Bury the Lead

by Archer Mayor

  “What’s that mean? I thought the old man was father-of-the-year material.”

  “Paternalistic might be a better fit. I think the early days weren’t so warm and fuzzy. He’s like a combination of his two boys—Bobby’s work ethic and Philip’s imagination. You’re right if you’re talking about the ‘working man made good’ image. I think that’s legit, and it may be what’s missing from his kids, who were all born rich. But as a family man, Robert Sr. was probably better with his coworkers than he was with the rug rats back home. That’s not unusual.”

  “Okay,” Joe said, conversationally taking a step backwards. “Let’s put Bobby—or J.R., if you prefer—into the context where we first heard of him.”

  “I read about your and Sam’s interview with Teri Parker’s neighbor,” Lester said. “According to her, J.R. was ‘hot’ and Teri was in love.”

  “And superprivate,” Joe added, “to use her words.”

  “As was the sugar daddy. Did I get it right that he gave her the fancy phone?”

  “Supposedly,” Joe agreed. “But Sam and I got the feeling Teri considered J.R. the alpha dog, and the sugar daddy just a source of amusement and toys.”

  “So which one removed the phone and the tablet?” Lester asked.

  Joe smiled and suggested, “Keeping in mind that it may’ve been neither of them.”

  “Meaning your informant’s lying?” Lester mused. “One thing’s for sure. She didn’t make Teri pregnant.”

  Joe pushed out his lips meditatively, staring at the floor. “I think it’s time we found a way to start selectively collecting a little DNA.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The saying is that familiarity breeds contempt. For J.R., it was breeding a much appreciated inconspicuousness. Despite the extra security, cops pawing through records in the general manager’s office, and a heightened sense of wariness affecting everybody since Bob Raiselis’s death, GreenField’s warehouse remained an open turnstile for older hands. People like J.R. were coming and going without notice.

  It wasn’t just that his was a familiar face. GreenField, like large shipping operations everywhere, was more ant farm than plant. The number of employees at desks was small, compared to those moving product. And the latter were constantly on the move—walking, riding jacks, shifting pallets, loading racks, and filling tractor trailers. One side of the building received product, the other half shipped it out, and it got stacked, sorted, picked, and packaged in between—nonstop, around the clock—by an army so numerous that, finally, all anyone paid attention to was not getting run over by a forklift or a jack. It got to be like dodgeball, where the last thing you focused on was the face of the person aiming in your direction.

  And aiming was what J.R. had in mind.

  This time was going to be his best yet, a fitting progression to what had gone before. If he pulled it off to expectations, Bob Raiselis would become a footnote, and the holy name of Beaupré would receive the kind of scrutiny it deserved. The years-long benevolent image of the corporate paterfamilias constructed from whole cloth—the pickup-driving hayseed-done-good—would be torn away, revealing the hypocrite beneath.

  J.R. proceeded casually through the overall bustle, reducing his visibility by avoiding contact and pretending to be preoccupied. He was headed toward what they called the cooler—a room big enough to be a building wing—in which GreenField stored its frozen goods. Here, regardless of the season, workers performed the same duties as those outside, but dressed in arctic garb. To J.R., they looked like lost Inuits, dumped from a train and wandering through the world’s largest, coldest railroad terminal.

  He didn’t pass through the cold cavern’s curtain of hanging plastic strips, however. Instead, checking over his shoulder to make sure he was unobserved and in one of the camera system’s blind spots, he cut behind a wall of boxes, worked his way to the bottom of a vertical ladder stretching straight up to the catwalk forty feet overhead, and started climbing.

  An industrial refrigerator like the cooler is built on the scale of an ocean liner. Every aspect of it has been enlarged to where the people responsible for its care and feeding are reduced to Lilliputians. However, just as the workings of an old-fashioned fridge appear as a crisscrossing of tubes covering the icebox’s back wall, so GreenField’s cooler was serviced by a tangle of pipes resting on its top, some of them big enough to contain a human body. Finally there, breathing hard, just under the warehouse ceiling—and literally surrounded by miles of pipe—J.R. envisioned himself as the only human amid a vast, intertwined nest of dormant pythons.

