Occam's Razor

by Mayor, Archer

  “Occam’s Razor,” I muttered, remembering Reynolds’s words in a different context.

  “Exactly. But it ain’t going to happen, ’cause even if it weren’t his nature, Mullen does want the governorship. The point’s moot.”

  “So what’s he going to do?” I asked.

  She munched on a cookie. “He can’t bury it in committee or kill it legislatively. It’s too popular. Somehow or other, he’s got to make it his own. How is beyond me. He’s been putting in some late hours with his cronies, though. How did it go with Walter Freund?”

  “I think we shook him. He associated DNA with semen only, and maybe blood. I let slip at the end that it works with tissue also, and that we had a sample from under Brenda’s nail. When I left him, he was looking like he wanted to throw up. I also described the kind of knife we found in his bag as the murder weapon. That caught his interest.”

  “Good,” she said as the doorbell rang.

  We rose to take in the pizza, pour drinks, break out a bag of chips, and bring everything back to the living room, which was still being entertained by a silent television set.

  “Things back to normal between you and Jack?” I asked before taking a large bite.

  “Pretty much.”

  “Is something up?” I asked with my mouth full, struck by her distracted tone.

  She hadn’t begun eating yet and now looked at me squarely, as if bracing for a shock. “I got a job offer today—from Vermont StayGreen. They want me as part of their legal counsel.”

  My chewing slowed down. Vermont StayGreen was the state’s biggest environmental group. A powerful combination of gatekeeper and lobbyist organization, it appealed to all sorts of nature lovers, from those wandering the hills with sandals and a guidebook to the more combative, who liked bringing the battle to the Legislature’s door. They published books, periodicals, and pamphlets, organized grass-roots campaigns against everything from gas pipelines and condo developments to snowmaking ponds and nuclear energy—and, to be fair, in support of forest management, nature trails, municipal conservation projects, and a raft of other things—and had political and financial connections as far-flung and diverse as Greenpeace and the Sierra Club. Given Vermont’s cuddly image in the national consciousness, they had no trouble attracting a steady stream of backers.

  They were, despite their detractors, a major political force in the state.

  They were also headquartered in Montpelier.

  I swallowed what I had in my mouth half-eaten, sensing at last that all the issues Gail and I had been circling lately were about to be addressed, if in an unexpected way. “That’s quite an offer. What’s it entail?”

  “Be part of their legal staff. Maybe do some lobbying. A lot of travel.” She smiled halfheartedly. “Not to the Grand Canyon or anything. More like Washington and New York and places like that. Still, it’s a pretty big deal.”

  I wiped my fingers on a napkin and sat back, my appetite gone. “You must be feeling on top of the world.”

  “It is flattering. I didn’t commit myself one way or the other, though. There’re a lot of things to consider.”

  There was an awkward silence. The people on the screen yammered soundlessly on, looking like the chorus of voices in my brain—and just as effective.

  “The timing’s not bad,” Gail said. “I mean, not overall. I have to see this case through, of course. I did tell them that, and they said they’d taken that for granted. But I can’t deny, the SA job hasn’t worked out the way I’d hoped.”

  “Maybe you should run against Derby,” I suggested lamely, irritated with myself that now that the moment had come, I didn’t know what to say. While she was talking about a job, I kept thinking of us, although I knew that with time, we’d end up on the same page.

  She laughed politely and played out the game. “Yeah, right. No—he’s a little frazzled right now, but only because he’s nervous about being reelected. He’s so much better than Dunn was, it isn’t funny, but he’s the last to realize it. He’ll win in a landslide, and things’ll settle down. I bet in the long run he’ll become one of the best SAs this state’s ever had.”

  She thought a moment before adding, “He’s not the problem—it’s me. I think I got into this line of work for the wrong reasons. I’m not designed for it—all the God-like manipulations. It bothers me to cut a deal to avoid the cost of a trial, or to dismiss one person’s crime so we can go after someone else. I understand the rationale behind it. But it doesn’t feel right. And I’m not sure it does anything for the victims.

  “And there’s a glee to it that bothers me, too,” she continued, making me realize how heavy a burden she’d been carrying all this time. “We talk about nailing people or hanging them out to dry, like they were rabid animals. It reminded me of why I stopped coming to police department picnics years ago—I hated hearing the people you work with reducing the world to scumbags and losers and bringing down bad guys. It sounded like a bunch of nasty kids playing with lethal toys. Part of the reason I became a prosecutor was that I thought I’d be standing above all that, helping put things back on an even keel by looking at them in a compassionate, measured way.”

  She stopped to smile, presumably embarrassed by her own naïveté.

  I couldn’t argue against her. I’d never heard any prosecutor speak with that kind of idealism. In fact, it was usually disparaged as missing the whole point of the job.

  “Not very practical,” she concluded, as if reading my thoughts. “Derby’s made that pretty clear. I’m sure he kicks himself nightly for hiring me.”

  “I doubt it,” I said supportively. “He probably sees the same potential in you that you see in him.”

  She stared out the window without comment.

