Head Wounds sahm-3

by Chris Knopf

  “Holy crap, Sam,” she said. “What have we wrought?”

  It was generous of her to say ‘we’ when I was the one who engineered Roy’s downfall. I was the one who forced him into the fraud rap and spared him prosecution for the murder of a couple little old ladies.

  I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t what I found. The fleshy, terrified and remorseful Roy Battiston disappeared into the penal system and was replaced by something else. A vindication of the old canard—that which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

  Or was that the real Roy Battiston, his outer layer of obsequiousness stripped away with the fat, revealing the true nature beneath?

  He knew what we could do to him, and he didn’t care. Or worse, might even welcome it, counting on the collateral damage.

  There was no more threatening Roy Battiston. No more leverage.

  I recognized what it was. There’s nothing you can do to a man who has nothing to lose.

  ——

  “Somebody named Dan Ned is looking for you,” said Jackie, looking up from her cell phone.

  “That’s Dan and Ned. Heroes of the DEC.”

  “They left a number. Do you want to call?”

  “Sure.”

  She dialed the number and handed me the phone. Dan picked up.

  “This is Sam Acquillo,” I said. “Calling from the Throgs Neck Bridge.”

  “Did you know Ned’s a genius?” Dan asked.

  “I wouldn’t dispute it.”

  “We poked holes in that site all the way from the south gate to the north fence.”

  “The one facing the lagoon,” I said.

  “Yeah. There’s a stretch of ground that runs between the fence and the water. About thirty feet wide and three hundred feet long, curved like a crescent. It’s so overgrown you’d think it’s at the same elevation, but it’s not. There’re no topographicals on the site map, but on a hunch Ned pulled one off the Web. The crown is about fifteen feet above sea level.”

  “No kidding. It must have been a defense against high water, storm surges.”

  “Probably, since it’s made out of stone,” said Dan.

  “Really.”

  “Yeah, but here’s the kicker.”

  “It’s hollow.”

  “Oh yeah. Honeycombed more like it. We used the radar to find the cavities. We counted three in symmetrical succession running east to west. My guess the pattern holds the whole length of the embankment. It’s old, probably from the earliest days of operation. Ned thinks it supported the docks and served as a holding area for cargo going in and out. That close to the lagoon it would have to be raised. The water table’s barely eight feet down.”

  It was getting hard to hear what he was saying with Jackie chirping at me from the other side of the Grand Prix.

  “Hold it a second,” I said to Dan.

  “What is it?” she asked again.

  “They found the cellars at the WB plant.”

  “Wow. What’s in them?”

  “I bet if I can hear him speak I’ll find that out.”

  “So why are you talking to me?” she said.

  I went back to Dan.

  “So, what’s in them?”

  “That’s why I’m calling you. I think you and Ms. Anselma and her attorney ought to be there when we open them up. Call it half courtesy, half cover our asses.”

  “Okay. Where are you now?”

  “I’m at our office in Stony Brook. We came up here to download our data into the central servers and make some sketch maps out of the radar images. Gives us a rough guide to dig the holes.”

  “I’d like to see them.”

  “You’re actually not that far away,” he said. “We’ll be here for a while. Come on over.”

  He gave me directions to the office, located at the Stony Brook SUNY campus. Jackie reminded me to check in with Ross before nightfall to confirm I was back where I was supposed to be.

  “You don’t want to know about the cellars?” I asked.

  “I do. Even though it’s none of my business.”

  “Okay. We’ll get back in time.”

  Ten minutes down the LIE Eddie requested we stop. We got on the service road and found a weedy lot. I kept an eye out for broken glass while Eddie hand-picked the ideal spot. Jackie came along to bug me about Roy Battiston.

  “Do you think he really didn’t know Robbie was dead?” she asked.

  “If he knew Patrick Getty, he knew for sure. Even if he didn’t, somebody from home would have told him. For all I know he subscribes to The Southampton Chronicle.”

