“The striking thing about Tate was the combination of his God-given ability and the evil way he chose to use it. He was a natural athlete. Wiry, fast, incredibly strong. Fifty, sixty push-ups without breaking a sweat. Impervious to pain. I persuaded him to try out for the school wrestling program. I sensed there was too much ego in him, so I paired him up with a bigger, more experienced wrestler. The star of the team. The challenge brought out something frightening in Tate. He broke the bigger kid’s arm. And it wasn’t an accident. He knew what he was doing. He seemed to think it was funny.” Mason’s mouth tightened in an expression of contempt. “That’s partly what led to his detour into the juvenile justice system.”
“Partly?”
“There was an initial intervention by our guidance counselor, who happened to be a skilled therapist and, in the interest of full disclosure, my wife.” Mason produced an awkward smile. “Now my ex-wife.”
He straightened a stack of index cards on his desk before continuing. “Tate made what Linda considered to be threats on her life. They were vivid, detailed, and disgusting. She did not take that lightly. She had recordings of her sessions with him and filed an official complaint. Appropriate hearings were held, and Tate ended up spending six months in a juvenile detention facility. All this happened when he was barely fourteen years old.”
Gurney found nothing surprising in the age factor. He had no illusions about the so-called “innocence” of childhood. In his NYPD days, he’d investigated premeditated murders committed by kids a lot younger than fourteen. One gruesome assassination of five family members was carried out by an eight-year-old, whose calm stare—coming from an otherwise cherubic face—was more unnerving than that of any mob hit man.
“Was he close to anyone in school?”
Mason shook his head. “Tate’s evil streak was pretty near the surface. Even the rough kids kept their distance. The only one who seemed comfortable around him—odd as it may seem now—was Lori Strane, legal name Lorinda, now Mrs. Angus Russell.”
That got Gurney’s attention. “How do you mean, ‘comfortable’?”
“I’d see her talking to him, sometimes smiling. She definitely wasn’t afraid of him, not like everyone else was.”
“Interesting. What else can you tell me about her?”
“Nothing.”
“You said that very quickly.”
“Rumors are a form of social poison. I refuse to repeat them. Whatever I may have heard about her would fall in that category.”
“Like her relationship with your former principal?”
“No comment.”
“Okay. Just tell me what she was like, the way you might describe any other student. I’m not recording this, and I won’t quote you.”
Mason gazed off into the middle distance, as though he might be evaluating a tricky bit of terrain. He cleared his throat. “She was an astonishingly beautiful young woman. The boys were obsessed with her. I think half the men in Larchfield would have left their wives for her, if they thought they had a chance.”
Gurney smiled. “So, everyone was in love with the unique Lori Strane and scared to death of the unique Billy Tate.”
“That’s a reasonable summary.”
“Did Tate have any redeeming qualities?”
“None that I was aware of. I may be prejudiced due to the threats he made to my wife, but I can’t recall ever hearing a good word about his character or behavior.”
Mason joined his hands together on the desk in front of him, interlocking his fingers tightly. “I suppose his upbringing played a role in how he turned out. Are you aware of his family situation?”
“His father shooting him five times?”
“That, and the man himself. Elroy ‘Smoky’ Tate. A mob-connected arsonist, or so the news stories intimated. And Billy’s birth mother was no prize, either—an ‘exotic dancer’ who OD’d on heroin when he was in kindergarten. Maybe it’s understandable how he turned out.”
Mason’s tone was about as understanding as a hammer.
“I was told Billy recovered completely from the shooting. Is that right?”
“Physically, yes. But mentally and emotionally, no. He was worse than ever. I hate to say this about another human being, but I thank God he’s no longer among us.”
Mason unclasped his hands, stretching his fingers, then slapped his palms lightly on the desktop, as if to suggest that there was no more to be said.
Gurney had no objection. Letting the man end the interview on his own terms would make it easier to meet with him again if the need arose.
They both stood up. Gurney extended his hand, and Mason reached across the desk and shook it. “Will someone be getting in touch with my ex-wife regarding the vandalism?”
“I’ll check when I get back to headquarters. What sort of vandalism are we talking about?”
“I’m not exactly sure. Linda lives in the house. I live in a condo out at the end of the lake. I still take care of the property, mowing and so forth, but that’s just once a week. She no longer works here, but we stay in touch, particularly with any issues concerning the house.”
“Like this incident of vandalism?”
“She has a private therapy practice in the village, and when she arrived home last evening, she called to say that the front door of the house had been defaced. I told her to report it to you folks. That’s what I thought you were responding to.”
“Did she say what she meant by ‘defaced’?”
“Some kind of design scratched into the paint. Hopefully not into the wood.”
“Design?”
“That’s all she said.”
“Could you call her, please?”
“Now?”
“It could be important.”
Sighing impatiently, Mason took out his phone and placed the call. After a long moment, he looked at Gurney. “It’s going to her voicemail. Shall I leave a message?”
Gurney ignored the question. “Where’s the house located?”
“At the end of Skinner Hollow.”
“Where’s that?”
“Out past the north side of Harrow Hill. Middle of nowhere, really.”
“Is that the side of the hill facing away from the lake?”
“Yes.”
“Did your wife call you before or after she entered the house?”
“I have no idea. Why does it matter?”
“It may not matter at all. I’m going to drive out there now and take a look. I’ll let you know what I find, okay?”
Skinner Hollow consisted of a narrow, two-mile-long dirt road running by a stream in a ravine with sides too steep to accommodate any structures. At the end the ravine broadened suddenly into a pine forest, which in turn gave way to a mowed field. In the middle of the field stood a white farmhouse with blue shutters and a blue door. Behind it was a classic red barn. Unlike Ruby-June Hooper’s house on the lake, to which it was similar in size and structure, this house was as neat and crisp as Greg Mason. Even the gravel driveway was spotless.
The driveway widened to form a parking area in front of the house, partly occupied by a dusty white Corolla. As soon as Gurney pulled in next to it, he could see the nature of the “vandalism” on the front door. A chillingly familiar figure eight with a vertical slash through the middle had been scraped into the door’s blue paint by something with a very sharp point.
He lowered the Outback windows and listened. He peered at the windows of the house, then scanned as much of the surrounding field as he could see from the car. He opened his glove compartment and took out his ankle holster and 9mm Beretta. He strapped on the ankle holster. Beretta in hand, he stepped out of the car. His level of alertness amplified the crunch of the gravel underfoot.