They drew their weapons and Altman pounded on the door, calling, "Police. Open up."
Silence.
He hesitated a moment, adjusted the grip on his gun, and kicked the door in.
Filled with cheap, dust-covered furniture, buzzing with stuporous fall flies, the place appeared completely deserted. They checked the four small rooms carefully and found no sign of Desmond. Outside, they glanced in the window of the garage and saw that it was empty. Then Altman sent Randall to the front of the driveway to hide in the bushes and report anybody's approach.
He then returned to the house and began to search, wondering just how hot the cold case was about to become.
Two hundred yards before the driveway that led to Howard Desmond's cottage, a battered, ten-year-old Toyota pulled onto the shoulder of Route 207 and then into the woods, out of sight of any drivers along the road.
A man got out and, satisfied that his car was well hidden, squinted into the forest, getting his bearings. He noticed the line of the brown lake to his left and figured the vacation house was in the ten-o'clock position ahead of him. Through dense underbrush like this, it would take him about fifteen minutes to get to the place, he estimated.
That'd make the time pretty tight. He'd have to move as quickly as he could and still keep the noise to a minimum.
The man started forward, but then stopped suddenly and patted his pocket. He'd been in such a hurry to get to the house he couldn't remember if he'd taken what he wanted from the glove compartment. But yes, he had it with him.
Hunched over and picking his way carefully to avoid stepping on noisy branches, Gordon Wallace continued on toward the cabin where, he hoped, Detective Altman was lost in police work and would be utterly oblivious to his furtive approach.
The search of the house revealed virtually nothing that would indicate that Desmond had been here recently-or where the man might now be. Altman found some bills and canceled checks, but the address on them was Desmond's apartment in Warwick.
He decided to check the garage, thinking he might come across something helpful that the killer had tossed out of the car and forgotten about-directions or a map, maybe.
He found something far more interesting in the decrepit building, though. Howard Desmond himself.
That is to say, his corpse.
The moment Altman opened the old-fashioned double doors of the garage he detected the smell of decaying flesh. He knew where it had to be coming from: a large coal bin in the back. Steeling himself, he flipped up the lid.
Inside were the mostly skeletal remains of a man about six feet tall, lying on his back, fully clothed. He'd been dead about six months-just around the time Desmond disappeared, Altman recalled.
DNA would tell for certain if this was the killer, but Altman discovered the man's wallet in his hip pocket and, sure enough, the driver's license inside was Desmond's. There wasn't enough face left to be sure, but the thatch of hair on the corpse's skull and the man's height were the same as indicated on the license.
He looked briefly through the bin again and found nothing else that would identify the body or who'd killed him, though he did find the apparent murder weapon-a stained, old-fashioned military bayonet. Lifting it out with a Kleenex, he set the weapon on a workbench.
So what the hell was going on?
Somebody had murdered the strangler. Who? And why?
But then Altman did one of the things he did best-let his mind run free. Too many detectives get an idea into their heads and can't see past their initial conclusions. Altman, though, always fought against this tendency and he now asked himself: But what if Desmond wasn't the strangler?
They knew for certain that he was the one who'd underlined the passages in the library's copy of Two Deaths in a Small Town. But what if he'd done so after the killings? The letter Desmond had written to Carter was undated. Maybe-like Gordon Wallace- he'd read the book after the murders and been struck by the similarity. He'd started to investigate the crime himself and the strangler had found out and murdered him.
But then who was the killer?
Like Gordon Wallace…
Altman felt another little tap in his far-ranging mind, as fragments of facts lined up for him to consider-facts that all had to do with the reporter. For instance, Wallace was physically imposing, abrasive, temperamental. At times he could be threatening, scary. He was obsessed with crime, and he knew police and forensic procedures better than most cops, which also meant that he knew how to anticipate investigators' moves. (He'd sure blustered his way right into the middle of the reopened case just the other day, Altman reflected.) Wallace owned a Motorola police scanner and would've been able to listen in on calls about the victims. His apartment was a few blocks from the college where the first victim was killed.