  “Why pretend otherwise?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “So he also has to know you’re the accused.”

  “Sure.”

  “So if he’s not talking, what did we learn by going up there?” she asked.

  All I knew was that Roy had told us a lot, we just didn’t know yet what it was. Jackie hated when I said stuff like that, but it was the truth. It was forcing me to re-examine the whole bag of assumptions I’d been gathering and coalescing in my mind. I never liked hashing these thing out in public, at least until I was ready. In short, I needed time to think. So I told her a convenient half-truth.

  “I don’t know.”

  I think she half-believed me.

  The trip to Stony Brook took less than an hour. It was a big campus, more like a park with large buildings. The DEC office fit right in.

  Like Hungerford, they had our names on a list. I hadn’t felt so official in years.

  “I called Dan. He’ll come out to get you,” said the guard.

  We were blessed with Dan and Ned, both of whom were happy to make Jackie’s acquaintance.

  “Jackie’s my lawyer,” I told them.

  “You gonna be there for the big opening?” asked Dan.

  “No, I’m helping Sam on a slightly different matter,” she said. “I’m just along for the ride.”

  “Nice for us,” said Dan, ushering us through the warren of DEC offices, laboratories and tech rooms filled with colorful cartography and brilliant displays on liquid-crystal monitors, manned by wholesome-looking people wearing T-shirts and athletic sandals, the men mostly bearded, the women indifferent to decoration aside from a discreet pearl in the lip or diamond on the nostril.

  Dan’s office looked like it used to be a conference room, with a big oak-veneer table laden with stacks of papers and drawings encircling a small work surface. I liked the feel of it, almost enough to feel a slight pull of envy, which I quickly repressed.

  “So, here’s what we made up,” said Dan, spreading a black-and-white printout about the size of an average blueprint on the table. It was a simple tracing of the original site plan with the cellars sketched in along the northern side, just as Dan had described. They’d used a drawing program to fill in some detail on the first three cellars at the east end, indicating stonework and possible entryways based on the old elevations.

  “If the pattern holds there’s room for up to eight of these storage cellars,” said Ned. “There’s evidence that they’re interconnected, so I suggest we start at the east end and go from there. X marks the spot.” He pointed to a box labeled “likely entryway.”

  “Whatever you say, Ned. You’ve been right so far,” I said. His circular face formed a professional smile.

  “We’ll bring lights and cameras along with some test kits. You can bring your own cameras if you want. We’ll also have spare protective boots. I don’t think there’s a call for hazmat. As you point out, there’s no evidence of contamination in the lagoon, which is hard up against these enclosures.”

  We spent time going over the planned approach, what they would do and what they wanted me and Amanda to take care of. It was good to focus on logistics—a good distraction from the greater implications. Throughout, Jackie maintained a studied reticence, occasionally clearing her throat or tapping the table. The only thing left was to schedule the day.

  “I’ve left mess
ages for Amanda and Burton Lewis, her lawyer,” I told them as we retraced our steps back through the building. “I’ll likely know by tomorrow.”

  “As soon as you can,” said Dan. “Be another check in the cooperation column.”

  Ned and Jackie were leading the way, actively engaged in social chatter. Dan was giving me a traveling description of the various offices and working rooms. We were near the entrance when he said, “Here’s where the Regional Director lives. And next door is the Assistant Regional Director. I don’t know if he’s got an assistant, but it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  On cue, the Assistant Regional Director opened his door, pausing for us to pass by. I looked over at him standing there next to his nameplate on the wall. Dan almost ran into me when I stopped and put out my hand.

  “Zack,” I said. “Zack Horowitz.”

  Zack looked taken aback, but shook my hand.

  “I’m Sam Acquillo. You obviously don’t remember me.”

  “Sorry, can’t say that I do.”

  “I’m from Southampton,” I said.

  He still looked at me blankly.

  “I used to work there, but it’s been a long time.”

