CHAPTER 27

The basement of Newcastle’s police headquarters was divided into three sections: “The Hole,” as Al Lever liked to call it, consisting of six cells for detainees; the morgue and medical examination facility, which was strictly the domain of Carlyle; and Abe Jones’s forensics lab. Like most of the building, the lab featured only three colors: gray linoleum flooring, institutional-green walls, and stainless steel fixtures. As Abe peered into his microscope, Lever and Belle hung over his shoulders like two hungry vultures. Finally, after placing his four dirt samples under the lens for what seemed like the hundredth time, Jones raised his eyes and swung around on the stool.

“Close, but no cigar,” he sighed.

Belle felt her eyes begin to water. “What do you mean, Abe? That has to be the same dirt. It has to be.”

“Sorry, Belle, it isn’t. Your soil sample’s very close to the other three specimens, but it’s not an exact match.”

“You’re sure?” Lever asked, knowing full well it was a futile question. Jones’s analyses were never off the mark.

“There’s no mistaking, Al. The matching samples from Adams Alley, the woman at the bus station, and Rosco’s Jeep are all strongly organic … no sign of pesticides, herbicides, or commercial fertilizers. On the other hand, in the sample Belle brought us, I’m finding significant deposits of soluble potash, molybdenum, and chelated manganese, along with traces of tetramethrin, a chemical often used for garden infestation control.”

Belle let out a long sigh.

“But …” Jones continued, holding up an index finger, “Don’t get too depressed. This sample does help us narrow down the origin of the others, thanks to their similarity. You say the Petermans brought this dirt down from New Hampshire?”

“Right.”

“Then I’d have to say the others came from up that way, too, rather than from the Berkshires as I’d first suspected. The specimens are that close in composition.”

“But if the Petermans are planting a city rooftop garden,” Lever wondered aloud, “wouldn’t they be adding all those chemicals? Fertilizer, pesticides, et cetera? We don’t exactly have nature working her miracles in the downtown area.”

“Absolutely, Al, but the deposits I’m finding in the Peterman sample have been with this soil for some time. They’re well integrated. They weren’t added after the earth arrived in Newcastle, they’ve had time to osmose.”

“Meaning they would have also shown up in Rosco’s tires, if he’d been to the Peterman’s New Hampshire farm?” Belle asked, although she knew the answer.

“I’m afraid so.” Jones took her hand. “It was a good try, Belle.”

“Thanks.” Belle looked at her watch and sat on the stool beside Jones. Exhaustion played heavily on her face. “The Crier will be out in twenty minutes. I suppose I should get back to my office so this kook can find me.”

“He seems to be able to find you wherever you are,” Lever said, adding grimly, “I’ll go with you.”

“He keeps saying no cops, Al.…”

“And this guy still maintains he’s holding Rosco somewhere?” Jones asked.

“Right.”

“There’s got to be a way to end-run him,” Jones continued. “We’re not taking charge of the situation. We’re letting him direct the entire show.”

“I thought I was the detective here,” Lever interjected, “but, okay, Abe, what do you have in mind? Let’s have it.”

“I don’t know, but rather than searching for Rosco, we should be trying to identify this kook. If we find him, we find Rosco.” Jones turned to Belle. “This crossword in the box of roses? I mean, how good was it? Are we talking professional quality, or was it strictly amateur time?”

“It was clever … well conceived. The use of language was clear and intelligent … symmetrical fifteen-by-fifteen grid. Yes, I would have published it.”

“So, there’s a possibility this guy’s a professional crossword constructor, then?”

“I guess … no, it’s not possible,” Belle said, then questioned how she’d jumped to that conclusion so quickly.

“Why not?”

She was about to respond that crossword creators weren’t generally considered psychopaths, but Jones spoke before she had a chance to reply.

“Okay, here’s what I’m thinking,” he said as he stood and crossed to a doorway at the far side on the lab. “Hold on a second.” He walked through the door and returned ninety seconds later carrying a large plastic evidence bag. “Rosco told me you inked in a copy of the puzzle we found under the dead woman? It had an Elvis Presley theme, right?”

“Right,” Belle said as her brow wrinkled in confusion. “But it seemed to have no bearing on the situation.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But I’m wondering … Is there any way you could connect it to the one you received in the rose box? Or the one on your dashboard? Style, language, pet words?”