  The threat of lethality was enhanced by the boldface signage stamped upon every surface, even here, high above the casual onlooker. Wherever he glanced, J.R. saw virulent yellow labels cautioning against the pipes’ contents.

  Which was, of course, what had drawn him here. In the ever-progressive search for affordable, effective, and efficient coolants, refrigeration engineers had in some cases returned to the quasi-antique solution of anhydrous ammonia. It met all the above requirements, with the small additional inconvenience that it was incredibly toxic.

  Anhydrous means “without water.” Any contact of the gas with a human body—consisting of 60 percent water—causes a catastrophic transference of fluid, dehydration, and severe burning, especially of a person’s lungs. Death is agonizingly painful.

  Careful maintenance of such systems is strongly encouraged. GreenField practiced that, naturally, and the state’s inspectors made sure of it.

  Except, for what J.R. had in mind, none of it was going to matter.

  He gingerly traversed the field of pipes, toward where the cooler’s roof almost met the building’s far wall. In that way, the cooler was a box within a box—like a fridge inside a home. The design was so that if any inspections or repairs were called for, they could be conducted in normal temperatures, away from the frozen goods inside and the workers shuffling them about.

  Reaching the edge, J.R. lay on his stomach and peered over. Below him was a straight drop down the equivalent of a four-story building, at the bottom of which was a convoluted knot of control valves and panels—isolated, camera-monitored, and accessible only to a select few, if something were to go wrong.

  Which it was about to.

  He carefully pulled a .45 semiautomatic pistol out of one jacket pocket, a long and bulky sound suppressor from another, fitted the two together, and took careful aim at the metallic tangle far below.

  Four quickly discharged subsonic slugs did the trick, their reports all but consumed by the surrounding hum of machinery. Instantly, a white, heavier-than-air plume began spreading across the floor, seeking more space, fed by J.R.’s four spontaneously created, jetlike nozzles.

  J.R. separated the gun from its suppressor, retreated across the cooler’s top, and as the first alarms began piercing the air, slipped through a small overhead service door onto the pitch-black, night-washed warehouse roof, where he jogged over to a previously anchored throw-and-go doubled rappel rope. He peeled off his jacket to expose the climbing harness beneath, and backed over the edge of the roof.

  At the bottom, he retrieved the rope and crossed the darkened service road to where he’d left his car. In under two minutes from having punctured the pipes, he was driving away, leaving behind a nondescript anchoring bolt on the roof of a building now filled with screaming people.

  * * *

  GreenField’s corporate headquarters were located in a tree-ringed industrial park off I-89’s exit 16, in Colchester. That placed it next to Burlington and a mile from the airport. Joe Gunther was there because that’s where Robert Beaupré had told him he’d prefer to meet.

  No more casual chats around the pickup.

  Whatever GreenField’s mystery nemesis was hoping for, he had certainly brought the company to the brink of disaster. Beaupré’s tone on the phone, when Joe called him for this appointment, had been frosty and distracted.

  It had good reason to be. From an underplayed fire emergen
cy at one of the firm’s two warehouses several days ago, GreenField’s headaches had raced through a headline-grabbing fatal truck crash to conclude last night with a major industrial accident including five dead, twenty hospitalized, and the primary warehouse completely shut down. Everyone from the EPA, OSHA, several insurance companies, multiple law enforcement agencies, lawyers beyond counting, and more had been consulting Google Maps and booking nearby motel rooms.

  At least Joe hadn’t needed a map.

  He also didn’t have to worry about standing in line to meet Robert Beaupré. Upon entering the crowded, tension-filled GreenField lobby and announcing himself to the receptionist, he was immediately escorted down a hallway to a conference room and introduced to three men in suits sitting side by side at a table so massive, it could have doubled as a yacht club dock.

  Joe didn’t catch the names of the two outliers, lawyers both. He was more taken by the dull-looking man between them, Robert Beaupré Jr.

