“Monday morning, two skulls were discovered at the back door of the main house in the Ellsworth compound. These skulls were unearthed by a person or persons unknown who dug them out of the back garden and may have gotten onto the property by breaking the lock on the front gate. Along with the two skulls were two index cards with the hand-printed numbers one hundred and four and six thirteen.”
Someone shouted, “That’s for the number of heads that were buried, right?”
“No,” I said. “We have no reason to believe that there are hundreds of heads. CSU has disinterred seven heads from the Ellsworth compound, all female, all unidentified, but we are working with forensics on attaching names to these victims and should have news later this week.”
“What about the identity of the Jane Doe whose picture ran in the Chronicle?”
“We’re withholding her name until we have a positive ID. We expect to have that information for you shortly.”
“What about Harry Chandler? Is he a suspect?”
“Mr. Chandler is cooperating fully with the police and he is not charged with any crimes.”
I felt like I was in a batting cage facing an automated pitching machine set on kill. Sweat beaded at my hairline. My voice caught in my throat as overlapping comments and questions came flying at me.
“But the heads were buried in Chandler’s backyard.”
“Where are the bodies?”
“Is it true that you have witnesses?”
“What happened to the bodies?”
“How were the victims killed?”
I avoided a few more inside fastballs, then Brady came to my rescue. He waved his hands and said, “Thank you, that’s all for today.”
I left the room through the back door. I went along the hallway, took the stairs down, then exited into the astonishingly beautiful rotunda.
I was glad to get into the sunshine, and the farther I got from room 200 the better. I was heading toward the garage when my phone buzzed. I looked to see — it was a text from Cindy.
You did good.
I smiled and put my phone back in my jacket pocket, then heard a man’s voice call my name.
Naturally, Jason Blayney had followed me. I should have made a bet, because I would have won money on it.
“No comment,” I said to Blayney. “I’m done commenting for the day.”
“Have lunch with me,” he said. “Please.”
Chapter 50
I WANTED TO straighten Blayney out, on or off the record — and I wanted to know why he was on my case.
He saw me hesitate and set the hook. “How about St. Francis Fountain? They have a fabulous breakfast menu.”
He was talking about a classic old-timey eatery on the corner of Twenty-Fourth and York, built almost a hundred years ago.
I said, “Okay, okay, okay.”
I followed Blayney to the Fountain, parked my car where I’d be able to see it through the plate-glass window, and went inside.
The diner had a soda fountain on one side of the room, straight-backed wooden booths on the other side, and tables and chairs in the window apse. Blayney called out to me from the window table and I slid into a chair across from him.
The waitress came with the laminated menus listing your standard diner fare: burgers, club sandwiches, malts, and shakes.
I ordered decaf and toast. Blayney went for the big man’s breakfast: pancakes, chorizo hash, fried potatoes, high-octane java.