  “Are you going to take StayGreen’s offer?” I asked.

  “It’s probably the right thing to do,” she conceded. “It’s taken me a long time to get my feet back under me. I know going to law school and joining the SA’s office were mostly in reaction to the rape. I wanted to get even, I wanted to stop hurting, to become sane again. I even wanted to do something that would bring me closer to you—to what you did. I was feeling so disconnected from the world around me.”

  She looked at me again. “But that’s been changing. I’ve begun to care again about the things that interested me before—politics, the environment, people’s welfare—and it’s made me feel a little trapped by some of the decisions I made to survive in the short run.”

  We were at that watershed point again, but now I finally understood what had brought her there. “Like our living together.”

  It wasn’t phrased as a question, and as I said it, I took her hand in mine. “To be honest, it was always a little weird having you in the SA’s office, knowing you like I do. It was fun talking shop, and I was incredibly proud of everything you did. But deep inside, I kept asking myself why you were doing it—and when it might wear off. Just like this arrangement.” I waved my other hand toward the ceiling.

  She sat there, seemingly unable to speak.

  “It’s been a healing process for both of us,” I continued, feeling strangely at ease, “and with this StayGreen offer, it just brings us back full circle—the hippie and the cop. The Velveeta-man and the granola-head. The couple nobody can cook for, or explain to their friends. Let’s face it, we’ve been working against nature lately—way too conventional.”

  She laughed, if only feebly. “God, it feels good to get it out.”

  I kissed the side of her head, the smell of her hair so familiar.

  “You know,” she said, snuggling closer, “if I do take this job, it would probably mean spending most of my time in Montpelier, at least to begin with. I asked them about working from down here later, what with computers and all. They said that would be fine when the Legislature’s out—like having a branch office.”

  She tilted her head back to look at me. “A while ago, you said that the reason we worked so well together was that we gave each other lo
ts of space. You want to try turning the clock back a little—live apart like we used to, and see if we can’t sort this out? I want this new job to be a part of making life normal again—but I want us there, too.”

  I hesitated, wondering how much we should tackle at one time.

  But she seemed so much like her old self again. “Since we’re laying our cards on the table, I gotta admit, I have sort of missed having a place of my own.”

  She gave me a long kiss and then said, “I know. And I know this house was never really a home for you. But I’m going to hang on to it. Maybe you’ll like it better as a place to visit.”

  I let out a long, bottled-up sigh, stretched out on the couch alongside her, and hit the off button on the TV remote, plunging the room into darkness.

  The pizza would taste just as good cold.

  25

  THE GOOD NEWS WAS THAT BOTH THE MEDICAL EXAMINER and the crime lab eventually confirmed that everything we’d sent them connected Walter Freund to the death of Brenda Croteau. His DNA matched the tissue under her fingernail, minute traces of oilstone grit were identical to those found on his Bowie knife—and made matching the various wounds to the two knives that much easier—and the soiled clothes had been stained by Brenda’s blood.

  The bad news was that Walter Freund had disappeared, influenced, no doubt, by my all-too-clever conversation with him.

  A general be-on-the-lookout order was issued throughout the country and entered into the NCIC computer, and Freund’s background was analyzed for leads on his whereabouts. But no one I knew was holding their breath. We knew Walter would resurface in the long run—people with his habits always did—but we also knew our efforts would have little to do with it. Sooner or later, he’d rob a store, beat up a girlfriend, buy some dope from an undercover cop, or even run a red light, and he’d be back among us.

  None of which made me feel any better.

  At least as far as Gail was concerned, things improved immeasurably. She and Reggie McNeil worked out a proposal lessening his client’s charges at Walter’s expense—pending Owen’s full explanation of his role in Brenda’s death—and Derby was forced to admit that, Walter’s disappearance notwithstanding, this deal made him look a whole lot better than if he had crucified Owen and never given Freund a second’s thought.

  Which was just as well, since when Stanley Katz broke the news of the deal prematurely, Jack Derby was able to claim almost full credit. And at this point, with her future discreetly in her pocket and the two of us back on track, Gail couldn’t have cared less.

  Unfortunately, the hinge pin for success was Owen Tharp, and nobody knew if he’d play along.

  Gail and I drove up to the Woodstock correctional facility in early April to meet with Reggie and Owen and see if he’d help decide his own fate. Reggie had been spending weeks with him, revealing the evidence against Walter and telling him how Walter had manipulated him into sacrificing himself—trying, with time and effort, to wean Owen from his loyalty to the man who had killed his girlfriend and ruined his life. But according to Reggie, it had not been easy going.

  The room we met in was bland, bare, windowless, and small, adorned with a single table and a few chairs, two of which were already occupied by Reggie and Owen when we were ushered in.

  It was odd meeting Owen after all this time. The first and last time I’d seen him was in the middle of a snowstorm when we’d all been dying of hypothermia. Despite his importance in my life since then, he’d almost become an abstraction. Watching him sitting there now—pale, thin, and nervous—helped reduce all our machinations to a pathetically human level.

