“Yep,” she replies. “I’m gonna be the next…oh, shit; you’re just bustin’ me again, aren’t you?”
The driver suppresses a laugh. “No, honest. It’s just that it’s so obvious. All you girls; that’s all you think about—goin’ to New York.”
“Are you goin’ there? To the city?” She likes him, and wouldn’t mind being with him for a while.
“’Fraid not,” he replies. “I’m headin’ in that direction, though. I’ve gotta drop this load over in Roscoe. Still want the ride?”
“Sure. Gotta get there somehow.”
“Well, hang on then. Let me get this thing rollin’.”
Olivia settles back in the seat, dropping her knapsack on the floor between her legs. She’s suddenly very weary, and closes her eyes.
“Better put that seat belt on,” says the driver. “We don’t need any tickets now, do we?”
She reaches over her right shoulder, grabs the retractable belt, and pulls it across her chest, fastening the buckle in the receptacle to her left. “Oh,” she says, “I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m Olivia.”
“Glad to meet ya. I’m Dave. Dave Hinson.”
The formalities dispensed with, Dave activates the throttle, the big engine roars to life, and the truck slowly lumbers ahead, pulling off the shoulder and onto the highway. In a minute or two, it’s humming along the concrete at a respectable seventy-miles an hour. He turns toward Olivia. “So, tell me all about—”
The girl is fast asleep; her soft breathing the only response she can make. Dave smiles and flips on the radio, adjusting the volume to a level adequate enough for him to hear, but not loud enough to wake his passenger.
Twenty minutes later, the truck exits the highway to the right, and slowly starts down the incline of the off ramp leading to the river below.
Chapter 11
“I just don’t get it, Chief,” says Rick Dawley, “we’ve told Mayor Swenson at least five times—“
“Not to park his car in the handicapped spot in front of Doc Gittlesohn’s office, right?”
“Yeah, and he still keeps doing it.”
“So give him a ticket.”
“But, Chief—“
“Give the asshole a ticket,” I say, “and I’ll take the heat.”
“Okay,” says Rick with a sigh, “If you say so.”
“I say so. Just do your job, and give him the ticket.”
It’s an ongoing battle with our esteemed mayor. He feels that just because he’s the titular head of our little burg, he ought to be able to park wherever he damn well pleases. Well, I learned a long time ago that if you give an asshole an inch, he’ll shit all over you. So, the mayor gets a ticket, and I get to wipe up the mess.
“Chief,” says Nancy, poking her head into my office. “You’ve got a call from over in Greene. A Sheriff Dixon. He says they’ve got a missing person might be your deceased.”
“Okay, I’ll take it at my desk.”
Ten seconds later, my phone rings.“Chief Davis. How can I help you?”
“Chief, this is Marty Dixon over in Greene. I understand you found a body.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Female; no identification. We’re checking out all missing persons within a fifty-mile radius. You got something?”
“Well, maybe. We had a runaway reported about two weeks ago—“
“Don’t go any further,” I say, “this gal was killed at least three or more months ago. Only reason we know it was a female is DNA.”
“She was fourteen; blond, blue eyes—“
“Sheriff?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think you heard me. This body was barely a body. Mostly bones and a little cartilage. Couldn’t be your girl.”
“Oh.”
“But, thanks for reaching out. If there’s ever anything we can do for you, don’t hesitate. Thanks for calling, Marty.”
I hang up the phone.
“Nancy?” I say it loud enough for my secretary to hear me in the other room. I stand up and start walking toward the front door.
“Yes, Chief,” comes the response from my aging but still effective second-in-command.
“I’m going to take a little ride. If anybody wants to reach me, tell ‘em I’ll be back in about an hour.”
“Okay, Chief. What if Red comes by?”
“Make it two hours.”
I’ve known Frank Kuttner casually for years, but since my move to Roscoe, he and I have become friends. He has a garage on the outskirts of town, on the border between Roscoe and Livingston Manor. It’s about a five-mile drive, and I arrive there in less than fifteen minutes.
