Presumption of Guilt (6 page)

“Before the interstate chopped off everyone's backyard in the mid-'60s,” Sam finished the thought. “Got it. Not a great place to call home anymore.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Joe mused. “Whatever the case, it's a start, as is the name Sharon Mitchell.”

“What else does the record say?” Willy wanted to know.

“Hank was a smoker, drank too much, was urged to lose some weight,” Joe recited. “Not much beside the shoulder problem that brought him in.”

“I didn't mean that stuff,” Willy cut in. “He's dead. Who cares? Was it a workmen's comp deal? Who was the employer?”

“Lighten up, Willy,” Sammie said softly.

Elsewhere, that would have elicited a comeback. Here, he merely mumbled, “Sorry.” This group had been working together for so many years, they'd virtually become family—with all the attending allowances and shortcomings.

“Ridgeline Roofing,” Joe answered. “I remember when they were bought out by Vermont Amalgamated a couple of decades ago. It was a big deal.”

Lester cut in. Still staring at his computer screen, he announced, “I got a Sharon Mitchell out of DMV residing in Bratt on Chestnut Street.”

“How old?” Willy asked.

“Sixty-six,” Lester said, throwing in her birth date.

Sammie had also been typing rapidly, and now added, “Nothing popping up on the Spillman or Valcour databases, so she's either well behaved or never been caught.”

“Let's hope for the second,” Willy said. “I hate the boring ones.”

Joe looked at them all. “Okay. One of you has Emma to care for; Les, you probably wouldn't mind getting home. Who's joining me to break the news to Mrs. Mitchell?”

*   *   *

Chestnut Street had also been victimized by the interstate's being laid out like a runway across Brattleboro's map. From a bird's-eye view, Chestnut now resembled a garden hose, severed by a lawn mower and abandoned on the grass. Homeowners giving directions to their address had to specify whether to approach from the east or the west.

The street's fate at the hands of town planners notwithstanding, it had become—perhaps as a result—a quiet, pleasantly ignored, almost suburban nook in the midst of a busy town. The houses were in the plain, postwar style of an old TV sitcom, but well maintained, mostly single-story, with paved driveways and nurtured lawns. Joe and Willy headed west—Sam had opted to stay with Emma—until they came to the address listed as Sharon Mitchell's, some six doors shy of where Chestnut smacked into the embankment leading up to the interstate above.

With Joe carrying a small package, both men got out of the car, crossed a lawn decorated with a swing set and a few scattered toys, and stepped up onto the concrete stoop of a split-level home. Confirming their research, a copper plaque by the door read,
MITCHELL
.

Willy cocked his head at the sight of it. “Think we got the right place?” He rang the bell.

The door opened to reveal a slightly built woman with professionally dyed hair, carefully flattering clothes, and well-tended nails—all of which Joe took in with a glance as he and Willy swung back their jackets to reveal the badges clipped to their belts. Joe noticed a gold ring on her finger.

“Mrs. Mitchell?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“We're from the police. I'm Joe Gunther and this is William Kunkle. Are we catching you at an okay time?”

“For what?” she asked evenly, her cool blue eyes moving from one of them to the other—and taking in the arm unnaturally anchored to Willy's left trouser pocket.

Joe smiled. “Good question. We're working on a case where your name came up. We just wanted to ask you a couple of things about that.”

“Do I need a lawyer?” The question was asked peacefully.

Joe was used to it—not that it happened frequently—and instinctively summoned his default expression of surprise. “Goodness. Well, of course, you may call one if you'd like, but there's no need that I know of. We're just looking for information.”

“There may be more,” he was impressed to hear Willy add. “We might have some news for you.”

Mitchell's face paled. “Is everyone all right? You're not here about any of the kids, are you?”

Joe held up his free hand. “No. Absolutely not. As far as we know, they're all fine. Could we come in?”

She stepped back without hesitation. “Of course.”

She preceded them into an immaculate, fresh-smelling living room, saying, “This is pretty mysterious. I hope it's not
bad
news.”

She sat on a couch, waving them to a pair of chairs opposite.

