by Tom Lytes
“Was it the scum we’re trying to get rid of, that committed the murders?”
“Probably was,” Rube said.
“And the dead supporter, he was a good guy?” Carson asked. “Well liked, I mean?”
“Not superman in the community or anything. But, yeah, he gave money and spoke at one of your Town Halls. Remember the guy who railed on Canadian plant and flower imports? Bushy beard, real pissed. He was a big guy.”
“Sounds like a lot of my supporters. But yeah, I remember him. He wrote me nasty letters about the North American Free Trade Agreement and its effect on the New York economy, right?”
“That’s him,” Rube said, nodding. “He was found dead, shot in the head. One of his employees and a mercenary type killer died in the same town, all on the same day.”
Carson raised his eyebrows, “Related, probably, huh.”
“Yeah,” Rube agreed. “All right, let’s go. Thee timing’s right for a campaign event down there.”
Bobby Touro didn’t want to be in the morgue, but what choice did he have? Officially, he’d come to represent the family and collect Floyd’s personal affects. Unofficially, Bobby worried about how the murder investigation might connect Floyd to Bobby, so he was eager to take possession of Floyd’s belongings. Floyd did things for Bobby sometimes and drank too much all the time. Beer made him sloppy, and that’s why Bobby’s guys were ducking under the police tape at Floyd’s trailer while Bobby kept Peggy busy at the morgue. If Floyd left anything incriminating lying around, Bobby’s guys would find it.
He strolled into the makeshift morgue at the back of the police station. It became overflow storage for the Department of Motor Vehicles when they cut the budget, so boxes of forms for license renewals and car seat checklists lined one whole wall.
Peggy waited for Bobby Touro by an ambulance gurney. When Bobby came close, she pulled up the white sheet covering the body. Bobby looked at Floyd and tried to look like he cared. Bobby wasn’t a great actor, and he knew he didn’t pull it off, but it didn’t look like Peggy was concerned about it. He took two steps back and tried to ignore his attraction to Peggy.
Peggy paid little attention to Bobby. The coroner’s hearse would arrive to transport Floyd to the medical examiner in Albany, and by the time it came back for Doyle it would be after lunch. The sooner Bobby left, she’d be rid of all this. She walked Bobby to his car.
“Anytime you wanna come over to the dark side, Peg, I’ll be waiting with open arms,” Bobby said, hoping to hug her as she shied away.
When she turned to face him, she grabbed his wrist and pushed it the wrong way in two different directions. Bobby’s knees buckled slightly as he moved away from the pain.
“Hey, easy. I’m just having some fun,” Bobby said.
His smile vanished.
“It’s fun for me too.” Peggy increased the pressure enough for Bobby to know she could hurt him before abruptly releasing her grip.
“Easy,” Bobby said again.
“What do you know about the murders?” Peggy asked.
“Nothing,” Bobby said. “I’d like you to find whoever’s responsible for Floyd’s death though. He was a good man.”
“He was a nothing but a dirtbag,” Peggy said. “The world’s a better place without that sack of scum lurking around.”
Bobby shrugged. “So, he wasn’t a good man by any stretch of the imagination, but hey, he’s family.”
“Not to me,” Peggy said. “I won’t miss him, but of course I’m going to investigate the murders.”
“I’m glad you mentioned family,” Bobby said. “Nothing changed with Floyd gone or because Doyle is dead. You still do things for me when I ask, okay?”
Peggy ground her teeth and spit out, “You know I’ll keep doing what you ask. I don’t have a choice.”
“Good,” Bobby said with a smile. “You look terrific, Peggy. I’m gonna go to lunch and hang out with the next Governor. Do you want to be there as my guest?”
“Hell no. I won’t be your guest at any lunch. And how does a guy like you end up at lunch with Carson Miller?”
“Rotary Club,” Bobby said. “I’ve been a dues-paying member for twenty years.”
6
The taillights of Bobby’s vehicle were still visible when Peggy received a text from the mayor.
“Peggy, show your face at the Rotary luncheon - today at noon. The business community will appreciate seeing a law enforcement presence after the murders today.”
The righteous indignation she threw Bobby’s way seemed to linger in the air, and at first the mayor’s request seemed like a personal affront. When she thought about it some more, though, she conceded the mayor was right about tamping down fears in the community. There was a reason why nobody wanted to run against him in the coming election, and it was all about his ability to manage the ever-changing moods of the small town’s gossipers.
“I’ll step in the back and be back out in less than a minute,” she told herself, noting the mayor’s text had said, “show your face.”
The Rotary Club met at the hotel on Main Street, a short walk away. Today there would be close to sixty participants, more than usual. Peggy knew this from conversing with a young girl at the front desk who, fresh from her first year of college, was back in town to do the summer job thing.
“Yeah,” the girl said, chewing fluorescent blue gum and inflecting her voice with drama. “A lot of people came to Rotary today because Carson Miller’s going to speak. Everyone wants a picture with the governor to show their friends, or I bet for their Christmas card. Also, the chef told me more people come when he serves salmon and mashed potatoes. Between Mr. Miller and the food, it was bound to be well attended.”
