The Company She Kept

by Archer Mayor

He tilted his head slightly at the rebuke and looked at her without comment, forcing her to respond apologetically. “But there you have it. Sad to admit, Kunkle is usually right. So, yes—all PC aside, I’ve been drowning in junk, most of it coming from beyond our borders.”

  “You were warned about that, if I remember.”

  “I was. Rob foremost among them was quick to point that out. Thankfully, he hasn’t now been saying, ‘I told you so,’ for which I am very grateful. And my staff in general has really been great.”

  “Nevertheless,” Joe asked her, “any regrets?”

  “No. I followed my conscience. Maybe not good politics, at least outside Vermont, but I can live with it.”

  “From what I’ve heard, it’s not hurting you nationally, either, except among people who would never agree with you anyhow.”

  Her mouth tightened slightly before she commented, “Implying it was smart politics after all?”

  He squeezed her hand. “Can we stop this? We used to be best friends. I’m not sure what made me a bad guy, but I’ve never sniped at you or disrespected you or talked behind your back or—ever—doubted your integrity. And your being here now tells me you know that to be true.”

  She was crying, her head tucked, her other hand wiping her nose. He let her be, not offering platitudes or empty soothings. He made it a point to never say, “I’m sorry for your loss,” and he didn’t try for an equivalent phrase now. She had come to him, across the state border and near the middle of the night, and he half suspected it was in part to do exactly what she was doing now. He wasn’t about to stop her.

  “We were lovers, Joe,” she finally said, extracting a tissue from her pocket and blowing her nose before continuing. “We might as well’ve been married. We saw each other through my rape and your almost getting killed, and your mom and brother nearly dying in that car wreck—just for starters. I come out and tell the world I’m gay, and all you say is that we better be sure to follow protocol and talk through channels. I mean, shit, Joe—I got that much out of fucking Rob Perkins or the ice queen Joan Renaud.”

  Joe felt a surge of anger. His entire life—from watching his taciturn father while a child, to absorbing the deaths of comrades in battle, to letting invective slide off him in mid-interrogation in order to secure a confession—Joe had practiced self-control. Denying himself the short-lived pleasure of an emotional outburst had become as natural to him as his advice to others to let their feelings run free. In most people’s eyes, he knew this paradox made him something of an Obi-Wan—useful, he conceded, but largely untrue. He hurt and pined as much as anyone. His instincts to lash out and curse and complain were no different from anyone’s. He’d merely trained himself to rein them in, to process in private, and to counsel on the basis of what he learned, rather than on how he felt.

  As he did now, instead of arguing with her. Wronged as he was, he tamped down his protest, and said, “You know me better than that, Gail. You’re in pain you hoped you’d never feel again, and you’re swamped by what everybody’s throwing at you. Susan was someone you loved, along with being the best counselor you ever had, and you’re beating on me hoping I’ll get pissed enough to maybe justify our breaking up in the first place.”

  She opened her mouth to react before he cut her off. “The point is, life sometimes sucks and makes us doubt our decisions. But you were right to leave me, and right to run for governor, and right to open your heart to Susan. You don’t need to kick me in the shin while you’re legitimately and lovingly wishing me well.”

  He propped himself up on one elbow to lean closer to her, making himself dizzy in the process, but feeling relieved nevertheless. “Take a breath, Gail. Accept the pain and the grief and—most of all—the help that people are offering you. You have a right to be angry. Just don’t use it on the rest of us.”

  He didn’t expect her to respond one way or another, and was grateful that she didn’t, instead merely tucking her head in deeper and completely yielding to her sorrow.

  He lay back against his pillows and let out a breath, struck by the contrast between the two most recent victims of catastrophe that he’d encountered: Vermont’s chief executive—ambitious enough to make the governorship a mere launching pad for higher national office—and Wylie Dupont, lying in a room down the hall, barely aware of what had befallen him, or why.