  “Yes it has. It’s really great to see you.”

  He smiled at me good-naturedly.

  “I’m glad to hear it, but I still don’t remember seeing you.”

  “That’s okay. I forget everything, too. Don’t worry about it.”

  By this time Jackie noticed we’d dropped out of the parade and had come back with Ned in tow.

  “Sam?”

  “It’s nothing,” I said, getting underway again. “I just bothered some guy I thought I recognized

  “The Assistant Regional Director,” said Dan. “Good guy. I like him a lot better than you-know-who.”

  “Does he drive a giant SUV? All black and chrome?”

  “That wouldn’t be too environmentally PC, would it? Nah, he’s got a Beemer Z3. Quite the sport.”

  “Definitely not the same guy. Kind of embarrassing.”

  Dan and Ned walked us all the way back to the car, so Eddie had a chance to say hello before committing a bit of himself to the environment of the Department of Environmental Conservation.

  “Nice,” said Jackie.

  I spent the rest of the ride back to Southampton deciphering for Jackie everything she’d witnessed at the DEC office. It was payback for keeping her mouth shut and her nose out of the conversations.

  When we crossed the Town line I headed back up to Sag Harbor, where we had dinner with Hodges and Dorothy at the Pequot.

  For them it was a simple meal, for me a type of last supper. Or maybe just a welcome distraction, depending on how the next few days would turn out, which version of the truth would emerge from the tangle of potentials, the competing sets of assumptions, all paradigms—shifting and otherwise— up for grabs.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “HOW DID I GET STUCK coordinating this ground-opening ceremony?” Jackie complained over the phone, which rang as I was on my way to the outdoor shower. “I’ve got nothing to do with this thing.”

  “You’re the one with the modern communications capability.”

  “Modern last century. How can a former head of R&D be such a Luddite? Or maybe the answer’s in the question.”

  “The real question is when are we getting together.”

  “Twelve noon. Bring a sandwich.”

  I was happy with the timing. It gave me a chance to call Joe Sullivan to see if he could meet me before that. He suggested the diner in Hampton Bays, a chance to stock up on a year’s worth of trans fats and triglycerides. The day was bright and clear, making the trip south a good opportunity to take in the fresh growth on the oaks and maples and catch the occasional ornamental bush looking like a pink cotton ball or lavender sachet.

  The white narcissus were reaching their peak, rising proudly above beds of viny groundcover lapping at their feet. Passing Hawk Pond the water was a blue steel, pestered by the cool northwesterly that had been with us all spring.

  The diner was full of tradesmen diverted from the exodus that flowed in every morning from the west. There were a lot of older guys there, more Anglo than Spanish, foremen and contractors who could afford to get on the job later in the morning. Guys with swollen hands and bellies pushing through suspenders, with swordfish embroidered on their baseball caps and cell phones on their belts instead of hammer holsters.

  Sullivan both fit in and stood out in black T-shirt and baseball cap, fatigue pants and belt-mounted two-way radio. Softer hands but bigger shoulders, nonchalant, but more alert to his surroundings. He was already halfway through a greased aggregation of starchy breakfast food, lubricated with maple syrup, color added by the ham steak on a separate plate. I pointed to the ham as the waitress came over.

  “Just one of those and some wheat toast,” I said. “Hold the cardiac arrest.”

  “So you’re still here,” said Sullivan.

  “Where else would I be?”

  “Ross said he let you leave town. He asked me if you were a flight risk. I said only if you bring the dog.”

  “I also brought Jackie. The deciding factor.”

  “Did we learn anything useful?”

  I slid a sheet of paper under the edge of his plate.

  “I’ll know after you pull these records.”

  He looked at me skeptically before looking down at the paper.

  “Records?”

  “Phone records. Between these people on these dates.”

  He picked up the paper and held it at arm’s length, the inaugural sign of middle age.