Peggy let the girl talk, staring in awe as she finished with a snap of her gum and a twirl of her hair. Peggy vaguely remembered acting similarly at some point in her life. Could she get back there, to that kind of innocence? She focused on the mesmerizing color of the young girl’s fast-moving chewing gum. Best not to think about it.
“Did Mr. Miller arrive yet?” Peggy pulled her braid around to the front of her body and rested her hand on her holstered gun.
“He did, and he even stopped to say hello,” the young woman said. “He’s so handsome in person.”
Her hands were long and slender, and her fingernails looked like art projects, with little daisies on each. Peggy looked down at the girl’s toes to see what might be on them, but she was wearing canvas boat shoes. No toes today.
“So how about we let him be the governor for a couple terms if he’s going to win, and then you run,” Peggy said to the girl. “I bet you would be a great governor.”
“I hadn’t thought about that.”
“You have my vote,” Peggy said. The girl smiled big. “Which way do I go to find the lunch?” Peggy asked.
The girl pointed towards the main dining room as the phone rang on her desk. She put her hands out to the side, briefly, and stared blankly at the multitude of buttons in front of her.
She picked one that was blinking and said, “Hello?”
Then she picked another one, “Hello?”
And another, “Hello?”
Peggy shook her head and then walked down a long hall with a threadbare antique carpet. Oil paintings of fields and flowers surrounded by ornate gold frames filled the walls. The hallway’s art and rug were an attempt to turn what would otherwise look like an airport hallway into something quaint and New England-ish.
A hostess greeted her, and when Peggy asked for the Rotary lunch, the woman said, “It’s not in the regular dining room, but meets privately in the Melville Room. You can either walk through the main dining room, or walk around there, through the lobby.”
Picking the lobby, she walked past a grand set of nineteenth century couches filled with a large extended family wearing “I’m from
Illinois” shirts. The room’s central fireplace lay in wait for the winter, it’s field stone colossal and noteworthy even without a fire. Peggy dropped a hand to her police belt and turned the volume off on her radio before she slipped into the back of the semi-modern Melville Room, a utilitarian addition to the old building.
Carson Miller stood at a podium in front of tables filled with mostly men, working through salad plates.
When he saw her, Peggy might as well have announced her presence with a bullhorn.
“And the type of people we need to value…” Carson Miller said with the perfect amount of accompanied forehead furrowing. “No not value, I misspoke. The type of people we need to cherish, that’s a better word, are the law enforcement personnel that fight to regain our national identity. Officer Peggy Whitfield, who everyone knows in these parts, is one such individual, a valuable community asset.”
All eyes found Peggy, and in response, she shifted from her tough guy stance to an awkward, “aw shucks.” The mayor set Peggy up, handing Carson Miller an opportunity to praise the police and rail against society, and she’d walked right into it.
Bobby Touro, his surprise at seeing Peggy quickly turning to delight, started clapping both loud and fast, and a few others joined.
Bobby seemed encouraged and soon stood next to his chair, looming over his table.
He spoke above the din of conversation. “A dollar, a dollar to the scholarship fund in honor of Miss Whitfield.”
Another man ran with the prompt, collecting his hat and making a show of putting a dollar into it. It passed around the entire room, harvesting the dollars springing from the hands of the business people as they made good-natured jokes. Peggy didn’t wait to see what might happen next. As she stepped back out the door, she heard Carson Miller’s words.
“I see Peggy left the room,” Carson Miller continued. “It’s too bad because I want her to know she won’t be alone in the pursuit of justice when I am elected. With me leading our state and the country into a new modern era, together we will regain our morality. We will punish those who violate our laws and will enforce immigration rules. There will be no apologies to anybody for doing what it takes to take back the moral integrity of America.”
Peggy had heard the rhetoric from Carson Miller before. Doyle hadn’t been able to get enough of it and was an early supporter. In some circles, claims of racism and sexism trailed Carson Miller like allergy season trailed spring, but so far, it didn’t adversely affect his polling numbers. To the contrary, Carson Miller’s popularity was on the rise. Peggy admitted there were times when Carson made sense. She knew how broken the justice system was, how inefficient policing became as criminals embraced new technology. But, however tempting it was to let Carson save society, Peggy knew it was fantasy talk to think one man could stand up to the entire system and make radical change. And besides, Carson Miller occasionally went way too far for Peggy’s liking, even if he probably did it to get people’s attention.
Carson Miller’s voice continued, “There were senseless deaths in your community today. Your own Floyd Bianco and Doyle Whitfield senselessly lost their lives in the last twenty-four hours. And why does senseless killing occur? There aren’t harsh enough consequences to deter the criminally-minded. Bobby Touro, a fellow Rotarian in the audience today, has lost a cousin. Officer Peggy who just left us, lost a brother. These are good families filled with good people, falling victim to the circumstances of our time. The mystery of why will eventually come to light, but already we know a hired killer from down south is among the dead.”
Peggy walked out of earshot and called Agent Finley.
“Are you talking to the Miller campaign about this investigation?”
