“Come in,” said Gurney.
The man wiped his feet carefully, almost obsessively, on the doormat, then followed Gurney past the little mudroom into the kitchen. He glanced around with an air of disinterest that Gurney was sure veiled a habit of suspicious scrutiny. The arson investigators he’d known in the city were all keenly observant.
“As I just informed Mr. Gurney, I need to get some information from each of you.”
“What’s your name again?” asked Kyle. “I missed it when you arrived this morning.”
The man looked at him blankly—no doubt, thought Gurney, assessing the aggressive edge in the young man’s tone. After a moment he said, “Investigator Kramden.”
“Really? Like Ralph?”
Another blank look.
“Ralph? In The Honeymooners?”
The man shook his head in a way that seemed more a dismissal of the question than an answer. He turned to Gurney. “I can conduct these interviews in my van or here in the house, if there’s an appropriate area.”
“Right here at the table would be good.”
“I have to conduct them individually, without everyone present, to avoid one witness’s recollections being influenced by another’s.”
“That’s fine with me. Whether my wife and son and Ms. Corazon agree is up to them.”
“It’s fine with me, too,” said Madeleine, although her tone was not very agreeable.
“I have … no objection,” said Kim uncertainly.
“Sounds like Investigator Kramden is thinking we might turn out to be suspects,” said Kyle, sounding eager for an argument.
The man withdrew a small iPod-like recording device from his pocket and studied it as though it were far more interesting than Kyle’s comment.
Gurney smiled. “I wouldn’t blame him. In arson, owners are usually prime suspects.”
“Not always,” said Kramden mildly.
“Did you get a good soil sample?” asked Gurney.
“Why do you ask?”
“Why do I ask? Because someone set fire to my barn last night, and I’d like to know whether the two hours you spent down there were productive.”
“I’d say so.” He paused. “What we need to do right now is complete these interviews.”
“In what sequence?”
Kramden blinked again. “You first.”
“I guess the rest of us should go into the den,” said Madeleine coolly, “and wait for our turns?”
“If you don’t mind.”
As Kyle and Kim were leaving the room with her, she turned in the doorway. “I assume, Investigator Kramden, that you’ll share with us at some point what, if anything, you’ve discovered about our barn?”
“We’ll share whatever we can.”
It was an answer so devoid of meaning that Gurney nearly laughed out loud. It was an answer he’d given countless times himself over the years.
“I’m delighted to hear that,” said Madeleine with a blatant lack of delight. Then she followed Kim and Kyle down the hall to the den.
Gurney stepped over to the breakfast table, sat in one of the chairs, and motioned Kramden toward one across from it.
The man laid the recorder on the table, pushed a button, sat down, and began to speak in a flat, bureaucratic voice. “Investigator Everett Kramden, Albany Regional Headquarters, BCI … Recorded interview initiated ten-seventeen A.M., March twenty-fourth, 2010 … Interview subject is David Gurney … Interview location is the subject’s house in Walnut Crossing. Interview purpose is to gather information regarding a suspicious fire in a secondary structure on the Gurney property, designated as a barn, approximately two hundred yards southeast of the main house. Transcript and affidavits to follow.”
He regarded Gurney with a gaze as colorless as his tone. “At what time did you first become aware of the fire?”
“I didn’t look at the clock. I’d guess it was between eight-twenty and eight-forty.”
“Who was the first to notice it?”
“Ms. Corazon.”
“What drew her attention to it?”
“I don’t know. She looked out through these glass doors for some reason and saw the flames.”
“Do you know why she looked out to begin with?”
“No.”
“What did she do when she saw the flames?”
“Shouted something.”
“What did she shout?”
“I think ‘My God, what’s that?’ or something similar.”
“What did you do?”
“I came over from the dining table where I’d been sitting, saw the fire, rushed to the phone, called 911.”
“Did you make any other calls?”
“No.”
“Did anyone else in the house make any calls?”
“Not that I observed.”
“Then what did you do?”
“Put on my shoes, ran down to the barn.”
“In the dark?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“With my son. He was right behind me.”
“The one named Kyle, who was just here?”
“Yes, my … only son.”
“What was the color of the fire?”
“Predominantly orange. Fast-burning, very hot, loud.”
“Burning mainly in one place or more than one?”
“Burning almost everywhere.”
“Did you notice if the barn windows were open or shut?”
“Open.”
“All of them?”
“I believe so.”
“Is that the way you’d left them?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Any unusual odors?”
“A petroleum distillate. Almost certainly gasoline.”
“You have personal experience with accelerants?”
“Prior to my NYPD Homicide assignment, I cross-trained briefly with a fire-department arson unit.”
Nearly invisible tremors in Kramden’s bleak expression seemed to register a rapid succession of unspoken thoughts.
“I assume,” Gurney went on, “that you and your sniffer dog found accelerant evidence along the inside base of the walls—as well as in your soil sample?”
“We made a thorough examination of the site.”
