Gurney ignored the apparent swipe at Simon Kale. “How do you see it?”
“This country has an overabundance of therapeutic boarding schools for neurotics. What it lacks are residential environments where the problems of sexual abuse and destructive sexual obsessions can be addressed creatively and effectively. I’m trying to correct that imbalance.”
“And you’re happy with the way it’s working?”
There was the sound of a longer sigh. “The treatment of certain mental disorders is medieval. With the bar set so low, making improvements is not as difficult as you might think. When you have a free hour or two, we can go into it in more detail. Right now I’d rather proceed with those phone calls.”
Gurney checked the time on his car dashboard. “And I have a meeting I’m already five minutes late for. Please let me know what you can, as soon as you can. Oh-one last thing, Doctor. I assume you have phone numbers and addresses for Alessandro and for Karnala Fashion?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Gurney said nothing.
“You’re talking about the ad? Why would I have their numbers?”
“I assumed you’d gotten that photo on your wall from either the photographer or the company that commissioned it.”
“No. As a matter of fact, Jillian was the one who got it. She gave it to me as a wedding present. She gave it to me that morning. The morning of the wedding.”
Chapter 35
The County Office Building had an unusual history. Prior to 1935 it was known as the Bumblebee Lunatic Asylum-named after the eccentric British transplant Sir George Bumblebee, who endowed it with his entire estate in 1899 and who, his disinherited relatives argued, was as insane as any prospective resident. It was a history that provided endless fodder for local wags commenting on the workings of the government agencies that had been located there ever since the county took the place over during the Great Depression.
The dark brick edifice sat like an oppressive paperweight holding down the north side of the town square. The much-needed sandblasting to remove a century of grime was put off each year to the following year, the victim of a perennial budget crisis. In the mid-sixties, the inside had been gutted and redone. Fluorescent lights and plasterboard were installed in place of cracked globes and warped wainscoting. The elaborate lobby security apparatus that Gurney remembered from his visits to the building during the Mellery case was still in place and still frustratingly slow. Once one was past that barrier, however, the rectangular layout of the building was simple, and a minute later he was opening a frosted-glass door on which DISTRICT ATTORNEY appeared in elegant black letters.
He recognized the woman in the cashmere sweater behind the reception desk: Ellen Rackoff, the DA’s intensely sexy, though far from young, personal assistant. The look in her eyes was arrestingly cool and experienced.
“You’re late,” she said in her cashmere voice. The fact that she didn’t ask his name was the only acknowledgment that she remembered him from the Mellery case. “Come with me.” She led him back out through the glass door and down a corridor to a door with a black plastic sign on it that read CONFERENCE ROOM.
“Good luck.”
He opened the door and thought for a moment he’d been brought to the wrong meeting. There were several people in the room, but the one person he’d expected to be there, Sheridan Kline, wasn’t among them. He realized he was probably in the right place after all when he saw Captain Rodriguez of the state police glowering at him from the opposite side of the big round table that filled half the windowless room.
Rodriguez was a short, fleshy man with a closed face and a carefully coiffed mass of thick black hair, obviously dyed. His blue suit was immaculate, his shirt whiter than white, his tie bloodred. Glasses with thin steel frames emphasized dark, resentful eyes. Sitting on his left was Arlo Blatt, who was looking at Gurney with small, unfriendly eyes. The colorless man on Rodriguez’s right showed no emotion beyond a faintly depressed quality that Gurney guessed was more constitutional than situational. He gave Gurney the appraising once-over that cops automatically give strangers, looked at his watch, and yawned. Across from this trio, his chair pushed back a good three feet from the table, Jack Hardwick sat with his eyes closed and his arms folded on his chest, as if being in the same room with these people had put him to sleep.
“Hello, Dave.” The voice was strong, clear, female, and familiar. The source was a tall, auburn-haired woman standing by a separate table in the far corner of the room-a woman with a striking resemblance to the young Sigourney Weaver.
“Rebecca! I didn’t know that… that you…”
“Neither did I. Sheridan called this morning, asked if I could find the time. It worked out, so here I am. Like some coffee?”
“Thank you.”
“Black?”
“Sure.” He preferred it with milk and sugar but for some reason didn’t want to tell her she’d guessed wrong.
Rebecca Holdenfield was a well-known profiler Gurney had met and come to respect, despite his doubts about profilers in general, when they were both working on the Mellery case. He wondered what her presence might signify about the DA’s view of the case.
Just then the door opened, and the DA himself strode into the room. Sheridan Kline was, as usual, radiating a sparky sort of energy. His rapidly moving gaze, like a burglar’s flashlight, took in the room in a couple of seconds. “Becca! Thank you! Appreciate your making the time to be here. Dave! Detective Dave, the man who’s been stirring the pot! Reason we’re all here. And Rod!” He grinned brightly at Rodriguez’s sour face. “Good of you to make it on such short notice. Glad you were able to bring your people along.” He glanced without interest at the bodies flanking the captain, his gladness a transparent lie. Kline liked an audience, Gurney reflected, but he liked it to be composed of people who mattered.
Holdenfield came to the table with two black coffees, gave Gurney one of them, and sat down next to him.
“Senior Investigator Hardwick here is not currently assigned to the case,” Kline went on to no one in particular, “but he was involved at the beginning, and I thought it would be helpful to have all our relevant resources in the room at the same time.”
Another transparent lie, Gurney thought. What Kline found “helpful” was to throw cats and dogs in together and watch what happened. He was a rabid fan of the adversarial process for getting at the truth and motivating people-the angrier the adversaries, the better. The vibe in the room was hostile, which Gurney figured accounted for the energy level in Kline, which was now approaching the hum of a high-voltage transformer.
“Rod, while I get some coffee here, why don’t you summarize BCI’s approach to the case so far. We’re here to listen and learn.”
Gurney thought he heard Hardwick, slouching in his chair on the far side of Rebecca Holdenfield, groan.
“I’ll keep this brief,” said the captain. “In the matter of the Jillian Perry murder, we know what was done, when it was done, and how it was done. We know who did it, and our efforts have been concentrated on finding that individual and taking him into custody. In pursuit of this objective, we’ve mobilized one of the largest manhunts in the history of the bureau. It is massive, painstaking, and ongoing.”
Another muted sound emanated from Hardwick’s direction.
The captain’s elbows were planted on the table, his left fist buried in his right hand. He shot Hardwick a warning glance. “So far we’ve conducted over three hundred interviews, and we’re continuing to expand the radius of our inquiries. Bill-Lieutenant Anderson-and Arlo here are responsible for guiding and monitoring the day-to-day progress.”
Kline came to the table with his coffee but remained standing. “Maybe Bill could give us a feeling for the current status. What do we know today that we didn’t know, say, a week after the beheading?”