Shut Your Eyes Tight (Dave Gurney, No. 2): A Novel (10 page)

“The body was visible from the doorway?” asked Gurney.

“Oh, yeah, it was visible all right.”

H
ardwick heaved himself up from the couch, rubbed his face roughly with both hands like a man trying to get himself fully awake after a night of bad dreams.

“Any chance you might have a cold bottle of beer in the house?”

“Not at the moment,” said Gurney.

“Not at the moment? Fuck does that mean? Not at the moment, but maybe in a minute or two an icy Heineken might materialize in front of me?”

Gurney noted that whatever fleeting vulnerability the man had just experienced at his recollection of what he’d seen four months ago was now gone.

“So,” Gurney went on, ignoring the beer diversion, “the body was observable from the doorway?”

Hardwick walked over to the den window that looked out on the back pasture. The northern sky was dusky gray. As he spoke, he gazed out in the direction of the high ridge that led to the old bluestone quarry.

“The body was sitting in a chair at a small square table in the front room, six feet from the entry door.” He grimaced, as one might at the smell of a skunk. “As I said, the
body
was sitting at the table. But the head was not on the body. The head was on the table in a pool of blood. On the table, facing the body, still wearing the tiara you saw in the video.”

He paused, as if to ensure the accurate ordering of details. “The cottage had three rooms—the front room and, behind it, a small kitchen and a small bedroom—plus a tiny bathroom and a closet
off the bedroom. Wood floors, no rugs, nothing on the walls. Apart from the substantial amount of blood on and around the body, there were a few drops of blood toward the back of the room near the bedroom doorway and a few more drops near the bedroom window, which was wide open.”

“Escape route?” asked Gurney.

“No doubt about that. Partial footprint in the soil outside the window.” Hardwick turned from the den window and gave Gurney one of his obnoxiously sly looks. “That’s where it gets interesting.”

“The facts, Jack, just the facts. Spare me the coy bullshit.”

“Luntz had called the sheriff’s department because they had the nearest K-9 team, and they got to Ashton’s estate about five minutes after I did. The dog picks up a scent from a pair of Flores’s boots and races straight out through the woods like the trail is red hot. But he stops all of a sudden a hundred and fifty yards from the cottage—sniffing, sniffing, sniffing around in a pretty tight circle, and he stops and barks right on top of the weapon, which turned out to be a razor-sharp machete. But here’s the thing—after he found the machete, he couldn’t pick up any scent leading away from it. Handler led him around in a small circle, then a wider circle—kept at it for half an hour—but it was no good. The only trail the dog could find led from the back window of the cottage to the machete, nowhere else.”

“This machete was just lying out there on the ground?” asked Gurney.

“It had some leaves and loose dirt kicked over the blade, like a half-assed attempt had been made to conceal it.”

Gurney pondered this for a few seconds. “No doubt about it being the murder weapon?”

Hardwick looked surprised by the question. “Zero doubt. Victim’s blood still on it. Perfect DNA match. Also supported by the ME’s report.” Hardwick’s tone switched to one of rote repetition of something he’d said many times before. “Death caused by the severing of both carotid arteries and the spinal column between the cervical vertebrae C1 and C2 as the result of a chopping blow by a sharp, heavy blade, delivered with great force. Damage to neck tissues and vertebrae consistent with the machete discovered in
the wooded area adjacent to the crime scene. So,” said Hardwick, switching back to his normal tone, “zero doubt. DNA is DNA.”

Gurney nodded slowly, absorbing this.

Hardwick continued, adding a familiar touch of provocation. “The only open question about that particular spot in the woods is why the trail stopped there, kind of like the trail at the Mellery crime scene that just—”

“Hold on a second, Jack. There’s a big difference between the visible boot prints we found at Mellery’s place and an invisible scent trail.”

“Fact is, they both ended in the middle of nowhere with no explanation.”

“No, Jack,” Gurney snapped, “the fact is, there was a perfectly good explanation for the boot prints—just as there will be a perfectly good, but entirely different, explanation for your scent problem.”

