by Ian Smith
“Interesting, but inconclusive. Anyone could've done that. It led us to Norkin and Gatlin, but it doesn't make a case.”
The three men sat in silence for a moment before Mortimer cleared his throat. “How much longer do you think all of this will take?” he asked.
“This isn't a term paper, President Mortimer. Murder investigations don't operate on deadlines. They operate on evidence and facts.”
“I've been getting a lot of calls from our trustees,” Mortimer said. “There's a growing concern about how people are perceiving the school. Most parents and their children are drawn to the college because of our excellent faculty. But we also know that the area's safety and comfort factor in heavily when they make their decisions. It's why some of them choose us over the urban Ivies like Yale and Columbia.” Mortimer had a way of making “urban” sound like a bad word.
Sterling stood and glared down at Mortimer. “With all due respect, Wally, I don't give a goddamn about this school's reputation and your trust-fund prodigies. Tell your trustees there's a murder investigation going on, and I'm not leaving till I've got the killers. The WLA is about as guilty of murdering my brother as your little bubbly receptionist sitting up front. The real killers knew Wilson's plan that night, and they knew it down to the second. And I'm starting to believe that whoever did this didn't do it alone. They had help on the inside.”
24
Sterling was too dizzy with anger to return to the pit. He needed some quiet time before he did something he might regret. Dr. Lieteau would be proud of his decision. Anger management, she called it. Then he heard the director's warning. Be careful, Sterling. And for Chrissake keep a level head.
He walked back across the green and reclaimed the Mustang from in front of the Hop. He thought about grabbing a deli sandwich but instead steered the car toward Ledyard Bridge. He could fix something back at the house or maybe order a pizza—if they even had delivery service so far from civilization.
He drove down the long driveway, slowly so that he could appreciate the splendor of Wilson's creation. He remembered what Kay had whispered to him his first night there. Wilson always took his time coming up the driveway. It gave him more time to appreciate the house as he approached. I would never let him take all the credit, but he really designed it himself, all the way down to the door handles in the bathroom.
And it really was a thing of beauty, the way the narrow row of trees lining the driveway slowly opened up to the full expanse of the house. The length of the driveway and the positioning of the house had been measured perfectly, making the house grow bigger every twenty feet, each spire and window coming into view the closer you approached. Maximal effect. The house was enormous by any standards, but revealing it gradually like this made it an architectural wonder. Damn him, Sterling thought. Was there anything Wilson couldn't do?
A white station wagon taxi was sitting out front, its driver leaning out the window smoking. Sterling parked next to the garage and went inside. Three floral-print suitcases sat inside the foyer. He found Kay in the back of the house.
“I can't stay here any longer,” Kay said as he walked into the spacious family room. She was alone, sipping her coffee. The rest she had gotten these last couple of days agreed with her. Traces of pain were still there, but they were no longer etched so deeply in her face. “I see him in too many places,” she said. “He loved this house, Sterling.”
“Where are you going?”
“I'm flying to Chicago in a couple of hours. My parents still live there. I'll stay with them the next few months. They're getting old and could probably use some help around the house. It'll give me a chance to make up my mind about what I'll do next. I can't think here. Not right now. Too many emotions. Too much anger. Someone has ruined our lives and is still walking around free.”
“Everyone thinks those rednecks from Claremont did it,” Sterling said.
“But you don't. I can hear it in your voice.”
“Doesn't make a lot of sense to me. First of all, they're too damn convenient. Second, I don't buy the motive.”
“Did they know Wilson?”
“I don't think so. They'd heard about him from his awards and articles in the paper, but they didn't really know him.”
“After all these years we lived here,” Kay said. “Wilson dedicated his entire life to this school and the community. He loved it so much. And this is how he's taken away from us. Killed in the woods like some animal.” She shook her head hard and looked away.
“Was everything all right with Wilson?” Sterling asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Was his health all right?”
Kay shrugged. “Just out of shape. Wilson exercised with a fork more than anything else.” A soft smile escaped her face. It was the first since Wilson had been declared missing. “He did have a touch of high blood pressure. Wilson loved his salt.”
“How about arguments, conflicts?”
“None. Your brother avoided tense situations at all costs. He hated confrontation. He would tell me that the time people spent arguing and getting upset over silly things was time that was lost forever. He spent his time on good things.”
“Like what?”
“Other than teaching and working in the lab, Wilson loved to walk in the wilderness and videotape the animals. He'd have such a look of contentment when he came home.”
“I met with President Mortimer and Chief Gaylor. I get the feeling that Mortimer wants this to be over as soon as possible.”
“I'm not surprised,” Kay said. “Wally has always had one thing on his mind—Dartmouth. He'll do anything to protect the school's name.”
“But after twenty years of friendship, you'd expect more from him than worrying about satisfying a bunch of trustees. He's just lost the biggest name on his faculty and someone who supposedly meant a lot to him personally.”
“He's a complicated man,” Kay said. “It took many years for me to be comfortable around him. He's one of those people you feel like you never really know. He and Serena are made for each other. They're both very cold people, interested in their own things.”
“Did Wilson confide in him?”
