The Color of Wounds

by Frank Martorana

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

  Emily looked back and forth from Doc to Loren. “What’s an accreditation committee?”

  “You know how lately the board has been talking about expanding the CVC to include a veterinary college?” Kent said.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, one of the steps in the process is to have a review by a committee from the AVMA, the American Veterinary Medical Association. Eventually, they are the ones that accredit the school and clear the way for it to operate. That’s why Dr. Summer is here.”

  Loren smiled and rolled her eyes at Kent. “I’m the one your father has to please.”

  “Sorry all this is going on today,” Kent said. “If I’d had some notice we’d have been more ready for you.”

  “Actually, us arriving during an event like this works in your favor,” Loren said. “The place is in shipshape, this crowd of Who’s Who in the veterinary world demonstrates the kind of recognition you have, not that recognition is a problem for the CVC. And we get a sample of your hospitality.”

  “Once again I fall in a manure pile and come out smelling like a rose,” Kent said.

  Loren twisted her face into a quizzical look. “Yeah. How is it you always manage to do that?”

  Kent just shrugged. “Where is the rest of the committee?”

  “Mingling with your guests. Probably, mostly eating your food. We flew into Syracuse and drove right out here. We haven’t had much time to eat.”

  “I’ll tell the caterer to keep the food coming for you guys.”

  Loren scanned the crowd. “I’ll introduce you, if I can find them. There’s five of us all together.”

  “Excellent,” Kent said. “Toward the food table, you think?”

  “Personally, I’d rather find the bar. But that’s my bet, they’re looking for something to eat.”

  As Kent and Loren headed that way, Loren said, “Kent, you look great!”

  The way she said it made him turn. Her eyes fixed on his. Her head cocked coquettishly, lips parted.

  An imaginary hand, one he’d long ago learned to respect, stirred his gut. “Thanks,” he said. “You look great yourself.”

  It was the truth, too. Loren was still slender and erect, as stately as ever. She wore just a bit more makeup, concealing chronic fatigue, Kent thought. When she smiled, there were a few tiny wrinkles, but her eyes were as bright and quick as ever.

  “How did you come to be on the accreditation committee?” he said.

  “Chairperson of the committee, actually.”

  “Chair? Wow. I’m impressed. I didn’t know you were into the educational side of veterinary medicine.”

  “I’ve dabbled in it for a few years now. The AVMA comes to us governmental types for this stuff. You know how it is. But this is my first time as chairperson.”

  “I’m honored.”

  “It’s no coincidence.”

  “Oh?”

  Without looking at him, she said, “I pulled some strings to get this assignment.”

  Kent stopped looking for other committee members. He steered Loren to a long display of Simpatico memorabilia: trophies, racing saddle and blanket, dozens of photos. There was no one there at the moment.

  “Why’d you do that?” he said. “Pull strings to get to the CVC, I mean.”

  “To see the CVC, of course. It’s famous. I wanted to be part of its becoming a veterinary college.”

  Kent relaxed a little. “Thanks. I’ll take all the help I can get. I know this is going to be a battle.”

  “That’s true. There are several members of the committee who are not in favor of it at this point.” She straightened her back. “But I think I can bring them around.”

  “What’s their problem?”

  She held up a hand, waved off the question. “I’ll let them tell you all that.” She toyed with a button on the front of her dress. “There’s another reason I’m here.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I wanted to see you again.”

  The imaginary hand grabbed Kent’s gut a whole lot tighter.

  CHAPTER 12

  By four o’clock that afternoon, Kent was back in his office. Happy to be away from the crowd.

  “Everyone I talked to thought it was a wonderful affair,” Beverly said, as she buzzed around doing personal assistant things like a bee collecting nectar.

  He closed a case report he was reviewing. “I think so myself. But I sort of missed a lot of the reception.”

  “Where were you?”

  “I was right there. I just got caught up, first with Merrill, and then the vet school accreditation committee.”

  “Bad timing. I mean the committee arriving right during the reception.”

  “According to Dr. Summer, it worked out well. Made us look top-notch.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Definitely. She makes it sound like it’s going to be more difficult to get the CVC accredited than I figured.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “Don’t you think the idea is a little over the top?”

  “I kind of figure it’s your ultimate dream.”

  Kent gave her a wry smile. “When Elizabeth, Stef, and FOAM put up the money to build this place, there was no mention of a vet school. Do you think my ego is getting out of control?”

  “Personally, I’d like to see it happen,” Beverly said.

  “Thanks. If I’ve got your go-ahead, I guess I’ll stick with it.”

  “For sure. It will be another reason to put Jefferson on the map.”

  “Well. Like I said, it’s not going to be as easy as I thought. According to Dr. Summer, the committee has some serious concerns.”

  Beverly huffed confidently. “We can bring them around.”

  “Which brings up a point. I promised the committee free access to everything in the place. Would you send a memo around to that effect?”

  “Sure. That Dr. Summer, she’s quite a bombshell.”

  Kent pulled a pile of mail to the front of his desk and began knifing envelopes.

