“No, the privacy fence came with the home.”
The fence and the bushes would give cover for anyone coming or going from the home from the south side. He knew from the police reports that the back door was unlocked at the time of the homicides, a usual habit for the Stones. “Could I please see the back door?” he asked.
Mr. Duncan obligingly showed him through a sprawling kitchen to the mudroom at the back of the house. “We keep it locked,” he said pointedly. “I don’t think that maniac is going to come back here, but why take chances?”
“Have you had any trouble at all? You or the neighbors?”
“Outside of the kooks with a murder fetish trying to climb my fence, it’s pretty quiet down this way. It’s the reason we bought the place.”
“No burglaries? Break-ins? Nothing unusual at all?”
“No.” He paused. “Well, unless you count the gun.”
Reed’s eyebrows shot up. “The gun,” he repeated.
“Come out this way,” Mr. Duncan said as he opened the door. He led Reed across a stone patio and down a garden path to a wooden shed near the back of the property. “There was a shed here when we moved in, but it was in poor condition. We had it torn down and replaced. During the work, the crew found a gun that had been buried in a coffee can under the ground.”
“I don’t suppose you know what kind of gun it was.”
“I suppose I do,” he replied with satisfaction. “It was a Beretta 92.”
“What did you do with it?”
“I called up Ethan Stone and asked him if he wanted it back. He said it didn’t belong to him. I said what do you want me to do with it then, and he said to turn it over to the police. So, that’s what I did.” He shrugged. “They didn’t seem too interested. Trevor and that housekeeper, neither one of them got shot, you know? The sergeant who took it from me said people find guns in weird places all the time. I didn’t think anything more of it.” He peered at Reed intently. “Why? Do you think it’s important?”
“I don’t know right now what’s important. That’s why I’m here, to collect as much information as I can.”
“Well,” Mr. Duncan said with a deep breath. “I wish you luck, but these walls here don’t talk.” He turned and shaded his eyes, looking up at the hulking brick mansion. “Imagine the stories she’d have to tell if she could.”
15
Reed took another car to Penn’s Department of Economics. He quirked a half smile when he saw the building—tall, concrete gray with small windows, rather like a prison—compared to the modern glass political science home base right next door. He’d booked a two o’clock appointment with Ethan Stone, but he stopped in the main office to check in and determine where Stone was located. The office manager, a pleasant-faced woman with tight gray curls, was duly impressed by a visit from the FBI. Her nameplate read: NANCY POTTS. “Professor Stone isn’t in any trouble?” she asked with a tiny frown from behind the counter.
“No, ma’am, not that I’m aware of, in any case.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “I didn’t think so. He’s the nicest man. Brings me flowers on Secretary’s Day and pralines for my birthday.” She leaned toward Reed confidentially. “They aren’t all like that, you know. Some people think I’m just like those file cabinets over there—yank open and rustle around for what you need, then slam ’em shut again without so much as a by-your-leave.”
Reed smiled at her old-fashioned idiom, which reminded him of his mother. “Have you known Ethan Stone a long time, then?”
“I was here before he was. Let’s see, he came on about twenty-two years ago now. Gosh, the time really does fly.” She took out a Baggie filled with baby carrots and began crunching her way through them. “Would you like some?”
“No, thank you.”
“I don’t blame you,” she said, eyeing the bag with disgust.
“You knew Professor Stone before his son was killed, then,” Reed said.
“Oh, dear, yes. That poor sweet boy. We were all just brokenhearted when we heard about it. What a completely terrifying thing to happen, having someone come into your home and murder your child. Professor Stone hasn’t been the same since, really.”
“What do you mean, he’s not the same?”
“Oh, you know. He’s quieter. There’s a sadness to him. Sometimes I walk past his office and catch him looking at the picture of Trevor that he keeps on his bookshelf in there. It’s not fair how bad things happen to good people. Professor Stone, he’s had more than his share of bad luck.”
Reed opened his mouth to ask about that, but Ethan Stone appeared in the office before he could get a chance.
“Speak of the devil,” Ms. Potts said with a broad smile. “Professor, it seems you’ve got the FBI here to see you.”
“Thank you, Nancy.” Ethan Stone stood about six feet tall, with a trim frame and salt-and-pepper hair that just brushed the edges of his crisp white collar. He extended his hand to Reed and gave his arm a firm shake. “Ethan Stone.”
“Reed Markham. Thank you for seeing me on short notice.”
“Of course. Please join me in my office. Do you want anything—water, coffee, tea?”
Reed had long ago learned to take what his interview subjects offered him. “Coffee would be great, thank you.”
“I have a machine at the ready.”
In Stone’s office, Reed immediately saw the framed photo of Trevor that Nancy Potts had referenced. It had a place of honor on the shelf with an African violet sitting next to it. Trevor had been in the tween years—dark hair cut in a basic boy trim, a close-mouthed smile, possibly to hide braces, but no traces of acne yet or the teenage turmoil that would never come. Stone noticed him looking and turned the photo so Reed could have a better view. “His last school picture,” he said to Reed. “His classmates have all graduated now, but Trevor never made it to junior high.”
“I’m sorry. I really do appreciate you talking with me today. I know it must be painful to revisit.”
“Yes. Well.” Stone busied himself with the coffee. “The thing about losing a child is that nothing anyone does can make it any better, but nothing can make it any worse, either. It’s a hole that never fills no matter how much dirt you throw on top of it.” He glanced at Reed. “I know why you’re here. I saw on the news about Teresa’s daughter and I couldn’t believe it. How horrible. I even picked up the phone to give Teresa a call, but I realized I don’t have her number.”
“You don’t keep in touch?”
“No,” he said. “It wasn’t pretty at the end. That dirt you throw to fill the hole? Turns out you get messy in the process. I think we both needed to move on. Do you take milk or sugar?”
Teresa had moved on, Reed noted. New city, new family. Ethan had stayed where he was. “Black is fine.”
They sat on the low-slung leather couch that took up a good part of one wall. “Teresa was young when she had Trevor,” Reed said. “In the middle of her residency, yes?”