on the last set. Maintaining the chain of evidence is crucial, but a pain in the butt, regardless. Like they say, the only time it's going to be important is the time you forget to do it.

We all pitched in and did the contents of the rest of the garbage bags. We found one bloody bath towel, a bloody washcloth, a bloody bottle of shampoo and one of conditioner, a bloodstained bar of soap and a hanging soap dish, a bottle of bath oil with a blood-encrusted rim, a brass rack with a curved section to enable it to be hung over the edge of an old-fashioned tub, and a bloodstained pink lady's razor. All in a white plastic sack, in a brass wastebasket. Even the wastebasket had matched, apparently.

“I'll bet they knocked the stuff into the tub when they put her in,” said Hester, her voice distant with thought. “Maybe snagged it with the bag, then grabbed for some of it before they thought, and then pitched it to make sure they hadn't left prints. Wiped some of the mess up with the towel.”

“No wipe marks on the tub,” I said.

“They could have wiped their hands on it,” said Barnes, not looking up from his itemization of the evidence. “Hard to say just how it got there.”

“They had the presence of mind to put the knife in the tub, to keep us from looking for the real weapon.” I shook my head. “Pretty cool, whoever it is.”

“Yeah,” said Hester, disgusted.

“Well,” I said, “I guess we could start with who sells 500 VSA body bags, and see if there's any chance they might have a limited sales area… ” It was pretty weak, but we had to begin somewhere.

Another thing we found was a bunch of old e-mails that had been tossed out. They appeared to be from several people, and addressed to the following: OnceLost@gottadance. arts, WailingSoul@gottadance. arts, MagikBoi@gottadance. arts, DealerofDarkness@gottadance. arts, Clutch@gottadance. arts, EtherialWaifGurrl@gottadance. arts, Choreographer@gottadance. arts.

They were addressed to a wide variety of people and places, from bookstores to eBay, from names similar to their own, to simple ones like DarcyB2@UIU. grp. edu. Some were long, some very brief, and they appeared to be pretty innocuous. Nonetheless, I saved them all, to read for content, and to check names and addresses.

“I wish,” I said to Hester, “that that search warrant had included computers and information thereon.”

“Well, we didn't have any evidence pointing to computer involvement then. We still don't,” she said.

“Give me a little time.”

We went through the rest of the bags, snagging about a half dozen more e-mails, and about a thousand items of generic debris that could have come from just about anywhere. We relooked, hoping for anything else. Nothing. Not one more item that even appeared to have bloodstains or marks on it. No phone bills, no notes other than common, everyday grocery receipts. Lots of political pamphlets from a bumper crop of politicians, from Bush and Gore to Nader and Buchanan. Not to mention the local and state candidates. It looked like the residents of the Mansion had been deluged just like the rest of us. The political pamphlets probably accounted for half the paper in the bags. I did notice, though, that all the political mail was addressed to “Occupant.”

“Doesn't look like anybody living at the Mansion was registered to vote,” I said.

“Huh?” That had taken Hester by surprise.

I explained.

She went back to sifting through garbage. “The things some people consider important… ”

“Hey! I'm a trained observer, that's all.”

“Focus, Houseman,” she muttered. “You just got to focus.”

Finishing the garbage survey didn't take as long as I'd expected. I looked over at Hester as we were both taking off our latex gloves. “Not much, was there?”

“Good Lord, Houseman. You got a body bag out of this! What more do you want?”

“Well, yeah.” What more, indeed? “Something identifying the suspect, though, would sure have been good.”

Chris and the rest of the lab team headed for the Iowa Criminalistics Laboratory in Des Moines, body bag in hand, so to speak. That left Hester and me to begin our scheduled business.

Hester phoned the Mansion while I sorted the e-mails into some coherent order. I just sorted by recipient name. There were two double entries, as I termed them, that were from a “gottadance” to a “gottadance.”

The first was from Choreographer to OnceLost. It was dated September 16, 2000, and timed at 21:56. The text was brief and to the point.

“Hi.

