learned about the predator that once haunted this place.
She walked around the scraggly bushes that partially screened the hole and knelt at its edge. It was about half the size of a manhole cover. The shovel was lying about ten yards away, its long tan wooden handle pointed away from the hole.
“What kind of dog was it?” Abbie asked.
“Schnauzer,” Raymond said, coming up behind her. “Why?”
“Think about it. If he was going to dig a hole to the right depth, and not waste precious minutes by going too deep, he’d have seen the dog first. He’d have to get inside the house or at least close enough to get a glimpse. Too deep and you can’t hear the dog clearly. Too shallow and it runs away. So either he knew the dog or he got up close to see it.”
Raymond frowned. “So, what you’re asking is, if he got so close to the house, why not take the girl inside?”
“Exactly. He took his time—and added risk—by luring the dog out and setting up a fairly elaborate death mechanism. Why not just take her in the house, in her room?”
Raymond kicked a leaf. “Because he was crazy to start out with, and then he took a bullet to the brain. You asking for common sense from someone who’s double-fucked in the head?”
Abbie glanced at him sideways, a look of disappointment on her face.
“All right, that shit was weak.” Raymond sighed. “You say what?”
She turned to stare into the hole. “The things that drove him five years ago still drive him today. The rope and the noose are important to him. He couldn’t find a place inside to stage a hanging, and he didn’t have time to get her to his usual spot, if that’s even available anymore.”
“And he wanted her dead very, very badly,” Raymond said. “So he took the risk.”
Abbie stood up, brushed off the thighs of her slacks. “This is what I need in addition to the regular canvass. Find the bus driver from her school route and ask if he spotted anyone along the way, either standing on the sidewalk or trailing the bus in a car. Get someone to Nardin Academy, see if anyone was lurking at the school, anyone out of the ordinary. See if anyone called the school asking about the girl
before
she got on the bus. Start talking to the neighbors.”
Raymond had pulled out a little leather notebook and was taking notes with a small silver pen.
“Wait,” Abbie said. “What time is it?”
Raymond turned his wrist: “6:53.”
“Good. That’s peak jogging time back there in Delaware Park. It’s empty during the day, but right about now you get the after-work runnerswho cover a few miles on the trails and paths. Put two uniforms on the main jogging paths and flag down everyone who comes by. Ask them if they spotted anyone or anything unusual. I want to know what Hangman is wearing and if he’s on a bike or using a car, and also, is he alone or accompanied? If he’s accompanied, get a description. When you’ve assigned all that, come back to me.”
18
It took Raymond a few minutes to delegate the different tasks. Abbie stood, studying the body and the yard, and thought. Why was Hangman stalking the North? It wasn’t where he’d grown up. The houses out here were big, older, well maintained, Tudors next to Victorians next to stone French country mansions. Some of them had names as well as numbers, like The Priory or Lane’s End. The air seemed thicker here, the sounds of car doors closing and voices carrying from the next street held in a kind of luxuriant oxygen-rich stillness. Quaint ethnic restaurants, not cheap pizza joints, lined the main strips.
A memory came to her, unbidden. She’d come to this neighborhood when she was doing her alumni interview for Yale, her senior year at Mount Mercy Academy in the County. She remembered the outfit she’d worn: a Donegal tweed skirt and a severe black sweater, gray tights and her favorite black pumps, modest but still an extra inch of height when you really needed it. They were her “I’m Getting
She walked around the scraggly bushes that partially screened the hole and knelt at its edge. It was about half the size of a manhole cover. The shovel was lying about ten yards away, its long tan wooden handle pointed away from the hole.
“What kind of dog was it?” Abbie asked.
“Schnauzer,” Raymond said, coming up behind her. “Why?”
“Think about it. If he was going to dig a hole to the right depth, and not waste precious minutes by going too deep, he’d have seen the dog first. He’d have to get inside the house or at least close enough to get a glimpse. Too deep and you can’t hear the dog clearly. Too shallow and it runs away. So either he knew the dog or he got up close to see it.”
Raymond frowned. “So, what you’re asking is, if he got so close to the house, why not take the girl inside?”
“Exactly. He took his time—and added risk—by luring the dog out and setting up a fairly elaborate death mechanism. Why not just take her in the house, in her room?”
Raymond kicked a leaf. “Because he was crazy to start out with, and then he took a bullet to the brain. You asking for common sense from someone who’s double-fucked in the head?”
Abbie glanced at him sideways, a look of disappointment on her face.
“All right, that shit was weak.” Raymond sighed. “You say what?”
She turned to stare into the hole. “The things that drove him five years ago still drive him today. The rope and the noose are important to him. He couldn’t find a place inside to stage a hanging, and he didn’t have time to get her to his usual spot, if that’s even available anymore.”
“And he wanted her dead very, very badly,” Raymond said. “So he took the risk.”
Abbie stood up, brushed off the thighs of her slacks. “This is what I need in addition to the regular canvass. Find the bus driver from her school route and ask if he spotted anyone along the way, either standing on the sidewalk or trailing the bus in a car. Get someone to Nardin Academy, see if anyone was lurking at the school, anyone out of the ordinary. See if anyone called the school asking about the girl
before
she got on the bus. Start talking to the neighbors.”
Raymond had pulled out a little leather notebook and was taking notes with a small silver pen.
“Wait,” Abbie said. “What time is it?”
Raymond turned his wrist: “6:53.”
“Good. That’s peak jogging time back there in Delaware Park. It’s empty during the day, but right about now you get the after-work runnerswho cover a few miles on the trails and paths. Put two uniforms on the main jogging paths and flag down everyone who comes by. Ask them if they spotted anyone or anything unusual. I want to know what Hangman is wearing and if he’s on a bike or using a car, and also, is he alone or accompanied? If he’s accompanied, get a description. When you’ve assigned all that, come back to me.”
18
It took Raymond a few minutes to delegate the different tasks. Abbie stood, studying the body and the yard, and thought. Why was Hangman stalking the North? It wasn’t where he’d grown up. The houses out here were big, older, well maintained, Tudors next to Victorians next to stone French country mansions. Some of them had names as well as numbers, like The Priory or Lane’s End. The air seemed thicker here, the sounds of car doors closing and voices carrying from the next street held in a kind of luxuriant oxygen-rich stillness. Quaint ethnic restaurants, not cheap pizza joints, lined the main strips.
A memory came to her, unbidden. She’d come to this neighborhood when she was doing her alumni interview for Yale, her senior year at Mount Mercy Academy in the County. She remembered the outfit she’d worn: a Donegal tweed skirt and a severe black sweater, gray tights and her favorite black pumps, modest but still an extra inch of height when you really needed it. They were her “I’m Getting
Similar Books
