Chapter 3… The Investigator
“So how long is it going to be before a CSI arrives? Hutch is just sitting there, for Christ’s sake.” Harry looked at his watch for the umpteenth time. It was going on nine o’clock.
“Well....” Monica began, seeing that he was getting more upset as the evening wore on. “Can I not call you Harry right now? Somehow the connotation with Dirty Harry doesn’t feel right at the moment.”
“My real name is Harold, Harold B. Curlander. My wife calls me that when she’s ticked off at me.”
“Okay then, Harold it is.”
“O... o... kay.”
“We don’t exactly have CSIs in the local police departments in Hampshire County. We usually make do with one of the local officers who’ve been trained to process run-of-the-mill crime scenes when the need arises. For the more serious stuff we need to call in the state police.”
Harry tried to hold himself back from using the word Mayberry, but he still wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding his impatience. “Look, Monica—”
“Yes... Harold?”
“We can’t just sit here all night. Surely there’s something you can do—”
“Listen, I’ve already called someone so just try and relax, okay? Rest assured that we’ll get to the bottom of this.”
Harry took a breath. He shot a glance at Officer Nekel who was sitting patiently in his squad car a few feet away. This must be the highlight of the guy’s week, Harry speculated, getting to tape off a real crime scene. Then, that wasn’t fair, he thought further. Outside of the college, Wallingham, Massachusetts wasn’t much of a town from a crime perspective. It hadn’t changed much in the thirty years since he’d graduated, a typical picture-postcard New England town with four high-steepled churches surrounding the central town square. Back in the day, John Adams was an all-male institution, and its hundred-acre campus was set apart from the rest of the town by a sharp-tipped wrought iron fence that over the years had gored any number of drunken fools who tried to leap its upturned spears after a night of attempted debauchery at one of the nearby women’s schools such as Smith or Mount Holyoke, or certain debauchery at the UMass campus in Amherst.
“When was the last time there was a murder in Wallingham?” Harry asked Monica.
It was Ducky who answered. “Moving kind of fast, aren’t you Harry? Let’s not jump to conclusions.” Ducky glanced at Monica to be sure he’d said the right thing, then at the shiny Mercedes inside the crime scene tape.
Harry wasn’t buying any of it. “C’mon Ducky, you knew Hutch as well as I did. We were all inseparable back in the day, and I know you saw each other occasionally over the years. Were you aware of anything in his life that indicated suicide?” Ducky didn’t answer right away. “Well?”
Once again, Ducky glanced at Monica. “Listen, I don’t know everything that went on in Hutch’s life....” He let the words hang there.
Seeing him squirm, Harry said, “But?”
“But, as far as I know, no, you’re right, Hutch would be the last guy who I think would’ve committed suicide.” Monica’s scowl couldn’t have been more obvious. “Sorry honey, but Hutch had it together, great family, great job... I’m afraid I’m with Harry on this one. But maybe things changed for him, Harry. I just don’t know.”
“And what about that crap about a heart attack?” Harry shot back.
“A heart attack was impossible, not with Hutch.”
“That’s what I said,” Harry proclaimed.
Monica said, “You guys need to stop speculating and chill out. Any of that is for the medical examiner to determine. We’ll find out soon enough what happened here.”
Harry sneered and said, “Soon enough my ass. This is taking for fucking ever.”
Monica was a big girl and she took it right in stride, but Harry was right. “Let me make a call,” she said as she whipped out her cell phone. Fifteen minutes later a Massachusetts State Police car took the turn onto Newberry Street and crawled toward them with all the urgency of a drifting glacier.
Harry watched as the dome light came on, illuminating the lone figure hunched to one side punching something into the onboard computer. “I take it this is our investigator. What’s he doing in there, writing a novel?”
Neither Monica nor Ducky said anything as it was obvious that Harry was determined to be a dick about things. Some minutes later, their investigator came out and poked his head into the window of Officer Nekel’s car. The red and blue lights that had been flashing the entire time stopped abruptly and it suddenly seemed quieter for some reason. Harry kept his eye on the investigator, and it wasn’t until he was within a few feet that Harry noticed that it wasn’t a he, but a she, and she wasn’t exactly young.
“ADA Brimton,” the investigator greeted. “I understand you’re the one who called in to the detective unit.” She carried a long flashlight in one hand.
“Hello, Catherine. It’s been a while, and, yeah, that was me. The scene has been secure for over two hours now.”
“Has anyone from the local department had a chance to check things out?”
“Not yet. I called for you directly.”
Catherine glanced at Ducky and Harry. Even in the muted light of the street lamp it was easy to see her eyes darting from their faces, to the Mercedes, to the surroundings, all of it happening in milliseconds. “Bypassing the local investigators is not the best way to insure cooperation,” she said. “You should know that by now.”
