Bury the Lead

by Archer Mayor

  That softened as he drew close enough to recognize her. “You’re shitting me. We heard about you. How’d you get here?”

  She glanced up the nearby hill and smiled apologetically. “No one said I couldn’t.”

  He chuckled and lowered his voice. “Very clever. You’re Hillstrom’s kid, aren’t you?”

  She awkwardly stuck out a hand, slightly tangled in her camera strap. “Rachel. Hi.”

  He reciprocated and looked around. “You work for the paper now?”

  “Yeah. Just started.”

  “Right,” he said. “Saw your shots of the warehouse fire. How the hell did they let you in there?”

  She just looked at him. He laughed after a prolonged and suggestive silence, and gently slapped his forehead. “Nobody said you couldn’t. Of course. And you look like such a sweet young girl. You are a chip off the old block.”

  “You know my mom?” she asked.

  He shook his head in wonder. “Your mom is a legend. Tough as nails and tenacious as hell—no disrespect. Very cool.”

  “None taken. Are you gonna throw me out?”

  The sergeant pursed his lips. “I should.”

  Again, he checked to see if anyone was watching before saying, “You got fifteen minutes. Grab a safety vest out of the back of that SUV over there, so you blend in better, and don’t do anything that’ll draw attention. And do not throw me under the bus if you get caught.”

  He seemed embarrassed by that last comment, and added, “Not that they won’t wonder where the hell you got the vest.”

  “Can you tell me anything about what happened?” she asked, putting her camera on the ground in order to slip on her semi-disguise.

  He laughed quietly. “God, you are a natural. I’ll have to spread the word. No, not really.” He patted her shoulder before moving off. “That means, Miss Rachel, no comment. And remember: fifteen minutes. Tops. Have a nice day.”

  He turned his back as if they’d never met and moved away.

  She resumed her assignment, careful to take his advice about the vest and heed his warning. She was discovering the delicate ground of this new profession—the need for discretion, politeness, a little charm—and how not to be shy about using her pedigree.

  She was under no delusions about how her mother would receive that last part, which added to her wanting to be very careful right now.

  She angled up to the huge truck, seemingly so much larger lying down than it might have been simply parked in a lot. There was considerably more activity near the cab, where people were discussing how best to extract the driver’s body, so she worked around to the rig’s wounded rear wheels, highlighted against the sky. She composed several shots, including the remnants of retardant foam still clinging to the charred chassis.

  “Who the fuck’re you?”

  Great, she thought. Here we go again.

  This time, however, it wasn’t a cop. Nor was there any hint of accommodation. This man’s voice spoke only of anger and entitlement.

  “Rachel,” she said quickly, finishing her shot.

  He eyed her vest as she turned to face him, which was labeled POLICE, but ran at odds with the rest of her.

  For her part, she saw that the hat above the mean face was stamped with the GreenField logo—same as the truck.

  Damning the risk, she stuck her hand out to shake. “Hell of a mess. Sorry for your loss. You know the driver?”

  It caught him off guard. His narrowed eyes widened a fraction. “What? No.” He shook hands halfheartedly and stepped back a few paces, indicating the truck. “You should watch out,” he said. “This could be unstable.”

  She suppressed a smile, unable to imagine anything less unstable than this flattened, oversized paperweight.

  “Thanks,” she told him. “I will.”

  He scowled, unsure of what to say next, before being saved the need by another man in a similar hat, rounding the truck’s corner and calling out with relief, “Damn, J.R., you’re a hard man to track. The accident-reconstruction guy wants to talk to us.”

  The angry man was visibly stumped, wanting to make sure Rachel had been dealt with, but not knowing how to do it.

  He finally ducked his head and turned away, muttering, “Fine,” to his companion.

  Rachel stood alone for a moment. She was pleased with her bit of theater, but aware of her lack of authority here.

  It was time to savor her gains and make herself scarce.

  Still, she turned one last time to study the truck’s underbelly, discerning the burn pattern as it snaked around and between the axles, brake lines, and wiring.

