JG02 - Borderlines

by Archer Mayor

  I was starting to feel he was protesting too much for his own “You’re not under arrest, Rennie. You can leave right now, if want. In fact, maybe you ought to just stay quiet and get a law”You’re shittin’ me.”

  “If I were in your position, that’s what I’d do.” He gave me a devious sidelong glance. “What is this, reverse hology?” “I’m just saying we can talk if you want to-you’re under no gation.” “I didn’t do it, Joe.”

  “So you want to talk?” He shrugged, considerably calmer. “Got nothin’

  to hide.” “Where were you last night?” He laughed bitterly. “Oh, I love that. I was carving up that ass,you know?” “I told you you wouldn’t like the questions.” “All right, all right. I got off work; I went home and cleaned up a little; I went into Lyndonville to have a few drinks; drove around a little; and went to bed. End of story.” “Where did you have the few drinks?” “Some bar.” The vagueness sent a small but palpable chill through me. An innocent man in a tight squeeze would know the value of accuracy. “Which bar?” “Shit, I don’t know-The Maple Door. It’s on Route 5, down from the Miss Lyndonville Diner.” “Anyone see you there?” He looked at me, his face flushed with anger. “No. I went alone into the place; nobody was there. I poured myself a drink, left the money on the counter, and then I left.” “I meant anyone who might know you. He muttered something. “No. I never been there before.” “Talk to the bartender?” “No, except to order.” “What did you drink?” “Shit, I don’t know-beer.” “What time?” “Who knows?” “What time you get home?” “Late. Nadine was asleep.” “You wake her up?” “No. I slept in the spare room. I do that when I come in late.” None of this was what I wanted to hear. Rennie had always been belligerent in front of authority, so his blowing steam didn’t bother me. But I sensed he wasn’t being straight, and that troubled me a lot. It made his bluster less childish and more like a coverup.

  “How’d you lose the lighter?” He paused, obviously weighing his response. “I don’t remember.” I was beginning to hate this; the scales were tipping farther and farther against him. It was difficult keeping the skepticism out of my voIce.

  “And you don’t have the slightest idea when you lost it?” He shrugged.

  “No, maybe six months ago. I don’t know.” I let a few seconds pass. I scratched my forehead. Perhaps I was overreacting; I had hoped to find him absolutely innocent. Now I was having some serious doubts.

  His voice, sounding tired, broke through my thoughts. “Am I really in deep shit here?” I looked at his face florid, worn, made older than his years through hard times and hard liquor. “As far as they’re concerned,” I headed toward the troopers and Spinney, “you’re their Number One spect.

  And I got to tell you, your story doesn’t help you much.” I half-wanted him to blow a cork then, but he didn’t. He just said tly, “No, guess not.” “Did you see Bruce Wingate after you two had that fight the he was pushed out the window?” “No. I went home.” “Not even walking around later?” “No.” “You didn’t see him and his wife the next morning after the fire?” “Yeah, I guess I saw them then. That was it, though, and I didn’t to them. I didn’t even go near them.” “When do you get off work?” “Six-thirty. I worked late.” “Alone?” “Yeah. I had some paperwork to shove around.” “Night shift wasn’t there?” “Sure they were there. I was working in back.” “So you got home about seven?” “Yeah.”

  “Nadine home?” “Yeah. She doesn’t get out much,” he said matter-of-factly. I knew was in a wheelchair, which obviously restricted her somewhat. I rubbed my eyes with my fingers. “Jesus, Rennie, you’re not ing yourself much here.” He flared a little at that.

  “Not my fault I wasn’t giving some judge owjob all night. How did I know I’d need an alibi?” “All right, anything else to add?” “Nope.”

  “Well, you want to talk more, I’ll be around.” I walked over to Spinney; Smith was standing next to him. “He he quit work at six-thirty, went home, went drinking at The Maple r, drove around a bit, and then hit the sack, all without seeing ne or being seen by anyone he knew.” “What about the lighter?” Smith asked. I was struck by the fact Smith must have acquiesced to Rennie’s demand to talk to me He didn’t seem any friendlier-his body language still told me I as welcome as a head cold-but I decided I’d take it as a good sign. “Says he lost it six months ago, but doesn’t know where.” “When but not where? That’s a little odd.” “I know.” Smith’s furrow deepened. “Well, it’s too early to do anything about him yet. Let’s wait until the lab results are in. I’ll have people check the bar and his workplace. We better get a search warrant for his house.” “What grounds?” I asked.

