None of which stopped me from dropping by Win Johnston’s home in Putney a few days following the joint assembly. He met me at the door with his characteristic gentle smile, and invited me to share a cup of coffee in his sunny kitchen.
“I had a small private bet with myself about when you’d come by.”
“Who won?”
He laughed and shoved both sugar and milk across the counter at me. “What would you like to know?”
“You free to talk this time?”
“To you? Confidentially? Absolutely. I would have been earlier than this if Mullen hadn’t turned into such a loose cannon.”
“Desperate man, desperate measures, I suppose. Which begs my first question: Did he know of or play a role in his brother’s activities?”
Win looked at me thoughtfully. “I would’ve told you about any actionable crime I’d discovered. I told you that. But basically, I’ve reached the same conclusions you have. I think Danny killed Resnick because he went over some kind of edge. Maybe fraternal competition, maybe he just wanted to show he could make a big decision on his own. We’ll probably never know. As for Mark being aware of Danny’s other illegal activities, I’m sure he was. Danny was Mark’s cash cow, and they had to’ve both been in on it. But they were careful, neat, and organized—until Danny cracked.
“Meaning,” he added as he lifted his mug to his lips, “I don’t have one shred of proof.”
“I’m guessing Mark ripped off the East Calais grocery store twenty-five years ago and then ran over Ellis Hastings during the getaway. Am I right?”
He nodded. “Mark and Danny both, with Marcia in attendance. It started as a dare, according to her, but after the hit-and-run, they were instantly in over their heads. It was a watershed event in several ways. It broke up the romance between Mark and her, cemented the bond between the two brothers, and saddled all three of them with a secret that worked like a cancer on them forever after. From starting out as three teenagers on a lark, they ended that night as three co-conspirators for life. Only this last time, it was Mark who went over the top, fighting too hard to become governor. That’s what forced Marcia to step forward.”
“Why so late in the game?” I asked.
“You should know. She only made up her mind after you had that little chat with her. Ticked me off when I heard about it, given all the time I’d wasted on her. You must have a knack with the ladies.”
“Not likely.”
He shrugged. “Well, you did with her. As long as Mark was speaker, doing good for the state and its people, Marcia could justify keeping silent. The statute of limitations for the hit-and-run had long since passed, Mark was highly regarded, and just between you and me, I don’t think Marcia minded the life of a kept woman, especially since she didn’t have to do anything to earn it.
“But then things went off track. Danny was implicated in the Resnick killing, which Marcia didn’t have a hard time believing, and Mark started obsessing on the governorship. The more driven he became—through the primary and the general election—the more she began to doubt that she should stay silent. Shortly after you dropped by, she supposedly called Mark and pleaded with him to drop out. I guess he really let her have it, calling her a self-serving bloodsucker and all sorts of other stuff. She’s a pretty religious woman, probably as a result of that night, and she took it pretty hard. She did a lot of thinking, tried contacting him several more times—he wouldn’t even talk to her—and finally, stimulated by something you’d said to her, she called me. What you saw under the dome was the end result.”
“So she was ready to spill it all?”
“Yup, and obviously Mark believed her. She’d left him a final message about what she was going to do. He called her bluff and lost.”
“You think this story won’t leak out somehow?” I asked.
“Only you, me, and Marcia know the truth. The deal with Reynolds was that not even he could be told. His job was to appear in the gallery, gesture her in, and benefit from the end result. It was a show of blind faith on his part—and the only rabbit he had in his hat, anyhow. To this day, he has no idea what it was all about, or even who she is, and I’ve told him not to bother digging.”
A long silence fell between us as we each lapsed into reflection.
“Amazing thing, this thirst for power,” I finally said.
“Yeah, and you can bet it’s still alive in Mark. He’ll be starting from scratch, but I’ll guarantee you he’ll be running for something again soon—it just won’t be governor.”
He smiled suddenly. “Rumor has it you’ve gotten ambitious, too.”
I made a face. “Yeah, I suppose so. I’m not real comfortable with it yet. All I’ve done is apply—I still haven’t heard back. But I’m not sure I’m up for a whole new organization, anyhow—new colleagues, new bosses, new routine. I’m feeling like a pretty old dog right now. ‘Nervous’ might be a better word.”
“You’ll be okay. I think it’ll be good for you. I know you’ll be good for them.”
It was a nice thing for him to say—typical of the man. But as I drove back to Brattleboro later that afternoon, my doubts lingered on, both about the job and my motivations for wanting it. I had a pretty good idea how VBI officers were going to be treated by every other law enforcement agency in the state. If ambition was in fact what was fueling me, then the flak I fully expected to encounter might end up being categorized as just deserts.
I had cast the die, though, so time would tell. To that degree, things were pleasantly out of my hands.
But I hadn’t forgotten the condition I’d set to Dave Stanton, and while I had no idea what Willy Kunkle might say, I was determined to make him the offer.
