by Tom Bouman
“I doubt it extremely.”
“The rectum was inconclusive?” the sheriff asked. “What does that mean?”
“He’s far gone.” Brophy opened his hands in resignation.
“What race is he?” I asked, and the whole table turned in my direction.
“White, Latino, or a mix. His face is decayed. I looked at the hair and it’s closest to Latino, but it’s actually hard to be sure.”
Detective Palmer asked Sheriff Dally, “You have many Latinos in this area?” Holebrook County had remained overwhelmingly white even as the small cities in northeastern Pennsylvania and over the New York border had drawn African-Americans, Asians, South Asians, and Latinos into their citizenry.
“A couple families,” Dally said. “Nobody reported missing.”
“Out my way we have some temporary workers,” I said. “New arrivals, out on the well pads and pipeline cuts. The other week I gave directions to a Mexican truck driver dressed like a cowboy. He was living in one of those Lincoln Log barracks up by a well.”
“Some of ’em in the Super 8,” said Jackson.
“Most spend their downtime over the border in Elmira,” said Dally. “Fewer roughnecks actually living in the county than you might think, and they tend to stay up near the pads, working long shifts. Still, we should see if any have gone missing. This guy could be anybody, from anywhere. We need to know. If we knew that . . .”
Palmer said, “Someone can check NCIC for look-alikes.” Nobody volunteered for that duty. It wasn’t going to be me. “In the meantime, we can continue working from the other end. Starting with our guest down the hall, who happens to favor ancient firearms. Mr. Dunigan submitted to a gunshot residue test yesterday, which I’ll send down to the lab in Scranton with a trooper today.”
I cleared my throat. “He submitted, did he?” Dally fixed me in a look, and I backpedaled. “Well, I’m sure you explained things to him. At any rate, we know he’ll come back positive.”
“I considered,” continued Palmer, “swabbing John Doe to see if I could match elements, but decided that was a fool’s errand. Whatever we get off that body will be so full of noise that it could actually harm your case. And these tests take money and time, so. Additionally, we found four bladed tools on the Dunigan farm, any one of which could have done the damage we see here. But again, to test them all for blood residue, or god forbid Doe’s specific DNA . . . best you be reasonably sure first, then decide whether to test. Especially given your budget constraints. The shirt we found in Dunigan’s shed. There could be a clean sample to be had, and that may be worth sending down with the gunshot residue swab.”
“Seems awfully convenient, don’t it?” said Jackson, yawning once again despite himself. “Finding it where we did.”
“Could well have been planted,” Dally admitted.
“That’s not the simplest explanation I can think of,” said Palmer.
“Look,” I said. “I don’t know Aub. Nobody really does, not what’s in his head. But just look at him. He’s old and all alone. People run all over his land, race their ATVs, pull out lumber because they know he won’t be able to stop them. Jesus Christ, did you see someone stole the fuckin wheels right off his car? I mean, you’re talking about the most vulnerable citizen we have. And everybody knows he is.”
“Well,” said Palmer, “it’s true we didn’t find much else in Dunigan’s house or curtilage. Obviously we couldn’t douse the whole place with Luminol, but we found no spatter in any of the places we deemed likely—the barns and sheds, the house basement, the porches, the doorways, all clean.”
Above us, the courthouse was coming to life. Hard shoe heels tapped down a marble hall, a banister creaked in duet with a staircase. Outside, car engines hummed and a sliding door opened and slammed shut.
Sheriff Dally sighed. “This doesn’t leave us with as much as I’d like. Is it possible his arm’s still out there somewhere? God knows. I’ll continue interviewing Dunigan, though that’s nobody’s picnic, I tell you what. I’ll need his mental health evaluation for any of it to count. And an interpreter for my own sanity. He’s talking, just not making sense.”
“Anybody find representation for him?” I asked. “He see a judge yet?”
“Carly Dunigan was by,” said Deputy Jackson. “Bought him a set of new clothes, said Kevin was looking into lawyers. Seemed like they’d let us keep him awhile, not sure how long that’ll last with a lawyer in the mix.” District Attorney Ross shifted in his seat and looked uncomfortable.