  “That’s probably not the best choice of words,” he said, “given what happened today.”

  “The Covington statue, you mean. Wasn’t that a shame?”

  “You go by it yet?”

  “No. Too much going on here today.”

  “Me either,” Kent said.

  They both rifled through papers in silence for a moment, then he said, “It can’t be replaced.”

  “I hope they catch those nuts and string ‘em up.”

  “Who would do such a thing?”

  Beverly shrugged. “Who knows, really. Probably just pranksters out to raise hell.”

  “That’s my bet, too.” He paused, letter opener poised to stab an envelope, then added, “Most pranks don’t take place at eight in the morning. They’re usually sleeping it off about then.”

  Beverly lifted a sheaf of papers from a tray as they rolled out of the printer behind Kent. “True. But I can’t think of...”

  “What the hell?” Kent cut her off.

  She turned to see him staring at what looked like a piece of junk mail.

  “What?”

  He flipped the piece over, then back, studying it.

  “It’s a postcard,” he said, as if he had uncovered the Tablets of Mount Sinai.

  “So?”

  He set the card on his desk so she could see the picture on it.

  It was a typical picture postcard, four by seven inches, the kind a tourist could pick off a revolving wire rack in any drugstore. It depicted Willard Covington standing proudly amongst the fall foliage of Jefferson’s park.

  “Weird timing,” she said.

  She flipped it over and read it. “Oh, shit.”

  The me
ssage, hand-printed in crude penmanship, read: Five million dollars cash or more of your hypocritical little town will be blown away forever. No cops.

  “No signature,” Kent said.

  They stared at the postcard like it was a rattlesnake.

  “What are you going to do?” Beverly said.

  “If this is a prank, it’s not very funny.” He reached for the phone. “I’m calling Merrill. I don’t care what this note says about no cops.”

  As he spoke, his private line began to ring.

  He snatched it up. “Hello,” he said, and was preparing to tell whomever it was that he’d have to call them back when a staticky voice cut him off.

  “I trust you got my postcard. You should thank me. It’s a collector’s item now,” the voice said.

  “Who is this?” Kent said. “How did you get this number?”

  The crackling voice was soft and hard to hear, distant. “Shut up and listen. I decided to talk to you instead of that twit, Hines.”

  “I can’t hear you,” Kent said, “We have a bad connection.”

  “Our connection is fine,” the voice said.

  “What did you say? Hines?”

  “You’re a member of the historical society, right?”

  “What kind of a question is that?”

  “Answer me.”

  “Yes. I belong to the historical society. But I’m guessing you already know that.”

  “Who’s your exalted leader?”

  Kent glanced at Beverly, who was straining to hear as much as she could.

  “Evelyn Hines,” he said.

  A picture of Evelyn Hines flashed into his mind—fourth-generation pseudo-aristocratic Jeffersonian, officious busybody wife of a prominent lawyer who was embarrassed by her highhandedness and thankful that she occupied herself gathering kudos for her community involvement, thus leaving him alone. Kent could easily agree with the caller’s description of Evelyn as a twit. Pain in the ass would be better.

  “That’s right,” said the voice. “Evelyn Hines. You are a more reasonable guy, so let’s cut Evelyn out of this. I know you could come up with the five mil all by yourself, so could Stef Copithorn for that matter, and it’s pocket money for Elizabeth St. Pierre.”

  “I’m not so sure I agree with you there.”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn if you agree or not, Dr. Stephenson. I’ll contact you tomorrow at this number with further instructions. Eleven o’clock.

  The line went dead.

  Kent stared at Beverly. “Didn’t sound like a prankster to me.”

  Kent and Beverly stared at Merrill.

  Merrill stared at the postcard. He was sitting with one hip on the corner of Kent’s desk. The postcard was in a clear plastic evidence pouch. He flipped it over a few times. He held it close, then out to arm’s length. He held it flat and sited down it like a pool table. He even looked at it upside down, as if all this would give him some insight about who sent it, and why.

  “I take it the state police don’t have any new information,” Kent said.

  Merrill looked up from the postcard, gave his brother a sympathetic you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look, and did not bother to answer.

  “They probably figure it was a prank,” Kent said and watched Beverly give him an indignant glare.

  “Probably do. At least up to now,” Merrill said. He tapped the card with his finger. “But this and the phone call might change things.”

  “Why do you figure he sent it to me?”

  Merrill raised his eyebrows. “You said the caller wanted to bypass Evelyn Hines.”

  “He did, but why?”

  “Because whoever it is wants to communicate with the historical society, but not that twit Evelyn, as he called her. I’d have to agree with him there.”

  “Why the historical society?”

  “To get them riled, probably. The bomber knows who they are and that they’d get pretty emotional about having one of their most beloved pieces of history demolished.”

  “So?”

  “I’m guessing the bomber is banking that they’ll put the heat on you to comply with the ransom note.”

  Kent pinched the bridge of his nose with a thumb and middle finger. “He could have picked Elizabeth or Stef Copithorn.”