The timing had to be right, though, for both of us.
I wasn’t going to approach him at work. That seemed totally inappropriate. And that night, as I fine-tuned my woodworking equipment and honed my collection of chisels, I realized that part of my caution stemmed from the consequences of a possible rejection. If he turned me down, I’d be forced to reconsider my own course of action, and by now, almost guiltily, I was beginning to look forward to the challenge.
Around ten, I gave in, killed the lights, got in my car, and drove across town to Kunkle’s house. It was snowing gently, not too cold, no wind at all—a perfect winter evening. A soft and elegant coat of pure white was draped over everything horizontal, including the tops of all the outermost tree branches. The snow glistened in my headlights as if salted with flakes of mica.
No lights were on at Kunkle’s, which was unusual for a night owl like him, but the surprising explanation was parked in his driveway. Nose-to-nose with his own beaten-up Ford was another car, also covered with snow, making the house look like any other average young couple’s.
The car was Sammie’s.
I drove by without stopping. My conversation could wait, and if this sign was any evidence, it might turn out to be easier than I’d thought.
If you enjoyed Occam’s Razor, look for The Marble Mask, eleventh in the Joe Gunther series.
The Marble Mask
“JOE. YOU STILL THERE? TALK TO ME, BUDDY.”
I didn’t open my eyes. It was so dark I felt if I did, more light might fall out than enter, sapping what little energy I had left. I remembered having the same sensation once as a kid, when my brother Leo and I had hidden in one of my father’s grain boxes in the barn, closed the cover over us and shut out all light and air. Lack of oxygen wasn’t the issue, though—we were out of there, pale and laughing too loudly, long before suffocation became a threat. It was darkness that had defeated us—invasive, all absorbing, reaching in through our wide open eyes to extract whatever was keeping us alive. Squeezing my lids shut had been like hanging onto a cliff edge with my fingertips.
Which paradoxically made me wonder if suffocation could be a problem here, entombed as I was. Certainly I felt sleepy, which I’d heard was one of the signs, but then that counted for cold, too, and God knows I was cold.
“Joe? We need to know if you’re still okay. Give us an indicator at least—hit the transmit button a couple of times if you don’t feel like talking.”
I really didn’t. I was talked out—talking to them, talking to myself. I wasn’t even sure where the radio was anymore. I’d shoved it under my coat when I’d pulled my arms out of the sleeves to turn my parka into a thermal straight jacket and better preserve my body heat. Besides, assuming I could find it, I doubted my fingers could operate the damn thing. That was probably why they’d told me to just hit the transmit button—they were guessing I was almost gone.
I thought about that for a moment, which was no mean feat in itself. My mind had been wandering for hours, easily bringing up images of my parents, life on the farm, Leo, times during combat I’d thought were the coldest a man could endure.
Until tonight.
But pondering the here and now was both a challenge and a bore—an impediment to more pleasant things. The vague memory that I hadn’t lost the radio at all, but was still holding it in a numb and senseless hand, barely caused a flicker of concern. I was far too busy leafing through my life’s album, evoking sunny, warm, open places.
And pictures of Gail.
I saw her above me, straddling my hips as I lay on the floor, her eyes narrowed, her mouth open just slightly. There was a faint shimmer of sweat on her upper lip as she raised her arms slowly, smoothly, and stripped off her T-shirt.
“Joe? It’s Willy. Hang in there, pal. You croak, they’ll nail me for sure. Don’t be so God-damned self-centered.”
What a guy, I thought—always the right word at the right time. What must his parents have been like?
I tried retrieving that last image of just seconds ago, remembering only that it had been of something pleasant and warm. I was beginning to feel warm again myself, in fact. At long last.
“Won’t be too much longer,” Willy resumed. “They say the storm’s almost over—at least enough to try another sortie. Give us some kind of signal, though, will you? This playing coy shit is driving me nuts.”
He’d always been an impatient man—always in a hurry and with nowhere to go. Not like Sammie, for example, equally driven but headed straight up the professional ladder.
Gail was ambitious, too, although a lot more complicated—one of the reasons we no longer lived together. Not that the love could be diminished—no matter the test.
I furrowed my brow, or thought I did. Sam and Willy and Gail and I were becoming blurred in my mind. Maybe there were similarities I’d never glimpsed before—he and I sort of stuck in our ways, the two women either using us as anchors, or fighting the pull of our inertia.
Surely there had to be more to it than that.
The radio spoke again, sounding like the last man to enter a noisy, crowded room—too far off to be understood. And I had too much to ponder anyway.
Let it go, I thought. Let me be.
About the Author
Over the years, Archer Mayor has been a photographer, teacher, historian, scholarly editor, feature writer, travel writer, lab technician, political advance man, medical illustrator, newspaper writer, history researcher, publications consultant, constable, and EMT/firefighter. He is also half Argentine, speaks two languages, and has lived in several countries on two continents.
