In the Bleak Midwinter

“I know. That’s why I haven’t discounted him as her murderer.” Russ flipped open the medical examiner’s report on Darrell McWhorter. “Let’s take a look at the next one. Darrell McWhorter meets with the Burnses on the morning of December eight.” Lyle noted the date. “He tells them he and his wife are keeping the baby, because it’s the last link to their little girl or some cowpuckie like that. Sometime between eight and ten that night, he’s shot to death by the side of the Old Schuylerville Road. Probably while on his way down to Albany. In Albany, some man shows up at Katie’s house around ten o’clock, says he’s her father and ransacks her room.”

“It couldn’t have been Ethan Stoner, because he was sitting in the county jail in Glens Falls at the time,” Mark reminded him.

Lyle tapped the chalk stick against the Burnses’ names. “How ’bout these two?”

“How ’bout them?” Russ said. “Again, no alibi except each other. Reverend Fergusson and I drove past their place at eleven-thirty that night, and both cars were in the drive.”

“It only takes an hour to get to Albany,” Lyle said. “An hour and a half in bad weather.”

“Was the Northway speed limit reduced to forty-five last night?” Russ asked.

“Nope. Snow wasn’t that bad, the plows kept up with it.”

“So it’d be tight, but possible.”

“Maybe they have a winter rat,” Mark said.

Lyle and Russ looked at each other again. Lyle nodded thoughtfully. It was a common practice for people to protect their good cars from the ravages of rock salt, potholes, and cycles of freezing and thawing water by garaging them between December and March and driving a winter rat instead; any junky old heap with a heater and a defroster that worked.

“If they did,” Mark went on, “One of them could have taken it out while the other one stayed home, parking the cars in the drive, turning on the lights, maybe even making phone calls to establish an alibi.”

“Is it just me, or does that boy seem awfully smart to you?” Russ asked. Lyle grinned. “Okay, Mark,” Russ continued, “run with it. Get into the DMV records and find out how many vehicles are registered to Mr. and Mrs. Burns. Don’t forget to check any that might be under her maiden name. Or registered to their law practice instead of to them as individuals.”

“If it was Geoff Burns who tossed the student apartment in Albany,” Lyle said, “what was he after?”

“Maybe there was something there that would tie him to Katie’s murder,” Russ said. “A letter, a note she wrote to herself—something.” He leaned one-handed against the table and tapped the folder containing the Burnses’ statements. “The way I see it, during the negotiations with the Burnses, Darrell thinks of whatever it is that could prove Geoff Burns killed his daughter. So he calls everything off. Tightens the screws, makes the Burnses see he’s going to play hardball. Then he calls Burns later, tells him about the evidence or whatever, and arranges the meeting. On the way to Albany, Burns shoots him.”

“Burns shoots him because . . .”

“Hell, I don’t know. To cover up the blackmail? Because Darrell pissed him off bad enough? Geoff Burns has a temper like a bantam rooster, and believe me, Darrell McWhorter was the kind of guy you could easily get pissed off at.”

Lyle took aim at Mark with a half-cocked finger. “Did you ask ’em about owning any firearms when you spoke with ’em last night?”

“She’s got a nine-millimeter Smith and Wesson registered in her name. Said she keeps it in the trunk of her car for when she’s traveling long distances alone. I didn’t even ask to see it at the time. It was late, and the chief had said to go real carefully.”

Russ nodded. “We’re gonna need a warrant to be able to test that weapon, sure enough.”

Lyle crossed his arms over his flannel shirt and looked at the worn-down green chalkboard, where abbreviations and arrows connected the Burnses to Katie and Darrell McWhorter. “You think you got enough to convince Judge Rys-wick to let you take a look at that gun? These are a couple of lawyers, remember. People like him. Not the usual type to get hauled up on a murder charge.”

Russ sighed. “Dunno. Maybe.” He pointed at the three events Lyle had written down and circled. “We’ve got an abandoned baby. We’ve got a dead mother and a dead grandfather. So, do we have three separate suspects, one who fathered the baby, one who killed Katie, and one who killed Darrell?”

“Too complicated. I don’t like it,” Lyle said.

“So maybe we have one suspect. The same man who was at the motel with Katie when her baby was presumably born, later killed her and her father. It’s a lot neater, but we’ve got squat evidence.” He rapped his knuckles on Katie McWhorter’s autopsy report. “Or we have one man, identity unknown, who is Cody’s father, and one other suspect who did both the McWhorters.” He smiled one-sided at Mark, who squinted up at the blackboard’s crisscrossing lines. “Maybe I should take the chalkboard in with me to Ryswick, you think?”