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Locating Harry’s email, I ran through the names of the meditation programs baby sister had sent. Liked one calledSmiling Mind.How could that be bad?
After downloading the app, I created an account, and chose a program.
I tried my best to concentrate on mindfulness. To ban all the worries of the past few days.
Images kept breaking through, one uglier than the next. Galloway. Palke. Bonner. Musgrove.
I lasted five minutes.
27
THURSDAY, JULY18
While driving, I made a mental note to ask Monck about the Honda. To whom did the car belong? To whom should I return it when leaving the island?
The self-reminder caused a brief twinge of melancholy. Seemed I’d grown fond of the trusty old beater.
It also triggered a sharp stab of pain. Musgrove had arranged for my wheels. Musgrove was dead.
Focus, Brennan.
Arriving at the Grace Bay station, I went straight to the squad room. The whiteboard had been pulled forward and cleaned of all previous notes. Pictures of Galloway, Palke, and Bonner had been taped in a row across the top. The same shots Musgrove had taken to Montreal.
Monck stood before the board, spindly in teal and gray today. He held a rag in his prosthetic hand.
“Java’s ready.” Flapping the bionic arm at a Mr. Coffee perking spiritedly beside the file cabinet conch.
“Thanks.”
I filled a mug. Added powdered creamer that looked like it might have been purchased that decade. Sat in the same chair I’d occupied the previous day.
“Thanks for coming.”
That surprised me.
“I’ve been considering a comment you made.”
That surprised me even more.
“Let’s suppose that the perp isn’t Uri Stribbe. Let’s suppose we’re trying to fit him into a mold we expect.”
I had said that.
“Tunnel vision can be counterproductive.”
“It can,” I agreed.
“Perhaps we should refine the mold.”
“You’re talking about profiling.”
“Yes.”
“There are experts for that.”
“Not in Provo. But we can construct a rough sketch using what we know.”
“I suppose it can’t hurt,” I said.
