He returned to the living room just as the local newscaster appeared in the commercial break of the morning game shows with a news flash—“Police have responded to this New Hampshire home this morning based on a distressed call from a neighbor.” She glanced back over her shoulder at the pleasant two-story cape that served as her backdrop. “Find out what they discovered. That and your weekend forecast, all in our noon report.”
Mike propped his arm on the couch cushions and let his eyelids sink halfway, thinking he could use another short nap before breakfast. His eyes had nearly closed when curiosity fluttered them back open. In the background of the reporter’s shot, a nicely dressed young man with glasses appeared briefly in the distance. Mike couldn’t be sure, but he thought there was a chance that the guy had been Leslie’s producer. Mike searched for the remote control. He hadn’t seen the young producer since the incident at Bill’s house, and he didn’t even know the guy’s name, but he flipped to Leslie’s channel to be sure. He was just in time to find Leslie delivering a more lengthy broadcast from the same scene.
“Authorities aren’t commenting on exactly what they found inside this quiet country house,” she informed her viewers, “except to say that the owner and sole inhabitant appears to have been the victim of foul play." She tilted her head and frowned slightly, letting the public know that she disapproved of murder.
“A few minutes ago, we had a chance to ask the officer in charge a few questions,” she continued.
The shot cut away to a medium-sized, plump man wearing the uniform of New Hampshire state police. “We don’t have any details yet except to say that we have indeed found evidence of a break-in, and there appears to have been a struggle. We’ll have more information in the coming hours,” he assured the camera.
Just after the officer finished his statement, but before the live shot of Leslie returned, the camera panned down as the cameraman moved away. Mike’s thumb stabbed at the remote control, pausing the image. His lips parted as he beheld the officer’s feet, shown on TV because of a bad edit by the local station. Just to the left of the officer’s scuffed shoe, Mike spotted a giant footprint in the loose dirt. The similarity to the footprint he had found on his hike was unmistakable. He stared at the footprint for another few seconds and then started the video again, noting every detail. Eventually, Leslie described the town of the attack, but not the exact location.
Mike recognized the town name: East Motton. He had driven by that very town just days before, on his way back from his hike. He replayed the newscast again, picking out pertinent details and trying to discern visual landmarks from Leslie’s brief on-camera monologue. Rubbing his forehead, Mike jumped up and trotted to the kitchen to fetch a pencil and paper. He watched the story a third time, writing down the facts he would need. When he was finished, he turned off the TV for the first time in days and propped his notepad up against the front door. He was shaved, showered, and out the door in under fifteen minutes.
ON THE ROAD, Mike scanned the radio for more information about the murder. Until recently, conducting genetic research had provided this same feeling—turning over a wide set of jumbled details again and again until they fit themselves together into one coherent world-view. Doctors would send him mountains of unsorted test results. His job had been to synthesize everything—all the tiny tidbits—into a big picture. In that same way, Mike puzzled through the details of the crime, trying to understand why he was so sure that it was connected to his hike. He paused on a AM news station when he heard the phrase “home invasion,” but it turned out to be a different crime.
“Police say the Montville couple were discovered by a home healthcare worker this morning, but won’t comment on whether the case is linked to East Motton incident reported earlier,” read the DJ.
Mike checked his mirrors and then pulled off the highway to the shoulder. The map on passenger seat confirmed what he guessed: he could draw a straight line from the cave’s location, through East Motton, directly to Montville. Furthermore, he could narrow the location of the East Motton farmhouse down to two roads which traveled west to east and might match the northern view he had spied in the newscast. Mike circled the map with his pencil, turned on his signal, and merged back onto the highway.
BY THREE THAT AFTERNOON, Mike found the house of the first victim. It was easy to spot, the emergency vehicles had left muddy tracks in and out of the driveway and several vehicles were still parked at the house. From the road he could just pick out the yellow police tape that cordoned the yard.
He sucked in a deep breath and tried to control his fast heart. Grabbing a clipboard from the back seat, Mike jumped out of his car. Using the house as his landmark, he consulted his memory and rounded the building until he found the side where the police officer had given his short statement. Mike glanced nervously at the house, but nobody came out to greet him, so he studied the ground until he found the print. He knelt to study its outline. The print was surrounded with plaster debris. Mike was pleased that the police had discovered the print and thought to make a cast of it. It matched the size of the one he had seen at the cliffs and had the same odd spread to the toes. Mike pulled out his phone and used its camera to snap a picture of the giant print.
The porch door opened and a young, broad-shouldered policeman strode out to greet Mike—“Can I help you?”
“Yes sir, thank you,” said Mike, raising the pitch of his voice slightly. “Did you happen to find any more prints like these?”
“May I ask who you are?” asked the officer.
“Certainly,” said Mike. “My name is Dr. Mike Markey. I’m from U.N.H.? They called me in to see the cast of this footprint, but I wanted to see the original. Do you know if there are any other examples?”
The officer knit his brow and considered Mike carefully. He reached up to the radio clipped to his pocket and placed his thumb on the button. “I’m going to have to call this in,” he informed Mike.
“That’s fine,” said Mike, holding his clipboard in front of him. “Could I see the other prints while I wait.”
The officer shrugged and waved him towards the house as he squeezed the receiver and placed his call. “Dispatch, this is Sutliffe,” the policeman told his radio as Mike entered the house. In the hallway he found two spots in the hall had been taped off, marking other footprints. He stepped around those as he headed for the front door. When confronted with the cop, Mike had panicked and arrived at this simple plan; he decided to pretend he belonged at the scene and then get away as quickly as possible. He was thrilled that the officer had stayed out on the back porch to make his call. As he put his hand on the doorknob leading to the front porch, Mike felt the slightest glimmer of hope that he might get away clean.
Pulling open the door, he expected a protest to come from the officer at any second. He held his breath as he opened the door and slipped past the screen door, finding freedom on the other side. Carefully controlling his stride he walked down to his car, Mike slipped behind the wheel, set the clipboard down on the passenger seat, and started his car. He twisted around in the seat as he pulled the gearshift back into reverse. He had to jam on the break to avoid colliding with the new police car pulling into the driveway behind him.