  “Footprints,” Spinney piped up. “Unless he flew in for the kill.” “What about the shoes he has on?” Smith gave me a peeved look. “I already checked. They don’t match.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll get the warrant. If I’m lucky, I should be back in an hour or two.” We all three looked up as Rennie drove by, his rear tires spitting gravel. He ignored us, staring straight ahead.

  “He had a fight with Wingate a few nights ago.” The other two turned to stare at me. I described everything that happened on the night Wingate was thrown out Fox’s window.

  Spinney shook his head. “But Rennie didn’t come back at Wingate after he was punched? He just walked away?” “Yup.” “I don’t know Rennie, but that seems a little out of character.” I couldn’t answer that. I wasn’t sure I knew anything about Rennie’s character anymore. “I wonder why he was killed way out here?” Smith mused, looking around.

  I shrugged. “Quiet place for a meeting if you don’t want witnesses.”

  “Or for a murder,” Spinney added.

  Smith checked his watch. “I’ll post a discreet watch on his house to see if he tries to remove anything before we can get in there with a warrant. I’ll also have the lab guys go over Wingate’s room to see what we can find there.” He walked off toward the large green van that housed the crime lab and its crew of four. “What’re your plans?” Spinney asked me.

  I looked to the bottom of the ravine. “I think I’ll poke around here for a bit, maybe talk to the M.E. I’d like to look at the footprints again, just to get them straight in my mind-that is, assuming there’s anything left to see. How ‘bout you?” “I want to check out Wingate’s room. Why don’t I meet you at the Rocky River in about an hour and a half”’ I nodded and headed down the steep trail leading to the bottom of the ravine, using a rope someone had anchored to the top to help keep my footing. As I’d suspected would happen with all this traffic, the trail had become treacherously slippery.

  Below me, the medical examiner was directing two troopers to ce the loaded body bag onto a stretcher. He glanced up and studied slow progress. “Are you Joe Gunther?” “That’s right.” “I’m Dr. Hoard, the local M.E. Dr. Hillstrom told me to keep an out for you.” I got to the bottom finally and walked over to him. “That was nice er.” “She said to tell you what you wanted to know, not that I have ch at this stage.”

  Despite the cool air, I noticed his forehead was ded with sweat. He took off his glasses and wiped them with a dkerchief.

  “So what do you have?” “He was killed by a good half-dozen blows of a knife, a big one he looks of it. Probably a kitchen knife.” He bent down and undid zipper to the bag. It was a little startling to see Wingate reappear, and dirty, his deadly, almost yellow cast emphasized by his black ud.

  Hoard rolled him over slightly and pulled down his jacket and to reveal the base of the neck. “See how some of the wounds gap others look narrow?” I squatted down and looked. There was little blood-it had mostly ined away-and the cuts looked like they could have been made in Ie, bloodless chicken carcass. “Yeah.” “That’s because of what we call Langer’s lines. The skin is a fabric ntermingled dermal collagen and elastic fibers that tend to run thwise along a body and form a pattern called the lines of cleavage. knife cuts across Langer’s lines, the wound gaps, because the erlying fa
bric tension is pulling at a ninety-degree angle to the sion. If, on the other hand, the cut is parallel to Langer’s lines-and lines of cleavage-the wound is narrow.

  “Does that tell you anything?” “If the stab wound is straight in and out, and if it runs parallel to ger’s lines, you can often tell the blade’s width and thickness. e,” he pointed to a single gash. “See?

  It’s wide, but the back of the e isn’t thick like a hunting knife’s would be.” He let Wingate roll “Of course, that’s pure speculation.

  He’s going straight to Burlon now, where Dr.

  Hillstrom can do a more detailed analysis.” “When do you think he died?”

  He smiled. “Last night sometime.” I looked at him.

  “Sorry, I wish I were joking. Actually, it’s about all I can tell you.

