by John Farrow
He finds him at his desk when he’s escorted there by a rookie constable. He looks busy enough. His toast-and-jam has scarcely been munched.
“Morning, Émile. Have you solved all three cases yet?”
“Have you?”
“You’re the one with the huge rep, so I was hoping. Coffee?”
“Had mine, thanks. What’s on tap for today?” Cinq-Mars tests him. Till makes a gesture with his hands in front of his face which Émile fails to comprehend. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“First thing I got to do is extract this boot from between my teeth.”
Émile is willing to play along with the metaphor. “Who did the kicking?”
“Hammond.”
“He gets around.”
“You, too?”
“Kept my groin covered. Of course, I’m independent. A foreign national. A visitor. I’m not on anybody’s payroll and under no one’s authority. He has less freedom to lord it over me.”
“He’s got me greeting the parents this morning, when they land.”
“Addie Langford’s?”
“Pleasant job, huh?”
“The man’s a coward. It’s his case.”
“That’s why. He says. His time is too precious. Although he’s got time to kick me in the head and bitch to you. I’m not allowed to talk to you, by the way.”
“You accepted that?”
“I suggested he study the Constitution. That’s when he kicked me in the teeth again, warned me that the upcoming elections favor the incumbent mayor. With a new mandate he might have another go at me. Your mother-in-law won’t be around to bail me out. He’s right, too. After that he went to see you, I guess.”
“Sorry about that.”
“I could care less. An order from him becomes a de facto order from the governor if I put up a stink. He’s given me an order. Meet and greet the grieving folks. With Kleenex at hand, I suppose. I’ll do my job.”
“Hard duty,” Émile commiserates.
“I could wiggle off that hook, shift it to a subordinate, but hell, might as well be me. Anyway, better me on the ground to meet them than that slice of bacon.”
A perspective that’s not without merit. Émile’s impressed.
“What are you up to today?” Till inquires.
“Lying low, officially.”
“Unofficially?”
“Lying low,” Émile repeats.
“Which means what exactly?”
“Chief Till, you sound as though you don’t believe me?”
“Detective Cinq-Mars, where are you plunking down your ass right at this exact moment? On a park bench? Lying low as you say? Are you not in the office of the local police chief, a man, I presume, you’re forbidden to visit? What are you doing in his office?” Till answers his own question. “Testing him. How can you call that lying low?”
If he was required to rate this fellow on a scale that evaluated their compatibility to be cops in the field, Till was scoring high marks. Rather than being happy about that, Émile is growing nervous. Although he’s liking this guy, it’s too soon to trust him beyond his usual skepticism.
“I was hoping to make a social call,” Cinq-Mars admits. “I don’t mean this visit. I’m in your office because I hoped that you might make an introduction which would let me call on someone else. I’m presuming that the chief of police and the president of Dowbiggin are acquainted? Mutual cooperation has been necessary over time, I imagine, between your offices?”
Till requires a moment to let the request sink in. He even repeats it out loud. “You want me to introduce you, an outsider, a retired cop, to President Palmerich.” He checks his watch. “I’m off to the airport shortly. Can’t do it in person right away. I could pick up the phone. Set something up.”
“I’d appreciate that.” He suspects that a speed bump is coming.
“Ah, Émile, it’s my neck that’s being stuck out here.”
“You mean Hammond?”
“No, I mean the president of the Dowbiggin School. No one in the state sits in a more prestigious chair than the president of Dartmouth College, not even the governor himself. Dowbiggin is a giant step down from that, of course, but it’s still on the stairs. Between the two administrations, there is communication. There’s protocol that a guy in my position needs to observe. If I’m to introduce you…”
He lets Émile fill in the blanks. “You want to know if I’ll behave.”
“Something like that. I want to know what you’re up to, and … frankly … how you want me to handle the introduction. I’ll be doing you a favor, fine, on that basis I’m willing. Will I be doing Josh Palmerich a favor? Or myself a favor? He and I have good relations. I could set it up and tell him to watch out, to tread carefully. A warning, essentially. Or say that it’s in the school’s best interest to cooperate with you. I can even suggest that he trust you. Whichever. After the meeting, I want him to agree with my assessment. The question is, what should my assessment be?”
Till has given him more to think about than anticipated. He has a point. The chief’s primary concern is to protect an ongoing relationship with the president of Dowbiggin, and through him to the other powers in the state. He can do that whether Émile plans to be antagonistic or congenial, as long as no one is blindsided in the interview. In essence, Till is asking Émile to propose his strategy in advance of the conversation, then stick to it.
Of course, he may want to approve of his strategy first.
Émile is tempted to be tough on the issue of rape on campus with the college president. He anticipates a whitewash on that one, but if there is a line between those previous incidents and the current murders, then it must be drawn. He is also interested in establishing relationships in this town that may prove useful over the breadth of this case, so he has a decision to make.