We should be there either next weekend, or the one following. Checking to see that you have a good supply of fresh vegetables and that wine we like.

Hope all is well. Got your August report and approved the payments.

Oh, and try to get George Hollis for the furnace. He's more reliable than Norman Brecht, and charges the same.”

No doubt who Choreographer was. Apparently “gottadance” was a wide area network, and seemed to include Jessica Hunley's terminal in Lake Geneva, as well. Judging from the content, I assumed OnceLost was Edie. Had to check, to be sure.

The other double entry was from Choreographer to Clutch. It was dated October 2, 2000, and timed at

22:40. The text read: “Hi. I think it did go well. Thought about it all the way back. I agree with you. Many thanks.”

Like that told me a lot. Unfortunately, people just don't annotate e-mails for the cops.

In the rest of the e-mails, content identified Clutch as Huck since she talked about her job on the gaming boat. DealerofDarkness had to be Kevin. Kind of left MagikBoi for Toby, which I thought was a bit of a hoot. WailingSoul and EtherialWaifGurrl were up for grabs, but I was willing to bet the former to be Hanna and the latter Melissa.

Hester got off the phone, and said the group was expecting us after lunch. She sat down on the other side of my desk, and started going through e-mails with me. I told her that I had pretty well identified Choreographer as Jessica, and OnceLost as Edie. We started in from there.

After the first complete sorting, there were five e-mails in the OnceLost pile. One was a receipt from Amazon. com for a vegetarian cookbook; two were eBay-related messages indicating an initial bid and an outbid notice on a Raggedy Ann doll. She'd lost the bid at $12.50. The other two were both from DarcyB2@UIU. grp. edu. The first was dated July 12, 2000, and timed at 23:15. It included a received e-mail, and like so many, contained the original message that DarcyB2 was replying to. “Dear E,

I'll sure try to get there for the event! It's been a long time since we have been able to get together for a good talk. Looking forward to seeing you. Yes I remember the D amp;E. We sure had big plans then! I remember Lindzy, too. Hugs,

D” -Original Message- From:“OnceLost”› OnceLost@gottadance. arts › To:› DarcyB2@UIU. grp. edu› Sent: Wednesday, July 12, 2000 4:19 PM Subject: Birthday and stuff “D,

Justa thot. The 19th of August is my Shanna's›birthday. I think I can get a Raggedy Ann for her›like Lindzy, our first customer at the D amp;E›Salon. Remember? She would love to see her›Godmother I know. I would love to see you too›and have some things I really need to talk about.›Really hope you can make it. Mom won't be ›with us if that helps.›Sorry its been so long since I wrote.›We miss ya.› E amp; S” The second was dated July 24, 2000, and timed at 16:44. “Dear E,

I am so very sorry to have to tell you this, but I won't be able to make it after all. I have to be a bridesmaid for my roommate's sister Ellen, who is getting married on that date in Santa Fe, New Mexico. It's a really big wedding. We really have to get together, really. I'll call when I get back for sure. Love and hugs to Shanna and to you. D”

Interesting. I showed it to Hester. She read through them, and then said, “I had a Raggedy Ann when I was a kid, too.”

“I hope she wasn't counting on the one she bid for on eBay,” I said. “There's an e-mail here telling her that she got outbid.”

“Oh.” She sounded a little distracted. “She had a child… I didn't know she had a child.”

“Yep. Kid lives with Edie's mother. Not sure just why, but Edie and her mother didn't seem to get along.” I thought for a second. “I seem to remember some sort of custody thing. You know, not a battle, just voluntary. Edie didn't fight it, anyway.”

“Any idea how old?”

“Not sure, but I'd guess about three or four, maybe?”

“Ah. That's quite an age,” said Hester. “Quite an age.”

“Just so you know,” I confided, “with Edie being Lamar's niece and all, she attempted suicide about, oh, a year or so after her mom got the kid. I got stuck with that one, and if I remember correctly, it was the second or third time. None of 'em really serious. Pills, either the wrong kind or not enough. You know.”

“Might work for us,” she said, “but it could play hell with a jury at some point.”

