by Archer Mayor
“You working on any big cases, Joe?” Leo asked, clearly hoping to deflect their mother’s attention.
“Not really,” Joe admitted. “Just reopened one that goes back a bit. It’s interesting but probably academic by now.” He generally downplayed his job—a veteran cop’s inbred discretion.
“We heard about the shooting down there,” Leo continued. “The hostage thing that turned inside out? The TV loved that one. You have anything to do with it?”
“Leave him be, Leo.”
“No, that’s okay, Mom,” Joe answered. “The PD handled it, Leo. Remember Ron Klesczewski?”
“God,” Leo said. “He caught that? Poor guy. Sounded like a mess.”
Joe couldn’t argue. “Just another offering from our so- called dominant species.”
“Ouch. That doesn’t sound good.”
“How’s Gail?” Joe’s Mom asked, revealing her intuition.
Leo wasn’t as sensitive. “Yeah. Boy, she’s really making headlines. You think she’ll pull it off? That Parker guy could smile the chrome off a fender, and he’s well funded, too. I heard what’s-his-name—Tom Bander—has thrown in with him. Isn’t he, like, the richest guy in the state?”
“I don’t think he’s that big, Leo,” Joe answered. His heart wasn’t into talking politics, although he would have had to admit he knew little about the man, aside from his wealth. “It’s a famously liberal county. She might have a shot.”
“Not much of one, from what the pundits’re saying. But hey. I’d vote for her. Guess that’s not kosher, though, right?”
“No. Probably not. I’ll tell her you offered, though.”
“Say good night, Leo,” his mother said quietly. “I need to speak with Joe alone.”
Leo took no offense. “You got it, Ma. I’m in midautopsy with a carburetor anyhow. Come up and visit, Joe.”
“Will do, Leo. Keep out of trouble.”
“Ha. That’ll be the day.”
There was a click on the phone, a momentary pause that often followed Leo’s departures, before his mother said, “You don’t sound well, Joe.”
“I really am. Promise. Maybe a little tired.”
“Then what is it?”
Joe’s mother had been a parent and a half to him and Leo, since their taciturn and older father had spent most of his days working the fields in stolid silence. He’d been a generous and gentle man, not at all cold, but he waited for people to come to him, and then responded only to direct questions he felt he could answer. It fell to his wife to fill in the blanks, something she did with animated conversation, an avalanche of good books, and an honesty that combined respect with openness.
Joe conceded defeat, which he now realized was why he’d called in the first place. “The old case I mentioned was the one I was running when Ellen died. It’s brought a lot of stuff back.”
Her voice softened. “Oh, Joe. I’m so sorry. That’s got to be very tough, especially with Gail being so busy.”
She’d put her finger on it, as she so often did. Years before, after Gail had been raped and her life turned upside down, Joe had almost died trying to bring the perpetrator in. Then, as now, Joe’s mother had helped him see clearly through the tricky emotional maze.
“Does Gail even know what you’re working on?” she asked.
“No,” he confessed. “I haven’t had a chance to tell her.”
“Because of her schedule or because it involves Ellen?”
He hesitated. “Both, maybe. Mostly the schedule, but I do feel a little weird about this. I haven’t thought about Ellen so much in a long time.”
“Her death changed your life, Joe. It took years before you allowed someone like Gail to get close, and even then it only worked because she didn’t replace what Ellen was for you.”
“A wife?”
“More than that,” his mother pursued. “Ellen would have been the mother of your children, if you two had chosen to adopt. You’ve been mourning that all this time, too, whether you admit it or not.”
Joe remained silent, pondering the truth of her argument, looking for flaws he realized might not be there.
“Are you feeling a little widowed all over again?” she asked after a few moments.
Joe was caught off guard. “I’m not sure I’d put it that way.”
“Maybe you should. It might help you see things more clearly.”
“That’s a little dramatic.”
“Is it? You’re not married. You live apart. Your quiet moments together are shoehorned in. What’s left if you lose those? I wouldn’t downplay the importance of this.”
