Taking On Lucinda

by Frank Martorana

  Taking On Lucinda

  Copyright 2018 by Francis S. Martorana

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the prior written permission of the publisher:

  VinChaRo Ventures

  3300 Judd Road

  Cazenovia, NY 13035

  vincharo.ventures@gmail.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-99893-260-6 (print)

  ISBN: 978-0-99893-261-3

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017914877

  Cover designed and illustrated by Amanda and Sebastian Martorana

  Sebastianworks.com

  Author photo by Rosemary C. Martorana

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedicated to the memory of

  Fredrick M. Holmes, DVM

  1932–1994

  Fred was the essence of all things good

  in veterinary medicine.

  He was my friend, teacher, mentor, and partner

  for seventeen years.

  Acknowledgments

  Over the years that it took to write this series, countless clients, friends, and acquaintances, close and casual, have contributed when, often unbeknownst to them, I picked their brains. I can’t possibly name them all without embarrassing errors of omission, so I won’t try, but I do thank them all deeply.

  There are some I just have to give special acknowledgment because they contributed so much and in ways that, if they had not, this book would never have been written, much less published. Thanks to Garda Parker, Rhoda Lerman, and S. V. Martorana, all three world-class authors, for neither laughing nor rolling their eyes when they first read my manuscripts. Thanks to Alicia Bazan-Jemenez, Sylvia Bakker-Moss, Deborah Fallon, Mark Andrews, Felicia Lalomia, Andy Olson, and Jeannine Gallo for assorted advice and technical support. Marlene Westcott, you are truly the Word Wizard. Sebastian and Amanda Martorana, what you did with the covers is amazing. Rosemary Martorana, you get special thanks for always smiling and showing great patience while solving my many logistics issues.

  Last, but never least, there is my wife, Ann Marie. I don’t know how you put up with me through it all, honey, but I’m sure glad you do.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 1

  Fall 1982

  Chief Merrill Stephenson snatched his police report out of the typewriter, studied it, and realized with a grin that this was something he should show to the kids around town. They were always complaining that nothing ever happened in Jefferson. Their little upstate burg was totally boring. Why do we even have policemen anyway? Probably most of their parents agreed too.

  Well, here you go, folks. Big-City Animal Rights Activists Invade Jefferson. That wouldn’t make a bad headline.

  He scanned the document, admiring his deceptively neutral tone:

  At 0900 hours today, a complaint was received from Stephanie Copithorn, CEO, Copithorn Research, Re: Trespassers. Upon arrival, investigation, and discussion with Ms. Copithorn, the trespassers were identified as twenty-three members of FOAM (Freedom of Animals Movement), an animal rights group based in Hollywood, CA (see attached list of names and addresses). Their purpose: To protest Copithorn Research’s use of animals to test cosmetics. Since they were not interfering with operations at Copithorn, CEO Copithorn agreed to allow the protest to continue if they remained peaceful and agreed to restrict their presence to a designated area of lawn and parking area.

  Merrill tossed the paper on his desk, stretched back, and then sank low in his chair, using the mountain of paperwork to shield himself from other members of the force strolling past his window. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift. Life was good…just enough agitation in town to keep things interesting.

  His report sounded neutral, but Stef Copithorn sure as hell hadn’t been. A faint smile of admiration for the savvy corporate boss played on his lips. She wanted the sons of bitches out of there just as fast as it could happen, but she was too clever to let them know that. She had been blindsided. She wasn’t going to let a gut reaction limit her options.

  “Let the bastards stand in the rain for a day or two, Merrill,” she’d told him when they’d met in her office. “We’ll see what that does for their self-righteousness.”

  The two of them came up with a quick strategy to corral the demonstration and agreed to let Merrill do the talking. The protesters never got a glimpse of Stef.

  His eyes drifted then fixed in a dreamy stare through the window out into the main room of the station house. Two uniformed officers, one male and one female, chatted and joked. Sipped coffee. They half studied a memo he had posted describing new firearms recertification requirements. A protest rally? It would be a nice change for his little force, a break from the humdrum DWIs, domestics, vandalism, and traffic stuff.

  He hadn’t been back at the station for more than an hour when Stef called again. This time, the voice of Jefferson’s foremost employer didn’t have its usual self-assuredness. Merrill released a soft groan. A powerful citizen on edge was never a good thing for the head cop. So much for a nice change in Jefferson.

  “I made a few phone calls,” she said. “I underestimated this FOAM group. It’s no two-bit bunch of college kids. They’ve got a ton of Hollywood celebrity backing. Major bucks. Professional PR. And lately, they’ve decided to move away from their usual attacks on meat producers.” Her next words came out as more of a curse than a statement. “Their new plan is to focus on lab animal use. Especially cosmetics.”

  “Any history of violence?”

