“The foreign DNA on its fur was degraded. It’s reliable only to the biological class level, so we can’t take it down to genus or species. However, the class is somewhat surprising.
“Reptiles?”
“Lizards and snakes—including roughly eight thousand species.”
“You’re saying the rabbit came in contact with that sort of . . . creature?”
“Or in contact with something that a lizard or snake had been in contact with.”
“Is that something that could happen naturally in a wilderness area?”
“Theoretically yes, but unlikely. The quantity of DNA deposited on the rabbit’s feet and stomach would suggest a prolonged exposure, probably in a confined space.”
“What’s the likely scenario?”
“It’s possible that the rabbit spent some time in a herpetarium.”
“That’s not a word I hear every day.”
“A reptile enclosure. Could be the size of a large fish tank. Or the size of the reptile house at a zoo. Or anything in between. There would be enough reptile DNA in that kind of environment to account for its presence on the rabbit.”
“Okay . . . but what’s the context for that situation?”
“You mean, why was the rabbit there to begin with? I would assume as food for a fairly large lizard or snake.”
“Those things are fed live animals in captivity?”
“Not as a rule.”
“Then why . . . ?”
“Perhaps,” she said, “the owner enjoys watching.”
STANDING THERE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DEN, HE’D BEEN so absorbed in what Barstow was telling him that he didn’t notice Madeleine watching him with growing alarm.
“What was that all about?” she asked as soon as he ended the call.
He opted for the truth—softening it only to the extent of referring to the thing merely as a dead rabbit rather than a beheaded one. He then explained the forensic work Barstow was doing and her unsettling conclusions.
“Why didn’t you tell me before about the rabbit?”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Like you didn’t want to worry me when you called me from the hospital and failed to mention that the accident on Blackmore Mountain nearly killed you?”
“There are a lot of ways of describe a situation. I generally prefer the least dramatic.”
“Why?”
Such a simple question, yet he had no ready answer.
“Think about it,” she said on her way out of the room.
THERE WERE A number of things he was more comfortable thinking about, and the Lerman murders sat at the top of that list. He wondered if the elusive motive for those killings was one of those that accounted for virtually all premeditated murders—power, greed, lust, envy, revenge—or if it was something else, something festering in the mind of a psychopath. If the killer was indeed deranged, the ingenious setups of both murders suggested that whatever that derangement might be, it was accompanied by a cool intelligence.
The transcript of Scott Derlick’s interview with Thomas Cazo—with its reference to Lenny Lerman being “out of it” for a month prior to his resignation—indicated preoccupation or depression. But Cazo’s description of Lerman’s attitude on the day he resigned sounded lively, feisty, optimistic. It was frustrating that Derlick had failed to probe the details of these mood changes.
Gurney found Cazo’s number on the master list of trial witnesses and placed a call. He told himself that this was such a minor violation of the strictures placed on him by Stryker that he could easily find a way of explaining it in the unlikely event that it came to her attention.
The phone rang more than a dozen times before it was answered by a harried voice.
“Beer Monster.”
“Thomas Cazo, please.”
“He’s not here.”
“When will he be in?”
“Night shift.”
“What time does that start?”
“What?”
“What time will Mr. Cazo be in?”
“Four, five, around there.”
“Is that the time he gets in every day?”
“Except Mondays and Tuesdays he’s off. You want to talk to someone else?”
“No, he’s the one I need. Thank you. I appreciate your time. You sound busy.”
“We’re short-handed, and our only forklift’s down. They should have a couple of back-ups.”
“Heavy work, right?’
“Wouldn’t be so bad, you know, if everybody did their share. Some people think others should do it all.”
“A free ride,” said Gurney sympathetically.
“But it ain’t free. Somebody drops their end, somebody gets screwed with the load. So, yeah, free—on somebody else’s sweat. It’s bullshit, is what it is. Entitlement.” He drew the word out in slow, contempt-laden syllables.
“I hear you, brother.”
“What’d you say your name was?”
“Dave.”
“Okay, Dave, you take care, I gotta go.”
“Before you go, tell me something. Do you remember a guy who used to work there—Lenny Lerman?”
“You want to know about Lenny, talk to Cazo. I gotta go.”
The line went dead.
He’d handled the transition to Lerman too abruptly, and probably shouldn’t have tried it at all. Patience was a virtue Gurney needed to work on. He’d start by suppressing the urge to drive to the Beer Monster. Speed was important, but it wasn’t everything. Putting off questioning Cazo for twenty-four hours would give him time to come up with the right approach and give his headache time to abate.