Joe hesitated again, somewhat at a loss. “I can’t tell her to stop running. She wouldn’t do it, anyway.”
“That’s not the debate to have. There may not even be a debate. But this has got to be put on the table between you, Joe. You’re not going to be able to settle this in your own head. People don’t have good conversations in the mirror, not ones that count, anyway.”
This time the ensuing silence was respected by both of them, allowing her words to find their proper nesting place.
Finally, Joe sighed. “Thanks, Mom.”
“I love you, sweetheart.”
Willy Kunkle pointed through the windshield. “That’s your man.”
Sitting behind the wheel, Joe watched as a thin young hustler with a struggling beard swung off the porch of one of Brattleboro’s ubiquitous decrepit wooden apartment houses on Canal Street and began walking west, his body language at odds with itself, hovering between watchfulness and cool indifference.
“John Moser?” Joe asked.
“The one and only.”
“You have anything we can use to squeeze him?”
“Not much. Like I told you before, he’s cagey that way. I do have a bluff that might work, though. Remember Jaime Wagner?”
Gunther thought back, his brain, like those of most in his profession, filled with a gallery of people no one else would choose to know. “Pimply guy who ripped off the Army Navy store a few years back?”
Kunkle nodded. “I’ve got him parked at the PD right now on something unrelated. But he works for Moser off and on, and I hear he helped Moser on a job just a few days ago. I’m thinking we can use him for that bogus lineup thing old Frank used to pull.”
Gunther laughed. “Father Murphy’s rolling, walk-by beauty show? Jesus. God knows what the legalities are of that nowadays.”
“Who cares?” Willy answered, opening the door. “It’s not like we’re busting either one of them.”
Joe didn’t argue, if only because, in one fluid movement peculiar to this very asymmetrical man, Willy Kunkle had launched himself from the car and was already following their quarry down the street.
Joe cranked the engine, eased into traffic, and drove to a second parking spot about a block ahead of John Moser. He waited, watching Moser approach in the rearview mirror, Willy quietly closing the distance behind him, before he, too, got out of the car.
“John Moser?” he asked the young man, whose face instantly froze. “I’d like to ask you . . .”
Predictably, he didn’t get to finish. But he didn’t have to break into a footrace he wouldn’t have won, either. Moser spun on his heel to bolt and ran right into Willy’s powerful right hand, which grabbed him by the throat like a farmer snatching a chicken.
“Be nice, asshole,” was all Willy said.
“So, here’s the thing,” Willy explained to a scowling John Moser sitting on a metal chair in an empty borrowed room down the hall from the VBI office. “We’ve been working that robbery/assault on Chicken Coop Hill four days ago—the one where you wore gloves and a mask and thought you were so good your shit didn’t stink—and guess what? We’ve come up with a solid case. In fact, the SA likes it enough that he thinks he’ll run with it.”
“You’re full of crap,” Moser said flatly.
Which was correct. Willy had only heard that Moser had committed the crime, and he’d read the victim’s stat
ement. But he didn’t have a case. Not only that, it would have been a Brattleboro PD investigation to begin with. So Willy was bluffing twice over. He did, however, have two advantages: First, Moser wouldn’t know how police jurisdictional tap dances got sorted out, and second, he had no idea, in this world of fantasy forensics, what a cop like Willy would be able to conjure up.
“I’m full of something, all right,” Willy agreed, pulling a small plastic bag from his pocket. “Like a strand of fiber we linked to your ski mask.”
Moser squinted at the barely visible thread, in fact something Willy had removed from his own jacket earlier.
“And this,” Willy added, waving a randomly selected crime lab printout in the air so Moser couldn’t read it. “You’re too dumb to know this, but DNA doesn’t just come from blood and semen. We can get it from almost anywhere.” He leaned forward slightly. “Including saliva. Like the little drops of spit you spray when you’re talking. Remember talking to the victim, John? You got right in his face and said some really ugly things to him. And every time you opened your big yap, you nailed him with tiny bits of DNA.” Willy waved the printout again. “Which we retrieved from the poor slob’s face. Amazing, huh?”
