by John Farrow
“I can’t believe that any friend would do this,” Caro interjected.
“That’s not something that anyone anywhere wants to believe or can ever accept,” Émile points out to her. “Yet friends kill friends every day, and here’s a greater statistic: family members kill within the family. Let’s hope the case is resolved and the perpetrator is put away. The harsh reality is, no matter who did this—or how or why or what happened—you aren’t going to like what you learn. Right at this moment, you probably can’t imagine what has occurred. Prepare yourself for that. Prepare your friends. You can walk away, get on with your lives. You’re free to appreciate with fondness and sadness your good memories of Addie. If you trouble yourself to get to the bottom of what happened, then, when the truth comes out, that reality will haunt you for the rest of your days. You might never get over it. Be forewarned. Never say that a friend or a lover could not have done this. Feel free to hope otherwise, just never rule out any scenario or any person until you are dissuaded by irrefutable proof.”
He lets her absorb that off-the-cuff lecture. Émile, though, is sensing a sea change here. As though he’s rising to the challenge that she’s been outlining. While he may be articulating how things might go, and they might not go well, Caroline’s initiative has ignited a willingness to proceed.
“Truth is a bastard,” she quotes him.
“Expect that,” Cinq-Mars concurs.
He’s frightened her a little, enough to make her more tentative.
“I’ll give you an example,” the retired detective says. “This morning I heard the name Vernon. Ex-boyfriend.”
“No way.” Caroline fights him on this. “It wasn’t him.”
“We don’t need to make that judgment right away, do we?” he asks. “If he’s innocent, fine, what’s the problem? But consider. Ex-boyfriend may hold a grudge. Ex-boyfriend knows intimacies that even you do not. Ex-boyfriend was around Addie a lot in recent times and what did he see that did not seem important at the time, perhaps, or what did he overhear? Did Addie ever say anything about someone else to someone else that didn’t seem to matter at the time? Now it might. Ex-boyfriend was on the scene this morning, he’s the one who told us that a body had been found at the library. He may have had motive, he may have had opportunity, and failing that, he may possess critical secondary knowledge that hasn’t even occurred to him yet. I’ll guarantee you that the police will interview him. They’ll be aggressive with him, too. That’s how it has to be.”
She gets that. “Okay,” Caroline says, and asks, “What should I do?”
“Do? Don’t do a thing.” Cinq-Mars wheels his chair completely out from behind the desk, into the room’s center. “Take no action whatsoever. I want you to be safe. To take care. To avoid any situation in the future where you’re alone or unprotected until this gets figured out. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here. And yes, I do want you to be serious about that and not brush it off, Caro.”
“But I want to help,” Caroline protests. “I’m sure my friends do, too.”
He evaluates her level of seriousness. Her return gaze carries an intensity and resolve that’s unmistakable.
“One of the things you’ll be doing over the next few days is talking to Vernon. That’s only natural. Keep your senses wide open when you do. If the opportunity comes up, pick at his memory banks, search for anything that might have seemed amiss in recent days. It might be important. Approach any similar talk with anyone else with sensitivity and smarts. Assume nothing.”
They nod to each other, as if making a pact.
“As mentioned,” Émile goes on, “it’s your milieu. In the coming days, you can do two things. Think through every moment you’ve spent with Addie recently, and try to see what or who was lurking in the shadows, even when, perhaps, you weren’t paying attention. She had girlfriends. You know what I mean. You told the police that this morning. They told me. She had boyfriends—”
“You don’t think a girl did this!” Caroline objects.
“Actually, I don’t. Not by the way she was dressed, or dressed up. Also because that’s rare. But do you see what I’m driving at? I can’t rule it out. For a woman to be responsible might not be the norm, and it might not be politically correct in your mind, and it might be highly unlikely, but I can’t rule anything out without evidence. Do you see? Does Addie have a roommate?” Caro affirms that with a nod. “Not one of your friends who were over today?” A shake of her head. “The police will talk to her, too. You should, too.”
“She and Addie didn’t like each other much.”
“Even better.”
“Why better?” Caro asks.
“Not being close friends, the roommate will be less inclined to protect her. That makes her more inclined to speak freely. She’ll spill secrets. Such as, does she keep garter belts and nylon stockings in her bureau? She was wearing a pair when she was found. Are they hers? Or did someone dress her up? Ask Vernon. Did she ever dress up for him in garters and stockings? It’s an intimate question. He might tell you the truth then fib to the police. Or vice versa. Or the police might not ask. You see?”
She did see.
“When you ask him anything, think about what he says and how he says it. Is he embarrassed? Shocked? Mortified? Upset, because that provokes another thought or jealousy? You see?”
The phone rings. Before Émile can wheel back to the desk to pick it up, they hear Sandra in the next room answering. He figures it’s probably for her anyway, as nobody knows he’s in New Hampshire. Or it might be for his mother-in-law, if an old friend hasn’t learned of her illness.