“Hi, Peggy,” Finley said. “Most people start conversations with hello. Now, last night might put us forever in a new category of relationship—”
“Leave last night where it is,” Peggy said without amusement, “our social life. I called you about a professional matter. What the hell is Miller doing, talking to a room of businesspeople about our investigation – my investigation?”
“Peg, I don’t know anything about it.”
“He’s talking about the New Orleans hit man and seems to know more than I do.”
“We’re still collecting information about the Louisiana victim,” Finley said. “He has a wife that one of our field agents spoke to this morning. Maybe she reached out to Carson Miller somehow.”
“How was she? Upset, shaken up?” Peggy asked.
“No, more like pissed off,” Finley said. “We’ll know more soon. She wants to talk to the investigating officers in person.”
“Interesting,” Peggy said. “Let me know when she comes. I want to be there.”
“You got it, Peg.”
“Great, and Fin?”
“Yeah?”
“Remember how we didn’t make it out to dinner last night?”
“Yes.”
“You should ask me out for dinner tonight,” Peggy said.
“Oh.”
“So, do it.”
“Right, will you go out to dinner with me tonight?” Finley asked.
“I thought you were never going to ask. Pick me up at seven.”
Peggy swung by the post office to pick up her mail. A weighty shoebox-sized package waited for her to collect from the clerk. A couple of times in the past year she’d received similar packages and each contained freebie guns from groups supporting the NRA or the police officer’s union. It didn’t make sense to her that she would be sent so many firearms, even if she was a cop. Without a return address, she didn’t know how to stop the shipments, and it made her wonder how many other policemen found guns in their mail.
As she walked about she looked around the busy post office. Some days, Peggy spent several minutes inside, visiting with people and listening to complaints about neighborhood kids or an uncontained dog. She didn’t think an easy in and out today would leave anybody feeling unheard and when she slid out the door, her attention was diverted by a group of older teenage boys leering at her from outside the café across the street.
“Dude, she’s so hot,” one of them said loudly enough for her and everyone else on the street to hear.
She knew they were from out of town, because she knew everyone local. Summer kids staying with their parents, she thought, and she made a note of their cream-colored Mercedes. They laughed as they pointed at her and left in the car.
“Those boys are begging me to pull them over and give them a lesson on treating women and authority figures with respect,” she thought.
She put it on her to do list.
Peggy drove Main Street and took a lap around the school’s parking lot before heading south on Route 7, pulling over on a high point that looked over Bear Farm. Three red barns for equipment formed a courtyard, and an enormous hay barn constructed of corrugated metal stood a little further away. The original wooden barn burned to the ground a few years back and she missed looking at it. Two tractors worked the big field, taking down the first hay cutting of the year. Tomorrow they’d turn it over, so it could dry before bailing. A few horses grazed in a paddock just past the house and she allowed herself a minute to look in their direction.
Before she left, a working pick-up truck pulled alongside her police car. A “working” truck carried dirty tools and a toolbox, and in these parts, there was more hay bailing string in the back then fancy options in the cab. Mr. Warchester hopped out of the Chevy and set about putting a shirt on as he walked towards her.
“Hi, Peg. Nice seeing you.”
“Hello, Mr. Warchester,” Peggy said. “The farm looks great, as usual.”
The two of them watched the tractors lap the field, pulling the mowing conditioners behind them.
“Not the same without you,” Mr. Warchester said. “Sure wish you had stuck with it.”
&nbs
p; “Stuck with riding horses, or with your son?” Peggy asked.
She lowered her sunglasses from her hairline and put them over her eyes.
Mr. Warchester nodded. “I visit him on Sundays. Saturdays, I officiate weddings.”
“I didn’t know you did that,” Peggy said.
Mr. Warchester said, “I do it for the parties. Weddings are the most fun when you don’t recognize a soul.”
“So, you go to people’s parties on Saturday and then go to the jail on Sunday?”
“It balances out some of the disappointments I have. Of course, I thought you and my son would walk down the aisle one day, but I try not to think about that.”
“I’m sorry the way everything happened,” Peggy said with a tear finding the tip of her chin before falling to the ground.
Mr. Warchester nodded and looked away.
“The jail is tough on Rhodes. I want him to work the farm when he gets out. I’ll take him in a second, and I’d take you back too, Peg.”
“I went and saw him last week,” Peggy said quietly.
Mr. Warchester was suddenly very still. “I didn’t know that. I didn’t know you’d visited him.”
“I wasn’t planning on it. He asked me to wait a few months till he got out of jail,” Peggy said. “I have been waiting for him, I guess. I mean I haven’t gone anywhere, have I? He asked me if I’d be his queen and rule over his empire with him. It wasn’t as bad as last time, but the queen and empire stuff sounded strange.”
“He didn’t mention it to me,” Mr. Warchester said, “but… he doesn’t always make sense, either.”
Peggy braced herself when she heard the words. Her back stiffened and perfectly aligned with the straight line of her legs.
“I’m glad he didn’t mention me,” Peggy said.
“Yeah, I do think he’s moved off that somewhat.”
The hay fell over the knives of the cutter.
Peggy shrugged. “I’m not saying he seemed like his old self at all either, but he was more peaceful than he was when he was first at the jail.”