Head Shot (12 page)

'That may be over-ridden,' said Skinner.

'What do you mean?'

As if in reply, the big DCC handed him back the cellphone. 'First you give those orders, then we'l take it back to your office and I'l explain.'

The Sheriff nodded and made two calls; one short, to his own specialist unit, the other longer, to the head of the State Police Bureau of Criminal Investigation. Returning the phone to Skinner, he retrieved the key to his car from one of the patrolmen on the door then headed towards it, beckoning the three to fol ow him.

The journey into the centre of Buffalo took no more than twenty minutes. The Graces' house was in an eastern suburb of the smal lakeside city, and as they drove westward the surroundings became first more industrial, then, as they passed the footbal ground, more commercial.

The day was clear and cool; sitting in the back of the car that the FBI men had hired. Skinner wound down the window to enjoy the fresh air, 80

and to listen to the universally familiar sound of the Lake Erie gulls.

Dekker's office was on the top floor of the low-rise headquarters building on Delaware Avenue, in the business heart of Buffalo; the city had always reminded him of Edinburgh, inasmuch as it appeared to be a tight-knit community, where everyone probably knew everyone else.

'No cal s,' the Sheriff barked, brusquely, to his secretary as he ushered his three companions into his spacious room. He pointed them at a smal conference table, and took a seat at its head. 'Okay, Bob, I ought to call the chief of my criminal investigation unit, but something tells me I should hold on that. Let's hear what you've got to say first,' he said.

Skinner laid his big silver document case on the table, opened it and took out a pile of computer print-outs, which Brand had given him when they had met at JFK, and which he had begun to study on the flight upstate. He separated them into two bundles, then looked Dekker straight in the eye. 'Do you know how many burglary homicides we have in Scotland in a year, Brad?'

'I have no idea.'

'None. Don't get me wrong, we have an endemic burglary problem, and we have our share of murders. Sometimes, in fact, it seems to me that in Edinburgh, we have more than our share . . .' he flashed an ironic grin '... at least when I'm around. But our thieves just do not break into people's homes, not even rich people's homes, with the intention of kil ing then robbing. Is it al that much different here?'

The Erie County Sheriff shook his head. 'No, I can't say as it is. Our homicides tend to be gang things, or family things.' He paused. 'But we're not talking about Buffalo here; we're talking about the Adirondacks.

That's a whole different country.'

'Maybe so; but rural New York State actually has a lower homicide rate than you do. In fact it hardly has any. It also has a very low incidence of burglary. The place where Leo and Susannah were killed is remote, in terms of this part of the eastern United States at any rate; and that's true of most of the communities like it. From what I've been told by the BCI chief many of them barely are communities, just a collection of cabins gathered around lakesides, many of them empty for much of the year, furnished sparsely, with no valuables left there. Who's going to travel upstate to rip off a TV set and a few cheap knives and forks?

'Answer, no one. So let's get real, the guy who killed my in-laws went there to do just that.' He tapped the larger of the bundles before him.

'This stuff's from the FBI computer,' he said. 'Country-wide, in the last three years there have been fewer than ten genuine burglary homicides which match this one even remotely. So let's forget that theory. This was murder; first and foremost.

'If you want me to convince you, let's look at the way Leo and Susannah were kil ed. They weren't completely in the back of beyond, out there. The nearest cabin is half a mile away, and that lake is fished from dawn till midnight; there's always some bugger out in a boat.

Sound travels, especially over water; the guy couldn't exactly have walked in with a sawn-off and blown them al over the rucking place. So he didn't: instead he strangled them with a wire garrotte. Why? Because he was a pro, and because that was his method of choice. I'd guess he watched them for a couple of days, saw Leo sit on the por.ch around suppertime, and chose that as his moment. The old man was taken completely by surprise, and so, I guess, was Susannah, since she was still in the kitchen when she was killed.

'Let's go on. How many murders have there been in the entire United States in the same three-year period in which the victims have been garrotted in the same way; that is, in which the kil er has used a wire ligature?'

Dekker shook his head.