  He wasn’t fresh when he was found. Lividity had set, which generally happens eight to twelve hours after death. Of course, that’s not a law.

  Rigor mortis is still ongoing-his hips and legs and part of his torso are still flaccid. But that’s all sensitive to cold, which delays the process; at room temperature, it’s usually complete at twelve hours, so we re still in that ballpark.” He squatted down again and placed his hand on Wingate’s forehead. “The other indicator is that his cornea has just begun to cloud over, something that again usually happens in twelve to twenty-four hours following death if the lids were closed, which they were here.” He moved his thumb and lifted back the right eyelid to show me.

  “Incidentally, it may not be of great importance, but he’s missing the hard contact lens from his left eye. See how the cornea’s just slightly cloudy?” I glanced over his shoulder, but without great interest. That kind of detail was more fascinating to him than to me right now, especially since it didn’t tell us much. “Anything else?” Hoard nodded, stood up and took his glasses off again to wipe then,. I wondered if some sweat had fallen onto them or if that was just his particular nervous habit.

  “He was found clutching his testicles with one hand.” I remembered from this morning that one arm was pinned under his body. “You think he was kicked?” “It’s just speculation, but it would be an excellent way to render him defenseless, and it’s consistent with his wounds. Also, it increases the odds that anyone could have killed him, even an adolescent.” Spinney languidly cracked a knuckle. We were sitting on the steps of the Rocky River Inn, waiting for Crofter Smith to arrive with the warrant. We shared a view of the low, tired houses opposite and the ratty, brown grass field behind them. There were two withered trees out front, their limbs bare, skinny, and gray, already in despair before winter’s first snowfall. The watery sun still hadn’t made much of a dent on the cold.

  “What did you make of the envelope in the trash?” “1,r “Interesting. Wish we could match the handwriting.” “Think it might be Julie’s?” He looked at me sharply. “Yeah, it’s possible.” “The M.E.

  said a woman might have killed Wingate.” Spinney mulled that over for a moment. “Of course, the letter ‘t have to come from anyone they knew.

  It could’ve been from one: one of her friends, Sarris, an informer of some kind. Who ws? In any case, Ellie’s not cooperating.

  She won’t show us anyg with handwriting on it, and we don’t have enough for a warrant. we’re stuck.” “They haven’t tested it for prints yet, have they?” “No, they’ll do that back in Waterbury-better control. Why?”

  “I was wondering if you could ask them to save a bit near the glue p.

  If whoever sealed it used their tongue, there might still be some va on the paper that isn’t polluted by the glue-you know, some rlap. Maybe they could get a blood type.” Spinney pushed out his lower lip and nodded. “Excellent. You ‘t mind if I tell them it was my idea?” “Go for it. They dig up anything else?” “Nothing obvious. They gotta cook up their chemical stews and what comes up, but I doubt they’ll find much, except for the elope. You know the Wingates are-or were-up to their asses in I mean, we’re not talking innocent mugging here.” He laughed and ok his head. “You know, standing there in their bedroom, watching lab crew at work, I was half-tempted to interview the walls, just to what I’d get.” I glanced over at him. My liking for Spinney grew the more I got now him. Somehow, over years of service in what could be a pretty eling business, he’d managed to keep a poetic flicker alive in the k of his brain, something that allowed him to stay out of the ruts, eep his mind open to any suggestion. I gave the State Police high ks for putting him on a special platform from which he could work Iy; most other outfits would have labeled him a flake and buried him he typing pool.

  We were still sitting there in comfortable silence when I saw ter, presumably coming from the garage. I rose to greet him and oduced him to Spinney.

  Buster looked worried. “Rumor has it Rennie’s tied into this ehow.”

  Spinney nodded, mostly to himself. “Ah, the reliable beat of the gle drums.” “Maybe,” I answered. “We did find something.” %132 “Wha’t?” I looked at Spinney but he merely shrugged. Smith would have had a fit-cops are not supposed to volunteer their findings. “Did Rennie mention losing a lighter within the last ten months or so?” “Is that what you found?” I nodded.

  Buster shook his head. “Not that I remember. You talk to Nadine yet?”

