by Archer Mayor
“The cruder expression is shit magnet. I laughed when I first heard it, a thousand years ago when I was a rookie. It’s someone who, every time he comes on shift, attracts all the antiaircraft fire within a fifty-mile radius. If he’s in EMS, the ambulance rolls nonstop; a firefighter, half the town burns down; a cop, every bad call comes in during his shift; and on down the line.”
“And you are one of those?”
“I never complained,” Joe went on. “In those days, you didn’t want to be standing around, doing nothing. The job calls for type A personalities, and what better than to be running flat out when you’re on?” He added, “But it’s a young man’s game.”
Dziobek waited silently for him to reach his point.
Joe was still staring at the floor. “It’s also not really supposed to be dangerous. I mean, cops talk about the threat of violence all the time. It’s part of the mystique. TV shows dramatize it; movies deal with nothing else. But this is Vermont. We roll around the floor with a drunk or a pissed-off husband now and then, but the death toll among cops up here involves some screwup more often than machine-gun fire. One of us drowns during a rescue operation, or gets hit by a car by accident. It stands to reason, right? There just aren’t that many people up here.”
His eyebrows rose and he finally looked at his companion. Dziobek smiled and nodded. “Right. Of course.”
“But not me,” Joe said, beginning to get to his point. “Over the years, I’ve been knifed, shot at, nearly frozen, and pounded half to death too many times to count, and several people have died or come close just by standing nearby.”
“Like Lyn?” Eberhard asked, knowing that she’d been half a state away from Joe when her killer had opened up on Gail. The therapist couldn’t overlook the small detail that, according to Joe’s black-cloud theory, it was Gail who should have been sitting here, feeling guilty.
“Tell me what happened,” he said instead.
“How much do you know?” Joe asked.
The older man shrugged. “Not very much. I do not read the papers as I should, and I do not own a television. Silly, I know. I will tell you a confidence: When I go home at night, after my daughter Hannah has gone to bed, my wife and I prefer to read novels in complete silence. Maybe some quiet music.”
“You listen to people all day,” Joe sympathized.
Dziobek’s face brightened. “Oh, and I enjoy it, too. I just appreciate the contrast every evening.” He waggled his fingers briefly in the air. “In any case, to answer your question, I do know a few things. I know that Governor Zigman was then running for office and that the gunman had been aiming for her, thinking she was still your girlfriend. I also know that while she and you had been a couple for many years, the young lady who died was in fact your new companion. Is that essentially correct?”
Joe’s expression was rueful. “In clinical terms, yes. Nice detached way to describe a train wreck.”
Dziobek shifted in his seat, took up his glasses again, and vaguely pointed them at Joe in emphasis. “Now, I’m not asking this to disagree with you. I am simply seeking an explanation. How does any of that make you at fault?”
Joe sighed. “Look, Eberhard, I know it’s foolish. I’ve gone over this a bunch on my own. It’s not that I put them both at risk directly. It’s less concrete than that. It’s not blame; it’s more like I feel accountable for what happened. And not for some action I did or didn’t take, but for what I do and how I do it. That’s why I mentioned the black-cloud thing. The shooter who killed Lyn was no different than the guy who rigged Gail’s condo with incendiaries a few years ago, or blew up Dennis DeFlorio with a car bomb—they were both after me. And they’re not the only ones. The real irony to all this is that Gail essentially left me because of exactly that. She didn’t like the risks I took every time I went to work—that’s true—but she also didn’t like how the shrapnel kept coming her way.”
“She was once raped, was she not?” Dziobek asked.
Joe stopped abruptly. Everything he’d just said had come out in a rush.
“Yes,” he said deliberately. “That wasn’t my fault either, but you can see how it made her a basket case forever after. She had to get away from me to lighten that load.”
“Of course,” Dziobek agreed.
“And then some crazy son of a bitch goes after her anyhow,” Joe said without emphasis.
“And your role in Lyn being there?” Dziobek asked.