“I do know that,” Monica shot back tersely. “I wanted you.” A moment passed. “And only you.”
Catherine’s eyes resettled on Ducky and Harry, drilling into them. She said nothing. Neither did they. “You never were good at politics,” she noted. “Who do we have here?” She aimed her words at Monica as if they didn’t understand English.
“This is my husband, Richard Swan,” said Monica.
Ducky extended his hand and Catherine took it like she didn’t want it. “And you?” she shot at Harry.
“Harry Curlander,” he said, keeping his hand in the pocket of his blazer. “Are you a murder investigator?” He fired a look at Monica that said: A sixty-year-old overweight female detective is the best we can do?
Catherine produced her ID and said, “I’m Detective Catherine Pruitt from the Massachusetts State Police Detective Unit for Franklin and Hampshire Counties.” She fixed a gaze on the Mercedes. “ADA Brimton, what makes you suspect there’s been foul play here?”
“Things don’t add up,” Harry replied as he cut Monica off. There was no stopping him.
“Harry....” Monica warned.
Pruitt nailed him with a look. “Oh,” she said. “And what doesn’t add up, Mister Curlander?” She clicked on the flashlight and jabbed the beam into the broken out rear window of the Mercedes, making no move toward the car. Methodically, she swept the beam across the pavement, then traced a light path on which she proceeded to walk gingerly.
“Two things,” said Harry. “First, Hutch—” He pointed toward the Mercedes. “That’s Hutch; his name is R. Todd Hutchinson—”
“What’s the R stand for?”
“Huh?”
“The R. What’s the R stand for?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Humor me.”
Harry shot a look at Ducky. “Ranier... I think.”
“You think?”
“Well, actually I’m sure of it. It’s just that no one ever called him that. Everyone called him Hutch, even his family—or Todd. Formally, he used Todd as his first name, not Ranier.”
“Ranier. What is that, French?
“I think it’s Belgian, actually.” Once more, Harry took a sidelong look at Ducky that said help me. “Again, what’s that got to do with anything?”
“What is it that doesn’t add up for you?” Pruitt asked, ignoring his question.
“There’s no way Hutch died of a
heart attack or committed suicide. No way in a thousand years.”
“Why would anyone come to either of those conclusions?” Pruitt inquired further.
“I don’t know, exactly,” Harry admitted. “I think maybe people were speculating. You know how that goes.”
“What people?” Pruitt asked, looking around.
Ducky jumped in and explained that they were part of a larger group of fraternity brothers who were back in Wallingham for a reunion and how they found Hutch slumped over in the car with the doors locked.
Detective Pruitt nodded patiently and turned back to Harry. “What’s your relationship to the deceased?”
Harry hesitated, wondering why he seemed to be the center of attention. “Hutch and I were roommates and best friends throughout college,” he replied. “Hutch was the best man at my wedding.”
“So you were good friends?” Pruitt went on.
“Yes, of course,” Harry answered. “I think I just said that.”
“Of course,” said Pruitt. “Sorry. What do you do for a living, Mister Curlander?”
Her eyes were unmoving, boring into him, almost glowing from deep inside sockets framed by a not-very-well managed head of shoulder-length grey-brown hair.
“I’m a lawyer,” Harry replied tentatively. “Wills, estate planning, contracts, things like that. Why are you asking me these questions?”
“Oh, just curious, just curious,” Pruitt replied. “One can learn a lot about a person by talking to their friends, that’s all. However, being a lawyer and all, you’re probably pretty well-trained to look at details and small bits of information that other normal non-lawyer type people would probably miss. Is that correct?”
Harry was getting the heebie-jeebies. “I don’t know. I suppose so. Aren’t you going to look inside the car?”
“In due time, Mister Curlander. What else doesn’t make sense to you?” Harry hesitated and Pruitt drilled Ducky with another piercing stare. “And what about you, Mister Swan? You’re here for the reunion as well?”
“That’s correct.”
“And what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a real estate developer.”
“I see. Is there anything that doesn’t make sense to you?” Ducky didn’t answer right away, and Pruitt took a position next to the front passenger-side door of the Mercedes. She shined her flashlight into the interior of the car, making no move to touch the car in any way. Then, she shined the flashlight over the car’s exterior and examined it closely. “What did Mister Hutchinson do for a living?” she asked.
Ducky said, “Hutch was an international banker. Did deals all over the world.”
“Huh. Very interesting,” said Pruitt. “But I’ll tell you what doesn’t make sense to me. There’s a cell phone lying right in front of me on the front seat. I’m guessing it would be Mister Hutchinson’s cell phone. Does that make sense to you?”