“Anybody . . .” Sheriff Dally said, “anybody have anything that should go on the board not already there?”
I thought of Alan Stiobhard, and decided to keep that encounter to myself. “Well,” I said, pulling my topographical map from an inside coat pocket, “this might be useful. I know Aub’s ridge some. But we should know every inch. There’s something Danny Stiobhard needed to get to up there; could have been John Doe or something else. I’m curious, don’t know about you.” Reluctantly, heads began to gather over the map where it was spread on the table. “Right here we see all the adjoining properties; there are trails and old logging roads crisscrossing and connecting everyone near this ridge. Once we learn who John Doe is, I bet you anything he’ll lead us to one of these plots. And we may get something to point us to Danny Stiobhard in the bargain.”
DA Ross nodded. “You’re warranted for Dunigan’s land only. You have a week.”
Dally fixed his eyes on the ceiling.
“That won’t be enough,” I said. “We’ll get permission from the landowners.”
Dally broke in. “Right. Henry, you want to knock on a few doors?” He peered at the map. “Wait a while before you visit Barry Nolan,” he said, pointing to an eastern plot abutting Aub’s. “Camp Branchwater is right next door to all this; Nolan’s the caretaker and I want to call Pete Dale first. The camp has a little history with Dunigan. He’ll want to know.” Branchwater’s original owner had sold the boys’ summer camp to Pete Dale, a former camper himself. He was an affable, fiftyish millionaire who smoked cigars, knew about wine, and painted landscapes. Though he lived in Westchester County most of the year with his wife, he was a regular presence in Wild Thyme in the summer, and we’d spoken once or twice.
“What kind of history are we talking about?” Milgraham asked.
“This was some years ago, before your time, before Henry’s too,” the sheriff said, “when Pete first took over the place. Aub had walked to their lake to fish early one morning, and he spooked a couple campers. Pete called me, I visited with Aub, and it turns out he’d had long-standing permission to fish and hunt from the previous owner. Anyways, I sat the two down and everything worked out.
“Pete’ll want to keep the camp out of it. Enrollments are down, lake rentals are down, everything’s down. Leave it to me,” said the sheriff. “I’ll put in some calls to the gas operators too, see what I can find out. Meanwhile?”
Palmer said, “We wait for lab results.”
“Yes. And Krista and Deputy Jackson will search NCIC,” said Dally. “Moving on to the other side of the board.” He rubbed his face to cover a yawn. “As you may know, Detective Palmer was good enough to supply us with a SERT team out of Scranton last night. And while we didn’t turn up Danny Stiobhard, I am pleased to report we discovered a lab in a derelict trailer off Westmeath Road. It’s not a priority until we find Stiobhard, but you may as well know that the owner is one Pat McBride.” Dally distributed a mug shot of McBride; a pissed-off slouch with his hair buzzed close, a blond goatee half covering a weak chin. “He’s a transplant from Williamsport, set up shop here last year. He wasn’t at home to receive us last night. If any of you happen to see him, we have a warrant. Don’t be shy.”
McBride looked like someone who needed to be arrested. Some people do; it’s a fact. I guessed his story, even if I didn’t know him—he’d probably been a dealer in Williamsport until something drove him into the country. Out in the Heights, he set up his busines
s and looked around him and found almost no police to get in his way. His friends would follow from the city like ants in a line to a chewed piece of gum.
“Okay,” said the sheriff. “To more pressing matters.”
Wy Brophy turned to Detective Palmer. “You want to . . . ?”
“You start.”
Wy gave me a fleeting look that seemed to ask was I ready. I nodded. He produced photographs from another folder. “George Ellis was shot point-blank in the back of the head with a .38. So close it burned a patch of his hair completely off. Here’s an exit wound through his cheek. And in the department of small favors, he was shot where we found him, in the junkyard. Someone had tried to wash away spatter not too far from the patrol car, but it wasn’t a clean enough job for Detective Palmer here.”
