A Fountain Filled With Blood

“Dr. Scheeler believes there may be some excellent forensic evidence once he’s had a chance to examine the body.” The doctor hadn’t actually said that, but in Russ’s experience, all pathologists were sure they’d find something if they looked hard enough. “We have no suspects at the moment.”

“Thank you, Chief.” The camera light went out and she said, “Thanks a lot,” in a more natural voice. “We want to get some establishing shots and some reactions from the witnesses. Do you mind?”

It was a pro forma question, since he didn’t have the authority to stop the press, but he appreciated the courtesy. “Just make sure you don’t cross the line. We’re still securing the scene.”

“Will do. Matt, let’s go.” There was a clunk of metal hitting metal as the gorilla shouldered his camera and followed her.

Russ ducked under the tape and jogged to his cruiser, popping open the door to reach the radio. He watched the mortuary assistants leaving the thicket. The bag boys— Lyle’s name for them—picked their way through the brush, careful not to dislodge the contents of their pallet. The mound of shiny black plastic suddenly made Russ think of the fat blood sausages his grandmother Campbell used to urge on him. The image made his stomach churn. The Channel 6 cameraman was following the body’s progress from the brush to the back of the van.

Russ gave his instructions to one of the Glens Falls dispatchers who handled Millers Kill 911 calls between 10:00P.M. and 6:00 A.M. Sheena Bevin was working her way through the remaining spectators, asking questions, occasionally pulling out the little microphone. He finished up with the Glens Falls dispatcher and headed over to help Lyle and Durkee finish up.

He was a good fifteen yards away from the scene, twist-tying tape to a flexible plastic pole, when a flash of light in the corner of his eye made him look up, just in time to see the camera trained on Clare. Even from that distance, he could see her body language had changed from shocked and horrified to…well, righteous indignation was probably the right description, seeing as she was a priest. Their conversation in the hospital corridor outside the waiting room resurrected itself: Clare, arms akimbo, swearing to march on the police station if there was one more attack. “Oh,” he said. “Oh no. No, no, no.” The Reverend Clare Fergusson on a crusade was likely to say anything.

He dropped the tape and strode toward the small cluster of trees where Clare, now gesturing widely, was making her point. God, why hadn’t he put duct tape over her mouth and locked her in the squad car when he’d had the chance? He kept himself from breaking into a jog, but double-timed his steps until he was close enough to hear, “lack of respect for common humanity and basic civil rights—”

“Clare!” he said. Clare and the reporter both jerked their heads in his direction. He propped what he hoped looked like a smile on his face and tried again in a less threatening tone of voice. “Reverend Fergusson? I hope I don’t have to remind you that giving out some information could jeopardize this investigation.”

“How?” she asked.

He sucked in air between gritted teeth, but before he could reply, Bevin and the cameraman had pivoted toward him. “Chief Van Alstyne, we’ve heard that tonight’s murder victim and the victims of the two assaults in Millers Kill this past week were all gay men. Can you comment on this?”

“No,” he growled.

“Are the police investigating this as a hate crime? Are you linking it to the other assaults?”

“We pursue any murder to the fullest extent of our resources, whether you label it a hate crime or not. I’m of the opinion every murder is a hate crime, and I’m not going to treat one differently from another because of who the victim was.”

“So tonight’s victim was gay?”

He wanted to strangle Bevin. No, he wanted to strangle Clare. The camera light pinned him like an interrogation lamp.

“I can’t comment on the victim until we’ve notified the next of kin.”

“How about the assault victims?”

“Look, I’m not going to comment on this. I’m not going to out anyone on the eleven o’clock news.”

“Would you advise area residents who might be homosexual to take extra precautions?”

“Whoever did this tonight is on the loose until we bring him in. I’d advise all area residents to take extra precautions. Now, I need to wrap things up and make sure Reverend Fergusson gets home.” He smiled at Clare in a way that conveyed she might arrive in several pieces. “So we’ll have to cut this short.”

Bevin slid a finger along her throat in exactly the same line that the garrote had taken when it cut through Ingraham’s neck. The cameraman killed the light. “We know that the dead man is the president of BWI Development,” the reporter said, “and we’ll sit on his identity tonight. But I’ll give you fair warning that we’re going to run it on the five-thirty show tomorrow. This is going to be a big story.”