  Even to her untrained eye, it didn’t look right.

  She took one last shot and walked away.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Willy studied his daughter’s profile as she bent to her work, crayon gripped, guarded by two stuffed animals and a miniature pillow that went with her everywhere. She was sitting in the hospital bed beside him, nestled in so that his good arm could curl around and still reach the pad she was drawing on.

  It was a team effort. Instead of using a standard coloring book, this one had been blank. Willy drew the outlines, and Emma filled them in.

  The results were much better than what might be imagined. Two nurses had already commented on the fact. Yet another of Willy’s closely guarded attributes was that he was better than a good draftsman. He was, in truth, a master with a pencil. Joe had stumbled upon this many years ago, when he’d approached Willy unnoticed while the latter was on stakeout. To pass the time in those days, Willy attached a pad to his steering wheel, and, rather than simply observe the scene before him, would draw it. With remarkable precision and artistry.

  It had once been a solitary and private activity, and Willy, upon Joe’s discovery, had sworn his boss to keep it that way. Now, however, as with so much else along Willy’s turbulent life journey, this talent was finding a peaceful and constructive outlet. That Emma was the beneficiary made it that much sweeter for her father.

  Sue Spinney entered without a sound, not wishing to disrupt the artist’s concentration. Willy, aided by his self-protective nature, had of course seen the first tiny motion of the door’s hinges, and even recognized her tread approaching from down the hall.

  He was therefore easy with her appearance. “What d’ya think?” he asked. “The next Georgia O’Keeffe?”

  Sue cast the work a critical eye. “At least,” she said. “Maybe better. How’s the pain level?”

  “All things being relative? A walk in the park,” he reported.

  She checked his vitals, loosened his johnny enough to glance at the dressing covering his left shoulder, and ran a temperature probe across his forehead.

  “Something up?” he asked.

  She smiled distractedly. “No. You seem A-okay.”

  “I know how I am. I was asking about you.”

  She looked surprised. “Really? What about me?”

  He smirked. “If you ever take up poker, please challenge me to a game.”

  She conceded the point, if partially. “Oh, you know hospitals. Even small specialty shops like this one. I shouldn’t have let it show. Sorry.”

  “It’s what I do,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “One of the nurses. She’s bad-mouthing Victoria because she’s out sick, and making cracks about how she left the chain of command.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Willy said. “She put you in charge?”

  Sue laughed. “God, no. That’s one reason I got out of Springfield. I like being a grunt. But she did tap somebody with fewer years than the woman bitching.”

  “Who is…?”

  Sue glanced at the door, as if anticipating a large ear to appear, and dropped her voice accordingly. “You met her, sort of. Remember when you and Sam were in Victoria’s office the first time? A nurse stuck her head in?”

  “Yeah,” Willy replied, he of the machinelike memory. “Face like a battle-ax. Victoria called her Lillian.”

  “
Damn,” Sue reacted. “That’s creepy. Well, she’s the one. This place only started up a year ago, so we’re all more or less on the same footing, but Lillian walks around like she’s God’s gift. Seen all, been everywhere, and resents the bejesus out of anyone giving her orders. The rest of us, she just dislikes.”

  “Why don’t they can her?”

  “Easier said than done. She knows her job. That’s the problem. She’ll never be head of nursing, like she thinks she should, but she never does anything to warrant being fired. Rock and a hard place.”

  “How’s Victoria doing? She was out yesterday, too, wasn’t she?”

  “It’s a flu, for crying out loud,” Sue replied. “That’s the other thing that pisses me off. Lillian never had a sick day? She smokes like a chimney, coughs all the time, can barely climb a set of stairs. She takes her share of days off. Who’s she to cop a ’tude?”

  Willy checked Emma’s progress, which was ongoing, before returning to Sue. “She’s really got you cranked.”

  Sue made a face. “It’s not just that. Something’s going on and nobody’s talking. I hate it when they pull that crap.”

  “What crap?”

