Shattered Shell

by Brendan DuBois

  Then the emotions rose up and grabbed him again, and after he wept for a few more minutes, he sniffled and blew his nose and said, "Can I get a lawyer now?"

  "Sure," Diane said, switching off the tape recorder and looking over at Mike. "I don't see why not."

  There was still a press of people outside of the interrogation room and I was going to leave when there was a tug at my arm, and Diane was there, looking at me. "I was wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time."

  "You look pretty busy," I said.

  Her gaze was steady and direct. "I've got time enough to talk. Let's go."

  She led me out of the crowded booking room and we went down a short corridor that led to her office. Just before closing the door she did something that made my heart ache: She put up a sign that said INTERVIEW IN PROCESS-DO NOT DISTURB. In lighter times Diane once told me this was her World War Three sign: Everybody in the department, from the police chief to the janitor, knew that when that sign was up, Diane was involved in something important and sensitive, and she was only to be interrupted when the sirens sounded and the Russian ICBMs were coming over the North Pole.

  It was a sign for her work, and not once had she ever used it when talking to me.

  She sat down at her desk and I pulled over an empty chair.

  Her office hadn't changed since the last time I had been there. Her desk and another one were covered with file folders, old newspapers, and notepads. Battered black filing cabinets and cardboard boxes held the case files, and a drug chart from the DEA covered up one cinder-block wall. There had once been a cheesecake poster of a bikinied blonde holding a revolver with the caption "Gun Control Means Being Able To Hit Your Target," but that had come down over the winter with no explanation. It had been put up as a joke by some uniforms, and Diane had gone them one better by keeping it up for a while, but maybe the joke had gotten old.

  Right now, she was not laughing. The scar on her chin was a blazing white. She folded her hands in her lap and said, "You pulled this off for Ahern, didn't you?"

  "I did."

  "Decided not to involve me at all?"

  "I thought it was best to go with Mike on this one."

  "Oh." She kept her hands still. "You and Mike now an item?"

  "Hardly."

  "Unh-hunh," she said, rocking her chair a bit. "This case sucked from beginning to end, you know that. I had to talk to families who saw their entire livelihoods go up in flames, and for what? Nothing, absolutely nothing. For some moron trying to make a name for himself. And I didn't like it turning out to be Jerry. The poor shit is good behind the camera, and he's treated the department well, and I don't feel good that this case is wrapped up. I feel sick and betrayed."

  "So do a lot of his friends, I'm sure."

  Diane glanced up at the ceiling for a moment. "This was my case, you know."

  "I know."

  "I worked it days, nights, and weekends," she said, her voice quiet but as sharp as broken glass. "I interviewed and re-interviewed witnesses, I put up with Mike Ahern's idiot moods, worked with the state, and went through hundreds of pages of documents. While I was going through that hellish time, I was also juggling another half-dozen felony cases. And, oh yeah, along the way, my lover was raped. So I had a full plate."

  "I hear you, Diane."

  "I'm sure you do. So you can probably appreciate the fact that you're not my favorite person right now. Mind telling me how Jerry Croteau got your attention, or do you need permission from Mike to tell me?"

  My back was getting tingly, and I wished I could have found the right words to make it right. They weren't coming, so I tried to answer as best I could. "His photos."

  "What about his photos?"

  "I started going through his contact sheets, looking at the crowd shots he took of each fire. Knowing arsonists like to see their handiwork, I was trying to see if there were familiar faces in the crowd, trying to see if the same guy showed up in each shot."

  "What did you find?"

  "Nothing to do with people," I said. "Everything to do with buildings."

  That same flat stare and tone of voice. "Go ahead."

  "The Rocks Road Motel fire. I was there, and so was Jerry. We talked for a bit. He said he came on the scene after the fire trucks had gotten there, after the fire had broken out. I looked at the contact sheet for that motel fire. He had a lot of pictures of the place burning down. Also had a couple of beach scenic shots. But one picture really stood out, Diane. It was the Rocks Road Motel, standing all by itself."

