by Ian Smith
“Just wondering who takes care of what.”
The old man ran his eyes down Sterling's body. “Is this business or personal?”
“Both. I'm investigating my brother's disappearance.”
The old man was clearly taken aback. “My sympathies. Professor Bledsoe was a helluva man. Lotta class. Treated us cleaning crews with the same respect he gave the other professors.”
“Thanks,” Sterling said simply.
“Those of us in custodial are in charge of opening and closing buildings, making sure the buildings are clean and safe,” the old man said. “We keep track of lost and found and clear the bulletin boards when students post flyers without permission.”
“We also handle all the recycling,” the younger man said. It was the first time he had spoken, and Sterling quickly regretted that he had. His teeth were no better than the old man's and looked even worse, with oversized gums that were closer to black than to pink.
“How can I find out who cleans which buildings?” Sterling asked.
“Gotta check with the office,” the old man said. “They keep all the assignments and time cards.”
“Is anyone in there now?”
“Nope, nobody's in on the weekends. Gotta wait till Monday or call the troubleshooter.”
“Troubleshooter handles all emergencies on the weekends,” the younger man added.
“How do I reach him?”
“Go over to that white phone and dial 2344,” the old man said. “Somebody will pick up.”
“Thanks for all your help, gentlemen,” Sterling said. He watched the men walk out the front door and jam fresh cigarettes in the corner of their mouths. They were already pulling long drags by the time the door closed behind them.
Sterling dialed the number and waited. “Power plant,” a muffled voice answered. A loud radio cranking out the oldies made it difficult to hear him.
“I'm looking for someone from Facilities,” Sterling said.
“You have an emergency, sir?” the man asked.
“You could say that,” Sterling said.
“Either you do or you don't,” the man snapped.
“Something suspicious has happened in my lab, and I need to talk to someone in charge.”
There was a pause on the other end. The music suddenly cut off. “What do you mean by suspicious?”
“Exactly that. Suspicious. Not right. Something wrong. Do I need to call Safety and Security?”
“If ya just give me a minute, sir, I'm trying to help.” His tone had changed. “What exactly do you need to know?”
“Who cleaned Burke on Friday night?”
“You're talking about Burke labs just down the hill from the observatory?”
“Exactly.”
There was another pause. “Where are you?”
“In the lobby of McKenzie.”
“Is this really important?”
“Important enough for me to call Security if you can't help.”
“I'm at the steam plant. Wait for me and I'll be over in five minutes. What's your name?”
“Sterling Bledsoe.”
The rattle of the front door roused Sterling from deep thought. A short man with square metal-framed eyeglasses lumbered across the lobby. He wore dark brown uniform pants and a grease-stained beige shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His right sleeve secured a box of cigarettes. Probably Marlboros. Sterling stood and intercepted him.
“I'm Sterling Bledsoe,” he said, extending his hand.
“Otto Winter,” the man said, offering a firm handshake. Winter had to be well into his sixties, but his grip was strong and the muscles still bulged in his forearm.
“Thanks for doing this for me,” Sterling said. He didn't want to alarm the man, so he kept things unofficial. At least for now. “I normally wouldn't bother, but I'm concerned about some very expensive equipment that's been moved.”
Otto grunted and shook his gray frizzy top, badly in need of a haircut. “I doubt one of our people would take anything, sir, especially equipment like that. We ain't got no use for those high-tech gizmos.”
“Hopefully they haven't taken it, but maybe they can tell me if it was moved,” Sterling said.
“Maybe.” Otto reached down to his side and pulled up a wad of keys on a circular ring that looked big enough to fit over his head. He fumbled with a couple of keys before finding the one he wanted. He opened the door to an office off the lobby and flicked on the light. “I used to know the schedule by heart,” he said, walking Sterling behind a counter and stopping at a tall metal cabinet along the back wall. “I made the schedule for twenty years before retiring. Now I just fill in on the weekends to get away from the wife.” He let out a strange laugh that sounded like he was choking. Then he pulled open the third drawer.
