LITMIR.BIZ

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he could hear a door open and close.

      Then all was still.

      Gabe stood for just a few seconds, then turned around and started home, his cheek still burning with the feel of her lips.

      CHAPTER NINE

      FROM A DETECTIVE’S standpoint, suicide was a strange crime. There was a victim, but the perpetrator wore many faces: depression, psychosis, humiliation, overwhelming debt, rage, self-loathing, or that tragic combination of teenage angst paired with a firearm. Reconstructing Gregory Hesse’s mind at the moment of impact was impossible. All Decker was looking for was a hint of why.

      The week following Hesse’s memorial had been busy, the station house humming with crimes of every stripe. Most of his detectives were in the field, attempting to gather enough evidence to bring in bad guys who were at current, walking the public streets. Marge and Oliver seemed to be in and out of court, testifying on cases that took over a year to bring to trial. Thursday afternoon, Decker received a call from Romulus Poe of the New Mexico State Police.

      “It appears that your serial killer, Garth Hammerling, was in fact around my area. I’ve been trying to retrace his movements, but I’ve got gaps. The last I heard, he had bought a bunch of camping equipment and was headed for the National Forest in northern New Mexico. The area is the southern tip of the Rockies and it’s easy to disappear there. Around this time, it’s also real easy to get lost and freeze to death. You’d have to be a real good survivalist to make it through the winter, especially the one we’re having now.”

      Decker said, “I don’t know anything about Hammerling’s survival skills. I know he’s done some camping in the past.”

      “Camping in the Rockies in wintertime isn’t Yosemite in summer with power hookups and porta-potties. It’s rigorous and it’s dangerous.”

      “Good thing for Hammerling that he knows how to kill,” Decker said.

      “Maybe he’s good with drunken women. A mountain lion is another beast altogether. And let me tell you, in the winter, they’re hungry. I myself live off the grid—been doing it for decades. But even I wouldn’t camp up north in wintertime.”

      Decker said, “If you flew over the area in a helicopter, could you see anything?”

      “The area is filled with pines so even in the summer you can’t see much from up top except green. At this time of year, it’s all white, and after a few minutes you get snow blindness. I suppose if you got extremely lucky, you might see some smoke or something. Best to wait until he comes down to civilization. If we don’t hear from him, we can start looking when the thaw comes in March and we’d be just as likely to find a body as a live person. I’ll apprise the park rangers and let you know if we get any action. If he was smart, he’d realize that it’s cold outside and shimmy back down to warmer temperatures.”

      “Okay. Just don’t drop your guard. He is a very dangerous guy.”

      “Understood. If I get a bead on him, you’ll be the first to know.”

      “Thank you, Sergeant Poe, we’ll keep in touch.” Decker hung up the phone just as Marge Dunn was coming into his office. She said, “My schedule just cleared up. Anything you need?”

      The clock read ten after three. “I’m sure I can come up with something.” He checked off items on his to-do list and was left with Gregory Hesse. “Could you run an errand for me?”

      “Pick up your dry cleaning or wash your car?”

      “Everything I have is wash and ruin, and my car is hopeless.” Decker pointed to a chair and Marge sat down. Today she was dressed in brown slacks and a pink sweater. Color looked good on her. “I’m still looking into a motive behind Gregory Hesse’s suicide.”

      “How’s that going?”

      “I’m still waiting for the tox report. I keep thinking that maybe the kid was high on something, because every one of his buddies seems to be in the dark as to why.” He gave her a recap of his conversations, especially the one last Sunday with Joey Reinhart. “Why don’t you go to Wendy Hesse’s house and pick up Greg’s laptop and his camcorder. Videotaping seemed to be Greg’s passion. Also ask Mrs. Hesse if you can look around his room. Greg’s best friend, Joey Reinhart, implied that maybe there was a girl in Greg’s life.”

      “And if we find her?”

      “Ask her about the relationship and if it went south. Maybe that was the reason behind the act.”

      “We don’t want to make anyone feel guilty,” Marge said.

      “No, of course not. For Greg to do this, he was clearly disturbed. Most guys can get over girls pretty quickly. Even if their brains are still sad, their gonads are still heat-seeking missiles. But there are those rare sensitive types that can’t see a future beyond a broken heart. Did we find anything new with the gun?”

      “We ran it through ballistics. Now we have to pull up cases where we have shells from a .380 Ruger. It’s going to take time.”

      “Think the gun has been sitting around doing nothing for five years?”

      “It could have been doing something but we may not know about it. The obsession with a camera is intriguing. Maybe he filmed something he shouldn’t have.”

      “I was thinking about the same thing.” He handed her an address. “I hope Wendy Hesse is still cooperative. I haven’t talked to her since the memorial service.”

      “She hasn’t called you up?”

      “No, and I’ve called her several times. All I’ve gotten is the machine. So maybe she changed her mind about poking into Greg’s personal life.”

      “So why stir up things?”

      “You know how it is with an investigation. The damn thing takes on a life of its own.”

      GABE HADN’T HEARD from her since Sunday evening. She had texted to say her final thanks, and he had texted back, anytime, which he had meant. Then his phone had gone cold.

      During the week, he thought about contacting her, but what was the point? She’d either show up on Saturday or she wouldn’t, and the way things were going, wouldn’t looked like the likely option. It was affecting him and his playing. Even his teacher noticed.

      Especially his teacher noticed.

      You’re distracted. Then Nick graced him with one of his famous withering looks. Gabriel, you’re a good professional-quality pianist. You’ll always be a good professional pianist. But if you want to be great, you’re going to have to be one hundred percent focused on what you’re doing. In this business, good isn’t going to cut it.

      For Chrissakes, he was fifteen. Most dudes his age were smoking dope and sniffing girls. What did the man want from him? Instead, Gabe told Nick that he was right and he’d try harder.

      It’s not your hands, Gabe, it’s your brain. Get your head wrapped around the music.

      He had meant to take the advice to heart. He really had meant to do it. Plus, Nick had given him some composing assignments that ordinarily he really liked. But instead of making progress in his chosen field, he was alone in the house, sitting on his bed at four in the afternoon, surfing Facebook.

      Chopin would just have to fucking wait.

      Distracted.

      His Facebook account was still active, but his pictures were old. There were several snapshots of him and his buddies when he had buddies. There were a couple of him and his mom when he had a mom. There was one old picture of his dad who happened to be the only one still in his life. He hadn’t answered anyone’s mail or posted any comments in over a year. Wistfully he surfed the pages of his old buddies, looking at updated photographs. His friends had grown taller and broader, and some of the more swarthy ones had sizable clumps of facial hair. His own cheeks and chin had sprouted stubble,

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