Skinner ruffled the smal er bundle on the desk. 'The answer, according to the great big computer, is twenty-five. Of these, twelve took place in Miami, Florida, and were the traMBLrk of a gang called the Toledos, who chose to use lengths of razor-wire and to strangle their victims slowly. They were distinguished by the amount of blood at the scene; most of the poor bastards bled to death, in fact.

'Of the remaining thirteen, nine were domestic crimes, in which the victims... as it happens, they included five wives, one grandfather and three mothers-in-law . . . were related to the murderer. Al of the perpetrators are now in jail, other than one who refused to appeal his death sentence and was executed three months ago.

'That leaves four, not counting Leo and Susannah. In every one of those cases the victim was murdered at home; two of them were Italians, known to have been involved in organised crime, and two of them were Colombians, a husband and wife, drug dealers who had been ripping off their suppliers.'

'Okay, I agree,' said the Sheriff. 'But how does that tie in with what you said back at the house, about jurisdiction over the investigation?'

Finally, Skinner smiled, the big broad smile of a card-player laying down a winning hand. 'On the journey upstate, and in my waking hours in the hotel, I've been through al of these burglary homicide reports.

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They're very detailed; it says a lot for the FBI computer, ask it a specific question and you'l get an answer. It took a while, but eventual y, I found two files which, set together, make interesting reading.

'One homicide took place in a suburb of Las Vegas two weeks ago.

The victim's name was Sander Garrett; he lived alone in a big new luxury development on the outskirts of the city. He was found dead in his kitchen, cause of death a single gunshot wound to the head. His house had a security system, which Garrett normal y set at night, but when the cops arrived they realised that it wasn't activated. There were no signs of forced entry.

' 'The other murder was committed five days later, in Helena, the state capital of Montana. Again the victim was a lone male, Bartholomew Wilkins. He was found dead in the den of his home by his wife, RoseAnne, when she got back from the shopping mall. The autopsy showed that he'd been kil ed by a single blow from a slim, stiletto-type blade, driven into his brain with great force..

'In each case, cash and other items were taken from the scene of the crime, and it was written up as a burglary in which the victim had disturbed his killer.

'Until now, that is.'

The big Scot leaned forward across the desk, his shoulders hunching in the jacket of his dark suit.

'You see, Sheriff, there are three very remarkable coincidences in these two cases, which tie them right to the murders of Leo and Susannah.

Both victims were retired lawyers. Both of them were or had been active and prominent Democrats. Both of them, early in their careers, had spent time in Washington, at the same time as Leo Grace.'

Dekker looked at him across the table, and let out a long slow whistle.

'Fucking-A,' he murmured, with a deep frown creasing his forehead.

Brand and Kosinski sat silent, their slightly stunned expressions offering proof, if any had been needed, that they had not sneaked a look at the documents before handing them over.

Skinner put the files back into his attache case. 'I was asked .. .

informal y, I stress ... by my friend Joe Doherty, the deputy director of the Bureau, to report to him on what I found at the lake.' He glanced at the two agents. 'Correct me if I'm wrong, gentlemen, but when a crime goes interstate, it becomes your responsibility, yes?'

Brand nodded, firmly. 'That is correct, sir.'

'In that ease,' said the Scot, glancing back at Dekker, 'to come back to what I said earlier, you may not need to worry about a turf battle with the State police. I suspect that the FBI may want to take charge of this one.'

The Buffalo Sheriff's expression was one of pure, unadulterated relief; he looked more than ever like a politician rather than a policeman. 'Do you want to cal your friend. Bob,' he asked, 'or wil I?'

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22

'Seriously though, Andy, is this job not what you choose to make it?'

asked Dan Pringle, with a trademark tug at a corner of his heavy moustache.

The outgoing Head of CID looked across the desk at his successor, as if trying to determine whether he was serious. 'That depends entirely on the level of your ambition, my friend. If your main objective is to maximise your pension and get the hell out of here at the earliest opportunity, you would certainly approach it in that frame of mind.