  Introductions were made all around. No one bothered shaking hands. Owen didn’t look like he had the energy for it anyhow.

  Gail placed a tape recorder on the table and depressed the record button, raising her eyebrows at Reggie. He shrugged his agreement without comment.

  Gail recited the time, date, location, and the names of everyone around the table and then asked Reggie if his client had been apprised of the reasons for this meeting. Reggie stated that was the case.

  It was then my turn to address Owen.

  “I’m sorry for all the mumbo-jumbo,” I began, “but with any luck, this’ll be the beginning of the end of this mess for you. They treating you all right in here?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Good. Would you like a smoke or something to drink while we’re doing this?”

  He shook his head.

  “Okay. We want to hear about your relationship with Walter Freund and how it led to what happened in Brenda Croteau’s home the night she died. Why don’t you start with Walter?”

  Owen’s eyes hadn’t moved from the tabletop from the time we’d entered the room, and they stayed there now. “We were friends. I thought he wanted to help me out.”

  “How?”

  “Just doin’ stuff. I have a hard time that way. I don’t see everything real clear in my head. He explained things.”

  “Like what happened to Lisa?”

  “Yeah—later.”

  “Long after she died, you mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How long? Months? Years?”

  “Years. He told me he didn’t want me to know at first, ’cause it wouldn’t bring her back, and he didn’t want to make me more unhappy. But he knew she’d been murdered all along, and he told me when he found out who’d done it.”

  “Is this what he told you, or what you still believe now?” I asked carefully.

  He shook his head. “I know what happened now. He lied to me. He killed Lisa to foul me up.”

  “Is this something you know for a fact? Or is it something that’s been told to you, and you think might be the truth?”

  I noticed McNeil getting restless, but Owen beat him to it, looking up at me, open and guileless. “I know what you’re thinking. I’m not too smart and I let people push me around. I know they all think I’m stupid, but I have a brain, and I see stuff, and I can figure things out. I see what Walter did. I believed him then, but I know he lied to me. He used me to kill Brenda like he’d use a car to run her down.”

  I was impressed. Reggie had done his work well. “Let’s focus on the period leading up to that. Walter told you he’d discovered that Brenda had poisoned Lisa’s dope. Did he say why she’d done it?”

  “Just that she was a crazy bitch—that Lisa had stolen her boyfriend from her once, and she’d wanted revenge. Walter made her sound like a real nutcase—a hooker, a doper, a blackmailer, a thief. He used all sorts of words to put her down. Made her sound like scum.”

  “How did the subject of killing her come up?”

  “We were getting pretty blown. That part’s a little fuzzy. I remember being in Walter’s office—that’s what he called it—and him asking me if the world wouldn’t be better off without people like her. Next thing I know, we were talking about how to do it. He talked a bunch about Lisa and how sweet she was. It really got me mad. I mean, I know it was wrong, but I really did hate Brenda then. Walter told me it wasn’t a one-shot thing with her, either—that she’d done this junk to other people. Like a bloodsucker. He kept asking me, what do you do to a bloodsucker?”

  He paused. He was back to addressing the table. “I don’t really remember going there—just standing in her kitchen door, hearing her yell at me. I accused her of killing Lisa, and she started calling me names—puttin’ me down like everybody does. But I kept hearing Walter in my head, too, telling me to shut her up. He told me she’d be like that, and he was right… It wasn’t till she hit me that I grabbed the knife. It was just lying there. And then she went down. And I ran.”

  “Hit you how? With her fist?”

  “No. She slapped me.”

  “Let’s back up a little,” I suggested. “If you went there to kill her, didn’t you have your own knife?”

  “I couldn’t find it. Walter gave it to me, but I didn’t have it in the house. I knew then I’d left it in the truck. But when I looked la
ter, it wasn’t there, either.”

  “And you have no recollection of how you got to Brenda’s house? You don’t remember driving there?”

  He shook his head.

  “Is it possible you were driven there by Walter?”

  He looked up a second time, briefly. “I don’t know. There are whole parts of that night that’re just gone—like they didn’t exist. I dream about it sometimes, but that doesn’t help either, ’cause the faces get mixed up. I have one where I’m hitting Lisa with the knife.”

  “In those memories, Owen—the real ones, not the dreams—how do you see Brenda? What’s she doing to protect herself?”

  “I dunno. Holding her hands up.” He shuddered suddenly. “I don’t like thinking about it.”

  “You’ve got to, though. You know you did this.”

  Reggie McNeil stirred slightly in protest and I nodded to him. “Owen, how much blood do you remember? Was it spurting all over, or just running out like it would from a cut?”

  “There was a lot of it. I don’t remember spurting.”

  “And when you left, was she still alive?”

  “She was still yelling at me, down on the floor.”

  “Yelling?”

  He equivocated. “Maybe not yelling. She was crying. She sounded real scared. The anger was all gone.” His voice cracked at that last comment, and he lapsed into silence.

  “Think back to the last memory you have of her, on the floor. Is she surrounded by blood? What does it look like on the floor?”