Flat Lake in Winter

by Joseph T. Klempner

  * * *

  WITH THE DIE officially cast, Fielder turned to the task of preparing the remainder of his written motions. Forty-five days might seem like a lot of time, but he knew that he couldn’t afford to chance leaving things for the last minute, as he had routinely done in his Legal Aid days. At stake here were several things of vital importance to the defense: the sufficiency of the evidence presented before the grand jury; the legality of the property seized by the state police; the admissibility of the statement Jonathan had allegedly made to Deke Stanton; and the broad issue of what evidence, documents, scientific test results, and photographs the prosecution would be required to turn over to the defense in advance of trial.

  Pearson Gunn and Hillary Munson, meanwhile, were directed to set all other assignments aside and devote their collective energies to locating the whereabouts of Jennifer Hamilton. Fielder felt personally responsible that, for the second time in a matter of weeks, the defense had been embarrassed by an inadvertent discovery - first that Jonathan had a brother, and now that he had a sister.

  If P. J. hadn’t proved to be of much help, that could be explained by the fact that he’d left home as early as 1986, when Jonathan had been only seventeen. And by that time, P.J. himself had already been drinking, abusing drugs, and committing crimes with some regularity - all matters that would have directed his attention away from a brother five years younger. Jennifer might be a different story. If P. J. was to be believed - and this, of course, might be a big “if” - she hadn’t left until two years later, in 1988, when Jonathan had been nineteen. As the middle child, she’d been closer in age to him, and presumably more a part of the family dynamic. Hopefully, she’d be in a better position than P. J. to shed some light on Jonathan’s early development.

  Besides which, she was about all they had left.

  With the defense’s division of labor thus mapped out, Matt Fielder sat down at his computer, with every intention of getting started on his motion papers. But as things turned out, the sun, slanting through his cabin windows at a peculiar angle that Sunday morning, made it hard for him to read the characters on his screen. It occurred to Fielder that he could close the shutters, but the windowsill was filled with all sorts of clutter = sunglasses, pens, spare keys, loose change, and little empty bottles for collecting and testing his well-water. Besides, the thought of trading natural light for artificial struck him as much too harsh. The days were growing noticeably shorter as it was, and already the leaves were falling. Soon enough, the combination of darkness and cold would place severe restrictions upon the number of hours he could spend outdoors. And, after all, he did have forty-five days to get his motions in; he figured he could afford a bit of procrastination. So instead of closing the shutters, he shut down his computer.

  And he took a drive.

  He could have headed northeast, up to Stillwater Reservoir, where he probably would have a pretty good chance of spotting a bald eagle or two. He’d come to know where a pair of them was nesting, high up in one of the tallest trees, and one summer day he’d been lucky enough to watch a young eaglet make its first flight. The parents had coaxed it out, first by withholding food, and finally by making a series of passes at the nest, each one closer than the one before. Then they’d taken up stations in a lower branch of a nearby tree, and took turns screeching taunts at the eaglet until, precariously perched on the edge of the nest, it had finally either summoned up the courage to push off on its own, or simply lost its balance and been forced to improvise in midair. In flight, it had looked almost equal in size to the adult birds. Its first attempts at navigating had been a bit on the clumsy side, but within an hour it was soaring, diving, and gliding in for landings as though it had been airborne all its life.

  But he didn’t head up to Stillwater Reservoir.

  He could have headed southeast, down to Little Moose Mountain, the tallest peak for miles around, which would have given him a commanding view of the lakes and rivers and autumn colors spread out beneath it in all directions. If he was quiet enough, there was a fair chance he’d see black bear up there this time of year, gorging themselves on shoots and berries and wildflowers, in preparation for the coming winter hibernation.

  But he didn’t head southeast.

  He could even have taken his canoe and driven west with it to Beaver Falls, where there was an easy spot to launch it, and where, for ten bucks, he could find someone at Stuckley’s Amoco Station to drive his car down to Otter Creek so it would be waiting for him by the time he paddled down there. On the way, it was a good bet he’d pass deer grazing by the riverbanks, or maybe even a moose feeding on the vegetation that grew on the bottoms of the still pools the river made as it meandered.

