In the Bleak Midwinter

Darrell had died from a single gunshot at the back of his head, delivered only inches away. He had died with his coat on, unzipped, falling face forward onto the narrow pull-off, just missing the guardrail. He had died with a half-smoked cigarette in his fingers. The soggy butt was in a plastic baggy in the evidence box right now.

“Whaddya think?” Mark Durkee swung his flashlight in the direction of the state trooper who was methodically combing through the snow between the body and the road.

“I think he has a better chance of finding the winning lottery ticket than finding a shell casing in all that,” Russ said. “We’ll just have to cross our fingers and hope Dvorak can give us ballistics information from the autopsy.”

“Actually, I meant, what do you think happened?”

Russ glanced down the road, past the ambulance with its anonymous, snow-suited paramedics, past his pickup, where Clare sat steaming at his orders not to leave the cab. “He was in a car,” Russ said, recreating the scene in his mind. “Not his car. The killer was driving. McWhorter wants a smoke. They’re going someplace . . . not local. He doesn’t want to wait for his nic fix until they get there. The killer says, no smoking in my car. But I’ll pull off up ahead, you can get out, have one there. McWhorter gets out. The killer gets out, maybe to brush snow off the rear window or snap the wiper blades. There aren’t any cars going by. It’s an opening, and the killer takes it. Bang, he does McWhorter, gets back in the car, and drives off. Anybody hears the gunshot, they’d think it was backfire, or someone jacking deer.” He looked past the guardrail, where a few stunted sumacs thinned out as the land fell away into a sloping valley. On the opposite hillside, a mile or so away, he could see the lights of two or three farms. “It’s been coming down hard. If the killer had been a little luckier, Darrell here would have been a mound of snow covered up by the plows when they came through.”

“That’s somebody very cool. Somebody who can put it all together fast.”

“Yeah. Or somebody who has fantasized about killing McWhorter so often that when the opportunity arose, she was ready to snatch it.”

“She?”

“Sure. Don’t be a sexist, Mark. You think only men can kill?”

“Hell, no. I’m a married man.”

Russ laughed. The technician waved at them. “We’ve got all we’re going to get,” he shouted. “Tell the medics they can bag him.” Durkee nodded and trudged off through the growing drifts toward the ambulance.

A van was coming up the road, slowing down, then pulling in past the crime scene. CHANNEL 7: LIVE! LATE BREAKING! Russ read on its side. He knew it was fashionable to bash the press, but publicity could be a big assist in a case. There was a reason the FBI fought to keep America’s Most Wanted on the air. He watched a burly guy unload a hand-held camera. He’d have to give them the usual speech about not releasing the identity until the family had been notified. Would anything be likely to shake loose if he mentioned the probable connection to the previous murder and the abandoned baby?

He waved Durkee over again. “Mark, as soon as you can wrap this up, I want you to head over to Geoffrey and Karen Burnses’ house and find out where they’ve been this evening. Do they own a gun, all that. Ask to see the inside of their cars. If they give you any problems, call me. We’ll get a warrant tonight, if necessary.”

“Okay. Want me to bring them in for questioning?”

“Go with your gut. You get a reasonable suspicion, go ahead. But remember, these two are the sort to sue the department for false arrest, so make sure you cross your T’s and dot your I’s.”

“Will do, Chief.”

“As soon as I’m done with the TV crew, I’m going to pay a visit to McWhorter’s daughter Kristen. See if after two years, she finally agreed to meet with her dear old dad tonight.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Clare announced when Russ climbed into his truck.

“Congratulations,” he said, tossing his parka in the back. The cab was almost too warm, undoubtedly the result of leaving Clare in possession of the keys.

“I’m going to come with you when you go to talk with Kristen.”

Russ buckled his seatbelt and shifted the pickup into gear. “No, you’re not. I said I’d drop you home, and I will. I didn’t say anything about making you junior deputy. And what makes you think I’m going to talk with Kristen anyway?”

“She’s a logical suspect, isn’t she?”

“So are the Burnses.” He cautiously pulled into the road. The slap of the wipers barely kept up with the pelting snow. “As a matter of fact, they’re the only ones I can think of who had reason to kill both Katie and her father. McWhorter did say he wouldn’t let them have custody of Cody this morning, right?”

Silence. He risked letting his eyes leave the road and glanced over at Clare. She was limned by the dashboard light, arms wrapped around herself, frowning. “What?” he said.

She hummed in the back of her throat.

“What, Clare?”