Distemper

by Beth Saulnier

  “Just follow me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Cop shop. You remember the way, right?”

  It’s a five-minute walk from the paper to the police station, but in my condition it took ten. When we went through the front door I had this wispy flashback of myself crawling in there two days ago, babbling and bleeding all over some cop’s shirtfront. Lucky for my pride, there was a different guy at the front desk. When he saw me, he came around to the other side of the bulletproof glass.

  “Hey, Joey. Can you tell Chief Hill I’m here to see him?”

  “He isn’t here.”

  “Of course he’s here. You guys are working on the biggest case since… since…” Since last summer, I thought, but there was no way I was going to say it. “Come on, I swear it’ll only take a minute. I don’t want to interview him or anything. I just want to talk to him for a sec.” Even if the chief was pissed about me giving some facts to the paper, I didn’t think he’d totally shut me down. Chief Wilfred Hill is pretty decent, for a guy who carries a gun to work. He was downright fatherly to me when Adam died, and he didn’t have to be.

  “Really, Alex, I swear he’s not here. It’s Monday. Rotary lunch day. You know.”

  “Oh, jeeze, I forgot.”

  “So he’s at the Holiday Inn. Be back after three.”

  “Maybe you can bail me out. Word is you guys ID’ed the girl. Want to save my ass and give me a name?”

  “There’s like about zero chance of that and you know it. Your ass is plenty pretty, but I don’t want mine in a sling either.”

  “How’d you like to be officer of the month? Editorial page guy’s in my pocket.”

  “I am officer of the month. And you are getting nowhere, so you might as well go home and put a new Band-Aid on that head of yours. Nice bald spot you got there.”

  “So I’m denied?”

  “Big time.”

  I was about to flee with my tail between my legs when I pulled another name out of the air. “How about that Detective Cody? Is he here?”

  He waited a beat, like he wasn’t going to tell me. Then he sighed. “Yeah, he’s here. Whatcha want him for? He’s not gonna tell you jack.”

  “Humor a poor bald girl.”

  “He’s busy.”

  “And he’s a detective, and he’s a suit, and you’d just hate to make his life harder.”

  That got him. “Oh, all right. I’ll go ask if he’ll see you or if I should toss you out on your ear.”

  “What’s the deal with him, anyway?”

  “Hotshot from the Boston PD.”

  “No way. What the hell’s he doing up here?”

  “Only son. Transferred up to the woods to take care of his mom. She’s sick or something.”

  “Decent of him.”

  He leaned forward. If I’d wanted to, I could’ve grabbed his gun. “Also, I hear his wife gave him the heave-ho.”

  “Ouch. So is he any good?”

  “Bored off his ass until the dead girls. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he killed ‘em himself just to have something to do.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Whaddaya think? Course I’m joking. Oh, and get a load of this. He used to be a Navy SEAL.”

  “Macho man. I thought they only had those in Steven Seagal movies.”

  “Well, we got one. You want him or not?”

  “You’re the answer to a maiden’s prayer.”

  He disappeared into the office to call Cody. “Would the chief really…”

  “Jesus, Junior, you scared me. I forgot you were there.”

  “Sorry.”

  “What’s the question?”

  “The chief. Would he really take off in the middle of a murder investigation to go to the Rotary lunch? Or was that guy lying?”

  “Nope. First and third Monday of every month. Holy days of obligation. Rubber chicken, mushy peas, apple cobbler. Speeches by men in shiny suits. It’s a Gabriel institution. Besides, what cop ever gave up a free meal?”

  “Alex…”

  “You gotta cover it sometime. It’s a gas. The cops really strap on the feedbag. They serve donuts as hors d’oeuvres, but there’s never enough of them, so the cops and the firemen practically end up pistol-whipping each other. One time Mad and I…”

  “Alex…”

  “What?” He made frantic stabs in the air with a bitten fingernail. I turned around, and there was Detective Cody.

