On Harrow Hill

“Quite the palace, eh?” said Morgan. “Built with Cotswold stone that Angus’s grandfather had shipped over from England.”

Gurney noted Morgan’s alternating awe and contempt in the face of Larchfield wealth, but responded only with a noncommittal grunt.

Morgan opened his door. “Where do you want to start? Inside the house or outside?”

“First, I need to understand the personnel situation—who’s on-site, what their responsibilities are.”

“The two main people you’ll meet are Brad Slovak and Kyra Barstow. Brad’s a detective, acting as case CIO and scene coordinator. Kyra’s our main evidence tech and an instructor in the forensic sciences program at the college. We have four patrol officers on-site to assist Brad and Kyra.”

“The medical examiner was here yesterday?”

“Dr. Ronald Fallow. Lives locally, so he got here quickly. He examined the body in situ, transported it to his office in Clarksburg, and scheduled the autopsy for this morning. We might get preliminary findings by the end of the day. Or we might not. Fallow’s not easy to deal with.”

“What did you tell your people about my coming here?”

Morgan ran his tongue across his lips, his gaze fixed on the dashboard. “Basically, I told them that you’re a former NYPD homicide detective, a very successful one, retired, teaching investigative techniques at the academy. And since most of your police experience was in the city, it would be interesting for you to observe how an upstate department like ours approaches a major crime.”

“That’s what you told them?”

“It’s essentially true.”

“You mean, it’s not totally untrue.”

Morgan shrugged off the distinction. His aptitude for using true statements to create misleading impressions had always been one of his dubious talents. In fact, it was a significant ingredient in Gurney’s mixed feelings about getting involved.

“Okay,” he said, “let’s start with a walk around the perimeter.”

6

Since the evidence team had not yet completed their examination of the site, Gurney and Morgan donned regulation sets of white Tyvek coveralls, shoe covers, and nitrile gloves before entering the restricted area.

Gurney, with Morgan following, began his examination on the right side of the huge house, where a lawn sloped away from daffodil beds toward a line of shrubbery at the edge of the natural woodland beyond. He could hear the chirping of birds and the distant ratatatat of a woodpecker. The morning sun was turning the ground-floor windows of the house into gleaming rectangles of light.

A movement at the bottom of one of the windows caught Gurney’s eye. There was a window box full of red tulips, and he thought they might have swayed in a passing breeze. Then he realized what he’d seen moving was actually inside one of the large glass panes. A black cat on the sill had raised its head and was watching him through narrowed amber eyes.

He moved on, seeing nothing unusual on that side of the house, apart from the fact that it looked more like a grand museum than a private home. The back was equally impressive. That was where the conservatory was appended to the main part of the building. Nearly the full height and width of the house, it consisted of an ornate dome-like structure of glass panels set in a framework of intricate arches. A verdigris patina on the metalwork, along with the overall design, gave it a distinctly Victorian look.

Double lines of yellow police tape extended in a widening pattern from the sides of the conservatory out to the woods at least a hundred yards away, enclosing a broad fan-shaped area of the lawn. Lengths of string were laid out in a crisscross search pattern within the enclosure. Two figures in crime-scene coveralls, heads down, were making their way along the outer edge.

Morgan lifted the tape for Gurney to pass under, then followed him. Gurney saw two other Tyvek-suited individuals just inside the glass door—a short, stocky, ruddy-faced man and a tall, dark-skinned woman, engaged in a discussion. The man’s gestures appeared argumentative.

Morgan gestured for them to come outside.

The man came first. His reddish hair was cut in the prevalent law-enforcement style—shaved on the sides, close-cropped on top. His bull neck made his round, cheeky face look small. He acknowledged Morgan in a terse military style. “Sir.”

The woman followed, looking lean and athletic even in her coveralls. Her expression was mildly questioning.

Morgan introduced them. “Brad Slovak, Kyra Barstow . . . Dave Gurney.”

“Sir,” said Slovak again, this time with a deferential nod.

Barstow extended her hand. Gurney shook it. Her grip was strong.

“Any developments?” asked Morgan.

Slovak ran his hand back through the sandy-red stubble on the top of his head and glanced at Barstow before answering. “We’ve been trying to get to the bottom of the problem with the fingerprints.”

Barstow shot a sideways glance at him. “There is no problem with the prints.” There was a West Indian lilt in her voice.