“Well,” I said, “in Edie's case, I'm afraid that knowing she'd tried to do herself in before just gave her killer an idea. He just screwed up faking it, that's all. That'd make the jury think.”

The mere existence of the body bag spoke volumes about the malice aforethought in the mind of the killer or killers.

“Hey, Hester,” I said, “how many people you suppose have a body bag at home? Just lying around out in the garage, for example?”

“Not a lot. How many you know would know where to even get one?”

Not average citizens, anyway. “Well,” I said, “let's start with funeral homes. Then hospitals. Then ambulance services. Police departments. Maybe even a few fire departments.” I shrugged. “It's not a military bag. That leaves civilian agencies who would have them, plus manufacturers and sales outlets. That's about the only ones who would even have access.”

“Wonder if a sales or manufacturing place would question a request for one?”

“Well, I'd hope. But you never know.”

“I think,” she said, thoughtfully, “that it had to come from somebody who wouldn't ask, and who wouldn't have to mess with accounting for it.”

“Okay.”

“So, like, if you had a relative or a good friend who owned a small funeral home, for instance. They would order often, I suspect. The owner wouldn't have to account to anybody else for the items.” She smiled.

I didn't even answer her as I reached for the phone, and dialed Dispatch.

Sally answered. “Jiffy Dispatch, at your service.”

“I hope you never get inside and outside lines mixed up,” I said. She giggled. “You'll never know. Whatcha need?” “Well… ” I gave her the gist of what we'd been talking about, and asked her to check for any funeral homes with the same name as any of the five surviving residents of the Mansion, or Hunley or Ostransky, or Peel.

“Sorry I asked,” she said. “Give me a while on this one, okay? And how far away do you want me to look?”

That was a good question. It's always tempting to say, like, the whole world. To make it reasonable, and to increase my chances of ever getting another favor like this, I said, “Two hundred miles… ” Before she could object, I added, “… because Hunley lives about that far away, for one thing.”

“This,” she said, “will cost. Big time.” “Anything you want,” I said. “Just say what and when.”

“Well, Houseman,” said Hester, “how about you and me go get some lunch, and then lean on some witnesses?” That was more like Hester's normal good spirits. She'd seemed just a bit down since the bit about Edie's daughter came up.

I smiled. “Might as well. Can't dance.”

Before we could get out the door, Sally called the back room and reminded us that there was a wake for Edie from 4:30 to 6:00 P.M., at the funeral home at Freiberg. Swell. I just hate to go to wakes where we're involved in a case. They're usually pretty sad, and they can really skew a cop's perspective. You just don't want to get emotionally involved. Makes you rush things, because you want to do something for the grieving survivors. Rush, and the case can get away from you.

We decided we had to go, though. Lamar would want us to. And we'd be near Freiberg anyway, while we were at the Mansion.

There was a consensus that I'd better stop at home and get rid of the blue jeans and tennis shoes, and put on something a little more presentable. Considering that I'd also have to be working, and maybe doing grungy things, when I got there I settled for a pair of wash pants, olive, and dark hiking shoes. A shirt, and cardigan sweater-vest to hide the gun at my hip, rather than take a chance and leave it in the car when we went to the wake. I didn't think it was too startling a contrast to my normal attire. Apparently I was wrong. As I walked back out to the car, Hester looked up from her notes.

“Well, the new Houseman. Hardly recognize you.”

I got in the driver's seat, and started to buckle my seat belt.

“My,” she said, “I hope we don't get you dirty.” As I threw her a look of disdain, she continued with, “Maybe you should have eaten first.”

“Now, come on. They're just wash pants.”

“You're too modest, Houseman,” she said. “You're creepin' up on presentable on me.”

“You know,” I said, as we headed out for lunch, “I'd think the group up at the Mansion would want to go to the wake, too.”

“It could be tough for 'em,” said Hester. “Hard to fit in, I'd think.”

I grinned. “Then I'll be in good company. Really, though, it's not going to give us much time to do interviews.”

“Give me a little while on this,” she said, “but we may just have enough to get selective.”

