In spite of her pain and the injury to her pride, she cannot stifle the little smile that crosses her face. She is a brave girl, and nothing will keep her from home. With a deep breath, she shoulders her knapsack, and trudges up the remaining stairs to the top level. Soon, she has reached the roadway leading across the George Washington Bridge, and she sticks out her thumb, her ordeal behind her—perhaps.
Chapter 18
Nancy Cooper is busy filing papers, when the door to the office opens abruptly, banging against the wall. She turns and sees Red Buckner’s imposing figure standing there, and shakes her head back and forth in a disapproving manner. She never liked him much when he was Chief, and her opinion has only lessened since he left office.
“Mornin’, Nancy,” says Red, tipping his straw cowboy hat. “Matt in?”
“Good morning, Dwight,” she responds. She chooses deliberately to refrain from using his nickname, just to annoy him. “I’m sorry, but he’s over to Elmira on police business.”
“Elmira? What the hell’s he doin’ over there?”
Nancy stiffens at the former Chief’s use of profanity, a response that is ignored by Red, who pushes the issue. “I said, what’s he doin’ in Elmira?”
“That’s confidential information, Dwight. Matt’s the Chief of Police now, and you’re not.”
“Well, now Miss Nancy Fancy Pants, there’s no need to go gettin’ a twist in your knickers. I was just askin’; that’s all. No harm in that, is there?”
“Dwight Buckner, you should be ashamed of yourself. You come sashaying in here, all high and mighty, like you’re still Chief of Police, wanting to know everything about everything that’s going on. Well, it’s high time that you came to grips with reality—”
“Jeez-us, Nancy, I didn’t mean nothin’. I was just—”
“And another thing,” continues Nancy. “I just wish you would check that dirty mouth of yours at the door. Maybe if you started treating people with a bit more respect, folks might be a little more accepting of you. Now, that you’re the ex-Chief, I mean—with no standing and all.”
Red’s face turns the color of his hair, and his expression grows menacing. He leans over Nancy’s desk, his face close to hers. Nancy holds her ground. “You know, Nancy, one of these days, you’re going to go too far.”
“And, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Never you mind, Missy.”
Nancy makes a dismissive gesture with her hand, and returns to her work, totally ignoring Red, who stands there fuming. Finally, he storms out of the office, slamming the door behind him hard enough to knock a picture off the wall, and causing Nancy to gasp.
“God, I hate that man,” she says quietly. “I really do.”
I pull the Jeep into the driveway alongside 374 Kinderkamack Road in Elmira. It’s the address Doctor Rapkin’s secretary has given me as being Mrs. Elge’s last residence. On the small, flat lot sits a weathered, white aluminum-sided house (probably a rental, I think) with black shutters, black door, and a black, wrought iron railing around its porch. Very imaginative. Just the kind of place a young girl would detest as her home. No wonder she wanted to get away. I cross the dirt yard and climb the two stairs to the porch. The doorbell has a little post-it note stating “Out of order,” so I knock several times on the scarred door. Just as I’m about to turn away, the door opens a fraction, restrained by a short length of security chain. Half of a face belonging to an elderly white-haired woman, wearing a bathrobe, appears in the opening. “Hello,” she says, in a frail voice, “can I help you?”
Judging by the woman’s age, I doubt that she is the one I am looking for, so I flash my identification, holding it patiently up to the opening, while a single eye examines it carefully. Then, the door closes, before opening again fully, exposing the occupant of the dwelling. She’s a tiny woman with snow-white hair, barely five-feet tall, and very old. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am, I’m trying to locate the former resident.”
“You mean Rosaria?”
“No. Elge,” I reply.
The woman smiles, revealing a marked absence of teeth. “No, no. That’s her first name—Rosaria. Rosaria Elge. What about her?”
I shuffle my feet. Small towns are different from the city. I don’t feel the same sense of authority here. There’s a tendency to defer. “Well, I really can’t say, but it sure would be helpful if I could locate her.”
“Well…what did you say your name was again?”
“I didn’t.” I take out my identification once more and offer it to the woman. “I’m Matt Davis. I’m the Chief of Police over in Roscoe.”
“Roscoe? Gee willikers, all the way over there?”
I smile. I imagine this woman has probably never been out of the town of Elmira. “Yes, ma’am, all fifty miles,” I say.
“Well, to be honest, I really don’t know where she went. I was just grateful to get her house,” she says. “Well, it wasn’t really hers, of course. It’s just a rental.”
“Of course.”
“She left town kind of fast is what they tell me. I don’t know why, but I guess she had her reasons. Seemed kind of weird to me. Anyway, you might want to try a few of the neighbors. They might know something.” She stares up at me intently. “Roscoe, you say?”
“Yes, ma’am. Roscoe.”
She shakes her head. “Well, Chief, I hope you find out what you need. Sorry I couldn’t help you.”
“No problem. Thank you for your time.”
“Not at all,” she says, closing the door quietly.
After checking with neighbors on either side of the old Elge place, I’m still without a forwarding address. It’s funny, but people can just vanish—even in this age of computers and the Internet. One day, they’re here; the next day, they’re gone—like they never existed. I’m starting to feel like that dog—barking up the wrong tree. I start the Jeep and head toward Roscoe—all fifty miles of the way back. Maybe things were better when people lived and died in one place.