Kay took a long swallow of coffee. “I'd be surprised if he did. Wilson was closest to Yuri Mandryka. He's been a mentor to Wilson since his grad days at Chicago.”
“Kay, I know you've gone over that night a hundred times, but I need you to focus on the party. I can't get a clear picture of that hour and a half that Wilson was there.”
“I don't really know much,” Kay said. “He left his lab about five thirty or so. Since he was the guest of honor, I thought he should be there early to greet people as they came in. The next I heard from him he was in the car and on his way home.”
“Did he say anything about the party that struck you as odd?”
“We only talked for a couple of minutes. He was surprised at the turnout. A friend of his had flown in from Stanford. Even Wilcox had come up from Harvard.”
“Wilcox?”
“Laurence Wilcox, the chairman of biology at Harvard. He's never forgiven Wilson for not accepting a position in the department. But Wilson loved it here. He didn't want to go down there and deal with all the politics.” Kay shook her head. “And that's all I know about the party.”
“Well, I was hoping he might've mentioned that something unusual happened. But maybe not.”
“Nothing that I remember.”
“That's what I figured,” Sterling said. “This hasn't been easy for me, Kay. There's so much that I needed to tell Wilson. So many things that happened between us that I wanted to explain.”
Kay put up her hand. “No matter what you guys had between you, Wilson loved you, Sterling. You need to know that.” Kay smiled gently, knowing nothing would bring back the only man she ever loved.
Standing barely an inch over five feet, Elmer Gallows was exactly what one would expect of a small-town mountain lawyer. No tie or even a blazer, instead a wrinkled button-d
own oxford and a pair of khakis whose hem needed to be let out at least two inches. His curly dark hair had been combed in every imaginable direction in a losing battle to hide his baldness. Everything about him was miniature, especially his small hands that always seemed to be moving. He walked into Wiley's cramped office and took a seat without being asked.
“What's on your mind, Lieutenant?” he asked.
Wiley stood and closed the door. Neither extended his hand.
“Off the record,” Wiley said, falling back into his chair.
Gallows nodded his head.
“I don't think your boy did it,” Wiley said.
“Good, that makes three of us. Now how do we convince everyone else?”
“Tensions are pretty high around here. Everyone down the hall is anxious to pin this on someone.”
“Even if it's the wrong person?”
Wiley half nodded. The answer was yes, but Wiley didn't want to admit to something like this even if it was off the record. The man sitting in front of him was still a lawyer.
“I've talked to Spriggins,” Wiley said. “He says they're clean.”
“How do you know Spriggins?”
“That's irrelevant. Let's just say we know of each other.” Wiley had met the legendary Jack Spriggins on several hunting trips the two had been part of many years ago. Spriggins not only looked tough at six foot four, but he walked and talked tough. And he had the best eye-hand coordination Wiley had ever seen in a hunter. “What's important is that Spriggins has made inquiries separate from ours and has turned up nothing.”
Gallows nodded his head, his tiny hands working hard on his collar. “Why are you telling me this, Lieutenant?”
“Because I want you to ask your client who he thinks might be out to get him. Maybe someone's setting him up, trying to settle an old score.”
“Why don't you ask him yourself? You sure as hell have had enough time.”
“Because you and I both know clients have a different version of the truth when it comes to talking to their lawyers.”
Gallows weighed Wiley's words, rolling his fingers in a small circular motion the entire time. “And if my client is able to help you, what will he get out of it?”
Wiley stood and opened the door, signaling the meeting was over. “A one-way ticket back to the hell he came from.”
Gallows started to say something, but instead shook his head in frustration before storming out of the office. His hands were still hard at work.
Sterling spent several hours flipping through his black book, trying to tie the loose ends together. For most of the investigation, he had attempted to figure out who would want Wilson dead. But now he was beginning to wonder if his scope had been too narrow. Had he spent too much time trying to find the guilt in others and not enough time exploring Wilson's actions that might have precipitated his murder? Anything at this point was possible—debts that had gone unpaid, a kidnapping attempt that had taken a deadly turn, even a vindictive student who had finally gotten revenge.
Then there was still the whole business with the WLA. Tex and Buzz were definitely innocent, but someone had gone to great lengths to implicate them. They had carved “nigger” into Wilson's chest and branded the diamond-eye eagle into his side. They knew that these clues would lead to the WLA.
What had happened at the party at the mansion that night—or better yet, was there someone there who wanted Wilson dead? The closer Sterling thought he was to figuring things out, the more questions surfaced that didn't have answers. He went into Wilson's study and read the copy of the will that Kay had left him. Kay had been named the primary beneficiary, receiving the bulk of the estate, including the house, cars, and other hard assets. Sterling was next in line, receiving the surprising sum of $3 million and Wilson's entire book collection, which included many signed first editions of best-selling novelists. Sterling felt guilty about Wilson's generosity.
Wilson left his Nobel and Devonshire medals and diplomas to the school with the stipulation that “they be displayed not prominently but honorably.” There were three other names on the list, none of which Sterling recognized. They would receive $25,000 apiece and small tokens such as minor pieces of art and the various electronic devices he had collected over the years.
