Russ grunted. “You are. Whoever thinks it next won’t be. Christ, this is all I need—someone thinking I have a personal stake in the outcome of a murder investigation.”
“Oh, come on. In the first place, who’s gonna believe one of your mom’s tree-hugging friends slit Ingraham’s throat? And it’s not as if you’ve coddled them. Trust me, slinging your own mother’s butt in jail showed the world you are an incorruptible cop.”
Russ looked at him. “Thank you, Officer Friday. Now, let’s wrap up this scene and get the gawkers out of here.” He shaded his eyes against the glare of the lights and squinted toward the dwindling crowd. “Looks like Durkee has finished taking names. Get him to run the tape down to the water.” He looked at his watch. “Glens Falls Dispatch is taking our calls right now. I’m going to get them to buzz Davies and McCrea at home to let them know to come straight here when their shifts start tomorrow morning. I want you here, too.”
“That’ll put me on—”
“Overtime. I know, I know. Be here anyway.”
The slither of tires on grass and the bounce of a new set of lights made him look away. The Channel 6 news van was pulling up, just in time to get the story taped for the eleven o’clock broadcast. He shook his head. Dealing with the press was his second-least-favorite part of the job, surpassed only by presenting the department’s budget to the Board of Aldermen.
A pretty young blonde who looked more like a kindergarten teacher than a reporter slipped out of the van, followed by a gorilla of a cameraman loaded down with what must have been sixty pounds of equipment. They conferred for a minute. From the way their arms were moving, they were figuring out what he was going to shoot. Then the gorilla caught sight of Russ and Lyle and pointed at them. The reporter ducked under the tape and advanced on their position, trailed by her cameraman.
“You want me to deal with ’em?” Lyle asked. There were only two types of cops who liked talking to the press: ambitious politicians or frustrated performers. Lyle, who once told Russ he had wanted to be Buffalo Bob when he grew up, fell in the latter group. He could spin out a “No comment” into a twenty-minute story without ever letting on it was all puffed air.
“Naw, I’ll handle it. Just button this place up fast, okay? I want to be out of here before Channel Thirteen decides this is newsworthy enough to send over a van, too.” If it were a single news outfit here tonight, he would only have to appear on TV once. After the initial photo op at the crime scene, he could usually get away with commenting to reporters over the phone.
Lyle waved an acknowledgment as he headed off to collect Durkee. The reporter pulled up in front of him and stuck out her hand. “Sheena Bevin, WTYY News. You’re Chief Van Alstyne?” Her voice was that peculiar combination of melodious and strident that all television reporters seemed to have.
He started back toward the police line. “Yep.”
She smoothed her white shirt and tugged on something clipped under her navy windbreaker. It was a microphone in a holster, which she unspooled and extended toward him. Behind and to the left of her shoulder, the camera light blazed on. “Chief, the report we got was that there was a possible homicide here tonight. What can you tell us? Who’s the victim?”
He stopped next to the yellow tape, which was shivering in a barely perceptible wind. He hoped to hell the rain would hold off. Trying to search the stretch of brush in the dark was going to be impossible; finding anything in a downpour in the morning would only be marginally less so. “We’re not releasing the name of the victim until we’ve been able to notify any relatives.”
“So it was a homicide?” Her shining blond hair seemed to gleam in interest.
He held up his hands. “Let me put what information I can give you in the proper order. At approximately nine-thirty tonight, we received a call that one of the spectators at the fireworks here had found a body. Deputy Chief MacAuley and Officer Durkee responded. Upon arriving at the scene, they secured the area and sent for Sergeant Morin, a state police forensics technician, and Dr. Scheeler, our temporary medical examiner. The victim was a middle-aged white male who was killed within an hour or so of the start of the fireworks. We are actively pursuing leads, and if anyone in the vicinity saw anything suspicious, we ask that they report it to the Millers Kill Police Department.”
“How was the victim killed?”
“I can’t release that at this time.”
“Do you have any significant evidence? Any suspects?”