Chapter 19
Olivia, the previous year – still day one
The change in the big truck’s speed and the sound of its air brakes being applied lifts Olivia from the deep level of sleep she has attained to a state of “relaxed wakefulness.” From here, she can either drift back toward REM sleep, and the relative safety of its accompanying dreams, or awake fully and confront the reality she is seeking to escape; she subconsciously chooses the former, and before long, is snoring softly again, causing Dave to smile.
The powerful diesel engine of the Kenwood pulls the eighteen-wheeler effortlessly along the winding road that leads east. The even thrumming of the motor is like a current that connects driver and truck. Dave is aware of a faint stirring within himself that is at once welcome yet disturbing. He hasn’t always been disabled. Once, he was a “whole man,” vital and alive, able to have any woman he wanted. He looks up into the rearview mirror and smiles at his reflection. How deceiving. His hair is dark and full, with a slight wave that used to drive women wild, and cause them to want to run their hands through it; and, many did—until the “accident.” He smiles at the euphemism used to describe the effects of an IED (Improvised Explosive Device) placed so carefully beneath the surface of a dirt road, just outside Mosul, by the small hands belonging to a twelve-year old Iraqi boy.
It had been a beautiful day in April in 2004, and Dave and his patrol partner were rolling along blissfully in their relatively ancient, pre-war Humvee, as part of a convoy of seven vehicles bent upon securing a small section of road on the outskirts of the war-torn city. While some of Dave’s platoon mates had “up armored” their Humvees with plates of scrap steel welded beneath the vehicles’ undercarriages, Dave and Dan had chosen not to. There was a potential downside to such reinforcement. In the event of a collision, or the explosion of an IED from beneath the vehicle, there was the possibility that the doors could not be opened; this could spell death from a “bleed out,” and neither Dave nor his partner wanted to risk tha
t.
So, when the vibration from the “naked” Humvee passing over “Little Abdul’s” IED, had triggered the device, the blast had penetrated the underside of the vehicle, mangling Dave’s right leg, and instantly killing Dan. But, at least Dave hadn’t bled to death. The “accident” cost him the loss of the leg, from just above the knee, but left him alive and well enough to appreciate the meaning of the phrase “a glass is either half-full or half-empty.” To his credit, Dave had adopted the former half of the saying to describe his predicament, and after many months devoted to extensive rehab, had enrolled in a special class designed to prepare him for a vocation worthy of the name “career.”
Now, he actually enjoys driving the truck. Rolling along the open road, he is free to let his mind wander wherever it desires, and the special hand controls make it easy for him to forget his disability. As long as he is behind the wheel of the big Kenwood, he is a whole man—even if only in his mind. It is only when he has to struggle to lower himself from the truck’s cab, and slip on the prosthesis provided him by the Department of Defense, that he is reminded that he isn’t. Occasionally, at these times, his mood might momentarily lapse into one of bitterness and self-loathing, but he is usually able to overcome it by reminding himself of just how fortunate he is. Half-full, remember?
The stirring he feels now is another emotion altogether, and one he has not been able to come to grips with yet—at least not completely. Looking over at the sleeping girl, he is reminded, again, of just how handicapped the “accident” has left him. Once more, he looks up into the mirror, and catches a glimpse of his eyes. What he sees frightens him, and makes his hands tremble, and he has to squeeze the big steering wheel tightly in order to make the shaking stop. Next to him, the girl continues to sleep. He shouldn’t have picked her up, he thinks. Half empty; Goddamn it!
Chapter 20
In one respect, the agenda for a cop in a small town like Roscoe is surprisingly similar to that of his counterpart in a big city—even one the size of Manhattan. On any given day, each has countless reports to fill out, telephone calls to make (and receive), and endless research to do on the Internet. The major difference for me is that now, rather than dealing with homicide on a daily basis, I am primarily confronted with crimes of a more mundane nature, such as overtime parking, petty thievery, and domestic assault. The occasional homicides that I do investigate are few and far between, and are usually handed off to the State Police authorities for follow up. However, the “Cathy’s Creek Case” (as we are now referring to it) is somewhat different, for several reasons. For one, it occurred literally in my own “backyard,” and I feel a certain sense of obligation to pursue it. For another, while there appears to be no sense of urgency attached to its being solved, there is the distinct possibility that it might not be an isolated incident. It has always been my experience that crimes of this nature rarely occur in a vacuum. And, it is this specter that has me devoting just a bit more time than usual to this particular case. But, not this morning.
It’s nine when I enter the office, and Nancy is wearing a Kelly green suit and a smile. She glances at the clock, then at me, a reminder that she has arrived a full hour before me, as usual. “Matt,” she says, “Mayor Swenson called first thing this morning.”
“Yeah? What’d he want?”
“What do you think?”
“Well, what’d you tell him?”
“I told him to pay the ticket.” Nancy scowls menacingly, and then bursts into a fit of laughter.
“Good. Just thinking of that pompous windbag fussing and fuming over a measly ten-dollar parking ticket brings me immeasurable joy.”