“I’ll be gentle,” the visitor declares at last. “Our interests and the president’s are mutually beneficial. Everyone wants to find out who killed a Dowbiggin student, a member of the faculty, and a custodian. The institution has been desecrated. Only the truth can help it now. I’ll float your circumstances before him, Chief. Point out that your hands are tied. Talking to me is a way for the president to help us out, and himself out, before the troopers make a botch of it. You can’t go see him. You’ve been officially told to bugger off. I’ve been told the same thing but nothing’s official in my case. It’s a free country, even for a tourist. I can talk to anybody I want. Go ahead, Chief, invoke my history to the president, make me look good, then ask him to grant me leeway. If things go badly, if evidence turns up that’s harmful to Dowbiggin, I won’t turn him against you or me without first giving you a healthy heads-up and him a fair warning.”
Now it’s Till’s turn to trust him or not. As he mulls it over, Cinq-Mars gives him a modicum of further assurance.
“Listen, Chief, we have no choice. With Hammond on the warpath, you won’t be allowed to talk to the people you should be talking to, and I can’t let myself appear to be more than a blip on his radar screen. I won’t be riling anyone, let alone people in power. Not even Hammond if I can help it. Think of it this way. We’ll be using Hammond’s sour mood to help us get on track with others and that will assist us in working through the case. You have to love the irony. His attitude is our opportunity. His bad mood opens doors for us.”
That’s an argument Till can buy. He picks up the phone. Before dialing, he remarks, “I caught it, by the way. What you just did.”
“What did I do?”
“Made yourself necessary.”
That may be true, but Cinq-Mars doesn’t want him to be thinking that way, arousing suspicions. “Chief, we’re necessary to each other. That’s my take.”
“Let’s hope so,” he responds, rather sternly. The remark expresses a genuine expectation while also standing as a subtle warning.
Till dials.
* * *
Prior to convocation, the agenda for President Joshua Palmerich has been
hectic. The festivities require his time, as does the annual influx of key donors. Private meetings and public appearances abound. The sordid events on campus have complicated his schedule, and in advance of Émile’s arrival he made it clear that their talk will be brief. In his previous life, Émile could blow past such constraints by flashing a badge, but now he both recognizes and accepts the altered circumstances. For him to question someone these days, he must first negotiate the right to do so, then keep people onside throughout the interview. No bullying. Lucky to have the meeting at all, he’s prepared to make the most of his allotted time.
In being admitted to the president’s office, then, he’s surprised to find the man not the least abrasive. The contrary, he appears to be receptive to the intrusion. He comes across as remarkably relaxed for a man whose institution has been hit by three inexplicable murders.
“Needless to say,” Palmerich notes, although Cinq-Mars is thinking the opposite, that the point is worth making, “I was glad to receive Chief Till’s call. A good man. We’ve had opportunity to work together in the past.”
“Not to keep you, I’ll come to the crux of the issue,” Cinq-Mars responds. “Chief Till has been ordered off the case, to give the state troopers a clear run. That jurisdictional wrangle is largely political, governed more by ego than pragmatism. I don’t agree that it’s the best decision. I’m here in his stead and I will keep him apprised. In this way his office can work alongside the school and, hopefully, assist the troopers see this through to the right conclusion, and swiftly. We must … it’s delicate, how shall I phrase this?”
President Palmerich lightly taps his desk to allay his fears. He is not a naturally distinguished-looking man, in Émile’s opinion. He dresses well, and in keeping with his office his grooming is impeccable, and yet it’s not a stretch to imagine him running a small grocery store or a gas station. A bagginess to his skin, especially under the eyes, nurtures a wearied look that’s long-standing, as though it runs generations deep. The man’s designer glasses exude a contemporary fashion flair, his tie is silk and his watch an expensive timepiece. Then again, the curvature of his spine and a higher than normal pitch to his voice weakens the overall presentation. Something in his appearance seems off. He’s a man, Cinq-Mars surmises, who has survived on intelligence and dogged ambition throughout his career, not charisma.
“I spoke to Trooper Hammond yesterday at length,” Palmerich relates. “Again this morning. Stressful conversations, in light of the events. Given my association with Chief Till, I was hoping to speak with him today. That you’ve arrived as his emissary, or as his surrogate, is welcome, Mr. Cinq-Mars. The governor also called and advised me to work with Trooper Hammond—insisted, might be the better word—and I will. I lobbied for Chief Till, but if this arrangement, your presence, grants the university the benefit of both men and both departments, then I view that as a positive.”
“You understand, sir, that Hammond may take exception.”
