Dark of the Moon

bedroom, or a drawer in the home office,” Virgil said.
    Inside, it was cooler, but with the smell of blood and body gases in the air. Stryker stopped at the mudroom door and called, “Hey, Margo.”
    “Yeah?” A woman’s voice from the front of the house.
    “Have you seen anything that looked like a safe-deposit key?”
    “Yeah. You want it?”
    “Is it a problem?” Stryker called.
    “No problem. Under his socks in the bureau. Doesn’t look like anybody touched it.”
    “All right…”
    Stryker said to Virgil, “We’ve got media. They’re calling. I’ve set up a press conference for three o’clock in the main courtroom. You gotta be there.”
    “I will be.”
     
    A MOMENT LATER, the redheaded crime-scene tech came out, dressed in paper pants and shirt, and handed a blue cardboard envelope to Stryker, who handed it to Virgil, and said, “Let me know if there’s anything.”
    “Absolutely,” Virgil said.
     
    B ACK IN TOWN, he went to the courthouse, picked up the subpoenas, stopped at one of Bill Judd Jr.’s Subways and got a sandwich for lunch, then continued on to the bank. The manager first opened the Schmidt box, where Virgil found paper—insurance, deeds, wills, old photographs—and no money. He did find a ring made of solid gold, with a small diamond inset, and the name Vera Schmidt engraved inside. Roman Schmidt’s mother?
    There were two curiosities.
    In a yellow legal envelope he found a photograph of a blond woman, nude, lying faceup on what appeared to be a medical examiner’s table. Half of her face was torn and bloody, her mouth was slightly open, and one side of her body was covered with what appeared to be purple bruising. She was clearly dead. Nothing else: no name, no date.
    The other was a mortgage, dated 5-11-70, for the house where the Schmidts had been murdered. The mortgage loan came from Bill Judd Sr., for fifteen years, at four percent interest. The mortgage had a retirement paper clipped to it, paid in full in 1985, right on time.
    Virgil wasn’t sure what the mortgage loan rates were in 1970, but four percent seemed low. The payments were listed as $547 a month, and that seemed high for the time. Maybe there was some land attached to the house, Virgil thought; he’d check.
    Was the death of the woman somehow involved with the granting of the mortgage? Schmidt would have been in his first few years as sheriff…Had Judd been involved with the death of the woman?
    Or Judd Jr.? Virgil didn’t know exactly how old Judd Jr. was, but he appeared to be near sixty. If something related to the photograph happened at the time Judd gave Schmidt the mortgage, that would put Junior in his early twenties, prime woman-killing time. Had to think about it.
    He went back to the photograph, and looked at it for a long time. The print had started to fade, but the original was carefully done—professionally done. Would a newspaper back then have the ability to shoot color? Might that provide a date? In the corner of the shot, he saw equipment that he thought might not be medical: it might be embalming equipment, but having never seen any mortuary gear, he wasn’t sure…
    The bank had a color Xerox machine. He made two Xeroxes of the photo, rented a new box, got a new key, and locked up everything but the Xeroxes. He’d asked the bank manager if he could use the Xerox privately, without anyone looking over his shoulder; when he was done, and the Schmidt paper was locked up again, the manager asked, “A clue?”
    “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” Virgil said. “I think we’re finally making some headway.”
    The manager was openmouthed: Virgil thought, Spread it around.
     
    N EXT HE WENT to the safe-deposit box where they put the Judd Sr. papers after drilling out the original box. With the banker looking over his shoulder as a witness, he took out the money, removed all the paper, put the money back, and locked the box again. The paper he took to a carrel, where he began working through it. There was nothing at all about the Schmidts or the Gleasons.
    In fact, in all the business papers, the only thing that was clear was that Judd Sr. had given his son at least two million dollars over the years—copies of gift tax reports had been carefully clipped together with other tax papers—and had loaned him another million.
    The kid was deeply in debt to his old man…but the old man was already dying, so it seemed unlikely that Junior would take the risk of hustling