'If, on the other hand, you do not fancy having your door kicked in every other day by a deputy chief constable waving worsening clear-up figures in your face, you'll approach it with just one single objective, that being to make sure that for as long as you're sat in this chair, every CID division is working at its maximum efficiency.'

'Aye,' said Pringle, a slow grin spreading across his face. 'That was more or less what I supposed. So every time you chewed us out at the Monday morning meeting, it was because Big Bob had given you a doing?'

'Not invariably,' Andy Martin answered. 'Most of the time it was to make sure that he didn't give me a doing. Chief Super or not, you do not want his boot on your neck; so, as of next week, when you're sat in this chair you'l find yourself concentrating very hard on avoiding that possibility.'

Pringle gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. 'By kicking the crap out of the likes of Mario here, you mean?'

'Exactly'

'Give me a break!' McGuire protested, from his seat against the wall.

'I'm not even in the job yet and you're getting at me. Give me a chance to make mistakes before you take me to task for them.'

'Why? Have you got any in mind?' asked Martin.

'One or two; just for openers, I was thinking of head-butting my new boss for pinching the best detective sergeant in the division.'

Pringle looked at him, al innocence. 'Big Jack McGurk, you mean?

Christ, and here was me thinking I was going to get away with that without you noticing.'

'Think again then. You're a fucking asset-stripper .. . with respect. . .

sir.

'I was going to tell you, Mario, honest. I just haven't had an opportunity until now. I know McGurk's good; that's why I took him to the Borders Division in the first place, and that's why I want him in my office when I move up here. There's more to it than that, though; there's his marriage as well. If I leave him down there, that's done for. They've tried hard, but it's just not working just now.'

'What? Are you a social worker, too?'

A flash of real annoyance showed for a second in the older man's eyes.

'No, but I've been long enough in my rank to have become a decent man manager. We al have to learn that skilh mostly the hard way, like you with that bloody Tommy Gavigan. You could leave big Jack down there and he'd do a good job for you, but if I give him a chance to patch things up with his missus, he'l do a better job for me.

'Anyhow, don't get your Calvin rucking Kleins in a twist, you're getting a first-class substitute. Young Sammy Pye's going down to take his place.'

McGuire looked at Martin. The Chief Superintendent nodded. 'That's the game plan,' he confirmed.

'Sam's been here long enough, and he's

every bit as good an operator as McGurk. You can take my word for that.'

'That's fine, Andy, but am I going to find myself with another domestic situation there, like Dan did with Jack?'

'What? With Sammy and Ruthie McConnell, you mean? No, not at all; they're getting married in the autumn, and they're going to live in Gorebridge. They can both travel to work easily enough from there.'

Pringle nodded in confirmation, then glanced at Martin. 'What are you and Karen going to do about that, Andy?' he asked. 'Are you two moving house?'

'No choice,' the DCS answered.

'How's Karen doing?' asked McGuire, blowing them away.

'Great,' Martin replied. 'First-rate, blooming, glowing with health and al that stuff. . . now that she's well past throwing up every morning, that is. She's decided that we're moving to Perth, rather than Dundee.

We're going to look at houses there at the weekend; we've got to sort it out sharpish, either that or put it off for a bit. She's due in a couple of months.'

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A

The big superintendent laughed softly. 'How are you going to get a baby chair into the MGF, Andy?'

'Sore point. The sports car's going down the road; as of next week it's turning into a new Mondeo.'

'Bloody hell! What happened to the Andy Martin we knew, and a thousand women loved?'

'Same as happened to you, McGuire. He met the right woman. Oh aye, and that reminds me. Wil ie Haggerty asked me for the okay to have your Maggie stand in for Manny English while he's away investigating Strathclyde. It came as a bit of a surprise, even to me, when he told me she's agreed.' '

'It was a surprise to her too; ACC Haggerty must be a persuasive bugger. It's only a temporary thing, though; just to let her get the feel of the job.'

Martin grinned. 'So now she's responsible for everything that goes on in the division. Every crime, every public nuisance, every waif and stray.'

'Aye,' said McGuire heavily. 'And that could be a bit of a problem.'