Think Of a Number (2010) (32 page)

“Making progress?”

“Major progress. Thanks to you.”

“My Great-Aunt Mimi had peonies,” she said.

“Which one was Mimi?”

“My father’s mother’s sister,” she said, not quite concealing her exasperation at the fact that a man so adept at juggling the details of the most complex investigation couldn’t remember half a dozen family relationships. “Your dinner is ready.”

“Well, actually …”

“It’s on the stove. Don’t forget about it.”

“You’re going out?”

“Yes.”

“Where to?”

“I’ve told you about it twice in the past week.”

“I remember something about Thursday. The details …”

“ … escape you at the moment? Nothing new there. See you later.”

“You’re not going to tell me where …?”

Her footsteps were already receding through the kitchen to the back door.

There was no phone listing for Richard Kartch at 349 Quarry Road in Sotherton, but an Internet map search of contiguous addresses turned up names and phone numbers for 329 and 369.

The thick male voice that finally answered the call to 329 monosyllabically denied knowing anyone by the name of Kartch, knowing which house on the street 349 might be, or even knowing how long he himself had lived in the area. He sounded half comatose on alcohol or opiates, was probably lying as a matter of habit, and was clearly not going to be of any help.

The woman at 369 Quarry Road was more talkative.

“You mean the hermit?” Her way of saying it gave the epithet a creepy pathology.

“Mr. Kartch lives alone?”

“Oh, indeed he does, unless you count the rats his garbage attracts. His wife was lucky to escape. I’m not surprised you’re calling—you said you’re a police officer?”

“Special investigator with the district attorney’s office.” He knew that he ought, in the interest of full disclosure, to mention the state and county of jurisdiction, but he rationalized that the details could be filled in later.

“What’s he done now?”

“Nothing that I’m aware of, but he may be able to help with an investigation, and we need to get in touch with him. Would you happen to know where he works or what time he gets home from work?”

“Work? That’s a joke!”

“Is Mr. Kartch unemployed?”

“Try unemployable.” There was venom in her voice.

“You seem to have a real problem with him.”

“He’s a pig, he’s stupid, he’s dirty, he’s dangerous, he’s crazy, he stinks, he’s armed to the teeth, and he’s usually drunk.”

“Sounds like quite a neighbor.”

“The neighbor from hell! Do you have any idea what it’s like trying to show your home to a prospective buyer while the shirtless, beer-swilling ape next door blasts holes in a garbage can with his shotgun?”

Knowing what the answer was likely to be, he decided to ask his next question, anyway. “Would you be willing to give Mr. Kartch a message for me?”

“Are you kidding? All I’d be willing to give him is the sharp end of a stick.”

“When would he be most likely to be at home?”

“Pick a time, any time. I’ve never seen that lunatic leave his property.”

“Is there a visible house number?”

“Hah! You don’t need any number to recognize the house. It wasn’t finished when his wife left—still isn’t. No siding. No lawn. No steps to the front door. The perfect house for a total nutcase. Whoever goes there better bring a gun.”

Gurney thanked her and ended the conversation.

Now what?

Various individuals needed to be brought up to speed. First and foremost, Sheridan Kline. And, of course, Randy Clamm. Not to mention Captain Rodriguez and Jack Hardwick. The question was whom to call first. He decided they could all wait another few minutes. Instead he got the number of the Sotherton, Massachusetts, police department from information.

He spoke to the duty sergeant, a gravelly man by the name of Kalkan, kind of like the dog food. After identifying himself, Gurney explained that a Sotherton man by the name of Richard Kartch was a person of interest in a New York State murder investigation, that he might be in imminent danger, that he apparently had no phone, and that it was important that a phone be brought to him, or he brought to a phone, so that he could be warned about his situation.

“We’re familiar with Richie Kartch,” said Kalkan.

“Sounds like you may have had problems with him.”

Kalkan didn’t answer.

“He has a record?”

“Who did you say you were?”

Gurney told him again, with a little more detail.

“And this is part of your investigation of what?”

