Darkness the Color of Snow

by Thomas Cobb

  “How the hell do you air a piece like that, accusing my officer of a crime in the middle of a police investigation?”

  “I understand you’re upset, Chief Hawkins. We vetted that story very thoroughly. We’re confident of its veracity.”

  “Thoroughly,” Gordy scoffs. “Why wasn’t I consulted about this? I want a retraction. Now.”

  “It’s my understanding that Renee tried to contact you. Several times. We’re not going to retract it. We’re confident of our source. We can give you airtime if you want to challenge it.”

  “Who’s your source?”

  “I can’t tell you that. We promised confidentiality on that. It’s a solid source.”

  “I’ll get a court order.”

  “Well, you can do that. I don’t think it would help. Renee’s adamant that she’s not going to reveal the source.”

  “We’ll see about that. You’re destroying my officer with some bogus accusations. This is completely irresponsible.”

  “Chief, I don’t think it is. If you want to get a court order to try and force Renee to reveal the source, you’re welcome to, of course. But I don’t think Renee is going to back down on this, and the station will stand behind her. As I said, if you want airtime, we will certainly give you that. We made several attempts to get you to comment before we went to air.”

  “You shouldn’t have aired this without consulting me.”

  “We tried, Mr. Hawkins. We tried.”

  “I’ll see you in court.”

  WHEN HE HANGS up, he immediately calls Ronny, but it goes to voice mail. “Ronny, this is Gordy. Call me as soon as you get this message. I’m at home. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

  The day passes slowly. Pete takes Sean Gross to Warrentown to await his arraignment, then takes the rest of the day off. Gordy checks and rechecks Pete’s report for the town council meeting for lack of anything better to do. All in all, things are coming together, and, despite the news report last night, the hit-­and-­run case is as good as closed.

  GORDY NEEDS SOME dinner, but he doesn’t want to stop at Edna’s or even the Market Basket where he will be fair game for anyone with an opinion on the whole business, and that seems to him like everyone. So he stops at the Citgo, gets a loaf of bread and a can of tuna fish, a diet Pepsi and a one-­pound bag of Peanut M&M’s, figuring he will need the energy from the sugar, and if not, he will need the comfort of eating something he really likes. He doesn’t really need a drink, but he could use an AA meeting.

  He drives his cruiser to the town meeting hall and parks it across the street, not in the police department lot where ­people might come to find him, but on the roadside. His plan is to make himself a poor tuna sandwich, but he doesn’t have a can opener for the tuna. He could walk to the office, where there is one, but he stays in the cruiser. He opens the bag of M&M’s and takes a handful and pops it in his mouth, a few at a time. He has eaten so many frozen M&M’s that he feels there is something lacking in this new, unfrozen bag.

  He tries Ronny again, but it goes directly to voice mail. He wants to tell Ronny not to come to the meeting, fearing that Ronny will become a magnet for the Glendenning crowd. If most of the ­people in town have not heard the Channel Eight report, they will have at least heard of it. He wants to control the meeting, turn the discussion, when it comes, to the arrest of Sean Gross. He grabs another handful of M&M’s.

  A crowd is starting to build around the meeting hall, tight clusters of party faithful, more Republicans than Democrats, he notices, and looser clusters of neighbors and families, some ­couples and singles, just standing and waiting for the doors to open. Mostly, they huddle in their parkas and overcoats, stomping their feet on the frozen ground. He looks around for Martin Glendenning, but doesn’t see him. About five ­people have keys to the meeting hall, and Gordy is one of them. He looks for someone else—­Lois, the town clerk, Sam Peterson, the director of public works—­but he sees none of them.

  He shuts down the cruiser and gets out, walks across the street, and begins making his way through the crowd. A ­couple of ­people say hello, call his name, and someone pats him on the back. The rest just watch him and step back as he makes his way to the door. He unlocks the door and pulls it open. A wave of hot air pushes out. At least someone has come in earlier and turned up the heat. ­People start streaming in. Some acknowledge him, some ignore him. He guesses it’s pretty easy to tell where he stands right now. He feels sacrificial.

