The Viper

Next he studied the vehicle photos—reminders that few things on earth looked more derelict than the skeleton of a burnt-out car. The windows had shattered and collapsed in the flames. The tires had been consumed. The interior photos showed even more extensive damage, since that was where most of the plastic components—controls, gauges, screens, panels, upholstery, padding, carpeting—were located. Virtually everything except the metal framework had been reduced to crusts and ashes. Gurney knew from his experience with homicides involving arson that a gasoline fire could reach temperatures close to two thousand degrees. Virtually no non-metallic part of a vehicle could survive that heat.

Neither could a human body—which raised an interesting question. Why did the killer go to the trouble of burying Lerman’s body, when it could have been disposed of more efficiently in the car fire? At two thousand degrees, there would have been only charred skeletal remains, and that heat would have destroyed the DNA molecules in the bones—a far more effective way of preventing identification than removing the man’s head and fingers. Perhaps the murder had been misunderstood from the beginning.

The thought energized him. He spread the other case files out on his desk and chose one at random. It was a transcript of Detective Lieutenant Scott Derlick’s interview with Thomas Cazo—Lerman’s boss at the Beer Monster.

Although Gurney had a clear recollection of Cazo’s testimony at the trial—testimony shaped by Stryker’s choice of questions—it was possible that the full interview might contain other facts of interest.

As he sat back in his chair to read the transcript, his phone rang.

It was Madeleine.

“I have a favor to ask. Actually, two favors. Could you bring my cello to the clinic? Any time before three thirty? I’m supposed to join our string group for a concert at Highfield Assisted Living right after work. I’d forgotten about it.”

“Sure. No problem.”

“Thank you. And the second favor. The snow in the chicken run. Could you shovel it off to the side? They love being out there, but they won’t come down the ramp if the grass is covered with snow.”

After they ended the call, he picked up the transcript, then put it back down. He decided to get the chicken errand out of the way first. Large snowflakes descended in slow motion through the windless air. Soft pillows of snow collected on the seats of the Adirondack chairs on the patio, on the top of the little cafe table, on the birdhouse by the old apple tree, on the roof of the coop.

Being outside on a snowy day like this instantly immersed him in another world, one colored by fragments of memories. Sitting on a sled pulled by his father. The sled gliding silently between high drifts. He wondered if his lifelong love of snow dated back to that moment—he and his father alone in that silent, untroubled place.

The restless squawking of the hens in the coop brought him back to the present. He went to the shed he and Madeleine had built the previous spring. Currently, it was used for garden tools, hoses, fertilizer; but there was a possibility that it might someday house a pair of alpacas—animals Madeleine was especially fond of.

He retrieved a snow shovel and began clearing a broad area at the base of the ramp. As soon as he scraped away enough snow to expose a patch of grass, the five hens came strutting down the ramp in single file—the fearless Rhode Island Red in the lead—and began scratching at the ground. He headed back into the house.

His phone was ringing as he entered the mudroom. He pulled off his snowy boots and hurried through the kitchen into the den. The caller’s number had been blocked.

“Gurney here.”

“David Gurney?”

“Right.”

“I have information for you.” The voice was male, soft, insinuating.

“Who is this?”

“I know who killed Lenny Lerman.”

Gurney said nothing.

“Are you still there?”

“I’m here.”

“Would that information be useful to you?”

“That depends on who you are and how verifiable it is.”

“Perfectly verifiable, and very valuable to your friend Ziko Slade. It will free him from prison. Prisons are dangerous places. I suggest a simple transaction. I provide the truth about the hit on Lenny Lerman, and Mr. Slade pays for value received.”

“Does this truth come with proof?”

“Of course.”

“Let me make sure I understand. You have concrete proof—not just hearsay—that someone other than Ziko Slade killed Lenny Lerman. And you’re willing to turn that proof over for an appropriate payment. Is that right?”

“Exactly.”

“How would this exchange occur?”

“I will give you part of the information—enough for you and Slade to understand what happened to Mr. Lerman. Along with that, I will give you a price. I will retain the final proof until we have a firm agreement.”

“The partial information—what does it consist of?”

“Some names, dates, photographs.”

“How soon can you give me these things?”

“I have business this afternoon in Harbane and tomorrow in Scarpton. You know those towns?”

“More or less.”