  “As usual, you’re not asking for much. Just the highly difficult, career-threatening and time-consuming.”

  “Can’t take too much time. I’ve got the sword of Damocles hanging over my head.”

  “Don’t know him. Sounds like an Arab.”

  “Greek. Same basic neighborhood.”

  “You gonna tell me what all this means?” he said, looking more closely at the paper.

  “It’s a theory,” I said. “I just need a little corroboration. You can see how I’ve written it up, so if I’m right, you should see calls at certain times between certain people. You can do this, right? Find this stuff out?”

  I never knew what cops could do and what they couldn’t. I was always surprised either way.

  “Technically, yeah. Falls within the parameters of a routine investigation. Now that I’m on the case, I don’t have to clear it with Ross, unless you want me to.”

  “Not yet,” I said. “Let’s see what we come up with.”

  He slid the paper back to me.

  “Some of these dates are a little general. Get as specific as you can,” he said.

  I’d just finished doing what he asked when my ham steak showed up. We ate in silence for a while, then Sullivan said, “I heard about your chat with Veckstrom. He’s lovin’ you more every day.”

  “That’s good. There’s not enough love in the world these days.”

  “He asked me about the prints on that hammer stapler. He wanted to know why I told you there weren’t any on the handle. I said, ‘There aren’t?’ We looked at the file and sonofabitch, there aren’t.”

  “That’s what I was hoping.”

  “You didn’t know?” he asked.

  “If I used that stapler to club Milhouser over the head, why aren’t my prints all over the handle? And if I wiped them off, why didn’t I wipe off the whole thing?”

  He shoveled a few pounds of home fries into his mouth to help him concentrate.

  “It’s a little insulting that the State’s case relies heavily on me being either stupid or crazy,” I said. “Jackie keeps telling me intelligence is a lousy defense, but for Pete’s sake, give me a little credit.”

  Sullivan looked sympathetic.

  “I think you’d be a much smarter killer than they do, Sam,” he said. “Sincerely. I wouldn’t want you killing me.”

  “Thank you, Joe. Very good
of you to say.”

  Sullivan picked up the paper again and took more of it in.

  “There’re some interesting names on here,” he said. “One in particular.”

  “Are you going to make me explain?” I asked.

  He dropped the paper back down on the table and shook his head.

  “Nope. If I do that, you’ll tell me you don’t want to, then I’ll get all pissed off and say you have to, and then you’ll tell me some sort of bullshit to get me to back off, and that’ll be that. So why don’t we skip the dance and let me just pull the phone records.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “It’s your ass.”

  “That’s what people keep telling me.”

  ——

  I got to the WB plant ahead of schedule, but Amanda was already at the front gate. She had peg-legged khaki jeans stuffed into boots with laces that started at the toe and went most of the way up her calves. She had a lightweight leather jacket on top and a white shirt with the collar pulled up. I looked around to see where she’d landed the Sopwith Camel.

  “Should I be paranoid that I haven’t heard from you for a while?” she asked when I got out of the Grand Prix.

  “If I said no, would you still be paranoid?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re a great-looking paranoid.”

  “Mother always said to dress for disaster.”

  “Or celebration.”

  “I’m trying to get used to the new optimistic you,” she said.

  “The realistic me. The odds are there’s nothing toxic down there. Otherwise it would have shown up by now.”

  “I was up to my armpits in soot again all morning,” she said, leaning against the Grand Prix’s sturdy left front fender. “But we’re officially done with the gutting. The building inspector told us we could keep most of what we wanted to. I had to start before dawn to be ready to see him, then get cleaned up and over here in time for this.”

  “Good work ethic.”

  “Always had one of those, Sam. You can’t fault me there.”

  “Me, too. To a fault.”

  “What are you working on so hard these days?”

  “Saving my ass,” I said.

  “I like your ass. I’m just not always sure you want to save it.”

  “Me neither,” I admitted. “But I want it to be my decision.”