On Harrow Hill

He decided to make a start on the project.

48

The following morning was the Platonic ideal of spring in the Catskills. The early sunlight slanting across the hillsides illuminated countless shades of green. The low pasture was dotted with patches of purple clover. The sun was warm, the breeze was cool, and the scent of lilacs sweetened the air.

He was sitting with Madeleine at the patio table, sharing a breakfast of blueberry pancakes. Every once in a while Madeleine glanced with a smile at the start he’d made the previous afternoon on the shed. The necessary lumber was piled neatly next to the chicken coop. The holes for the corner posts had been dug—no small achievement in the rocky soil—and two of the posts had been set and braced.

“I can help with the next steps,” she said happily. “We can work on it together this weekend.”

Oddly, it was at times like this—when he’d acted like a real husband instead of like a detective who was sharing the house—that he felt his marital shortcomings most acutely.

She was gazing at him as though she were reading his mind. She got up from the table, came around behind him, and kissed him on the back of the neck.

At exactly ten o’clock that morning, he received the first of the phone calls he’d been hoping for.

“Good morning, Detective. This is Greta Vickerz. I have the information for you. You want me to give you first the number of pounds force required, or the method of testing?”

“Good morning, Dr. Vickerz. In whatever order you wish.”

“Method first is more logical, followed by results. First, we reinstalled the metal latch in an undamaged area of the wood. Second, we drilled a small hole in the casket lid and inserted a narrow cable with a bracket on the inside of the lid to hold it in place. Third, we closed the lid and engaged the latch. Fourth, we attached the cable to the laboratory’s spring scale and ratcheted it up until breaking force was achieved, providing force measurement in pounds. You understand?”

“I think so.”

“Then we repeated the procedure, again reinstalling the latch in a second undamaged area. This was to provide a second reading. There was less than ten percent variance in the necessary breaking force, so the results have a good confidence level. You want numbers now?”

“Please.”

“First test, breaking force one hundred fourteen pounds. Second test, one hundred six pounds. Average one hundred ten pounds.”

“So, you’re saying that the original breaking force exerted on the inside of that lid in the mortuary would have been in that neighborhood?”

“I would say with ninety percent confidence that the force would have been between ninety and one hundred thirty pounds.”

“This is helpful. Thank you.”

“All very interesting. If you want, I can investigate further an oddity.”

“Sorry?”

“For testing, we removed the lining from the casket. In the bottom, we observed a hole, seven millimeters in diameter.”

“Part of the original structure of the casket?”

“Drilled later.”

“Any obvious function?”

“No.”

“Too small for an air hole, I would think.”

“Too small, wrong place. Also an air hole in a casket would be . . . hard to understand.”

Like everything else in this case, thought Gurney.

He asked if she could imagine any possible purpose for it. She said no, but she could develop a technical study proposal with a cost estimate. That struck him as a process more likely to raise red flags than produce useful results. The little hole was intriguing, but its relevance was questionable. He thanked her again and ended the call.

He spent some time thinking about the force that Tate had to apply to break open the casket. Considering his damaged physical condition, even the lower end of the range seemed challenging. But his constricted position, an apparent limitation, could have been an advantage, since it was similar to a weight lifter’s bench-press posture. Bottom line, Vickerz’s testing was instructive without resolving anything.

Gurney couldn’t help wondering about that seven-millimeter hole in the bottom of the casket, but his wondering was truncated by another phone call—this one from Hardwick.

“Hey, Sherlock, definitely some odd shit connected to that BMW. I found an outfit down in Montville—calls itself Eleganza Luxury Rentals—specializing in everything from Beemers and Audis up to Bentleys and Lamborghinis. Funny thing happened. I called them last night and told the guy who answered that I was looking to rent a 5 Series BMW, preferably a 530e. He said I was in luck. They had that exact car in dark blue—just returned yesterday after being out for three or four days.”

“That has to be the one. Were you able to get the renter’s name?”