  She cocked her head. "So what?"

  "The motel was all by itself. No fire trucks, no firefighters, no flames. It was a trophy shot, showing what it looked like before the fire started. I checked the other contact sheets. The same thing, for all fires."

  "Who did you use to set up Jerry tonight?"

  "I can't say."

  Her fingers seemed to be turning pale from where she was squeezing them. "You knew about the photos and you set him up tonight, but you didn't come to me."

  "I wanted more proof."

  "You wanted more proof? Where is it written that you have the right to make that kind of judgment?"

  "That's how I work."

  "Ah, how you work. You and your mysterious playing around, my ex-spook. Tell me about your other work. The rape matter."

  Now it would begin. "I don't have him for you."

  She slowly leaned forward, now resting her folded hands on the desk. "You don't."

  "An arrangement," I said. "Look, it will all ---"

  She raised a hand. "I don't want to hear any more."

  "Diane, please --- "

  "I'm serious," she said. "Shut your mouth. Now. Tell me this. Last time I saw you, at the bed and breakfast in Porter, you thought you were getting closer. Then you kept quiet. Now you've broken the arson case and you tell me you know the man's name, but you won't say anything else. Tell me one more thing. There's a link, right? Some sort of a deal, this whole case wrapped up and the rapist takes a walk. Right?"

  "But you know who he is. And he probably also did Kara's landlord, right?"

  I swallowed. "Yes."

  "His name?" she said, her voice a tad more sharp.

  "I can't say, not right now."

  "Why?"

  "Because there's a ... "

  "A deal?"

  Again I was frantic, trying to find the words, and I said, "Diane, it's ---"

  "You listen to me!" she shouted, slamming a hand onto the desktop for emphasis, the noise hurting my ears. "Just answer the question! Was there a deal? Yes or no!"

  I felt like being sick. "Yes."

  She slowly bent her head down to her hands and rubbed at her eyes, and I thought she was crying, but when she looked up a few moments later her eyes were clear and free of moisture. "Listen well, for I'm going to say this once."

  I nodded, feeling miserable. No words would work tonight, not a single one.

  "You and I have had some times together, and that's what I'm trying to remember right now. So listen right here. You get up from that chair and get out of my station and out of my way. You say one more word, you try to offer up one more excuse, and I'll arrest you here and now for obstruction of justice, and I will see your ass in jail. I don't want to talk to you, I don't want to listen to you, I don't want anything from you. Just get the fuck out or I'll have you in handcuffs and in a cell in thirty seconds."

  And with that, she picked up a legal-size notepad and started scribbling furiously, and I got up from the chair, not looking back as I left the office and went out the rear door and to my car. I looked out across the parking lot and there was Paula Quinn out by the police station entrance, talking with some emotion to Ralph Porter, the local bail bondsman, and I left them all as I drove home by myself.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  For the next several weeks, winter kept its icy stranglehold around Tyler and the surrounding towns. The news of Jerry's arrest made an initial splash in the media --- especia
lly since one of their own had been arrested --- but in a few days, other stories had crowded it out. Arsonist arrested. Big deal. No one had been killed, and only a few motels had been burned down. The story went from page one to page three to news briefs and then to nothing.

  I tried a few times to get in touch with Paula, but none of my calls were returned. I tried only once with Diane, and she hung up on me.

  So there you go. I tried not to brood. I kept busy in my house, chipping away at the snow and ice, and fighting back the winter snow that seemed to arrive every few days. I skied into the Samson Point State Wildlife Preserve a few times and on still nights with no winds, I took out my telescope for late winter observations. But in all of my reading, writing, housework, exercise, and other interests, there was still a hollow and bitter taste in everything I did. When I had first come to Tyler Beach, after that disastrous training mission in Nevada, I had come to view this home and this beach as my lifeboat, a place where I would never be damaged, where I could always recuperate.