  There wasn’t much to be made of it, he decided, aside from the usual tired aphorisms concerning life’s odd quirks. Decades ago, he’d been offended by first hearing the phrase, “Shit happens.” Now, possibly aided by his proximity to Willy, he was finding himself hard-pressed to improve upon it.

  He watched the woman with whom he’d once shared a life, and who’d left him in pursuit of things still in development. Her action had made it possible for him to connect with another woman he believed might be the companion he’d longed for since seeing his young wife die decades earlier. What cancer had taken then—and Gail had stewarded for as long as she could—was a quality of love that Beverly had met and matched with generosity and grace. Who was he to complain now?

  * * *

  Bob Crawford got Sam and Willy into the Rutland City police department through the back door—a clear indicator of his close ties to the building’s occupants. Emphasizing the fact, he led them through a couple of hallways and up a flight of stairs, casually greeting people along the way, explaining, “When they built this place, the sheriff was on the top floor, making the whole law enforcement thing look neat and tidy. But he took off for bigger quarters, and for a while, the town politicos were licking their lips about what to use this for.” He opened a door at the top of the stairs and ushered them into what resembled a string of offices and cubicles better suited to an insurance agency than a police department. It was quiet, gently lit, fully carpeted, and tastefully decorated.

  “That was before Peter Quayles signed on as chief,” Crawford said, laughing. “No one was expecting him.”

  His guests had heard of Quayles, but had never met the man. His PD being responsible for its own major crimes investigations—as were several of Vermont’s major towns—the VBI was rarely contacted for assistance. Sam and Willy knew he was British-born, U.S. urban-trained, and had overcome a lot of initial resistance. But he’d also hit the ground with an energy and enthusiasm rarely seen in this state.

  “He’s a big believer that it’s better to have people pissing outside the tent than inside,” Bob explained, waving his arm around. “So before the town fathers could preempt this space, Quayles moved in almost everybody he could think of who had anything to do with his own law enforcement mission. He’s got so many agencies and organizations represented up here—social services, mental health, mediation, victim’s advocacy, women’s protective services, early intervention, the AG’s office, Department of Corrections—that I figure the public defender’s office has moved in, too, but I just haven’t noticed them yet.”

  “But no drug squad?” Willy asked. “Rutland’s problems are in the New York Times, for Christ’s sake.”

  Crawford’s voice became studiously neutral. “We still off the record, like we were the other night in Bratt?”

  “Sure.”

  “Remember I was telling you about how all our running around making busts basically amounts to a mouse fart in a high wind? Well, that’s partly what’s making Quayles stick out around here. He’s cooked up something different.”

  “What’s he done?” Willy asked, sounding dubious.

  “I don’t know what to call it,” Bob admitted. “They have a catchy title for it, of course, which tells you next to nothing, but I see it as replacing the old combat model with a social revolution one. In a nutshell, it’s a civilian take-back-the-streets concept, where the cops act less like paratroopers and more like local service providers with guns, backing up the church groups, the community organizers, the special advocates, and the state outfits like DCF and Probation and Parole. Even the prosecution’s on board, cutting deals that hold people accou
ntable.” Again, he indicated the offices and cubicles up and down the hallway. “Like I said, he brought ’em inside the tent.”

  “Cool,” said Sammie.

  “Useless,” said Willy.

  Crawford led them around a corner, heading for an open door on the right. “In any case, everything revolves around what Quayles would probably call the crown jewel, which—surprise, surprise—is a computer.”

  “Naturally,” Willy said under his breath.

  They arrived at the door and Bob stepped aside to introduce the man sitting before a wall-sized screen, reminding Sam of Captain Kirk facing the forward display of the Starship Enterprise.

  “Sam and Willy, this is Bruce Steinmetz—the PD’s primary intel man.”

  The young man in question rose quickly and shook hands, a beaming expression on his face. “Welcome, welcome.”

  “They’re from the VBI,” Crawford went on. “I’m giving them a once-over-lightly of how things have changed around here.”

