Coldwater Revenge

by James A Ross

  Tom held out a bandaged hand. “Where is he?”

  “The station. Where else?”

  A half hour and a fist full of Tylenol later, Tom found Joe propped behind his desk in the basement of Town Hall. MadDog’s stuffed fish and game heads still decorated the wall behind the desk and the big iron ring of jail cell keys still hung on the ten penny nail on the wall. Nothing seemed to have changed since he and Joe had played marbles on the cement floor and peeked in at the Saturday night drunks while their dad caught up on paper work. The only addition was a rack of electronics in what used to be the mop closet. Tom assumed that was how Joe stayed connected to the state trooper barracks in DuBois. The only thing missing was the bottle of Jim Beam that used to sit on the shelf above the water cooler.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Joe’s voice was an old man’s wheeze and his face stretched lines of pain from chin to hairline.

  “Frankie Heller.”

  “Still can’t handle him by yourself, huh?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Joe eased his head into the cradle of his hands.

  “I didn’t kill him, Joe. But I was there when someone did. I thought at first it might be you. But whoever it was started shooting at me, too.” He paused.

  “What?”

  “It wasn’t you, right?”

  “Don’t be funny. Sit. Spill.”

  “You need to call this number first.” Tom threw a scrap of paper on the cluttered desk. “He’s a toxologist with the Agency for Toxic Substances and Disease. He says you’ve been poisoned.”

  “Feels like it.”

  “And he’s threatening to call out the National Guard to find you if you don’t get back to the hospital pronto.”

  Joe lifted his head from his hands. “Agency for what? State or Fed?”

  “Does it matter? Something in Billy’s autopsy report scared the shit out of him. The report you didn’t want me to read.”

  Joe grunted. “I told you why.”

  “This guy seems to know what you have and what to do about it. He was pretty convincing that you’d better do it quick, or he’ll be looking at your autopsy report next. From what I can see, he may not be exaggerating.”

  Joe wheezed. “Can’t, Tommy. Leutenant Grogan of the State Trooper Border Security Task Force called a few minutes ago. Ordered me not to leave, if you can believe that. Little prick.”

  “Sorry for your troubles, brother. But this is more serious than the state troopers poaching your turf. The Toxic Substances doc says, ‘think anthrax only worse. ’”

  “Bullshit. I’d be dead.”

  “If you breathed it. You only ate it, he says, and maybe got it in those cuts.”

  Joe dropped his head into his hands again. “How am I supposed to stay holed up in a hospital with Paulie Grogan’s nose up my ass, dead bodies piling up all over town and no friggin’ idea of how they got that way?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Joe. Go back to the hospital and let them do what they have to. You’re not going to solve anything if you croak.”

  Joe moved his head in obvious pain. “All right. But tell me first how Frankie got dead and where you put the body.”

  Tom didn’t laugh. “Then you go back to the hospital.”

  “Fine. As soon as Grogan and his new best friends get through with me.” Joe stared at Tom’s bandaged hands and lacerated scalp. “Looks like both of us could use a pretty nurse. Frankie do that?”

  “Indirectly. We’ll leave that for last.”

  Tom recounted his trip to Montreal, Hassad’s explanation of the NeuroGene connection and his claim not to recognize Billy’s photograph while referring to the man in the photo in the past tense, his uneventful visit with Billy’s friend Bonnefesse and his eventful one with the now deceased Frankie Heller. Then he started to connect the dots.

  “Start with means,” said Joe.

  “All right. Somebody’s got to have a boat and get Billy into it. You remember when we visited Heller’s junkyard the first day I was here—the day the Dooley twins dragged Billy’s body out of the lake? Do you remember what was sitting in front of the garage?

  “A boat on a trailer.”

  “That’s right. Fishing season’s been over for weeks, but the boat’s not inside yet or pulled around back or anything. It’s not even covered. It’s just sitting there like it’s going out or just come back.”

  “Go on.”