“What’s so strange about that?” Harry asked.
“Big, expensive car like this, it probably has every gadget and feature you could imagine. Wouldn’t you think?”
No one answered.
“And if that was the case, more than likely it would be equipped with Bluetooth, wouldn’t you think? That’s what I would think.”
Again, no one answered.
“And if indeed this car was equipped with Bluetooth, and Mister Hutchinson had it hooked up—which I assume he did because a man in his profession probably had a lot of phone conversations while driving—then why would he be talking directly on the cell phone and not on the Bluetooth system, which is much easier and safer to operate than fumbling with the phone, even if the car wasn’t moving?” Pruitt paused. “Nope, that just doesn’t make sense to me.”
She took a few moments around the car. “Listen, it’s gonna take me a while to document the scene and collect any evidence that might indicate this is actually a crime scene. ADA Brimton, I’d appreciate it if you’d stick around in case the need arises for any search warrants, which I doubt, but one never knows and in my old age I’ve learned to be safe rather than sorry. Mister Curlander and Mister Swan, I think you two can go, but I’d appreciate it if you could leave your contact information with the Officer Nekel in case I have any further questions. Also, I’ll need a list of all of the other fraternity members that were present at the scene before I arrived, along with their phone numbers.”
“If you don’t mind,” said Ducky, putting on his best smile, “I’d like to stay with my wife until she’s no longer needed here.”
“I do mind, Mister Swan, and I’ll be in touch. I’m sure Officer Nekel will be able to give ADA Brimton a lift when she’s finished. Thank you for your cooperation.” They were dismissed.
“Brothers,” Harry called back to Pruitt before he turned to leave.
“Excuse me?” said Pruitt.
“Just now, when you said you needed a list of the other fraternity members; they’re called brothers, Detective Pruitt, not members. Hutch was one of us.”
“Thank you for your cooperation, Mister Curlander. I appreciate it.”
* * * * *
Harry and Ducky made their way down Newberry Street back to Slick’s. Both of them were on cell phones by the time they reached the entrance where they dodged a couple patrons outside the bar catching a smoke. Their individual conversations lasted a few minutes, and they regrouped and went inside.
Ducky asked, “Did you get hold of your wife?”
“Yeah, filled her in on the whole thing and told her I might be here an extra day or two, depending on what turns up with this investigation. Speaking of which, what’s with this Detective Pruitt broad?”
“Broad?”
“C’mon Ducky. Enough with the political correctness. You know what I mean.”
“If you’re asking if she’s capable, I assume so. I don’t think Monica would have called her in if she wasn’t.”
“I suppose,” Harry admitted. “Just not what I expected. Did you talk to Fish?”
“Yeah, the alumni dinner is over and he and the other brothers are heading over to the field house.”
“What’s happening there?”
“Moody Blues concert, I think. I seem to have lost the reunion guide, but Fish said there are supposed to be some tents set up outside and I figured that was as good a place as any to regroup, so I told him we’d meet him and the rest of the gang there.”
“Sounds good, Ducky. You can leave your car for Monica and we can take mine back to the campus. I’m parked across the street.”
Ducky said, “Ten-four,” and proceeded with Harry to the car. Harry eased out of the parking spot and proceeded back up Newberry Street past Officer Nekel’s squad car, noting that a second squad car had arrived, its lights flashing, and they could see Officer Nekel and a second officer shooing away a few onlookers that happened to be walking by the scene. What Harry didn’t notice was that a black BMW pulled out and lagged behind them as they passed the scene and took a left onto Prince Street back toward campus. The fact that an ambulance passed them going in the opposite direction, also with its lights flashing, made any notice of the BMW even less likely.
Inside the BMW, the driver punched a series of numbers into his cell phone. The call was an international call ending in the city of Doha in Qatar, where a Qatari expatriate from the city of Yabrud in Syria answered with the Arabic phone greeting, “Allo, As-salam alaykom.” Hello, peace be upon you.
“It’s me.”
“Is it done?”
“It is. All has gone according to plan.”
“Are you sure?”
“As far as I can tell.”
“What does that mean? I don’t like the sound of that.”
“The body was discovered just as we anticipated. I just don’t like the feeling of uncertainty.”
“Stay with the plan. We have researched this well. And the other one?”
“I am following him now, a
s we speak.”
“Do you anticipate any problems?”
“I don’t think so. It is night here, almost ten o’clock on Saturday evening, and I am quite certain that they are not aware of my presence.”
“Who is they? There is not supposed to be any they.”
“He is not alone. He is in the company of another. I cannot control that.”
“Then use your best judgment and stay with him until you are in the right circumstances.”
“I always use my best judgment, and I will stay with him as you instruct.”
“See that you do.”
The Brothers Page 4
