Lulie said, “What was done to him was horrible.”
Masters said, “Let me tell them about it, Lulie. Mr. Henry lived in a grand old mansion on a huge lot on Black Forest Lane, at the edge of Haggersville. The killer probably came in through the oak forest at the back of his property in the middle of the night. The alarm system wasn’t all that great, so the killer easily disarmed it and went into Mr. Henry’s house and up to his bedroom. He struck Mr. Henry on the head, stripped off his pajamas, and tied him spread-eagled to the bedposts. What followed was hours of slow torture, no other way to describe it. He was stabbed thirty times with a serrated knife, the M.E. said. Some of the cuts were deep, some shallow, but the goal was obvious—to inflict as much pain as possible and to keep him alive as long as possible.
“He was seventy-five. Still, it took him several hours to die.
“His housekeeper, Mrs. Dolores Boilou, arrived at her usual time and found him dead, covered with blood. I got to his house at eight a.m. on a Tuesday morning.”
He stared down at his clasped hands. “It was a brutal, ugly death. And it was personal, no doubt about that. Someone hated the old man’s guts so much he wanted to make him suffer an eternity of pain for what he’d done to him or to someone he loved—whoever that was. But I never could find out who or why. No one knew. The whole town was outraged. No one could believe what was done to him. It was a witch hunt there for a while. It still makes me sick to think about it.
“As for Calhoun, his only child, well, I like Calhoun—I mean, he really tries to be as nice as his dad was. He’s always donating to local charities, but the fact is Calhoun wasn’t born with his daddy’s charisma and his kindness. He’s eccentric, which means, I suppose, he can’t be called crazy because he’s rich.”
Lulie said, “I think Calhoun likes to shock people, make them shake their heads at what comes out of his mouth. I guess he learned quite young he’d never have his father’s natural gift for making people like him, so he’s found his own way to make himself memorable.”
Masters nodded. “I agree with that, Lulie, but Chief, Agent, I’d swear Calhoun is harmless. I couldn’t even begin to see him killing his dad in such a vicious, brutal way—well, in any way, really. He said he was home in bed with his wife, and yes, I know, she alibis him.”
Lulie said, “Danny, no one I knew ever seriously considered Calhoun had murdered his father. The consensus around town was a maniac passing through.”
Masters laughed. “Yeah, right. ‘The maniac did it.’ Couldn’t be anyone from around here, anyone we know. Had to be an escapee from a Baltimore prison, hyped up on drugs and who knows what all? It made people feel safer to hold tight to that belief. But given the level of cruelty, the killer had to feel over-the-top rage, and that doesn’t fit the profile of a drug addict or escaped crazy murderer. Sorry, Lulie, but odds are it was someone local, someone we know, someone who hated Henry LaRoque bone-deep. Also, his murder wasn’t spur-of-the-moment. It took time and planning. If only I could have found out the why, I’d have known the who.”
Masters clasped his hands between his knees, looked down at his boots. “I called in the FBI, but they couldn’t do any better.”
Sala said slowly, “And Gunny was struck on the back of the head because she was about to link Mr. Henry to that belt buckle?” He shot a look at Lulie, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut, but if anything, she looked thoughtful. “Agent Porto, you’re saying you think the person who killed Mr. Henry struck down Gunny?”
Sala said, “Can you think of another reason?”
“No,” Lulie said, “I can’t, no.”
Ty said, “Let’s get back to the belt buckle. Let me tell you, we expected a number of calls to the hotline from people identifying it, but to our surprise we got only one—from Gunny—which has to mean no one else in town knew about it. And that seems to mean he never wore it? If he did keep the belt buckle to himself, for whatever reason, then did Gunny see it by accident? What is it about this belt buckle that made Mr. Henry make her promise not to tell anyone about it?”
“And why attack her?” Sala said. “What would she have told the agent on the hotline that would implicate anyone?”
Dr. Ellis, an older man with a rooster tail of white hair, walked into the waiting room. He was smiling at Lulie. “She’s okay, she’s going to make it. She hasn’t awakened yet, but I believe she will recover in time, Lulie. She’s through the worst of it.”
