by Archer Mayor
Hamilton surveyed the room, checked his watch, and banged on he table with a glass. “Quiet down everybody. Sorry I was late let’s et this started.” What had been a roar shrank to a general muttering and finally ubsided altogether.
“Thank you. Before we start, I’d like to welcome Major Imus, ead of the Criminal Division. He came down here from Waterbury on ery short notice and would like to say a few words. Major Imus?” The man I’d thought of as a human Christmas tree stood and miled. Being head of the Criminal Division put him about third or ourth from the top of the State Police hierarchy, the kind of guy the ower ranks saw either at ceremonies, or after the shit had truly hit the an.
“Gentlemen, you have a great deal of work to do here and I don’t ant to get in your way. This has become as heated a situation as some f you will see in your careers, and it’s liable to get worse. I am not here 0
breathe down your necks or to supersede your present chain of ommand.
You have all been doing an excellent job so far, and I am nly here to let you know that we are aware of your efforts. Please nderstand you have our full support. Whatever you need, we will ttempt to supply.
Keep up the good work and thank you. You make proud.” He sat back down.
Had the audience been larger still, or had it een comprised of fresh Academy graduates, I would have expected pplause.
Here, everyone just watched him.
Hamilton cleared his throat. “Thank you, Major. You probably all now by now that Rennie Wilson was found dead this afternoon. rofter Smith will give you what we have so far.” Smith rose from the crowd and opened a file before him. When e’d appeared at the Lemon Road scene at the head of the troops, he’d oked a little piqued, half visible in the gloom. Now, under the fluoescent tubes, I doubted I’d ever seen a man look so exhausted. He had ags under his eyes I could see from across the room. As case officer %194 on the Wingate murder, his compulsively rigid personality probably hadn’t allowed him to catch more than two hours sleep at a time, and then only when he was sure no one was around to catch him napping.
“This is going to be a little unusual. Because of the time factor, I haven’t been able to condense all our findings into a single report.
So, I’ve asked several of the people directly involved in the investigation of Rennie Wilson’s death to give verbal reports tonight, with the understanding that tomorrow, you will all be issued written versions after some of us have had some sleep. I’d like to start with Fish and Game Lieutenant John Bishop.” Bishop stood up slowly and began to speak in a gentle, measured tone, as if he were addressing a group of keenly attentive children. He described the process he’d used to discover Rennie’s body, and what the tracks had told him. He had indeed traced the killer’s footprints back to the road. Apparently, the vehicle had arrived after Rennie, but before the other two, and had been parked farther down the road, out of sight, disguised with leaves and branches, just as Rennie’s had been.
Bishop stuck to a recitation of the facts, but I was struck by a pattern-as if the killer, having followed Rennie to Lemon Road, had followed his every move thereafter, from hiding the car to creeping through the woods to awaiting the arrival of Rennie’s mysterious guests at the rock outcropping. It struck me that the killer had bided his time, waiting not just for the proper moment, which must have presented itself again and again in the isolated woods, but more out of curiosity.
One by one, Smith called on his witnesses, including the local M.E. Dr.
Hoard-who confirmed what Bishop had told me, adding that the weapon had probably been a large hunting knife, and who reported that an autopsy was being performed as we spoke. Various members of the Crime Lab, here on their way back to Waterbury, gave preliminary reports on their findings and on the samples they had collected for analysis. Of immediate interest was the fact that while the killer’s footprints did not match any of those found at Bruce Wingate’s murder scene, the smaller of the visiting twosome did conform to the small ones found at the ravine-the ones that had been colored yellow on the sketch of that scene.
It was an impressive display of police procedure, and no doubt of use to those who had not been at the scene, but it still boiled down to very little. Rennie had been murdered by a person unknown. That much, including relevant details, could have been said in five minutes or less.
Hamilton, too, had obviously reached the same conclusion. He checked his watch, thanked Smith for his effort, and launched into his own spiel. “In the interest of time, I’m going to summarize some %195
aspects of this investigation. The primary purpose tonight is to brainstorm on what we’ve got and where we’re headed-the written reports will supply any detailed background information we might skip over here.
Agreed?” There were general murmurs of relieved assent. “Okay. Item One: the fire the beginning of all this. Appleby and his crew have been hard at work, but still haven’t found much to add. The members of the Order are still playing dumb, Sarris refuses to actively cooperate, and the investigation, in and of itself, isn’t going anywhere, to the discredit of nobody, I might add. That will remain a particularly tough nut to crack until or unless we can use some sort of legal pry bar to open it up, but until such warrants or whatever appear, we’ll have to work around the edges. We do have additional information on Freedom to Choose, Inc. Gorman’s company-but nothing that particularly connects to this case.” Apple raised his hand. “Just a couple of quick ones for clarification. Bruce Wingate did buy a Smith & Wesson 9-mm semi-automatic with a nine bullet clip capacity about ten years ago.
This morning, Joe Gunther drove down to Natick and found out in addition that Wingate bought another gun a.38-just two months ago. Also, we interviewed John Stanley, a private investigator from Boston, and he confirmed the Wingates’ story about tracking their daughter to Gannet.
He’d been hired to do that about two months ago.” “Thank you.” Hamilton opened a file and pulled out a single sheet of paper. “Item Two: the Wingate homicide. Some more Crime Lab stuff has come in. The lighter found under the body was indeed Rennie Wilson’s.