  “You’ve got two minutes,” he said.

  “Fine. Listen, I…”

  “Not here. And just you. Your boyfriend can stay outside.” He did an about-face worthy of Parris Island (or wherever it is you train a SEAL) and I followed him upstairs to his office. The cop sanctum sanctorum. The press is never allowed up here, or maybe they forgot to tell him. “Sit down.” I obeyed even faster than my dog. “You did the right thing by coming here.”

  “I did?”

  “So go ahead.”

  “Go ahead and what?”

  “I assume you came here to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “For disregarding our direct request that you not discuss this case with anyone.”

  “Cops always say that sort of thing. Nobody ever follows it. If they did, we’d be printing nothing but horoscopes and Dear Abby.”

  “Miss Bernier, do you realize that by talking to the press, you disclosed information that might jeopardize our investigation? That might damage a prosecution, if one ever materializes from this mess?”

  “Oh, get off it. Don’t go yelling at me because you guys can’t do your jobs. Well, guess what? I was just doing mine. I’m a reporter, Detective. That means I report. If I hadn’t been the lucky stiff to find the body, I would have tried to track down whoever did find it, and get her to spill her guts. If she was like ninety percent of the human race, she would have spilled them. And I would have printed it. It happens all the time. What’s the big deal?”

  He looked like he wanted to throttle me, but it wasn’t as threatening as you might think. Actually, with all that red hair, he looked like a very angry version of Opie from the Andy Griffith Show. “There is no excuse for the way you behaved. I stood in your hospital room and asked for your word that you wouldn’t divulge any of the details of the case, and then you went ahead and did it anyway. Where I come from, they call that dishonor.”

  “Spare me the Officer and a Gentleman act, would you? When you talked to me, I was still all woozy. Besides, what did I say that pissed you off so much, really? All I told my editor was that it was just the same as the first girl, the clothes and the marks and the position and all. That’s it. Big deal.”

  “Two young women are dead. I’d think that would bother you more than it obviously does.”

  “It does bother me. Of course it bothers me. If you want to know the truth, it scares the shit out of me, and all my friends, and my housemates too. And don’t even ask about my mother.”

  “Listen, I have a hell of a lot of work and not a lot of time to do it in. If you didn’t come here to apologize for making my life harder, then what is it you want?”

  “I want to know who the dead girls were.”

  “So do we.”

  “I heard you already know. I also heard you’re holding the names until tomorrow morning to screw us over.”

  “In that case, what makes you think I’d tell you now?”

  “The chief’s in a snit over me, and you know it. He’s pissed and he’s playing games. But I don’t think you’re the kind of guy who likes to play games.” Actually, I had no idea what kind of guy he was. But it sounded good, so I kept going. “You know there’s a whole lot of people out there waiting to find out who those girls were. Why should they have to wait almost a whole other day wondering if it’s someone they know, someone they care about, just because I can’t keep my big mouth shut?”

  “Do you honestly care that much about the TV station getting the story first?”

  “Goodness, how d
id you hear about that? I didn’t mention it.”

  “Okay, the chief wants to teach you a lesson. You didn’t answer me. Does it really get under your skin to come in second?”

  “Principle of the thing. The information’s available now. It should be out there.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not trying to lift it off my desk. Can’t all you vultures read upside down?”

  “Yep. But I knew you’d never be that sloppy, so why embarrass myself? Listen, I can promise you this much. The next time this reporter finds a dead body, she’ll keep her mouth shut.”

  “Comforting.”

  “So how about it? Will you give me the names or what?”

  “Name. We’re only releasing one.”

  “But you have both of them? Then why are you only releasing one? Next of kin?”

  “Can’t find any. But we have to try.”

  “Are you going to give me a name or do I have to see it on the evening news?”

  “You talk faster than a used-car salesman.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “You’re a very persuasive young lady.”

  “Young my ass. You’re, what, thirty-five?”