Joe passed his hand over his face, rubbing his eyes in the process. Eberhard imagined that Joe hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in months. He felt deeply for Gunther’s dilemma. As a leader of police officers for so many years, first locally and now for the VBI, Joe had in fact become a father figure to many. At any given time, he was responsible for dozens of people, having directly or otherwise dictated where they should be and what they should be doing. If he okayed an operation and things went wrong and injuries resulted, he did own a part of the burden. That was the fate of father figures—they were acknowledged and admired for their status, but they carried the weight of all who so revered them. It was no surprise to Dziobek that traditionally, senior officers in such high-pressure jobs tended to burn out in under ten years. The fact that Gunther had been operating at that level for so much longer made him a statistical anomaly, and perhaps a meltdown waiting to happen.
“That’s complicated,” Joe said in response to Eberhard’s question. “I had used her as a sounding board for the case I was on then. I do that a lot—did it with Gail, too, in the old days, and with the people on my squad. It helps to hear your own ideas out loud.”
Dziobek smiled a little indulgently. “I understand.”
Joe got the point. “Right, you know that. That was stupid. Anyhow, I got her involved. And she came up with a winner idea I won’t bore you with now, but it was good. In and of itself, that was fine, but later, after everything happened, I began thinking that it drew her in more than it should have.”
He spread his hands wide. “The woman owned and ran her own business, for crying out loud. It wasn’t like she had the time or the need to help me out. But I think the Gail factor played on her mind—that Gail and I had been together so long; that she was so high-profile, running for office; that she’d been a good listener. I think Lyn maybe felt a little insecure, and that without intending it, I made it worse.”
He stopped to take a breath before resuming. “Anyhow, that’s why she went up to Montpelier to see Gail—because of me. And that’s why that sorry prick took his shot—regardless of who he hit—because of me. You can say it wasn’t my fault all you want, and maybe you’re right. But what I just said holds true, too. All these people did what they did because of me.”
“People always act because of something or someone, Joe,” Dziobek counseled. “It doesn’t mean that person is responsible for what happens. It’s just not that clear cut.”
Silence followed as each man considered what Joe had just said. Eberhard reflected on what he knew of this unusual man—a combat veteran; married only once, long ago, to a woman taken by breast cancer; highly regarded by colleagues, and yet only vaguely known to the public, in large part because of his instinctive self-effacement. Not a man easily given to self-pity or depression, and yet suffering from both at the moment.
Joe, for his part, seemed to have recognized the confusion he’d sown. He rose from the old leather chair that had comfortably engulfed him and crossed to the window overlooking the lakelike confluence of the West and Connecticut rivers on the edge of the Retreat campus—a peaceful place that welcomed ice-skaters in the winter and kayakers now.
Joe addressed the window. “I’m sorry, Eberhard. I know you’re doing me a favor here, and I’m wasting your time trying to get the words right.” He turned to smile at the other man. “Three guesses how many times I’ve spoken to a shrink.”
Eberhard returned the good will. “It is my profession, but we are meeting as friends, Joe. I am happy to try to help.”
J
oe returned to the view. “I’ve made this sound like it’s all about me. Like these women were moths around a candle flame. That’s crap, of course. It’s not what I meant. I’m feeling sorry for myself—I’ll give you that. I miss Lyn, and I still feel guilty that the love I have for my job drove Gail away. But what I was saying a minute ago misses the point.”
He retreated from the window and resumed his seat. The office was what he’d always imagined Sherlock Holmes’s might have looked like—overstuffed with old furniture and mementos of an interesting life. He remembered that the same thought had struck him when he’d first met Dziobek here in consultation about a case.
“I made it too personal,” he went on. “What I said just now. There’s something else pulling at me—bigger—like an undertow. The way this whole thing worked out has made me wonder what the hell I’m trying to prove out there.” He waved an arm to include the world in general. “When good people put their heads together and work to solve a problem,” he asked, “shouldn’t the results be rewarding?”
