Perish the Day

by John Farrow

  “What caught your attention?”

  “Nothing. Yet. Except. Mentioned Dowbiggin. Me. I wanted. To call out. Like. A preppy. Idiot. That. I go there. But. Restrained. Myself. They mentioned. Meeting up. At cocktail party. Donors’ bash. They call it. Around now. This time. Of year. Lots of parents. Alumni. Arrive in town. Thought. Nothing. About that. Dried my hands. Under. Hot air. Machine. Went back. Out. To terminal. Took a seat. Stared into space.”

  “What changed?” Cinq-Mars inquires.

  Vernon reports that the three men came out of the room as they went in. “Separately.”

  “Separately,” Cinq-Mars repeats.

  “No contact. Don’t. Acknowledge. Each other. They’re buddies. Going to. Same party. Soon. But. Outside. Men’s room. They don’t know. Each other. Anymore. I am. Committing. To. A life. Checking people out. Right?”

  “That’s right. You’re committing to a life as a spy. Your curiosity was aroused. You kept an eye on them.”

  “For all I know. Could be. Toomey testing. Me.”

  “I see. And?”

  Two men took separate cabs into Holyoake without saying good-bye to the other, and the third rented a car, without offering a buddy a lift even though they were going to the same small town. A village, in fact.

  “Strange enough,” Cinq-Mars agrees.

  “Toomey thought so. I told him. He got excited. Wanted to go to. Party. Check them out. And. He did.” To be in on the action, Vernon arranged for a friend to bow out of serving at the party and to suggest Vernon as his last-second replacement. “That way. I can. Point out. The three guys.”

  “And?”

  “Toomey. Impressed. Said they. Up to something. Went out of. Their way. Not to be. Seen together. Toomey said. One man was sick.”

  “The man you mentioned.”

  “He meant. Sick. Like mentally.”

  “How did he know?”

  The boy manages to approximate a shrug. “Recognize. He said. To me. Evil. When it stands. Beside you. In the room.”

  “Vernon,” Cinq-Mars asks him, and takes a deeper breath, “did you get their names?”

  * * *

  He gave him their names, but Vernon dipped and faded badly after that. A nurse arrived, then the boy’s physician came in and ushered the men out. “He needs rest.”

  “I need five more minutes,” Cinq-Mars protests. “Doctor, this is a multiple homicide investigation, it’s important.”

  A sigh, and a decision. “If you wait outside for ten minutes I’ll give you three. Maybe. We’ll see. Go easy on the poor kid.”

  Till, Hammond, and Cinq-Mars wait in the quiet corridor.

  “We have enough, don’t you think?” Till remarks.

  Hammond agrees. “Names. What more do we need?”

  “This and that,” Cinq-Mars attests, and declines to be more forthcoming.

  They wait twenty minutes before they’re permitted to return and take up their positions as before. The boy has more color in his face. His body is relaxed. A different drug or a fresh dose has come to his aid.

  “Pain. Killer,” he says. “Won’t. Let me. Press my own button. Age discrimination. My opinion. They think. I’ll overdose.”

  His voice seems more fluent, and more clear.

  “Vernon,” Cinq-Mars begins, once again with his forearms on the edge of the mattress, leaning in close. “I’m sure that Trooper Hammond has already asked you this question. Where were you the night that Addie was murdered?”

  “You think it was me? Still?”

  “Actually, I don’t. That doesn’t particularly matter because I don’t know who did. Which means, everybody in this room and beyond this room, including these guys, including you, has to account for their whereabouts. I know where I was. I’m the only person alive whom I’m pretty sure didn’t do it.”

  He’s satisfied with that approach. “Saw Addie. Around seven. For ten minutes.”

  “Where?”

  “Lincoln. Downstairs. We had a quick coffee. Quick because. She was half finished. When I got there.”

  “What were you meeting about?”

  “Not planned. Bumped into her. Seemed nervous. New boyfriend. I figured. Didn’t want me there. We drank coffee. Addie took off.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “Upstairs. I stayed down.” They can feel his disappointment from that time. “Didn’t want her. To think. Stalking.”