  “You trying to take my job?” Martin Glendenning asks, putting his arm around Gordy’s shoulder and patting him on the back.

  “I wouldn’t have your job for anything, Martin.”

  “Take my job. Please.” He laughs heartily at his own wit. Gordy smiles a tight smile. Martin holds out his hand. “Hope things go well for both of us, tonight, or at least for the town.”

  ­People continue to file in, in a steady stream. He’s never seen this many ­people at a town council meeting. Pete comes in and takes Gordy by the arm and leads him to the back of the room. “Where’d the bitch on TV get that witness?” Pete asks.

  “Don’t know. I called the station this morning, but they’re keeping it to themselves. It’s got to be one of the passengers, but the station isn’t talking.”

  ­“People in here are going to talk. I stopped in the office. Steve says we’ve had more than thirty calls so far demanding that we arrest Ronny, or at least fire him.”

  “What can you say?”

  “Thanks for your concern.”

  “Does your mastery of irony ever feel ironic to you?”

  “All the time, Gordy. All the time. Son of a bitch.”

  “What?”

  “Back door.”

  Gordy turns and looks and sees Ronny Forbert sidling in. “Son of a bitch.”

  Pete puts his hand on Gordy’s shoulder. “I’m going back there and get him out of here.”

  “Yeah. Good. Get him out.” Gordy watches Pete make his way down the aisle toward the back door and Ronny. When Pete gets to Ronny, he can see Pete take Ronny’s arm and then the two of them exchange words. He hears the gavel and turns back to the front.

  “Please. Please. Can we come to order?” Martin Glendenning says. “Now.” He waits for a few seconds and then gavels again. “Order. Order. I’m calling this meeting to order.” The noise in the room slowly falls as ­people break off their conversations and find their seats. “We have a lot of business to get to this evening, and I know there is considerable interest in the events of the past few days. So that everyone can have a fair say, I’m asking that we dispense with the minutes of the November meeting. There are copies up at the front table, which you may take and read. Call the town clerk’s office if you have corrections to the minutes, and those will be made for the January meeting. So that we can get to matters at hand, I’m going to ask that we start with reports from public works, the fire department, and then the police department. Warren, can you start off with the report from public works?”

  Warren Anders stands up and makes his way to the front of the room, holding a ­couple of sheets of paper. “Town plow and sander number three is out of commission due to a broken clutch plate. Since there is snow forecast for tomorrow, I have asked Bernie Saunders to take over that route as a private contractor, which is Route 417 north from mile eighty-­eight, and the streets that intersect that up to the state line. We’re still within budget right now. Whether we stay on budget depends on the weather, which seems ahead of schedule as far as snow is concerned, and if the cost of repairs on plow three comes in close to estimate. Larry.”

  Several ­people laugh and Larry says, “I just fix the plows. You want to keep costs down, talk to the guys who break them.”

  “Warren,” Tod Shanley says. “Would you ask Bernie to put the blade on his plow all the way down on Ramsneck Road? He always leaves about an inch of snow on the road.”


  “Ramsneck Road is like plowing an alligator’s back. It’s so rough, if I put the blade all the way down, I’ll rip up a good half of the macadam,” Bernie says.

  “Who paved that road?”

  “I did.”

  “Were you drunk at the time, Bernie?” More laughter.

  Martin gavels the room back to order. “Let’s keep this moving. We have a lot to get to tonight.”

  Gordy feels his stomach start to tighten.

  “Fred Lemke will give the fire report.”

  “Fire department report for the month of November. The fire department issued eighteen permits for the burning of leaves during the month. There was one call-­out for a brush fire on Porter Road that was extinguished by crew number two, with the help of the pumper truck. There was no property damage. That’s all of the activity for November. Respectfully submitted, Fred Lemke.”