“Ah, Davey boy, that’s what always impressed me about you: your omniscience.”

“You know, I always believed you were smarter than you pretended to be. Now I’m not so sure.”

Hardwick’s smirk conveyed a sense of satisfaction with Gurney’s irritation. He switched to a new tone, all innocence and earnest curiosity. “So what do you think happened? How could Flores’s scent trail just end like that?”

Gurney shrugged. “Changed his shoes? Put plastic bags over his feet?”

“Why the hell would he do that?”

“Maybe to create the problem the dog ended up having? Make it impossible to track him wherever he went next, wherever he went to hide out?”

“Like Kiki Muller’s house?”

“I heard that name on the tape. Isn’t she the one who—”

“Who Flores was supposedly screwing. Right. Lived next door to Ashton. Wife of Carl Muller, marine engineer who was away on a ship half the time. Kiki was never seen after the day Flores disappeared, presumably not a coincidence.”

Gurney leaned back on the couch, mulling this over, having trouble with a piece of it. “I can understand why Flores might take
precautions to keep from being tracked to a neighbor’s house or wherever he was actually going, but why wouldn’t he do that before he left the cottage? Why in the woods? Why after he went out and hid the machete and not before?”

“Maybe he wanted to get out of the cottage ASAP?”

“Maybe. Or maybe he wanted us to find the machete?”

“Then why bury it?”

“You mean half bury it. Didn’t you say that only the blade was covered with dirt?”

Hardwick smiled. “Interesting questions. Definitely worth pursuing.”

“And one other thing,” said Gurney. “Has anyone verified where either of the Mullers was at the time of the murder?”

“We know that Carl was chief engineer on a commercial fishing boat about fifty miles off Montauk that whole week. But we couldn’t find anyone who’d seen Kiki the day of the murder, or the day before for that matter.”

“That mean anything to you?”

“Not a damn thing. Very private kind of community—at least at Ashton’s end of the road. Minimum property size is ten acres, private kind of people, not likely to hang out at the back fence and shoot the shit, probably be considered rude up there to say hello without an invitation.”

“Do we know if anyone saw her anytime after her husband left for Montauk?”

“Seems nobody did, but …” Hardwick shrugged, reiterating that not being seen by your neighbors in Tambury was the rule, not the exception.

“And the guests at the reception, their locations were all accounted for during ‘the critical fourteen minutes’ you referred to?”

“Yep. Day after the murder, I went thorough the video personally, accounted for the whereabouts of every guest for every minute the victim was in that cottage—with our encouraging captain telling me I was wasting time that I should be spending searching the woods for Hector Flores. Who the hell knows, maybe numbnuts was right for once. Of course, if I’d ignored the video and it later turned out … well, you know what the little
shithead
is like.” He hissed the
obscenity through tightened lips. “What are you looking at me like that for?”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m crazy.”

“You
are
crazy,” said Gurney lightly. He was also thinking that during the ten months since they’d been involved in the Mellery case, Hardwick’s attitude toward Captain Rod Rodriguez had for some reason progressed from contemptuous to venomous.

“Maybe I am,” said Hardwick, as much to himself as to Gurney. “Seems to be the general consensus.” He turned and stared out the den window again. It was darker now, the northern ridge nearly black against a slate sky.

Gurney wondered: Was Hardwick, uncharacteristically, inviting a personal discussion? Did he have a problem that he might actually be willing to talk about?

Whatever personal door might have been ajar was quickly closed. Hardwick pivoted on his heel, the sardonic spark back in his eye. “There’s a question about the fourteen minutes. Might not be exactly fourteen. I’d like to get your omniscient perspective.” He came away from the window, sat on the arm of the couch farthest from Gurney, spoke to the coffee table as though it were a communications channel between them. “No doubt about the point when the clock starts running. When Jillian walked into the cottage, she was alive. Nineteen minutes later, when Ashton opened the door, she was sitting at the table in two pieces.” He wrinkled his nose and added, “Each piece in its own private puddle of blood.”

“Nineteen? Not fourteen?”

