“I have no comment at this time.”

“Is it true Matthew Tanner’s body was decapitated?” a man in an expensive double-breasted suit wanted to know.

“Jesus. Where the hell did you hear that?”

“Then it’s true?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

Others joined in, pressing against Nick. He tried to elbow his way through.

“Sheriff, what about the rumor that you’ve ordered the exhumation of Ronald Jeffreys’ grave? Do you believe Jeffreys wasn’t the one executed?”

“Was the boy sexually assaulted?”

“Have you found the blue pickup yet?”

“Sheriff Morrelli, can you at least tell us whether this boy was murdered in the same manner? Are we dealing with a serial killer?”

“What shape was Matthew’s body in?”

“Stop! Hold it,” Nick yelled, raising his hands to ward off any more questions. The shuffle halted. The shoving came to a standstill, and there was silence as the vultures waited. The sudden quiet disarmed him. He glanced around and backed his way to the first step of the open staircase. A trickle of sweat rolled down his back. He raked his fingers through his hair and noticed his fingers trembling. He was used to being confronted with accolades, not criticism and skepticism.

What the hell was he supposed to tell them? Last time, Maggie had bailed him out. Now, in her absence, he felt exposed and vulnerable, and he hated it. He grabbed the handrail to steady himself and pulled himself up beside McManus. She looked pleased and began smoothing her hair and clothing, preparing for the camera. He ignored her and looked out over the crowd, eyes staring back at him, pens, cameras and recording devices ready. His gut told him to turn around and leave them in silence. He could take the stairs three at a time and be in his office before they could follow. After all, he didn’t owe them an explanation. None of this would help him catch the murderer. Or would it?

“You all know I can’t reveal specific details about the victims’ bodies. But for God’s sake, for Mrs. Tanner’s sake, Matthew’s body was not-I repeat-not decapitated. That’s not to say that this guy isn’t one sick son of a bitch.”

“Is this a serial killing, Sheriff? The people deserve to know if they should lock up their children.”

“Early indications do show that Matthew was killed by the same person who killed Danny Alverez.”

“Any suspects?”

“Is it true you have absolutely no leads?”

Nick backed up another step. He had nothing to satisfy them. The crowd and bright lights made him hot and nauseated. He pulled at his jacket’s zipper and tugged at his tie, loosening its strangling hold.

“We do have a couple of suspects. I’m not at liberty to say who they are. Not yet.” He turned and a flood of questions assaulted his back as he started up the steps.

“When will you be able to tell us?”

“Are they local men?”

“Will your father be heading the investigation now?”

“Have you tracked down a blue pickup?”

Nick spun around, almost losing his balance. “What about my father?”

Everyone stared at the man in the double-breasted suit. Nick noted the man’s shiny, dark hair. It looked professionally manufactured, and his goatee was perfectly trimmed with just a hint of gray. His expensive leather shoes labeled him an outsider- his shoes and the way he cocked his head to one side with the impatience of a man who had better things to do than repeat himself to a small-town sheriff. Nick wanted to grab him by the collar of his monogrammed shirt. Instead, he waited, teetering in snow-caked cowboy boots that were creating puddles and threatening to send him sliding down the smooth, marble steps.

“Why in the world would my father head this investigation?”

“He did catch Ronald Jeffreys,” Darcy McManus said into her channel’s camera, and only then did Nick realize they had been filming this whole fiasco. He avoided looking into the camera and stared at the man, waiting and ignoring his expression of boredom.

“When your father talked to us earlier, he made it sound-”

“He’s here?” Nick blurted, and immediately regretted it. His incompetence was showing once more.

“Yes, and he made it sound as though he had returned to help with the investigation. I believe his exact words were…” The man slowly and deliberately flipped through his notes.“‘I’ve done this before. I know what to look for. You can bet this guy’s not getting by this old bloodhound.” I’m not familiar with bloodhounds, but I did interpret it to mean he was here in a professional capacity.“

Other reporters nodded in agreement. Nick looked from one to another while his insides churned. His collar strangled him, the jacket made him sweat. Another trickle slid down his back. They waited. Every word would be weighed, every gesture measured. He imagined tonight someone would rewind their videotaped version of the news just to see him run down the steps backward. He didn’t care. He turned and ran up the staircase, taking two and three steps at a time, silently praying he didn’t trip and end up back at the bottom.

He crashed through the sheriff’s department doors, smacking the glass against a metal trash can and a wall. A spider crack raced through the bottom of one of the doors, but no one seemed to notice. Instead, all eyes stared at Nick, their heads turned, their attention diverted from the tall gray-haired man in the center of them.

The same group Nick couldn’t get to check a lead without a groan or a question was gathered around the distinguished-looking gentleman, an aging prophet with the beginning of a paunch over his belt and the bushy eyebrows that were now raised in indignation.

“Slow down, son. You just damaged government property,” Antonio Morrelli said, pointing to the crack in the glass.

Despite the rage and frustration, Nick shoved his hands into his pockets, felt his shoulders slump as his eyes found his boots. Suddenly, he found himself wondering how much it would cost to replace the glass.

Chapter 50

Maggie sipped her Scotch and watched from a corner table as she tried to determine which of the airport-lounge customers were business travelers and which were vacationers. The storm had delayed flights, hers included, and had packed the small, poorly lit lounge, which consisted of an L-shaped bar, several small tables and chairs, dozens of model airplanes suspended from the ceiling and an old jukebox filled with songs like “Leaving on a Jet Plane” and “Outbound Plane.”

Her green and black John Deere jacket was stretched across the chair opposite her to prevent any unwanted company. She had already checked her luggage, everything except her laptop computer, which was secure underneath the John Deere green. She thought about calling St. Margaret’s again. She was beginning to think something dreadful may have happened. Otherwise, why would Father Francis have stood her up at the hospital? And why was there no one at the church rectory to answer the phone?

She wanted to call Nick, had in fact dialed the number but then hung up. He had enough things to handle without checking on her hunches. Besides, she was running out of change for the pay phone and had spent her last ten-dollar bill on this and the two previous Scotches. Not much of a dinner, but after spending the afternoon slicing Matthew Tanner’s small body, weighing pieces of him and poking through his tiny organs, she had decided she deserved a dinner of Scotch.

The mark on Matthew’s inside thigh had indeed been human bite marks. Poor George Tillie had tried to come up with several other theories before giving in to the realization that the killer had bitten Matthew over and over again in the same spot, making it impossible to register a set of dental prints. What made matters worse and more bizarre-the bites had occurred hours after Matthew was dead.