Otto knew exactly where to go and which folder to pull. He took it over to one of the desks and carefully pulled out the papers. “Here it is,” he said, showing it to Sterling. “The Friday-night Burke crew was Bretta Winslow and Norma Jean Donnelly.”
Sterling looked at the names and scribbled them in his book. “What time do they clean Burke?”
“Right after the library closes,” Otto said. “Precisely at midnight.”
“And how long does it take?”
Otto bit his bottom lip and tightened his eyes. “I haven't been over there in years, but I suspect three hours tops. That's one of the cleaner buildings, mostly offices and labs. Not a lot of students making a mess. Their biggest cleanup is in the library, where they have to vacuum the rugs and clean the bathrooms. For some reason, those goddamn kids make a helluva mess in the bathrooms. Used to bug the shit outta me when I was cleanin' them.”
Sterling continued to scribble as Otto waited patiently for the next question.
“What are you writing, a book or something?” Otto smirked.
“Just my way of keeping things clear,” Sterling said. “Is it possible that one of them could've called in sick that night?”
“I doubt it. Bretta maybe, but Norma Jean, never. That woman is a workhorse, bless her soul. She hasn't missed a day of work in fifteen years.” Otto shook his head. “They don't make 'em like her anymore.”
Otto walked back to the cabinet and shuffled through another set of papers before finding a thick folder—simply labeled “Time Cards.” He pulled out two long manila cards and brought them to Sterling. “They were working all right,” he said, handing the cards to Sterling.
Each card had a name on top, and underneath that a formatted weekly schedule. Bretta had punched in that day at seven, Norma at six forty-five. They punched out together, Bretta at 3:30:05 and Norma Jean at 3:30:15. Sterling recorded the times and handed the cards back to Otto.
“Is it possible that someone else would've come after they left to help clean up?” Sterling asked.
Otto raised his eyebrows. “I can't imagine why. When we finish cleaning a building, we're finished. No reason for anyone else to come and clean up a cleanup, if you get my drift.”
“Who would have access to the labs and offices at Burke?”
“That's a tough one,” Otto said. He brought his hand to his chin, and exposed a tattoo of a naked mermaid on the underside of his forearm. “The individual custodians that clean Burke would have a key. The custodial office has a master, so does campus security. We have one at the troubleshooter's office in case of an emergency. Beyond that, I can't think of anyone else who would need one.”
“What door would they use to enter and exit the building?” Sterling asked.
“The back,” Otto said. “Always. The cleaning supply room is just inside the back door. No real reason to go through the front.”
Sterling nodded. “One more thing, Otto,” he said. “I notice that you're not wearing an ID. Does everyone carry one?”
Otto pulled out a wallet thicker than a balled fist. Papers and receipts fell to the ground, but eventually he produced a photo ID. “Everyone carries ID on their person. Nonnegotiable. A few years back
we got hit by a big theft ring. A bunch of men and women come up from Boston pretending to be college employees and students. Stole us outta house and home. Cleaning supplies, computer equipment, textbooks—anything they could get their hands on, they were taking. Since then, everyone, regardless how long they've worked here, has to carry their identification. Don't do it and you're outta here.”
Sterling gritted his teeth. They had missed a major opportunity when Carlton didn't ask the man leaving the lab for his identification. Didn't he have enough damn sense to be suspicious of someone leaving Wilson's office only hours after he was reported missing? Then the good-looking girl who had come by claiming to be one of his students. Why had she really come to the lab that morning? If she was checking on an experiment, she hadn't put up much of a fight when Carlton denied her access. Wouldn't she at least have asked him to chaperone her inside if what she was doing was that important?
“You've been a big help,” Sterling said, replacing the book inside his breast pocket. “I'll be sure to call the office on Monday if I have any other questions.”
“Ask for Darius Brown,” Otto said. “He's the big boss.”
