Shattered Shell (30 page)

She leaned in a bit, a stray hair tickling my ear, which I enjoyed. "Our Mike Ahern has had an interesting career. Originally from Dover, up the coast. Joined the Army after high school and served his time, and then joined the Porter Fire Department. Also stayed with the Army Reserves. Stayed in Porter a couple of years, and from there went to Nashua, and stayed there a few years more. Then interesting things happen."

"He gets called up and serves during the Persian Gulf War."

Paula moved away, and so did the tickle of her hair. "How did you know that?"

"He told me, week before last. All right, then what happens?"

Her reporter's face then came up, one part joy at finding something out, one part determination in learning more. "That's the funny thing. Nothing happens, according to his file. He gets sent home when the war is over and then there's a blank spot of nearly two years. No employment record at all. Then he comes to Tyler, working as a fire inspector. When he left to go overseas he was a lieutenant in Nashua, and when he gets another firefighter job, he's an inspector."

"That's important?"

She nodded. "Damn important. Look, all of the firefighters I know, they consider themselves macho guys who eat smoke and save lives for a living. They try to get jobs in busy cities, like Nashua or Manchester, and they hate sitting around the station house, polishing brass and doing drills. They love to go out and fight fires. And sitting behind a desk or becoming a fire inspector is something the real tough guys despise."

I glanced through the file, confirming what Paula had said, seeing the odd two-year blank space between his Nashua and his Tyler jobs. "So our tough fire lieutenant leaves to go overseas, comes back and stays out of the line for two years, and when hhe does get work, it's doing something that some guys would consider a demotion."

Her eyes were glittering. "That's not all. Kristie only photocopied the parts of the file that showed his job history. There was other paperwork she didn't copy, which I managed to poke through, I saw something that made me sit up and take notice. It was all insurance statement, from an outfit in Canterbury called Allied Health Services, for services rendered for Mike Ahern. And the dates of service were in that two-year gap, Lewis."

She looked so proud of herself that I pretty much knew the answer to my next question. "I suppose you've found out more about Allied Health Services?"

"I have," she said, smiling widely.

"So," I said. "What do you know?"

"They're a hospital, Lewis. A hospital for mental patients. And Mike Ahern was a patient there, right after he came back from the Gulf War."

Later in the afternoon I was up in my office, leaning back in my chair, looking at the bookshelves, just thinking about what I was going to do. In some circles it's called lying, bearing false witness, or being a slime. In my own odd circle, I call it scamming. I try to make it quick and painless, and there's no malice on my part. Just the knowledge that this was the only way of getting information from people who have it and who otherwise wouldn't give it to me. I know in my heart of hearts that it's wrong, but I try to convince myself that I'm not seeking the information for purposes illegal or immoral. Most of the time, that takes care of my guilty feeling.

Most of the time.

The phone was in hand and a legal-size notepad was in my lap. I got to work.

First visit was to directory assistance, for the number of Allied Health Services in Canterbury. With that number, my first call was quick and to the point.

"Allied Health," came the reply from a chipper young man.

"Good afternoon," I said. "Craig Sher calling from the Department of Health and Human Services down in Concord. Updating our patient records directory. Whose name should I list as the contact for Allied?"

"Um, that would be Rita Dexter."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

I hung up and leaned back in the chair, and reached over and picked up a pencil. I waited ten minutes or so and then called back, but this time, I had the pencil firmly clenched in my teeth as I talked to the helpful young man and asked for Rita Dexter. Try it sometimes, you'll see how your voice changes.

A
click-click
, and then, "Rita Dexter. How can I help you?"

"Good afternoon, Rita," I said, pencil now out of my mouth. Carl Solomon, from Mutual Casualty Insurance. We're the new insurance carrier for the town of Tyler, and I'm trying to clear up a billing matter for one of their employees."

"Unh-hunh. And what would that be?"

"Mike Ahern," I said. "He's on the fire department in Tyler, and our records show he was a patient there sometime..." and I shuffled some papers near the phone and told her the time period.  “Correct?"

"Hold on for a moment," she said, tapping a keyboard. "Yes, I have him here. He was admitted here for about eleven months, and then we saw him for another six months on an outpatient basis. What seems to be the problem you folks have?"

"We have a billing here from a physician in Porter, and we're trying to determine if he was seen for a preexisting condition. Who do you have as his doctor?"

"That would be ... "
tappity-tappity-tap-tap
, "Dr. Sweeney."

"I see," I said, scribbling on my notepad. "Is he there?"

"Yes, but his office is in Concord."

"Thank you, you've been a great help."

"Wait, what do you---"

I hung up on her, silently apologizing for being so rude. I looked down at my notepad and saw that the white sheets of were smudged with my sweaty hands.

But it was still clear enough.

I looked over at the clock on my credenza. It was just before four p.m. I leaned back again, thinking of what I was going to say, who I was going to talk to. I made another phone call to directory assistance, for a doctor's office in Concord, and then looked at the clock again. Four-fifteen. Still not they’re yet. I gazed out the window.

Another clock check. Four-twenty. Almost there.

Outside it was getting dark, and I thought about my telescope, in my bedroom just a few feet away. Hadn't taken it out lately. Maybe it was time to upgrade to a larger scope. Lord knows I could afford it.

Four twenty-five. Time. I picked up the phone and dialed, and after two rings, a quick woman's voice said, "Dr. Sweeney's office."

"Patient records, please."

"One moment."

