“What’s your question?”
“Given what I just said, why do you have that doubtful look on your face?”
“I’m a natural skeptic. It’s the way my mind works.”
“Even when the news is overwhelmingly positive?”
“Is that the way you’d describe it?”
Kline held Gurney’s gaze for a few seconds, then reached into his jacket pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one up with a vintage Zippo, took a deep drag, and slowly exhaled, watching the smoke dissipate into White River’s still-acrid air.
“Those concerns you seemed to have about the depth of the water under the Grinton Bridge . . . the way you were asking about the USB drive—all that worries me. It worries me not knowing what you’re thinking. What you’re suspecting. If something’s wrong, I need to know what it is.”
“The truth is, in both of these cases I’m having trouble getting my head around the thought processes of the killers.”
Kline took another drag on his cigarette. “I don’t find that very enlightening.”
“I find it helpful to put myself in the criminal’s position. To see the world from his point of view. I do that by studying what he’s done. I immerse myself in his preparations, his execution of his plan, his likely actions afterward. This usually gives me a sense of how the perp thinks, how he makes decisions. But this time it’s not happening.”
“Why not?”
“Half the actions in these cases contradict the other half. The perps are very careful and very careless. Take the sniper. He was careful not to get his fingerprints on the outer door, the window, the bathroom door. But he left a perfect print on the toilet’s flush handle. His marksmanship and location planning suggest he’s a real pro. But he drives an easily traceable car. He goes to the trouble of ditching the tripod. But he tosses it in water so shallow it’s easily visible.”
“You’re expecting these crazy killers to be totally logical?”
“No. I just think the possible significance of the discrepancies is being ignored. The same sort of peculiar questions arise in the Jordan-Tooker case. The cool and methodical nature of the beatings supposedly administered by crazy, hate-driven, white-supremacist vigilantes. The suspects’ prudently removing their computer, but foolishly leaving behind their USB drive with the incriminating website content.”
“That USB drive wasn’t just left behind. It was hidden under a desk drawer.”
“It was hidden in the first place any detective would look for it. Like the tripod, in a way. Hidden where it could easily be found.”
Kline sighed in frustration, dropping what was left of his cigarette onto the pavement and staring down at it. “So what’s your bottom line? That everybody but you is wrong? That none of our progress is really progress at all?”
“I don’t have a bottom line, Sheridan. I just have questions.”
Kline sighed again, ground out his cigarette, got into his SUV, and drove away.
The old Route Ten Bypass in Angina ran through a wide green valley dotted with weathered red barns. The sunny slopes of the south-facing hillsides were covered with alternating swaths of clover and buttercups. This idyllic landscape was pockmarked, however, by the detritus of a collapsed economy—abandoned homes, shuttered shops, closed schools.
Half a mile from Gurney’s destination, at an unpopulated intersection, an old man was sitting on a low stool by the side of the road. Displayed on a shabby card table next to him were the mounted head of a deer and an old microwave oven. Propped against a leg of the table was a piece of brown cardboard with a scribbled offer: BOTH FOR $20.
Coming to the Lucky Larvaton Diner, Gurney discovered that it shared a weedy parking lot with a small strip mall whose businesses were all defunct—Wally’s Wood Stoves, Furry Friends Pet Emporium, The Great Angina Pizzeria, and Tori’s Tints & Cuts. The final vacant storefront in the row promised in a curled and faded window poster that Champion Cheese would be “coming soon.”
The diner was across the lot from these empty stores. Built in the railroad-car style of traditional diners, it appeared to be in need of a good power-washing. There were two cars parked beside it—a dusty old Honda Civic and a turquoise Chevy Impala from the sixties—and a nondescript pickup truck out in front. Gurney parked next to the truck.
Inside, it looked not so much old-fashioned as just plain old. It had none of that ersatz “country charm” that exists in the minds of people who live in cities. There was a gritty reality to the scuffed brown linoleum, the smell of grease, the poor lighting. On the back wall a MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN poster was curling in at its corners.
A thin, sharp-featured man with an oily black pompadour stood behind one end of the counter, peering down into the pages of a thick ledger. A middle-aged waitress with lifeless blond hair was perched on a stool at the opposite end of the counter examining her fingernails.
Halfway between them a stocky customer in faded farm overalls was hunched forward with his elbows on the worn Formica surface, eyes fixed on an old television that sat behind the counter on a microwave oven. The talking heads on the screen were proclaiming their opinions.
A row of booths ran along the diner’s window side. Gurney made his way to the booth farthest from the television. Despite his efforts to gather his thoughts for his meeting with Rick Loomis, snippets of the TV audio kept intruding:
“. . . zero respect for the police . . .”
“. . . throw away the key . . .”
“. . . worst elements getting all the sympathy . . .”
The blond waitress approached Gurney with a smile that was either sleepy or stoned. Possibly both. “Good afternoon, sir. How are you doing on this beautiful day?”
“Fine. How are you doing?”
The vague smile broadened. “I’m doing wonderful. Do you know what you want, or should I give you some time to think about it?”
“Just coffee.”
“No problem. Do you have a Lucky Larvaton gas card?”
“No.”
“You can earn free gas. Would you like one?”
“Not now, thank you.”
“Not a problem. Milk or cream?”
“Cream, on the side.”
“Just for one?”
“I’m expecting someone.”
“You’re the gentleman meeting Detective Rick, is that right?”
“Rick Loomis?”
“Detective Rick is what we call him. A very nice man.”
“Yes. I’m meeting him. Did he call?”
“He said he was trying to reach you, but he couldn’t get through. There are so many dead cell areas around here. You never know when you’re going to get cut off. At the village meetings they keep promising to do something about it. Promises, promises. My granddaddy used to say if promises was poop nobody’d have to buy fertilizer.”
“Very wise. Do you recall the message Detective Rick left for me?”
“That he’d be late.” She turned to the counter. “Lou, how late did he say he’d be?”
The man scrutinizing the ledger answered without looking up. “Quarter of an hour.”
He checked the time on his phone. It was 3:25. So now there was a total of twenty minutes to wait.
“He comes in here a lot, does he?” asked Gurney.
“Not really.”
“But you know him?”
“Of course.”
“How?”
“Because of the Pumpkin Murders.”
“Damn!” Lou spoke without looking up from the ledger. “There you go again!”