“Dr. Scheeler believes there may be some excellent forensic evidence once he’s had a chance to examine the body.” The doctor hadn’t actually said that, but in Russ’s experience, all pathologists were sure they’d find something if they looked hard enough. “We have no suspects at the moment.”
“Thank you, Chief.” The camera light went out and she said, “Thanks a lot,” in a more natural voice. “We want to get some establishing shots and some reactions from the witnesses. Do you mind?”
It was a pro forma question, since he didn’t have the authority to stop the press, but he appreciated the courtesy. “Just make sure you don’t cross the line. We’re still securing the scene.”
“Will do. Matt, let’s go.” There was a clunk of metal hitting metal as the gorilla shouldered his camera and followed her.
Russ ducked under the tape and jogged to his cruiser, popping open the door to reach the radio. He watched the mortuary assistants leaving the thicket. The bag boys— Lyle’s name for them—picked their way through the brush, careful not to dislodge the contents of their pallet. The mound of shiny black plastic suddenly made Russ think of the fat blood sausages his grandmother Campbell used to urge on him. The image made his stomach churn. The Channel 6 cameraman was following the body’s progress from the brush to the back of the van.
Russ gave his instructions to one of the Glens Falls dispatchers who handled Millers Kill 911 calls between 10:00P.M. and 6:00 A.M. Sheena Bevin was working her way through the remaining spectators, asking questions, occasionally pulling out the little microphone. He finished up with the Glens Falls dispatcher and headed over to help Lyle and Durkee finish up.
He was a good fifteen yards away from the scene, twist-tying tape to a flexible plastic pole, when a flash of light in the corner of his eye made him look up, just in time to see the camera trained on Clare. Even from that distance, he could see her body language had changed from shocked and horrified to…well, righteous indignation was probably the right description, seeing as she was a priest. Their conversation in the hospital corridor outside the waiting room resurrected itself: Clare, arms akimbo, swearing to march on the police station if there was one more attack. “Oh,” he said. “Oh no. No, no, no.” The Reverend Clare Fergusson on a crusade was likely to say anything.
He dropped the tape and strode toward the small cluster of trees where Clare, now gesturing widely, was making her point. God, why hadn’t he put duct tape over her mouth and locked her in the squad car when he’d had the chance? He kept himself from breaking into a jog, but double-timed his steps until he was close enough to hear, “lack of respect for common humanity and basic civil rights—”
“Clare!” he said. Clare and the reporter both jerked their heads in his direction. He propped what he hoped looked like a smile on his face and tried again in a less threatening tone of voice. “Reverend Fergusson? I hope I don’t have to remind you that giving out some information could jeopardize this investigation.”
“How?” she asked.
He sucked in air between gritted teeth, but before he could reply, Bevin and the cameraman had pivoted toward him. “Chief Van Alstyne, we’ve heard that tonight’s murder victim and the victims of the two assaults in Millers Kill this past week were all gay men. Can you comment on this?”
“No,” he growled.
“Are the police investigating this as a hate crime? Are you linking it to the other assaults?”
“We pursue any murder to the fullest extent of our resources, whether you label it a h
ate crime or not. I’m of the opinion every murder is a hate crime, and I’m not going to treat one differently from another because of who the victim was.”
“So tonight’s victim was gay?”
He wanted to strangle Bevin. No, he wanted to strangle Clare. The camera light pinned him like an interrogation lamp.
“I can’t comment on the victim until we’ve notified the next of kin.”
“How about the assault victims?”
“Look, I’m not going to comment on this. I’m not going to out anyone on the eleven o’clock news.”
“Would you advise area residents who might be homosexual to take extra precautions?”
“Whoever did this tonight is on the loose until we bring him in. I’d advise all area residents to take extra precautions. Now, I need to wrap things up and make sure Reverend Fergusson gets home.” He smiled at Clare in a way that conveyed she might arrive in several pieces. “So we’ll have to cut this short.”