All of which makes makes him restless, curious, unemployable, or all three. Whatever he is, it’s clearly not cured, since he’s currently a novelist, a death investigator for Vermont’s medical examiner, and a police officer.
Mayor has been producing the Joe Gunther novels since 1988, some of which have made the TEN BEST or MOST NOTABLE lists of the Los Angeles and the New York Times. Mayor has also received the New England Booksellers Association book award for fiction.
Find him online at www.ArcherMayor.com
Also by Archer Mayor
The Joe Gunther Mysteries
Open Season
Borderlines
Scent of Evil
The Skeleton’s Knee
Fruits of the Poisonous Tree
The Dark Root
The Ragman’s Memory
Bellows Falls
The Disposable Man
Occam’s Razor
The Marble Mask
Tucker Peak
The Sniper’s Wife
Gatekeeper
The Surrogate Thief
St. Albans Fire
The Second Mouse
Chat
The Catch
The Price of Malice
Red Herring
Tag Man
Paradise City
…And Don’t Miss
Paradise City
A Joe Gunther Novel
By New York Times Bestselling Author Archer Mayor
Out in October 2012, from St. Martin’s Press
Find Archer online at: www.ArcherMayor.com
Preorder soon at www.us.macmillan.com
Copyright
This digital edition (v1.11) of Occam’s Razor was published by MarchMedia in 2013.
If you downloaded this book from a filesharing network, either individually or as part of a larger torrent, the author has received no compensation. Please consider purchasing a legitimate copy—they are reasonably priced and available from all major outlets. Your author thanks you.
Copyright © 2012 by Archer Mayor.
ISBN: 978-1-939767-09-7
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Errata
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Also by Archer Mayor
Lt. Joe Gunther of the Brattleboro, Vermont police force has a serious problem: in a community where a decade could pass without a single murder, the body count is suddenly mounting. Innocent citizens are being killed—and others set-up—seemingly orchestrated by a mysterious ski-masked man. Signs suggest that a three year-old murder trial might lie at the heart of things, but it’s a case that many in the department would prefer remained closed. A man of quiet integrity, Lt. Gunther knows that he must pursue the case to its conclusion, wherever it leads.
Also by Archer Mayor
Seconded to the State’s Attorney’s office, Lt. Joe Gunther is in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom investigating a minor embezzling case. It’s a pleasant distraction, and a chance to reconnect with old friends, but when a house fire reveals itself to be arson, compounded by murder, Gunther can’t help but investigate. Suddenly, he finds himself enmeshed in a web of animosity between put-upon townspeople, the state police, angry parents and members of a reclusive sect. Murder follows murder, yet no one seems to be telling Gunther the whole truth—not even his childhood friends—and truth is what he desperately needs if he’s to stop the killings.
Also by Archer Mayor
When the body of a fast-living young stockbroker is found in a shallow grave, suspicion first falls on a cuckolded policeman. Lt. Joe Gunther investigates the increasingly bizarre details of the crime, but finds that he’s too far behind events to prevent a second murder. Indeed, whoever is responsible always seems to be a few steps ahead, as if there’s a leak on the force. Sweltering August heat does nothing to calm the increasingly agitated town selectmen, who demand results.
Also by Archer Mayor
When a reclusive market gardener’s death proves to stem from a 20 year-old bullet wound, Lt.
Joe Gunther is presented with a very cold homicide to solve. But who was the victim exactly? A deeply private man eking out an ascetic existence from a hardscrabble mountain field, Abraham Fuller was virtually unknown to his neighbors, in the manner of someone pursuing more than mere solitude. The discovery of a duffle of unmarked bills and a body buried in the garden patch suggests that Fuller had motives beyond misanthropy. Nor is it such a cold case either, as someone seems willing to kill to ensure that old secrets remain buried.
Also by Archer Mayor
Gail Zigman, town selectwoman and Joe Gunther’s companion of many years, is raped, and the detective finds himself caught between the media, local politicians, and a network of well-meaning victims’ rights advocates as he tries to put his own feelings aside and follow the trail of evidence.
Every lead seems to point to a single, obvious suspect, but is the evidence too perfect? Risking his friendship with Gail, the respect of his peers, and his own life, Lt. Gunther keeps digging, hoping to find out if the man they have in jail is rightly there, or if the evidence against him is tainted—"fruits of the poisonous tree."
Also by Archer Mayor
A brutal home invasion shocks Brattleboro’s small Asian community, but no one’s talking. Undeterred, Joe Gunther digs deeper and discovers a cross-border smuggling route carrying drugs, contraband, and illegal aliens into and out of Canada. Operating below the radar for years, competition between underworld rivals is bringing it into the light with deadly consequences. International jurisdiction is a complicated thing, and Gunther will have to collaborate with the FBI, the Border Patrol and the Mounties in the pursuit of justice.
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