“What’s Vickee got?” Mike asked.
“DCPI is trying to put out ground fires, rumors that are spreading throughout the media,” Mercer said.
“About what?” I asked.
“You know that every assassination, every scandal, every event that people don’t understand, breeds conspiracy theories,” he said. “MLK, JFK, UFOs crashing in Roswell, and NASA faking the moon landing.”
“Princess Diana killed by British Special Forces and that sort of crap,” I said. “There’s that name again.”
“She’s not playing in this one,” Mercer said. “Not yet, anyway.”
“What one?” I asked. “What are they saying I did now?”
“You’re out of the bull’s-eye for the moment, but what do you remember about Scalia’s death?”
“Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia?” I said, puzzled by the mention of a name that was entirely extraneous to last night’s events. “That Scalia?”
“Exactly.”
Mike and Mercer both looked at me for an answer. “He died in February 2016. I think he was almost eighty years old, and he was at some ranch in Texas,” I said.
“Not a ranch,” Mercer said. “More like a luxury hunting resort.”
“That’s right. Hunting. Last thing I would have guessed about the man—being a big-game hunter,” I said. “I want to say he had refused his normal security detail, right?”
“Yeah,” Mercer said. “US Marshals guard the Supremes, but Scalia went to Texas without protection.”
Paul Battaglia had ordered his bodyguard to wait in the car. Was I supposed to be drawing similarities between them on that basis alone?
“What did Scalia die of?” Mike asked.
“Natural causes,” I said. “He must have had a heart attack. Went to dinner at the ranch but never woke up the next morning.”
“Some conspiracy theorists claim the justice was murdered,” Mercer said.
“But why?” I asked. “I get the no-marshals bit.”
“And no medical examiner either. No autopsy was performed, even though Scalia was alone when he died—and there was a pillow found on his face.”
“On his face?” I said. “That’s crazy.”
“Well, it’s probably crazy and it’s certainly Texas for you,” Mercer said. “A local justice of the peace got the news by phone, and she made the decision that there wouldn’t have to be an autopsy.”
“His family was okay with that?” Mike asked.
“Seemed to be very okay with it,” Mercer said. “They had his body cremated, so even when the conspiracy stories first made the rounds, there was nothing to be done to confirm the manner of death.”
“No one checked for petechial hemorrhaging in his eyes?” I said, referring to one of the hallmarks of an asphyxia death. “No mention of an odor on his breath for signs of possible poisoning?”
“None of the above.”
“Why was Scalia there in the first place?” Mike asked.
“Way to go, Mike,” Mercer said, pointing his finger at his friend. “What do you know about the Venerable Order of Saint Hubertus?”
“The what of who?”
“Saint Hubertus,” Mercer said. “Either of you ever hear of him?”
We both shook our heads.
“Vickee’s been doing the research on it.”
“What’s the connection?” I said.
Mercer held out his arm to me, palm outward, telling me to wait. “Hubert was the patron saint of hunters—archers, trappers, fur hunters. When the Hapsburgs ruled the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Count Anton von Sporck—”
“Spock?” Mike said.
“Sporck,” Mercer repeated. “Von Sporck.”
“No matter. The Trekkies will buy right into this conspiracy.”
“Sporck gathered the greatest noblemen—hunters, of course—of the seventeenth century,” Mercer said, reading from his notepad. “Created this kind of knighthood of the rich and famous, related to hunting wild animals.”
“Three hundred plus years ago, and it’s still a thriving order?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Mercer said. “It was put on a temporary hold by Hitler, because the group didn’t allow any Nazis in.”
“Those bastards weren’t exactly hunting wild animals,” Mike said. “But the order is alive and well today? And Antonin Scalia was a member?”
“Member or guest,” Mercer said. “Valerie’s got to nail that down before Commissioner Scully gets his public grilling from the hungry media. This much is clear: Justice Scalia died at Cibolo Creek Ranch. Thirty thousand acres of a private hunting preserve—stocked with deer and elk, buffalo and mountain lions. A really secretive fraternity of men with a boatload of expensive guns at their disposal.”
“I think the plot’s about to thicken,” Mike said.
“Paul Battaglia,” Mercer said, “was a member of the Order of Saint Hubertus.”
“That’s not possible,” I said, pressing my fingers against the crown of my head, which felt like it was about to split in two. “He was such an activist about gun control. He’s on—he was on the board of the Wildlife Conservation Society. There’s no way he would hunt and kill wild animals.”
“I’m telling you, Alex,” Mercer said. “You want to hear conspiracy chatter? The network has one assassination for sure, out in plain sight, with you as an unimpeachable witness. Maybe Scalia makes two.”
“It just can’t be,” I said. “What’s the link, besides this Saint Hubertus nonsense?”
“You won’t think it’s nonsense at all when I tell you that Paul Battaglia was at Cibolo Creek the night Justice Scalia died.”
TWELVE
“I’m just not buying into any conspiracy theories,” I said. “We’ve got to make sense of Battaglia’s murder before we do anything else. His politics were totally different from Scalia’s.”
“We’ve still got to find out why the DA was at Cibolo Creek,” Mercer said.
“Sure we do,” I said. “There may be a common thread here—I mean, I know that they were acquaintances, through the law, but let’s not jump in bed with the conspiracy faction.”
The three of us were sitting at a round table in the corner at the Beach Café on Second Avenue. It had been my favorite neighborhood joint since I’d moved into my apartment, and Dave, the owner, treated us with kid gloves. They served the best burgers in the city, but somehow the idea of animal hunting had steered me to a really good salad for my lunch.
“Wet work,” Mike said. “I bet that’s the angle the media bites at when they find out.”
“No question,” Mercer agreed.
“‘Wet work’ is a covert ops term for an assassination, Coop,” Mike said. “You know, spilling blood.”
“I’m all too familiar with the term.” I put down my fork. My flashbacks were all about spilled blood. “They can run with some bullshit theory all they want, but we need to separate that crap from the truth.”
“Professional killers,” Mercer said. “For certain, whoever shot Battaglia was an expert. That’s a more important connection to a game preserve in Texas—the sharpshooters the DA would have come in contact with.”
“How did Vickee find out that Battaglia was a member of Saint Hubertus?” I asked.
“It came in on the TIPS hotline,” Mercer said.
“An anonymous caller, then,” I said.