Belle thought as both Jones and Lever watched her. Finally, she shook her head. “No. I don’t remember anything that seemed to connect the one in the Sentinel to the two hand-drawn ones. No. If anything, they were devoid of personality. Clever, yes, but not quirky.”

“This may be a long shot, Belle.” Jones set the evidence bag on his worktable. “This isn’t a very pretty sight … so tell me when to stop. Sometimes, I get inured to the sight of dried blood and forget that others aren’t comfortable with it.” He opened the plastic bag as he spoke. “Normally, I wouldn’t have saved all of this. I would have taken samples, kept a fragment or two, and tossed the rest. Actually, it was something you mentioned, Al, that originally piqued my curiosity: the Snoopy cartoon. The Sentinel hasn’t carried the comic for six months. I checked on that.”

“So?” Lever interjected.

“Stay with me here. I scrounged through the Dumpster in Adams Alley that morning, pulled out all the newspapers, and checked the date on each one. First off: there were no papers older than March twenty-seventh of this year, and second—” Jones pulled a bloodied section of newsprint from the evidence bag—“this entertainment section of the Sentinel is seven months old … and the only portion of that paper to appear in the alley.”

Lever let out a nervous laugh. “What are you saying? Snoopy did the deed?”

“Well, my original assessment was that the cartoon page might play a part … a Comics Killer kind of scenario. Serial murderers are often attracted to titles of that ilk. But our second death didn’t follow the theme, so I was left with two newspapers printed seven months apart … and a seemingly dead end to possibly random crimes. Unless the date itself is at issue, a reference mark, as it were, to other unsolved crimes … However, something else just struck me.” Jones unfolded the newspaper as he spoke. “What else is printed on that page of the Sentinel?”

“The crossword puzzle,” Belle answered quietly.

Abe spread the paper flat. “As you can see, a number of the clues are bloodstained and difficult to determine, but I think I can scrape the paper down enough to read them. I’m guessing—and this is a real long shot—that this crossword and the one in the paper we found under the dead woman and the two hand-drawn crosswords were all created by the same person: our suspect. Because, if the perpetrator didn’t plant these newspapers, then why were they there?”

Belle thought a moment. “You’re eliminating the idea that street people often wad newsprint into pillows—”

“For the sake of argument, yes.”

Again, Belle pondered the suggestion. “But those Sentinel crosswords were designed by a legitimate constructor, Abe. I know the puzzle editor up in Boston. Well, I’ve met him, anyway, and this … I mean … I just don’t see this as a plausible theory.”

“Why not?”

“You’re suggesting that a contributor to a major U.S. daily is both murderer and kidnapper. I simply can’t subscribe to that notion.”

“Would you mind completing the puzzle, Belle?” Lever asked softly.

She looked at her watch. She stopped short of sighing but felt her level of irritation and tension rise. “I have to get to the Crier, Al. I don’t want to miss this guy’s phone call. If I upset him further, who knows what he’ll do next? I’m just really worried about Rosco.”

“I know.” Lever spoke more firmly. “This is a long shot, Belle, just like Abe said, but we need to check it out. You can do this puzzle in ten minutes, max. Abe and me? An hour, on the short side. Time isn’t on anyone’s side right now.”

Belle looked at Lever in mounting frustration. “I realize that, Al! Some psycho’s got Rosco. Playing word games right now isn’t the answer.”

“You don’t know that!”

Belle spun angrily on Al. “The crossword you found under the dead woman at the bus depot followed an Elvis Presley theme. It had nothing to do with crime, murder, foul play—”

Lever was also losing his temper. “Rosco is one of my closest friends, Belle, in case you’d forgotten. And I’m all ears if you have other leads you want to pursue.”

Belle grabbed her purse. Lever’s hand beat a rapid and nervous tattoo on Jones’s worktable while Abe watched the two and wondered whether he should step in or wait for them to cool off.

It was Belle who spoke next. “If you still feel this is important, Al, we’ll do it after I reconnect with this crazy.”

Lever nodded but didn’t answer while Abe began busying himself with the newspaper he’d removed from the evidence bag, lightly scratching its surface with a broad knife. “Sixty-five-Across: J. M. Barrie’s little lady. Any ideas, Al?”

Belle stared at the two men in disbelief. “It’s Tinker Bell.”