The detective considered: Let's say that Desmond had read the passages, become suspicious, and circled them, then made a few phone calls to find out more about the case. He might've called Wallace, who, as the Tribune’s crime reporter, would be a logical source for more information.
Desmond had met with the reporter, who'd then killed him and hid the body here.
Impossible…
Why would he have brought the book to the police's attention, then? And why would he have killed the two women in the first place? What was his motive?
But Altman refused to dismiss the notion of Wallace's involvement so quickly. He bent down into the shabby, impromptu crypt again to search it more carefully, trying to unearth answers to those difficult questions.
Gordon Wallace caught a glimpse of Altman in the garage.
The reporter had crept up to a spot only thirty feet away and was hiding behind a bush. The detective wasn't paying any attention to who might be outside, apparently relying on Josh Randall to alert him to intruders. The young detective was at the head of the driveway, a good two hundred feet away, his back to the garage.
Breathing heavily in the heat, the reporter started through the grass in a crouch. He stopped beside the building and glanced quickly into the side window, noting that Altman was standing over a coal bin in the rear of the garage, squinting at something in his hand.
Perfect, Wallace thought, and, reaching into his pocket, eased to the open doorway, where his aim would be completely unobstructed.
The detective had found some papers in Desmond's pocket and was staring at one in particular, a business card, trying to figure it out, when he heard the snap of a twig behind him and, alarmed, turned.
A silhouette of a figure was standing in the doorway. He seemed to be holding his hands at chest level.
Blinded by the glare, Altman gasped, "Who're-?"
A huge flash filled the room.
The detective stumbled backward, groping for his pistol.
"Damn," came a voice he recognized.
Altman squinted against the backlighting. "Wallace! You goddamn son of a bitch. What the hell're you doing here?"
The reporter scowled and held up the camera in his hand, looking just as unhappy as Altman. "I was trying to get a candid of you on the job, but you turned around. You ruined it."
"I ruined it? You've got no business being here. I told you not to get in the way. You can't-"
"I'm not in the way," the man snapped. "I'm nowhere near you. How can I be in the way?"
"This's a crime scene."
"Well, that's why I want the pictures," he said petulantly. Then he frowned. "What's that smell?" The camera sagged and the reporter started to breathe in shallow gasps. He looked queasy.
"It's Desmond. Somebody murdered him. He's in the coal bin."
"Murdered him? So he's not the killer?"
Altman lifted his radio and barked to Randall, "We've got visitors back here."
"What?"
"We're in the garage."
The young officer showed up a moment later, trotting fast. A disdainful look at Wallace. "Where the hell did you come from?"
"How'd you let him get past?" Altman snapped.
"Not his fault," the reporter said, shivering at the smell. "I parked up the road. How 'bout we get some fresh air?"
Angry, Altman took perverse pleasure in the reporter's discomfort. "Ioughta throw you in jail."
Wallace held his breath and started for the coal bin, raising the camera.
"Don't even think about it," Altman growled, and pulled the reporter away.
"Who did it?" Randall asked, nodding at the body.
Altman didn't share that for a moment he'd actually suspected Wallace himself. Just before the photo-op incident he'd found a stunning clue as to who Desmond's-and the two women's-killer actually was. He held up a business card. "I found this on the body."
On the card was written, "Detective Sergeant Robert Fletcher, Greenville Police Department."
"Bob?" Randall whispered in shock.
"I don't want to believe it," Altman muttered slowly, "but back at the office he didn't let on he even knew about Desmond, let alone that they'd met at some point."
"True, he didn't say a word."
"And," he continued, nodding at the bayonet, "doesn't that look like one of his?"
"Does, yeah," Randall said.
Bob Fletcher collected World War II memorabilia and weapons. The wicked-looking blade was similar to several in his collection.
