by Ian Smith
Almost everyone, except for Sterling and Wiley, believed that they had caught the real killers. They weren't buying the alibis. At first brash and cocky, Tex Norkin had become less cooperative and more combative. A true sign of his guilt, the local officers claimed. Only a guilty person with something to hide would have shifted attitude like that. Teams of investigators had searched his trailer several times but still hadn't found anything that directly linked him to Wilson's murder. Beyond not having any hard evidence, time had also become a concern. It would be impossible to keep him locked up while they waited out his confession. He had been scheduled for his court appearance in a couple of days, and unless they produced credible evidence linking him to the murder, the judge would have no choice but to levy a fine for the outstanding warrants and release him. Tex remained stubborn. Despite their intimidation, he still refused counsel, claiming innocent people didn't need to bother with small men showing off their fancy vocabulary. But they continued their interrogation and even hinted at offering a deal if he gave up the goods on Buzz Gatlin. His eyes widened at the offer and they were already collecting bets that he'd soon be asking for representation.
Buzz Gatlin. Ice. His only communication—a daily request for the New York Times crossword puzzle, a pen, and a large black coffee with four packets of sugar. Elmer Gallows, a local litigator with a storefront office in Claremont, had taken the case. Gallows wasn't a member of the WLA nor did he believe in their cause. But he was one of those liberal lawyers who firmly believed that protecting freedom of speech was important above all else, even if it meant allowing a group of hateful racists to spew their vitriol.
Buzz and Gallows had known each other since high school. Buzz was smart and stubborn even back then, but Gallows had always thought he was a decent kid who'd had some tough breaks. The idealist in Gallows hoped that by taking the case, he'd have a chance to talk some sense into his old classmate. So for the time being, Gallows had advised Buzz not to talk. He needed to get a better handle on what the other general, Tex, might be saying and if he was trying to work out a deal. With both men potentially facing a first-degree murder rap, Tex could be as much an enemy as he could be a friend.
Looking down at the dull black envelope, Sterling knew their real suspect was only a video image away. The others watched intently as he slit open the flap and pulled out three glossy black-and-white photographs with a handwritten note scribbled on FBI stationery.
Sterle,
I know this is a tough time for you and your family. I want you to know that all of us down here have been sick over this and wish you all the best. This is the first crop of photographs, but as usual Artie is working around the clock for better enhancement. As the images become clearer, we'll send them to you via e-mail. We miss you down here, where you really belong. But if anyone can crack this case, you can. We're rooting for you.
Warmest,
Harry
P.S. We got a new batch of recruits. The women in the group are anxious to meet the legendary Agent Bledsoe. I'm doing my best to keep your reputation intact.
Sterling smiled to himself, slid the note into his pocket, then took a look at the first photograph—a wide shot of the reflection in the door. The resolution still needed work, but they had cleaned up a lot of the tape's graininess. Sterling nodded when he flipped to the second photograph. The face, now clearer, obviously belonging to a man—there was the beginning of stubble sprouting under his chin.
“This is our man,” Sterling said as the others gathered closer. “This is our man.”
Sterling walked over to the large time line on the wall and pointed to the section marked Burke. “Look at the times here. This man first appears at 4:25. Carlton comes in at 5:02.” Sterling moved his finger along the line. “The man leaves at 5:07. He stayed for a total of forty-two minutes, then decided to call it quits.” Sterling turned and faced the rest of the group. “It's possible that someone who legitimately worked there stopped by the lab at 4:25 in the morning, but it's pretty damn unlikely and suspiciously coincidental that they show up after Wilson was murdered.”
Sterling looked at the last photograph, the best of the three. “Can someone get me a magnifying glass and a few sheets of colored paper?” He placed the photograph on the table and turned it in several directions. Someone handed him three sheets of blue paper, and he used them to cover the entire photograph except for a small area of the face. He picked up the magnifying glass and examined that portion of the image. “If I'm not mistaken, there's some type of mark on this man's face. Maybe even the beginning of a scar.” He stood up and passed the magnifying glass to Wiley.