  But he didn’t do that, either.

  Instead, he headed northeast, farther up into lake country. He took his time as he drove, taking in the sights and breathing in the smells, knowing there was no hurry to scale a mountain while the sun was still high, and no rush to make it downstream to a landing before nightfall. He knew he’d be seeing no bald eagles this day, no black bear or feeding moose. For he’d lowered his goal to a far more modest one. He was headed to Flat Lake, to the Hamilton estate.

  To the scene of the crime.

  THE WAY PEARSON Gunn and Hillary Munson had chosen to divide up the job of trying to find Jennifer Hamilton was a simple one: Munson would look in Vermont, Gunn in New Hampshire. Of course, the word look was something of a misnomer, because most of their looking would be done over the phone. And, since they were still feeling somewhat guilty about their belated discovery of Jonathan’s brother - and then that he had a sister as well - they’d decided to add some incentive to the quest, in the form of a friendly bet. The winner would be the first one to come up with a correct current address for Jennifer. The stakes were high: If Gunn won, Hillary would have to buy him a pitcher of ale; if Hillary prevailed, Gunn would owe her a dinner. Whether Gunn was on the road to committing the same blunder Matt Fielder had made, remains uncertain to this day. As things turned out, it was Hillary, and not he, who ended up having to pay off.

  It was quickly established that nobody with the name Jennifer Hamilton and the birthdate September 6, 1967, had a criminal record - in either New York, Vermont, or New Hampshire, or with the federal authorities. Nor was any Jennifer Hamilton a licensed driver, or the owner of a motor vehicle registered in any of the three states. No phone company had a record of her, and no gas or electric company was supplying service to her.

  But computers, Pearson Gunn had discovered a while back, were funny things, which could be made to work backward as well as forward. Thus, if you had someone’s date of birth, you could sometimes plug it in, and get the machine to spit out the names of all the people on various lists who shared that particular birthday. Gunn didn’t tell Hillary about this little trick right away. He figured he’d try it with New Hampshire first, and see if he got a hit. If he struck out, then he could always suggest she try it with Vermont.

  He knew an investigator over in Manchester, who had a friend in Laconia, who in turn had a contact in Concord, who agreed to let them into his office that Sunday morning and run the date of birth. There the two of them spent four full hours running drivers’ licenses, car registrations, criminal records (though Gunn had done that once already), jury rolls, state employment rosters, gun permits, hunting licenses, fishing tags, doctors’ and nurses’ registries, welfare recipients, and lists of teachers, barbers, and beauticians. Thousands of 09/06/67’s came back, but none for a Jennifer Hamilton.

  It was only when they ran a list of licensed day-care-center operators that they came up with anything of interest. That particular printout was one of the shorter ones, actually, containing only seventy-two names. (By way of contrast, there were some 1,860 state employees, 2,356 gun owners, and 3,111 fishermen.) It wasn’t until they got to the third and final page of day-care operators that they hit what they considered a “possible.”

  LICENCED DAY-CARE-CENTER OPERATORS-DOB 0
9/06/67

  (Page 3 of 3)

  Sundberg, Mary Ann

  Sutherland, Anne Howell

  Talmadge, Marjorie S.

  Tennyson, Patricia Sewell

  Todd, Edward L.

  Twyning, Carolyn McMaster

  Tyson Charlene

  Underwood, Susan W.

  Untermeyer, Clifford B.

  Van der Haas, Judith A.

  Walker, Jennifer H.

  Wendover, Kathleen Bryson

  Westerlake, Hope

  Williams, Cynthia Claridge

  Williams, Ned

  Wysor, T. Forest

  Yates, Priscilla Osgood

  Yelverton, Harriet C.

  Zeller, Laura Greene

  Zucker, Pamela T.