  “Depends on what you call violence. They’re definitely disruptive. That’s violence, isn’t it? From what I’ve been able to find out real quick, they are wizards with the media. They can turn public sentiment against us, pressure suppliers to refuse to sell to us. That sort of thing.”

  “For how long?”

  “Who knows? But even a few days of bad press could cripple my company for a long time.”

  Merrill absorbed the new twist. Jefferson could not afford to let anybody or anything endanger its number one job source.

  “You want me to head back over and boot them out?”

  “No.” There was a thought-filled pause. “At least not yet. I want you to get Kent involved.”

  The resentment needle rose in Merrill’s head to the almost angry mark. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning we need somebody on our side who the public holds as a champion of animals, like your brother.”


  “I’d wait for the dust to settle a little.”

  “It may turn out to be ashes, not dust that settles. We need him.”

  They batted that around for a while. Finally, he agreed to see what his brother thought of the whole thing. After all, Kent was the veterinarian, the animal expert, wasn’t he? He should know about humaniacs. Hell, they’d probably fall for his humble keeper-of-God’s-beasts routine just like most everyone else.

  Merrill reached onto his desk and pulled the incident report back off the stack of files. Scanned it again. Suddenly, it seemed to carry more weight.

  Back in high school, he had hated all the peace and quiet in Jefferson and its boring congeniality toward all, just like the town kids did these days. It was the reason he had left. But a stint in Vietnam firebases and a cop tour in that hellhole known as the Big Apple had woken him up just before the last drop of human dignity was bled from his veins. Now it was what he liked about Jefferson. He liked unlocked doors, grocery boys who carried out bags with a smile, and boredom.

  He ran his fingers over the chief insignia on his dark-blue uniform. He’d been the top guy for eight years now. Really, as chief in Jefferson, he was just another patrolman, except he got the paperwork. He didn’t mind. He got his own office, even if it was barely big enough for his desk, a file cabinet, and one chair.

  He brushed a hand over his midsection. The buttons of his uniform shirt were pulled tight. Somehow his once impressive upper body had settled to pillowy softness around his waist. That was a drawback of the slow pace—at least that was his excuse. He was still in his forties, he could turn that around.

  He pushed himself to his feet. He’d kill two birds with one stone. He needed a chance to think about Stef Copithorn and the protesters. And Kent.

  He marched through the lobby of the station and made a broad display of tossing the keys to his cruiser on the duty officer’s desk. “Janet, I’m taking a walk to see what’s cooking around town. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  She nodded as if playing make-believe with a child. “Uh-huh.” She’d worked with Merrill a dozen years. She knew how long the walking would last.

  He ignored her. Tapped his belt radio. “Any problems, you know how to get me.”

  The gusting fall wind made him push hard to open the heavy door of the station’s entrance. For two breaths, he reconsidered the wisdom of walking. Then he felt Janet’s eyes on his back and pushed even harder. At least last night’s rain had stopped. Besides, this was the first, but it wouldn’t be the last storm of the season. Was he going to do this weight-loss thing or not?

  The wind hissed in the leafless trees. He flipped up the collar of his blue flight jacket.

  Out of habit, he turned and admired the circa-1940 station house that he loved as if it were his home. Limestone, Greek revival. Police headquarters downstairs, town clerk and village court on the second floor, and a wing off the east side with three large bays for the volunteer fire company. It had been erected just before he was born, but it would be there long after he died.

  He turned back to his walk, dodging a skateboarder who breezed by. Shoulders back, knees relaxed, a young Mick Jagger. Mad cool. Iridescent blue wheels sent a rooster tail off the wet sidewalk.

  The boy drawled a mix of humor and sarcasm. “Mornin’, Officer Stephenson.”

  “Nathan, I’m swinging by the school in ten minutes. I swear, if I don’t see you there, I’m kicking your butt.”

  Nathan waved over his shoulder. No reply.

  Merrill watched him glide away. Blew a short laugh out his nose. No way would the kid be there.

  He hadn’t taken a dozen steps when his radio sounded.

  “Damn. I can’t even get to the street.”

  He keyed the receiver’s button.

  “Chief, you better get back in here. Lalomia, from County, is on the line. He says it’s urgent.”

  He trudged back into the station and hung up his jacket before taking the phone.

  “Mike. What’s up?”

  He expected the Dewitt county sheriff’s usual upbeat voice— loud, clipped, like the winning quarterback during a postgame interview. But today, Merrill couldn’t decide if the voice at the other end sounded more like his old high school principal or a priest. His policeman’s sense of dread kicked in.

  “Merrill, a call came in this morning for a body in a car out at Cuyler Lake. We just confirmed the ID. It’s Aaron Whitmore. I figured I’d give you a call because he was a friend—”

  Merrill didn’t let him finish. “Aaron Whitmore?”

  He threw a glance out his window to see if his shocked reply had made it through his open office door. Janet spoke into her phone and jotted notes, as usual.

  “It’s definitely Whitmore.”

