Chat (13 page)

Sam paused before suggesting, “That must’ve been tough.”

“It had its moments.”

“What was he like when he was down?”

“Quiet, mostly. He never got violent or drunk or anything like that. That’s where the loner thing kicked in. He would go off and be by himself.”

“At his apartment?”

She nodded in the darkened car. “Yeah. Did you ever see that place?”

Sam was surprised by the question. “No.”

“It was weird. Like a cell. You know he was in prison, right?”

“Yeah, I read that.”

“Well, his apartment looked just like that to me. I only went there once. Never again.”

“Did you ever talk about it with him?”

“The time I visited, I did. I mean, I said something like ‘Wow, this sure is empty,’ or something. I didn’t actually tell him it looked like a jail cell. But it did—bare walls, a cot, almost nothing in it.”

“How did he react?”

“He looked around like he’d never been there before, and then he said, ‘I like it this way. Makes me feel safe.’ It was weird to me, ’cause I had just the opposite feeling about it. I felt totally cut off from the world in there, like it was a spaceship or one of those explorer balls they drop into the ocean with people inside.”

Sammie nodded, entering the apartment complex parking lot. “His record says he was only in jail for three years,” she stated. “I wonder if he was that way before.”

But Beth Ann shook her head emphatically. “No. It was prison that did it. That was a bad time. He said it changed everything. When he was in the dumps, that’s all he talked about, how it ruined his getting along with his family, or being comfortable with other people. I had to be real careful what I said to him afterward, ’cause he would, like, almost disappear right in front of me.” She paused before adding, “That’s when he’d go to that apartment. I was never sure what to do then. Wait for him to come back or go after him and try to get him out.”

She leaned forward in her seat and pressed her hands against her eyes. Sam pulled into a parking space and placed her palm on the other woman’s back. Beth Ann wasn’t crying, but she was silent for a long time.

Then she said through her hands, “I feel like I could’ve stopped it. I just didn’t know what to do.”

“It’s not your fault, Beth Ann,” Sam said softly, feeling a sudden kinship. “I live with a man who gets down like that, and disappears into himself to work through it. And I’m not always sure he will.”

Beth Ann looked at her gratefully. “Really?”

“It’s tough. And lonely. They get so lost, they can’t see you standing right in front of them.”

She was nodding. “That’s it. It was so frustrating. I couldn’t make him understand that it didn’t need to be that hard.”

“My guy has a lot of ancient history to fight,” Sam said. “What was Andy wrestling with?”

Beth Ann’s straight and simple answer caught Sam off guard. “He was raped in prison.”

“Jesus,” she muttered, remembering not just what Dave Snyder had said about Andy’s lapse into depression partway through his jail term, but how Andy hadn’t been able to stay working for his family in Thetford afterward.

“He couldn’t get over it,” Beth Ann said softly.

Sammie stared out the window thoughtfully, reflecting on what had happened to Leo’s car.

“He may not have been the only one,” she said.

Bart148:
what do u do 4 fun?

AnnGee:
not much. U?

Bart148:
u hav a bf?

AnnGee:
yeah

Bart148:
u dont hav fun with him?

AnnGee:
sometimes

Bart148:
what kind?

AnnGee:
u know

Bart148:
tell me

AnnGee:
stuff. movies. music

Bart148:
u sound bored

AnnGee:
a little

Bart148:
u super tite with him?

AnnGee:
no

Bart148:
u could do better

AnnGee:
I lik that

Bart148:
me 2. maybe we could make that happen

Chapter 12

J
oe stuck a finger in his ear and pressed the cell phone tighter to the side of his head. “A Taser tag?”

He was standing near the entrance of the hospital cafeteria, unsure if cell phones were as taboo here as they were elsewhere in the building. In any case, it wasn’t working very well.

Sam was telling him, “Yeah. Willy found it in the first guy’s motel room—Norman Rockwell. Lester’s calling him Wet Bald Rocky so we can tell him apart from Dry Hairy Fred. Anyhow, we called the company and traced the serial number on the tag to a shipment of Taser cartridges sent to the Burlington PD.”