  Sam pointed at the huge screen. “That what you were talking about?”

  Steinmetz smiled broadly. “We’ve worked to get as many of our statistics collected in one place as we can, from dog complaints to sightings of drug deals to shoplifting calls, and everything in between. We call it RutStat.”

  “You’re kidding,” Willy groused.

  Steinmetz sat back down and began to scroll through a variety of color-coded displays and map overlays, speaking as he proceeded. “The idea was to get a real-time and historical picture of what’s happening in the city. When are most of the retail thefts occurring and at what time of the day or week? What part of town suffers most from open drug sales, and how are they related to things like the bus and train schedules? Where are we getting the most complaints about vagrants and what can we do to address them?”

  “Meaning you can get your people there to head off complaints instead of reacting to them afterward,” Sam said enthusiastically.

  “Right,” Bruce replied, matching her tone. “We can be seen stopping problems before they start, proving to the community that we can all work as a team.”

  “This the guy who can tell us about Stuey?” Willy asked abruptly, tiring of the dog-and-pony show.

  “Bruce,” Crawford addressed him. “These two flew a name by me while we were chatting outside.”

  Sammie finished for him, “Allan Steward Nichols, nicknamed Stuey.” She rattled off his date of birth from memory.

  “I didn’t have any way to check it out,” Bob finished, pointing to the computer, “being shy one of those.”

  Steinmetz entered the inquiry so rapidly, his fingers blurred against the keyboard—a happy man in his element.

  “Here he is. Alive and well and living in the city.” He paused, reading on, before he added, “No fixed address. He moves around town.”

  “He had a family,” Sammie said.

  “No mention of that here,” Bruce responded. “How long ago?”

  “Ten years.”

  “No arrests?” Willy asked.

  “Sure, but not recently.”

  “You have anything like ‘known associates’ on that thing?” Willy persisted.

  “Sure—all part of the RutStat design,” Bruce said, typing again.

  “RutStat,” Willy said, as if to himself. “Sounds like a bull breeding program.”

  Bruce seemed immune from sarcasm. “That’s good. I like it. We’re just starting, but already numbers are exploding with people calling us for service. Before, they either saw us as the bad guys or were just resigned to having dealers and gangs own their streets.”

  “Rah, rah,” Willy said in a flat voice, checking his watch. “You get that info yet?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.” Bruce rolled his chair back slightly and indicated the page he’d brought up. “There’s not much, since he’s been under the radar, like you guessed. Still…”

  Willy was leaning forward to better read the information, and relayed to Sammie, “Now we’re cookin’: Best bet looks like someone named Jackie Nunzio.”

  “She’s consistent for at least the last few months,” Bruce added. “You want a printout of her last-known address? It’s a motel, not where you or I would ever spend the night. But it’s home-sweet-home till they evict her or the state snaps out of thinking they’re doing her a favor by paying the rent.”

  The printer to Bruce’s side spat out a sheet, which he handed back over his shoulder. It included Nunzio’s latest mug shot.

  “What about some guy who wears a belt buckle labeled ‘Indian,’ like the motorcycle?” Willy asked, taking the sheet and recalling what he knew of Maggie Kinnison’s Rutland dope transaction.

  Bruce gave him a round-faced blank stare. “A belt buckle?”

  “Yeah,” Willy said hopefully. “You got that kind of stuff, don’t you? Crazy hats, cowboy boots, tattoos, Afros—shit like that?”

  “We collect tattoos,” Bruce replied hesitantly, knowing that wasn’t enough. “But we’re still ramping up, like I said. Those kinds of details are coming next.”

  Visibly disappointed, Willy stepped back without comment.

  They chatted a little longer, if only to make Willy’s obvious desire to leave more gracious. But as the three of them hit the parking lot outside, he immediately asked Sam, “You up for checkin’ out a fleabag?”

  Crawford laughed. “Always charging ahead.”

