Free Wall of Night by Grant Blackwood Page B

second father. Was he trading on their relationship for a chance to ease his own conscience? I can do this …. Was he certain? “I can do the job.”
    Dutcher sighed and shook his head. “God almighty … I must be getting soft in my old age. Okay: What Dick doesn’t know can’t hurt him. But I’ll tell you this: If it goes wrong, they’re gonna hang us both from the nearest lamppost.”
    Tanner smiled. “Then I’ll just make sure it doesn’t go wrong.”
    Washington, D.C.
    Latham and Randall got back into town in the early evening and parted ways. When Charlie got home he found Bonnie standing at the kitchen counter. He kissed her, then looked down at the bowl she was stirring. “Is that that cold salsa soup stuff?”
    â€œIt’s called ‘gazpacho,’ Charlie. You like it”
    â€œI do?”
    â€œYou said you did last time I made it”
    Uh-oh. “Oh, yeah … gazpacho. I was thinking of that other stuff.”
    Bonnie smiled. “Liar. Go shower. We’ll eat when you get done.”
    An hour later, Latham decided he did in fact like gazpacho. How was it that Bonnie knew what he liked when he couldn’t even remember if he’d had it before? Ah, the joys of marriage … Bonnie was a wonderful wife and mother, and he made it a point to remind himself daily how lucky he was.
    â€œSammie called today,” Bonnie said. Their oldest daughter, Samantha, was a sophomore majoring in economics at William and Mary College. “She said to say hi.”
    â€œEverything okay?”
    â€œShe’s just a little homesick, I think. Finals are next month; she’ll be home after that.”
    â€œGood. I kinda miss the patter of … young adult feet around here.”
    Bonnie gave him a sideways smile. “We could always—”
    â€œPlease tell me you’re kidding.”
    â€œI’m kidding.”
    The phone rang and Bonnie picked it up, listened, then handed it to Latham. “Hello?”
    â€œCharlie, it’s Paul. The coroner’s done with the Bakers. She may have something for us.”
    â€œI’ll meet you there.” He hung up and turned to Bonnie. “The Baker thing. Sorry.”
    â€œIt’s okay, go ahead. I’ve got paint swatches to look at.”
    â€œPaint swatches?”
    â€œWe’re painting the kitchen, remember?” She shook her head and smiled. “Go, Charlie.”
    The medical examiner, a gangly woman in her early fifties, was sitting in her office finishing the report. “Hello, Charlie. Been a while.”
    â€œNot long enough, Margaret,” Latham replied. “No offense.”
    â€œNone taken.” She looked at Randall, and mock-whispered, “Charlie doesn’t much like morgues. I think he’s got a phobia about stainless steel.”
    â€œJust one of his many quirks.”
    â€œCome on, I’ll show what we found.”
    She led them into the examining room. The air was thick with the tang of disinfectant. The tile floor reflected the grayish glare of the overhead fluorescent lights. Each of the room’s four stainless-steel tables were occupied: four sets of sheets—two adult-size, two child-size.
    What used to be the Baker family, Charlie thought. He didn’t know how coroners did it. Two weeks in this place and he’d be drinking his lunch every day.
    â€œFirst, the routine stuff,” said Margaret. “All were negative for narcotics or toxins. No signs of disease or degeneration in any of the major systems. Aside from bullet wounds in each of the victims and ligature marks on the extremities of the woman and the children, there were no gross injuries.”
    â€œDid you check the syringe?”
    â€œYep. No toxins, no narcotics. It was brand-new—fresh out of its blister pack, in fact. There were minute traces of adhesive residue on it: the manufacturer uses it to keep the syringe seated