“Somehow, I knew it would.” She lingers in the doorway, and I sense she’s got something more on her mind.
“What else?” I ask.
“Are you sure you want to know?”
I can tell by the overriding tone of caution in Nancy’s voice that I probably don’t. As far as I’m concerned, bad news can always wait. “Maybe I’ll just make myself a cup of hot chocolate first, okay?”
“Good idea,” says Nancy.
Five minutes later, and fortified by the magic elixir that always brings me strength, I’m ready.
“Do you remember I told you Red Buckner’s been sniffing around here a lot lately, asking about the murder?” asks Nancy.
“Yeah. What about it?”
“Well, the other day, Molly Pritchard called. She said Red’s been cruising all around the county, asking everybody if they know anything about that murdered girl.”
Molly Pritchard is the local “gossip.” She’s a widow, with very little to keep herself occupied, and always has her nose in the wind, trying to catch a whiff of the latest goings on. But, she’s harmless.
“She and Red would make a good team,” I observe.
“Well, it isn’t right,” says Nancy, with a huff. “He’s not Chief anymore, and he ought not to be interfering with your investigation.”
I study Nancy’s face, and I detect that motherly look that she so often exhibits. One thing I can say about Nancy; she’s loyal to a fault. But, in this case, I’m certain that her concerns are unfounded.
“Old habits die hard, Nancy. Don’t forget, Red was Chief for more than twenty years. He’s just doing what a good policeman—correction—ex-policeman always does. He’s just trying to help. I don’t see any harm in that.”
“Well…”
“Heck, we’re not exactly making any headway with this investigation. We can use all the help we can get. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Red actually came up with something.”
“Never happen,” says Nancy with a pout.
“No, I mean it. I’m still the new man around here. The locals are more likely to talk to Red than they will to me. Either way, I don’t have a problem with it.”
Nancy frowns.
“And neither should you.”
“Hmmpfff.”
“Good. Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll take a ride over to Kuttner’s. I need some black chenille for some Woolly Buggers I’m tying up for Rick.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Call me if you need me.”
“Maybe I’ll just call Red Buckner…since you seem to have so much confidence in him.” She throws the last remark out there like a slow pitch, just hoping I’ll try to hit it out of the park. I step back from the plate, and watch it go by. Sometimes, it’s just better to let her have the last word.
“Got any emergers?” I ask, as the little bell attached to the door of Frank’s shop tinkles behind me, announcing my arrival.
“Nope. We don’t sell any emergers,” he replies, emphasizing the last word with a caustic tone to his voice. It’s a little game we play. Frank is a traditionalist. He ties nymphs, wets, drys, and streamers. Occasionally, he’ll tie a spinner or two. But, in his fly-tying lexicon, there’s no such word as “emerger,” a phrase used by modern-day fly fishermen to describe the transitional stage between the nymph and the dun in the life cycle of a mayfly. “If you can’t take ‘em with a wet fly, you ought not call yourself a fly fisher,” he says.
“Really? I heard a guy caught a twenty-inch brown the other day with a poly wing Hendrickson emerger—over at the Horton Bridge Pool.”
“That so? Well, I doubt it.”
“It’s true. Tied it himself.”
“Didn’t buy it here; that’s for sure.”
“Too bad. You could’ve taken all the credit.”
“Don’t want it,” Frank quips.
Now, we’re really into it. I pause for effect. “Yep,” I say, “emergers. They’re the flies of the future.”
“Well, we’ll just see about that,” Frank says.
“Yep. I think I’ll tie myself a few—just in case.”
“Just in case of what? In case you forget how to fish a real fly?”
“And, that would be what?”
“If you don’t know, I’m certainly not gonna tell ya.”
“Guess I’ll just ha
ve to check with the Orvis shop.”
“Yeah; you do that,” says Frank, sarcastically. “They’ve got all that newfangled stuff. And make sure you bring plenty of money.”
“Damn!”
“What now?” Frank asks.
“I knew there was a reason I came in here.”
“Why’s that?”
“Money.”
“What about it?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Yours ain’t no good in here, anyway,” Frank replies, with a wink.
“Oh; thank God!”
“Just thank me, if it’s all the same. I’m the one givin’ out the credit around here.”
“Got any black chenille?”
“Maybe. Whatta ya want it for? Some kind of emerger?”
I bend over and poke my face right up close to Frank’s, where he sits at his tying vise. “Are Woolly Buggers still okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
“Tea?” asks Frank.
“Emergers?”
It’s a Mexican stand off.
“I’ll be right back with your chenille…and your hot chocolate.” He walks over to a cabinet, rummages around until he finds the chenille, turns, and tosses the zip lock bag in my direction.
“Now you’re talking,” I say, deftly swiping the peace offering out of the air with one hand.
Forty minutes later, I’m heading back to town with a plastic bag containing two packs of black chenille and a couple of Frank’s “specials” on the seat beside me, and lots of unanswered questions on my mind.
One thing I can’t seem to get out of my head is how a dead girl can turn up in a mountain stream with no trace of clothing and no identification, and more importantly, nobody looking for her.
Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 8