Palmerich shrugs. “Neither the governor nor Trooper Hammond need know if you and I happen to discuss affairs of state. I confess, I did a quick Google search of your name. A famous police detective with a degree in agriculture, majoring in animal husbandry—which, I admit, is a new one on me—with a penchant for theology, one newspaper account stated, and spirituality. What a mix, Detective! How could I not agree to see you? Chief Till’s recommendation is enough for me, but I have to say that your credentials are both a curiosity and impressive, especially when it comes to incarcerating the wicked. Now, sir, how may I help?”
Cinq-Mars thinks he has to be wise in his approach to his first line of inquiry. “Incidents have occurred on campus previously, over the last year or two.”
“Over four years, I’m sorry to say. Do you think they’re related?”
“I’m not jumping to that conclusion, no. Yet the rapes cannot be ignored. You have far more knowledge about them than I do—I have none. Let me ask, do any of those events bear resemblance to any aspect of what happened yesterday, on or off campus?”
He summons a shrug that rises up through his torso. “Not to my mind. One or more of yesterday’s victims may have suffered a rape. I haven’t been officially informed of that. If so, that would be a connection. I’m not cognizant of any similarity, and certainly we’ve not had anything that violent.”
“Previously, no knives, no guns, no attempts to choke?”
“Two incidents were more violent than others to be sure, in terms of physical force and physical injury, but minus those particular aspects.”
While he’d love to isolate the murders from the rapes, that can only occur if they truly are unrelated. “Were any previous victims forced to dress up? Put on a costume?”
“To that I can categorically say no.”
“Was the clock tower involved in any of the previous incidents?”
“No.” Palmerich first looks at Émile, then away, then back at him with a concerned furl to his brow. “Actually,” he says.
“Are you serious?”
“No one was raped in the clock tower. But one victim, after the fact … I read her transcript … complained that she suffered inappropriate touching during a public visit to the tower prior to her rape. This was long before she was abused and it was deemed inconsequential. We have a winter festival. A festival tradition is to open the clock tower to anyone who wants to make the climb and enjoy the view. She didn’t issue a complaint when the incident took place. At the time she got mad and confronted her aggressor. The rape investigation brought it back to her mind; she mentioned it in passing in her deposition. She herself did not allege that the incident was connected to the rape, but it gave the police a suspect to track down and question. I forgot about it until this moment.”
“I’ll want to talk to her.”
“Chief Till will need to conduct the interview himself. I’m obliged to protect the victim’s privacy. Thank you, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For jogging my memory. Hammond brought up the rapes yesterday but by the end of our discussion, I believe he dismissed any possible connection. Now you’ve made one. Or at least, connected inappropriate touching to the tower.”
Cinq-Mars is not inclined to believe that he has. Overturning stones, to his mind. “Sir, it’s tentative. We’ll see how it plays out.”
“I understand. Nevertheless, Detective, you’ve demonstrated to me that this shadow investigation of yours may have merit.”
In returning his gaze, Cinq-Mars realizes that a slight disconnect that he’s felt from this man—what has been off—is attributable to a form of strabismus—his eyes cross. The man’s gaze is slightly askew: when he thought they were making eye contact they weren’t, and when he thought they weren’t they might have been. Recognizing that helps him to settle into the talk. Chief Till need not have warned him about alienating this man. He has no such intention, and decides to underscore their successful bond with a couple of easy requests before digging into a more difficult issue.
“I was hoping,” he begins, “to gain access to a few places on campus. The first would be Professor Toomey’s office. Feel free to have a security guard in the room with me. I promise to only look, not touch, and certainly not take anything away. I’ll leave that for Hammond. That said, I’d be happy to get into the room before him. I don’t imagine he’s been there yet.”
Palmerich’s nod appears to confer consent, although Cinq-Mars isn’t sure. Perhaps the president is waiting to hear what else he will request.
“As well,” Émile elaborates, “I’d like to visit Malory Earle’s specific workplaces. I won’t be talking to her coworkers, leaving that to Hammond. It would only confuse them anyway. My next request is undoubtedly more difficult. The clock tower remains cordoned off, I expect. In any case, it’s normally out of bounds and the entire seventh floor is restricted. I entered the tower yesterday, at its base—if anyone can say that being seven stories up is a base. In any case, I’d like to revisit, to make th
e climb to the top, to see what that might provide.”
Again, a noncommittal nod. Cinq-Mars continues on once more.
“Professor Toomey came to you from the State Department. Prior to that he was in something or other that was clandestine. Such as the CIA.”
“How did you know?” Finally, a reaction.
“I put two and two together,” Cinq-Mars tells him.
“An interesting computation. You’re close. I’ll say nothing more. Allow me to play this card: I can neither confirm nor deny that opinion.”
The two men share a smile.
“With that in mind, if there is anything, past or present, that strikes you as a red flag connecting his past to his murder, or to the other murders, then I hope you’ll share that information. With me, of course, but if you prefer, only with the police.”
“I understand. Nothing pops to mind, Mr. Cinq-Mars. I’m sorry to have to say this: We have to move this interview along.”