Hour Game

"She was a good person and a fine lawyer. And she sure as hell didn't deserve this-not that anyone does."

As they walked past Sylvia on their way out, she stopped them. The man in the suit had joined another group hovering over the body. He was a little shorter than King but thicker and very strongly built; his shoulders seemed to be splitting out of his suit. He had thinning brownish-gray hair, cauliflower ears and a boxer's flattened nose resting between two intense brown eyes.

Sylvia said, "Well, number four and counting. The Night Stalker. Who would have thought?" She shook her head.

"Who's the guy you were talking to?" King asked.

"FBI agent. Chip Bailey, from Charlottesville."

"Chip Bailey?" King said slowly.

"Do you know him?" asked Sylvia.

"No, but I think I'd like to."

"I can arrange something. Later, of course. People are pretty busy right now."

"That's fine." He paused and then added, "Did you note the time on the watch?"

Sylvia nodded. "One minute past four. Like Pembroke's."

"What?" King and Michelle said together.

"Pembroke's watch was set to one minute past two. Didn't I tell you that?"

"No," said Michelle, "and neither did Todd. He seems to think it was close enough to discount any significance."

"What do you think?" King asked her.

"I think it's important. I just don't know why."

"Anything else jump out at you?" asked King.

"I did a rectal temp on Hinson, after I checked for evidence of sexual assault, of course; that turned out negative. She's been dead eight to nine hours. There are twelve stab wounds, though."

Michelle picked up on the tone in Sylvia's voice. "That equals overkill."

"Yes. It also equals rage," said Sylvia. "There were no defensive wounds on her hands or forearms. She was obviously surprised and quickly overpowered."

She picked up her bag and nodded toward the door. "I'm heading back to the office. I've got patients to see, and then I'll do the post on Hinson."

"We'll walk out with you," said King.

They headed out into brisk air that was being quickly warmed by the sun.

"I meant to ask you, how's your investigation coming with Junior Deaver?"

King glanced at her in surprise. "How'd you know about that?"

"I ran into Harry Carrick at the grocery store. I told him you two were looking into these murders, and he told me you were doing work for him. I still can't believe Junior Deaver could have done it. He's done work at my house. I always found him very courteous and accommodating, if a little rough around the edges."

"We met with Remmy, Eddie, Dorothea and Savannah and the household staff."

"And didn't get too far, I'm sure," noted Sylvia.

"Remmy's really torn up about Bobby," said King.

"I heard he was in very bad shape."

"Well, there's hope," said Michelle. "He recently regained consciousness, even spoke, but he just rambles apparently; he's not really coherent, just spouting off names and such. But still that's a positive thing, I suppose."

"Strokes are completely unpredictable," said Sylvia. "Just when you think someone's recovering, they suddenly pass away, or vice versa."

King shook his head. "Well, for Remmy's sake, I hope he makes it." He glanced at Sylvia. "You'll let us know what you find on Hinson?"

"Todd told me to and he's the boss. At least until the FBI or the state police take over the investigation."

"Do you think that's probable?" asked Michelle.

"For purposes of finding this maniac, I think that actually would be a positive development," said Sylvia firmly.

CHAPTER 25

THE FOUR SERIAL MURDERS IN Wrightsburg hit the national news pipeline that afternoon and continued on into the evening. Most citizens of the small town sat in front of their TV screens as dour anchorpersons went about dutifully explaining where the rural Virginia municipality was, and how it had been devastated by a series of violent and apparently random murders. State and federal authorities were on the scene, the TV people said, and hopefully, the killer would be stopped soon. Left unsaid was the fact that no one actively involved in the investigation thought that was a very real possibility.

Like their fellow townspeople, King and Michelle sat in front of a television in King's office and watched and listened to the stories documenting what a slaughterhouse their humble domicile had become. When the fact that two letters had been sent to the Wrightsburg Gazette by the killer was announced to the nation, King exclaimed, "Shit!"

Michelle nodded in understanding. "Do you think the killer's watching?"

"Of course he is," snapped King. "The notoriety's all part of it."

"Do you really think the killings are random?"

"There's no obvious connection among any of the victims." King fell silent for a moment. "Except the reference to only one kid in the Canney and Pembroke letter. The question is, which kid?"

"I'm not following."