In addition to repairing various vehicles, Frank also ties some mean dry flies, some of which he sells in the little shop he keeps out behind his garage. He’s also got more common sense than any five men I know.
I pull the Jeep into the gravel driveway alongside the old whitewashed building that pre-dates World War II, and turn off the engine. Automobiles, trucks, and even the odd motorcycle are strewn about the exterior of the building, each in a different stage of repair. It brings to mind some of the metal sculptures I used to see alongside the Thruway, when I used to make the occasional escape from the city to fish the Schoharie up near Tannersville.
The garage is deserted, so I amble back to the little out building in the rear that serves as a retail fly fishing shop. If I’m lucky, I’ll find Frank sitting at his vise, tying up some popular patterns for the upcoming season. Approaching the small out building, I am greeted by the nervous crowing of several roosters that have managed to extricate themselves from the ramshackle chicken coop adjacent to the shop. Unlike his competitors, who purchase ready-to-use feathers from overseas suppliers, my friend raises his own birds for fly tying, and harvests the capes for their excellent dry-fly hackles. They are the last direct descendents of the famous barred grizzlies raised exclusively by legendary Catskill fly tier Harry Darbee—the finest roosters ever raised specifically for the quality of their nearly web-free feathers. Every time he kills one, I could swear I see Frank shed a tear. Like war veterans, when these old birds are gone, they’re gone for good.
“Frank?” I shout, opening the door to the little shop. “You in here?”
“No need to shout, Matt,” whispers Frank, who’s sitting quietly at his rotary vise, tying up what appears to be a Grey Ghost streamer. “I’m right here.”
“Smart ass,” I quip.
“Tea?” he asks, automatically. He’s wearing a blue, windowpane design flannel shirt, and his chestnut-colored hair contains a heavy dose of pomade to hold it in place. It’s hard to ascertain his age, but judging by the pompadour hairstyle he affects, I’m guessing he’s anywhere between fifty-five and sixty.
“No thanks, Frank,” I reply. “I’d rather—”
“Oh, that’s right,” he says, “you’re a… hot chocolate man. I forgot.”
“Yeah, well,” I reply. “It’s only been—what?—about fifteen years since I’ve been coming here?”
“Somethin’ like that,” replies Frank, with a smile and that twinkle in his eye. He gets up from his fly-tying station and makes his way out from behind the display case that serves as a natural barrier between him and his customers.
“Let me see,” he says, “I just might have some of that stuff around here someplace.” He rummages around in a wall cabinet, and produces the goods. It’s my favorite—Swiss Miss, with mini marshmallows.
“Here ya go, little boy. Just like my grandkids. Here’s your hot cocoa.” He hands me the box, looking at me over the top of his “cheaters,” the magnifying glasses he uses for fly tying.
“Jees-us,” I joke. “What kind of place is this anyhow? I’ve got to make my own?”
“Aw, quit your bellyaching ‘Chief,’ old Frank’ll make it for ya.”
He fills a battered copper kettle with water from the sink in the corner, and places it on an ancient hot plate he keeps just for visitors.
Five minutes later, I’m sipping on my hot chocol
ate, watching Frank minister to a cup of his special Earl Grey tea—with a little shot of Bushmills added for “warmth” (to quote Frank).
“So, you’ve got yourself a little mystery, huh?” he says, over the rim of his teacup.
“Uh huh. Not exactly the kind of thing I would expect out here. Oh, sure, in the city we’re always finding bodies turning up in weird places: under bridges, alongside roadways, in basements. But, that’s the city. Twelve million people. You kind of expect it to happen there. But, here? Shit, Frank, I never—”
“People’s people, Matt. Ain’t no different here than there.”
“I guess…but you just don’t expect it here, at least I don’t.”
“Well, maybe you need to take off those rose-colored glasses, and smell the flowers.” Frank is always good for a mixed metaphor or two. But, what he says rings true.
“Funny thing is: we’ve investigated every missing person reported in the last six months, but nobody knows a thing.”
