The Color of Wounds

by Frank Martorana

  Behind Evelyn and Nigel was the amiable Presbyterian minister, Mark Geasling, and his soft-spoken wife, Yvonne. Kent remembered Yvonne as a nice kid, daughter of the previous minister, a few years behind him in school. She had gone away to college and Kent lost track of her until she returned with Mark several years ago so he could fill the vacancy created by her father’s retirement.

  They were staunch members of the community. Kent knew Yvonne was delighted to be back, helping to shepherd the flock she grew up in. Jefferson’s history was Mark’s and Yvonne’s avocation, and Kent suspected Yvonne knew more about the village’s early days than anyone else in the room.

  “The bombings appear to be for ransom,” Merrill said. “We have received notes and telephone calls to that affect. They came after the statue blew but nothing since the Ledyard Estate bombing. We do not know if an individual or a group is responsible. Whoever it is knows a lot about the people and the workings of Jefferson.” He motioned toward his brother in the back. “It appears Kent has been chosen as the one they prefer to communicate with.”

  “Why Kent?” Nigel asked.

  Merrill shrugged. “You’re going to hear this answer a lot tonight: We don’t know.”

  “Oh, my God,” Nigel said, and made himself as small as possible next to Evelyn.

  “Two landmarks in our town have been attacked,” Evelyn said, as if from the bench of the Supreme Court. “I cannot fathom such a thing. One has received irreparable damage, the other totally destroyed, gone forever. My great, grandfather actually knew Willard Covington’s son personally. What are the police doing to stop the decimation of our historic treasures?”

  Merrill rolled his eyes then scowled at her, making no attempt to be tactful. “That’s what I’ve been talking to you and the rest of the group about for the last fifteen minutes, Evelyn. Weren’t you listening?”

  “I most certainly was,” Evelyn said. “However, I have heard nothing very comforting.”

  “I didn’t come here to comfort you. I am updating you on what we have so far. We are checking out a list of leads, following up on statements, and still analyzing the Ledyard explosion.”

  “What was the explosive?” someone asked.

  Merrill, obviously relieved to speak to someone other than Evelyn, said, “The experts tell us it’s a new generation of C4 plastic explosive. Very powerful. Requires a very small amount.”

  “Why didn’t the bomb squad find it before the top was blown off Ledyard? I thought dogs could pick up that stuff easily.”

  “So did we. The stuff really stinks.” Merrill gave an it’s-anyone’s-guess shrug, palms up. “The dog went over the place, then members of the bomb disposal team went through. We don’t know how it got missed.”

  As Kent listened to the historical society members vent their frustration, the meeting room door creaked. When he saw Loren entering, he jumped enough that his foot jarred Lucinda, who gave him her watch it look. As he whispered an apology to Lucinda, Loren found him in the audience, eased toward him in a mock crouch as if trying to avoid attention, and slid into the seat next to him.

  “I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” he said.

  She squinted a defiant look at him. “I’m a big girl.”

  Aubrey leaned forward and glanced at Loren. Recognition flickered in her eyes. She looked up and, for a second, searched Kent’s face, then she reached across him, shook Loren’s hand, and nodded a quick smile.

  All three turned their attention back to the meeting.

  “What about suspects?” Reverend Geasling asked.

  “We have a list,” Merrill said. “But I cannot elaborate on that.”

  “Is that new woman, the drifter, on your list?” Evelyn asked.

  “I can’t say.”

  “She appeared just when this all started.”

  “That she did.”

  “What do you know about her?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Oh, poppycock,” Evelyn said, and leaned back to let someone else continue her cannonade.

  “You said he, or they, asked for money,” Yvonne said in a polite, unassuming voice.

  “Yes. We got a ransom note.”

  “Can you tell us how much?”

  Kent was sure that if Evelyn Hines had asked that question, Merrill would have declined to answer, but Merrill liked Yvonne. Even so, he hesitated before answering.

  “Five million dollars, originally.”

  The crowd gasped.