“You saying a cop Tasered Rockwell?”

A group of people, laughing and talking loudly, passed by, burying Sam’s response. Joe had come both to depend on cell phones and to hate them with a passion, especially since reception across most of Vermont was rotten.

“What?” he asked.

“I said all we know is that the cartridge was sent there. I have no idea who ended up with it. Maybe it was stolen.”

Joe pulled out his notepad and pen, cradling the phone awkwardly. “Okay. Give me the serial number. I can shoot up to Burlington and find out.”

Sam complied before asking, “You at the hospital?”

“Yeah.”

“Is everything okay?”

“He’s hanging in there.”

“What about the car? You find what you were after?”

“Yeah. Now we’re looking into a computer we found at the garage. I’m going to the sheriff’s department next to find out what they’ve got.”

“Well,” Sam said after a small pause, “good luck.”

“Thanks,” Joe answered her, adding, “Nice job on the tag.”

“Let’s see if it means anything first,” she cautioned before hanging up.

Joe dropped the phone into his coat pocket with a sigh of relief.

“Everything all right?” his mother asked from beside him.

He looked down at her, her face upturned from her permanent perch in the wheelchair, and he bent over to kiss her cheek. “Yeah. I just have a brain teaser cooking in Brattleboro—seems to be getting weirder.”

“Was that Sammie?” she asked.

“It was,” he admitted, surprised. “How did you know that?”

She laughed. “I’m your mother. I’ve been watching how you react to people your whole life.”

He joined her. “Good thing, too. Keep me flying straight.”

She squeezed his hand. “I do what I can. It’s not difficult.” She gestured toward the cafeteria. “Did you get enough to eat? You didn’t have much.”

“I’m all set,” he answered her, stepping behind her chair. “You ready to go back up?”

“Yes,” she said, and faced forward, but in that one short word, he clearly heard her sadness. Leo remained inert, attached like a chrysalis to his attending instruments. Dr. Weisenbeck was still counseling them not to be alarmed, but Joe could tell that his mother was tiring of hanging in limbo.

He leaned in over her shoulder as he pushed her down the hall. “What do you say we catch a movie?”

“In the middle of the day?” she asked, startled.

“Why not? We could both do with a break.”

He wheeled her over to a small bookshop off the hospital’s central hallway and found a newspaper, after which they pored over the movie ads, found a comedy she’d heard about, which started in under an hour, and headed out into the parking lot after collecting their coats from upstairs and checking in on Leo one last time.

It was a bittersweet outing for both of them, playing hooky for each other’s sake, not really absorbing what flickered across the screen, and yet acknowledging the moment’s nostalgic richness. Only rarely had Joe and his mother ever done anything social together without Leo. He was always the glue that united them for such occasions. Now, in the movie theater, there was the lingering guilt, not only of enjoying themselves behind his back but of practicing their own companionship in his absence, as if hedging their bets against his survival.

They barely spoke on the way back to the hospital afterward.

There, they split up, returning to their separate jobs, Joe to Burlington, and his mother to her vigil. Before they parted, however, she took hold of his sleeve and gave him a long look.

“Don’t keep too much of this inside, Joe. It doesn’t do any good.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“You’re all alone now. If Leo doesn’t make it, it’ll get worse.”

He thought of her in the exact same terms, of course, but couldn’t utter the words.

He didn’t need to. She added, “It’s not the same for me. I have my own world, and not much more time to worry about anyhow. But you, now with Gail gone . . .” She hesitated before asking, “How’s Lyn?”

He straightened, surprised. “Fine, I guess.”

“When did you last see her?”

He reddened slightly. “I visited the bar she’s setting up a couple of days ago.”

She nodded and smiled. “Good. She likes you very much, and I think you could do a lot worse.”

He laughed to cover his embarrassment. “I gotta go, Ma.”

But she didn’t let go of his sleeve, not quite yet. “You like her.”