  “Secret stuff. Hospitals do that more’n people realize. Somebody gets a call or an alert from the CDC, like back when Legionnaires’ was a big deal, or anthrax. It’s never real—not in Vermont—but the brass likes to pretend it might be. I’ll grant we should be prepared, and we are. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve even taken a bunch of the courses on how to handle the dangerous stuff. But everyone always ramps up the drama instead of just telling us what they heard and what we’re gonna do about it.”

  “So what do you think it is?”

  “Me? Nothing. That’s my point. And if it is nothing, we’ll never hear anything, which is dumb. It’s like they think if they tell us, we’ll immediately blab to the patients, or get on Facebook, or who knows what, and make the hospital look bad.”

  She suddenly did a double take and burst out laughing, admitting as she did, “And here I am, blabbing to a patient.”

  Emma looked up then and gave them both a wide smile.

  * * *

  “Joe? It’s Bill.”

  Joe had recognized his boss’s phone number on the display screen—one feature of modernity he didn’t mind. “Hey, there. How’s life among the big brass?”

  Bill Allard was the director of the VBI, whereas Joe was its field force commander. In an autonomous, thinly staffed, self-directed outfit like the Bureau, most of its five statewide offices worked pretty independently, managing their assignments without much interference from above, which was rare in the bureaucratic, sometimes nitpicking world of law enforcement. Gunther appreciated that, and that Allard, located near the state’s capital, was also such an adept traffic manager and diplomat, at once shielding his people and coordinating VBI’s efforts with other agencies.

  “Peachy,” Allard said in response to the question. “You hear about that ten-fifty in your hometown, on the interstate, yesterday?”

  “How could I not?” Joe replied. “Huge photo spread in the paper today, taken by none other than Beverly’s daughter. Not to mention that traffic was at a standstill for hours. You got something for us on that? I heard the truck driver didn’t make it.”

  “That’s why I’m calling. State police’re kicking it to us, based on what their crash-reconstructionist suspects.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Sabotage. Somebody planted a device that blew off a small but crucial part of the truck’s rear end. Weight and momentum did the rest.”

  Joe absorbed that before commenting, “That was a GreenField rig. I wondered when I heard about it.”

  “Yeah. That crossed my mind, too. How’re we doing on the arson?”

  “Not great,” Joe told him frankly. “Spinney’s pulled people from three other field offices to help him out, but it’s slow going. We’ve got no trace evidence and only a vague idea that somebody either called J.R. or with a name ending in Junior might’ve been involved. Turnover’s predictably high at GreenField, and they hire a lot of folks with past records. Good for the little guy with a chip on his shoulder; not so great for us who now have to pore through the chips.”

  Joe could hear Allard’s other line ringing in the background. “Hang on a sec,” his boss said before returning moments later. “I gotta take this, Joe. Sorry. Maybe the reconstructionist’ll have something for you. They hauled what was left of the trailer to the state highway garage, north of Brattleboro. I think he’s still fiddling with it there. You might want to drop by.”

  “Thanks, Bill,” Joe said. “Will do.”

  * * *

  As with so many such places, the Department of Transportation truck depot and servicing garage between Brattleboro and Putney on Route 5 was notable only for its lack of distinction. Pragmatic to a fault, consisting of a semicircle of truck-sized sheds facing a large concrete apron, it occupied a slope of land that fell away from the road toward the interstate some twelve hundred feet away, paralleling the Connecticut River and including a significantly sized sand, rock, and gravel pit.

  All but unnoticeable from the road, aside from a sign and small Department of Motor Vehicles building, it was a perfect example of architectural discretion—useful, available, and yet tucked out of sight—so that admirers of Vermont’s sylvan charms wouldn’t have their sensibilities jarred.

  There, inside one of the metal-sided sheds, Joe discovered a scene better suited to a monster movie than a highway maintenance yard. Mounted onto the back of a flatbed trailer, surrounded by glaring work lights, and resting on its side—as found—was the looming, harshly shadowed rear axle assembly of the destroyed truck from the day before. The tractor was missing, and the box had been largely cut away, leaving behind the entire rear section of the undercarriage, including eight burned and torn rubber tires, its axles and related hardware, and the truncated wires and hydraulic tubing that had once serviced them. As it was all positioned five feet off the ground on the flat bed, and thereafter loomed an additional eight feet overhead, it was an imposing sight inside a windowless, otherwise darkened garage.

