Chapter 85
ASSUME NOTHING, question everything.
As we set down in the small private airfield, I could feel the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. What was wrong here? What was I feeling about the Cross case?
Beyond the thin ribbons of landing strip were acre upon acre of pine forests and hills. The beauty of the countryside, the incredible shades of green, reminded me of something Cézanne had once said: “When color is at its richest, form is at its fullest.” I never looked at the world in quite the same way after hearing that.
Gary Soneji was brought up near here, I thought to myself. Was it possible that he could still be alive? No, I didn’t believe that. But could there be connections?
We were met in New Jersey by two field agents who brought a blue Lincoln sedan for our use. Sampson and I proceeded from Princeton to Rocky Hill and then over to Lambertville, to see his grandfather. I knew that Sampson and Alex Cross had been to Princeton less than a week ago. Still, I had questions of my own, theories that needed field-testing.
I also wanted to see the entire area where Gary Soneji had grown up, where his madness had been inflicted and nurtured. Mostly I wanted to talk with someone neither Cross nor Sampson had spent much time investigating, a brand-new suspect.
Assume nothing, question everything… and everyone.
Seventy-five-year-old Walter Murphy, Gary’s grandfather, was waiting for us on a long, whitewashed porch. He didn’t ask us inside his house.
The porch had a nice view out from the farmhouse. I saw multiflora rose everywhere, an impenetrable bramble. The nearby barn was also overrun by sumac and poison ivy. I guessed that the grandfather was letting this happen.
I could feel Gary Soneji at his grandfather’s farm, I felt him everywhere.
According to Walter Murphy, he’d had no inkling that Gary was capable of murder. Not at any time. Not a clue.
“Some days I think I’ve gotten used to what’s happened, but then suddenly it’s fresh and incomprehensible to me all over again,” he told us as the midday breeze ruffled his longish white hair.
“Did you stay close to Gary as he got older?” I asked cautiously. I was studying his build, which was large. His arms were thick and looked as if they could still do physical damage.
“I remember long talks with Gary from the time he was a boy right up until it was alleged he’d kidnapped those two children in Washington.” Alleged.
“And you were taken by surprise?” I said. “You had no idea?”
Walter Murphy looked directly at me — for the first time. I knew that he resented my tone, the irony in it. How angry could I make him? How much of a temper did the old man have?
I leaned in and listened more closely. I watched every gesture, every tic. Collected the data.
“Gary always wanted to fit in, just like everybody else does,” he said abruptly. “He trusted me because he knew I accepted him for what he was.”
“What was it about Gary that needed to be accepted?”
The old man shifted his eyes to the peaceful-looking pine woods surrounding the farm. I could feel Soneji in those woods. It was as if he were watching us.
“He could be hostile at times, I’ll admit. His tongue was sharp, double-barbed. Gary had an air of superiority that ruffled some tail feathers.”
I kept at Walter Murphy, didn’t give him space to breathe. “But not when he was around you?” I asked. “He didn’t ruffle your feathers?”
The old man’s clear blue eyes returned from their trip into the woods. “No, we were always close. I know we were, even if the expensive shrinks say it wasn’t possible for Gary to feel love, to feel anything for anybody. I was never the target for any of his temper explosions.”
That was a fascinating revelation, but I sensed it was a lie. I glanced at Sampson. He was looking at me in a new way.
“These explosions at other people, were they ever premeditated?” I asked.
“Well, you know damn well he burned down his father and stepmother’s house. They were in it. So were his stepbrother and stepsister. He was supposed to be away at school. He was an honor student at the Peddie School in Hightstown. He was making friends there.”
“Did you ever meet any of the friends from Peddie?” The quickening tempo of my questions made Walter Murphy uneasy. Did he have his grandson’s temper?
A spark flared in the old man’s eyes. Unmistakable anger was there now. Maybe the real Walter Murphy was appearing.
“No, he never brought his friends from school around here. I suppose you’re suggesting that he didn’t have friends, that he just wanted to seem more normal than he was. Is that your two-bit analysis? Are you a forensic psychologist, by the way? Is that your game?”