  But on these long winter nights, with the stillness of the air about the telephone, I stared into the flames of the fireplace and thought about the past several weeks. I sat with an unread book in my hands and a comforter in my lap, and I wished for tiredness to descend upon me, so I could finally sleep.

  Felix kept in touch, taking me out for meals and trying to get me interested in ice hockey, and he came with me the day that I bought a Ford Explorer. I was tired of leasing and my poor old Range Rover was now junk for someone's scrap pile, and this time I decided the American autoworker needed help. One night in his house, sipping an after-dinner wine, he said, "It's tough, isn't it?"

  "Sure is. Paula thinks I betrayed her by helping get Jerry arrested, and Diane thinks I betrayed her by not turning over Nick."

  "You did the right thing."

  "Did I?" I asked. "All I know is that two of my best friends won't return my calls, and I'm getting tired of winter."

  "Take a trip south," he offered. "You can afford it. Find some new friends, especially those on the topless beaches."

  "No," I said, turning my wineglass in my hands. "I want to stay home, and I want to get through this winter."

  In late March I read in the Tyler Chronicle that Paula had won a first-place prize in news reporting from the New England Press Association, and in a fit of optimism, I sent a congratulatory bouquet to her at the Chronicle's offices.

  I guess optimism has its place. The day after, Paula called me and invited me out to lunch. We had a leisurely meal at the Ashburn House and laughed and joked and talked about politics and current events, and through some unspoken agreement, we both stayed away from Topic A. When lunch was through I suggested a walk and we went up the deserted and snow- and sand-covered sidewalk along Atlantic Avenue, past the Maid of the Seas statue, taking our time. It was a cold March day that gave no hint of spring, and as we walked, she looped her arm through mine and said, "I'm doing better."

  "I'm glad."

  "I haven't been angry with you in weeks," she said. "I've just been self-conscious about calling you up, after what happened. I'm glad you sent the flowers. You opened a door and I'm grateful."

  I gave her arm a squeeze. "That's good to hear."

  Eventually we ended up on a park bench, put our feet up on the metal railing, and looked out at the sands and the ever-attacking Atlantic Ocean. A few people were walking down there, and one determined kite flyer was losing his fight to the wind. Paula was hunched up in her coat with her hands in her pockets.

  "I guess the worse thing that happened is that nothing makes sense," she said. "You see, I was beginning to fall seriously in love with Jerry. We would have some great times together, both on the job and off, and he would make these grand promises to me. He said he would become a famous photographer, go overseas and take pictures of hot spots, and be the very best. He said he would make tons of money, enough to support me so that I could take time off' and write a book or something."

  She looked up at me, the wind twisting her blond hair. "Some days, after I've been covering a four-hour zoning board meeting, those promises sounded pretty good."

  "I can see why."

  "Then you can see what happened next, after he was arrested," she said. "I was all in a fury, all properly shocked. I was going to do everything I could do to get my man out and prove his innocence. But then something made me take another look."

  "Your reporter's instincts?"

  "Exactly," she said, snuggling up against me a little. "I wanted to do some digging, try to find out what really happened, and in less than two days, I knew. Guilty, no doubt about it. I stayed home sick for three days. I couldn't stand it. It was like opening up your favorite candy bar, week after week, seeing everything the same then one day, you open up the candy bar wrapper and it's infested with worms. You wonder, how in hell did I screw this one up? How come I didn't see it coming?"

  "What's going on now?"

  "Hah," she said. "I cut off all contact with him, and you know what? Not a word. Not a peep. No jailhouse phone calls, begging for forgiveness. No desperate letters, promising true love forever, Nothing. So to hell with him."

  So we sat for a few more minutes, the harsh wind playing across our faces, and Paula reached over and grabbed a hand tight. "It's been damn achy and lonely these past weeks. Promise me you won't do something stupid and go to jail."

  "Promise," I said, and I bent over and kissed her, and she returned the favor with a touch of her hand against my cheek, and said, "I must be going. It's getting cold."

  "Lunch tomorrow?"

