The Surrogate Thief

by Archer Mayor

  “Too often in this country, we have seen our political leaders tout loyalty to their friends and backers over the interests of the people. They have, time and again, retreated to their support base like cowards unsure of the hearts and minds of the very people who elected them. Democrats and Republicans alike have ducked responsibility, orchestrated cover-ups, and flat-out lied on national television, all in the wrongheaded and insulting belief that we who elected them would somehow swallow their baloney solely because they told us to.

  “Well,” she added, grabbing the edge of the podium with both hands and leaning forward for emphasis, “I won’t have any of it. I will fire people who aren’t honest. I will fire people who play politics. And I will do so regardless of the supposed fallout that comes from having integrity. I will never believe that good people finish last, and I will never believe that the voters of this county, of this state, and of this country will allow themselves to be hoodwinked and misled by a political status quo that’s been doing the same thing for so long, they’ve come to see it as the truth. Politics for the sake of politics is a sham and a lie, and I won’t have anything to do with it. Thank you.”

  They watched as she pulled away from the podium amid a chorus of ignored questions, and retreated the way she’d come. As someone turned down the sound on the TV set, Joe heard Sammie murmur, “You go, girl.”

  As a growing number of faces turned his way inquiringly, imitating Gail, he quickly made his escape.

  “Some speech.”

  Joe looked up. Standing in the office doorway was Tony Brandt, looking, as usual, slightly bemused. Of all the people who might have crossed Joe’s threshold right now, he was happy Brandt was the first. It was going to take some getting used to, being the shadowy companion of the latest political fireworks display, and he didn’t relish the predictable attention. Sure as hell, he wasn’t going home tonight. Nor would he be going to Gail’s, although he’d already left a message for her to call him when she could.

  “What did you think?” he asked noncommittally, indicating a chair for Tony to sit in.

  “I think,” his old boss said, settling in, “that we all just witnessed the Hail Mary pass to end all. If it works the way I think it will, it’ll put her at the top of the very political game she was claiming to debunk.”

  Joe felt his spirits almost palpably sag. “That cynical?”

  Tony raised one shoulder. “Maybe that idealistic and practical. It depends on whose side you’re on, as usual. Me? I think it was a master stroke, but then, I’ve always admired the lady.”

  Joe went to what he felt was the most telling point of the question. “Do you think she and Susan cooked it up together?”

  Tony smiled. “Joe, you know her better than anyone. You’ve loved her, lived with her, nursed her back to health. Hell, you almost died for her, indirectly. With that degree of familiarity, you’re asking me?”

  Joe didn’t smile back. “Yes. I am.”

  Tony became serious. “No, I don’t. Because Gail Zigman’s not the only one we’re talking about here. Susan Raffner is about as tough-minded as any man or woman I’ve ever met. I don’t know what Gail might say if she were asked the same question because, despite her statement on TV, she’s as loyal a friend as anyone could want. But I would bet my bottom dollar that Susan launched this boat all on her own, trusting Gail would have the intelligence—and the heart,” he added emphatically, “to know what to do next. That’s why I said earlier that this smacks more of idealism than cynicism.”

  He paused, looked at Joe quietly for a moment, and finally added, “But that’s me.”

  “No,” Joe conceded. “That’s you and me. Nice to hear, though.”

  Tony chuckled half to himself and got to his feet, dispelling the tension. “You have to admit, though, if she was in a horse race before, Christ only knows what it’s turned into now.”

  He walked to the door, paused, and repeated, “Hell of a speech. See ya, Joe.”

  Joe sat there for a while, thinking, retracing the conversation. There’d been something in its midst, totally unrelated, that had struck him, as occasional stray thoughts do, out of the blue, encouraged by the merest turn of phrase.

  He swiveled in his seat and stared out the window, letting his mind drift. When it finally came to him, he could only admire the simplicity of it.

  Shaking his head, he reached for the phone and dialed the crime lab again.

  “David?” he said, once the lab director had picked up. “Can you do me another favor?”

  With nothing more to go on than pure instinct, he knew he’d found the proverbial smoking gun.

  Kathy Bartlett looked up as Gunther knocked on her open door.

  “Joe,” she said. “What’re you doing in town? Have a seat.”

  “I was in Waterbury, picking up something from David Hawke,” he said, sitting opposite her and placing a manila envelope on her desk.

  She reached for it but didn’t open it immediately. “My God, Gail sure has been making the news.”

  He smiled ruefully, knowing Kathy’s politics were at odds with Gail’s on most matters. “Yeah. It’s a crapshoot now.”

  “I give her high marks for guts, though. The woman knows how to fight. If I lived down that way, I might reconsider my vote.” She hefted the thin envelope. “What’s this?”

  “I think it may be what you’ve been looking for,” he told her, happy to move off a subject that had been filling the air ever since Gail’s announcement. He and Gail had spoken just once thereafter, mostly for him to wish her luck and for both of them to agree to stay out of each other’s way, for everyone’s sake. It had been a practical, forlorn conversation. “I was having a chat with Tony Brandt a few days ago, in part about knowing people and things so well and so intimately, that a sudden surprise no longer seems possible. Made me rethink how I’d been looking at the Oberfeldt case.”