  “Billy wasn’t big. But someone still had to get him into a boat. If he went willingly, then anyone could have done it. But if not, Frankie could have handled Billy easily.”

  “Motive?”

  “I think Billy ran errands for Frankie… harvest deliveries and such. Susan heard them arguing about something, so there was some sort of connection. I don’t think they were just buddies. But Billy branched out and started carrying stuff for this Hassad character, too. Maybe he combined trips—used Frankie’s cars. Maybe he left something behind one day. In any event, Frankie must have found out. He would have seen Billy’s sideline as a risk to his business. Or maybe it wasn’t even that logical. Maybe he and Billy just got into it. Frankie’s got a temper, and Billy had a knack for pissing people off. Maybe he just lost it.”

  “Needs work. What about opportunity?”

  “According to Susan, Billy was as sick as a dog the night he was killed. She says he was holed up in the boathouse. Frankie could have tied his boat alongside, talked or dragged Billy into the boat and then gotten rid of him out on the lake. Only he never got out of Wilson Cove because he heard you coming in the patrol boat when you thought you were after some poachers. He had to dump Billy fast and get out of there before you put a spotlight on him.”

  Joe lifted his head and smiled weakly. “It’s a theory. You got a bit of the old man in you after all.”

  The compliment didn’t make Tom happy. “It would be nice if it happened that way. Clean anyway.”

  “But?”

  “There’re some pieces that don’t fit, Joe.” Fatigue lay across Tom’s shoulders like a weighted net, but his voice was firm.

  “Lots of them, brother. Which ones jump out at you?”

  “A dog that doesn’t bark, a boat that makes it through Wilson Cove running without lights and a bird leg.”

  “I’m listening.” His voice firmed, too.

  Tom held up his bandaged hands. “I got maybe two inches into Frankie Heller’s junkyard last night before Cerberus took a chunk out of my shorts. But you went down there and had a forty-five minute powwow with Frankie while I sat in your truck maybe fifty yards away. And I didn’t hear one bark.”

  “Dogs like me.”

  “You were out in Wilson Cove in the patrol boat. But whoever dumped Billy’s body got out of there ahead of you running without lights.” He paused for breath. “When I used to know Wilson Cove like my way to the bathroom, I put a whacking great hole in Dr. Pearce’s Chris Craft one night running without lights. Only I was only going about two miles an hour. Maybe someone who knows Wilson Cove better than I did could make a midnight run through that rock garden without lights and without hitting anything. But not at speed. Not running from a police boat.”

  “Keep going.”

  “A couple of days ago, I walked in on Susan when she wasn’t expecting me. She’s got this pet cockatoo that doesn’t like people getting near her. Before she could call it off, it carved a couple of chunks out of my scalp and the top of my arms where I put them over my head. Billy had one of those birds, too. They go bat-shit on anyone who even comes close to their owner.” Tom took a plastic bag from his pocket and threw it on his brother’s desk. Inside was the severed bird’s foot he’d found in the Pearce boathouse. “I’m pretty sure the one that was attached to this attacked whoever tried to get Billy out of the boathouse the night he was killed. Only whoever it was fought it off with something that sliced off its leg.”

  Joe looked silently at his brother.

  “I figure there’s probably enough stuff under these cla
ws to figure out who that was.”

  Joe said nothing for a long moment while he stared thoughtfully at his brother. “Got a suspect?”

  It was Tom’s turn to pause. When he spoke, his voice was weary, but firm. “When you picked me up from the airport the morning after Billy was killed, you told me those cuts on your head and arms came from some thorn bushes around a dope patch you’d been pulling up.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But they look an awful lot like the ones I got from Susan’s bird…” He displayed the cuts on his forearms and gestured at his wounded scalp. “I don’t think anyone could have made it across Wilson Cove running without lights. But a police boat out chasing poachers could be running full-out, all lit up and nobody would give it a second thought.”

  “Motive?”

