An End to a Silence: A mystery novel (The Montana Trilogy Book 1)

by W. H. Clark

  70

  John White still hadn’t said a word and now the helicopter’s rotor blades whupped like thunder and everything on the ground below them began to shrink. Packham, the medical examiner, was there, sitting with Poynter. They were behind Ward, who sat beside John White. John White pointed to a region of the National Forest on a map and Ward leaned over to the pilot and indicated where John White had pointed. The pilot nodded and then the nose of the helicopter dipped and Ward’s stomach did a roll as they gathered speed. The pilot had told them he would have to fly low due to the weather and that had set Ward’s nerves on edge. He had never gotten used to flying, even though he had done it dozens of times during his military service.

  Ward turned to John White and asked, “Did your grandfather tell you anything about how Ryan got out here?” John White shook his head.

  The town was soon behind them and it became a cluster of twinkling lights and stretched out in front was a gathering tide of white upon green upon white. In the distance the white mountain peaks stood like ancient pyramids and the trees seemed as ghosts migrating in parallax motion. They followed the interstate for ten minutes and then the pilot caressed the helicopter on a gentle curve rightwards and then all they could see when they looked down was forest and snapshots of a long narrow lake. In places the trees seemed smaller and greener where the forest had been scorched in years previous.

  The pilot glanced around at Ward and Ward opened up a second map and passed that to John White. John White studied the map for a minute and then he again indicated a point on it and Ward showed the pilot, who looked at his navigation system and made a small correction left and then he straightened. Less than five minutes later John White said his first words.

  “It’s here,” he said, and his voice was gentle and almost inaudible under the helicopter’s rotors. “Sure looks different up above it.”

  Ward gave the pilot the signal of an inverted thumb and the pilot cast his head around, looking at the landscape below. He banked right and they turned a wide circle in the air.

  Ward asked, “That look okay down there?”

  They circled again and then the helicopter leveled off and began to descend.

  “The ground will sure be hard,” John White said as they unloaded the equipment from the helicopter.

  They unloaded pickaxes as well as spades. Picks for the top layer of earth and spades for the finer work further down.

  “It gets any colder we’re going to need ice axes,” Poynter said.

  Packham had his own case and he was the last out of the helicopter.

  The pilot said to Ward, “I’ll be back in two hours and if you’re not here you freeze to death in the forest,” and Ward knew that wasn’t negotiable. Anyone crazy enough to fly one of those things deserved the final say. Anyone crazy enough to fly one of those things was crazy enough to make good on such a threat.

  Once they had all their equipment lugged onto their backs Ward said, “Which way?” and John White studied the trees around him and then started walking east and he led them from the clearing where they had landed and off into dense pine forest and they began to climb upwards. The engines of the helicopter whined but the sound was muffled already by the trees and they didn’t see it take off. Ward checked his watch.

  Ward was stripped down to his shirt already and he cast his hat onto his discarded clothes and wiped the sweat from his forehead and then swung again. And again. John White was right, the ground was hard, but they had already gotten down a foot. Poynter was willing but not as strong as Ward so Ward took most of the work while the others danced on the spot trying to keep warm. The medical examiner’s face had started to take on a bluish hue.

  They had cleared a rectangular perimeter of rocks that John White said he had recently put there so that he could mark the exact spot in case the vegetation got ideas of hiding the grave.

  Ward stood and stretched his back and steam almost hissed off his body and then he threw the pickax to the ground and picked up the spade and removed the soil that he had just chopped up. The strapping on his hand had worked loose so he unraveled it and tossed it to one side and he gingerly clenched his fist a few times.

  Then John White removed his own coat and he picked up another spade and he climbed into the shallow pit and he started to ease the spade into the soil carefully.

  “Like this,” he said to Ward and Ward nodded and knew the body wouldn’t be much deeper. He stepped aside and let John White carry on working with the spade.