  “Okay. Did you notice anything unusual at all? Maybe regarding her appearance, other than nervousness? Did she seem distracted?”

  He thinks about it, not coming up with anything. “Same.”

  “And why where you there again? Were you hoping to bump into her maybe? People do that. Pretend a meeting is accidental. Were you stalking?”

  This time, Vernon is reluctant to answer the question. “Didn’t want. Meet her. Dumb. But. I had a job. Interview. At the Lincoln. Next day. In the morning. There. Night before. Get a feel for the place. To help imagine. The interview. Rev up.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “Secret stuff.”

  “Who with?”

  “Don’t know. But. Secret.”

  “Who set up this meeting?”

  “Call. Came in. I assume. Professor Toomey. He trained me. I’m graduating. Call comes in. I guessed. Through him.”

  “But you didn’t ask him about it?”

  “I did.”

  “What did he say?”

  That reluctance again, and the boy casts his eyes around the room once more.

  “Vernon, Professor Toomey is deceased. The secrets the two of you shared must become public knowledge, at least privileged knowledge among these officers, if we’re to track down his killer. You want that, right? To track down his killer? Addie’s, too?”

  “Sure I do.”

  “Then let’s get on it. What did he say?”

  “Nothing. Didn’t get the chance.”

  “But you were talking to him.”

  “Not. Talking. We had. A method. To commun—icate. Part of. Training. We exchange. Messages. Regular basis. He said. Do that. So the process. Second nature. Learning. How to. Disappear. On people. So. They won’t think twice. We have a tree. On campus. Down by river. In the woods. Put messages. In the bark. That’s how we. Do it. Communicate.”

  “I see. You asked, in this tree bark, if Toomey was behind the job interview, do I have that right?”

  Vernon affirms that with a slow blink.

  “He never answered you? Did you get any message from him after that?”

  “Yeah. Not related. Hypothetical. Test case. Just an exercise. In code.”

  “What about after Addie’s death? Did you communicate?”

  “No. Missed morning message. Due to. Her death.”

  “Picking it up or dropping it off?”

  “Pick up.”

  “You were supposed to pick up a message early and instead you picked up a hypothetical message later on. Vernon, did you write Breached Run!?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a message. It means nothing to you?”

  He shrugs, although the movement causes him to wince in pain.

  “Maybe it was meant for you. If a message was left in the tree trunk that said, Breached Run!, what would you have done?”

  He gazes back at his inquisitor without comprehension. “Assume. Found out. As spies. Hypothetical. Test. Stop messages. Run. Maybe. Probably. If that was. The instruction. Yeah.”

  “You were late for a pickup in the woods. That’s what we know. When you did pick something up, it was nothing germane to what’s happened. That’s what we know, right?”

  He nods slightly, blinks an eye.

  “Did you know that Addie was in line for a job interview?”

  He looks up, his brow knitting over a lack of comprehension. “No. Who with?”

  “A patron. Apparently, it was also a secret. Maybe it was the same job you were going after. Maybe you were in competition. Maybe she knew that and
maybe she knew that you didn’t. Do you think she might have been nervous when she met you because of a job interview? That she might have been nervous the same way you were nervous?”

  “Could be,” he admits. “Don’t think so.”

  “Think back to her appearance. You suspected she might be meeting someone because she was nervous. Could you have thought that because she was dressed up for an interview? Is that what made you think that way?”

  He thinks it through, and after a few moments his chin begins to nod. “Yeah. Looked nice. Extra makeup. Nice blouse. Blouse. Not shirt. Noticed. She showed. Hint.”

  He pauses longer than usual, repeatedly swallowing but declining more water.

  “A hint?” Cinq-Mars presses him.

  “Cleavage. Thought. Dressed for hot date.”

  “You’re a young guy, you’re allowed to notice a little cleavage. Maybe you’re supposed to notice. I’m not clear anymore on what’s appropriate.”

  “Jewelry, also. Forgot. She wore big. Necklace.”