  “No; we’re about to we’re waiting for a warrant now.” “Nadine’s a friend. Would you mind if I came along? She might like some comfort with you people tearing the place apart.” I ignored the bitter tone in his voice and cast an inquiring look at Spinney.

  “She’s in a wheelchair; might be nice if he could hold her hand.”

  Spinney nodded down the road. “We can ask the boss himself.” Smith was approaching in his car. As he drew abreast of us, he rolled down his window and waved the warrant at us like a flag.

  “Think he’s surrendering?” Spinney asked hopefully, as he rose to climb down the steps.

  I forwarded Buster’s request to Smith. Smith looked at Buster with those expressionless brown eyes. “Just have him stay out of the way.” I was surprised. I’d fully expected Smith to reject the idea out of hand.

  I was having a hard time pinning the man down, and beginning to think that Spinney’s constant putdowns were throwing me off. I didn’t like Smith much, any more than I had Wirt. But Wirt was a malcontent, while I suspected Smith, despite his instinctive prejudice against me, had a pretty good analytical mind. In fact, I wondered if his dislike of me wasn’t restricted to the office I held, and that it was utterly impersonal.

  We drove in separate cars out to Rennie’s place, north of town, past the cutoff leading to Dulac’s ravine. It was a nondescript, twostory house, patched together like Buster’s, but lacking the neatness. Everything about it looked worn, in need of repair or paint.

  The rusted metal roof had countless black daubs of tar across its surface, the marks of a losing battle against leaks; part of the foundation had rotted away, making the house list slightly, as if it were about to slip back into the earth that had supported it too many years. Aiding this desolate, familiar picture was a yard littered with a wide variety of rusting metal hulks truck frames, gaping auto bodies, the remains of a tractor, what looked like a harrow-intermingled with old tires, washing machines, bales of rotted wire, and piles of mysterious debris. The only area clear of clutter was a long ramp that ran straight out from the front door to %133 ere a vehicle could be parked. There was, however, no vehicle beside rs and three state cruisers. The four of us assembled with four troopers at the foot of the p. “Anyone seen Wilson?” Smith asked.

  One of the troopers nodded. “I saw him getting out of his pickup Lyndonville and heading for a bar about a half hour ago.” “He never came by here,” another added. “Okay. Let’s go.” Spinney, standing next to me, muttered, “Charge!” as we all foled Smith up the ramp to the front door like ducklings behind their there.

  The door was opened by a heavyset woman in a wheelchair. Her ice was as high and soft as a young girl’s. “Yes?�
� Smith brandished his warrant.

  “I am Detective Sergeant Crofter with of the Vermont State Police. I have a warrant allowing me to rch this house for any shoes whose tread may match those we’ve llected at the scene of a recent crime.” Christ, I thought.

  Buster stepped out from the mob in front of the woman. “Hi, dine. The police found Rennie’s lighter at the scene of a murder. ey gotta check it out.” “A murder?” She spoke the word as if it were foreign. The look her eyes reminded me of a small child’s when confronted with its rst imaginable fear. I was glad Buster had come along. He stepped around her and pulled the chair away from the door, the others could enter.

  Her hands lay motionless in her lap. Smith the warrant on top of them and directed his men to spread throughthe building.

  Buster moved Nadine across the living room to a large window erlooking the yard, and positioned her so she could see out. It was entle, thoughtful gesture, designed to help her turn her back to the aos overtaking her house. I thought it all the more considerate when oticed the house was as neat and tidy inside as it was tumultuous tside. Like a tidy, conscientious model prisoner, she’d maintained trol over that part of her world she could reach-until now. That, however, brought to mind a further point. I remembered even before Nadine’s accident, their house had reflected this odd trast. In other couples, I would have taken it as a sign of conflict, a difference of styles so sharp that it could only split the marriage. not with Nadine and Rennie; with them it had been a badge of cessful compromise, reflecting a decades’-old ability to walk a cenI line. The apparent disparity had been a curious symbol of enduring %134 affection, as when, I suddenly recalled, he always took off his boots a’ soon as he entered the house through the kitchen door. Buster sat facing her on a small table underneath the window, one of his hands around hers. I half-perched on the sill.