  Merrill panned the group with a pious look that would have looked better on Reverend Geasling. “That figure is not to leave this room. Do I make myself clear?”

  Kent chuckled under his breath. Merrill was dreaming.

  Merrill continued. “He, or they, were willing to take a hundred grand as a partial payment.”

  The crowd laughed nervously. “A compassionate crook,” someone joked.

  “Did you pay it?” Yvonne asked.

  “No.”

  Evelyn jumped in again. “Was that before or after Ledyard?”

  “Before.”

  “So you didn’t pay them and they blew up the Ledyard mansion. Right?”

  “Correct.”

  “Poor judgment.”

  “Hey. We didn’t have your hindsight. Plus, it is against police policy to pay off blackmailers.” He didn’t mention their failed attempt to do just that.

  “Is it police policy to let our town’s heritage be blown to bits?”

  “I’m going to ignore that question, Evelyn.”

  Elizabeth St. Pierre, who had been content to listen up to now, said, “Merrill, maybe we should pay them. To buy time. Especially if they are willing to take installments, if that’s the way to put it. And keep looking for them at the same time.”

  Evelyn jumped on the bandwagon. “We could start a fund, raise money to pay them off.”

  Merrill lost it. “What are we going to do, have a bake sale? Sell used books at the library? Maybe a flower sale? Get real, Evelyn!”

  Evelyn sprang to her feet with surprising agility. “You don’t seem to be coming up with any better ideas, Mr. Police Chief.”

  “Paying off blackmailers never works,” Merrill shot back. “And a psycho isn’t going to go along with some cockamamie time payment plan.”

  Evelyn threw up her hands. “What you’re doing isn’t working either!” In a seething tone she said, “I promise you the police, the town board, and anyone else who has power to affect this case will suffer if they do not come up with a satisfactory plan, and soon. I have ...” She motioned to the group with a sweep of her hand. “We have a moral obligation to protect Jefferson’s heritage.” She gave her statement a moment to sink in. “Even if it means civil disobedience. Like Mahatma Gandhi.”

  A groan escaped Kent’s lips before he could stifle it. Evelyn turned on him.

  “I take that utterance to mean you are not with us, Dr. Stephenson.”

  “Oh, I’m with you, Evelyn,” Kent said, giving her his best scared pup look. “It’s just I’m not sure Gandhi is a good analogy.”

  A soft snicker moved through the crowd, and its implication infuriated Evelyn.

  “Well it seems you are the chosen one,” she said like a pouting child. “Apparently the bomber thinks you know best, not to mention you are the police chief’s brother. What do you think we should do?”

  Kent stared blankly at her a moment, then pushed himself to his feet. He panned the crowd slowly and addressed his remarks to all of them instead of to Evelyn. “I have confidence in the police. They are the experts. Let them do their job. Like Merrell says, paying off these people, whoever they are, isn’t likely to solve anything. Remember, people who do this stuff are not rational. They don’t think like you and I do. I’m no psychologist, but I believe these people are asking for money, but really they want power, c
ontrol. Money will never satisfy them.”

  A few heads nodded. Evelyn eased herself down into her chair. Aubrey and Loren gazed up at Kent from each side, both held looks of admiration. Merrill saluted his brother with a quick touch of his hand to his brow. To Kent’s relief, no one seemed willing to take up Evelyn’s torch.

  When silence had hung long enough to make Reverend Geasling uncomfortable, he said, “Maybe this would be a good time to take a break.”

  Kent managed to work his way through the coffee line with a minimum of neighborly small talk and carried cups to Aubrey and Loren.

  When he got to them, they were posturing like cats. He decided to overlook it and handed them their coffee.

  “Aubrey, you remember Loren Summer? She’s heading the vet school accreditation committee.”

  “I do. We met at the Simpatico statue event,” Aubrey said, her tone guarded. She looked squarely at Loren. “Kent said you guys did dinner at the Red Horse tonight.”