  “Oh?” she prompted, still holding the envelope. Like the prosecutor she was, she knew the value of occasional patience.

  “The switchblade at the scene bugged me from the start,” he explained. “It wasn’t used, although it was open, and the thumbprint on it pointed directly to Pete Shea—which, as it turned out, was the intention.”

  “The surrogate thief,” Kathy said with a smile.

  “Right—and eventually the surrogate killer. The gun planted under Shea’s mattress was clearly supposed to be the deal closer—no prints, but still covered with Oberfeldt’s blood. Of course, Shea found it before we got a lead on him, had his girlfriend hide it, and beat feet, in short order. But the plan worked anyway—we believed Pete was Oberfeldt’s killer.”

  “Okay,” Kathy said neutrally.

  “If you’re going to set someone up like that, you do the deed and then plant the evidence. Makes sense. But as Ralpher or Bander or whatever you want to call him was putting the old man into a coma, Oberfeldt got one good shot at him, maybe with his elbow, and hit him square in the nose—produced a real gusher.

  “Following my conversation with Tony, I replayed that scene in my head, based on no more than what I would’ve done in Bander’s place. I visualized tossing aside the gun I’d used to beat Oberfeldt, feeling my nose to assess the damage—and thus covering my hand with my own blood—and then extracting the switchblade to place it by the body.”

  Kathy’s eyes narrowed as she now tore open the envelope. “You’re kidding me,” she said. “Bander’s blood is on the switchblade along with Oberfeldt’s?”

  Joe smiled. “Exactly. I had the crime lab test the knife from end to end. Before, reasonably enough—especially for back then—they’d taken but one small sample, which turned out to be only the victim’s. Pure dumb luck.”

  Kathy scanned the printed results before her. “There’s no such thing, Joe—it’s all part of the cosmic plan.” She looked up at him. “Especially when it works in your favor.”

  She rose and shook his hand, a rare gesture for her. “I’ll have an arrest warrant for Tho
mas Bander in a few hours. You want to be the one to serve it?”

  Chapter 25

  Joe didn’t get to serve the arrest warrant on Tom Bander. When he and Lester pulled up to the mansion’s familiar broad porch steps, they were met by a woman in a maid’s uniform, looking dazed and shivering in the cold without a coat.

  Joe swung out of the car and quickly looked around. “Ma’am?” he asked. “You all right?”

  “It’s Mr. Bander,” she said vaguely, pointing inside the house.

  On edge, both officers bypassed her and quickly checked the open doorway. There was nothing to see beyond the cavernous hall Gunther remembered from his earlier visit.

  With Lester still watchful, Joe pulled the woman in from outside and shut the door quietly.

  “What’s your name?” he asked her.

  “Louise.”

  “You work here, is that right?”

  “Yes, sir. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “You did fine, Louise, and now I want you to stay put. Where’s Mr. Bander?”

  “In the library. It’s down . . .”

  “I know where it is. Is there anyone else in the house?”

  “The cook’s in the kitchen. There’s a man outside covering the plants for winter.”

  “All right. You stay here.”

  Gesturing to Lester, Joe led the way down the hall to the towering double doors leading into the library. One of them was slightly ajar.

  Gunther pounded on it with his fist, his other hand resting on the butt of his holstered gun. “Thomas Bander? It’s the police.”

  Total silence greeted them.

  Joe pushed the door back to reveal the room in whole. At first, distracted by the windows and the light pouring through them, he couldn’t see anyone.

  Spinney then touched his arm. “Joe. Over there.”

  He shifted his gaze to a corner of the room, where a metal spiral staircase twisted up to meet the narrow balcony running alongside the rows of untouched books. Next to the stairs, a body was hanging from a rope tied to the railing above. Its feet were dangling almost within reach of the floor.

  Joe quickly crossed the room and touched Tom Bander’s hand. It was cold and stiff. Rigor mortis had already set in.

  “He’s dead,” he told his partner. “Call for backup, the ME, the state’s attorney. Might as well call the crime lab, too, just so they’re alerted, but don’t tell them to roll yet. Better use your cell phone.”

  Lester left the room. Joe stood still for a moment, peering at Bander’s discolored face, its eyes and mouth half open, looking like a poorly executed wax model.

  He shifted his gaze to the railing, the nearby staircase, following in his mind the man’s last actions, studying for inconsistencies and finding none.

  Finally, he stepped away, watching the floor carefully so as not to disrupt any possible evidence, and approached the enormous desk, where a single sheet of paper seemed to be glowing in the reflected light.

  The handwriting was plain, as was the message: “My name is Tom Bander. It used to be Travis Ralpher. I’ve done some things that will send me to jail and I don’t want to go there. I mailed a letter to my lawyer, Mr. Masius, with all the details. Thanks.”

  Joe sat on the edge of the desk, his legs weak. He could hear his own breathing, feel the beating of his heart. The sunlight gently warmed one side of his face.