  Fifteen minutes later John White stopped. He went down on his knees and started to scrape away the soil with his hands, slowly revealing the small shape of the boy’s body wrapped in a sheet.

  Packham was both amazed and delighted.

  “It’s like a mummy,” he said, and he smiled to himself but nobody else was smiling.

  The wrappings on the body had been toughened by some substance or substances known only, for now at least, to Bill O’Donnell and the sheet traced the contours of the small bundle so that you could tell it was a body.

  They didn’t unwrap it. Ward thought of Newton and thought the parcel that he lifted now, with the help of Poynter and John White, was a get-well gift to him.

  The remaining hint of light was moving elsewhere now and they needed flashlights on their journey back to where they could hear the whup of the helicopter’s rotors. Ward hoped the pilot would give them time to get there.

  The wrapped boy was on a stretcher now and they loaded him onto the helicopter. John White touched him. He’d never been this close to his brother. Ward placed his hand on John’s shoulder and smiled.

  Ward said, “Thank you.”

  “Do you think he can come back here?” John White asked.

  “Well, I don’t know that,” Ward said. “I guess there are regulations on burying people in the forest.”

  “Okay,” John White said. “Will you find out?”

  Ward said, “I’ll do my best.”

  71

  Newton was awake and he startled the nurse when he spoke. Startled his wife Maggie too. He said, “Thirsty”.

  “You shouldn’t be awake,” the nurse said, even though it was afternoon.

  Maggie stood up and touched Newton’s hand and Newton managed a weak squeeze.

  “I’m still here,” he said, and Maggie began to cry. “It’s okay,”

  Maggie held a cup to his mouth so he could drink a little and dribble a little down his chin. She mopped the dribble up with a handkerchief.

  “Thought I’d lost you,” Maggie said.

  Newton said quietly, “Not again. Never again.”

  The nurse was fussing around the equipment that had kept Newton alive for the past few hours.

  “He should be resting,” the nurse said to Maggie. And she picked up a vial of something and inserted a syringe into it.

  Newton saw the vial and suddenly tried to sit up in bed. The nurse put the vial and syringe down and tried to settle Newton back down. It didn’t take much strength.

  “Really now, Mr. Newton, you need to rest. Don’t be going trying to sit up again. I’m going to have to give you something to sleep.”

  “I need a phone,” Newton croaked.

  “No, you don’t,” the nurse said, and she picked up the syringe and vial again. “No, you need to rest. I won’t tell you again.”

  “The vial. I need a phone. It’s the vial.”

  “I’ll call,” Maggie said, and she pulled out her cellphone. “Who do you want me to call?”

  “McNeely. Call McNeely.” He took a couple of breaths and then said, “Tell her to contact Grainger at Sunny Glade.” He reached for the water and Maggie put it to his lips again and he sipped. “Ask Grainger to check the batch numbers on his morphine.”

  “That it?” Maggie asked. She was already dialing the station.

  Newton nodded. And the nurse injected something into the intravenous fluid bag.

  McNeely was there even though it was a Saturday. She knew what
Newton was thinking. She had made the call to Grainger. Told him to not, on no account, let anyone near the pharmacy. She was at Sunny Glade within ten minutes. Grainger was waiting and he led her to the cabinet that contained the vials of morphine. She examined them all. The batch numbers on three vials of morphine didn’t match the rest. “They’re not ours, no, ma’am” was how Grainger put it. McNeely checked the batch numbers on the suspect vials against the numbers on the vials retrieved from Doctor Brookline’s house. Positive match. She called Ward.

  Ward was with Packham. The medical examiner had managed to open up the mummification covering on the body of the boy and had cut his clothes off and he stood back admiring the little body.

  “Pretty amazing really,” Packham said.

  Ward nodded but what he saw was a shriveled-up little papier-mâché figure.

  “Mightn’t look much to you but this is good. Very good.”

  “When might we get some results?” Ward asked.

  “Give me a couple of hours for preliminary results.”