Altman's heart pounded furiously at the betrayal. He now understood what had happened. Fletcher bobbled the case intentionally-because he was the killer-probably destroying any evidence that led to him. A loner, a history of short, difficult relationships, obsessed with the military and hunting… He'd lied to them about not reading Two Deaths and had used it as a model to kill those women. Then-after the killings-Desmond happened to read the book, too, underlined the passages, and, being a good citizen, contacted case officer Fletcher, who was none other than the killer himself. The sergeant murdered him, dumped the body here, and then destroyed the library's computer and never made any effort to pursue the vandalism investigation.
Altman then had another thought. He turned suddenly to the reporter. "Where was Fletcher when you left the office? Did you see him at the station?" The detective's hand strayed to his pistol as he looked around the tall grass, wondering if the sergeant now intended to kill them as well.
"He was in the conference room with Andy Carter."
No! Altman realized that they weren't the only ones at risk; the author was a witness, too-and a potential victim of Fletcher's. Altman grabbed his cell phone and called the central dispatcher. He asked for Carter.
"He's not here, sir," the woman said.
"What?"
"It was getting late so he decided to get a hotel room for the night."
"Which one's he staying at?"
"I think it's the Sutton Inn."
"You have the number?"
"I do, sure. But he's not there right now."
"Where is he?"
"He went out to dinner. I don't know where, but if you need to get in touch with him you can call Bob Fletcher's phone. They were going together."
Twenty minutes from town, driving at ninety.
Altman tried again to call Fletcher but the sergeant wasn't answering. There wasn't much Altman could do except try to reason with the sergeant, have him give himself up, plead with him not to kill Carter, too. He prayed that the cop hadn't already done so.
Another try. Still no answer.
Heskidded the squad car through the intersection at Route 202, nearly sideswiping one of the ubiquitous dairy tankers in these parts.
"Okay, that was exciting," Randall whispered, removing his sweaty palm from the dashboard as the truck's horn brayed in angry protest behind them.
Altman was about to call Fletcher's phone again when a voice clattered over the car's radio. "All units. Reports of shots fired on Route One-twenty-eight just west of Ralph's Grocery. Repeat, shots fired. All units respond."
"You think that's them?"
"We're three minutes away. We're about to find out." Altman pushed the accelerator to the floor and they broke into three-digit speed.
After a brief, harrowing ride, the squad car crested a hill. Randall called breathlessly, "Look!"
Altman could see Bob Fletcher's police interceptor half on, half off the road. He skidded to a stop nearby and the two officers jumped out. Wallace's car-which had been hitching an illegal ride on their light bar and siren-braked to a stop fifty feet behind them and the reporter, too, jumped out, ignoring the detective's shout to stay down.
Altman felt Randall grip his arm. The young officer was pointing at the shoulder about fifty feet away. In the dim light, they could just make out the form of Andrew Carter lying facedown in the dust.
Oh no! They weren't in time; the sergeant had added the author to the list of his victims.
"Look out for Fletcher," he whispered to a spooked Josh Randall. "He's around here someplace and we know he's armed."
Altman ran toward the author's body. As he did, he happened to glance to his left and gasped. There was Bob Fletcher on the ground, holding a shotgun.
He shouted to Randall, "Look out!" and dropped flat. But as he swung the gun toward Fletcher he noted that the sergeant wasn't moving. The detective hit the man with his flashlight beam. Fletcher's eyes were glazed over and there were two bullet holes in his chest.
Wallace was crouching over Carter. The reporter called, "He's alive!"
The detective rose, pulled the scattergun out of Fletcher's lifeless hands, and trotted over to the author. The man's face was bloody and streaked with dirt, his clothes torn. Lying on the ground nearby was a black revolver, the sort that Fletcher had carried.
"Are you shot?"
Carter winced and blinked.
"Andy? Are you shot?"
In response, the author shook his head. "No. But I think I broke my arm. I can't feel anything in my fingers."