He let the smile fade from his face and considered her implication for a moment, before admitting, “Yes. I do.”

The drive to Burlington was under ninety minutes from the hospital in Lebanon, New Hampshire, and cut through one of Joe’s favorite scenic corridors—a meandering diagonal across the state’s famous Green Mountains. It was a trip he’d made a thousand times since the interstate was laid out in the 1960s, and it took him by the front doors of both his organization’s headquarters in Waterbury and, just southeast of there, the capital city of Montpelier, where Gail now lived full-time.

In the past he would have at least considered stopping by both places, but since, technically, he was still on leave, and, emotionally, he had no reason to see Gail, he stayed on the road. But he couldn’t avoid pondering the latter situation, especially in light of his mother’s parting words. He’d been struck, not just by her concern for his happiness—all the more touching when she was so distracted by Leo—but by her apparent openness toward Lyn Silva, whom she barely knew.

His mother and Gail had been the best of friends and, he presumed, still were. That she could supportively even consider his segue toward Lyn was an act of love he doubted he could have made in her place. But his mother was made of strong stuff and clearly had enough heart to encompass the inevitable changes that both time and people dished up. That included the possibility of Leo’s dying—and, certainly, that Joe might find happiness with someone new.

In that way, his mother and the snow-clad, sun-bleached, timeworn mountains he was passing by were not dissimilar. Both were old, stalwart bastions of tradition and place, around which Joe had found it wise to base his values. He was no stuck-in-the-hills galoot, ignorant and distrustful of the world’s offerings and mishaps. But he had come to recognize the wisdom—at least for him—of admitting his roots and honoring their more admirable customs, of which his mother represented the best.

It was of some comfort to him to reflect on this and to draw strength from it as he considered the possibilities, good and bad, that seemed to be looming before him.

The chief of the Burlington Police Department was Timothy Giordi, the son of a small-town cop who had babysat Tim by driving him around in his patrol car. Tim was the first to concede that he might as well have had a police blood transfusion at birth, given all the chance he ever had of considering a different profession.

Fortunately, he was very good at it and looked as if, like his father before him, he’d struggle to stay on the job until the day he died, even if it meant as a school crossing guard.

He and Joe had been friends for more years than either could remember, which had made Tim’s the first name Joe considered when Sam revealed the possible source of the Taser cartridge.

The PD’s home was a thirty-thousand-square-foot converted factory building dating back to the twenties, half of which had once subsequently housed an auto dealership. It was also the largest, most up-to-date station house in the state, located a few hundred feet from Lake Champlain and bordering a city park—a testament to the hustle and political savvy of those who had preceded Tim Giordi as chief.

Giordi came out personally to collect Joe in the reception area, shaking his hand and patting his back as if he were a long-lost uncle returning from the wilderness.

“Damn, Joe—the field force commander of the Vermont Bureau of Investigation,” he glowed. “That is truly the big time.”

Joe laughed, looking around him as they proceeded toward the back of the building. It was a white-walled maze of hallways, many of them without ceilings, since most of the partitions ended shy of the industrially trussed roof, allowing for a crisscrossing of exposed piping and electrical conduits high overhead. Joe felt slightly like a rat in a box, wondering when a huge pair of fingers might appear from just out of sight to pluck him from its midst.

“I don’t know about that,” he told his guide. “I bet you have three times my budget and manpower, not to mention the autonomy to play all alone in your own backyard.”

Giordi aimed him through an outer office staffed with intense-looking people studying computer screens, and into a large room with curiously small windows overlooking the water below.

“Oh-oh,” Tim said. “Do I sense a little chafing with political realities?”

Joe shrugged. “Not really. We have to play nice and give credit to the locals, including the state police, but that’s only what we wish the feds would do when they come poaching, so I really can’t complain. And it’s a hell of a lot better than when we were brand-new, out of the box. Talk about cold shoulder.”

Tim waved him to a chair near his large desk and sat in one like it nearby. “More than half your people came from the state police, didn’t they?”