  Ward’s phone rang.

  “Okay,” Ward said to the medical examiner. “You’ll call me when you have anything?”

  “Sure will,” Packham said.

  It was McNeely on the phone. She told Ward about the vials as he made his way out into the corridor of the mortuary.

  “So someone placed vials of morphine from Brookline’s house in the pharmacy of Sunny Glade,” Ward said. “Why would someone do that?”

  McNeely said, “To replace morphine used to kill Bill O’Donnell?”

  Ward said, “So that nobody would notice any was missing. Make it look like whoever did the old man in brought in the morphine from elsewhere so we wouldn’t think it was an inside job. So, we assume the old man’s killer is someone who had access to the pharmacy at Sunny Glade. Only nursing staff, the on-call doctor and Grainger himself have access. Grainger told me. He keeps the key. Unless someone else got a hold of the key. Someone who would know where the key was kept.”

  “I wish I could help you with that but I ain’t a detective, detective.”

  “You’ve helped a lot,” Ward said. “We need those vials in evidence. Might have prints on them, though I’m guessing not, but check anyway,” and he was out of the building and in his car. He turned his music on and then flipped it off again.

  72

  Property magnate James Kenny’s house couldn’t be seen from the security gate. Kenny buzzed Ward through the gate and the magnetic lock broke with a clunk and the gate swung open quietly. The road up to the house snaked through ornamental trees and rhododendrons and Ward stopped the car when his cellphone rang.

  “Jake,” Ward said.

  The FBI officer said, “I got you something. This don’t trace back to me. Never.”

  Ward said, “Okay.”

  “You have access to a fax machine?”

  “No. Hang on. Let me get back to you.”

  “Hurry. I’m in a copy shop.”

  Ward hung up and continued his drive up to the mansion. He sped up and braked heavily in front of the house and left a couple of deep tire tracks in the gravel.

  The gardens that Kenny’s house towered over were immaculately tended. Lawns ran into shrubs which ran into expensively landscaped plantation woodland spread over a few acres. Like something Olmsted and Vaux might have designed. The snow had settled on everything and made it opaque.

  Kenny’s door opened and the man stood there, all expression erased.

  “Mr. Kenny,” Ward said.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t remember the name.”

  “Ward.”

  “Of course. Now, Mr. Ward, I thought we’d had the conversation,” Kenny said.

  “Can I come in?”

  “I’m a little busy.”

  “This won’t take long.”

  Kenny backed off and moved to the side to let Ward step into the reception hallway. Ward’s eyes immediately gazed upwards and the hallway stretched up three floors, a large French-style chandelier drawing his focus.

  “It’s a Saturday,” Kenny said. “Don’t you have anything else to do on a weekend, Mr. Ward? I certainly do.”

  Ward smiled. “Unfortunately crime doesn’t take the weekends off.”

  Kenny said, “So, what is it that I can help you with?”

  And then a mouse’s voice called out, “Who is it, dear?” Kenny’s wife, Ward presumed.

  “It’s okay, I’ve got it,” Kenny called, and the voice wasn’t heard again.

  “Do you have a fax machine?” Ward said.

  Kenny inhaled and his chest bulged out. “Are we playing games here, Mr. Ward?”

  Ward said, “I’m sorry, if it’s an imposition.” He fiddled with his hat like a serf might do.

  Kenny led Ward into his study.

  “What’s the number?”

  Kenny told Ward the number and Ward called Jake back and read out the number and then he hung up his phone.

  “I’m mindful that I don’t have to talk to you, Mr. Ward.” Kenny kept puffing out annoyance.

  “It’s Detective Ward,” Ward said, his eyes settling on Kenny and staying there, unblinking. “And no, you don’t have to talk to me. Would you prefer we do this down at the station?”

  “Just say what you came to say. I’ve told you all I know in connection with the old man. And I have got things to be doing, so, let’s get done.”