"There's an ambulance on its way. Just stay where you are. Don't try to get up."
"My leg… man, it hurts."
"Just stay still, Andy. Don't move Tellme what happened."
Gasping, Carter said, "Fletcher said let's go to dinner. We took his car. He said if I didn't mind he had to make a stop on the way to the restaurant and he turned down this road. Then he was talking and he said it was funny, this road reminded him of that scene in my book where the hunter's waiting for one of the victims."
"Ah."
"Right," Carter continued. "He said he hadn't read it. He lied to us. That meant he had to be the strangler. And he was taking me someplace to kill me." Carter coughed and laid his head back on the ground. A moment later he continued, "When he slowed down to turn into that side road I grabbed his pistol and jumped out of the car. I thought I could run into the forest and hide. But I hurt myself landing and couldn't get up. Fletcher stopped and got the shotgun out of the trunk. He came after me and I fired a couple of
timesand then passed out "He looked at the body up the road.
He whispered, "I didn't want to kill him. I didn't have any choice."
Over a crest in the road Altman could see flashing lights and hear sirens, growing steadily louder. As Randall ran toward them, gesturing wildly, Altman collected the weapons. He glanced at Bob Fletcher's body. Murdering Howard Desmond and trying to murder Andy Carter-well, those had been to cover up his original crimes. But what had been the sergeant's motive for killing the two women in Greenville last year? Maybe the anger at being left by his wife had boiled over. Maybe he'd had a secret affair with one of the victims, which had turned sour, and he'd decided to stage her death as a random act of violence.
And maybe, Altman reflected, unlike in a mystery novel, they'd never know what had driven the man to step over the edge into the dark world of the killers he'd once hunted.
The doctors kept Andrew Carter in the hospital overnight, though it seemed that the flying leap from the car-as dramatic and frightening as it probably seemed to him-hadn't caused any serious damage.
The next morning he checked out of Greenvil
le Memorial and stopped by the police department to say goodbye to Altman and Randall and to sign a formal statement about the events of the previous night.
"Got the latest from Forensics," Altman said, and explained that Fletcher's prints were all over the bayonet and thata search of the sergeant's house revealed several items-stockings and lingerie- that had been taken from the homes of the victims, leaving no doubt that Fletcher was the Greenville Strangler. Most people in town, certainly everyone in the police department, were shocked at this news. But Quentin Altman had to admit that one of the things he'd learned in his twenty-plus years of being a cop was that you never really knew what was in anybody's heart but your own.
He chatted with the author for a few moments but their conversation quickly became merely the superficial exchange between two men whose sole reason for contact no longer existed, and Carter finally looked at his watch, saying that he'd better be going. Altman walked him outside.
They were leaving the police station when Gordon Wallace loped up to them. "Hot off the presses." He handed a copy of theTribune to Carter. On the front page was Wallace's story about the solving of the Greenville Strangler case. "Keep that," Wallace said."A souvenir."
Thanking him, Carter folded the paper up, slipped it under his arm, and walked to his car.
Altman observed that the author seemed in somewhat better spirits than when he'd arrived. The melancholy remained in his eyes, but the detective sensed that he'd found a bit of inner peace by coming to Greenville, to the site of the terrible killings that he felt responsible for. And perhaps making this difficult trip and risking his own life to help bring the killer to justice would ultimately prove to be a godsend; unlike many people touched by tragedy, Carter had had the rare chance to revisit the past and personally confront the demons of guilt that threatened to destroy his life.
Just before the man climbed into his Toyota, Altman called out, "Oh, one thing, Andy-how's that book of yours end? Do the police ever find the hunter?"
Carter caught himself as he was about to answer. He gave a grin. "You know, Detective, if you want to find that out, I'm afraid you're just going to have to buy yourself a copy." He dropped into the front seat, fired the car up, and pulled into the street, offering a brief wave goodbye.
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