“The point being, you’ll be talking to a number of people over the next few days. People who knew Addie. Many of them will be in pain, and that will be genuine, and a few will show you that they’re in pain where it’s not necessarily genuine. Some won’t know how to behave in this situation. They’re not faking, they just don’t know how to deal with this. Others won’t be in pain, and you’ll think that they’re aloof. Really, they’re mature enough not to fake it. Don’t hold it against them. Grief is not a club. If you think of different levels of grief as clothes on a line—emotional disarray at one end, cool and collected at the other—who, if anyone, is suspicious because their behavior strikes you as odd? Bear in mind, there’s a difference between odd and merely self-conscious. Among young people, you’ll get a lot of the latter. If someone who is emoting strikes you as odd, or someone who is placid also strikes you as odd, then take note. What’s that person’s connection, if any, to Addie? If you want to help the police, be alert to things like that. If you want me to help, tell me what you hear and I’ll vet it as best I can.”
They check with each other, and through fleeting eye contact reach an agreement. Their commitment goes unspoken: They are willing to do this.
“Uncle Émile,” Caroline asks, with a sly grin, “have you ruled us out, or are we on your list of suspects?”
He maintains a serious look. “You were with each other last night. Addie was already missing by then, you said, because she didn’t show up to join you. I don’t have a time of death as yet. I’m guessing that it wasn’t last night, but early this morning. You’re off the hook for murder, Caroline, but not entirely.”
“Seriously?”
“The truth is a bastard. You know your involvement. I don’t. I can believe you, but belief is not irrefutable proof. Not even a close cousin.”
Sandra is slouching in the doorway. She yawns, having been awakened from sleep by the telephone, and leans against the jamb. “Sorry to interrupt your confab. You look like you’re having a deep talk.”
Émile gazes at her, and wonders if she’s had news about her mother. “Who was on the phone? The hospital?”
She shakes her head. “A Chief Till? Do you know him? I guess you do, because he’s coming over.”
“Oh? Maybe he wants to share some news.”
“I don’t think so. Or that’s not the only reason.”
&n
bsp; The statement is curious. Émile awaits her explanation.
“I agreed to this on your behalf, Émile. Get ready to go back out in the rain. Chief Till is coming over to pick you up.”
“Why?”
“He wants you to visit a crime scene. A new one.”
ELEVEN
The ball cap he was wearing earlier in the day has a soggy feel to it now, and Émile Cinq-Mars selects another. This gray one was favored by his mother-in-law in her garden for many years. Although frayed and stained it’s flashy. Émile relaxes the band to make it fit and further bends the peak to deflect the rain. The orange neon stripe along one side is inexplicable to him. Caroline has no clue what it means either but comments that he’ll show up in a car’s headlights.
“Like a cat’s eyes. I won’t be able to prowl around in the dark all that discreetly.”
She’s smiling, a bit coyly. “Humble pie,” she says.
“Excuse me?”
“Chow down. You’re not always right, you know, for such a famous detective.”
“I’m not following.” She has a trick up her sleeve, he knows that much.
“You said, and I quote, not in your lifetime.”
He catches her reference. “I haven’t been invited onto the case yet, Caro. This Chief Till? He himself has already been booted off it. I don’t know what he wants with me. I’m sure this is a—” He can’t fill in the blank. He has no clue why Till is picking him up.
“Not in your lifetime,” she repeats in a singsong voice, not hiding her friendly mockery. “Anyway, I’ve already invited you onto the case even if the chief won’t.”
Silently, he agrees. True enough.
Chief Till doesn’t bother to climb out of his squad car when he arrives. The rain has let up considerably, enough to be called light, but he’s been soaked to the skin six times that day. He flashes his high beams and honks, as if picking up a high school prom date, and the former detective from Canada dashes out to join him.
They travel slowly off the farm property. Many of the flooded potholes are immense and in the headlights it’s impossible to differentiate deeper puddles from the shallow. Bouncing on the bad road, they find it difficult to talk without their words cracking on their lips. They only speak properly again when they’re out on the smooth highway.
“What’s up?” Émile asks. Tires swish on the wet asphalt. He enjoys that sound.
“You’ll want to see this.”
“Don’t be so sure. I retired for a bunch of reasons. Not only on account of old age and a pension.”
“Not what I heard.”
“You don’t think I had my reasons?”
“I don’t think you retired. In name only, maybe. Not fully.”
Do people tweet his every move now? Are bloggers on his case? He’s unaware of anyone’s scrutiny, although he does admit, “People keep saying that to me.” But by people, he means his wife.
“I checked you out again. More carefully this time.”
“There’s nothing to check out that’s current. Anyway, don’t believe everything you read on the Internet. Sometimes I think the whole apparatus is a medium for fanatics.”
“The earnest talk loudly, that is true. If you can call typing loud.”
Till is comfortable behind the wheel. He’s a man who enjoys being in a car in motion. They’re alike that way. This man could drive to Washington State tomorrow and be in heaven all along the route. Émile appreciates that and also the way he substituted the word earnest for his word fanatics. He didn’t call them wackos or nutcases or bozos. He comes across as a man who’s fair.