  “We did. Nice place. It was my idea. I wanted to talk candidly to Kent about the committee’s findings.” She paused, then gave a polite laugh. “I guess we could have met in Kent’s office, but truthfully I kind of wanted to reminisce about old times anyway. I should have asked Kent to have you join us.”

  “No,” Aubrey said. “Business is business. How do you two know each other?”

  “Undergrad then vet school.”

  “So you are a Cornellian, too.”

  “Yep.” Loren gave Kent a thumbs up. “And then a few years ago we got back together on a case at Burman A&M in Texas.”

  Aubrey took a slow sip of coffee. “I remember that. Kent shuttled back and forth down there a few times. She let her eyes drift over Loren’s outfit down to her heels.

  Loren caught it. “I’m a little overdressed.”

  “That’s the understatement of the year. But you look great. And tomorrow’s grapevine is going to be sizzling with speculation as to who you are.”

  Kent squirmed.

  Then, as if everyone should be following her train of thought, Loren swung the conversation 180 degrees. “You are into horses. Right?” she asked.

  Aubrey caught up before Kent. “You could say that. I work with them all day.” She pointed out Elizabeth across the room. “Over there’s my boss, Elizabeth St. Pierre.”

  “You’re lucky,” Loren said. “I’m jealous. I work at a desk most of the time. Do you get to ride at all yourself?”

  “Occasionally, if I’m lucky.”

  Loren’s eyes fell. “I have a couple of horses myself. I love to ride. I miss them when I’m away.”

  They were interrupted as Reverend Geasling called the meeting back to order.

  As they took their seats, Aubrey said, “We’ve got plenty of horses if you’d like to blow off a little steam some afternoon.” She glanced toward Kent, who shrugged weak approval.

  “I’d love that. Can I call you?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Kent was thinking of several “why nots”.

  It was nearly midnight when the meeting broke up and Kent was finally able to get a minute alone with Merrill. Loren had left quickly. Aubrey was chatting with Elizabeth.

  “Did I hear you right?” Kent asked. “Did you question the blond girl?”

  “Yeah, we brought her in. I just didn’t want Evelyn to know that.”

  “So what did she have to say?”

  “Nothing much. Her name is Dee Mitt. No middle name. From Hosford, Florida, a little crossroads not far from Tallahassee. Date of birth November something sixty-seven. Says she worked for a bookstore down there. Came up here to work at the new Barnes and Noble going in at the mall in East Syracuse.

  “Any record?”

  “No. No priors. No nothing. Solid citizen.”

  “Where’s she living?”

  “Rented one of the little places over on LaMont Place.” Merrill cocked his head and squinted one eye at the ceiling. “Eleven twenty-one, I think.”

  “What’s your hunch?”

  “I don’t have hunches. Only your average citizen and TV cops get to have hunches.”

  “Does she seem like someone who would be blowing up our town?”

  “Actually, my hunch is she’s pretty mild-mannered. But we’ll watch her.”

  “I’m going to have to make a run to Barnes and Noble and see her for myself. Apparently, Mahatma Gandhi Hines and everyone else in town, except me, has seen her.”

  “You do that if you want. Just don’t mess up our investigation.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Kent arrived at the CVC just before five-thirty the next morning. He went about his rounds as usual, but no matter how hard he tried to focus on business, thoughts of the bomber, Loren, and Aubrey kept rolling in his head.

  Merrill had stationed a phone technician in Kent’s office—tape recorder, earphones, and other gadgets sitting across from Kent at his desk. He almost wished he had not agreed to it. The guy was friendly enough, and just trying to do his job, but he was just in the way.

  Oblivious to Kent’s frustration, the man stood and started toward the door. “I’m going to hit the head. I’ll be right back.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to get anything done?” Kent said to Lucinda when the tech was out of earshot.

  To Lucinda’s relief, they were interrupted by Beverly’s voice coming through on the intercom. “You wanted me to remind you, you’ve got your appointment to be Dr. Tice’s guinea pig in the psycho ward. Ten minutes.”

  He could tell by her tone that she thought it was funny. “I’m glad you’re getting a kick out of it.”