  “Thank you, Fred. Next, I’ll call on Chief Gordon Hawkins to give the police report. Please let the chief give his report before you start to ask questions. Also, remember that you are not to speak until I have recognized you. Chief.”

  Gordy stands up. He has delivered these reports every month for ten years. But now he can feel his hands trembling, and his mouth is going dry. “Police report for the month of November. The Lydell Police Department made twenty-­three arrests during the period—­nineteen driving under the influence, one assault, one disturbing the peace, one breaking and entering, one possession of a controlled substance with intent to distribute. In these cases, all have been arraigned. Twenty-­one have pled out, and two are currently awaiting trial.

  “The police department issued thirty-­one citations for failure to control speed, six for failure to come to a complete stop at a traffic sign, one for failure to produce proof of insurance, four for illegal dumping on public land, and three for discharging firearms on posted property. Twenty-­seven warnings were issued, fifteen for inadequate vehicle lighting, and the rest for excessive speed. The police department answered four calls during the period for ­vehicle–deer encounters. Let me remind you all, the deer are foraging and you have to be careful. Remember that when you see one, there’s probably a ­couple more coming. And if you see a deer on the side of the road, or if you hit one, please call it in. There was one on the side of the road on 417 for a ­couple of days. It’s not the kind of thing we want drivers coming through here to see. We had two calls for domestic violence, and eight for the theft of tools and equipment from various barns and sheds. Let me say here that we have a little crime wave going on. It’s in your best interest to keep your sheds and barns locked and secure, especially until we can identify the perpetrators here.” Involuntarily, he looks over at Martin.

  “Revenues for the period amounted to five thousand, three hundred and eighty-­seven dollars. Expenditures came to six thousand, two hundred and twelve dollars. Nine hundred and seventy-­four dollars and eighteen cents was spent on repairs to cruiser number four, a 2003 Crown Victoria with two hundred thousand and sixty-­eight miles on it. We will be coming to the council for money to replace this vehicle as the cost of maintenance on it is exceeding its value now.

  “We have two pending investigations. The before-­mentioned break-­ins and thefts that have been going on for a ­couple of weeks, and the hit-­and-­run accident that occurred on Route 417 on the night of December seventeenth. I can tell you that we have now recovered the vehicle that we believe to be the hit-­and-­run vehicle. We’re waiting on the state crime lab for confirmation of that. We have a suspect in custody for the hit-­and-­run death of Matthew Laferiere. Once we get the crime lab results, we’re confident we can conclude this investigation in a timely and orderly manner. This concludes our report.”

  Jean Burke immediately moves to accept all three reports, and Tony Bracco, also of the council, seconds.

  “Is there any discussion?” Martin asks.

  “What about the news report?”

  “Again,” Martin says, “if you wish to ask a question or make a comment, you must be recognized by the chair.”

  “Sid Maclin.” A man in a tan barn coat and jeans stands up. “There was a report on television last night that said Matt Laferiere and Ronny Forbert were fighting and that Matt got shoved into the road where he got hit. Is that the way it happened?”

  Gordy looks over at Martin.

  “You are recognized for the remainder of the meeting, Chief. You can respond to all questions asked of you.”

  “That is an unsubstantiated report. I had heard nothing of that before I saw it on television, the same as you.”

  “Roger Wilkins. You have a suspect?”

  “We do. We’re withholding his identity for the time being, but he is a twenty-­year-­old from Waynesville who has indicated that he was driving the car that hit Mr. Laferiere. He has been arraigned in Warrentown.”

  “You have a confession?”

  “Not an official confession as such. The man in custody is conferring with his lawyer before signing a confession, but there has been an acknowledgment. Yes. We’re confident we have the driver of the hit-­and-­run vehicle.”

  “Art Samuels. If what the television is saying is true, what’s our liability in this case?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask the town solicitor. And we certainly don’t know that the report is true. It contradicts everything we know to be true in this case.”