Gurney smiled at the nonanswer. “And you’re running your soil sample through a portable GLC in your van right now. Am I right?”
Kramden’s only reaction to this speculation was a transient bulge in his jaw muscle, followed by a short pause before his next question. “Did you make any effort to put out the fire or enter the building before the arrival of the first responders?”
“No.”
“You made no effort to remove anything of value from the building?”
“No. The fire was too intense.”
“What would you have removed if you could have?”
“Tools … an electric wood splitter … our kayaks … my wife’s bicycle … some spare furniture.”
“Was anything of value removed from the building during the month preceding the fire?”
“No.”
“Were the building and its contents insured?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of policy?”
“Homeowners.”
“I’ll need an inventory of the building’s contents, plus your policy number, broker’s name, and the insurance company’s name. Were there any recent increases in coverage?”
“No. Not unless there was an automatic inflationary adjustment that I’m not aware of.”
“Wouldn’t they notify you if there was one?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have more than one policy covering fire damage?”
“No.”
“Have you had any previous insured losses of any kind?”
Gurney thought for a moment. “A theft-insurance payment. I had a motorcycle that was stolen in the city about thirty years ago.”
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“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Are you involved in any conflicts with neighbors, relatives, business associates, anyone at all?”
“It seems that we may have a conflict that we weren’t aware of—with the firebug who tore down our No Hunting signs.”
“When were they put up?”
“My wife put them up a couple of years ago, shortly after we moved here.”
“Any other conflicts?”
It occurred to Gurney that having a step sawed out from under him and a bizarre warning whispered in his ear might be construed as evidence of a conflict. On the other hand, there was no proof that either the sabotage or the warning was meant for him personally. He cleared his throat. “No other conflicts I know of.”
“Did you leave the house at any time during the two hours preceding the discovery of the fire?”
“Yes. I went down and sat on the bench by the pond after dinner.”
“When was that?”
“I was down there right after dark, so … maybe around eight?”
“Why did you go there?”
“To sit on the bench, as I said. Relax. Unwind.”
“In the dark?”
“Yes.”
“You were upset?”
“Tired, impatient.”
“About what?”
“A private business matter.”
“Involving money?”
“Not really.”
Kramden leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on a small spot on the table. He touched it curiously with his finger. “And while you were sitting there in the dark, relaxing, did you see or hear anything?”
“I heard a couple of sounds in the woods behind the barn.”
“What kind of sounds?”
“Maybe small branches breaking? I couldn’t say for sure.”
“Was anyone else out of the house during the two hours preceding the fire?”
“My son came down to the bench for a while. And Ms. Corazon also stepped out for a while, I’m not sure for how long.”
“Where did she go?”
“I don’t know.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t ask?”
“No.”
“How about your son? Do you know if he went anywhere other than back and forth between the house and the bench?”
“Just to the bench and back to the house.”
“How can you be sure?”
“He had a lit flashlight in his hand.”
“How about your wife?”
“What about her?”
“Did she leave the house at all?”
“Not that I know of.”
“But you’re not sure?”
“Not absolutely sure.”
Kramden nodded slowly, as though these facts were forming some kind of coherent pattern. He ran his fingernail over the tiny black imperfection in the tabletop.
“Did you set the fire?” he asked, still staring at the spot.
Gurney knew that this was one of several standard arson-investigation questions that had to be asked.
“No.”
“Did you cause it to be set by someone else?”
“No.”
“Do you know who did set it?”
“No.”
“Do you know anyone who might have had a reason to set it?”
“No.”
“Do you have any other information at all that might help in the investigation?”
“Not right now.”
Kramden stared at him. “What does that mean?”
“It means that right now I don’t have any other information that could help in the investigation.”
There was the tiniest flash of anger in the man’s suspicious eyes. “Meaning you plan to have some relevant information in the future?”
“Oh, yes, Everett, I will definitely have some relevant information in the future. You can count on it.”
Chapter 24
Raising the Stakes
Kramden devoted only about twenty minutes each to his interviews with Madeleine and Kyle but then spent over an hour with Kim.
At that point it was nearly noon. Madeleine offered the man lunch, but he declined with a look that was more sour than gracious. Without explanation he left the house, walked down the pasture slope, and got into his van, which was parked halfway between the pond and the wreckage of the barn.
The morning fog had dissipated, and the day had brightened somewhat under a high overcast. Gurney and Kim were sitting at the table, while Madeleine was washing mushrooms for omelets. Kyle was looking out the kitchen window. “What the hell’s he up to now?”
“Probably checking on the progress of his gas-liquid chromatograph,” said Gurney.
“Or eating his own private sandwich,” said Madeleine with a touch of resentment.
“Once you get a GLC set up,” Gurney continued, “it takes about an hour for it to run an analysis.”
“How much can it tell him?”
“A lot. A GLC can break any accelerant down into its components—the precise amounts of each—which essentially produces a fingerprint of the chemical by type, sometimes even by brand if it’s a distinctive formula. It can be pretty specific.”