Amazing and impossible. Except that Moser’s growing concern was becoming clear.
Down the hall, Joe sat leaning back, his feet up on the windowsill, chatting with a high-strung Jaime Wagner, who was perched on the edge of a folding chair as if it might collapse beneath him.
“You’ve got to know we’ve been watching you, Jaime,” Gunther said in a fatherly tone. “Kid like you, in a rush to spend the rest of his life in jail. It wears me out. You know how many years I’ve been chasing guys like you?”
In the sudden silence, Jaime Wagner felt forced to murmur, “No.”
“Way too many,” Joe said expansively. “I mean, it’s no skin off my butt. It’s what I get paid for. But you know, every once in a while, I play it differently—try to be a little more supportive. Maybe it’s because I’m getting older—beats me—but I like stirring things up now and then.”
Wagner was staring at him as if he were speaking Chinese.
Joe swung his feet off the windowsill and placed his elbows on his knees, scrutinizing Jaime. “That’s why you’re here. I had you picked up so you’d know I’m making a special project out of you—something to make me feel better about myself. I figure if I keep you out of trouble, maybe God’ll look kindly on me at the end, you know what I’m saying?”
Jaime Wagner had no clue. “I guess.”
Joe smiled. “Great. I wouldn’t want to do this without your cooperation, right?”
Joe stood up and took two steps forward, so that he now loomed over the teenager.
“Of course,” he resumed, “I’d need a show of good faith from you so I know I’m not wasting my time.”
Wagner licked his lips. “Like what?”
Gunther shrugged. “I don’t know. Not much—barely anything, really. Just something to make me feel we’re communicating. That you’re going to be straight with me. I mean, I remember when we busted you for the Army Navy heist, you lied your head off, which kind of hurt my feelings, since we all knew you’d done it. See what I mean?”
Another awkward silence stretched between them. “What do I have to do?” Jaime asked in a near whisper.
Joe scratched his head, pretending to think. He’d spent half an hour interviewing the cop who’d dealt with Jaime most recently, learning how best to manipulate him. He suddenly snapped his fingers. “I know.”
Wagner gave a small jump in his seat.
“You know John Moser?”
The young man’s face closed down. “I guess.”
Joe was smiling. “There you are. A perfect show of faith. I tell you what. This’ll be like a small test. We’ve got John down the hall, being interviewed. All I want you to do is identify him—just tell me if the guy we’ve got is really John Moser—and then you’re free to go.”
Jaime looked confused. “But you know who he is.”
Joe beamed. “Exactly. No risk to you.” He leaned forward and helped Jaime to his feet by grabbing his shirt sleeve. “Look, it’s like a positive reinforcement thing. I just have to feel you’re with me on this. I gotta feel good about my commitment to you, okay?”
But Jaime was dragging his feet and shook his arm free. “Why’re you talking to John?”
Gunther’s voice hardened slightly. “That’s not your concern. What you need to worry about is still being on probation and needing to make me happy.” He gently but firmly placed his hand against Wagner’s chest and pushed him up against the wall. “Tell me something, Jaime: What am I asking you to do here?”
The boy looked at him in surprise, groping for the right answer. “Name John?”
“Did I mention in what context? Or did I just say name him?”
“Just name him.”
Joe leaned into him just a touch harder. “And what happens if you don’t do that and only that?”
Wagner was starting to look seriously baffled. “I don’t know.”
Joe stepped back and smiled. “Right. And you don’t want to. You ready to help me out now?”
Jaime’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “I guess so.”
Joe slapped him on the shoulder. “What’re you worried about? You think John might get pissed? About what? You doing anything wrong here?”
“No.” But he didn’t sound too sure.
