Part 7 (1/2)
”That sounds pretty strong,” his mother suggested.
”On the face of it,” he agreed. ”My problem was that he'd never done anything like that before and there was nothing in his private life to explain why he would-except for having a loser brother who happened to be facing what his type calls 'the b.i.t.c.h.'”
Her eyebrows shot up. ”I beg your pardon?”
”That's the habitual offender label that can turn a standard sentence into a lifetime in jail. The SA will slap it on you if he's had enough of giving you second chances, and I happen to know that Dan was nose to nose with it big-time back then. I couldn't prove it, but I always bet Dan was in Brattleboro when all this happened-that he'd done the job and convinced Andy to take the fall because he'd get off light.”
”Three years doesn't sound light.”
Joe didn't argue with her. ”It was an election year, the SA had been accused of being too easy on criminals, the old lady was a charmer, complete with bandaged head, and did I mention that Andy copped to having done it? According to statute, he was looking at fifteen years. I figured-and I swear this is what Dan sold him, too-that he'd get a suspended sentence and probation. But that's not how the SA saw it, and for some reason, the judge let it fly, too. It was pure Russian roulette on Andy's part, with five out of six chances of being lucky.”
Joe sighed heavily, remembering his irritation at the unusual outcome. ”That's what upset me when you said Dan had confronted you in the grocery store,” he added. ”If Andy's death does have anything to do with my quote-unquote sending him to jail, then Dan better not look into any mirrors, 'cause he won't like what he sees.”
”But you don't know any of that for sure,” she half asked.
There he had to concede defeat. ”No.”
The pager on his belt began vibrating quietly. He groaned and removed it from his belt and saw Sam's callback number on the display, along with the message, ”ASAP.”
”I better answer this,” he muttered, getting up.
”A problem?” she asked.
”Don't know. It's Sam.” He moved toward the door.
”Joe,” his mother said, stopping him.
He crossed back over to her and kissed her forehead. ”Don't worry, Mom. We'll figure this out.” He pointed at the bowl. ”You better hold off cooking that till after this phone call, though.”
He went into the living room to give both of them some privacy, more from instinct than any notion that his mother needed s.h.i.+elding.
”Hi,” he said to Sam after she'd picked up the phone. ”What've you got?”
”Sorry to bother you, boss, but we found another dead guy with no ID and no obvious signs of what did him in, just like the first. This one's in Brattleboro.”
Joe felt his stomach rumble. He'd stop at a gas station for a sandwich on the way.
”I'll be there in an hour.”
Bordfem: hi hicsawurm: your cute your cute Bordfem: Bordfem: thanks thanksBordfem: asl aslcsawurm: 23 male vermont 23 male vermontBordfem: kool - 14 f vermont kool - 14 f vermontcsawurm: whoa your 14? whoa your 14?Bordfem: is that bad is that badcsawurm: Im pretty sure thats jailbait - you look older in your pic Im pretty sure thats jailbait - you look older in your picBordfem: well its my school pic well its my school piccsawurm: what school? what school?Bordfem: brattleboro middle school brattleboro middle schoolBordfem: u there u therecsawurm: yep yepBordfem: u want to chat u want to chatcsawurm: yeah but I have to go soon yeah but I have to go soon Bordfem: Bordfem: k kcsawurm: bye youngin bye youngin
Chapter 8.
Joe paused on the threshold, completely clad in a Tyvek jumpsuit, and surveyed the room. What crossed his mind immediately was less the scene before him-a motel room remarkable only for its blandness-and more the fact that the dead body draped across the foot of the bed didn't seem particularly unusual.
Being in situations like this, whether they were homicides, suicides, or undetermined, had by now become a habit.
There were four others in the room ahead of him, all dressed as he was. The smallest of them turned as he closed the door behind him.
”Hey, boss,” Sam greeted him. ”You made good time.”
He nodded in response. ”Still no ID?” he asked.
”He might as well've been dry-cleaned,” another of the figures answered, turning to reveal himself as Lester Spinney, Sam's exact opposite in both height and demeanor-he, laid back and tall; she, high strung and diminutive. Standing beside each other, they looked like an antiseptic comedy act. The two other detectives, both on their hands and knees, worked for the Brattleboro PD. One, surprisingly to Joe, who had spent decades in that department, he knew only slightly, and not by name. The other, by contrast, was Ron Klesczewski, the chief of detectives, anointed by Joe on his departure, and a close friend. The first man did no more than glance in Joe's direction before resuming work, scrutinizing the rug inch by inch. Ron, for his part, leaped up and shook hands like a long-lost relative, making Joe realize guiltily that, in fact, they hadn't seen each other in months, despite their having offices one floor apart.
After pleasantries-and apologies-Joe looked into the bathroom to his right and the open closet door immediately beyond it, making sure not to step off the ribbon of butcher paper laid down from the doorway to the far wall for scene preservation. Both areas appeared untouched, all the way down to the toilet paper end still folded into a point.
Ron caught the meaning of his survey. ”He did check in,” he rea.s.sured him, ”but paid cash.”
”No luggage?” Joe asked.
”Supposedly a small bag. If so, it's missing,” Lester suggested.
Joe stepped deeper into the room. The body lay facedown on the made bed, fully clothed. The TV was off, the lights on, the curtains drawn. Aside from the dead man, the room looked ready for rental.
There was a knock on the door, and Alan Miller stuck his white-hooded head in. ”Okay to come in? I'm all decked out.”
Joe looked to Ron, who was the nominal lead investigator until or unless he ceded control of the case to the VBI.
”Good by me,” he said. ”I want to see what he looks like.”
Alan stepped inside cautiously, lugging his metal equipment case. ”Any idea who we've got?”
”None,” Sam told him. ”What you see is everything. I checked his back pockets already, since they were staring at me, but so far, nothing. Feel free to do the honors.”
”No weapon?” Miller persisted.
”We don't even know if he was murdered,” Lester volunteered cheerfully. ”Could be a natural.”
”Or another parachutist,” Sam muttered darkly.
Miller looked at her doubtfully but didn't ask for an explanation. Instead, he opened his case on the butcher paper, extracted a camera, and took a few shots that would later accompany the body to the ME's office in Burlington. Beverly Hillstrom liked seeing what her customers looked like in place.
He then began carefully examining the body, first by simply placing his gloved hand on its abdomen to feel its temperature, before moving to the hands, arms, and legs to check for stiffness. A vague rule of thumb had it that rigor mortis takes some twelve hours to reach its peak, before a body's flaccidity begins rea.s.serting itself. But everyone in the room was experienced enough to know that such rules were notoriously unreliable.
”Okay to move him?” he asked.
Klesczewski nodded, and Miller rolled the body onto its back, farther up onto the bed. A gentle sigh escaped its lungs as it settled into its new position.
They all studied the man's face, as if expecting him to deliver a name. He was about five feet ten, on the edge of going fat, dressed in jeans, a chamois flannel s.h.i.+rt, and sneakers. He had thick, curly hair, a narrow, neatly bearded face, and absolutely nothing to say to any of them.
To satisfy Sam, whose habits he knew all too well, Miller checked the decedent's front pockets first. ”Nothing,” he announced.
The rest of his examination came to about the same conclusion. Clothing was opened and s.h.i.+fted, but not removed-again according to the ME's wishes-but no wounds, telling tattoos, or interesting artifacts surfaced. Whoever this was, he remained, for the moment, simply a corpse in a motel room.