Bevin slid a finger along her throat in exactly the same line that the garrote had taken when it cut through Ingraham’s neck. The cameraman killed the light. “We know that the dead man is the president of BWI Development,” the reporter said, “and we’ll sit on his identity tonight. But I’ll give you fair warning that we’re going to run it on the five-thirty show tomorrow. This is going to be a big story.”
He waited until Bevin and the gorilla had decamped before taking Clare’s elbow. “You,” he said, his voice barely audible. “In the car. Now.”
“What about the dogs?”
“In the back.” He steered her toward the squad car. “I’m going to sign out with MacAuley and Durkee.” He reached through the window on the driver’s side to unlock the back doors. “Then you and I are going to have a little talk.”
Things were winding down. Dr. Scheeler was gone, the mortuary van was pulling out, and the Channel 6 news team was loading their equipment. Durkee was bent over the electrical cords running from his car to the lamps. All but a few hard-core spectators had drifted away.
“Make sure you clear out the last of those,” he said to Lyle, jerking his thumb at the remaining handful of gawkers. One of the tungsten lights blinked out, and the thicket was suddenly half-dark, heavy with mist and shadows. The pole clattered as Durkee telescoped it down. “I’m taking Reverend Fergusson home.”
“Hey, you’ve had a long day,” Lyle said, folding his arms across his chest. “Why don’t you head on home and let me take care of her? I want to go back to the station anyway, to get my report down.”
“Do you know what she did? She told that reporter it was Ingraham. And she told her he was gay. And that the other guys were gay. It’s gonna be all over the news that Millers Kill is running rampant with hate crimes. God! I could…” He wasn’t sure what he could do.
“Let me handle it, then. Give yourself a chance to calm down.”
“Oh no. I want to tell her exactly how bad she’s screwed us. When I get done, she’s not going to pick up her newspaper at the front door without running it past me first.” He exhaled.
Lyle opened his mouth and then shut it again. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Yeah. G’night.” He stalked back to his squad car, got in, buckled up, turned on the ignition, and threw the car into reverse without saying a word. He looked over his shoulder, ignoring the woman in the passenger seat, and discovered two hairy heads blocking his rear view. “Down!” he said. The dogs whined briefly and then lowered themselves, paws pitter-pattering on the cruiser’s vinyl upholstery as they arranged themselves on the backseat. He rolled backward between two trees, turned around, and drove slowly over the grass to the park entrance. He nosed through the gates, looked both ways, then bumped the car over the curb onto Mill Street.
“Well?” Clare said. “Say something!”
“You broke your promise to me.”
“I did not!”
“Yes, you did. You stood right in front of me and promised you wouldn’t talk to the press about this.”
“That was when there were only two attacks. For God’s sake, Russ, a man has been murdered! That’s more important than some exercise in spin control.”
He turned on her at that. “Damn it! Do you really think that’s what I’m worried about? Bad press?” He snapped his attention back to the road. “You insult me.” She glanced at him and then looked down. “You think my job is about solving crimes?” he continued. “It isn’t. Solving a crime means I’ve already failed. My job is preventing crimes. And you and Sheena, Queen of the Reporters, have just made that more difficult.”
“By telling the truth?”
“Your version of the truth.”
“Oh, come off it. If you mean to tell me you still don’t think these attacks are connected, I will laugh in your face. I swear I will. It’s time to speak out, Russ. It’s past time.”
He swung the cruiser onto Main Street. “Fine! Preach against prejudice. Start a voter initiative to change the state’s constitution. Get up a gay-pride parade and march it down Main Street. I don’t care so long as you have a permit. But don’t compromise my investigation and start a panic because you’ve decided the three cases are connected!”
“I don’t need your permission to help people! And I don’t need your permission to speak out against hatefulness! If you had warned the press Saturday that someone was going around beating up gay men, maybe Bill Ingraham wouldn’t have been caught in the bushes with his pants down!”