“Too bad it can’t be specific about the son of a bitch who set the fire,” said Madeleine, chopping a large mushroom with considerable force, the knife banging against the cutting board.
“Well,” said Kyle, “Investigator Kramden may have a smart machine, but he’s an asshole. Kept asking me about my flashlight, exactly what path I took to and from the house, how long I was down by the pond with Dad. He seemed to be suggesting that maybe I was lying about not knowing who started the fire. Jerk.” He looked over at Kim. “He kept you the longest. What was that all about?”
“He seemed to want to know all about The Orphans of Murder.”
“Your TV thing? Why would he want to know about that?”
She shrugged. “Maybe he thinks the two things are connected?”
“Did he already know about Orphans?” asked Gurney. “Or did you tell him about it?”
“I told him about it—when he asked how I was connected to you, how I happened to be here.”
“What did you tell him about my role in the project?”
“That you were acting as a technical adviser on issues related to the Good Shepherd case.”
“That’s all?”
“Pretty much.”
“Did you tell him about Robby Meese?”
“Yes, he asked about that.”
“About what?”
“About whether I had any conflicts with anyone.”
“So you told him about the … the peculiar things that have been happening?”
“He was very persistent.”
“And about the staircase? And the whisper?”
“The stairs, yes. The whisper, no. I didn’t personally hear it, so I figured that was up to you.”
“What else?”
“That’s about it. Oh, he wanted to know exactly where I was when I stepped out of the house last night. Did I hear anything, did I see you, see Kyle, see anyone else, stuff like that.”
Gurney felt a slow wave of uneasiness rising in his chest. There was in any crime interview or interrogation a wide spectrum of data that might or might not be disclosed. At one end of the spectrum were irrelevant personal details that no reasonable officer would expect someone to volunteer. At the other end were major facts crucial to understanding the crime, facts whose concealment would constitute obstruction of justice.
In the middle was a gray area subject to debate and rationalization.
The question here was whether the personal conflict in Kim’s life could be viewed, because of the basement incident, as a conflict in Gurney’s life as well. If she reported a potential connection between her sawed step and his burned barn, shouldn’t he have reported it as well?
More to the point, why hadn’t he? Was it simply his ingrained cop
inclination to control situations by controlling information?
Or was it the elephant in the room? His too-slow recovery from his injury. His fear that his abilities had been diminished—that he wasn’t as strong, as sharp, as quick as he had once been—that there was a time when he wouldn’t have fallen on his face, wouldn’t have let the whisperer escape.
“You’ll figure it out,” said Madeleine, sliding a cutting board’s worth of chopped mushrooms and onions into a large skillet on the stove.
He realized she’d been watching him and was demonstrating yet again her uncanny ability to read his mind—to see his thoughts and feelings in his eyes as clearly as if he’d spoken them. Earlier in their marriage, he’d found this faculty of hers almost frightening. Now he had come to regard it as one of the most benign and precious realities of their life together.
The skillet began to sizzle, and a pleasant aroma drifted across the room.
“Hey, that reminds me,” said Kyle, looking around. “Dad’s birthday present—he never finished opening it at dinner last night.”
Madeleine pointed to the sideboard. The box, still in its light blue wrapping, lay next to the arrow. Kyle, grinning, retrieved it and placed it on the table in front of his father.
“Well …” said Gurney, vaguely embarrassed. He began removing the paper.
“David, for Godsake,” said Madeleine, “you look like you’re defusing a bomb.”
He laughed nervously, pulled off the remaining paper, and opened the box, which was a matching blue. After unfolding several layers of crinkly white tissue paper, he found a handsome eight-by-ten sterling-silver frame. In the frame was a newspaper clipping, beginning to yellow with age. He stared at it, blinking.
“Read it out loud,” said Kyle.
“I … uh … I don’t have my reading glasses.”
Madeleine regarded him with a combination of curiosity and concern. She turned down the gas under the skillet, came across the room, and took the framed clipping from him. She glanced through it quickly.
“It’s an article from the New York Daily News. The headline reads, ‘Serial Monster Nabbed by Newly Promoted Detective.’ The article goes on: ‘David Gurney, one of the city’s youngest homicide detectives, put an end last night to the horrifying murder career of Charles Lermer, aka “The Slicer.” Gurney’s superiors give him the lion’s share of the credit for the clever pursuit, identification, and final takedown of the monster said to be responsible for at least seventeen murders involving cannibalism and dismemberment over the past twelve years. “He came up with a radical new approach to the case that led to the breakthrough,” explained Lieutenant Scott Barry, an NYPD spokesperson. “We can all sleep easier tonight,” said Barry, declining to comment further, indicating that the pending legal process made it impossible to release full details at this time. Gurney himself was unreachable for comment. The hero detective is “allergic to publicity,” according to a department colleague.’ It’s dated June first, 1987.”