  Thirty-two years ago, fresh from having buried Klaus Oberfeldt and then Ellen, feeling empty and grieving and instinctively knowing that the case would remain unresolved, Joe had sat at his desk in the detective bureau’s bullpen, thinking about Maria Oberfeldt. The phone had rung at that precise moment—a call from the state police—to inform him that Maria had just been found dead by her own hand. A hanging.

  It was over. A full and finished circle, completed on a note of thanks.

  Joe walked down the gleaming white-walled hallway, his footsteps sounding loud against the linoleum. There weren’t as many people milling about as there’d been last time, but then again, it was late, as attested to by the faint odor of dinner and the muffled sounds of TV sets.

  He turned one final corner and knocked on a door no different in appearance from the dozens he’d already passed—so many lives cloaked in ubiquitous anonymity.

  “Come in.”

  He opened the door and stepped inside. Natalie Shriver was seated as usual by the window, but the lights were out, allowing her to gaze onto the moon-washed lawn without any competing reflection.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  He realized the hall light behind him had made him into a featureless shadow. He quickly closed the door. “Joe Gunther. I visited you the other day?”

  “I remember. Would you like to rest for a while? I apologize for the darkness. You may turn a light on if you wish.”

  “No. That’s fine,” he said, taking his chair across from her. “It’s actually very restful this way.”

  “Yes, I agree. That’s why I do it. I read a little later, generally. But after supper, it’s nice to simply sit and think for a while. I don’t believe people do enough of that in this busy world.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  He couldn’t really see her face. It was mostly in darkness, one cheek only being touched by the moonlight.

  “What’s on your mind? I can’t imagine you came by to simply stare out the window with me.”

  “I did say I’d be back to visit.”

  He saw her nod, if just barely. “That’s true. I remember that. A nice gesture. Do you have many friends?”

  “Enough.”

  “I would imagine they’re happy to have you in their lives.”

  He was startled by the remark. It so closely echoed something Gail had told him just hours earlier. Flush from her near-miraculous victory over Ed Parker, and now a newly anointed state senator, she’d dropped by his house on Green Street with flowers, a box of mac and cheese as a joke, and an admission that despite the important place he held in her heart, she was fearful that she too often took him for granted.

  He’d been deeply touched by that. He’d never laid claim to her, and although he’d felt cast away sometimes as she wrestled with her inner conflicts, he’d always known he might lose her to a course not yet charted. It was a defense mechanism, no doubt, a hedge against disappointment, and perhaps not the soundest emotional raft to cling to. But in the end, it worked for him.

  “I’m certainly happy to have them in mine,” he told Natalie.

  She was silent for a moment, and he feared he might have reminded her of her losses.

  “But you are here for a reason, nevertheless,” she suddenly said, her voice still strong.

  “That’s up to you—whether you’d like to know about Hannah or not.”

  “Why she was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  Again, there was a prolonged pause, during which Gunther became aware, for the first time, of the distant ticking of a clock somewhere.

  “I think I would. I have my own theories, but it would be a comfort of sorts to actually be told. How do you know, by the way?”

  “A man she knew, a long time ago, died recently and left a note—a long confession, in fact. With his lawyer.”

  “A suicide, you mean.” She said it matter-of-factly.

  “Yes.” He paused. “Hannah had taken a deposition when she was a court reporter. This man discovered he was mentioned in it, by pure chance—had that gotten out, it might’ve ruined him. So he approached her, first with money, and then with his own dreams and ambitions.”

  “They were lovers, then?”

  “For a while. That’s why she dropped out. He’d heard from an ex-employee about a large cache of money hidden under the floor of a small store in Brattleboro. He stole it to start a new life, and I guess Hannah hoped she could make his dream her own. But it didn’t last between them.”

  “Poor girl,” her mother murmured. “It never did.”

  “Anyway, the man did
well. He made a few lucky choices, hired people who knew what to do, became very wealthy. I only met him once, but I sensed he may have been as surprised by his own success as anyone, as if maybe he were just along on somebody’s else’s ride.”

  “That’s happened to more than a few people.”

  “He wasn’t really, though,” Joe corrected himself. “I guess I meant that he seemed ill suited to the trappings of wealth. But he had the necessary ruthlessness. Money hadn’t changed him from what he’d been.”

  “A bad man, then?”

  “Maybe worse—an amoral one. Bland and brutal, both. When Hannah heard a few months ago that his past might be threatening to catch up with him, she contacted him and told him her continued silence could be bought.”

  Natalie Shriver reacted with a small but sharp intake of breath. “Oh—foolish girl.”

  “I’m afraid so. I am sorry.”

  The old woman sighed. “We make choices, Mr. Gunther, usually based on what we think is right, even when all around us see our folly for what it is. Hannah led a sort of wishful life, really—an approximation of the one that actually stretched out before her. She was never in a position to choose wisely.”

  Joe thought back to the lives he’d encountered lately, of people now both living and dead, and at the watershed events that had helped shape his own.