Palmer said, “We were able to dig the bullet out of the ground.” He picked up the slug in its plastic bag and let it clunk on the table.
“There’s something else,” Brophy said. “When I peeled away his scalp, I found a fracture that travels across his skull and meets the entry wound. It could be from the impact of the bullet, but some bruising on what’s left of the scalp tissue raises the possibility of antemortem blunt-force trauma.”
“Aw, shit,” Dally said.
“So he might have been clubbed,” I said.
“Yes, with significant force, from behind. With something heavy.”
Dally turned to me. “Henry, you know Stiobhard best. How do we go forward?”
“He’s like a wild animal. I mean that actually. He’d sooner avoid you than take you on, and he can avoid you for a good long while. If we’re clumsy we’ll be in a gunfight, and nobody wants that. We need to surprise him. Overwhelm him.” I shook my head. “He’ll be tough to find. We need to settle into his area and wait for our chance.”
“That may be a more leisurely approach than we’re allowed. There are some complicating factors,” said Dally. “I assume nobody notified George’s next of kin?”
“He’s got a brother in Florida. And no.”
“We need to get on that. The local news caught wind of John Doe, and you can bet they’ll have heard something about George too. I’ve stalled them by promising a statement this morning, but we need to get his family word. More than that, it’s his friends I’m worried about.”
I knew what the sheriff meant. George had drinking and hunting buddies throughout the county, men who would be riled and hard to calm. Unless we managed information and did our best to divert what could become a mob, a SERT team wasn’t going to be the worst of it for the Heights.
“Let me make an appeal to John Kozlowski,” I ventured. “Start a phone tree or something. Last thing we want is twenty drunks tearing up the county with .30-06’s.”
As the conversation continued, I had the unsettling sensation of someone slowly turning down the volume. My vision closed in.
A blank.
Dally said, “You all right, Henry?”
“Fine, fine,” I said, opening my eyes and rubbing my face, frustrated. My mind was like a handful of water. I willed myself to focus. The sheriff regarded me with suspicion.
As the meeting drew to a close, I remembered one more thing. “Anybody know a woman named Tracy Dufaigh?” Nobody did. “She may have been close with George.”
The sheriff stared at the whiteboard and sighed, aggrieved. Then he stood with some effort and scrawled Tracy Dufay on George’s side of the board. He looked at his watch. “Listen, Henry. If you can leave by the back steps? Ben will show you. In about forty minutes I’ve got to hand these goddamn reporters something. Henry, I’m relying on you to reach the brother in Florida. Nobody talk to the press. Stay in touch.”
Bill Palmer stayed behind with the sheriff. Deputy Jackson held the door open for me, and we stepped into the hall. Wy passed me on the way to his office, patted me on the back, and disappeared. We passed a metal door that led to the holding cell and to Aub.
“Ben,” I said, “what’s he been saying in there?”
“Not much about the JD, except it wasn’t his doing. The kid isn’t even on his radar; he has to be reminded before he’ll even mention it. He keeps bringing up a woman; mostly it’s just ‘she’ and ‘her’ but maybe Ellen? Ella? Hard telling, not knowing.” Jackson met my eyes. “His mind’s going, Henry. It ain’t . . .” He shook his head rather than finish the thought aloud.
“Can I visit him? See him, maybe?”
Deputy Jackson craned his neck in the direction of the room containing the sheriff, the DA, and Detective Palmer. “Don’t you have a phone call to make? Quick, now.” He unlocked the heavy door to the holding cell and let me in.
The walls were Baker-Miller-pink up to about five feet. Above that, pale green paint was flaking to expose the cinder block beneath. The lights were fluorescent, of course. I heard a formless muttering coming from down the hall. That and a high-pitched man’s voice that began screaming obscenities soon as we stepped through the door. In a whisper, Ben Jackson cautioned me not to look at or respond to its owner, whom I soon saw rocking on a cot in the first cell, his wrists still bound with a black plastic tie. He was a long-haired lost soul in an Eagles jersey two sizes too big. Sensing he had an audience, he screamed, “The bitches in Fitzmorris got nice asses!” He said it again, looking deep into my eyes.