  Merrill raised his hand like a traffic cop. “Hold on one minute. Let’s get one thing straight so we don’t confuse ourselves. Do you know for a fact the bomber is an individual, not a group?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know the bomber is a guy?”

  “No.”

  Merrill held up both palms as if the next line was obvious. “Then don’t refer to the bomber as ‘he.’ It narrows your thinking.”

  “Okay,” Kent said. “So it’s ‘the bomber.’”

  “That’s better.”

  “Why did the bomber choose me?”

  “Who knows what he is thinking?”

  Kent rolled his eyes. Beverly chuckled.

  “It’s impossible to know what goes through the head of a sociopath,” Merrill said. “He, she, it, or they, just like you best. You know? The same way Ma always liked you best.”

  “Merrill, no bullshit. This thing is serious. Whoever is doing this knows an awful lot about Jefferson and its citizens.”

  “Do you think it could be somebody who lives here? Somebody we all know?” Beverly said.

  Merrill moved from Kent’s desk to the couch and stretched out with the postcard on his chest. “Yep. Probably is, actually. The bomber knows who the players are in town, who’s got money, the number for your private line, and probably a lot more. And whoever it is, is smart, too. Smart enough to use a voice scrambler, which is what was causing that staticky voice you figured was a bad connection.”

  “I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or woman’s voice. Sounded like some character out of Star Wars.”

  Merrill took another look at the postcard. “Then there’s the poor penmanship. The person who wrote it probably used their off hand.”

  “Like a righty using his left hand?”

  “Exactly. It’s an old trick but it still works. It’s a lot harder to match than a printer or typewriter. Then there’s the matter of where it came from. I doubt local cards like this are sold anywhere more than ten miles from Jefferson. So the bomber is a confident son-of-a-bitch. Bold enough to come into town and get one.”

  “Unless they live here already,” Beverly said.

  Kent said, “You going to have your guys check out the places where they’re sold? See if anybody remembers who they sold them to or anything suspicious. They can’t sell that many, I wouldn’t think.”

  “We will be doing that for sure.” Merrill said. He was uncharacteristically silent for a long time. Then he said, “Premeditated for sure.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because this card had to have been mailed yesterday to arrive today. So it was mailed before the bombing.”

  “That’s a little scary?”

  “Yeah. This bomber is definitely scary.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  Merrill folded his arms behind his head. “We do what policemen do best, and what usually produces the best results—we wait. For the bomb squad report, for our guys’ follow-ups, and for the next contact the nut promised you.”

  CHAPTER 13

  At eight o’clock the next morning, Kent and Merrill reconvened in Kent’s office. Only this time Merrill had recruited a telephone technician to rig a tape machine and tracer to the line.

  Kent did his best to keep appearances at the CVC normal. He made his rounds as usual. Rechecked a collie who misjudged the speed of the car he chased. Kent nearly had to amputate his front leg. Doing well. He met with staff and tackled some desk work. Throughout it all, his nerves twisted tighter and tighter
.

  By quarter to eleven, strong coffee and close confinement with Merrill had him too edgy to sit. He paced the room and talked inanely to Lucinda, who returned an anxious look, as the final minutes dragged by. He jumped visibly when the phone rang at eleven o’clock on the dot.

  “Pretty punctual, isn’t he?” Merrill said, as he slipped on the earphones. He looked at the communications technician, who also slipped on a headset, pushed a few buttons, then gave a ready sign.

  At Merrill’s signal, Kent picked up the phone. “Hello.”

  The static-laden voice from yesterday came over the line. Kent saw the technician’s brow furrow.

  “You got the five mil?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  A painful burst of staccato chirps came at Kent’s ear. He held the phone away staring at the earpiece. Quickly, Merrill hand-signaled him to keep talking.

  “Was that you laughing?” Kent said.

  “Yes. Sorry,” the voice said, with no sincerity. “I knew you wouldn’t have it. Like I said, it was short notice. So, my gesture of good faith that I promised you? It’s this. And listen closely, I’ll only say it once since I don’t want the guy doing the tracing to have much time.”

  Kent saw Merrill roll his eyes.

  “Immediately after I hang up, go directly to Talbot’s Five and Dime. Buy the maroon-and-black Jefferson High backpack that’s in the front window. From there cross the street to the bank, withdraw a hundred thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills, put them in the bag. Take it to the high school. By then you’ll need some fresh air, so walk the three blocks. It will do you good.”

  Merrill’s face reddened. Kent knew he hated to be toyed with.

  “Enter through the main door, nod politely to the secretary behind the glass but don’t stop. Go directly to the boys’ locker room. On the left end of the shelf over the lockers is a wadded-up dirty uniform and towel. Put them in the bag to cover the money. Leave the bag on the shelf where the uniform was. You will have exactly six minutes from the time you enter the school to be back out. Do not dismiss the students. No alarms. Like I said before, and you obviously ignored, no cops.”

  “I can’t get a hundred grand just by walking into the bank and asking for it!” Kent said. “You sound intelligent enough to know that even if I had that kind of money… “