  Cinq-Mars takes out his cell phone and starts tapping buttons. He shows him a copy of the necklace she was wearing when her body was found.

  “This one?”

  Vernon says, “Yeah. That one.”

  “Before she was dead, she was wearing this?”

  “Yeah.” The boy is confused by the question, and notices that the two uniformed officers appear baffled.

  “Did you ever see her wearing it before?”

  “No. Afraid a boyfriend. Gave it to her. Didn’t want. To ask.”

  Cinq-Mars needs a moment to reconstitute his thoughts. In the interim, a nurse appears in the doorway, set to shoo them on their way. Hammond, seated in his chair, plants an authoritative hand in the air to stop her. He doesn’t bother to even look in her direction. In the face of such disdain, she hurries off, no doubt to fetch the doctor.

  “Did Addie want to be a spy, too?” Cinq-Mars asks him. The query is out of the blue. The confluence of the two young people entertaining job offers, both in the library, possibly, and both with a person or persons unknown, prompts the query. They were both enrolled in a school for international studies, where many students were interested in diplomacy. Among those, might not a few have been interested in something more exciting? Conversely, both Vernon and Addie may have been guided to meet with the same person for different jobs entirely, or different reasons entirely.

  The boy seems flummoxed. “Never said.”

  “Did you ever? To her?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then?”

  He shrugs. He sees the possibility. “Addie. Wild girl,” he acknowledges. “Very wild. Except for drug thing.”

  “What drug thing?”

  “Never did any. Stayed clean. As a whistle.”

  “Wild enough to be interested in spy craft, like you. Not so crazy as to do drugs.”

  “She made. A vow. To her mom. Help her through. Dowbiggin. She stays clean. She held up. Her end.”

  “Okay. Vernon,” Cinq-Mars encourages him. “You’re doing great. We’re almost done here. Just a few more things. Where else were you that night, after seeing Addie?”

  “The guy I said. Like he had chemo?”

  “Yeah, sure. What about him?”

  “Saw him. Coffee shop on New Hampshire Avenue. Just hanging. I didn’t want. To talk. To anybody. Interview. To psyche up for. But. Didn’t want. To be alone. Either. Had coffee. Read a mag. Saw chemo guy there.”

  “From a year ago. And?”

  “There awhile. Like me. From nine. Or ten. Stayed after. Midnight. Followed him out. Then.”

  “Why, Vernon?”

  “Just. Practicing.”

  “Practicing?”

  “Spying.”

  “You spied on him. What happened?”

  “Went to Holyoake. Inn. Looked inside. He chatted. Hotel night guy. Then went up. I went back. To my place. To bed. Until morning.”

  “Okay. Good. About the morning. Why were you on campus when Addie was discovered?” He knows why, but needs to see if Vernon can step his way through this as naturally as any man could who’s telling the truth.

  “Told you. Interview.”

  “It was to be on campus?”

  “At Lincoln, yeah. I said. You. Are. Cross-checking me. Why? I told you. The truth.”

  “It’s an old habit, Vernon. Sorry. Where at the Lincoln?”

  “Ground floor. Main entrance. At first.”

  “At first?”

  “Got a text. Switched. To basement room. Where sculptures. Are.”

  “Same place you were with Addie the night before. How long were you there?”

  “About an hour. Second text. Police on campus. I should go. To seventh floor. It said. Death @ Dowbiggin. Find out. What’s going on. I took it. As a test.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Went to the sixth. Seventh is segregated. Found out. Female student. Dead. Clock tower. Contacted Caro. Heard. Addie missing.”

  “You were being set up, did you know that?”

  “What? Do you mean?” He’s wide-eyed now. “What do you? Mean? Set up?”

  “You were supposed to run. Your whereabouts puts you on and about the scene of the crime, planning to go to a meeting which you’d never be able to prove was anything other than a fiction. Then you were supposed to go to your communication tree—to run to your mentor, as it were. Also, to keep up your daily habit, you were supposed to be on time—and there you were supposed to read a signal that said, Breached Run! And you were supposed to run, Vernon, because that would have contributed greatly to your guilty demeanor. Lucky for you, you never read that message. Your balls would’ve been in a vise if we had to pick you up in Boston. Problem is, Toomey went to the tree before you did, and instead of getting a message from you, he got a message intended for you. You were supposed to run, Vernon, thereby confirming you to be a likely suspect for the murder of Addie Langford.”