Masters pulled Lulie against him when she started to cry and hugged her hard. He couldn’t help it. He wept with her.
40
* * *
HAGGERSVILLE POST OFFICE
TUESDAY
The post office lobby was crowded, but no one seemed much interested in mailing letters or packages. They were talking about what had happened to Gunny Saks. Postal employees knew the most, it seemed, and they were holding court.
When Ty and Sala walked in and asked for Mrs. Chamberlain, the buzz of conversation stopped dead, all eyes on them.
Sala smiled, gave a little wave. “Chief Christie and I—I’m Agent Sala Porto—we’ve come from the hospital and we’re happy to tell you Gunny’s surgery went well. It looks like she’ll be all right. She’ll recover.”
There were murmurs and sighs of relief, most of them sincere. Ty and Sala were the new center of attention, until it was clear they had no more answers.
A woman’s piercing voice rang out, a whipcrack to it. “This is a United States post office, not a coffee shop! Everyone, back to work!” Conversation died on the vine. A formidable woman in her late fifties, Sala would say, tromped toward them in sensible low heels and a plain gray dress that showed, to his surprise, an amazing cleavage. Her glasses hung on a gold chain around her neck, and her hair was permed and sprayed to immobility. She looked no-nonsense, like a Bears linebacker with breasts. Sala imagined everyone knew not to tangle with this woman.
After Sala and Ty showed her their creds and asked to speak to her privately, Mrs. Chamberlain gave one last death look to the postal employees still hanging around in the lobby, then said, “Come this way.”
Ty and Sala followed her through a swinging gate past the fourth window. A thin-as-a-straw older window clerk started to say something, saw the look on Mrs. Chamberlain’s face, and seamed his lips. Sala didn’t blame him. Smart move, dude.
“Pay no attention to Hughes. He’s been here as long as I have, but he’s never going to leave the window, never wanted to. He can sort mail for boxes faster than anyone I’ve ever seen, but he prefers to sell stamps and weigh customer packages. He and Luke Putney try to outdo each other with gossip.”
They followed her into the bowels of the post office, aware of postal employees watching their every step.
Mrs. Chamberlain stopped abruptly and gave the stink-eye to a man in close conversation with a young woman. She said in a death-ray voice, “Mr. Klem, you must get back to work or Mr. Murcheson might find out how you spend your time on the job.” Mr. Klem nodded once to the young woman and turned away. Mrs. Chamberlain continued. “Mr. Murcheson is our postmaster, brand new and scared of his own shadow, sent to us from way up north around Boston. He doesn’t know how we do things here in rural Maryland yet, so he does what I tell him to, naturally. Right now, I imagine he’s in his office, with the door locked. Who knows what he does in there.” She stepped around them and walked into a small windowless room with three surprisingly healthy ferns along one wall next to her very nice wooden desk. A small library of postal books were lined up precisely on the wall behind it, some looking old enough to have been published under Eisenhower. A laptop, a landline, and a paperback novel were the only items on her desk. She sat down and motioned them to the two chairs facing her.
Her look was complacent. “Welcome to my office of twenty-one years. I assume you’ve come because you have questions about Gunny and her job here. You may begin.”
Ty nearly giggled. It was close. Sala knew it, too, and so he covered for her, bles
s him. He sat forward, but before he could speak, Mrs. Chamberlain said, “I hope there’s no question about Gunny’s hospital bill. All Gunny’s medical bills will be covered by the federal government. Dr. Ellis and the hospital never have to worry about being paid.”
Sala looked so taken aback, Ty quickly said, “No, we realize there’ll be no problem with Gunny’s health insurance, Mrs. Chamberlain. We need to know if Gunny spoke to you this morning about the belt buckle we showed on TV yesterday. She told her mother it belonged to a Mr. Henry LaRoque.”
“Oh, I see. Well, yes, Gunny sidled up to me about eight thirty this morning, asked if she could speak to me. Naturally I was busy, but I told her to go ahead, tell me what was on her mind.