I said, “No, they don’t. Shut up.”
“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, pigs. I fucked your mother four times.”
“Henry, meet Kyle Leahey.”
“Fuck you, too,” he said to Ben.
We continued on. “SERT team picked him up in the Heights late last night near that lab they took.”
In the third cell of three, Aub Dunigan sat on his narrow bed. There were still creases in the new work pants his relatives had bought him. One thing about the old man, he did not make himself at home in a jail cell, but sat with his hands on his knees like he was in a waiting room and his name would be called any minute. Deputy Jackson hung back while I stepped into Aub’s view; he raised his eyes to me with an unreadable expression.
“Coming to take me on home?”
“Sheriff needs to keep you a little longer, Aub.”
“Got to feed my birds.”
“You haven’t got any chickens right now. That I know of.”
The old man waved dismissively. “Ask her to do it, then.”
“Her? Who?”
Aub didn’t answer.
“Do you know where you are?”
“In the fuckin jail.”
“You know why?”
“Henry,” Deputy Jackson warned.
“Something about her?” Then, upon reflection, “No. Yon sheriff, he coming in and talking about that kid you collected. That ain’t my doing. No.”
“You keep telling him that,” I said.
“Henry,” said Jackson.
“Just hold tight. Cousin Kevin’ll be along to get you out.”
The mention of Kevin prompted another impatient wave. Deputy Jackson gripped me by the arm and steered me out of the holding cells. At the back steps to the courthouse, he bid me goodbye. “Look, I don’t feel good about it either,” he said.
I escaped the courthouse without incident and drove the few blocks to the clinic. I parked next to Liz’s station wagon and hopped up the steps. In the waiting room, the country station was on and an old lady sat enthroned in a wheelchair with an inflatable splint around her ankle, which was raised, the foot naked and outraged as a newborn baby. A man in a parka sat beside her. I guessed he was her son. The receptionist Jo waved me through; as the door closed behind me I could hear the old lady voicing objections.
In her private office, Liz had most of an orange peeled and in sections on a napkin. “You look like shit,” she said, and handed me two sections of the fruit. I ate them and, after looking in vain for a garbage can, spat the seeds into my hand and put them in my pocket. “You ever find George?”
“Yeah.”
“At the bar, was I right?”
/>
“Uh, nope. No. You still got that buckshot somewhere, I could use it.”
“Oh. Yeah.” She disappeared and came back holding a baggie containing a small handful of shot. “I didn’t know—”
“Nice, Doc, thanks much.” I turned to go. “Listen, you may see some things on the news today.” Liz’s cheerful demeanor faltered at this, and I didn’t see the sense in keeping from her what she’d find out anyway. “Well, okay. We found a body in the woods off Fieldsparrow Road. Nobody knows who he is.”
“Holy shit, man.”
“We also . . . George was killed last night. I can’t say more right now.”
Her eyes misted behind her glasses, and she said, “Oh, honey,” and pulled me into a hug. I hate to admit how quickly thoughts of George were pushed from my mind.
She’s my best friend’s wife. I have a wife, even if she’s gone. There are feelings you can’t help, but you can’t chase after them either. No, never.
In my truck, I fished out a piece of the shot Liz had plucked from Danny’s hide and rolled it between my finger and thumb. It was crumpled, dark, and dull—lead, common from before Fish and Wildlife made a big push for the steel shot that doesn’t poison the ecosystem so much. I pulled away.
Irving Sporting Goods, owned by the Irving family, is one of the few mom-and-pops that still does a brisk business in town. They’re in a renovated, windowless barn a couple miles away from downtown, in South Fitzmorris. Though I find the ownership a bit prickly, I do shop there out of civic feeling. I parked out front and stood rapping on the door; the store wasn’t quite open, but one of the Irving boys stood in plain view inside, smoking a cigarette behind a glass counter. When he saw who it was, he put out the butt and let me in, returning to his post. The radio news was turned up.