“To be honest,” Joe began, “it might be. Do you know—or did you know—a man named Henry Mitchell? Hank?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What is this about?”

Willy's voice was unusually supportive. “Please, ma'am. Could you answer the question first?”

“He was my husband. Or he still is, unless you're going to tell me different.”

“You haven't seen him recently?” Joe asked.

Her smile was sorrowful. “You could say that. He walked out on us forty years ago. What have you found out about him?”

“A couple of more details first, Mrs. Mitchell,” Joe stalled her. “I know this is hard, and we appreciate your patience, but we've got to be sure that we're talking about the same person. Are you okay with that?”

“Of course I am.”

Willy glanced at Joe, who produced a small recorder from his pocket and held it up. “This is important enough to us, Mrs. Mitchell, that I'd like your permission to record the conversation. Just so there're no misunderstandings later on.”

The emotions crossing her face were beginning to pile into each other. “I suppose so.”

“Thank you.” Joe turned on the machine and placed it by his side. “Shortly before he disappeared, did your husband injure his right shoulder?”

She nodded, clearly distressed. Her hands were clasping and unclasping in her lap, seeking elusive comfort in one another. Finally, she settled for twisting the ring on her left hand.

Joe opened the small bag he'd brought along, speaking as he did so, “Mrs. Mitchell, I'm sorry to do this, but the circumstances are so unusual, I'm not sure how else to proceed. A couple of days ago, a man's body was discovered—a skeleton—who we're pretty sure was your husband. We had a latex mask made that shows what he looked like when he died, in 1970.” He looked up at her, hesitating. “I have a copy of that in this bag. I know it's a lot to ask, but would you be willing to look at it?”

She didn't answer right away, staring at Joe's hand in the bag as if it might reappear with a snake—which, in a way, it was about to.

“All right,” she said softly.

In one gesture, Joe brought out the ivory-colored mask and cradled it in his extended hands, as if ghoulishly offering her a head on a plate.

The face stared up at her, ghostly and expressionless, as she responded in kind.

After a prolonged silence, Joe asked, “Is this your late husband?”

She tore her eyes away, allowing him to banish the mask back into the bag. “Where did you find him?”

Joe hedged his response. “Some people were dismantling an old warehouse, tearing up the concrete floor—”

She straightened. “I heard that on the radio. The Yankee plant. That was Hank?”

“Yes.”

Her hand fluttered by her cheek a moment. “What was he doing there?”

“Mrs. Mitchell,” Willy spoke, “did he have anything to do with that project?”

She shook her head. “He was a roofer. He did some odd jobs on the side, but never there that I know of. How did he die?”

“We're still looking into that,” Joe answered quickly, laying Hank's ring on the table and asking, “Is that his wedding band?”

She picked it up and read the inscription. “Yes.”

“What were the circumstances of his disappearance?” Willy asked, his tone encouraging. “You must've explained his sudden absence to yourself somehow—in order to make sense of it. You never called the police?”

“No,” she answered, her expression softening with reminiscence. “No. In a way, he was already missing.” She replaced the ring and sank against the sofa cushions, looking as if she'd been dropped there from a height. Her hands had stopped fidgeting.

“Our marriage was having problems. When Hank disappeared, he wasn't living with us anymore. I'd asked him to move out.”

“I'm sorry.”

She was quiet for a while, and then crossed her arms across her stomach and began rocking slightly, back and forth. Joe realized that she was silently weeping.

“Can I get you anything, Mrs. Mitchell? A glass of water?” He looked around for at least a box of Kleenex.

But she looked up and wiped her eyes with both palms. She took a deep breath. “It's hard, even after so long.”

Willy interpreted what she meant. “Hearing what really happened?”

She nodded. “I never would've guessed it. He was so restless; so hungry for something else. I figured he took off. Those were the days, after all—‘free love.' I thought the kids and I made him feel trapped.”

“I know this is painful,” Joe said, “but we were hoping you could give us as many details as possible about Hank. We have to try to reconstruct what he was doing, who he was hanging out with … Things like that. How long before he went missing did you two split up, for example?”

“Not even a month,” she answered, her voice stronger.