  It wasn’t a lock by any means, but any “Jennifer H.” born on September 6, 1967, certainly was worth checking out. They did just that by pulling up her file. It dated back to July of 1991, when she’d applied to run a Class 3 center, for five children or less, out of her home in Keene. She’d been given a temporary provisional certificate to begin operating that September, and a full Class 3 license the following May. But she’d failed to renew it in 1994, and there’d been no activity since. Still, she’d provided an address, a tax number, and a telephone. And, best of all, her original application listed her full name: Jennifer Hamilton Walker

  Evidently, Jennifer had gone and gotten herself married. The problem was, when Gunn and Hillary called the phone number, nobody there had ever heard of a Jennifer Walker, or a Jennifer Hamilton, or a Jennifer Hamilton Walker. The man who answered said it was a new listing they’d obtained when they moved in two years ago. And it was in Portsmouth, not Keene.

  They didn’t do any better with the phone directory. But, by running the name Jennifer Walker forward through the computer, they came up with all sorts of stuff: a driver’s license, a welfare identification number, a jury summons (never answered), and - best of all – a current address. It seemed that Jennifer Hamilton Walker lived in Nashua, at 14 Nightingale Court.

  The phone was an unlisted one, but that didn’t stop them for long. Within twenty minutes, Gunn was listening to a woman’s voice on an answering machine recording. “Hi,” it said. “You’ve reached Jennifer. Leave a message at the tone, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

  Gunn hung up without saying anything. He couldn’t think of anything clever, and he preferred to catch Jennifer Hamilton in person. But the real reason was that he was too busy tasting his winnings.

  IN MATT FIELDER’S book, there were two types of lakes. The first type was where they let people build roads and houses right up to the edge of the water, and - as if that wasn’t bad enough - then they let them build docks and rafts right out on the water. The second type was where they left the lake alone, where if you wanted to see it you had to hike through the forest to reach it, and if you wanted to be on it you had to remember to pack a canoe on your back. To Fielder, the difference meant everything in the world. It was that difference, in fact, that had brought him to the Adirondacks in the first place.

  Flat Lake was definitely of the second type.

  Anyone who spends only summers in Ottawa County - and the rigors of the winter months make it easy to forgive one for doing so - could easily assume that Flat Lake derives its name from how still its waters are in summer. And indeed they are, the result of an unbroken barrier of foliage that grows right up to the shoreline. Oak, maple, and ash form a backdrop to cedar, pine, spruce, and fir, which in turn frame shorter juniper, mountain laurel, andromeda, and wild fern. Sprinkled throughout is a generous helping of birch, slender trunks so white against the darker shades as to be almost startling when first seen. In autumn, the deciduous trees are well enough sheltered from the wind that they hold their leaves long after they’ve dried and turned. The overall result is a rich riot of color, spectacular enough in itself, but more often than not doubly enhanced by the presence of a perfect reflection on the still surface of the lake.

  Yet the stillness is only an illusion. In fact, Flat Lake is constantly fed. But its nourishment comes not from the muddy spill-off of some sediment-filled creek or debris-choked brook. Instead, a natural artesian spring, located at the very center of the crater that carved out the lake in the last ice age, forever bubbles up from the bottom, supplying a constant source of water so cold and clear and pure that the freeholders in Cedar Falls long ago declared it a permanent county treasure, so as to protect it from the greed of outside bottling companies that have coveted it since the turn of the century.

  And because any body of water that is continuously fed must have a runoff of its own, Flat Lake has a dam at its very southern tip, a steel gate that, if one knows exactly where to look, marks the only visible evidence of man’s intervention. The gate is mechanically lowered each spring. The process is a laborious one, requiring two strong men, since the operation must be done entirely by hand, as no power supply is permitted to reach the lake. The height of the gate is set just below that of the water line itself, so as to act like the skimmer of some huge swimming pool. The result is that any leaf, twig, acorn, or other matter that alights on the surface is swiftly swept over the dam and out of sight, restoring to the beholder the illusion of a perfect, unbroken stillness.