Sterling found the entire affair of death and wills dizzying, so he climbed into bed early that night, a stranger in a big empty house full of a brother's spirit he had run from most of his life. He was tired, angry, and lonely, and he hoped a sound sleep would reenergize him. Before he turned off the lights, he looked across the room at a framed picture of Wilson and Kay on the dresser. They were standing on a bridge with a long, winding river and old buildings in the background. It had a European look, maybe London or Rome. How could two people be so much in love? Now, one cold night of evil had changed it all. Forever.
For the next hour he lay in darkness, staring out the window at nothing. The wind gently knocked against the window. Shadows of tangled tree limbs squirmed across the naked walls, looking like menacing monsters of untold horrors. Sterling fell asleep wondering about the agony Wilson must have felt knowing he was going to die only minutes from the safety of his home.
At first he thought it was part of his dream, but the second time he heard it, he opened his eyes and waited. Footsteps on the hardwood floor. They were steady. Cautious. Somewhere on the first floor. Sterling sat up in bed quickly and pulled his gun off the nightstand. He slipped into his sneakers, then eased the door open and moved quickly toward the staircase. There was definitely someone there. Something heavy like a box or a stack of books crashed to the floor. Then silence. Sterling snaked down the stairs. The noise had come from Wilson's study.
Just as he hit the last step, a gunshot exploded. He couldn't see who had fired it. He struggled to get his orientation, but before he could figure out what was happening, another shot boomed through the dark house. This one missed also, but he dropped to the ground and crawled to the other side of the stairwell. It had been a long time since someone had taken a shot at him—actually several years. He was working a case in Alabama and a gang member who had committed the murder circled back while they were walking through the crime scene and sprayed a round. One agent took a shot to the shoulder, while a lab tech took one to the spine. It didn't kill him, but severed three of his nerve roots and left him paralyzed below the waist.
“Who the hell is it?” Sterling yelled, aiming his gun at the invisible intruder. “What do you want here?”
No answer. A few moments of silence, then the thud of heavy footsteps heading down the hall in the opposite direction. Sterling stood and fired a couple of shots into the darkness, but the footsteps continued with the sound of crashing glass and overturned furniture. He cautiously ran after the fading footsteps, then heard a door swing open. The intruder was already out through the kitchen. By the time Sterling reached the door, he could hear an engine turn over, then the sound of rubber spitting rocks in the air. He ran down the steps. All that he could see was a dark figure speeding away on a motorcycle. The bike was too far away for Sterling to read the license plate.
He ran down the driveway and fired a couple more shots, but it was useless. The driver had escaped and the only thing left was the fading sound of a motorcycle engine roaring down River Road. Sterling stopped near the entrance of the property and bent over to catch his breath. He returned to the house and turned on every light before searching the study. It was immediately obvious the intruder had come for something specific. Wilson's desk drawers had all been opened, with papers and files spilling onto the floor. The top of the desk was a mess—pencils and pens strewn across the blotter, papers everywhere. An entire wall of books had been emptied on the hardwood floor.
Sterling opened the closet door. There wasn't much in it except for an old computer monitor, a filing cabinet that was largely empty, and a couple of overcoats hanging on hooks. It didn't look like it had been disturbed. Sterling wondered if the intruder had run away before he had
a chance to go through it. He reached up to the top shelf and blindly ran his hand along the paneling. He found an old baseball, a catcher's mitt, and an ancient pair of boxing gloves. Why did Wilson have these? Nothing else caught his attention.
Sterling locked all of the doors and windows, then went into the front living room and found a comfortable spot on the sofa—half sitting, half reclining. He rested his gun on a small end table within arm's reach, before quietly looking out the window into the empty shadows of night. Wilson's secret must not have been lost with his death. Whoever killed him still hadn't gotten what they were looking for.
25
Sterling rubbed off the film of sweat misting his watch crystal. His run completed, he stood in front of the house waiting for his breathing to return to normal again. He had shaved a full minute off his morning jog, a sign that his lungs were adjusting to the altitude and his legs were growing more comfortable with the hilly terrain. He raced into the house, took a quick shower, and changed before returning outside to rev up the Mustang. He wanted to grab a bagel and the New York Times before heading over to Professor Mandryka's lab.
The Bagel Basement was Hanover's most popular morning joint, inconspicuously situated in the basement of a two-story building on Allen Street, a small one-way path in the center of town. Grumpy Oscar Nederhoff lit the old cast-iron ovens at five every morning, and for the next twelve hours—long after Nederhoff had gone home for the day—the smell of freshly baked dough pulled in customers from miles around.
Sterling settled the Mustang in an empty parking lot behind the building and bounded down the stairs. A young woman in her late teens stood behind the counter filling the baskets with warm bagels. She had pink-and-green fluorescent hair with a big silver loop dangling from her nose. Her oversized clothes hung wrinkled and loose.
Sterling looked around at the early arrivals. An older man in a long trench coat sat at a corner table, reading the thin Valley News. He dipped his bagel in hot coffee, then nibbled it as he moved from one news item to the next. The woman sitting next to the window pored over what looked like a term paper, vigorously marking it with red ink. She had barely touched her poppy seed bagel, but the tall cup of coffee was almost finished.