“It would be nice,” Dziobek said cautiously.
Joe almost didn’t let him get the words out before continuing. “And the joke is that this time, we actually solved the problem. We got the bad guy, figured out what his motive was. We put this thing to bed, just like we were supposed to.”
“Well…”
Joe held up a finger. “Right. Not exactly. We had collateral damage, big time. Again.”
He paused to make his point. “It’s not so much self-pity, Eberhard. For the first time in my life, I’m feeling tired—down to my bones. That some peckerhead with an obsession for his mother should cause so much harm and loss, just so he can be replaced by another peckerhead I haven’t even heard of yet, who’ll do Christ knows what to somebody else. That’s really gotten into my head.”
He leaned back, his voice quieter. “I dropped by to see one of my officers this morning. She just had a baby girl. It was a happy accident—not planned but wonderful news for everyone involved. And what kept running through my head was, ‘Oh Jesus, now you have someone to lose and break your heart, because you’re a hard worker and diligent and you take risks because you believe in right over wrong, and all that is going to expose you like it does few other people.’”
Joe lapsed into silence at last, and pressed his fingertips against his temples, his elbows resting on the arms of the old chair.
Dziobek studied him for a moment before commenting, “Joe, for someone who has never spoken to a psychologist before, you’ve started out very well. If you feel that there might be some comfort in it, I would like to see if I can help. It will take time, though, and more sessions like this.”
Joe looked up tiredly. “As things have worked out, time I got.”
* * *
Dan Kravitz stood for a moment inside the doorway, absorbing the satisfaction and excitement he experienced every time he breached a home’s defenses. The silence he worked to maintain—from the whisper of his bootie-covered shoes to the minute clicks from his lockpicks and electronic gadgetry, to the rhythm of his own breathing—each was seen as a single part of each outing’s overall orchestration.
Not that he’d ever reached perfection, of course. Which was precisely the point. The enjoyment was in the struggle, not in the achievement. Once hearing mountain climbers comment on how the summit view was secondary to the ascent, he’d instantly empathized. Dan was a man who happily lost himself in process.
He did have to admit that this time, however, reality had proven less daunting than he’d anticipated. The house was large, ancient, situated in the heart of crowded Brattleboro, and had been placarded with signs from a reputable alarm company—one from which he’d expected a true challenge. But it had turned out to be largely bogus. The old lady who lived here alone, Gloria Wrinn, was either forgetful or had been catering to her nephew’s nagging by installing security but not turning it on, since Dan had found the system unplugged.
He suspected the latter explanation, since his research into the Wrinn family dynamics revealed that Gloria’s sole living relative, her nephew, Larry, seemed more interested in the house’s contents than in its resident. Larry was financially strapped, an idiot with the little money he had, and a jerk to Gloria whenever they were seen in public. To Dan’s mind, this helped explain the dormant alarm system, the fact that the old lady lived alone, and that she had as little to do with Larry as possible—notwithstanding the politesse instilled by her age and upbringing.
Dan instinctively liked the house, and immediately sympathized with Larry’s interest in its holdings. There were antiques, art works, collectibles, and precious items crowding every room Dan silently visited. But to him, the interest was less in its cash value than in the sense of a life lived surrounded by objects collected carefully and with love. Gloria Wrinn, he knew, widowed early in life, had spent most of her middle years traveling, learning, meeting bright people, and generally enriching herself with both experiences and artifacts. Dan imagined that every item he was enjoying in the darkened house’s twilight, from gargantuan pieces of furniture to miniature sculptures gracing a side table, held a special meaning or a fond memory for Gloria, a woman he was beginning to like greatly, the further he trespassed into her home.
He proceeded as usual, according to pattern, first scoping out the house as a whole—its exits, levels, layout, and eccentricities. Did it have guests he hadn’t accounted for? Backup alarms he might have missed in his research? What about creaky floors, precariously placed objects, sticky doors, or affectionate and/or outspoken cats? He’d once met a large dog he’d known nothing about, which had thankfully turned out to be old and uninterested.
