“At this point, that's my statement.”

I shook my head and felt my anger rising. “I was told that because of the possible connection between these deaths and the others that we could expect cooperation here.”

Captain Conte nodded. “That's what you just got, my full cooperation. Excuse me, I have work here. ”He walked away.

Sampson shrugged as we watched the CID officer shuffle off. “Can't say that I blame him too much. I wouldn't want you and me messing around at my crime scene either.”

“So, let's go mess around.”

I went over to see if I could get anything from the FBI people, the Evidence Response Team, also known as ERTs. They were being their usual thorough selves in the kitchen, where the murders had taken place. Given the normal level of dislike for the FBI, it's remarkable how much respect is given to ERTs. The reason is, they're very, very good.

Two members of the ERTs were taking Polaroid shots in the kitchen. Another, wearing a white coverall called a 'bunny suit', was looking for fibers and hairs using an alternative light source. Everybody had on rubber gloves and paper booties over their shoes. The head man was named Michael Fescoe, and I had already met him down on the Appalachian Trail, where he had supervised the crime scene investigation in the woods.

“CID giving you their full cooperation too?” I asked.

He scratched his light brown crew cut,“ I can tell you my version, and it's a little different from Captain Conte's.”

“Please,” I said.

Fescoe began, “The killers, whoever they were, did a thorough job with both the setup and the cleanup. They've done this before. They're professionals through and through. Just like the killers in Virginia.”

“How many of them?” I asked.

Fescoe held up three fingers. Three men. They surprised the Bennetts at dinner. And then they murdered them. These men, they bring force to bear without conscience. You can quote me on that."

Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

Chapter Sixty-Five

It was time to celebrate! The war was over. Starkey, Harris and Griffin ordered obscenely large, very rare Porterhouse steaks topped with jumbo shrimp at Spark's restaurant on West Forty-sixth Street in Manhattan. For anyone with wads of the green stuff, there was no better place to get happy in a hurry than in New York City.

“Three years, but it's finally over,” said Harris, and raised a glass of cognac, his fourth after-dinner drink of the evening.

“Unless our mysterious benefactor changes his mind,” cautioned Starkey. “It could happen. One more hit. Or maybe a complication that we didn't plan on. Which doesn't mean we shouldn't party tonight.”

Brownley Harris finished his cheesecake and dabbed his mouth with a cloth napkin. Tomorrow we go home to Rocky Mount. The good life. That's not so terrible bad. We're finally out of the game, undefeated and unscored on. Nobody can touch us now."

Warren Griffin just grinned. He was pretty well plowed.