I tapped my pen against the pad. Almost four-thirty. Time for the people in this office to be digging out their winter coals, changing their shoes for boots, putting on hats and gloves... and quickly getting rid of any last-minute phone calls that came their way.

"Patient Records, this is Mrs. Glen," came another quick voice.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Glen," I said, trying to put a cheery note in my voice, "I'm calling from Dr. Kimball's office, down here in Porter. We have a patient here who used to be patient of Doctor Sweeney's. One Mike Ahern, of Tyler."

"Yes?" The tone was sharp and to the point.

"Look, I know it's late, and I'm getting ready to leave, too," I said. "I have here that he was a patient of Dr. Sweeney's from..." and I read off the dates. "Tell me, has he seen Dr. Sweeney since then?”

"Hold on," and the phone was thunked down. I could hear a file drawer open and the rustle of papers and then she came back.

“No, his last visit was over a year ago."

"Unh-hunh. And his treatment?"

"Excuse me?"

"What was he being treated for?"

"Oh." A flip of a page, rustling over the phone line. "PTS."

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"PTS," she repeated. "Post-traumatic stress. I'm surprised you don't have that."

"Me, too," I said, and I was rude again in the space of that hour --- I hung up.

Chapter Nineteen

I woke up in the middle of the night, shivering. I must have dreamed, for the down comforter was kicked off, and my bedroom in the middle of winter is a cold place indeed. Instead of pulling the comforter back up, I got out of bed. Sweat was drying on my body and I went to the bathroom, making my way through starlight, and I got a glass of water and wiped down my skin with a towel. I checked my skin and my oId scars, and there were no bumps or swellings. Very nice. Back in my bedroom I went to the door that led out to the smaller, second-floor deck There was a clear view of Weymouth's Point and the lights of the houses up there, and I watched some clouds pass by, blacking out the stars, darkening the sky. I went back to bed and thought about the previous day's work.

Mike Ahern. Post-traumatic stress disorder, right after he came back from the Gulf War. Thankfully that war had not created the host of "crazy vet" stories the news media loved to spread around after Vietnam, and I wasn't about to do that with Mike.  Still, there were questions. Something had scarred him, had made him into something different. Before the war, a fire lieutenant in a busy city in New Hampshire. After the war, months at a mental health institution and then a job as a small-town fire inspector.

And a year after he arrives, he takes on the local during the planning board meetings, and motels begin to burn own. He also doesn't hide his distaste for Diane, and just about the same time the arsons begin, her dear one is attacked.

Connections?

Maybe.

Connections.

And just before I fell asleep, I thought I heard a phone ring, and I think I was dreaming again.

On Thursday afternoon Felix called me and said, "Well, you didn't miss much. I sat on the little bastard for most of the day, and he stayed cooped up in that shack"

"Where did you watch him from?"

"Took a while, but I found a nice place, a little knoll that looks down with good views. To get there, you go past Doug's about a half-mile, take a right. It's a dirt road that's plowed out for a couple of houses. I managed to park there and hoof it over to the knoll. Brought along some thermal underwear and a stool and blanket, and still froze my ass off. I'm going to be looking at a bonus when this little adventure is through."

"You'll get it," I said. "Tell you what, I'll do some work this afternoon, then get over there and watch him during the dinner hour.  See what I can find."

"Go ahead," Felix said. "I'm still shivering."

I then called Diane, and we met an hour later, with me picking her up at the station. With cups of coffee we got from a sandwich shop, we parked in one of the hundreds of empty parking spaces along the deserted beach. As we talked I felt something had changed. There was more of the old Diane, with a slight smile and a few choice words about the weather, though she seemed to move more slowly, as if deciding what phrase or word to say.

She held her coffee cup in her hands and said, "Usually when summer comes, I’m torn. Half of me is looking forward to the warm weather, the long nights, and being able to walk out of my house without worrying about a coat or a sweater."

"And the cop half, she isn't too happy?"

"Nope," she said. "The cop part means busy nights and dealing with lowlifes who see this place as their own private playground, and there are some young men and women out there right now, walking and talking and living, whose lives are going to be changed for the worse because of a night with the wrong people at Tyler Beach."

I sipped from my own coffee. It was early afternoon and the shadows were lengthening, and the sky over the beach and waves was a hard, polished light blue. "I gather, then, you're feeling differently about this summer that's coming up."

"Oh, yes, my dear friend, I am. Summer means I'm six months away from this point in time, and that thought makes me quite happy indeed." She looked over to me, an odd mix of cop and friendship in her eyes, and she said, "What do you have? Anything?”

I chose my words carefully. "A slight lead, that's all. Nothing solid."

Her eyes were now locked right onto me, pure cop. "Go on. Tell me more."

"Kara's brother, Doug. What do you know about him?"

Her gaze didn't waver. "Not a lot. Kara's not one to talk about her family. Go on."

"He doesn't have a pretty past and not much of a present. He's got a record of some drug dealing, breaking and entering. It looks like he's still busy with other things illegal. Felix and I want to find out about his friends, who he hangs out with. That's what we're up to. No names, no faces, nothing. And we've come up empty everywhere else. Kara's brother being involved with things criminal, well, that's the best we can do."

I didn't like what I had just done. I hadn't mentioned the piece of sculpture that had gone from Kara's apartment to Doug's place, and for a reason. I didn't know enough, and if I told Diane just that tiny bit of information, she would demand more. And if I couldn't provide it, then she might be tempted to go out looking on her own.

"I could help," she said. "Let me ---"