None of these was necessarily a deal killer, according to Dan’s self-made rules of engagement. But they did crank up the game a few notches.
This first sweep of any house was always a survey only, often simply identifying which rooms were where. After committing the place to memory, Dan repeated his journey a second time, methodically, absorbing the personality of home and owner. This is where the fascination began to grow, and the anthropologist in him replaced the pure technician.
Paying proper homage to the homeowner, though, he did start this next stage by entering Gloria’s bedroom, not just to informally introduce himself but—being no fool—to check on the possibility of guns near the bed, and to estimate the quality of her sleep. Insomniacs had a scary way of yielding to hunger, thirst, or the need for a pee right in the middle of his visits. He’d been there before, and preferred to avoid repeats.
Despite startling him with her posture—sitting up in bed—she looked like someone who happily and regularly clocked out for the whole night. Her breathing was deep, slow, and peaceful, and her blanket and pillows were unwrinkled by restless tossing. He glanced around the bedroom then, connecting her belongings to his expanding impression of her. As he’d expected, her bedroom contained her most prized keepsakes, some of which made him smile with their humor and iconoclasm.
Dan left her and carried on, choosing this time not to disturb a thing. It was his prerogative to eat from the fridge or leave a note by the bed, and while he did steal several grapes while passing through the dining room, he didn’t want Larry to say later “I told you so” to his aunt and chastise her about the alarm. To Dan’s way of thinking, he and Gloria were united against the real creep of the story.
That didn’t mean he didn’t drop by the kitchen, however. He had his own needs. Things had to be done in order and in proper sequence. And it was while he was taking inventory there that he opened a door he’d taken for a closet on his first go-around.
It wasn’t much—narrow and half hidden by a hanging apron. It might have led to a pantry. But he should have remembered that the house’s exterior projected a little beyond the kitchen wall, and was equipped with windows. There were no windows along this side of the kitchen. He turned the knob and stealthily pushed, his vigilance back in high gear.
Beyond the door was a nar
row hallway running parallel to the kitchen wall, and lined with the missing windows. At its end was a stairway leading down.
Dan frowned. Cellars usually weren’t on his itinerary, frequently being dirt-floored, dank, and uninteresting. But this one, from the top, appeared more domesticated somehow, which led him to think that in a house this age, the stairs might lead to the old servants’ quarters.
Intrigued, he used the dim moonlight to guide him to the top step, where he extracted the small narrow-beam flashlight he carried among his other equipment. Shielding it inside the cup of his hand, he quickly played it downstairs to see what lay below. He saw a second door at the bottom, firmly shut.
Now completely captured, he took to the stairs, one carefully tested tread at a time, until he was standing by the door. He tried the handle, half expecting it to be locked or stuck, and felt it easily and soundlessly give way, albeit to reveal an odor unlike anything he’d encountered upstairs.
He hesitated in the pitch black, his nostrils flared and his instincts on guard. This wasn’t mildew or rot or the cloying smell of a neglected cellar. This was human. In Dan’s peregrinations throughout the town’s trailers, flophouses, and shacks, he’d developed a familiarity with the hygienically challenged.
And to put a finer point on it, he was sure that this particular pungency belonged to a male.
He pushed the door wider, waiting for the inevitable creak that would reveal his presence, and then froze when it didn’t come. This was his least favorite situation—utter darkness in an unknown place with someone potentially lying in wait.
Huddling near the jamb, so that he could pull back toward the stairs if necessary, Dan squinted and flashed his light once into the room, like a strobe, creating a near-photographic image on his memory while reducing the risk of being hit by any random shot.
He saw a fifteen-foot-square room, cluttered, messy, windowless—and most important, uninhabited.
He stepped fully into the room and hit the flashlight again, this time leaving it on. For a second, he feared he’d just made the error of a lifetime, for he thought he’d seen a man sitting slumped in a chair in the far corner. But it turned out to be a heap of clothes.