“Well, maybe they don’t wanna know anything. Ever think of that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well…suppose you got a teenager; real pain in the ass. Maybe you’re on a fixed income—welfare even. Maybe ya say ‘good riddance.’” Frank leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, waiting for my response.
“Yeah, you’re probably right. No, what the hell, I know you are. I’ve seen dozens of cases just like this—in the city.”
“Happens all the time,” says Frank. I told you he had common sense.
Now I’m feeling a little foolish. “I guess my problem is that I thought things were different somehow, you know, out here in the country—the heartland.”
“Heartland, my ass,” says Frank. “People are people. There’s good—and, there’s bad. Don’t matter where they live.”
Even after all those years working homicide, I still want to see the good. Frank’s right, of course. How else can I explain it? “So, you think this might be a runaway, but because of circumstances, the parents—or parent—just didn’t bother to report it?”
“Sure!” says Frank. “They’re relieved, and just hoping for the best. Kids are survivors, ya know. Most of ‘em do just fine on their own.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “I guess that’s just something I can’t get my mind around—but, it makes sense.”
We sit there quietly for a few minutes, each of sipping on our preferred drink. I’m mulling over the scenario that Frank has laid out for me, and like it or not, it does make sense. But, it also presents a dilemma. Where do I go from here? I’m used to “normal” crimes; crimes with motive, greed, profit, revenge—the list is endless. But something like this, I’m really at a loss.
“Don’t know where to start, huh?” says Frank, as if reading my mind.
“Yep. I guess I have to go back to square one. Take a different approach. Think ‘outside the box,’ as everybody says now. I can’t just give up…”
“I’d check the schools, if I was you,” he says, quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“Well…most likely it’s some kinda runaway, right? So, where do runaways come from? School, right? So, start with the schools.”
“Hmmm…I see what you mean.” I finish my hot chocolate and set the empty cup down on the little coffee table Frank salvaged from a yard sale. “Think I’ll start on that right now.”
“Yep; good idea,” says Frank.
“Well, thanks for the cocoa.”
“Anytime,” says Frank.
“Oh, and…uh, Frank…nice Gray Ghost.”
“Didn’t think ya noticed.”
“Always. Don’t get up.”
“Wouldn’t think of it.”
“See you, Frank.”
“See ya, Matt.”
My mind races with ideas, as I drive slowly along Old Route 17, on my way back to headquarters. Schools, teachers, kids, interviews. Lots of work. But, I can’t quit now. Frank would never forgive me. I glance over at the Willowemoc on my left, running high, but clear—and inviting. But, for now, it’s a luxury I can’t afford to enjoy.
Nancy greets me at the door with the news.
“Rick’s inside. He’s all upset.”
“Is it about the mayor?”
“Yep.”
“Shit!”
Nancy walks away shaking her head. “Always with the cursing,” she says. I know she’s mostly teasing, but there’s a bit of truth to what she says. It didn’t matter much back in the city, but here, well, things are a bit different. I remind myself to stop—someday—but today’s not the day to start.
About four o’clock, my private phone line beeps at me, and I pick up the handset after the second electronic tone sounds.
“Chief Davis. How may I help you?”
“Matt, it’s Mayor Swenson.” (Whenever Harold is pissed off about something, he always uses the “M” word). I decide to nip this one in the bud.
“Why don’t you just pay the ticket, okay, Harold?”
“Goddamn it, Matt,” he says. “I’m the goddamn mayor, and I shouldn’t ought to—”
“Ought to what? Park in front of a doctor’s office? In a handicapped spot, no less? Yeah, I guess you’re right. So why don’t you just pay the ticket, and next time walk the three blocks to the barber shop, instead of wasting all that gas?”
“But, Matt, it isn’t right; me being the mayor and all—”
“And it isn’t right for you to tie up the only handicapped spot in front of Doc Gittlesohn’s office. So, do the right thing…Harold…and pay the goddamn ticket. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got more important things to attend to.”