Joe didn’t care. He knew from experience what Jaime Wagner’s path was likely to be. Playing head games with him wasn’t going to cost Joe any sleep. He therefore walked the youngster down the hallway and, just prior to opening another door near the end, asked him, “So, here’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: Is this John Moser?”
He knocked quickly and opened the door to reveal Willy Kunkle standing to one side of a small room, and Moser sitting in a chair, looking worried and straight at them.
“Yeah,” Jaime confirmed, “That’s him.”
Joe closed the door and escorted Wagner outside.
“Uh-oh,” Willy said to a surprised John Moser, who was still staring at the closed door. “That wasn’t good. I forgot to mention we’d been grilling your little pal.”
He placed his hand against his cheek thoughtfully. “Damn—now, on top of all the forensics, we got a witness. Too bad, John. Looks like you been tagged.”
Moser was looking glum.
Willy had his hand on the doorknob when he paused, and added, “Unless, you have something that might smooth things out a little . . .”
Twenty minutes later, Willy Kunkle joined Joe in the VBI office. “I didn’t know they still made ’em that dumb.”
“You got what we’re after?” Joe asked, looking up from what he’d been reading.
Kunkle sat down and rested his feet on Joe’s desk. “And then some. The stupid bastard gave me stuff I didn’t even know about. That’s what took me so long. I had to give it all to Ron: dope deals, B-and-Es, a few smash-and-grabs. They ought to be able to get half a dozen busts out of it. Very sweet.”
“And the gun?” Joe asked.
Willy smiled. “Oh, yeah. Moser sold it to Matt Purvis for seventy-five bucks. He paid twenty and some Ecstasy for it to one Derek Beauchamp, who said he found it under a floor he was sanding on some recent Yuppie rehab project.”
He contentedly patted his chest with his hand. “Sometimes this job doesn’t totally suck.”
Chapter 9
Hi. It’s me.”
Joe smiled at the phone, relief washing over him.
“Hey, Gail. How’re you doing?”
He heard her sigh. “There’s a question. You free right now?”
He was standing in his woodworking shop, a place he often retreated to when he needed extraction from the outside world. “It’ll probably break some bluebird’s heart to hear it, but yeah, I’m free. Where are you?”
Her voice was surprised. “You’re building a birdhouse?”
&n
bsp; “It’s for my mother.”
“That’s sweet, Joe. I’m sorry I’m interrupting.”
“Don’t be. You sound like you’re on a cell phone.” He was slightly disappointed by that, suspecting that she was probably calling on the way to some official function.
“I am,” she admitted. “I’m in your driveway.”
He put down the block of wood he’d been holding and crossed to a window overlooking the front of his small rental property, actually a carriage house tucked behind a huge Victorian monster fronting Green Street. He saw Gail’s car behind his own, her parking lights still on.
He waved at her through the window. “You want to keep talking like this, or would you like to come in?”
In answer, she blew him a kiss through the windshield and killed the engine.
He met her at the front door, having crossed the living room from the shop. They didn’t say anything but embraced instead, surrendering to mutually shared lost time and frayed emotions.
Afterward, Gail pulled back just enough to say, “Damn, I was hoping I’d get to do that tonight.”
He kissed her again, very aware of their bodies together, and feeling her hands running up and down his back.
“Can you stay awhile?” he asked, mumbling against her lips.
“All night,” she answered, sliding one hand up under his shirt.
He nuzzled her neck and began lifting her sweater up over her head.
“Are you playing hooky?” he asked her later as they lay side by side in bed.
She curled one leg over his, her hand on his chest. “Oh, you bet. They’ll survive one night on their own. After a while, everyone starts thinking the slightest detail will sink the entire campaign. There’s no sense of proportion left.”
“How do you think it’s going?”
“Hard to tell,” she said, her head finding a comfortable spot in the crook of his shoulder. “I’m so surrounded by enthusiasts, half of them convinced I’ll fall apart at the first mention of bad news, that I’m having a hell of a time figuring out what the truth is. Susan’s a brick, natch, but even she has an agenda. They all just want me to press the flesh and raise money.”