But still, there was no actual physical evidence that connected Sturgess to the crime. And the way the Gaynor woman had been killed didn’t seem to fit the doctor’s style.
He’d killed Kemper with a fatal injection. He’d attempted to kill David Harwood and his father the same way. He’d smothered Kemper’s neighbor with a pillow, but that made some sense. What happened to her might easily have been dismissed as death by natural causes.
But did it follow that a man who killed two people bloodlessly would virtually disembowel somebody? Did a man who used a needle or a pillow carve up a woman like a Halloween pumpkin?
Duckworth had discussed this matter, and others, with Bill Gaynor, who was in custody and facing a slew of charges.
“I don’t know,” Gaynor had told him. “A year ago I wouldn’t have believed Jack was capable of what he did this week. I don’t know anything anymore. I’m starting to think it’s possible.”
Gaynor did tell him that he and Sturgess had been able to persuade Rosemary months ago that the adoption of Matthew was legitimate. The doctor told her Matthew’s mother was a sixteen-year-old girl from a poor family, that raising this child she was carrying would be more than she or her parents could handle. The girl’s identity would have to remain secret, but Sturgess drew up some bogus paperwork for Rosemary to sign that went straight into the Promise Falls General paper shredder. The doctor had persuaded Gaynor that he’d find a way to funnel some of the money to Marla, even though he’d always planned to keep all of it for himself.
Chief Rhonda Finderman was eager to see the Gaynor case closed. She wanted one in the win column. And the beauty of this was, Sturgess didn’t have to be convicted in a court of law.
Duckworth asked her for more time to nail down some of the details.
“Soon,” he told her.
The Gaynor case wasn’t the only thing troubling him.
There were those damn squirrels. The three painted mannequins. That Thackeray student who’d been shot to death by that asshole Clive Duncomb.
The number 23.
Sitting at his desk, he doodled the number several times. There was a very good chance it didn’t mean a damn thing.
He thought about the squirrels. Just the squirrels.
Let’s say you’re some sick bastard trying to make a statement. You decide the way you’re going to get your point across is by killing some animals. And that’s what you do. But why not ten? Why not a dozen? Maybe twenty-five.
Why do you pick a number like twenty-three?
Duckworth Googled it. The first thing that came up was the Wikipedia entry. “Always a reliable source,” Duckworth said under his breath.
It was the ninth prime number.
It was the sum of three other consecutive prime numbers: five, seven, and eleven.
It was the atomic number of vanadium, whatever the hell vanadium was. Duckworth thought that might be one of the coffee flavors Wanda had offered him.
It was the number on Michael Jordan’s shirt when he played for the Chicago Bulls.
In one of the Matrix movies, Neo was told that— The phone rang.
“Duckworth.”
“It’s Wanda.”
“Hey, I was just thinking of you. What’s vanadium?”
“It’s a kind of mineral,” she said. “It has some medical applications.”
“How do you know that?”
“I took science. You take a bit of that when you become a doctor. Is this important?”
“Probably not. I was just—”
“I don’t care what you’re doing,” the medical examiner said. “Just get your ass over here.”
? ? ?
“What were you doing three years ago this month?” Wanda Therrieult asked him after he’d arrived.
“I don’t know, offhand,” Duckworth said. “Working, I’d guess.”
“I’m betting you weren’t. I wasn’t. I was taking some time to be with my sister, who was in her last few weeks.”
“I remember that,” Duckworth said. “Duluth.”
“That’s right.”
Duckworth was thinking. “Vacation,” he said. “Opening of pickerel season. In Ontario. Went up with a friend to a place called Bobcaygeon. Was gone the better part of ten days.”
“Sit down,” she said, and pointed to a second chair she’d wheeled over to her desk. She moved the mouse to make the screen come to life. There appeared three autopsy photos.
“I’m guessing these look familiar to you,” Wanda said.
Duckworth pointed, keeping his finger away from the screen. They were all close-up shots. “Yeah. This is where Rosemary Gaynor was grabbed around the neck. There’s the thumb imprint here, the other four fingers here, and that’s where he stabbed her. The . . . smile. This is all kind of familiar, Wanda. It’s only been a couple of days.”
“This isn’t Rosemary Gaynor.”
Duckworth moved his tongue around the inside of his teeth. “Go on,” he said.
“This is Olivia Fisher.” She paused. “You remember Olivia Fisher.”