  Before it, wearing headlamps, green coveralls, and work gloves, were two men with STATE TROOPER stamped on their backs. They were standing on the transport trailer, deep in discussion and virtually entangled in the semi’s rear axle assembly.

  Joe immediately recognized one of them.

  “Jonathon,” he called out. “I didn’t know you did this and arson, too.”

  Jonathon Michael turned to face him, inadvertently bringing his headlamp to bear directly into Joe’s eyes.

  Laughing, he hit the off switch and jumped down. “Joe. I had a feeling one of you guys would show up. And in answer to your question, no, I do not do reconstructions. But I do incendiary explosives, and that’s what we got here.”

  He turned to indicate his colleague, still on the flatbed. “Leslie Martens—Joe Gunther, from VBI.”

  Joe waved to the other man, saying, “Martens? How do you spell that?”

  Martens laughed. “Like Sam does. Distant cousin. I get that all the time. Call me Les, if that makes it easier.”

  Joe shook his head. “Another one of my guys is named that.”

  “William’s my real first name. I don’t like it, but if it’ll make it easier for you…”

  Joe waved it off. “This state is way too small.” He looked again at Michael. “You saying this was firebombed? Like at the warehouse?”

  “Different setup, but, yeah—including signs of a GreenField insider’s knowledge.”

  Joe stepped up and rested his hands on the truck bed, staring at the twisted mass of metal above him. “Huh. How so?”

  Martens took over, moving to one of the axles, preparing to reveal the prize behind Door Number One.

  “I won’t bury you in techno-speak,” he began, pointing to a soot-blackened smear near his head. “But a timer-equipped device was placed where it could defeat the trailer’s
safety features and lock up her brakes in a single shot. Once that happened, it was road physics one-oh-one: static friction became sliding friction, burning the tires, the trailer jackknifed, and the unit crashed because it had no other choice. The driver couldn’t have known what the hell was going on.”

  “Did the device survive?” Joe asked.

  “Not in so many words,” Martens told him. “That’s what we’ve been doing all this time—rebuilding what happened based on residual evidence, which was spread, by the way, along almost a mile of roadway, from where it first went off to where the truck ended up. Unfortunately, the sheer violence of it all, not to mention its thermodynamic properties, pretty much cooked everything we could collect. If we were in a CSI show, of course, we’d be two beautiful women in dramatic lighting, and get the job done in forty-three minutes with commercial breaks. But we ain’t. Sorry.”

  “That’s for the hardware, though,” Michael corrected gently. “As for signature issues—call ’em psychological fingerprints—we may have more to go on.”

  Martens chuckled. “That’s why we bring Jonathon in. He’s more the artist than I am.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Joe asked his old friend. “You mentioned insider knowledge.”

  Michael leaned against the flatbed. “I did, although you could argue that’s a stretch. I threw it in because of the double coincidence of GreenField and an explosive device. That being said, it’s interesting to me that both scenarios involved specialized vehicles—an eighteen-wheeler and an electric floor jack—and something that either caught fire or went boom. That sure as hell suggests we’re dealing with the same bad guy, not to mention that the best time to rig a truck with a device is when it’s backed up to a warehouse and everybody’s attention is distracted.”

  Joe was nodding by now. “So for our psychological profile, we can safely overlay GreenField, knowledge of industrial vehicle mechanics, and pyrotechnics.”

  “And smarts,” Jonathon added. “Whoever this is has got brains. He’s a planner, he’s patient, and he’s clearly pissed off.” He held up a finger to make one additional point. “And, before you ask, he or she also knows the GreenField security camera setup. Soon as I got here and saw what they had, I called up to Spinney and company and had them check the footage for when this truck was in the bay. Because of its location and the other rigs blocking the view, Lester said he couldn’t see a thing.”