  “Well, we seem to have a little issue with some vials of morphine that appeared in the pharmacy at Sunny Glade.”

  “Go on,” Kenny said, and his expression seamlessly went from annoyed to mildly curious.

  “You see, the morphine you got in your pharmacy, that came from elsewhere. Different batch numbers.”

  “Oh, and where did it come from?”

  “Do you have any idea where it came from?”

  “Well, that’s not my department, so I wouldn’t know. I own Sunny Glade. I don’t run it.”

  “Okay,” Ward said as the fax machine started to whirr. “You see, it strikes me, sir, that the morphine used to kill Mr. O’Donnell came from your pharmacy and was then replaced by some morphine from another source. So’s nobody would notice any was missing.”

  Kenny nodded as Ward was talking.

  “So? What is it you want to ask me, Mr. Ward? Detective Ward.”

  “Well, I asked it and you said you didn’t know nothing about it.”

  “Well, sorry I can’t be any more help. Now, if we’ve done here, I really need to—”

  “Actually, that’s not why I came. It’s why I came initially but something else came up.” He looked at the fax machine and the whirring stopped. Ward picked up the two sheets of paper from the tray. He looked at Kenny and then he studied the paper.

  “This is becoming tiresome, Detective Ward. Now, I’ve got things to do and I’d like you to leave.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to do this here?”

  “Just get the hell out,” Kenny said, and he went to snatch the fax from Ward’s hand but Ward pulled away. “You know my son’s a lawyer.”

  “I’m leaving,” Ward said. “Thank you for the use of your fax machine.”

  “What do you have there?” Kenny said.

  “Potential evidence.”

  “Evidence of what?”

  “Of your connection to the death of Ryan Novak.”

  “You son of a bitch, let me have that,” Kenny said, and he again made a grab at the fax but Ward was quicker.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Ward said, and he turned to leave.

  “Do you realize who you are dealing with here?” Kenny shouted. “Do you know how much leverage I carry in this town?”

  “Sir, I suggest you use all the influence you got to get yourself a comfortable jail cell.”

  “You son of a bitch. You fucking son of a bitch,” Kenny said, but Ward was almost at the door and he turned and faced Kenny.

  “You got a potty mouth there, sir.” And he left.

  He swung by
the motel. It was the weekend. He’d neglected Jesús and it was their time together. The little old dog trotted over to him as he entered the door and he fussed around Ward’s legs and he tried to jump up but a day of doing nothing had seemingly stiffened his joints. Ward attached his leash and they left, Jesús struggling to keep up on arthritic limbs.

  “I’d like to bring in James Kenny, sir,” Ward said to Lieutenant Gammond, who had just walked into the station.

  “Whoa. Whoa, son,” Gammond said, and he led Ward into his office. He turned abruptly and pointed at Ward with a shaky gloved hand. “You’re in danger of getting yourself into a whole heap of shit here. Man’s got power around these here parts.”

  “You two go to the same church? You sing the same hymns,” Ward said.

  Gammond’s face reddened.

  “He call you?” Ward asked. He knew the answer. “We going to be pushed around by golf club influence? That how policing works around here?”

  “Look here, you dang son of a bitch—”

  “Same preference in curse words too,” Ward said.

  “You treading a fine line there, boy,” Gammond said, and his face nearly exploded.

  “Sir, I’m trying to be respectful as I can but I’m kinda getting frustrated at being blocked from doing my job.”

  “What you got on Kenny? Tell me.”

  “There’s the vials of morphine. Vials from the scene of Doctor Brookline’s death found their way into the pharmacy at Sunny Glade. Replacements for the ones that killed O’Donnell. Tells me the same person killed both of them. And Kenny was there at Sunny Glade the night O’Donnell was killed. He would know how to get access to the pharmacy.”

  Gammond paused a few seconds, staring at Ward, then said, “Dang it, that’s not enough to get someone like James Kenny into this police station. You ain’t thinking clearly is all.”