“It was nothing, really. Gunny said she was worried about Mr. Henry’s belt buckle, the one the FBI showed on the television. I told her Mr. Henry didn’t have a belt buckle like the one you showed on TV, and I should know—”
Sala saw a slight flush on her cheeks but let it go for the moment. He could accept Mr. Henry hadn’t worn the belt buckle. But that his own lover hadn’t ever seen it? He said, “Let’s say Mr. Henry did have a gold Star of David belt buckle, and Gunny saw it. Did she tell you why that worried her?”
“I honestly don’t think Gunny ever saw such a thing. She gets things wrong sometimes, fantasizes. She’s a dear girl, but her brain doesn’t always—well, work smoothly. She tunes out suddenly, then she comes back, I guess you could say. Fact is, she’s slow, Agent Porto, but I suppose you already know that.”
Ty asked, “Why was he called Mr. Henry?”
“It was a sign of respect, an endearment. He was a caring, generous man, and you’ll not find anyone who disagrees. Mr. Henry handled the mortgages, business loans, financial assistance of all kinds for most of the people in town.
“Now, I told Gunny I was sure Mr. Henry didn’t own such a belt, that she was mistaken. She didn’t say anything more, only frowned and looked confused. I knew I had to be patient, knew there was more, so I asked her, why all this concern about a belt buckle she saw on TV? She said it had to do with a promise she’d made Mr. Henry, and she didn’t know whether she should tell anyone.”
Mrs. Chamberlain gave a deep sigh and shook her head. “But before I could ask her anything else, we had an emergency. One of the mail sorters went on the fritz, and I had to make some calls, schedule repairs, reassure Mr. Murcheson, calm down Mr. Judd and set him and his people to sorting the overflow mail by hand. When I finally came up for air, I asked where Gunny was. Mr. Judd told me he’d seen her leave. It wasn’t her break time or lunchtime, either, but he said he didn’t stop her. He said she was clutching her cell phone in her hand, seemed to be repeating something to herself, which she does sometimes, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying. I forgot about it, to be honest, something I very much regret now, after what happened to her. Of course you know Chief Masters found her in an alley, badly hurt. But still, Agent Porto, Chief Christie, why someone would hurt her doesn’t make any sense to me. I know Mr. Henry did not own that belt buckle shown on TV, I would have seen it.” She sighed. “I know, I know, the fact that someone tried to kill Gunny means there had to be something to what she was saying, but I don’t know what it could possibly be.”
Ty said, “Mrs. Chamberlain, this is very important. Where were you when Gunny asked to see you about Mr. Henry’s belt buckle? Who was around you?”
Both Ty and Sala saw kindling outrage. “Oh, I see. You want to blame one of my employees for striking down that poor girl? That is outrageous, and I won’t have you suggesting it!” She curled her heavy white fist on her desktop. “My people are always underfoot, even where they shouldn’t be, and I’m telling you, none of them would do something like this. Everyone likes Gunny. She doesn’t have an enemy in the world.” She shrugged. “So maybe Mr. Henry did have a Star of David belt buckle. I never saw it, and no one else ever saw it, to the best of my knowledge.” She met their eyes. “I will be honest here. After Mr. Henry’s poor wife died some fifteen years ago—cancer, you know—he and I became close. Not many people knew at the time, and we both preferred it that way. I am a very private person with certain standards to maintain, Mr. Henry as well. As I said, I never saw him with this belt buckle. He always wore red suspenders. Ask anyone.
“And to answer your question, I don’t remember seeing anyone in particular. When Gunny came up to me in the lobby, there were customers around—I don’t remember who specifically—checking their boxes, chatting, the usual, but to be honest, I didn’t pay any attention.” She paused, frowned. “I remember Gunny got really close when she spoke to me, like she was worried someone might overhear her. I don’t know really, maybe I’m remembering it that way now because of what happened to her. I don’t suppose your hotline got a lot of calls about this belt buckle?”
Sala said, “The hotline got only one call about the Star of David belt buckle, and that was Gunny’s.”
Ty said, “Which leaves us with quite a mystery.”