Joe nodded. “That helps a lot.” He added with a smile, “Come to think of it, we got a couple of your guys, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, you bastard. I meant to mail you a grenade for that. You want some coffee, by the way?”

Joe shook his head. “Not after that, I don’t.”

“What can I do for you, then?” Tim asked, getting down to business.

Joe pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and handed it over. Tim recognized its contents immediately.

“I take it there’s a punchline?”

“Stamped on a Taser tag. It—and only it—was under the motel room bed of a guy we found dead elsewhere, stripped of all identification.”

Tim looked up at him. “The floater on that BOL you sent out a while back? No shit. I circulated his picture at every one of our shift briefings. Got nothing, of course. And you only found the one tag? You know there are supposed to be up to forty of these things in each cartridge.”

“Meaning, whoever used it tried their best to clean up,” Joe agreed. “It got one of my guys wondering if maybe a cop was involved.”

Frowning, Tim considered the scrap of paper a moment longer before placing it on his knee and stating, “I bet you’re going to say you traced this serial number to us, right?”

“You have a cartridge go missing?” Joe asked.

But Giordi shook his head. “Not that I heard. Of course, I might not’ve been told, either.” He got up, reached for the phone on his desk, pushed the intercom button, and asked the voice on the other end to join them. His demeanor had lost its earlier joviality.

An older woman appeared at the door thirty seconds later. “Chief?”

“Kathy, did we have a Taser cartridge disappear anytime recently?”

The woman glanced quickly at Joe, whom she didn’t know, and immediately fell into professional mode. “I don’t know, Chief. I’ll get hold of Matt and have him report to you directly.”

Giordi nodded. “Thanks. Right away.”

She disappeared as Tim turned to Joe. “The shit just hit the fan there. We run pretty close herd on that kind of equipment, for obvious reasons, and Matt Aho, being the supply officer, is the go-to guy. If I were Kathy, I’d be telling him to put on a flak jacket right now.”

But he was smiling as he said it, lessening Joe’s apprehension about what might happen next.

A minute later, a concerned-looking young man showed up, a three-ring binder in hand.

“Something missing, Chief?” he asked.

Joe and Giordi got up as the latter made the introductions. “Matt Aho, this is Special Agent Joe Gunther of the VBI.” Tim handed over Joe’s note before continuing, “This belongs to a Taser tag. His people found it at a crime scene down south—a homicide. Apparently, it belongs to us.”

Aho crossed over to a side table and laid his binder open. He began flipping through pages of equipment log entries. Finally, he stopped and ran his finger down the length of one particular sheet.

“Got it,” he announced at last, his voice tense.

Both men leaned forward to see the line just above his index.

Aho explained. “Last month, three cartridges were issued to Brian Palmiter. He was on airport security then.” Aho glanced at Joe. “Yours was one of them.”

“Did he ever report it missing?” Tim asked.

“Not that I heard,” Aho answered cautiously. “He sure hasn’t asked for any more, which implies he didn’t use them up.”

“You said he was on airport detail then,” said Joe. “Is he still?”

“I think he rotated off,” Aho answered.

Tim crossed back to his phone and dialed a number. “Locate Brian Palmiter and have him report to my office right away.”

He listened for a moment before responding, “Great. That’s perfect.”

He hung up and looked over at Joe. “Got lucky. He’s in the building.”

Giordi walked back to Aho. “That’s it for the moment, Matt. Leave the log behind. I’ll make sure it gets back to you ASAP.”

Aho nodded to Joe and took his leave without further comment. In the next few minutes, Joe could imagine the air thickening with the murmurings spreading from just outside Tim Giordi’s office door. He was all too familiar with how police departments were hotbeds of gossip, rumor, and randomly circulating tidbits. Long after this little mystery was resolved, people would be discussing what “really” happened, notwithstanding the chief’s official explanation—and that would be only if the conclusion was wholly innocent. God forbid if something untoward had actually occurred.