Armonde’s little Fiat came up the driveway, its headlights illuminating the scene, and slid to a halt. A second later a dark Mercedes pulled in behind it, and two men jumped out before Armonde could do a thing.
The Fiat’s door started to come open as one of the men reached the car, and he raised his right hand.
“Armand,” Elizabeth cried at the same moment three silenced shots were fired into the Fiat.
Scherchen grabbed Elizabeth’s arm and shoved her up inside the truck and slammed the door, locking it behind her.
Chapter 38
Clouds had rolled in and it had begun to drizzle when the blue and white Swiss Regional Police car pulled off the highway just north of the road to Estavayer-le-lac. Rain glistened on the leaves, and puddled on the gravel driveway into the truck turnaround.
As part of their routine patrol they usually checked this place once or twice on a shift. This was their first sweep for the evening.
“Looks like headlights,” Adler Boll said as they came slowly around the curve. “There,”
he said.
His partner, Thoma Grillparzer, rolled down the window on the passenger side, switched on the spotlight, and shined it toward the gray Fiat sedan. Immediately they could see that something was wrong, and Boll stopped five yards away.
The driver’s window was shattered, and what looked like a great deal of blood had splashed up against the inside of the windscreen and the passenger side window.
Boll snatched the communications radio handset, and keyed the push-to-talk switch.
“Central Control, this is unit one-seven-green.”
“One-seven-green, roger.”
“We have a possible homicide scene, request immediate backup.”
“Rolling. Say location.”
Grillparzer got out of the car and drew his service revolver.
“Hold on and I’ll cover you,” Boll said, and he quickly radioed their location and the exact situation as they knew it at that moment. The only other vehicle in the rest area was a sixteen-wheel truck parked and dark fifty yards away.
Boll got out of the patrol car, and drew his revolver. He remained in a protected position behind the car as his partner approached the Fiat still brightly illuminated by the spotlight.
“One man down in the front seat,” Grillparzer shouted back. “There’s a lot of blood.
Looks like one or more head wounds. Deep.”
“Any movement?” Boll yelled.
“No,” Grillparzer said. “Wait, wait! Mother of God, I think he’s still alive.”
Boll rushed across to the Fiat as his partner holstered his weapon and hurried around to the passenger side where he yanked open the door.
“Fingerprints…
Boll said, but the word died on his lips. The victim had been shot at least twice: Once in the forehead and once in the side of the head just above his left ear. He was slumped across the gearshift lever, his head and upper body resting on the passenger seat. His eyes were fluttering and he was trying to speak, but his voice was very weak.
Grillparzer looked up.
“Backup units are on the way,” Boll said. “They’ll be sending an ambulance.”
Grillparzer took off his cap and leaned inside the small car. “We’re police. An ambulance is coming. Can you hear me? Who did this to you?”
Boll suddenly recognized the man. He’d seen him often in Estavayer-le-lac. He was an instructor at the Design School. Armand something.
“A truck?” Grillparzer asked. “A white truck?”
Boll’s eyes immediately went to the truck parked farther up the driveway. It was gray, not white.
“Elizabeth who?” Grillparzer asked. He looked up again. “There’s been a kidnapping.
Elizabeth someone. Whoever did it, shot him.”
It was well after eleven by the time the crime scene was secured and Bern Chief Investigator Yvonne Coquillat came over to speak with Boll and Grillparzer. They were tall, atheletically built men, while she was short and slight. But she had a tough reputation. Both officers were respectful.
“We’re nearly finished here,” she said. “As soon as the evidence van leaves, you can return to your duties.”
“Will you need our reports tonight?” Boll asked.
“In the morning will be soon enough,” the chief investigator said. “Unless there’s anything you might have remembered in the past hour?”
Grillparzer shook his head. “Anything on the white truck yet?”
“We’ve put out an APB, but so far as I’ve heard there’s been no sign of it so far.”
“What about Armonde?” Boll asked. He’d remembered the instructor’s last name.
The chief investigator shook her head. “He died enroute to the hospital. The medics said his wounds were too massive. Sorry.”
“Yes, madam,” Boll said.
“Well, you can leave in a few minutes,” the chief investigator said, and she started to turn away, but suddenly stopped dead. She turned back, her eyes narrowed. “What did you say?” she asked.
Boll was confused. He shook his head. “I’m sorry?”
“About the gunshot victim. You used his name.”
“Yes.”
“You know him?”
“Yes,” Boll said, realizing he was in trouble. The evidence team had identified the dead man from his papers. He hadn’t thought to tell anyone that he slightly knew the victim. “I believe he was an instructor at the design poly.”
“Here?” she asked. “Just down the road?”
“Yes.”
“Why in heaven’s name didn’t you say something?” the chief investigator demanded.
“I didn’t think it was important that I personally knew him…
“Where is your brain? He got himself killed by stumbling into the middle of an apparent kidnapping.” She shook her head in exasperation. “I’m going down to the school. Get in your unit and follow me.”
“Madam?” Boll asked.
“The man mentioned a woman’s name. Elizabeth. Now that we know he was an instructor at the school, we might reasonably suppose that Elizabeth is a fellow instructor, or perhaps a student. In any case, we have a lead!”
It was three o’clock in the morning when the bedside telephone of Swiss Federal Police Supervisor Johann Meuller rang, dragging him out of a deep sleep.
His wife stirred beside him as he picked it up. “Yes?” he mumbled.
“Terribly sorry to bother you at such an hour, sir, but something has come in that I thought you would like to know about immediately.”
It was Brent Wylie, Mueller’s number two, a no-nonsense cop who had worked his way into the Federal Police by dint of brilliant and tireless effort. He’d never been given to making statements lightly.
Meuller switched on his table lamp and sat up, his sleepiness leaving him instantly.
“Yes, what it is?”
“It’s about Kirk McGaryey.”
“Is he back?” Mueller asked angrily. Marta Fredricks had been like a daughter to him. He’d never forgiven McGarvey for making her fall in love, and his enmity had grown when she’d been killed in the crash of flight 145.
“Not yet, but he’ll probably be coming.”
“Don’t be cryptic, Brent. What are you talking about?”
“Sorry, sir. You know that McGarvey’s daughter, Elizabeth, currently attends the Bern Design Poly in Estavayer-le-lac?”
“Yes.”
“Apparently she was kidnapped last night,” Wylie said.
“Gott in himmel” Mueller muttered. “By whom, someone trying to get to her father?”
“It’s unknown at this point. But it’s worse than that.”
“It can’t be.”
“Evidently the girl’s mother was visiting the school, and she was taken along with her daughter.”
“McGarvey’s ex-wife?”