Lieutenant Wiley, already close to the ground, didn't need to do much bending to examine the picture. “I don't see it, Agent,” he said, his eyes still glued to the photograph. “It's hard to tell if that's just artifact from the video or something real.”
Wiley passed the magnifying glass to the others, and they took turns poring over the small mark. None of them, including Brusco, was willing to confirm what Sterling had seen.
“There's something there,” Sterling said, sensing the overwhelming doubt in the room. “I'm telling you, this is the real suspect. This photo might not be enough right now, but believe me—it will lead us to our answers.”
Sterling next went to the board covered with gruesome photos of the crime scene. Wiley joined him. The most disturbing shot had been taken right after they had flipped over the body. Wilson had such a look of terror on his face, as if he were trying to say something before the air had been choked out of him. Sterling took the three photographs from the FBI lab and tacked them up next to the crime scene shots. Something was bothering him. There were clues hidden somewhere, connections that he hadn't been able to figure out.
Detective Hanlon approached Sterling and Wiley and placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “Let it go, gentlemen,” he said. “We've already got the killers. Now it's just a matter of connecting the evidence.”
“And that's exactly the problem,” Wiley said. “The evidence we have doesn't point to them at all.” Wiley looked at Sterling and then the others. The two of them were alone on this. He could read the doubt in their eyes. To hell with them. Even if he hadn't had confirmation from Spriggins, he knew the WLA hadn't done this. This was their man in these pictures. He hadn't gone to Burke in the wee hours of a Saturday morning to diddle around with the test tubes of an experiment or mop the floors.
Sterling looked up at the board as if reading Wiley's mind. “This man went there looking for something,” he said. “The question is whether he got it.”
23
Only late afternoon, but the day had been long and hard. Sterling decided to head back to the house to eat and take a quick nap. A million thoughts jammed his head at once. Most pressing, Professor Mandryka wanted to meet him the next morning to show him blackbirds—the very things Wilson seemed to refer to in code on his ankle before he died. Wilson had been clever to the end, leaving the message for Sterling underneath his sock so that his murderers wouldn't find it, and writing in a way that only Sterling would recognize. Genius, even near death. A pang of jealousy shot through Sterling.
Then the strange encounter with Ahote and her ominous words. Who was this mysterious Kanti that she mentioned, and how could he help them find the real killers? Tex and Buzz were nothing more than pathetic racists and well-chosen decoys. Someone wanted them to take the fall. The real suspect was in that photograph. Sterling was certain. As soon as Harry worked his magic with the tape, they would have their answers.
As Sterling turned from the center of town and headed toward the bridge, his cell phone rang. Chief Gaylor's voice surprised him.
“The president and I were wondering if you had time to come by for a chat,” Gaylor said. It was less a question and more of a demand. And it was in that damn haughty voice.
“Has something happened?”
“No, it's just been a while since the three of us have caught up on the case together. P
resident Mortimer would like to know how the investigation is going.”
Sterling found the request odd. Gaylor had every right to attend their daily briefing sessions in the pit, yet he had never come by once since the official murder investigation started almost a week ago. He made one grand appearance—at the interrogations—and even then he refused to speak to the other men, except to proclaim Tex and Buzz guilty. Now he was requesting a sit-down. Sterling knew that Gaylor was nothing more than Mortimer's messenger, and he also knew that Mortimer's primary concern was damage control—keeping Dartmouth's reputation from being tarnished by the grisly murder of a popular professor. Image was everything, even in the insular world of academia.
“When would he like to meet?” Sterling asked.
“Can you do it in an hour at his office in Parkhurst?”
“I'll be there.”
Gaylor didn't bother saying thank you or good-bye. The phone just went dead. So damn superior, Sterling thought to himself. A security chief in charge of a small school in the middle of nowhere and you'd think he was the goddamn U.S. attorney general.
