by Archer Mayor
The screen returned to Rachel’s semi-destroyed living room.
“Reiling was positive that she locked the door before they left,” McReady resumed. He glanced across the room to inquire, “Bob?”
One of the men with his back to the wall filled in, “The lock was crap. You could breach it with a paper clip or credit card. The guy wore gloves, so the only prints we’ve found belong to the vics. We also think he came in while they were out. We found things arranged in the hall closet that’re not how the owner remembers them, and which allow someone to hide behind them. That’s what we think he did.”
“So,” McReady picked up. “He sneaks out after everyone’s asleep, tiptoes into the central room where Robinson is sleeping, and then … What?”
Bob—who appeared to Sam to be their primary evidence processor—spoke again. “Creaky floor, light sleeper, he bumps his knee. We don’t know.”
“Could be he was there just to snuff her,” a voice suggested.
“I would argue against that,” Bob retorted. “The use of the lamp, the mess after all that careful planning, the noise waking up the neighbors and Reiling, the way he ran downstairs after she clocked him with the frying pan—it speaks of things going sour in a hurry. I see Robinson waking up for some reason and catching him.”
“So, he was after something that’s missing,” another voice threw in.
“Yes,” Bob agreed. “Her phone, I think. And he got it.”
McReady added, “We asked Rachel specifically about Robinson having one. There’s no doubt about the phone being gone.”
“Rachel gave us the number,” Bob explained further. “We’ve pinged it, or tried to, but it’s not responding, meaning it’s been turned off or the killer removed the battery.”
“So we’re nowhere on him?”
“Correct—for the time being. We’ve put out a BOL to area clinics, hospitals, and pharmacies, in case the frying pan did some serious damage, and we’re checking any reasonably located CCTVs for footage. Nothing yet.”
“Reiling can’t give us anything?”
“Nope. Just a big guy in a mask. No more description. She does confirm the gloves. If we’re lucky, he now has a permanent limp or an arm in a sling, given that she whacked him twice.”
“He killed her for her phone?” the first voice asked. “Why not just grab her purse at the movies, or whatever? If we’re saying this guy’s a good planner, what the hell’s he doing making such a dog’s breakfast?”
Nobody answered him.
“Are we sure the phone was the goal?” someone asked.
“It’s the only thing of hers that’s missing,” Bob said. “She didn’t have much else. She came off the bus—which is another avenue we’re checking—with just a small backpack-style purse with her wallet and the phone. Reiling said she purchased a few basics since then—underwear, extra clothes, an actual purse—but that was it.”
“If she came off the bus,” came a question, “how did her killer find her? Through the phone? And if that’s true, then why so many days between her arriving here and his trying to whack her?”
“Fair questions,” McReady finally said. “Along with a bunch of others. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
* * *
“How’d it go?” Lester asked two hours later. He’d made the trip to attend Sammie’s second meeting, but he was the only one. Joe was there only as an image on a computer screen, while Willy had chosen to appear on speakerphone, which gave the meeting a distinctly disjointed, sci-fi flavoring.
They were gathered at the VBI’s Burlington address, on Cherry Street, which was the largest facility in the agency’s five-office network, including the director’s in Waterbury—a reflection of the so-called Queen City’s disproportionate workload. Chittenden, Burlington’s host county, laid claim to over a quarter of the entire state’s population, making this branch deserve its size.
“They’re doing a good job,” Sam reported. “And McReady didn’t have a problem with me in the room, although all he did was introduce me. So far, they don’t have much—the victim’s real name was Charlotte Anne Robinson, from Albany. Her assailant is a complete unknown. Rachel just saw a big guy in a mask, wearing gloves. She hit him with a pan, so the hope is he’ll seek treatment somewhere for a knee or shoulder injury.”
“Yeah—right,” Willy predictably commented over the speaker at the same time Lester said, “Good for her. How’s she doing?”