  “How? When? Wait. Never mind. Where are you now?”

  “At my office, but I’m about to head back over.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “No need for lights. Take your time.”

  “Fifteen minutes. Or less.”

  Merrill patted his pocket and headed out the door, retrieving his keys from Janet.

  It started to rain again as Merrill headed for Cuyler Lake. Nervous little rivulets trickled down his windows. He rubbed them with the back of his hand, smearing the condensation into streaks. He peered through it at the landscape. In town, he passed Copithorn Research. If he hadn’t been driving, he might have genuflected before the altar of the town’s prosperity. Then he was out into the mix of hardwood forests and small farms that made up the vast landscape of upstate New York. Cuyler Lake was only ten miles from the village, but it might as well have been in a thousand square mile tract of wilderness. That’s why Aaron Whitmore had chosen to build his cabin there, three quarters of a mile from the boat launch around the unblemished shoreline. Aaron liked to hunt and fish. And he liked solitude.

  The boat launch’s design was a credit to the new Jimmy Carter environmentalism wave. It was a buildingless patch of macadam, totally incongruous with the rest of the primitive lakeshore. There were half a dozen parking spots designed to accommodate vehicles with boat trailers. A concrete ramp with deep grooves molded into it for traction descended into the water. A bumper-high, single-rail fence made of used telephone poles ran the perimeter. Aaron’s Land Rover was parked so that its back bumper was almost against the heavy rail.

  The lot was jammed with official vehicles parked at all angles, the way cops like to do. Merrill pulled over on the shoulder of the road and walked in. A skinny boy Merrill guessed to be about six raced up to him. Tugged at his hand. His flyaway yellow hair whipped in the wind. Large brown eyes above his pinched nose radiated his excitement. He reminded Merrill of a Pekingese he’d seen at Kent’s animal hospital.

  “The body’s over there!” the boy said, all pride, not the least distraught. He pointed with both hands like six-shooters toward the throng of men swarming inside the yellow crime scene tape. “He’s in the Jeep. I found him.”

  Merrill halted his march toward the activity. He turned to the Pekingese. “Land Rover.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a Land Rover. Not a Jeep.”

  “Who cares about that?”

  “Cops like to have the facts straight.”

  An old man who was with the boy swung a protective arm around him. His pointed gray beard made him look like a schnauzer. “Ted, you hush up. Let the policeman do his job.”

  “But I found him, Grandpa.”

  “They get a statement from you?” Merrill asked the schnauzer.

  “Not yet. That’s what we’re waiting around for. Close to an hour ago they said they’d get to us as soon as they could. Not much to tell, really.” He nodded at the Pekingese. “Ted and I come by here to see if the perch was biting. Ted wandered over to the Land Rover, or whatever you call that Jeep, and all he
ll broke loose. Wish we’d tried Oneida Lake instead.”

  “Wouldn’t have made as good a fishing story. Would it?” Merrill’s eyebrows did a devious roll. He tipped the bill of his police cap, John Wayne style. “Thanks. Hang in there a few more minutes, and you’ll be able to get back to your fishing. I’ll see if I can speed things up.” He strode off toward the other officers.

  It was a Land Rover, all right. He’d know that vehicle anywhere.

  He ducked under the tape and immediately caught the eye of a crew-cut, barrel-chested, plainclothes police officer who was fighting the same glacier as Merrill. “What you got, Mike?”

  Dewitt county sheriff Mike Lalomia worked a hardcover notebook from his raincoat pocket. “Like I told you on the phone, the guy’s name was Aaron Whitmore, white male, age—”

  Merrill cut him off. “I know who you got. I want to know what you got.”

  Mike flipped his notebook shut. “I figure the old guy put himself out of his misery.”

  “Suicide? Not likely.”

  “You knew him well enough to make that kind of judgment?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Merrill squinted up at the raindrops then scuffed his toe through a puddle. “Rained last night. Hard.”

  Mike squeezed the lapels of his overcoat at the thought of it. “Washed away about everything. Fall is here, and winter ain’t far behind.” He gestured toward the Land Rover. “Window was down. The victim is soaked too.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Gunshot to the neck. Close range.”

  “Got a weapon?”

  “A Smith and Wesson .38 revolver. Haven’t checked it out yet.”

  Merrill kept his eyes on the puddle. “It’ll be Aaron’s. It’s his old service weapon.”

  Mike nodded slowly, thinking. “When we ran the plates on the vehicle and got Aaron Whitmore, I called you. I figured you’d want to be involved, even though you’re village and this is county stuff at this point. But I didn’t figure you knew him that well.”

  “He was chief of police in Jefferson for fifteen years. My boss a lot of that time.”

  Merrill stepped over to the Land Rover, shouldering his way through a bevy of evidence hounds decked out in latex gloves. One was using tweezers to fill small plastic bags. Another was wielding a camera. They discussed their findings in low, detached voices.