“Where was he living?” Willy asked.

“On Oak Street. A nice place. It was an apartment, on the top floor. I visited him there.”

“Sounds fancy.”

She gave him a surprised look. “Why not? We were doing pretty well.”

Willy frowned. “I thought he was just a roofer.”

“He was. Ridgeline Roofing. But he was the owner's right-hand man—a partner, I suppose, really. He mostly got on roofs because he liked to get his hands dirty. Like I said: restless. But it made sense, too. It saved money, having him be management and labor, combined. And BB loved it.”

Both men looked at her until she explained, “Robert Barrett—everyone calls him BB. He later sold out to Vermont Amalgamated. Made a killing.” She waved her hand around to indicate the room. “That's what paid for this.”

Faced with their continued silence, she went on. “BB told me he'd put Hank's money in a trust for me and the kids. I never knew about it, and I'm not sure to this day if I really believed it. Hank never mentioned any money. I always thought BB made it up so I wouldn't feel like I was accepting charity.”

“Very generous,” Willy said leadingly.

“BB was in love with me,” she said without affectation.

Joe felt Willy's reaction as if it were an electrical crackle.

“He was always a gentleman about it,” she went on. “Never pressed too hard, but after Hank was gone, he made his interest clear.”

“Did you accept his advances?” Joe asked delicately.

She smiled sadly. “Oh, no. BB was a nice man. Still is. He's not that much older than me. But Hank was my guy.”

It was said simply, as if read from a fairy tale, and prompted Willy to comment, “That must've disappointed BB.”

“It did and it didn't,” she responded. “I wasn't the girl for him. I think he knew that, too. I was the dream he didn't want to become real. He married three different women after I told him I wasn't interested. None of them was even vaguely like me. I actually liked them—well, maybe not Doreen, the middle one. They were all funny and outspoken and daring. And each was like the next, so they obviously were his type, even if he couldn't stay married to two of them. That's what makes me think we would've been doomed in no time.”

“What about other suitors?” Joe wanted to know. “You were a young woman when Hank left.”

But again, she shook her head. “He and I had problems. Everybody does. But we were soul mates.” She pointed to the bag at Joe's feet. “What you showed me today proves I was right all along. I never believed he just walked away, like people said.”

“And your kids?” Willy asked. “How were they about all this?”

“They took it hard. Greg was nine and Julie seven. It was toughest on Greg, of course—the whole father–son thing was shattered, and it seemed to leave him hanging, for years. That was the most difficult part for me to forgive.”

She sighed before continuing. “Julie? Hard to tell. What was caused by Hank leaving, what was me going to work again, and what was just old-fashioned, hormonal, teenage baggage? She may have always been fated to be my wild child. That's sure as heck how it turned out.”

“What kind of work did you end up doing?” Joe asked.

“Backroom stuff for Dixon's Business Supply—filling orders, monitoring inventory, arranging contracts with local schools and businesses. I was the workforce behind the door that says ‘Employees Only.' They were good to me, mostly left me alone, and helped me pay the bills—along with BB, like I said.”

“Do you remember if BB made an extra effort to be friendly to Greg and Julie before Hank left?” Willy asked.

She furrowed her brow. “BB? Why?”

Willy tipped his hand with his next statement. “Mrs. Mitchell. Your husband didn't end up buried in concrete by accident.”

Joe flinched at his bluntness.

She stared at both of them. “Are you saying…?”

“Nothing,” Joe said firmly. “We have to ask questions to find out what happened. This is how we do it. It's sometimes hard to hear, and it can make people think we're going places we're not. But if we don't check every possibility—no matter how potentially hurtful or unlikely—we're not doing our job. Can you understand that?”

“Of course.”

He kept going. “This was all a long time ago, so we have a lot of catching up to do. We have to reconstruct a world even you've left behind. I mean, in your mind, Hank might as well've been living in Hawaii with a whole new family. If you ever thought of him at all anymore. I was married once. Same thing—love of a lifetime. She died of cancer, and I never remarried. Nevertheless, it fades with time, doesn't it? It becomes like the loss of a parent or a favorite relative. You move on.”