“Fourteen takes it back to the point when the catering girl knocked and got no answer. Reasonable assumption would be that the victim didn’t answer because the victim was already dead.”

“But not necessarily?”

“Not necessarily, because at that point she might have been taking orders from Flores with a machete in his hand, telling her to keep her mouth shut.”

Gurney thought about it, pictured it.

“You got a preference?” asked Hardwick.

“Preference?”

“You think she got the big slice before or after the fourteen-minute mark?”

The big slice?
Gurney sighed, knowing the routine: Hardwick being outrageous, his audience wincing. Probably been going on all his life, the shock-jock clown—a style reinforced by the prevailing cynicism in the world of law enforcement, deepening and souring as he aged, concentrated by career problems and bad chemistry with his boss.

“So?” Hardwick prodded. “Which is it?”

“Almost certainly before the first knock on the door. Probably quite a bit before. Most likely within a minute or two of her entering the cottage.”

“Why?”

“The sooner he did it, the more time he’d have to escape before her body was discovered. The more time he’d have to get rid of the machete, to do whatever he did to keep the dogs from following the trail any farther, to get to where he was going before the neighborhood was flooded with cops.”

Hardwick looked skeptical, but not more so than usual—it had become the natural set of his features. “You’re assuming this was all conducted according to plan, all premeditated?”

“That would be my take on it. You see it differently?”

“There are problems either way.”

“For instance?”

Hardwick shook his head. “First, give me your argument for premeditation.”

“The position of the head.”

Hardwick’s mouth twitched. “What about it?”

“The way you described it—facing the body, tiara in place. It sounds like a deliberate arrangement that meant something to the killer or was intended to mean something to someone else. Not a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

Hardwick looked like he had a touch of acid reflux. “Problem with premeditation is that going into the cottage was the victim’s idea. How would Flores know she was going to do that?”

“How do you know she hadn’t discussed it with him beforehand?”

“She told Ashton she just wanted to talk Flores into joining the wedding toast.”

Gurney smiled, waited for Hardwick to think about what he was saying.

Hardwick cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You think that was bullshit? That she had some other reason for going into the cottage? That Flores had set her up earlier with some line of shit and she was lying to Ashton about the wedding-toast thing? Those are big assumptions, based on nothing.”

“If the murder was premeditated, something along those lines must have happened.”

“But if it wasn’t premeditated?”

“Nonsense, Jack. This wasn’t an impulse. It was a message. I don’t know who the recipient was or what it meant. But it was definitely a message.”

Hardwick made another acid-reflux face but didn’t argue. “Speaking of messages, we found an odd one on the victim’s cell phone—a text message sent to her an hour before she was killed. It said, ‘For all the reasons I have written.’ According to the phone company, the message came from Flores’s phone, but it was signed ‘Edward Vallory.’ That name mean anything to you?”

“Not a thing.” The room had grown dark, and they could hardly see each other at opposite ends of the couch. Gurney switched on the end-table lamp beside him.

Hardwick rubbed his face again, hard, with the palms of both hands. “Before I forget, I wanted to mention a small oddity I observed at the scene and was reminded of in the ME’s report. Might not mean anything, but … the blood on the body itself, the torso, it was all on the far side.”

“Far side?”

“Yeah, the side away from where Flores would have been standing when he swung the machete.”

“Your point being?”

“Well, you know … you know how you just kind of absorb what you’re seeing at a homicide scene? And you start to picture what it
was that someone did that would account for things being the way they are?”

Gurney shrugged. “Sure. It’s automatic. That’s what we do.”

“Well, I’m looking at how the blood from the carotids all went down the far side of her body, despite the fact that the torso was sitting up straight, kind of supported by the chair arms, and I’m wondering
why
. I mean, there’s an artery on each side, so how come all the blood went one way?”

“And what did you picture happening?”

Hardwick bared his teeth in a quick flinch of distaste. “I pictured Flores grabbing her by the hair with one hand and swinging that machete full force with the other right through her neck—which is pretty much what the ME says must have happened.”