On Harrow Hill

When he went to the sink island to make his second coffee of the morning, he found a note from Madeleine saying she’d be working at the clinic all day.

When the coffee was ready, he brought the steaming mug to the table. He opened the manila envelope, took out the case file, and inserted the USB drive in his laptop.

Clicking on the USB icon opened a window that revealed nine more icons, one for each of five digital video files and one for each of four sets of photographs from the homicide sites. He decided to review the videos first—in chronological order, beginning with the one of Tate being knocked from the roof of St. Giles.

Having already examined it more than once, he fast-forwarded his way through most of it. He did the same with the one showing Tate’s “resurrection” in Peale’s mortuary.

He devoted more time to the video from Lorinda Russell’s new security ­camera—showing Aspern, masquerading as Tate, approaching the conservatory. Despite the limited illumination provided by the moonlight, the clarity was remarkable. Visible details included the original bloodstain on the sweatshirt hood, the mallet in his hand used for breaking the glass in the conservatory door, the white laces in his sneakers, and the bulge in the sweatshirt pocket where he was carrying the bagged hand of Billy Tate.

The next video was of Lorinda responding to Gurney’s questions about the shooting. Once again he was struck by the woman’s glacial indifference and how little she revealed of herself. Gaining some insight into the appetites that drove the decisions inside that glossy shell might be worth some effort.

But where to begin?

He’d already heard from some locals who knew her—Helen Stone, Hilda Russell, Greg Mason, Mike Morgan—but those conversations had elicited more information about their feelings than hers. One exception was Greg Mason’s comment that she was the only student in the high school who wasn’t afraid of Billy Tate.

As he thought back over what little he’d been told about her behavior, he recalled Morgan mentioning the “inappropriate relationship” she’d reportedly had when she was fifteen with her high school principal. He wondered if now, thirteen years later, that man might be willing to talk about her.

He placed a call to Greg Mason.

Apparently noting Gurney’s name on his screen, Mason began speaking in a rush of angry excitement. “I heard the news about Aspern. That evil son of a bitch! I wish I was there when Lorinda shot him. Are you sure he’s dead?”

“I’m sure.”

“My God, you know somebody for so many years, then you discover you didn’t know him at all. I never liked him. But who would have expected this?”

“I hope his death brings you some closure.”

“I don’t know what ‘closure’ is. I’m just glad the son of a bitch is dead. Is that what you called to tell me?”

“Actually, I wanted to follow up on a subject I raised when we spoke in your office. The rumored relationship between Lorinda—Lori Strane—and Principal Bullock.”

“I told you—I don’t talk about rumors.”

“I respect that. But when something like this pops up in the course of an investigation, it needs to be addressed. I want to speak directly to Bullock, and I was hoping you might know someone who could put me in touch with him.”

“He’s been gone for at least twelve years.”

“He must have left a forwarding address with the school.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“But someone in the records department would know, right?”

“The only person likely to know anything would be Betty Brill.”

“Does she have a title?”

“APA. Assistant Principal for Administration.”

Gurney thanked him, called Larchfield Academy, and asked for Betty Brill.

When she picked up, he stated his name and police affiliation and explained that he needed to get in touch with the school’s former principal.

“Hanley Bullock?” Her voice sounded dry, tight, and unhappy with the subject.

“Yes.”

He heard the sound of tapping on a keyboard. Then more tapping. And more tapping.

“All I can give you is the forwarding address he provided a month after his resignation. I have no idea if it’s still valid.”

“Any phone number?”

“No.” She sniffed and spelled out Bullock’s forwarding address with a clear distaste for anything associated with the man.

Gurney entered it—36 Haze Street, Crickton, NY—into Google Maps. The app displayed an estimated drive time of an hour and nine minutes from Walnut Crossing.

The street view of the address showed the front of what looked like an old rooming house with a wide, uneven porch. Trudy’s Antique Treasures was on its left side and Flacco’s Deli on its right. Gurney found the deli’s website and got its phone number.

A bored female voice answered on the fourth ring. “Flacco’s, what can I do for you?”

Gurney explained that he was trying to get in touch with someone by the name of Hanley Bullock, who was a tenant in the building next door, and he was wondering if someone at the deli might have the name or the phone number of the building’s owner.

“Hold on,” she said. “You want to talk to my father.”