  “I’m thirty-two.” He stared at me for a minute. “For the record, I thought the chief should have released the name yesterday. So I’m not just giving in to your charms.”

  “What a surprise.”

  “The girl’s name is…”

  “Wait. Hold on. Are you going to get in trouble for this?” To this day, I have no idea why I said that. It was not what you’d call in character for me to care if a source got in trouble for opening his mouth.

  “Nice of you to worry. And no. The chief is the chief, but he’s still spent his entire life up here. He hasn’t had a whole lot of experience with homicides, beyond your average drunken brawl. He had the good sense to hand the investigation over to me, at least unofficially. And that is off the record.”

  “So what’s her name?” I said, finally pulling out my notebook. “And are we talking about the first girl, or the second one?”

  “The second. The girl you found is named Patricia Marx. That’s M-A-R-X. She’s from Syracuse. Age twenty-two. She worked at the Gap in the big mall up there.”

  “The Carousel. I know it well.”

  “She shared an apartment with another girl from the store. Her roommate wasn’t worried when she didn’t come home last Sunday night, since she’d stay at her boyfriend’s house a few nights a week. Monday was her day off, but when she didn’t show up for work on Tuesday her roommate called the Syracuse PD. Said the girl had never even been late for work without calling. We talked to the boyfriend. He never saw her on Sunday.”

  “He’s not a suspect?”

  “We’re not ruling anyone out.”

  “Off the record?”

  “Off the record, if he did it, I’m joining the Mounties.”

  “Any viable suspects?”

  “That’s all you’re getting.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Strangulation.”

  “With?”

  “Unknown. And I have to get back to work.”

  “Come on, can’t you tell me anything else about Patricia Marx? I’m going to track her down eventually, but it’ll probably take me all night. Give me a break. My wrist hurts. So do my ribs. I’m all taped up and everything.” I pulled up my shirt just enough to show him my side. “Can’t you at least tell me where she grew up? Or do I have to call every high school west of Albany?”

  “Montour Falls. Now get the hell out of my office.”

  “Wait. There’s something else I need to ask you about.”

  “I told you we’re done here.”

  “It’s not for me. It’s for my roommate. I know this is going to sound crazy. But when the Monitor published that drawing of the first victim, she got all freaked out because she thought it looked like her. And then when I found the second body… Well, it looked even more like her. I told her it didn’t, because I didn’t want to scare her any more than she already was, but it probably wasn’t the right thing to do. What if she’s in danger? Do you think she could be?”

  He stood up and started pacing, which wasn’t easy in an eight-by-eight cubicle. He looked like an Irish setter cooped up at the SPCA. “Okay, Alex. This is off the record. Way off. What do you call it? ‘Deep background’?”

  “Agreed.”

  “If you’ve covered cops for any length of time, you know how the police work. We don’t rule out anything lightly. We know that even though the obvious answer is usually the right one, it isn’t always the right one. At this point, we think the same person killed both those girls. Common sense says it has to be. The M.O.s are too similar for it to be a copycat. There are a number of details that I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to. But if you’re asking me if you’re right in thinking the two victims were physically similar to each other, they were. Both were small, five feet or under. Both wore their hair roughly the same way, shoulder length and parted down the middle. But beyond that, in terms of their facial features, you could say that they looked enough alike that they could be related.”

  “Do you think they were?”

  “No comment.”

  “What about Marci?”

  “Who?”

  “My roommate.”

  “We’re not sure that these two women were killed because of the way they looked. That’s one theory, the obvious one. Or it could be a coincidence. There might be a whole other connection.”

  “So how do you figure it out?”

  “We’ve got people on it.”

  “Who?”

  “No comment.”

  “Who around here is possibly equipped to deal with this sort of thing? You said it yourself. The cops hardly ever see anything more mysterious than a hunting accident. So who are you bringing in? Don’t tell me the Staties. Didn’t you hear about that evidence tampering scandal a couple of years back? Practically the whole unit went to jail…”

  “Oh, hell. No, it’s not the state police.”

