On Harrow Hill

What he heard next brought to mind the image of someone stumbling and bumping into something inside the storage unit, followed by a cry of pain and another silence. Soon a new series of thumps and knocks began, louder and more immediate than the earlier ones, suggesting that Tate was moving around and testing the solidity of the walls that surrounded him.

At 9:44 p.m. Gurney heard the distinctive metallic clunk of an exit lever. The door of the unit swung open.

The camera position offered only a side view of the unit, and its occupant only became visible when he finally staggered into the room. His hooded sweatshirt appeared blood-soaked.

The motion-sensitive camera followed him as he moved unsteadily toward the embalming table. He leaned forward, grasping the edge of it. His breathing sounded labored and raspy.

Gradually he straightened himself and began to make his way around the room. The bloody hood concealed his face and allowed only animal sounds of pain and rage to emerge. He might as well not have been human at all. Thinking of this feral creature as “Billy” seemed incongruous.

When he reached the doorway to the equipment room, he hesitated, then went inside. Soon there was the sound of a window being opened. Gurney wondered whether his purpose was to get more air or a clearer view of his surroundings. Where am I? would have to have been one of the top questions in his mind.

A minute later he came back into the main room—at an angle that provided a passing glimpse of the damaged side of his face.

“Holy Christ,” muttered Morgan.

Even shadowed as it was by the sweatshirt’s hood, the vertical gouge down through red and black charred flesh was so appalling that it was a relief when he turned away in the direction of the cabinet on the wall next to the doorway.

The cabinet appeared to interest him. He remained there for some time before making an effort to open it. Discovering that the glass door was locked, he smashed it with his elbow, which triggered another yowl of pain. He reached through the shattered opening, removed two handfuls of shiny implements, and stuffed them into the pockets of his sweatshirt.

He pulled a phone out of one of those pockets. For a while he just stood there, as if trying to make up his mind about something. Then his fingers moved as if he were sending someone a text message. He started to put the phone back in his pocket, then stopped and sent what appeared to be a second message. The time code on the video indicated that it was 10:01 p.m.

He started moving in the direction of the hallway that led to the back door, then stopped and faced a section of the wall next to the smashed cabinet. He remained in that position, rocking almost imperceptibly from side to side, for several minutes. Then he took one of the shiny instruments out of his pocket and stepped closer to the wall. He scratched a looping figure eight design into the white paint, added a vertical slash, and put the instrument back in his pocket. He stepped back, as if to admire what he’d done, then turned and walked with new determination into the dark hallway. Moments later there was the sound of a door being opened, a few seconds of silence, and the sound of it being firmly closed.

The time-code display read 10:19 p.m.

Five minutes later, in the absence of any further sounds or movements to activate it, the camera stopped operating.

The screen in the conference room went blank.

The untouched coffee in Gurney’s mug was cold.

Morgan’s expression conveyed a sense of overload.

Gurney provided a low-key counterpoint. “Interesting video. Intense, but no surprises. Entirely consistent with Kyra’s evidence narrative.”

“She did describe it like it happened,” said Morgan, as if the consistency were reassuring.

“And the time code tells us when it happened,” said Gurney, “which gives us a reliable window for tracing Tate’s movements.”

Morgan picked up his coffee mug, took a sip, made a disgusted face, and put it down. His gaze fell on the papers in the middle of the table. “You should take a look at your contract. And sign it. As soon as you do, you’ll be covered.”

Gurney picked up one of the copies and gave it a once-over. It was basically the same as the agreement he’d had the previous year with Sheridan Kline as an adjunct investigator on the White River multiple-murder case. “This is fine.”

Morgan slid a pen across the table. “I should give Barstow a call and tell her the video confirms her version of events.”

“Let her and Slovak both know that Tate exited Peale’s premises at ten nineteen that night. That could be important,” said Gurney.

“Will do.”

Morgan made the call, gave Barstow the news, and asked her to pass it along to Slovak.

As Gurney was signing the agreement, there was a knock at the open conference room door. A uniformed cop, the one who showed Gurney in that morning, was standing there. “That funeral director from next door wants to see you. He sounds pissed off.”

“Dan Peale?”