  “Super Trooper. This is your turf and Billy Pearce was a reckless low-life, doing something you had to stop. But quietly and in your own way.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Why wouldn’t I just arrest him?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “But you have a theory.”

  Tom nodded. “You inherited Dad’s job. Maybe you inherited his sources of income as well. I don’t know. I never wanted to ask.”

  “What sources?”

  Tom glared at his brother. “Your little cabin in the woods is a castle, Joe. Your truck cost more than I paid for law school. You live large, just like he did. And the numbers don’t square with the salary of a small town cop.”

  Brother glared at brother.

  “So you think I knew something about Billy, but I couldn’t arrest him because I was taking money from him and Frankie?”

  “It can add up like that.”

  * * *

  Tom tried to steer with one bandaged hand and dial with the other, thankful that no ditch awaited his graceless swerve to the shoulder of the road. Waiting for his breath to slow, he loosened the gauze on his hands and then tried the number again.

  “Doctor Dyer.”

  “Tom Morgan. I gave my brother your number. Has he called yet?”

  “No. Where is he?”

  “In his office in the basement of Town Hall. He said the state troopers are on their way and want him to stay there. He’ll go back to the hospital as soon as they’re through with him.”

  “I’ll send someone to make sure he does.”

  “That would be prudent.”

  “I still need your information on that fellow whose autopsy I read.”

  “Give me an hour. Where can I meet you?”

  “I have a team gathering to examine the deceased’s last residence. Do you know where that is?”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  Tom cradled the phone between ear and shoulder while he opened the book on the car seat and took out the folded letter. Then he dialed the number scribbled on the back.

  “Couvent St. Gabriel.”

  “Père Gauss, s’il vous plait.”

  The click was instantaneous and followed by a dial tone. That was rude, Sister. He squeezed the steering wheel. I’ve got a serious problem in ethics here, Father. Père Gauss could really help a poor sinner, if he’d get out from behind sister’s skirts.

  Tom pulled the car back onto the road and drove slowly toward a place he did not wish to go.

  * * *

  Mary tried to rise from the couch but had to settle for extending one arm and clutching her chest with the other. “What happened to you?”

  “Frankie Heller’s dog.”

  “Tommy, Tommy. I thought your brother had that family under control.”

  “He does now.” Tom tried to keep his voice steady and his throat open.

  “What happened?” Tom’s eyes began to fog. Pain, fatigue and suppressed emotion were taking their collective toll. “Is it your brother?”

  He nodded.

  “Oh dear.” Mary eased her weight onto the overstuffed, over-doilied couch. “The hospital told me he checked out. Some doctor has been calling here every hour.”

  “He’s pretty sick, Mom. But that’s the least of his problems.” Mary’s face turned from worried to wary. He hesitated. How do I tell our mother that her son may be complicit in a killing?

  “What is it, Tommy?”

  He shook his head and tried to breathe steadily. Then he began the way he knew best: a lawyer, laying the foundation of a case.

  “Dad left you pretty well off.” He could see Mary puzzle at the change of subject and the nervy timbre in his voice.

  “He was a good provider. A bit wild, but no dummy.”

  “Do you remember the money the funeral home found in his coat?”

  She bit her lip.

  “You said then that you didn’t think it was anything unusual. That Dad just didn’t trust banks. I let it go. There was no point getting into it then.”

  She remained silent.

  “But I need to talk to you about it now. Joe’s in trouble and I want to help him, if I can. But if you can’t go there, or don’t know what I’m talking about, then I’ll drop it. You have to let me know.”

  He waited for her to examine the corner he’d walked her into and the door he’d left open, and then make her choice.

  She made it quickly. “I was a policeman’s wife for twenty-five years, Tommy. There’s not much I haven’t seen or heard.”

  “Then you know where that money came from.”

  “I have a good idea, yes.”

  “The Hellers, the Dooleys, the Cashins, all of them.”