Mrs. Chamberlain fiddled with a pencil, threading it between her heavy fingers. “Chief Masters should have ideas about this. He was the one who investigated Mr. Henry’s murder five years ago. He’s Gunny’s godfather.” She lowered her voice. “You probably already know Lulie’s never said who Gunny’s father is. Of course, some people believe Chief Masters is her father. His poor wife, Molly, has always been clueless, so I suppose it’s possible.”
Sala wasn’t about to touch that. He said, “You spoke of Henry LaRoque’s murder five years ago. Is there anything you’d like to tell us about it?”
She lowered her head, the memory of it still strong.
Ty said, “Given the manner of death, it’s obvious someone hated him. Do you think somehow Gunny could have connected his belt buckle to his murderer?”
“Mr. Henry’s death, what was done to him, it was despicable. But as for Gunny connecting anything to his killer, it simply isn’t possible. Listen, Gunny performs simple tasks here at the post office. I hired her because Chief Masters asked me to.” She paused. “But I have to say, in the five years she’s been here, she’s done her various jobs well enough.”
Ty said, “Where did Gunny work before she came to the post office?”
“Once she graduated high school, she worked full-time with her mom for a while. Before she came to the post office, Susan Sparrow hired her to work at the Sparrow Crematorium. This was right after Susan married Landry Sparrow. Then she came here to the post office.”
“What did she do at the crematorium?” Sala asked.
“Some reception work and she passed out cookies after memorial services, things like that. You’d have to ask Susan Sparrow what her other tasks were. Why do you ask?”
Ty smiled. “Collecting information. Do you know why she left?”
“I never asked her directly, but I got the impression it was too depressing for her.” Mrs. Chamberlain fell silent. She looked to be studying a large citrine cocktail ring on her pinkie finger. “Mr. Henry gave me this ring on my birthday seven years ago.” She met their eyes. “It all comes back to why someone tried to kill Gunny. I don’t see how Gunny could know who murdered Mr. Henry. Because of the stupid belt buckle?” She huffed out a deep sigh. “You know they couldn’t have dredged up Mr. Henry’s bones from the bottom of that lake in Willicott along with that buckle. His family had him cremated.”
41
* * *
PRINCE WILLIAM FOREST PARK
VIRGINIA
EARLY TUESDAY AFTERNOON
The air-conditioning in Sherlock’s stalwart Volvo was on the fritz. According to the temperature on the dash it was ninety-one degrees. Inside or out? Sherlock wondered. And not a single cloud in the sky.
Savich was driving the familiar route to Quantico, with the Prince William Forest Park adjacent to it. He and Sherlock had visited the park a couple of times when Sean was younger, spending the day hiking the trails, showing Sean the eastern box turtle, picnicking on the edge o
f the North Fork of Quantico Creek. He didn’t remember it being this hot. Actually, he couldn’t remember any other day being this hot. No one had been more surprised than Savich when they got a call from a park ranger thirty minutes before.
As he turned into the shaded park entrance, with the forest pressing in, Sherlock said, “Finally, a call about the Kia.”
They’d put an APB out on the green Kia immediately after Victor had shot at them in Peterborough, but there’d been no calls. Savich pulled up close to the ranger kiosk, got out of the Volvo, and slipped his Glock into his pocket so he could take off his jacket. He and Sherlock waited for a single car filled with a father, mother, and three young kids, all laughing, talking, and arguing, to pass through. They’d hoped Ranger Harmon would be there, but she wasn’t. Still, they identified themselves, showed the young man with thick black eyebrows their creds.
Terry Menard studied them, then looked up, head tilted to the side. “Agents, what can I do for you?”
Savich said, “We need to know where to find Ranger Sionna Harmon. She called us.”
Terry perked right up. “Oh yes, this is about that terrorist who bombed the cathedral in Falls Church? I’ve seen his photo—it’s all over TV and the Internet. He sure looks like a wuss, doesn’t he? As harmless as my terrier Milo. None of us saw him though, only Sionna—well, you can speak to her yourself. I’ll give her a heads-up, tell her you’re here. She’s doing an hour in the visitor’s center.”