Sterling left the office and walked into the dark lobby. Whoever went into Wilson's lab between three thirty and five on a dark Saturday morning wasn't making a social call. The clues weren't talking yet, but they were at least starting to hum.
12
The sturdy old bell high above Baker Library had just finished its fourth strike of the afternoon when one of the officers discovered the half-naked body of Professor Wilson Bledsoe. One of the German shepherds from the Vermont State Police canine unit had sniffed his way to the decrepit barn at the edge of Potter's farm. The dog dragged Officer Beck until he spotted the light-gray fabric partly buried underneath a cluster of bushes. First the black wingtipped shoes, then the shirtless upper torso, facedown. Beck touched the inside of the left leg with his shoe and gave a hard nudge. No response. The dog smelled death and started barking furiously as it skipped in restless circles. Beck pulled the leash back, then radioed to the rest of the search crew.
Sterling was finishing up a bowl of cereal when his cell phone rang.
“Bledsoe,” he answered.
“Wiley here. Where are you?”
“At the house,” Sterling said. He pushed back from the table. “What is it?”
“There's no way to put this easy, Agent Bledsoe. But we found him.”
“Wilson? Dead or alive?”
“He's been murdered.”
Sterling heard the words, but they didn't register. “Is he alive, Lieutenant?”
“I'm sorry. He's dead.” There was a long silence before Wiley spoke again. “Are you there, Agent?”
“Where is he?” Sterling said.
“In a wooded area off River Road.”
“I'm on my way.”
———
As Sterling raced down River Road he heard the buzz of a chopper overhead, but he couldn't see it through the heavy trees. He ignored a sharp curve, skimming hedges and branches that crawled onto the road. He slammed on the brakes when he reached the flurry of activity. The cordoned-off area was much different from when he had left it a couple of hours ago. Hordes of uniformed men wearing different colored jackets scrambled around like rats in a maze. Anxious dogs barked and strained at their leashes, and at least twenty marked and unmarked cars were haphazardly strewn along the road. The army of bright lights swirling atop the cruisers only added to the chaos, giving it a carnival-like atmosphere. Sterling took a few moments to observe the pandemonium. Some officers screamed into walkie-talkies while others yelled at each other, not in anger but in confusion.
Sterling approached the yellow tape. Two state troopers stood guard with their bulky arms folded across their chests. Twin sentries. “Sir, this is a sealed-off crime scene,” one of them said. “Please vacate the premises and move your car.”
The words “crime scene” ripped through Sterling's gut like a shotgun blast. He flipped his wallet open and flashed his tin, not bothering to waste words on them. He spotted Lieutenant Wiley in the middle of the chaos, barking orders to anyone who would listen. The two sentries moved aside and let Sterling pass.
“How far away is he, Lieutenant?” Sterling asked when he was close enough for Wiley to hear him above the noise. He leaned onto a nearby cruiser to steady himself and inhaled deeply, hoping he could clear his head. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.
“About three hundred yards from here,” Wiley said. “He was just outside an old barn up on the Potter property.”
“When was he found?”
“About twenty minutes ago. I called you as soon as I got the word. They're taking photographs and prints now.”
“Which direction?” Sterling bit his lip hard to fight back the tears. He refused to believe that his only brother was dead until he saw the body himself.
“I don't know if you want to go up there, Agent Bledsoe,” Wiley cautioned. “I'm not sure how bad it is.” Sterling's chin fell to his chest and he closed his eyes. Wiley stepped forward and placed a hand on his slumping shoulders. “Maybe you should let our men handle it from here.”
“I'm going to see my brother, Lieutenant.” Sterling's voice was strong and full of anger. “Then I'm gonna figure out who the hell did this.”
“Everyone's on board,” Wiley informed him. “State, the local departments from both towns, and some of your men from Boston are already up there.”
“Did he struggle?” Sterling had to know.