  “I don’t know that. I know that it didn’t fall from the sky, if that’s what you’re asking, and that your father didn’t save it out of his paycheck.”

  “That’ll do for now. And you know that Joe lives large too, just like Dad did. Larger than his paycheck anyway.”

  “He’s a young man, Tommy. Some of them buy toys.”

  “And if he’s paying cash?”

  “I don’t know that. And neither do you.”

  “But you know what I’m talking about?”

  “Yes, I do. And I think you’re on very shaky ground, young man.”

  “Frankie Heller is dead, Mom. So is Billy Pearce. They got dead on account of some trouble with the two-bit dope business that Hellers have been running, and Morgan sheriffs ignoring, for as long as anybody around here can remember.”

  “You said that your brother may be in trouble,” she said firmly.

  “That’s right. The state police are here looking into Billy’s death, with Paulie Grogan leading the pack. They’re going to find out that Joe was in the Pearce boathouse when Billy left on his last ride and that Billy didn’t go willingly.”

  Mary closed her eyes and pulled in a lungful of air. “Go on.”

  He recounted as much of the story as he was confident he had pieced together. His voice firmed as he laid out the items of evidence as if they were exhibits in a courtroom: the NeuroGene/U-Labs connection, his encounter with Susan Pearce’s cockatoo, the dog that didn’t bark at Joe but nearly shredded his mother’s other son, the navigational hazards of Wilson Cove at night, the severed cockatoo’s foot and the fresh gouges on Joe’s head and arms that appeared hours after Billy’s killing and that were identical to the ones Susan’s bird inflicted on Tom a few days later.

  Through it all, his mother sat silent and avoided her son’s gaze. When he had finished, she asked, “Have you told this theory to your brother?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “And you want me…?”

  “To tell me that Joe picked you up from the hospital the afternoon Billy was killed and stayed with you until the next morning, that he spent the entire evening moving you into his cabin, setting you up with a snack cart, CD’s and remote TV and that he didn’t leave until he came to pick me up at the airport.”

  “And if I can’t do that?” Mary’s voice was soft, but n
ot alarmed.

  “Then tell me how we survive as a family if we both know baby brother is a killer and we try to keep it as just another family secret.”

  His mother took her time to answer. While he waited for her to utter the unspeakable, his ears found the sounds of the things that made the tiny apartment work: the hum of the baseboard heater, the whir of the refrigerator motor, the ticking of the clock above the combination stove/oven.

  “Oh, Tommy,” she sighed.

  His response was immediate and merciless. “Billy Pearce was alive when someone stuffed him in that bag. Alive when they dumped it in Wilson Cove. They drowned him.”

  “So your brother told me.” His mother’s voice was steady but cautious.

  He looked at her and waited.

  “And it seems to me that there’s some things he’s been telling me, that for some reason he’s chosen not to tell you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Tommy…”

  “Mom, what I know says Joe is involved in Billy Pearce’s murder. I have to decide soon what to do about that. If you know something different, tell me before I might have to tell somebody outside the family what I won’t be able to un-tell once it’s out.”

  Mary released a lungful of trapped breath. “Very well. That makes sense I guess. Sit,” she commanded.

  He took a half step back, propped his back against the floral patterned wallpaper, folded his arms and looked down.

  “Your brother was at the Pearce’s house the night Billy was killed. That’s true. He’s been a regular visitor there these past few months.” Mary paused to let the significance of that confidence sink in.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean temptation comes with the job, Tommy. And your brother…well, someone like Miss Pearce would only have to lift an eyebrow, wouldn’t she?”

  Or a shirt.

  “Go on.”

  “Your brother stopped there last Saturday before the start of his shift. Miss Pearce wasn’t home, but the brother was. Sick as a dog, according to Joe, and coughing blood. But the brother wouldn’t let Joe take him to the hospital. In fact, he ran him off. Joe phoned Miss Pearce from his patrol car and advised her to get home and get her brother to a doctor.