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13
OUTSIDE THE POLICE
station, the pale blue VW Beetle drove slowly past and stopped at the intersection. The driver glanced at the one-story brick building that housed the police department. They would have gotten the letter by now. They might have also deciphered the contents. It wasn’t like he’d made it very hard. The hard would come later, as in trying to stop him. Try impossible, Mr. Policemen.
Next they’d call in the state police’s criminal investigative unit. They’d want to keep things quiet, no sense panicking people. No doubt an application for profiling assistance would be submitted to the FBI’s vaunted VICAP. Important people would be contacted to see that the matter was expedited, and a profile on the killer, on him, would be quickly forthcoming.
Of course it would be totally wrong.
He’d driven past the morgue earlier, where the M.E. was probably pulling her red hair out over three bodies that represented very different things yet had common themes. The clues would be minimal. He knew what to look for and thus to remove, but no one was infallible and forensic science could dredge up much from microscopic wreckage. She’d find some things, draw some correct conclusions, but on the key points she’d come up empty. The no-see-ums wouldn’t trip him up.
He drove through the intersection as several police officers ran out of the building and climbed into their patrol cars and sped off. They were probably running down irrelevant leads, wasting energy and time, which didn’t surprise him considering the weak attributes of their leader, Todd Williams. However, Sylvia Di
az was first-rate in her field. And at some point, as the killings mounted, the FBI would be called in to take over the investigation. He was actually relishing the challenge.
He drove to another intersection, pulled up to the mailbox and dropped the letter in before speeding off again. When they got his next communication explaining the circumstances of Steve Canney’s and Janice Pembroke’s deaths, the police would know they were in for the fight of their lives.
King picked up Michelle from the morgue and filled her in on the details about the Zodiac letter. She, in turn, brought him up to speed on the autopsy results for Pembroke and Canney. Unfortunately, reciting the details didn’t make the puzzle any less inexplicable.
“So it seems the killer wants to make clear that even though he’s somewhat copying the Zodiac crime with Rhonda Tyler, he’s not the Zodiac,” she said. “What do you make of that?”
King shook his head. “It seems these murders are just the opening salvo.”
“Do you think we’ll see another letter?”
“Yes, and soon. And though Todd’s not convinced of it, I’m sure it’ll deal with Canney and Pembroke. He’s going to talk to Lulu Oxley and obtain more info on Rhonda Tyler.”
Michelle looked out the windshield. “And where are we headed?”
“To the Battles’. I called and set up an appointment.” He glanced at her. “We’ve got a paying job, remember?” He grew silent and then added, “You’ve already been through a lot today. Are you sure you’re up to this?”
“After what we’ve seen, how bad can the Battles be?”
“You might be surprised.”
CHAPTER
14
THE BATTLE ESTATE WAS
set on top of an imposing hill. It was a sprawling three-story structure of brick, stone and clapboard surrounded by acres of emerald grass and dotted with mature trees. It screamed old money, though the mounds of cash that had built it were only decades old. King and Michelle stopped at a pair of massive wrought-iron gates. There was a call box set on a short black post next to the asphalt drive. King rolled down his window and tapped the white button on the call box. An efficient voice answered, and a minute later the gates swung open and King drove through.
“Welcome to Casa Battle,” he said.
“Is that what they call it?”
“No, just my idea of a joke.”
“You said you know Remmy Battle?”
“As well as most people do, I guess. I also used to play golf occasionally with Bobby. He’s gregarious and dominating, but he has balls of iron and a really nasty temper if you happen to cross him. Now, Remmy’s the sort who only lets you see bits and pieces, and strictly on her terms. And if you cross her, you’ll need a urologist and a pack of miracles to put you back together.”
“Where’d she get a name like Remmy?”
“It’s short for Remington. The story I heard was that was her father’s favorite brand of shotgun. Everyone who knows her thinks the woman was aptly named.”
“Who knew so many interesting people lived in such a small town?” Michelle looked ahead at the imposing home. “Wow, what a fabulous place.”