  “Stan Woodridge, town solicitor. It’s too early to speculate on whether the town has any responsibility in this matter. This is an unsubstantiated report, and, to my knowledge, there have been no claims filed against the town.”

  “Gayle Laferiere. There will be a claim. We’re suing for wrongful death. Our lawyer is making up the papers right now. That officer murdered our son, and Hawkins is covering it up. The whole police department is in on it. We have proof of that. We can prove it. We will prove it. Ronny Forbert’s a murderer, and they’re all protecting him.”

  There’s a clamor of shouting, talking, and whispering as Gayle Laferiere sits back down. Gordy starts to speak, then thinks better of it and stands back, letting the audience work off their energy. Martin Glendenning begins to bang the gavel on the table in front of him. “Order. Order. We must have order.”

  When the noise has died down, Stan Woodridge responds. “The revelation of impending action doesn’t really change anything. Filing an action is not the same thing as winning one, and I would hope the Laferieres are well counseled on that point. Filing a legal action can be a costly and risky process.

  “There is still no evidence that Patrolman Forbert has done anything actionable, anything, in fact, beyond his sworn duty as an officer of the law. The news report last night, which I did not, I regret to say, see, was made by an unidentified person who claims to be a witness to the event. This witness has not come forward to the police or any other authorities. The very fact that the witness has gone first to the television news challenges his credibility. Witnesses do not hide their identity. Persons hide their identity when they have something to hide.

  “Personally, I think this whole thing stinks, and I will be filing papers tomorrow to make the station reveal the identity or to cease and desist further reports based on his testimony and a retraction of the original report. Fair is fair, and we need a fair hearing, not one based on accusations from someone who won’t show his face.”

  “What if he is afraid of police retaliation?” Sam Colvington asks.

  “Police retaliation? That’s preposterous.”

  “If I may,” Gordy says. “We are in the middle of an investigation that is proceeding very rapidly. If there is a witness, we want to hear from him, not shut him up. This may, in fact, be a tactic to stall the investigation.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Roger Wilkins says from where he sits.

  “Stand and be recognized.”

  Wilk
ins stands. “I was already recognized. Now, let me get this straight. The police department is investigating an incident involving one of its own officers.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And the police are being represented by the father of the officer’s girlfriend.”

  “I represent the town of Lydell,” Stan Woodridge says. “Not the police department. And if there is an action against Patrolman Forbert, I will recuse myself.”

  “It’s wrong,” Wilkins says. “It’s all wrong. It’s not an investigation, it’s a whitewash.”

  “No, Mr. Wilkins. Roger,” Gordy says. “It is an investigation. It’s very much an investigation, and it’s being done by the police department because that’s our job. We’re trained in investigation. Who would you rather see investigating this incident?”

  “Anyone but the police.”

  “Because you think it’s a whitewash. I think your insinuation and premise is, at best, insulting and probably slanderous. I have been chief of police in Lydell for the past ten years, and a member of the police department for seventeen years. In that time, I have never given anyone a reason to suspect my integrity or the integrity of anyone else on the force. This department and I have served this community faithfully and honorably for a long time. We don’t, any of us, deserve this vicious and idiotic slander.”

  “Chief. Chief. Let’s keep this debate on a civil level. There’s no call for name-­calling. And, Roger, there’s no call to be accusing the chief of police in this matter. Now, please. All of you. This meeting is a discussion, not a trial. Let’s have no more incivility.” Martin Glendenning looks around the room and nods.

  Art Samuels stands. “I want to commend the chair and agree that this is a meeting where civility and cooler heads are needed. I want to add something to the discussion, though, in regard to Roger’s point. I agree that the chief of police should be in charge of the investigation of this tragedy. The chief is right about that. But would it be wrong, or out of order, if there were a ­couple of towns­people involved in the investigation, too? It just seems fair.”