“Two murders—one in upstate New York, one in the Bronx—same pattern. Before they were killed, both victims received certain communications from the killer. We have evidence that Kartch has received at least one of those same communications, making him a possible third target.”

“So you want Crazy Richie to get in touch with you?”

“He needs to call me immediately, preferably in the presence of one of your officers. After speaking with him on the phone, we’ll probably want a follow-up interview with him in Sotherton—with the cooperation of your department.”

“We’ll send a car out to his place as soon as we can. Give me a number where you can be reached.”

Gurney gave him his cell number in order to leave the house phone free for the calls he intended to make to Kline, BCI, and Clamm.

Kline was gone for the day, as was Ellen Rackoff, and the call was automatically rerouted to a phone that was answered on the sixth ring as Gurney was about to hang up.

“Stimmel.”

Gurney remembered the man who’d come with Kline to the BCI meeting, the man with the personality of a mute war criminal.

“It’s Dave Gurney. I have a message for your boss.”

There was no response.

“You there?”

“I’m here.”

Gurney figured that was as near an invitation to proceed as he was going to get. So he went ahead and gave Stimmel the evidence confirming the link between murders one and two; the discovery, through Dermott, of a third potential victim; and the steps he was taking through the Sotherton PD to reach him. “You got all that?”

“Got it.”

“After you inform the DA, you want to pass the information along to BCI, or shall I speak with Rodriguez directly?”

There was a short silence during which Gurney assumed that the dour, unforthcoming man was calculating the consequences both
ways. Knowing the penchant for control built into most cops, he was about 90 percent sure he’d get the answer he finally got.

“We’ll handle it,” said Stimmel.

Having disposed of the need to call BCI, Gurney was left with Randy Clamm.

As usual, he answered on the first ring.

“Clamm.”

And as usual, he sounded like he was in a hurry and doing three other things as he spoke. “Glad you called. Just making a triple list of gaps in Rudden’s checking account—check stubs with amounts but no names, checks issued but not cashed, check numbers skipped—going from most recent backwards.”

“The amount $289.87 appear on any of your lists?”

“What? How’d you know that? It’s one of the ‘checks issued but not cashed.’ How did you …?”

“It’s the amount he always asks for.”

“Always? You mean more than twice?”

“A third check was sent to the same post-office box. We’re in the process of getting in touch with the sender. That’s why I’m calling—to let you know we have an ongoing pattern here. If the pieces of the pattern hold, the slug you’re looking for in the Rudden bungalow is a .38 Special.”

“Who’s the third guy?”

“Richard Kartch, Sotherton, Mass. Apparently a difficult character.”

“Massachusetts? Jesus, our boy’s all over the place. This third guy’s still alive?”

“We’ll know in a few minutes. Local PD sent a car to his house.”

“Okay. I’d appreciate your letting me know whatever you can whenever you can. I’ll make some more noise about getting our evidence team back to the Ruddens’. I’ll keep you posted. Thanks for the call, sir.”

“Good luck. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Gurney’s respect for the young detective was growing. The more he heard, the more he liked what he was hearing—energy, intelligence,
dedication. And something else. Something earnest and unspoiled. Something that touched his heart.

He shook his head like a dog shaking off water and took several deep breaths. The day, he thought, must have been more emotionally draining than he’d realized. Or perhaps some residue of his dream about his father was still with him. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

He was awakened by the phone, mistaking it at first for his alarm clock. He found himself still in his den chair, with a painfully stiff neck. According to his watch, he’d been asleep for nearly two hours. He picked up the phone and cleared his throat.

“Gurney.”

The DA’s voice on the other end burst like a horse from the starting gate.

“Dave, I just got the news. God, this thing just keeps getting bigger. A third potential victim in Massachusetts? This could be the biggest damn murder case since Son of Sam, not to mention your own Jason Strunk. This is big! I just want to hear it from your own lips, before I talk to the media: We do have hard evidence that the same guy whacked the first two victims, is that right?”

“The evidence strongly suggests that, sir.”

“Suggests?”