  "Why not dinner?" she asked. I shrugged, smiling. "Why not?"

  In the first week of April I was with Felix in a parking lot south of us. We stood by the fender of his Mercedes-Benz and near us Route 2-A hummed with traffic. Before us was a squat and ugly brick structure, with lots of lights and barbed wire. The Massachusetts Correctional Institute in Concord, also known as M CI -Concord. Felix had an envelope in his hand and I kept my hands clasped together, for I was quite nervous.

  "It's time, isn't it?" I asked.

  "Sure is, but shut up, will you? The traffic's been thick the past hour or so. A few minutes late is no big deal."

  After a while I was going to ask him the time again when the unmarked Ford LTD came in and parked in a visitors' spot. The driver's-side door opened up and Diane Woods stepped out. I gave her a half-wave and she looked a bit shocked, and then she looked into her car, as if debating whether to go back inside again. Instead, she strode across, wearing blue corduroy pants and a long leather jacket. Her face was damn near expressionless, but still I was happy to see her. It had been a long couple of months.

  "Let me guess," she said. "There's no informant here to talk to me about a couple of bodies buried at Tyler Beach. You two have gotten me down here and made me waste near a half-day. Is that right?"

  "Partially right," I said. "We did get you down here on pretense, and I'm sorry for that, but I think you'll really want to hear what we have to offer."

  Her breath was coming out in little steam clouds. "And what are you boys offering me today?"

  Felix said, "We're offering you Nick Seymour, the rapist of Kara Miles, and the murderer of her landlord."

  She tucked her hands into the coat pocket. "Where? And how?”

  "He's in there," I said, gesturing to the prison. "Beginning his second week of a ten-year prison term."

  "What's he in for?"

  Felix spoke up. "Major drug smuggling operation in Newburyport, the one that got busted a couple of months back? I'm sure you read about it. Nick was the captain behind the show. Word leaked out and the first major night he had, every cop from Customs to DEA was waiting for him."

  She looked at me and then at Felix and said, "You croaked him, didn't you?"

  Felix: "Yep."

  "You're right, Diane, there was a deal," I said. "He would turn in the arsonist, in exchange for nothing happening to him regarding Kara. So we kept our wor
d. But we never made any promises about his upcoming drug business."

  For a brief moment she seemed amused, and then quickly recovered. "I see. So what's the point? There's no way I'm going to put Kara through the trauma of a trial, especially when it involves her brother."

  "You know, then."

  "Oh, I've known for weeks that she was protecting her brother. She was quite afraid of what I might do to Doug." She slowly nodded. "And with good reason. But Doug is now working on a salmon boat up near the Kodiak in Alaska, and he'll never be back. I've made that quite clear to him." She looked back at the prison walls. "In there, you say. Again, guys, what's the point?"

  "Here," Felix said, handing over an envelope. She took it, puzzled, and held it in her hands and said, "What the hell is this?"

  "Fake police documents," I said. "Felix had them made up. They say Nick was involved in child rapes, maybe even a kidnapping or killing of a child, You give the word, and Felix will get them into the prison and to the right people. By this weekend, Nick will be gone."

  She turned the envelope over and looked at me. "Was this your idea, or Felix's?"

  "It was a joint venture," I said.

  "I guess the hell it was," she said. "You've kept this quiet all these months, just waiting for Nick to end up behind bars. Just waiting to hand this over to me."

  Felix said, "Look at it as a weapon, Diane. All you have to do is tell us to pull the trigger, and we'll take care of it."

  She looked again at the envelope, turning it over and over again in her hands, and then looked up at us, smiling, and said:

  "Bang."

  Then she tore the envelope in half and then in quarters, and after dropping the pieces of paper in the snow, she turned and walked back to her car. I sank back against the fender of Felix's car.

  "Well, we tried," I said.

  "We certainly did," Felix said. "There's not much more that we can do." He jingled his car keys in his hand. "I would really like to get going, if you don't mind. This place gives me the creeps."