Joe answered that, his face oddly pixelated, and his lips and words out of sync. “Remarkably well, considering. Beverly’s got her at home. The deputy ME’s doing the autopsy. So mother and daughter are working through it together. Thanks for asking.”
“Good boy, Les,” Willy said, sounding like he was praising a pet.
Lester eyed the phone with an exasperated expression.
Sam spoke up, hoping to maintain control and stick to her agenda. “The reason I asked for us all to be in the same room at the same time—sort of—is that I suspect this case is going to wind up in our lap, and therefore stress our resources. So I wanted to identify priorities. For one thing, I could tell at the meeting earlier that the BPD is on the edge of having to send people outside their turf, what with Albany being mentioned. That’s probably where we’ll be asked to come in and play—as a diplomatic way of ceding at least partial jurisdiction.”
“Actually,” Joe said, “if I can briefly interrupt…” He let his request hang a moment.
“Sure,” Sam blurted out.
“This should’ve gone directly to you, Sam, so I apologize for our current slightly fuzzy chain of command. But I just received marching orders to that effect. I didn’t want you going on without knowing about them.”
“Uh-oh,” Willy said. “Here it comes.”
Joe smiled. “I’d tell you to get stuffed, Willy, but this time you’re right. Burlington’s chief, the commissioner of public safety with the governor’s backing, and our own director have apparently had a powwow, virtually as we speak.” He held his cell phone up to the camera. “I got the call three minutes before coming online.”
Sam controlled her disappointment at being bypassed. “What did they say?” she asked neutrally.
“You called it, including diplomacy being a factor. They’re calling for a Burlington–VBI–Albany task force, where we’ll be the liaison between the two city departments. Our AG will be the prosecutor, meaning, for all intents and purposes, that it’ll now be our case. Of course, that means the usual, where we do all the work and let them take the credit. But we’re used to that. We won’t be stepping on toes, anyhow. Burlington and Albany are to run things in their backyards, like always. We’re like the air traffic controllers, handling everything they aren’t interested in.”
In the silence that greeted this, Joe continued, “Good news, Sam, is that you’ll get to dump some of the bureaucratic load you’ve been shoveling. You were specifically mentioned as the point person on this—at Beverly’s urging, I might add, along with mine—so it’s yours to organize and run with. The other good news is that, because of the task force design, VBI actually shouldn’t be overly stretched in terms of manpower.”
Sam felt her cheeks redden, flushed with a complicated mixture of pride, frustration, and embarrassment—the last two emanating from an irrepressibly childish response to feeling marginalized by the grown-ups, who’d essentially met in another room to decide her fate.
Joe predictably tried to address this by saying, “This didn’t happen as it should have. Time was tight, Sam, you were in transit between the last meeting and this one, and the other players contacted me on instinct. You are the agency’s field force commander. I made that clear to them once again, just now. I hope it was okay, and you should feel free to let me know otherwise.”
Swell, she thought. What the hell can I say? “Not a problem, boss.”
“Great. Thanks,” he said, sounding relieved. “And again, my apologies.”
“Nice, Sam,” Lester said.
“You nailed it.”
“Yeah, good luck,” Willy chimed in. “Albany’s an armpit.”
Sam shook her head slightly, muttering, “Jesus.” Was that the best he could do? She knew he was capable of real support. He proved it all the time to her and Emma in private—and to complete strangers when he wanted to win them over. Why was it such a goddamn burden this time?
She squared her shoulders and resumed leading the meeting.
“Okay, now that we know where we stand, how’re you two faring with your cases? ’Cause I’ll guarantee that some of what I was doing’ll probably fall to you.” She looked at the screen. “Unless the gods on Mount Olympus have come up with a way to manage that, too.”
“No, no,” Joe quickly reassured her. “Like I said, nobody’s expecting you to do everything at once, so delegating your workload sounds good to me, including, like I said before, just dumping it on my desk for later.”
“All right,” she said, somewhat mollified. Her earlier pique aside, not to mention the effect of Willy’s one-liner, the vote of confidence was clear and rewarding, even if brought about clumsily. “Lester, what’ve you got with the Paine case?”