“Nevertheless,” the chief waxes on, “I can still do a tally. Take me. I’m mentioned on the Internet in about ten articles. Fluffy pieces. I could show you a picture of myself at a charity golf tournament even though I don’t remember showing up for it, let alone teeing off. But you. Your name comes up ten thousand times and your picture maybe a hundred times and not once are you holding a golf club. One time it’s a pistol in your hand. A couple of times you’re holding a fugitive by his shirt collar and in neither case was he smiling for the camera. You look ornery in those photos, Émile. Like you wanted to throw the miscreant off a cliff. Not your best side, I suppose. People on the Internet have their opinions about you, Émile. I like a man who’s willing to piss folks off. Seems like you managed to charm a few others.”
“Ten thousand? That’s another thing about the Internet. There’s a lot of repetition. A ton of duplication.”
“Oh yeah, and there’s this one snapshot where you got a shotgun across your forearm. Blood on your coat.”
“I think it was red wine.”
“Some pic, that was. You’ve put big-time people away, my man.”
“Never was it not a team effort. Did that not get written?”
“Bullshit. You go bowling and gangsters fall like tenpins. By the way,” Till ruminates, then his remark stalls.
“By the way what?” Émile asks him after a moment’s silence.
“That’s a flashy hat. You’re lighting up my interior here.”
Émile was hoping he’d change the subject, glad when he does. He takes the ball cap off and examines it and explains that it belongs to his mother-in-law. He repeats that she’s at the end of her life. Till confirms that he knows her and offers his sympathies. In the streetlights as they come to the edge of town, his cap back on, he glances over and studies the chief’s visage. He wonders if he’s a man he can trust, and if so, how far?
The officer projects a different look without his campaign hat, which has been tossed onto the backseat. Hatless, he comes across as even less assertive than usual, a man who’d be happiest sitting on a porch with his pooch. Uncle Mike. What a guy. Hat on, he still doesn’t look all that hard. He’ll never be mistaken for a boot-camp drill sergeant. Yet a sticker on his dash proclaims that he’s ex-marine. Semper fidelis. Always faithful. Forever loyal. A man of the corps to the core. Cinq-Mars wants to run that wordplay by him but minds his tongue. Having the hat removed reveals the chief’s sloped-back forehead, an uncommon feature, one that suggests a difficult birthing. He still has hair but it’s thin and gray. The result both softens his look and confers an innate intelligence. The latter thought strikes Émile as being counterintuitive—smaller head size, smaller brain—and even though he knows that that’s rarely true, the impression sticks.
“Do you have Indian blood in you, Chief Till?”
“Hope so. You?”
“Hope so, too. Bound to have, I suppose, back in time.”
“My bloodlines include the Green Mountain Boys, I know that much. Nobody comes out and says it but I’m convinced they lived the wild life. Cross-fertilized the population if you take my meaning.”
Driving through the rain-drenched night they both seem to be contemplating that frontier time.
Till breaks the silence. “We’ve got another one.”
“Another what?”
“Murder.”
This Cinq-Mars does not expect. Not in this sleepy collegiate town. “Don’t tell me. Not another student.”
“Nope. Thank God. Not a student and no correlation between the two as far as my officers on the scene can tell. Haven’t been there myself.” Till eases to a stop at a sign. No other traffic is visible, but he takes the opportunity to stay stopped as if a caravan of ghosts passes in front of them. He gives Cinq-Mars an intense look. “That is to say, no correlation at first glance. What a second glance reveals, that’ll be up to us to decipher.”
Cinq-Mars interprets his look, its intensity. Till is wondering if he can trust him, and if so, how far. They’re both sounding the other out. Cinq-Mars comes at him from a different angle. “What is it you’re not telling me?”
“Method to my madness, Émile. I don’t want to affect how you see things. Observe your reaction type thing. I’ll mind my peace for now.”
He finally drives on.
“Are you on this new case?” Cinq-Mars inquires. The way Till roc
ks his head from side to side appears deliberately noncommittal. The displaced Montreal detective thinks about that a moment before he concludes, “Then you haven’t told them yet, the troopers.”
“Haven’t got around to it, no. Hey, I haven’t been on the scene myself. Not yet. For now, I’m delaying reports from my officers until I’ve had my own go look-see.”
“How does this sound to anybody, Chief Till? You haven’t told the state troopers that there’s been another murder, yet here you are, telling me.”
Till is nodding as though he’s alone in the squad car, rummaging through private thoughts. “Put it this way,” he explains eventually. “I’m still in shock. I can’t believe how quickly they dumped me from the Dowbiggin murder, as if I don’t live and serve here or couldn’t possibly have anything to contribute to the investigation. Lightning speed. I also can’t believe how sparse their communication has been since then, as if we don’t have a gentleman’s agreement among colleagues. If they want to be as quick as a hare in getting rid of me, should anyone be surprised if I’m as slow as a tortoise in alerting them to a new case? Personally, I think not. I might take my own sweet time. We’ll have to see how that goes.”