Sterling checked in with Wiley.
“We've located most of the WLA, except for Skeeter Wilkins. He's in Canada on a fishing trip. They've all been put through the mill. Spriggins was dead-on. Their alibis check out solid. A group is heading up to find Wilkins as we speak.”
Sterling replayed Gaylor's parting words as he'd left the interrogation. How were he and the others so sure? Sterling had seen that false confidence many times, when everyone smelled blood and their desire for the kill distorted their judgment. It benefited all of them to have this case wrapped up quickly and cleanly. The longer the case went unsolved, the greater the town's fear grew. Convicting two outsiders like Tex and Buzz would return a sense of security to the close-knit community.
Sterling walked across the green toward Parkhurst Hall. He stood for a few minutes and watched some students playing soccer, using their backpacks as goal posts. There was such innocence in their play and laughter. Everything so perfect. Too perfect. It was just impossible for him to believe that no one had seen or heard anything that night.
President Mortimer's office took up the entire top floor of the expansive brick building. A couple of deans had their offices on the floors below, but those were surely no comparison to the suite of rooms reserved for Mortimer and his staff of fifteen. A pair of heavy glass doors, prominently embossed with the college shield, and a portrait of Mortimer wearing a navy blazer and green-and-white-striped tie dominated the entrance. He had that imperious look of a man accustomed to getting his way.
Sterling gave his name to the effusive receptionist, who ushered him into the inner sanctum. The office was as extravagant as it was massive. Thick beige carpeting blanketed the floor, and dark green leather furniture gave the room an appearance of a country club. A large glass chandelier hung from the middle of the ceiling and tall portraits of stoic, ancient white men looked down on the room as if demanding that anyone who entered the president's office first meet with their approval.
Mortimer and Gaylor were seated on a couple of wingback chairs when Sterling entered.
“Sorry to bother you on such a tough and emotional day,” Mortimer said, rising to shake Sterling's hand. Gaylor stood and did the same. “I know you've been quite busy lately with those men from Claremont. As you can imagine, there's been a lot of pressure on my office, from parents to trustees. I just wanted to see where everything stands at the moment.”
Sterling sat in a less comfortable chair close to the wide mahogany desk. He imagined this was what it felt like to sit in the Oval Office, only here the U.S. flag flanked one side of the desk and the Dartmouth flag was positioned on the other. The overbearing desk had been meticulously arranged with a matching leather-bound date book, writing pad, and calendar. Two pictures were prominently displayed at the front edge. One was of Mortimer standing with several books in his hand, lazily leaning against a tree and looking away from the camera—he couldn't have been more than twenty. The other photograph was an equally young Serena Mortimer with darker hair and longer eyelashes. She was wearing a tight black-and-orange Princeton cheerleading uniform. Not exactly a knockout, but worth a second look. She had signed the picture To Clipper with love, Serena. The handwriting surprised Sterling. He would have expected it to be slanted and severe, the way intellectuals tend to write. Instead, it was extremely girly—loops and fat letters—and there was even a small heart with an arrow drawn through it underneath her name.
“The killers are still out there,” Sterling said. “We have these two men in custody, but that won't last very long.”
“Why do you say that?” Mortimer asked.
“There is absolutely no credible evidence of any kind that links them to the murder. No prints, witnesses, plans. Nothing. And they've got alibis that have checked out. We're only holding them on a thread. A couple of outstanding warrants in traffic court.” Sterling noted Mortimer's natty, camel-brown tweed blazer and green polka-dot bow tie. This was their third meeting, and each time he had worn something with school colors. Sterling wondered if he had green pajamas.
Mortimer digested Sterling's words, lifted his eyebrows, and looked at Gaylor. He started nodding his head. Habit. “It's come to my attention that these men are part of a hate group,” Mortimer finally said.