Les looked slightly embarrassed. “Well, given what we just heard, I’m almost sorry to say that it’s starting to take off. Nobody made any mistakes that I can tell so far, and nothing’s surfaced to say that Kennedy shooting Paine and vice versa didn’t happen like people think, but there are some serious questions bubbling up.”
“Like what?”
“According to the source that got this rolling,” he answered carefully, “the fingerprints on the gun are possibly looking forged.”
“Damn,” Willy said. “How the hell do you do that?”
“I’m not sure. Simply speaking, you lift a print from one source, make a copy somehow—maybe using a digital transference process—and then deposit it where you want it to be found. In this case, on the murder weapon.”
“All while the owner of said weapon holds the light for you?” Willy asked sourly.
“That’s another problem,” Lester acknowledged. “What I meant by things bubbling up is that I’m also not positive Kyle Kennedy had uninterrupted possession of the gun used in the shooting.”
“You’re sounding like a lawyer, Les,” Willy criticized. “Spit it out.”
But Les wouldn’t play. He was uncomfortable enough poking into a case that former friends and colleagues had closed. He wasn’t about to discuss any suspicions with the likes of Willy Kunkle before they became facts. His loyalty ran deeper than that.
“Not till I’m done investigating,” he said simply.
“What about you, Willy?” Sam asked quickly, hoping to pull him off Lester’s back. “Last we heard, nothing you had was even that solid.”
“True enough,” he said cheerfully, she thought in part to irritate her. “I’ve been spending some quality time in Springfield, Mass, which makes Albany look like Capri. I’m in the same boat as Les—pokin’ around in the dark with my eyes closed—but it’s startin’ to look like the battery they found in Windsor might be military grade and not homemade, which would make having it a federal violation, from what I hear. Anyhow, I’ve got a date with Homeland Security today, which is why I’m not up there, to see if I can get their help in connecting a few dots I lined up.”
It was textbook Kunkle-speak—at once vague and attention-grabbing. It told everyone listening precisely nothing, while holding out the hope of something bigger to come.
They all knew the routine well enough to let it be. Their shared experience with this man, while often punctuated by annoyance and impatience, was more than offset by his proven record of reliability—and a compulsion to find the truth.
None of which meant that Sammie wouldn’t rib him a little, feeling the way she was right now. “The way you have with bullshit, if Les sounds like a lawyer, you should run for governor. Be careful with the feds, Willy. If I end up a single mother ’cause you’ve been tossed into Leavenworth, I will teach your daughter to kick your ass every time we come visit.”
“That’s sweet, dear,” he replied. “I look forward to seeing you both every fourth Sunday.”
“What dots?” Joe pointedly asked him, gently challenging the unspoken protocol not to put Kunkle under a microscope.
Willy took a strategically well-timed step toward sincerity and full disclosure. “You know me, boss. I’m flying mostly on intuition. The battery, the broken teeth, the use of the train, and now a Springfield importer. It stinks, and I don’t want to walk away from it without a little more digging. Just so you know, I’m not alone. To get their interest, I forwarded a couple of photographs to HSI—of what’s left of the battery and the man on the train—so my meeting ain’t just a meet and greet. An agent named Alex Dorman wants to know more. I think I’ve struck a nerve, and I’m betting it’s the battery. So—yeah—I’m throwing a little horse manure around, but I think I’m onto something.”
Joe, feeling fidgety and out of the action, knew he should keep quiet and let Sam maintain control, but couldn’t resist commenting, “It’s all you needed to say.”
Sammie took the hint and moved along. “Okay. I guess we’re squared away. Thanks, everybody, for making an appearance. Keep your dailies up to date, and for Christ’s sake—especially you, Willy—call for help before you feel your head going underwater. All right?”
“You got it, boss lady,” he said as Joe thanked them all and severed his connection—in large part to avoid further crowding Sam’s action.