“Strongly suggests.”

“Could you be more definite?”

“We don’t have fingerprints. We don’t have DNA. I’d say it’s definite that the cases are connected, but we can’t prove yet that the same individual cut both throats.”

“The probability is high?”

“Very high.”

“Your judgment on that is good enough for me.”

Gurney smiled at this transparent pretense of trust. He knew damn well that Sheridan Kline was the sort of man who valued his own judgment far above anyone else’s but would always leave a door open for blame shifting in case a situation went south.

“I’d say it’s time to talk to our friends at Fox News—which means I need to touch base with BCI tonight and put together a statement. Keep me up to the minute on this, Dave, especially any developments on the Massachusetts angle. I want to know everything.” Kline hung up without bothering to say good-bye.

So apparently he was planning to go public in a big way—rev up a media circus with himself as the ringmaster—before it occurred to the Bronx DA, or to the DA in any other jurisdiction where the murder spree might spread, to seize the personal publicity opportunity. Gurney’s lips drew back in distaste as he imagined the press conferences to come.

“Are you all right?”

Startled at the voice so close to him, he looked up and saw Madeleine at the den door.

“Jesus, how the hell …?”

“You were so engrossed in your conversation you didn’t hear me come in.”

“Apparently not.” Blinking, he looked at his watch. “So where did you go?”

“Remember what I said on my way out?”

“You said you wouldn’t tell me where you were going.”

“I said I’d already told you twice.”

“Okay, fine. Well, I have work to do.”

As if it were his ally, the phone rang.

The call was from Sotherton, but it wasn’t from Richard Kartch. It was from a detective by the name of Gowacki.

“We got a situation,” he said. “How soon do you think you can get here?”

B
y the time Gurney got off the phone with the flat-voiced Mike Gowacki, it was nine-fifteen. He found Madeleine already in bed, propped against her pillows, with a book.
War and Peace
. She’d been reading it for three years, shuttling back and forth between it and, incongruously, Thoreau’s
Walden
.

“I have to head out to a crime scene.”

She looked up at him from the book—curious, worried, lonely.

He felt able to respond only to the curiosity. “Another male victim. Stabbed in the throat, footprints in the snow.”

“How far?”

“What?”

“How far do you have to go?”

“Sotherton, Massachusetts. Three, four hours, maybe.”

“So you won’t be back until sometime tomorrow.”

“For breakfast, I hope.”

She smiled her who-do-you-think-you’re-kidding? smile.

He started to leave, then stopped and sat on the edge of the bed. “This is a strange case,” he said, letting his unsureness about it come through. “Getting stranger by the day.”

She nodded, somehow placated. “You don’t think it’s your standard serial killer?”

“Not the standard version, no.”

“Too much communication with the victims?”

“Yes. And too much diversity among the victims—personally and geographically. Typical serial killer doesn’t bounce around from the Catskills to the East Bronx to the middle of Massachusetts pursuing famous authors, retired night watchmen, and nasty loners.”

“They must have something in common.”

“They all have drinking histories, and the evidence indicates the killer is focused on that issue. But they must have something else in common—otherwise why go to the trouble of choosing victims two hundred miles apart from one another?”

They fell silent. Gurney absently smoothed wrinkles out of the quilt in the space between them. Madeleine watched him for a while, her hands resting on her book.

“I better get going,” he said.

“Be careful.”

“Right.” He rose slowly, almost arthritically. “See you in the morning.”

She looked at him with an expression he could never put into words, couldn’t even say if it was good or bad, but he knew it well. He felt its almost physical touch in the center of his chest.

I
t was well after midnight when he exited from the Mass. Turnpike and one-thirty when he drove through the deserted main street of Sotherton. Ten minutes later, on the rutted lane called Quarry Road, he arrived at a haphazard assembly of police vehicles, one of which had its strobes flashing. He pulled in alongside it. As he got out of his car, an irritated-looking uniformed cop emerged from the light machine.

“Hold it. Where do you think you’re going?” He sounded not only irritated but exhausted.