We were barely in the car when lunch was canceled.

“Three, Comm?” came crackling over the radio.

“Three… ”

“Ten-twenty-five with the search party up north. Eighty-one says they have something for you.”

Fantastic! “Ten-four, Comm. We'll be ten-seventy-six,” I said, turning left instead of right at the bridge, and heading north. “ETA about fifteen.”

“Ten-four. They advise at the bottom of the bluff, on the highway end. They'll be in plain sight.”

“Ten-four.” I was really, really tempted to ask if they had somebody in custody, but I was aware that the media were probably monitoring our radio traffic even then.

“You think they got him?” asked Hester.

“I'd think so,” I said. “But maybe not.”

“Hard to think why else they'd call us up,” she said.

“If I'm gonna miss lunch,” I replied, turning onto the main northbound highway, “they damned well better have a warm body for us.”

They did, as it turned out.

“Eighty-one, Three,” I said into my mike, as I got within a mile of the bluff.

“Three, go.”

“I'm a bit less than a mile from you.”

“Ten-four, got you in sight. Pull in here,” he said, and I saw a figure in blue jeans and a dark green jacket step onto the highway on the bluff side. There was a sheriff's car parked in a level area just off the roadway, where the county kept a gravel pile for use on the roads. The figure waved, and I recognized Old Knockle. As I got closer, I saw there was a blue Chevy parked ahead of the squad car, and as I pulled in, I saw that it had Wisconsin plates.

As we got out of the car, I said, “Don't you ever sleep?”

“Only got an hour to go. Hello, Hester.”

“Right,” I said. “What you got?”

“Well, we were up the road there, me and Tillman, and we were comin' in to relieve the other guys, and I noticed this car, here. Ran the plates, and they're expired. To a woman named Gunderson, over by Madison.”

“Okay?” I was awfully eager to see what else he had, but I didn't want to rush him.

“Well, while Tillman was checkin' under the seats,” he said, provoking a wince from me, “I looked up there.” He pointed to the bluff. “There was a fellah up there lookin' back at me.”

“Recognize him?”

He pointed to his glasses. “Surprised I even saw him, Carl.”

“What'd he look like?”

“He's just a man in a gray sweatshirt with a hood, I think. Not much more. Anyway, I yell at him, and he just stares at me. I holler 'Who're you?' and he just motions like he wants me to go away.”

I hate to admit it, but my heart rate was elevating.

“Where'd he go?”

“Well, he sort of disappeared, Carl. But I think he went back toward the top of the bluff.”

“And where's Tillman?” My heart sank. Tillman was about twenty-five or so, and had been a reserve for about three months. A great kid, but I was pretty sure he didn't fully appreciate some aspects of the job. Like risks, for example.

“He took up the hill after him,” said Knockle. “Told me to stay here, and call for help.”

I looked up the bluff. There was a ravine that was full of big rocks and old, fallen trees. But it looked passable, at least up into the tree line.

“How'd Tillman get up there?”

“He went up the ravine, Carl. Didn't look too easy. You better watch your step.”

“No shit.” It was no time for pride. “Did he have a walkie-talkie?”

“No, we only got one, and he told me to keep it 'cause he'd need both hands.”

I looked as Hester went by me, toward the ravine. “Coming?”

My good slacks. My better shoes. Damn. “Yeah, I'm coming.” I reached into the car, and pulled out the walkie-talkie, and slipped it into my back pocket. “The team you were going to relieve still up in the woods?” I asked Knockle.

“I ain't heard from 'em, Carl, and I called three or four times.”

“Did you use your walkie or the car radio?”

“Oops. Sorry, I used the walkie.”

As I headed toward the ravine, I said, “Use your car radio, get some more people up here, and get your shotgun out and keep your eyes open. I don't want you getting hurt on me. You're too old to bury.”

He grinned. “You bet.”

The damned ravine was really wet, to start things off. The rain had soaked the rotting timber that was crammed into the rocky waterway, and there was still a thin trickle of runoff flowing down from the hill. On top of that, everything was covered with soggy, moldering leaves. And I could catch the occasional whine of a mosquito as I took my first steps onto the big rocks. Great. My good slacks.