  The doctor is in the doorway.

  “Failing that, partly because the police let you go, you were picked up on a busy street then dropped out of a car to prove, to cast an aspersion at least, to incriminate you, to show that you consort with the wrong people on a semiregular basis. The specific people who did that didn’t even know why. They were following orders. They didn’t count on a couple of brave young women to be on their tail and then the local cops.” Cinq-Mars drops his voice to a whisper. “Do you want to help us out?”

  Vernon Colchester nods. He has something to say first. “Sir.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Virtual. Spy. Exercise. I have. Safe house. Place to go. If. Toomey. Simulates trouble. I would not run. Like you said. To Boston.”

  “And that was where?”

  “House of. Malory Earle.”

  Chief Till can’t help himself. He whistles.

  The doctor announces his presence and intentions. “Guys.”

  Hammond says, “My God. I hate to contemplate what would’ve happened to you there. I’d have hung you by now. Found a stand-in for your trial after the fact.”

  “The sickly-looking guy,” Cinq-Mars inquires, “that night at the coffee shop, what was he doing all that time? Like you, reading, drinking coffee?”

  “Talked. Lots of people. Flirting. With baristas. People. Students. Talked politics. Sports. School. Stuff.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Now play along, okay?”

  Cinq-Mars whispers a plan to the boy. He appeals to the spy in him. Vernon nods consent to his part.

  “Trooper Hammond,” Cinq-Mars instructs in a louder voice, “arrest this man for the murder of Addie Langford.”

  He winks at the boy and the boy winks back.

  Catching on, Trooper Hammond issues a Miranda warning while the attending physician shoos the others along.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Even though the preparation has been extensive, the best that he can do under the circumstances, in the end everyone is obliged to wing it. No road map exists for their en
dgame—they don’t know if this is an endgame or another blind alley. They can only hope. Throughout the case they’ve been traveling blind, as if caught in the full throttle of a storm cloud while flying a glider, and still there is little distance that they can view. Nowhere to land.

  Hammond, Till, Hartopp, and Cinq-Mars converge on the campus well away from the location for the late-afternoon cocktail party. They need not rototill the same ground: New developments have been coming in, to be shared, and everyone is eager for the updates.

  Cinq-Mars begins by remarking on their clothing. “You fellas clean up good.” Till and Hammond are out of uniform, a last-minute choice to don suits and ties. Shoes are polished, cuff links gleam.

  “My one chance to hobnob with the stinking rich,” Till remarks. “I want to at least pretend I’m equally odoriferous.”

  For his part, Hammond smiles, a rarity for him, and wishes he’d said that.

  They get on with it, and Chief Till reports that, as a result of the press conference in White River Junction, two credible eyewitness accounts place Addie Langford in the vicinity of Malory Earle’s house in previous months.

  “Okay, that’s freaky,” Hammond acknowledges.

  “Interesting,” Cinq-Mars evaluates. “Only the vicinity? Not inside the apartment? She could’ve had friends in the vicinity. She’s allowed to have friends across the river.”

  “Not a student destination particularly,” Hammond points out.

  “True enough. As I said, it’s interesting. What else?”

  Till talked to the Langfords regarding their daughter’s vow to live drug-free. Naturally, they were pleased that that was the case, yet they had no memory of any such promise.

  “The boy said she made a vow with them,” Hammond blurts out. “How could they forget? What parent forgets something like that?”

  “No such vow,” Cinq-Mars concludes.

  “The boy said there was. Vernon.”

  “That’s because Addie told him that. She lied. We’re all capable of lying, Trooper Hammond. The question now begs to be asked, did she make up a credible lie to give herself ammunition to just say no to drugs, which is commendable, I suppose, or did she make that vow, only to someone else? Such as to a recruiter of some kind.”