The light at Main and Church turned red and he slammed on his brakes, throwing them both against their shoulder harnesses. The dogs barked and scrabbled against the seat for purchase. He twisted so he could look at her head-on. Her hazel eyes were glittering in the light from the dashboard and he could see patchy red spots high on her cheeks.
“Is that what you think? Is that what you really think?” His rage, which had been feeding on each exchange like a fire consuming logs, died out. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and compressed her lips. Her eyes shifted away from his. “It is,” he said, a part of him surprised at how much the realization hurt. “You think I’m responsible for Ingraham’s death.”
“No. I said he might have acted differently if…if he had been aware…” She sounded strange as she tried to backpedal. It wasn’t like her.
The light turned green, and he faced forward, his eyes fixed on the road. They traveled the length of Church Street in silence. He turned onto Elm and drove up the rectory drive, then put the car into park.
“Russ,” she said, “I didn’t mean it like that. Please.”
He popped the locks and got out. He released the grateful dogs, who tumbled over themselves exiting the back seat.
“Russ…”
He looked at her over the cruiser’s roof, thought about tossing off some line about cops always having critics, then found he couldn’t. He didn’t have the energy to playact with her. He shook his head. “Never mind. It’s been a long day. Just…never mind.”
Clare stood at the edge of the drive, looking at him, twisting the bottom of her sweatshirt. The dogs were already nosing at the front door, whining to be let in. He got back into the cruiser and started it up.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she blurted out. “Russ, please. I’m sorry….”
He waved a hand in acknowledgment as he pulled out of the drive. He could see her face as he drove down the street, a white oval in the darkness. The image stayed with him for a long time.
Chapter Twelve
When Clare opened her front door the next morning to let Bob and Gal out, the air was clear, the grass and leaves were sparkling in the sunlight, and she felt rotten. Guilty. Lower than a worm’s belly, as Grandmother Fergusson would have said. She leaned against one of the columns on the front porch, her hands thrust in the pockets of her seersucker robe, and tried to take some pleasure in the sight of two happy dogs sniffing out every corner of a perfect morning. But all she could envision was Russ’s face, changing from anger
to pain as she fumbled and missed her one chance to take back her hurtful words.
Well, she had gotten what she wanted. She had taken a stand against homophobic violence and had raised the red flag against hate crimes. And all it had taken was eviscerating her best friend.
She walked barefoot down the steps and across the lawn to the newspaper box to retrieve Monday’s Post-Star. She took the paper back to the porch and sat on the steps, but she couldn’t bring herself to open it. She didn’t want to deal with murder, protests, arrests, real estate developments, and PCBs. Since when is Russ Van Alstyne my best friend? she wondered. It’s not like we go out bowling together or anything. Still, it rang true. She groaned and beat herself over the head a few times with the newspaper. It didn’t make her feel any better. She dropped it in her lap and bent forward, burying her face in her hands.
“God,” she said, “I believe you brought me here to Millers Kill for a reason. But so far, I mostly seem to be screwing up my own life. Please help me out here. I need to know what it is I’m supposed to be doing.”
Somewhere beyond the open double doors, the phone rang.
Clare raised her eyebrows and rose from her seat on the porch steps. In her experience, God didn’t respond to prayer with a phone call outlining His thoughts and expectations, but she was willing to keep an open mind. She tossed the newspaper on the sofa and went into the kitchen to pick up the phone.
“Hello, Reverend Fergusson? This is Peggy Landry.”
Clare couldn’t have been more surprised if it had been the Almighty. “Ms. Landry,” she said. “Um…how can I help you?”
“We haven’t met, but I believe you know my niece. Diana Berry? She’s getting married July Thirty-first.”
The whirl of speculation snapped firmly into place. Diana Berry and her fiancé, Cary—what? Wall? Ward? Wood, that was it. She remembered wondering how anyone could name a child Cary Wood. Diana had been in twice, once in February to reserve the church and once in April with her fiancé in tow for the first of the mandatory three counseling sessions. She had mentioned that her family was from the area.
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