What a difference a year makes, I think. When I first took over as Chief, I thought Mayor Swenson walked on water. Now, I realize that the only miracle he performs is his famous disappearing act when citizens are trying their damnedest to find him. As we sow, so shall we reap.
The remainder of the day passes uneventfully, and before I know it, it’s five o’clock.
“G’night, Chief,” says Nancy, passing my desk with her right hand held high in the air, swiveling slowly back and forth, as she waves goodbye in royal fashion. “Just in case you didn’t know it,” she adds, “it’s five o’clock.”
“Good night, Nancy,” I respond softly, but there’s no one there. I’m already a million miles away, with Frank’s words about the schools echoing in the back of my mind.
A minute or two later, I turn out the lights and head for home.
Chapter 12
Bryce Wilson is a thirty-five-going on-eighteen-year-old, all-night disc jockey, who hosts the “Bryce at Night” show on WLUV radio. He learned his craft—if it can be called that—as an apprentice engineer/announcer for the college radio station at the SUNY campus over in Oneonta. His acne-scarred face, oily red hair, and skeleton-thin physique rule out any chances at a TV career, but Bryce’s whiskey-smooth, baritone voice makes him a natural for radio.
The local “Don Imus” has two other primary interests besides radio: photography and girls—young girls to be precise—and he has managed to combine the two in perfect harmony. Taking full advantage of his relative celebrity status with the radio station, he has parlayed his smooth talking manner and marginal photographic skills into a position as official photographer for the nearby high school in Walton. As such, he gets to photograph female gymnasts, female volleyball players, female basketball players, cheerleaders, etc., and all in an official capacity. Naturally, he is also responsible for photographing the male athletes, but his main “focus” is on the girls. In addition, he keeps a small portrait studio in the finished-basement portion of his ancient log cabin located in Delancy.
Located as it is, at the top of Bear Spring Mountain Road, the WLUV broadcast station is a bit remote, but Bryce actually prefers it that way, encouraging the more adventurous of the teenaged girls to “stop by and say ‘howdy!’” On any given evening, between eight PM and midnight, Monday through Friday, one o
r more of the “local beauties” can be found assisting Bryce around the radio station. If they’re lucky, Bryce might let them introduce a song, or send out a “special message” to a boyfriend or two. In return, he gets a back rub or some other form of innocuous physical contact that makes him feel attractive. Some would term these activities “cheap thrills”; Bryce just refers to them as “favors.” The girls that hang around the studio think Bryce is cool. But, to the majority of the other girls, who see him for what he is, Bryce Wilson is a creep.
However, there is one notable exception. Linda Lovendosky is just past her eighteenth birthday, only two months from graduating Walton High School—and light years away from gaining entrance to any college’s undergraduate program. However, none of that matters to Bryce Wilson. As far as he is concerned, Linda has a virtual Masters Degree, not in English or science, but in hand jobs. And, for the last six months, he has been her primary tutor in “Sex Ed,” providing expert instruction—whenever and wherever—he finds the time. Linda’s perfect figure, together with auburn hair (worn long and straight like Crystal Gayle’s), and glittering hazel-colored eyes, make her extra desirable.
Tonight, she’s with Bryce at the radio station, and he has decided that this will be her unofficial “graduation day.” She’s been begging for it, he thinks, and he’s more than willing to oblige. Since she is no longer “jail bait,” he has decided to dispense with the usual preliminaries, like the back rub and hand job, and move ahead to the “main event.”
“But, first a toast,” he says. “To Linda, the best radio assistant I’ve ever had!”
Bryce raises a jelly glass of cheap Asti Spumanti sparkling wine and clinks it against a similar glass, held aloft by a giggling Linda. “May your graduation present be exactly what you wish for,” he says.
“Yeah,” replies Linda. “Maybe something long and hard.” She bursts out laughing at her perceived wittiness. Bryce just smiles.
Linda downs her glass in one swallow, and reaches for the bottle of wine with her free hand.
Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 5