“They call themselves the WLA,” Sterling said. “The White Liberation Army. Their ideas aren't much more creative than their name.”
“But they are the prime suspects?”
“The only suspects. And for me that's a problem. Their motivation isn't strong enough.”
“But whoever killed Wilson did have a racial motive. It certainly wasn't anything as simple as robbery.”
“The racial angle is superficial. That's what the killer wants us to believe.”
“You're not convinced.” Mortimer sounded disappointed.
“Not at all. This race angle is a distraction. Nothing more. We've questioned these men and their cohorts for the better part of two days now, and they've given us nothing but their radical ideas of white liberation and protecting the Constitution. No real reason to believe they killed my brother.”
“But it's no secret Gatlin is a murderer,” Gaylor interjected. “If he's killed once, what makes you so sure he wouldn't kill again?”
“I didn't say that he wouldn't,” Sterling said. “But if I were a betting man, that's not where I'd stack my chips. Preaching hate is much different than committing cold-blooded murder. The killer knew the exact time Wilson would be heading home that night.”
“Is that what the evidence shows?” Mortimer asked.
“It's not about the evidence,” Sterling said. “Pattern. Most murders aren't random acts of violence. There's almost always an established link between the murderer and his victims.”
“That's exactly what you have with this hate group,” Mortimer pressed.
Sterling shook his head, reminding himself to be patient. “There are a lot of questions that have to be answered before I believe those men killed Wilson.”
Mortimer raised his furry eyebrows till they met in the middle of his forehead.
“To start, why would they decide to commit a murder after all these years of harmless barn rallies and misspelled flyers?” Sterling said. “And why Wilson, a prominent and beloved professor living thirty miles away?”
“He just won that award,” Mortimer offered. “Lots of money. All the papers carried the story.”
“But they didn't want the money. They didn't steal anything. They could've taken his car, his wallet, anything. Besides, if they were kidnapping him to get the money, why kill him?”
Mortimer exchanged blank stares with Gaylor.
“To believe the WLA could kill my brother you'd have to believe they knew specific details. They had to know exactly when Wilson left your party and the route he'd be taking to get home. Those men who ambushed Wilson on River Road either killed him or knew who d
id.”
“That would seem like a pretty easy thing to do,” Mortimer offered. “They found Wilson's address in the white pages. After that, it's not hard to figure out the fastest way to his home from the campus is across Ledyard Bridge and up River Road. The only other route into Norwich would mean driving an extra fifteen minutes. So they guess he takes the shortest route. It's not rocket science.” Mortimer either thought quickly on the fly or had already given these possibilities some serious consideration before he called the meeting. Sterling was inclined to believe the latter.
“Agreed,” Sterling said. “But beyond that, whoever killed Wilson knew his exact movements. The timing had to be perfect.”
“What makes you say that?” Gaylor asked.
“Not many cars travel River Road at that time of night, but there would be enough for at least one person to notice the truck on the side of the road. And the rain was coming down pretty hard. Certainly someone would've stopped to offer these men some help.”
“I'd agree with that,” Mortimer said. “People here in the Upper Valley are quite willing to help their neighbors.”
“And that's exactly why no one has called us about seeing the truck that night.”
“I don't understand,” Gaylor said, wrinkling his face into a scowl.
“If someone had seen that truck or offered help, certainly they would've called in a tip by now. But no one has called. Not a single person. No prank callers or even mistaken identities. Highly unusual for such a prominent murder. I don't believe anyone saw the truck except for Wilson, because it wasn't there when other cars passed. Those men put that truck in position only at the precise time they knew Wilson would be heading over the bridge. Wilson's murder was almost perfect—excellent timing, no prints left at the scene, and no witnesses. Whoever did this knew a lot about crime. Sorry, but a ragtag group of beer guzzlers and hatemongers like the WLA doesn't fit.”
“What about the branded eagle?” Mortimer asked.