  “Sheriff’s?”

  “Give me some credit.”

  “Holy shit. The FBI’s all over this, aren’t they? Behavioral science, right?”

  “That is not for publication.”

  “Why not? If Quantico’s involved, people have a right to…”

  “People have a right not to be scared to death for no good reason. You say FBI, everyone is going to think Silence of the Lambs. Hysteria isn’t good for anyone.”

  “Maybe that isn’t far off.”

  “You gave me your word.”

  “I realize that.”

  “Look. If I were your roommate, I’d be careful. I’d keep the doors locked. I wouldn’t go out alone at night. Tell her to use common sense, look both ways before she crosses the road, and we’ll catch the bastard. Now, you really need to leave.” I was on my way out the door when he called after me, sounding at least five points higher on the decency scale. “Listen, Alex. I don’t want your friend to be scared. How about if I send someone by in the next couple of days, do a security check on your place? It’ll only take an hour. The officer can give you some tips about locks, that sort of thing.”

  “That would be great.”

  “And, Alex, be careful. Our file on you is thick enough already.”

  5

  “HE REALLY LET YOU IN THE BACK OF THE COP SHOP? YOU gotta be shittin’ me.” Mad was sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter while I cooked, and with at least two dozen people spilling out into the living room, he had to shout.

  “I shit you not.”

  “So what was it like?”

  “Nothing fancy. Messy, in a… neat sort of way.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “You know, papers and files all over the place. But organized. Lots of framed certificates. They’re big into framed certificates. ‘Officially certified to kill you at a hundred paces,’ that sort of thing.”

  “But what
about the guns?”

  “What guns?”

  “You know, the guns, Bernier. The guns. What kind did they have?”

  “Christ, I don’t know. They don’t have them hanging on the wall or anything.”

  “They don’t?” He looked like a trick-or-treater with an empty plastic pumpkin.

  “Oh, come on, Mad. You’re a grown man. You didn’t really think the cops kept an arsenal back there like the goddamn A-Team.”

  “I had fantasies.”

  “Poor baby.”

  “You got another bottle?” He dropped an empty magnum of something red into the recycling bin and it went smash.

  “You just opened that”

  “I had to share.”

  “Tonight’s really sucking for you, isn’t it?”

  He looked over my shoulder into the living room. “Not totally.”

  I turned around to see what he was leering at. Emma. “You picking favorites?”

  “Me? Never.”

  “Look, I don’t give a damn who you’re banging. But would you please not make my life a living hell?”

  He kept looking over my head at her—this wasn’t hard, since he’s thirteen inches taller—and raised his wineglass toward her in a come-hither toast. “Me? Never.”

  “I would appreciate it if you didn’t turn my living room into a singles bar.”

  “Me? N…”

  “Oh, shut up, Mad. You know the drill. To wit: you drill her, she gets all grabby, you flee, I pick up the scraps.”

  “What if I have serious intentions?”

  “You? Never. Now would you hand me the linguine?” I threw four pounds of pasta into my big Calphalon pot with the built-in strainer. It’s worth more than my car.

  “Yo, who’s got the vino?” O’Shaunessey said as he sauntered into the kitchen. “And how about some food action? Children are starving someplace.”

  I’ve been feeding most of the Monitor newsroom every Thursday night for the past couple of years. At this point, it’s kind of gone beyond tradition into obsession. I start getting menu requests on Monday, and when there’s some big story that keeps us at the paper until deadline, the thing has been known to start at midnight and go until four A.M. I warned my housemates about it when I moved in, and they said it was fine with them as long as they got to eat free. Journalists are creatures of habit, though, and my old roommate Dirk and his partner still have to put a sign on the door every Thursday that says BERNIER FOOD ORGY AT NEW LOCATION.