Hester was ahead of me, and I wasn't able to gain on her at all. It took both hands just to stay upright, and the handholds I found among the decaying branches were treacherous because the sodden bark just peeled off in my hands. Underneath, the smooth wood was slippery as the rocks under my feet. But, up I went. I was pretty certain that, as we passed the limestone bluff and went up into the wooded area, the footing would get better, and the slope would be less steep. I was half right.

After about three or four difficult minutes, I saw that Hester was stepping spryly from a boulder and into the tree line. About a minute later, I went for the trees at the same place. The footing was a little better. The slope, unfortunately, was steeper.

I kept losing sight of Hester as she moved about among the big maple and walnut and pine trees. I stopped to catch my breath, and heard her call out.

“What?” It was difficult to get much volume, I was breathing so hard.

“Here…,” she said.

Well, swell. Two more gulps of air, and I headed upslope again. Then I heard another voice, and realized she was talking to Tillman. They seemed to be stationary. Good. I slowed a bit, as the tone of their voices didn't seem especially urgent. By the time I got to them, I was only breathing sort of hard.

They were on either side of a rock outcropping that jutted out from the hillside about twenty feet. It was a good ten feet high, and seemed to be split about down the middle by a fissure that was about four feet wide.

I've been around long enough to realize that, when there's an officer acting really alert on either side of an opening, with a gun in his or her hand, that there's a very good chance there's somebody inside that opening. Somebody who's being difficult, at best.

“What's up?” I said as I moved to the right, or Tillman side, of the split.

“I think he's in there,” he said. “I saw him go in. I don't think anybody could climb up the inside of that to the top up there, do you?”

I thought of the wall outside Alicia's apartment.

“Don't be too sure,” I said. “You heard anything since you saw him go in?”

“Nope.”

“Hey, you in the rocks!” I shouted. “Out, now!”

Nothing.

“Police! Come out now, and keep your hands where we can see 'em!”

Still no response. I remembered when I was a kid, and we would think there was something fierce or ferocious in a hole. We'd grab a stick, and poke it in the hole to see what might come out. Nothing ever had. Buoyed by memories, I nevertheless realized that poking a stick into the crack between the halves of the outcropping wasn't quite the solution we needed. I looked around, and saw several small rocks that had flaked off the limestone over the years. I picked up three nicely shaped ones, hefted them, and decided they'd do admirably. I whistled softly through my teeth. When Hester and Tillman glanced toward me, I held up the rocks and made a tossing gesture. They both nodded, and returned their gaze to the target area. I holstered my gun, and lobbed the first one at the ffssure. It bounced off to the side. Close, though. I tossed the second one about seven or eight feet higher, and saw it enter the crack. It clattered off the sides twice, and then I heard a muffled thump.

“Hey! Stop throwing the damned rocks!” came from the split.

I was grinning from ear to ear at that point. “Come out slowly and with your hands where we can see them!”

“Okay, okay.” With that, there was a shuffling and a grunting, and a man emerged, hands up, head down, wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt and blue jeans. His head was down more to avoid thrown rocks, I thought, than for any other reason.

While Hester and Tillman covered me, I approached slowly, gun back in my hand, but pointed down. “Stop right there.”

He did. I still couldn't see his face.

“Who are you?”

He looked up at me. “Bill Chester. You know me.”

Honest to God. Our intrepid vampire hunter. “What the hell are you doing up here?”

“Can I put my hands down?”

“Yeah, go ahead. So, what the hell are you doing up here?”

“Can't a man just take a walk in the woods?”

Tillman spoke up. “I told you to stop. I got a uniform on. You saw us down at that car, with a marked cop car. Why'd you rabbit on me?”

I thought that was a pretty good question.

“I'm not sure I have to tell you that.”

I was getting a little tired of Mr. Chester. “That your car?”

“No, it belongs to a friend of mine.”

“Your friend here, too?” I asked.