  “I think it’s a hoot.”

  He had totally forgotten the appointment. “I was just going.”

  “You forgot, didn’t you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Right.”

  The technician returned from the bathroom and took a position on Kent’s couch with a donut, a magazine, and, presumably, an empty bladder. When he saw Kent studying him, he just smiled and went back to his magazine. The guy had the policeman-waiting thing down. Lucinda went over to check out the donut.

  It was as he and Lucinda were working their way up the stairs to the third floor that he came face to face with a young woman coming down.

  He nodded hello, then noticed the distress on her face—crimson cheeks, teary eyes, disheveled hair.

  “Is everything all right, ma’am?” he asked.

  “Fine,” she replied and pushed past him without breaking stride.

  As he watched her descend the last few steps, he thought, she seemed familiar, vaguely, not recently, from the past. She disappeared out of the stairwell.

  He was still trying to place the woman as he headed down the behavioral center hall. He passed an exam room with its door cracked open and saw Phyllis Muelick with a client and a beautiful standard poodle. He caught a snippet of the client describing how the dog totally destroyed the house whenever it was left alone. Dr. Muelick flicked Kent a smile and wave, then refocused on her patient. Kent headed down the hall to Dr. Tice’s office. He let Lucinda open the door.

  Dr. Tice was standing at the window staring out at the Simpatico statue. He wheeled around when he heard someone enter, and for a second, Kent thought he saw anger on Tice’s face. But with the first glimpse of recognition, it relaxed into a smile.

  “Ah, Dr. Stephenson. You are here for your test. Come in.” He gave Lucinda a pat on the head.

  “You can call me Kent.” Kent stepped to the window and gestured toward Simpatico. “Great statue, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely. It’s a great centerpiece for the park.”

  “I stare at it all the time. Let’s see. You’ve got almost the same view of it as I have. Your office is right above mine.”

  “I’m told he was an amazing hor
se.”

  “My all-time favorite. Sometime we’ll have to grab a beer and I’ll tell you about him.”

  “I’d like that. So, are you ready to get started?”

  “Lead on.”

  They moved to the laboratory that adjoined Tice’s office. At Tice’s direction, Kent took a seat next to an EEG machine.

  “When we met at the Red Horse Inn,” he said, “I was so eager to get you to participate, I didn’t explain things very well. Here’s what’s going on. I’m trying to measure how your body responds to stress.” He leaned over and took a sheet of paper from a drawer. “This is a short questionnaire I’d like you to fill out each week when we meet. It will give me information on what stress factors are occurring in your life.” He handed it to Kent. “Then I’ll collect a blood sample to analyze your blood level of a whole slew of hormones and neuromediators, and we’ll do an EEG to see how your brain’s doing. The whole deal will take less than fifteen minutes.”

  “Sounds easy enough,” Kent said.

  “For the animal subjects we can simply control their environment and stress them in a controlled way. That’s impossible for the human subjects, of course. Hence, the questionnaire. The best we can do is take a look at what stresses have occurred on their own in your life. Then I’ll try to grade them. It’s not exact, but neither is behavior science, really.”

  “Seems like there’s been plenty of stress in my life lately,” Kent said. “But I suppose everyone tells you that.”

  “Yeah. A lot of people do,” Tice said, then creased his eyebrows in a devious look. “More stress makes better subjects.”

  “I’m glad somebody benefits.”

  Kent scanned the questionnaire. It was a list of twenty-five questions about sleep, exercise, pain or sickness, family or marital problems, problems at work, medications, alcohol or drug use.

  “You don’t ask about pets on this thing,” he said, and reached down to massage Lucinda’s ears. “This is my number one stress reliever.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. Maybe I’ll add something along that line. As far as the actual test procedure is concerned, it’s simple,” Tice said, as he pulled on a pair of latex exam gloves with a loud snap. “We need a tube of your blood. Just one. A quick poke and we’ll have a vial full of your circulating catecholamines, adrenal and pituitary hormones, and a few other chemicals we think affect behavior. No big deal.”