To that point, Sammie made sure Willy was still on the line after Joe hung up. “Where are you right now, Willy?” she asked tersely and without preamble. “Physically?”
“Massachusetts—my meeting’s in an hour. You want me to pick up Emma after daycare?”
She paused, brought up short by the very traits she’d been so missing in him minutes ago. Despite her irritation, she smiled at his having read the meaning behind her question, and assuming responsibility.
“Play it by ear,” she said. “If you can, great, but I’ll call Louise and tell her she’s first in line unless you tell her otherwise. I have a feeling I’ll be stuck in Burlington for a while.”
“You got it, babe,” he said. “And I’ll call Louise. Knock ’em dead.”
Sammie looked at Lester after Willy had hung up. “You all set?”
He smiled as he collected his things and prepared to leave. “Me? Sure. I’m just going back to what I was doing. You’re the one on top of the slippery slope. Good luck, by the way. I’m sure you’ll wow ’em. But if you need help, call, okay? Day or night.” He waved a hand to indicate the offices lining the hallway outside. “And don’t forget you have all these dudes available, too.”
She nodded her acknowledgment. “Got it, Les. Thanks. And thanks for making the drive. It was nice to have at least one other human being in the room.”
He laughed and left, closing the door behind him.
Sammie sat down before the blank computer. Her irritation with Willy aside, he had won points, mentioning Emma as he had. In pre-Emma days, it had been a virtual contest between them to see who could work the hardest, or put in the most hours. Now Emma continually tugged at her conscience. In no way did Sam want her daughter to suffer the kind of childhood she’d endured. But it was that childhood in part that had produced Sam’s drive, dedication, and sensitivity, along with her insecurity, fear of rejection, and need to show control.
How was she to supply the kind of upbringing she knew so little about, while avoiding the pitfalls to which she knew she was prone—on top of being teamed with someone as complex as Willy? She didn’t question his devotion to their child—he demonstrated it as regularly as he changed moods. But given his baggage, wasn’t he almost fated to screw up?
Sam rubbed her forehead in frustration, trying to will herself to stop and return to work.
Or, she kept thinking, perhaps given her past, wasn’t she fated to sell him short anyhow? Isn’t that
precisely what had just happened during the meeting, where her focus on his shortcomings had been abruptly upset by his spontaneous and genuine helpfulness? The irony was that despite Willy’s reliability, she was fearful of his failing as a parent unless he proved his worth daily. Thus any demonstrated self-doubts from him—as legitimate as her own—rang louder than his constancy. How unfair was that?
It was enough to warrant a lobotomy, she finally concluded—or a distraction like the task ahead. Any port in a storm—wasn’t that the saying?
* * *
Joe Gunther unhooked his earphones, disconnected his smartphone from Skype, and put it away with a sigh. He looked up from the borrowed PT supervisor’s desk and gazed through the observation window into the therapy room beyond, where he could see his mother being put through her scheduled regimen of exercises.
He’d been up half the night, talking with Beverly and Rachel alternately, and then the management types necessary to have Sammie officially invited by the Burlington police to head up the subsequent task force—or however they were going to put it in the eventual press release. Of course, this had to have happened when he was stuck far from home. There’d been jokes that his leaving Vermont would guarantee some crisis occurring.
But to this degree?
He rose and crossed to the window. His mother was doing better, improving by the day. The symptoms mimicking dementia had eased, and her coordination skills were increasing. But it remained a long haul, as she quickly tired and relapsed. He’d had a couple of near lucid conversations with her, but depression had dictated most of their content, with her suggesting that all this fuss and bother wasn’t worth the effort—“No one lives forever,” and so forth.
Normally, such talk didn’t pull at him unduly, even from someone so stoic by nature, nor was he much given to brooding. People were allowed to feel down-and-out, after all. But the near miss involving Rachel had been a bad piece of timing, catching him away from the steadying distractions of running an entire agency. He was free to worry now about Beverly, her daughter, Sammie, and the others, even Leo, whose twice-daily need for updates bespoke his rising anxiety.