“The flat spots on the ropes were located where they went over top of the crossbar. The shiny spots were aligned below them, on the bottom of the bar. If Mark just showed you closeup photos of the bodies in situ, you wouldn’t have noticed what I’m talking about, because those ropes were behind the victims’ heads, tying their necks to the structure.”
“Did any scenario occur to you that would explain the apparent connection between the shiny spots and the flat spots?”
“Not at the time. I just automatically photograph anything that seems odd.” He hesitated. “But . . . maybe some kind of clamp?”
Gurney tried to picture it. “You mean . . . as if someone had pulled a rope over the bar to hoist each victim into a standing position . . . then clamped the rope against the bar to hold him in place while they tied ropes around his stomach and legs?”
“I guess it could have been done that way. The way you describe it would be consistent with the markings.”
“Very interesting. Thank you, Paul. Thank you for your time. And thank you for your close observation of details.”
“I hope it helps.”
After ending the call, Gurney sat back in his chair and gazed thoughtfully out the den window, trying to reconstruct the scene in his mind—to imagine circumstances that would
In a way, it ended up doing both—although the “clearing” seemed to bring about more emptying than clarifying. Still, a clean mental slate was not a bad thing. And a reduction in tension was always good.
As he was finishing dressing in clean jeans and a comfortable polo shirt, his sense of peace was interrupted by the sound of a door opening and closing. Curious, he went out to the kitchen and met Madeleine coming in from the mudroom.
She said nothing, just walked to the far end of the long open area that served as their kitchen, dining room, and sitting room. She sat down on the couch by the fireplace. He followed and sat in an armchair facing her.
Not since the death of their four-year-old son more than twenty years ago had he seen her look so drained, so hopeless. She closed her eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asked, the question immediately striking him as absurd.
She opened her eyes. “Remember Carrie Lopez?”
“Of course.”
It was the kind of situation a cop never wants to think about, but can never forget. Carrie was the wife, then widow, of Henry Lopez, an idealistic young narcotics detective who was pushed off the roof of a Harlem crack house one winter night shortly after Gurney had been assigned to the same precinct. The next night three local gang members were killed in a shootout with two members of the narcotics squad and subsequently blamed for the Lopez homicide. But Carrie never believed the story. She was sure her husband’s murder was an inside job, that the guys in narcotics were on the take and Henry’s honesty was becoming a problem for them. But she got nowhere with her requests for an internal affairs investigation. She gradually fell apart. A year to the day after Henry’s death she committed suicide—by jumping from the roof of the same building.
Gurney moved next to Madeleine. “Do you think that’s the state of mind Heather is in?”
“I think it could go that way.”
“What about Kim?”
“Right now her anger is holding her together. But . . . I don’t know.” She shook her head.
At eight o’clock that evening, as they both sat in front of his desk in the den, Gurney went to the “Live Stream” section of the RAM-TV website and clicked on the icon for
In a modest departure from the flashing colors and exploding graphics that introduced most RAM-TV programs, the Carlton Flynn show began with a staccato drumbeat under a barrage of black-and-white photos of Flynn. In rapid sequence they showed the man in various moods, all of them intense: Pensive. Amused. Outraged. Appraising. Alarmed. Tough. Skeptical. Disgusted. Delighted.
With a final sharp drumbeat, the scene transitioned to the live face of the man himself looking directly into the camera.
“Good evening. I’m Carlton Flynn. With a matter of concern.” He showed his teeth in a way that was not quite a smile.
The camera pulled back to reveal him sitting beside a small round table. Dell Beckert was on the other side of the table. Beckert was wearing a dark suit with an American flag lapel pin. Flynn was wearing a white shirt, open at the collar, sleeves rolled up to the elbow.