“I think so,” Wiley said, shaking his head. “His clothes were dirty and tattered. Blunt trauma to the side of his head.”
Sterling looked along the side of the road through a slight clearing in the thick trees. He could see the calm rolling waters of the Connecticut River. A family of ducks floated down the current, the sun illuminating their brilliant green, black, and blue feathers. How could something so horrible happen here, a place of such natural serenity—no hustle and bustle like in the big city. His mind raced through scenes of his youth, when Wilson would come home from college and their mother would prepare his favorite meal. Wilson's wide smile had always brought her such pleasure. It was the smile that Sterling had learned to hate.
Sterling allowed himself to get lost in the memories. They had always been a hardworking family. The academic success of the children had become the old man's pride, and he would boast about it to anyone willing to listen. Sterling remembered the warm glow that would light up his mother's face when the ladies at church asked how Wilson was doing in Chicago. They asked every Sunday morning, as if things might've changed one week to the next. In their small manufacturing town in western Pennsylvania, most of the children finished high school and then went to work in the factories and textile mills. It was a big deal to have a son off in college, then graduate school, and an even bigger deal that he was a scientist.
Wilson's Nobel came at a time when their parents' health was declining but good enough for them to make the trip to Sweden. That same glow returned to his mother's cheeks as Wilson accepted his award from King Carl XVI Gustaf. They'd died before he won the Devonshire, but they'd known that their small-town boys had turned out to be successful men of the world.
“Agent Bledsoe.” Lieutenant Wiley tapped Sterling on the shoulder. “Maybe you should let us clean things up a bit and identify him at the morgue.”
“No,” Sterling insisted. “I want to see him now.”
Wiley walked over to one of the cruisers and pulled out a fresh box of latex gloves. He led Sterling through the dense trees, stepping over fallen branches and walking around areas where the ground was wet and soft from the previous night's rain. They crossed a small ravine, then climbed their way up to the pond. A few minutes later they had reached the clearing that led to the back of the Potter property. Both men were breathing heavily by the time the barn came into view.
The chopper continued to make passes in the sky. A group of officers, too
many for Sterling to count, huddled just outside the barn, their heads bent toward the ground like kids playing marbles. A flash from the photographer's camera popped every couple of seconds. Sterling took a series of deep breaths, hoping to untie the knot in his stomach. This was going to be the most difficult thing he had ever done.
The solemn voices grew quiet as he and Wiley approached.
“Gentlemen, this is Agent Sterling Bledsoe,” Wiley announced. “Brother of Professor Bledsoe.”
The men turned and nodded, but didn't say anything. Their faces were long and dark. Death had that kind of effect, even on grown men. They all moved back to give Sterling some private time. He was pleased that they stood behind him, making it impossible for them to see the tears in his eyes.
The dog that had found the body had finally settled down, though it occasionally let out a distressed yelp. Sterling took one last breath, then moved closer. The body hadn't been moved. Both shoes were untied, their soles packed with mud that still hadn't dried. Wilson's gray pants were covered with dirt marks and the right leg had a large tear in it.
The upper torso was naked, but there weren't any abrasions or fresh wounds on the back. Sterling looked at Wilson's waist and noticed the extra pounds he had put on in the last few months. His face was planted in the ground, but strangely the arms were extended above his head. His fingers had stiffened in a slightly curled position.
“Are you done with location and position photos?” he asked the photographer.
“I think we've got enough,” the photographer answered. He patted his vest pocket bulging with rolls of film.
A short, burly man approached. “I'm sorry, Sterling,” he said. His voice sounded like sandpaper dragged across a piece of rotted wood. His heavy black mustache drooped past the corners of his mouth and curled back in perfect loops. Sterling recognized Special Agent Lonnie Brusco right away. “I got in about an hour ago.” They pumped hands firmly. “You sure you don't wanna wait till we take him to the morgue? This won't be easy.”
“Nothing about this damn business is easy,” Sterling said. “I need to see what they did to my brother.”