“No. I'm alone.”

“You drove over here just to take a walk up a bluff?”

“There's nothing wrong with that. Absolutely nothing. I can drive and walk just about anywhere I want to. I don't see any 'No Trespassing' signs.”

“That car's got an expired registration,” I said. “You just admitted to driving it here. We're going to have to charge you, and impound the vehicle.”

“What?”

“And your fleeing obvious officers will suggest to a court that you were fully aware that the registration was expired, and were trying to avoid capture.” It was a moment.

“That would be chickenshit. I am appalled!”

I just smiled. It would at least make up for my good wash pants.

“Care to tell me why you're really here?” asked Hester sweetly. “I do have some influence with these two officers.”

“You might have him start with that,” I said, indicating the edge of a dark green backpack protruding from the ffssure.

Chester stepped back, and moved as if he was going to reach for the pack. He glanced at us, to see what the reaction would be, and found himself staring down the muzzles of three handguns.

“Freeze,” said Hester. “Don't move a muscle.”

He stopped. “I was just going to hand it to you.”

“I'll get it,” said Tillman. He moved slowly past Chester, reached down, and retrieved the backpack.

A long time ago, the Supreme Court ruled that we could make searches “incidental to arrest.” In this case, that meant that we had every right to examine the contents of the backpack before we handed it back to him. Just in case there was a “weapon contained therein,” as we say.

“Look through it,” I said to Tillman, as Hester and I lowered our guns again. I stepped closer to Chester.

“I told you to steer clear of this case,” I said, “and I meant it.”

“I haven't interfered. Not once.”

I decided not to mention my suspicion that it was him who had leaked the vampire stuff to the press. Instead, I said, “You're less than half a mile from the Mansion right now, and there's nothing else on this bluff but the scene of a possible crime.”

“He's less than a quarter mile from there, Carl,” said Tillman, who probably hunted in these woods.

“I had no idea… ” said Chester, just as Tillman held up a small gray case with an LCD screen in its face and a keypad. It looked like a hand calculator.

“This is a GPS receiver, Carl,” said Tillman, “and it works.” Tillman was young, and his father owned a large, modern farm, so I took his word for it. They used them a lot these days, to place herbicides and other things with amazing accuracy.

I gave Chester a disgusted look. “Wanna try that again?”

“Is this guy a priest?” asked Tillman, holding up a crucifix that looked to be about a foot long.

“Nope,” I said. “He's a vampire hunter.”

“No shit?” said Tillman. “Way cool.”

On the way back down to the cars, with Tillman toting the pack, I asked Chester why he had tried to defy my order to stay away from the scene.

“In the first place, I was lost,” he said, without much conviction. “In the second place, I hardly think it's fair that you have patrols out just to keep me from my job.”

Aside from the fact that only a dedicated egocentric would think our patrols were meant for him, it was the first time I had heard him refer to a job.

“Just what would your job be?” I asked between mossy limestone stepping blocks.

“To bring the vampire to justice,” he replied.

“That's our job,” said Hester. “Just ours.”

“God's justice,” he said. “Not the laws. The justice of the righteous.”

“Oh,” I said, “that's just fuckin' swell.” I stumbled, and made my usual graceful recovery. “In the first place, he's probably not anywhere around here.”

“Who? The one you were all chasing?”

“Whoever it is you're looking for, Chester,” I said.

When we got to the cars, I told Tillman and Knockle to get a wrecker for Chester's car, and then escort it and him to the jail. I reiterated the traffic charge.

“Aren't you going to charge me with interference?” asked Chester.

“No. But don't push it. I'm willing to cut you some slack, because you weren't actually in contact with anybody but us. But, like I said, don't push it.”

“Of course.” He was smiling.

“Knockle,” I said, “do not give this gentleman a ride back to this area. Keep his car in Maitland as evidence, and take him directly back to his motel over in Wisconsin, as soon as he posts bail.” I paused. “And tell Harry that he's over there, and what happened.”

“You bet, Carl. Hey, too bad about those pants. You looked pretty good before you went up the hill.”