  They’d driven over in separate cars, and Crawford was already beside his. “You all set with me?”

  Willy shook his hand. “Yeah, Bob. Thanks. This was a big help, and all the social mumbo jumbo notwithstanding—and RutStat’s dumb name—that was interesting.”

  Crawford nodded and opened his door. “Wave of the future, Willy. Thought you’d get a kick out of it—even a dinosaur like you.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “This is not fun.”

  Beverly paused from rubbing Joe’s neck as he lay on his stomach. “Too hard?”

  He reached back to touch her hand. “No, no. That’s wonderful. I meant how this whole thing is going.”

  “You didn’t enjoy being pitched down a staircase?”

  “I can’t complain about the therapy.” He twisted around enough to catch her eye.

  She was naked under a silk robe, straddling his back as she worked, which had caused the garment to open.

  She laughed and turned his head forward. “You are feeling better.”

  He took advantage to roll onto his back and look up at her, his hands now resting on her bare thighs. “That a medical opinion?”

  She adjusted herself on top of him, being careful of the low ceiling just above her head. They were in the sleeping loft at Joe’s home in Brattleboro, where she’d driven him after his discharge from the hospital. “More empirical. So, what’s not fun?”

  “The damn case. Being turned into a basketball by a half-wit and landing in the headlines is par for the course by now. I think Bill Allard would be delighted if a jetliner fell out of the sky and hit the capitol, just to get the spotlight off of him.”

  “It must be frustrating,” she sympathized.

  “I don’t even know how many people we have working on this anymore,” Joe told her. “We even have four guys who’re only studying surveillance tapes.”

  “From where?”

  “You name it. Turns out Vermont’s lousy with video cameras. They’re in banks, parking garages, retail stores, ATMs, grocery stores. We’ve done our best to track every place Susan might’ve been for the couple of days before she died, and combed each area for cameras.”

  “But nothing so far,” she said, slipping off to one side and stretching out beside him, pulling her robe closed and flipping a quilt over them.

  “Nope. And nothing from all the document searching and interviews. I do still have some hopes there, but she never threw any of it away, which means we have to paw through everything. Basically,” he concluded, “we’re dead in the water.”

  “All while the reporters
and politicians clamor from the sidelines,” she commiserated.

  He was silent for a moment, staring at the wooden ceiling. “Let’s talk about the body a little. That okay?”

  She smiled. “I don’t know, Joe. Dead people? Really?”

  He stuck a finger into her ribs, making her squirm. “All told,” he said, “she had bruises, the carving, a torn fingernail, a shattered skull, and a ligature around the neck. Is that about it?”

  “Yes,” she replied without hesitation, while waiting for him to continue.

  “What’s been rattling around my brain,” he went on, enjoying—as always—their easy exchange, “is that according to your report, some of these were premortem, some perimortem, and some committed after the fact.”

  “That’s my conclusion,” she confirmed.

  “Okay. All that implies a progression that mirrors Susan’s last movements.”

  “A geographical progression matching a chronological one?” Beverly asked.

  “Yes. And we can say this because of the fingernail found in the back of her car.” He suddenly glanced at her. “You can state for a fact that the nail wasn’t torn off after death?”

  “I can and do.”

  “So,” he said, “whether the car ride came before or after the bruising, it definitely happened before she was killed by the second blow to the head.”

  “Okay,” she said noncommittally.

  “Well,” he said, coming to his point, “there’s the thing: For some reason, her killer wanted to take her to that cliff from someplace else, and it looks like he did so while she was still alive.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Exactly,” he mused. “Why that particular cliff? It was dramatic, which is what we thought was the whole point, but why not just hang her from a rooftop or a tree or dump her in the middle of the interstate?”

  “Because it was theatrical?” Beverly suggested.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “But it may have been familiar, too. We canvassed the whole region, asking people if the cliff had any special attraction, and found that a few kids had once risked their necks climbing the steel mesh, but that was it.”