Page 52 of Dead Mountain

The waitress came over. “Another round?” Her expression had changed since she first seated Nora.

“Yes, please,” said Corrie, while Nora ordered a cabernet.

Then Corrie resumed. “The knife was driven in with such force into the sternum—”

Nora quickly touched Corrie’s hand and nodded slightly toward the couple at the next table. Corrie stopped speaking and glanced over, realization dawning on her face.

Nora leaned forward, speaking in a whisper. “I think we’re ruining their dinner.”

“Oh, jeez. Right. The tables are so close.”

Nora nodded.

“Reminds me of my human anatomy class back at John Jay,” said Corrie, sotto voce, “where we’d eat lunch while dissecting, chopped liver sandwich in one hand, scalpel in the other. I guess we’re immune to it.”

They both giggled softly, and then Corrie resumed, keeping her voice low and leaning forward. “Tolland stabbed himself with such force that the lower edge of the manubrium was fractured and pieces of the bone were driven into the heart itself.”

“Yikes.”

“The thing is, those two victims were much better dressed than the others. Having found the cave, they might actually have been able to survive the storm.”

“If they weren’t already too hypothermic to resist a fight, brought on by their aggressive hallucinations.”

“Do you think Tolland might have started to regain his presence of mind after killing Wright? The suicide might have been done in remorse for killing his friend.”

“I’ve studied hypothermia and its effects pretty extensively, and I guess anything is possible. Paradoxical undressing, terminal burrowing—it’s all well known and documented. But this kind of fighting, and the bizarre suicide . . .” Nora shook her head. “It does go beyond most of the behaviors I’ve read about.”

“We’re doing broad histology and toxicology on the cadavers, looking for a whole range of exotic drugs and poisons, along with an analysis of stomach contents. We’ve already ruled out the entire suite of common drugs—LSD, mushrooms, psilocybin, meth, and so forth. We looked for needle marks and scarring—no sign of drug use. The CT scan showed no evidence of brain abnormalities, stroke, aneurism, epileptic seizure—nothing that could explain a psychotic break. We’ve got people looking into the relationship between Wright and Tolland, prior conflicts, but so far nothing—no girlfriend troubles, jealousy, public arguments. They were good friends going back to high school in Albuquerque.”

The next round of drinks arrived. “I can see why you needed a martini,” said Nora. “This is nuts.”

“I know. You’d think the discovery of two more victims would have shed some light. Just the opposite.” Corrie set down the glass. “By the way, I haven’t thanked you for finding the site of the fire and uncovering that knife.”

“Didn’t they search the area of the fire back in 2008?”

“I can’t find a record of it in the files.” She hesitated. “The mountains were snowed in and the ground wasn’t free of snow until June. We’re about to interview the supervisory agent at the time, a guy named Gold. That’s one of the things I plan to ask him.”

“Any luck with the ‘MHT’ initials?” Nora asked.

“We started with the idea it might have belonged to a Tolland family member, but apparently there wasn’t one with those initials.”

Nora shook her head.

“I’d like to ground-survey the ravine where the two other bodies were found,” Corrie said, “but the mountains are snowed in. We’ll have to wait until spring.”

“I hope the case is solved by then,” said Nora.

“The way things are going . . .” Corrie shook her head, her voice trailing off into silence.

28

SILVER CITY, CORRIE discovered, was a small old Western town four hours south of Albuquerque, so well preserved it was often used as a movie set. Sharp had mentioned this during the drive—that, and the fact that the town had been taken over by retirees. He’d said little else, sitting in the passenger seat and doing his lizard impression: motionless, only his eyes raising their heavy lids from time to time.

It was not until they’d driven through Silver City itself and were approaching their destination that he spoke again. “Corrie? A word of caution. Keep your professional judgment to yourself until the interview’s concluded. An interview is often like a poker game: no feedback, no reaction, keep playing . . . in this interview perhaps more so than most.”

This was the last thing Corrie expected to hear. There’d been some oblique talk about Gold from senior agents that indicated something hadn’t been quite right with him since the original investigation. But she knew Sharp well enough to simply nod in agreement and not ask for more detail.

Robertson Gold’s house was situated north of town, on a pretty cul-de-sac backing up against the Gila National Forest. The house, Corrie noted, was the last on the street, facing down its length—a law officer’s instinctive preference for keeping his back to the wall with a full view of anyone who might be coming. A half dozen cars were parked along the street, and for a moment she wondered if these were real estate agents at an open house nearby. But as they approached, she realized they were protesters: three men and two women, some carrying signs that read, simply, TRUTH. As they pulled past the cars into the driveway, she could hear what they were chanting: “Tell the truth, no more lies! Tell the truth, no more lies!” This was embellished by fist pumps and waving of the signs.

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