Miro—short for Miroslav—was an immigrant of mixed Slavic background who had taken over the Walnut Crossing auto shop around the same time the Gurneys had moved up from the city. A bone-thin man with a lined face and a sad smile, he had a penchant for a kind of sweetly pessimistic philosophizing that Madeleine found charming.
He was sweeping out one of the shop’s two service bays as Gurney pulled into the parking area and lowered his window. He ambled over, broom in hand. “Your name is on the news this morning. I hear them say it, about crazy crimes up north. You’re not a retired man anymore?”
Gurney wondered if the leaking of his involvement to the media had been accidental or intentional—and if intentional, with what intent. “I’m mostly retired. But not always.”
Miro looked past Gurney to Madeleine. “Your husband famous guy, right? Big detective for big crimes. Like movie star, but better, because movie star only pretends to be big man.”
Madeleine’s expression suggested that however famous her husband might be, being driven from her home by a madman made it difficult to be thrilled by his fame.
Miro went on. “My country, no good to trust police.” He looked like he was about to spit, but thought better of it. “Here much better. Police like anyone, but mostly they’re not criminals.” He smiled his sad smile. “So, Detective, what can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if you could take a quick look at the underside of our car. Every once in a while there’s a rattle, and I’m afraid something might fall off.”
Outside of undercover work, he wasn’t fond of making things up. However, sharing his concern about a possible GPS tracker seemed an unnecessary complication, not to mention an extra cause of worry for Madeleine. And while Miro was searching for things that might rattle, Gurney could join him under the car and check for suspicious devices.
“Cars with things starting to fall off usually not look so good as this.” He shrugged. “But pull car inside, we check.”
Madeleine got out and announced she’d be in the little park adjacent to the shop.
Once the car had been raised on the hydraulic lift, Gurney and Miro engaged in their separate inspections. After another minute or two of poking around the undercarriage, Miro announced, “You got good car. Nothing falling off. Maybe vibration. Very hard to find vibration. Next time for oil change, we go out on the road, drive, listen. For now, okay.”
Gurney had also come to a satisfactory conclusion regarding his own inspection. He took out his wallet. “Thank you, Miro. What do I owe you?”
“Nothing, please.”
“You should be paid for your time.”
“I am paid all the time. You are good customers. No charge, please.”
After dropping Madeleine off, he headed north to Larchfield.
On the way, he placed a call to Morgan, got his voicemail, and left a message asking him to have the warrant for Tate’s phone records expanded from the five-day text-retention window to include all calls made in the last ninety days, partly as a fishing expedition for contacts, partly to see if he’d made other calls to Aspern.
This message was the first subject Morgan raised when Gurney arrived at headquarters. “Where are you heading with this expanded warrant thing?”
“Probably nowhere. Due diligence, et cetera.”
“You’re not planning to pursue a warrant for Aspern’s call records, too, are you?”
“Not unless Tate’s records reveal texts or conversations that Aspern failed to mention.”
Morgan took a labored breath. “Let’s just be careful we don’t jump to any conclusions.” He glanced at his watch. “Speaking of the mayor, there’s a one o’clock lunch meeting in the village hall. The board is having a meltdown over the media coverage of the ‘Larchfield zombie’—plus the way Gant stirred up his followers out in that field last night.”
“Enjoy it.”
“Christ, Dave, I need you to help me navigate this. Your being in the room will calm them down.”
“After what I found on my barn door this morning, I’m not in a mood to calm anyone down.”
“Barstow’s out there, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Has she found anything other than the message?”
“Sneaker prints and tire tracks. Maybe they’ll lead somewhere, maybe not.”
“What the hell is Tate trying to do?”
“Ratchet up the panic level? Draw attention to himself? Distract us?”
“Distract us from what?”
“Maybe from the real purpose of the murders. But don’t ask me what that might be.”
“You really think this craziness has a purpose?”
“I think it’s possible.”
“Jesus.” Morgan stared at Gurney in a state of obvious mental overload, then glanced again at his watch. “It’s time. Let’s go.”
With mixed feelings, Gurney accompanied him to the village hall. The cast of characters at the conference table was the same as the previous morning, with one missing—Harmon Gossett, the village attorney. Fallow and Peale had chosen seats as far from each other as possible, as had Aspern and Hilda Russell.
A lunch buffet had been set up, along with a coffee urn. Most of the meeting attendees were focused on their sandwiches or salads. Neither Morgan nor Gurney visited the buffet. With an awkward smile, Morgan took a seat facing Aspern. Gurney sat next to Morgan.
“We should get started,” said Aspern with a sour glance around the table. “Since yesterday, the situation has gotten worse. Not only do we still have a throat-slashing lunatic on the loose, we are the target of the most unfair media coverage imaginable.” He looked down the table at Carmody. “Martin, I hope to God you can help us reverse the tide before the world starts thinking ‘Larchfield’ is the name of a horror movie.”
“We’re doing all we can, Chandler. Immediately after this meeting, I want to record Chief Morgan delivering a positive statement about the progress he’s making. I’ve already written a preliminary draft. We want every internet, cable, and network news provider to have the video in hand for the next news cycle. Stern, confident, solid hand on the tiller. That’s our message.”
“Good,” said Aspern. “Now, I want you all to see a god-awful program that ran last night on RAM-TV. By this morning it had spread to YouTube, Facebook, Twitter.” He directed everyone’s attention to a screen set into the conference room wall, a larger version of the one at police headquarters. “It’s called Crimes Beyond Reason. I have our attorney looking into a possible lawsuit.”
Aspern tapped an icon on his phone and the screen on the wall came to life. After a typical RAM sequence of pulsating title graphics, the program began with a doctored video of Tate on the church roof. Eerie music had been added. There were more frequent flashes in the night sky and louder claps of thunder than in the original, and when Tate was struck by the final bolt of lightning, his tumble from the roof was shown in slow motion.
When Tate hit the ground, the scene shifted to Karl Kasak in front of the church, wearing the same safari jacket Gurney remembered from the program promo on RAM News. He was speaking with the intensity of a reporter in a war zone.
“I’m Karl Kasak, here where Billy Tate, a practitioner of witchcraft, plunged to his death—a death certified by the official medical examiner. Tate’s body was taken to a mortuary and placed, at the strange request of his stepmother, in a sealed coffin. Hours later, Billy Tate burst out of that coffin and began the bloody rampage people here are calling ‘the zombie murders.’ Did Tate experience a miraculous revival? Or has he become what investigators of the macabre call ‘one of the walking dead’?”