  No one rose upon Joe’s entering. Nor did the table’s width allow for handshakes. Instead, there were awkward head nods, gestures, and muttered greetings followed by Bobby Beaupré stating, “Mr. Gunther, I know you were expecting my father. So, I’m sorry you’ve made a long drive to end up with just the three of us.”

  He issued a self-deprecating smile before resuming. “Nevertheless, we’re hoping that I and my colleagues can answer at least some of your questions.”

  “Is your father refusing to meet with me?” Joe asked sternly, choosing his phrasing purposefully and sitting across from them.

  One of the lawyers put on a pained expression. “No. You can only imagine how busy he is right now, what with this latest setback. He was hoping you’d understand, as do we.”

  “I understand that I’m conducting a multiple-homicide investigation,” Joe countered, his voice hard, additionally irritated by the lack of a heads-up phone call. They’d obviously had enough time to compare schedules and book a conference room. “Your warehouse right now is a closed crime scene, where no repairs or business can take place. Surely, you’d like that property back as soon as possible, no? After the funerals of your employees, of course.”

  “Of course,” the other lawyer echoed, not to be left out. “But you can’t be suggesting that Mr. Beaupré is a suspect in all that. And if it’s facts that you’re after, the three of us may actually be better suited to supply them. Mr. Beaupré Jr., here, is in charge of operations, after all.”

  “I heard that,” Joe said, deciding to join them in ignoring whatever human costs they’d just suffered. Add that to the list of lost causes. “I also heard that your younger brother was the primary idea man and that the two of you avoid each other’s company. How does that work?”

  Bobby opened his mouth to speak, but once more, it was one of the others who answered.

  “How do any unfounded rumors have anything to do with your investigation, Mr. Gunther?”

  “How could it hurt to ask?” Joe shot back, satisfied that he’d chosen the right tone for the conversation. “Unless I’m to conclude that I’ve stepped into sensitive territory with my very first question.”

  “It just caught us unaware,” Bobby said, again with a smile. “We’ve been so knocked over by all this that we didn’t expect you to ask anything about the family. We’re all grieving, after all.”

  “You watch any TV or go to the movies, Mr. Beaupré?” Joe asked.

  Confusion creased Bobby’s face. “What? Sure. Some.”

  “Then you know from the cop shows that the first person we look at in a domestic murder is the spouse.”

  “Okay…,” Bobby responded doubtfully.

  “The situation’s much the same here,” Joe explained. “Whoever’s going after your company could be someone random, but chances are it’s not. These attacks speak of insider knowledge, revenge served hot and full of passion, and that’s been building for a long time.”

  Bobby’s face darkened. “And that therefore makes you go after my brother and me? What a crock.”

  One of the lawyers laid a hand on his wrist, which he angrily shook off, continuing, “People have died here, Mr. Gunther. Good people. People who have been with us for years. We’re not a bunch of corporate hacks trying to cut corners and milk the company. Our goddamned name’s on the sign outside. To say that we killed those folks because of a family squabble is nuts. You’re the guy watching too much TV.”

  “What’s the squabbling been about?” Joe asked, his own quiet voice now making Beaupré’s seem shrill.

  Bobby stared at him, transparently fighting the urge to leave the room.

  Joe placed his forearms on the table and returned the look. “You need to understand something, Mr. Beaupré,” he said. “In the middle of the circus that’s descended on this building, I’m the only one looking for a murderer. I don’t care about insurance issues, or regulatory loopholes, or civil and/or criminal lawsuits. I also don’t care about hurting your feelings. Just as you may be sensitive about your company being under siege, I am equally thin-skinned about being considered a nuisance by you and two lawyers claiming to care for the people who died in their employ.

  “I can get to my feet right now and leave the building, as you’d love me to do, but then I’ll make it my driving ambition to bring every resource at my disposal—municipal, state, and federal—in to finding out why you chose to be both huffy and coy today. Are you absolutely sure that’s the strategy you want to take with me?”