  Fielder found a large boulder at the edge of the lake and sat, enchanted by the beauty, mesmerized by the quiet. In the short space of an hour, he counted two deer, three rabbits, and an entire family of seven raccoons, all of them drawn there to drink from the water. He would have stayed longer, but he’d called ahead to make an appointment with Klaus Armbrust to see the Hamilton estate, and he didn’t want to be late. Rising, his boot broke off a sliver of the rock he’d been sitting on. He decided it must be slate of some sort, the way it was formed in thin layers. He picked up the sliver and nestled it into the curve made by the thumb and index finger of his right hand. Then, with a sidearm delivery so pronounced that his knuckles brushed the ferns by the water’s edge, he skipped the stone across the lake. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven! He watched with a broad smile as the ripples spread and collided, until the surface of the water gradually healed and grew still once again.

  KLAUS ARMBRUST UNLOCKED the front door of the main building and stood aside, letting Fielder enter first. A faint musty smell greeted them, a suggestion that Nature had already begun the process of reclaiming the now empty house.

  “This place has certainly seen its share of tragedy,” Fielder observed.

  “It surely has,” Klaus agreed.

  The tour took no more than twenty minutes. Fielder hadn’t expected to uncover any revelations. After all, the state police had been over the scene three times, each time more thorough than the one before, and Pearson Gunn had been there twice on behalf of the defense. Still, Fielder wanted to get his own feel for the place where Carter and Mary Alice Hamilton had been murdered, and where, eight and a half years earlier, their son and daughter-in-law had lost their own lives in the fire.

  The interior was all stone and wood, built a century ago at a time when craftsmanship was a virtue to be cherished. From the massive oak timbers and beams, the huge stone fireplaces, the recessed bookshelves and cabinets, all the way down to the wide-board pine floors, everything whispered of a day in which fine homes had been built with painstaking, loving care, instead of being slapped up to meet calendar deadlines and avoid cost overruns. Here there was no evidence of Sheetrock, plastic, vinyl, or Formica. Everything was real. Everything had come from the earth and when in due time it would finally collapse and crumble under its own weight, everything would return to the earth.

  Upstairs, Fielder could see that Elna Armbrust had succeeded in washing away most of the carnage, but even her best efforts had failed to hide the faint remnants of bloodstains on the walls and floors of the master bedroom. What possible madness, Fielder found himself wondering, could have possessed Jonathan that night? What unimaginable rage could have taken such a gentle child of a man,
and turned him into a machine of murder?

  From the main house, they walked to the cottage that had been Jonathan’s. By comparison, it was tiny, but the same care in construction was evident. Fielder was struck by the sparseness of Jonathan’s quarters, by how little he’d chosen to surround himself with. Someone had made up his bed, even fluffed his pillow and turned down the covers at one corner, as though expecting he might return any day. Lastly, they stopped in the bathroom, where Fielder examined the vanity cabinet that housed the sink. Only a fool would be stupid enough to hide a murder weapon there, a fool or a child. In Fielder’s eyes, Jonathan Hamilton fit into both categories pretty well.

  It was something of a relief to step back out into the sunlight, and Fielder breathed the autumn air deeply into his lungs, as he waited for Klaus to padlock the cottage door behind them.

  “Tell me, Klaus,” he said. “What was Jonathan’s sister like?”

  “Jennifer?”

  Fielder nodded.

  “Pretty girl,” Klaus said wistfully, almost as if he were trying to picture her after all these years. “Very pretty.”

  “What was she like?”

  He seemed to reflect for a moment. “Quiet. . . . Smart,” he added.

  “Anything else?”

  Klaus looked down at his shoes. “Unhappy,” he said, with visible difficulty.

  “Oh?”

  “Unhappy,” Klaus repeated, as though there was simply no more to say on the subject.

  But Fielder wasn’t quite finished. “You and your wife told Mr. Gunn about Jonathan’s brother, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why didn’t you ever mention his sister?”

  Klaus shrugged easily. “He never asked us about her, sir.”

  And though Fielder would think about that response more than once on the drive back home, he was finally forced to acknowledge that it made pretty good sense. Here were two people who’d spent their entire adult lives in the shadows of those they served, who’d probably been taught to keep their silence around strangers, and whose command of English was limited to begin with. They hardly would have been the sort to volunteer information.