  The three men were momentarily silent. Joe imagined—rightly or not—that they’d been caught off guard by his unexpected aggression.

  “No,” Bobby said slowly. “I apologize.”

  “What I need to know,” Joe continued, at last softening his tone, “is what you folks are thinking at the top. Somebody is incredibly pissed off—way beyond having been fired for showing up late or stealing some frozen shrimp. This all speaks of someone feeling fundamentally betrayed. By now, your losses have got to be running into the millions. We have spent hundreds of hours going through your contract and personnel files, and have interviewed a majority of your employees, past and present. We’ve developed leads and have a couple of possible scenarios, but as with all complicated cases, the more intel, the better.”

  Joe was hoping his dramatic rendition of the bully becoming a team player would encourage Beaupré to cooperate, if not his two Dobermans.

  “What’s the scuttlebutt among the brass?” Joe rephrased his earlier question. “And, more pointedly, among the family?”

  Bobby was doing a good job of appearing hapless. “You keep implying my family’s involved. None of us are wilting violets. I admit that. And my brother and I have very different styles—from each other and from Dad, for that matter. He’s the one who encouraged that. But we work together, and have for decades. What you’re saying doesn’t make sense. Philip and I would’ve just walked away if this company wasn’t in our blood. And you’re right about Philip, by the way. The rumors have some truth, as usual. He is the creative one. He’s also the one who makes the most mistakes as a result. That’s his process, just as it’s mine to keep things organized and running smoothly. As kids, I made my bed every morning. Philip’s room looked like a rat’s nest. It’s just who we are. We may not be buddy-buddy. We never were. But we’re each part of what makes GreenField a success.”

  “Until now,” Joe said, nevertheless impressed by Bobby’s speech.

  Beaupré rejected the notion. “We’ll get past this,” he said forcefully, trying to turn the tables by pointing at Joe and saying, “Assuming you can do your job. To me, your being here now, throwing accusations at me instead of beating the bushes like you should, is looking like you’re frustrated by your own lack of progress. I would suggest you let us put the company back on its feet, while you get busy arresting whoever’s doing this.”

  Taking his own cue, Beaupré rose to his feet, adding, “In fact, come to think of it, don’t let us slow you down any more. Best of luck.”


  With that, he led the other two in a short procession out the door, leaving Joe in his seat, staring out the window.

  He wasn’t alone for long. The double glass doors to his right revealed a man of medium height, build, and appearance, dressed in a dark suit and sporting a close beard, who tentatively poked his head into the room to ask, “Are you the policeman?”

  His surprisingly squeaky voice prompted in Joe an instinct to respond in like language with something from Sesame Street. Willy Kunkle rubbing off. Again.

  He rose instead. “Yes. Joe Gunther. VBI.”

  The intruder’s face cleared. “Hi. Brad St. John. I’m the CFO here. I heard you were in the building.”

  Joe motioned him to the seat beside his, wondering what to expect next, and seriously doubting the serendipity of Brad’s appearance. “You must be a busy man right now.”

  St. John chuckled. “You could say that. You meet with Bobby?”

  “Yeah. He said your father-in-law was too busy.”

  St. John didn’t argue. “He is that. You can only imagine.”

  “I imagine lots of things,” Joe said in a neutral voice.

  The CFO smiled politely. “I guess that’s true. So, what’s your take on what’s happening to us?”

  Joe repositioned his seat slightly and crossed his legs. “That’s why I’m here, Mr. St. John. I wanted to ask you people the same thing.”

  The man waved one hand dismissively. “Please, call me Brad. And how did you fare with Mr. Beaupré Jr. and his minions?”

  “You knew about them?”

  “Sure,” he replied without guile. “We had a meeting about how to deal with you.”

  “We?”

  “Robert, Bobby, me, a few of the senior staff. That’s why Robert went missing and you got Bobby and the boys.”

  “And now you,” Joe filled in.

  Brad put on a slightly embarrassed face. “Yeah, well. I’m not really here.”