It was a Zippo-type and while there were no prints on the outside, the inner casing-exposed only while refilling the lighter-had a perfect of Wilson’s left thumb.
“They can’t match every wound on the body to the kitchen knife found at Wilson’s home, so the possibility exists that another knife was also used. However, it has now been proven scientifically that the metal fragment recovered by Dr. Hillstrom was indeed the broken tip of the Wilson knife. There were no prints on that knife, by the way.
“Item Three: the clothing found at Rennie Wilson’s home. The stains were blood, and that blood is compatible with Bruce Wingate’s. Unless we do a DNA test, we can’t swear it’s the same stuff, but we’re assuming it is for the moment. In addition, there was some dirt found on the cuff of the pants, which also matches the dirt at the scene.” He distributed a sheaf of papers down each side of the table. “Pass these around they’re the details that led them to their various conclusIons.
“The footprints around the scene have still not been linked to any %196
particular people aside from Wilson, but we have discovered that these,”
he swung around to the map of the scene and pointed at the yellow footprints, “are definitely moccasin tracks, completely compatible with what all Order members seem to wear, and with those found at both the Wingate and the Wilson scenes. This does not mean, of course, that any member of the Order was at either place. The easiest thing in the world would be to try framing those people by wearing moccasins. It is too early to draw any hard conclusions right now, of course, but the lab is paying careful attention to see if the ‘yellow’ prints and the small ones we found off Lemon Road are one and the same. “In addition,” he waved a stapled sheaf of papers at us, a more in-depth analysis has been made of the sequential order in which the prints were made at the Wingate scene. All the lab findings will be combined after this meeting into a
single volume for reference.” He put down the papers and leaned forward a little for emphasis. “The thing about the moccasins brings up something a little out of context.
Those people out there,” he pointed at the windows, “are dying to pin this whole mess on the Natural Order. Now in the long run, they may get what they want, but I want that to happen only if and when everybody involved in this process is absolutely positive that’s the case. Once the Order-or whoever has been indicted, then the press can have a field day. But until then, I want them kept in the dark. Nobody is to talk with them-is that understood?” “Tell Gunther that.” It had been a muttered aside, but from the voice, I was pretty sure it was Wirt, whom I hadn’t even noticed, buried against the far back wall.
Hamilton stiffened. It was the first time I’d seen him really pissed.
“Just a goddamn minute. This is just what I was talking about. You people can bitch and moan all you want about whatever you please, from your salaries to your hours to the way your wives treat you at night, but I will not tolerate any backstabbing. If you have a legitimate complaint about one of your fellow officers, you can bring it to the proper authorities. If you don’t, if you just happen not to like the guy, you stick it in your ear and you live with it. Joe Gunther is attached to the SA’s office. He is not a member of the State Police.
If it’s all right with his boss, he can goddamn well serenade the press if he wants. It’s none of our business. “But, for your information, that is not what happened,” Hamilton went on. He bent down and pulled a newspaper out of his briefcase on the floor. He held it up. It was a copy of the Caledonian Record. The headline ran, “Brattleboro Cop Joins Investigation.” My head began to ache.
%197 “Lieutenant Gunther sat in on a meeting being run by Gorman nd Greta Lynn last night. That action was entirely appropriate.
Unforunately, he was recognized by one reporter as a Brattleboro policeman nd the press tried to make hay out of his being here. If you read the rticle, you’ll find he didn’t give them a thing.
“Furthermore, I’d like to state for the record that while I had my oubts initially about having the SA’s man closely linked to this investiation, those doubts are long gone. Lieutenant Gunther has been an sset to us, adding to the case and proving himself a constructive and ntegral part of the process.” He dropped the paper and leaned forward again, his fingertips on he tabletop. “Watch out for this kind of thing, people.
The press see as the bad guys, and they’ll generally do anything to get us to open p, including making us fight among ourselves. We can’t afford that. 0 ignore ‘em and just do your jobs.” He straightened and resumed his usual passive mien. “All right, enough of that. Let’s look at all this as a linked chain of events-any nd all of you dive in if you have something to add. Early Tuesday orning, we have a fire in which five people die, one of whom had a ght with Bruce Wingate on Monday night. Four of those people are ound dead of smoke inhalation behind a door locked on the outside, nd the fifth-Ed Sylvester, aka Fox-is found lying on his back on the verturned wood stove downstairs. He was dead before he landed there nd we suspect, but cannot prove, foul play. “On Wednesday night, Bruce Wingate apparently received a letter structing him to meet with someone at Dulac’s ravine.
We’ve been able to compare the handwriting on the envelope to a sample of Julie ingate’s that Lieutenant Gunther procured, and it appears to be a atch, which only establishes that she addressed the envelope. At the avine, Bruce Wingate was murdered, with all the evidence pointing at ennie Wilson, with whom Wingate had had an altercation on Monday ight following an argument concerning Wingate’s daughter. We also ow know-thanks to Lieutenant Gunther that Rennie once had a exual relationship with that same daughter.
“Thursday night, last night, it looks like Rennie Wilson arranged meeting with two people off the end of Lemon Road, one of whom ad probably also been at the fatal get together with Wingate. That eeting took place, but somebody else followed Wilson, watched the eeting, waited for the other two to leave, and then murdered Wilson.” Hamilton stepped away from the table and began to pace back and rth in front of the blackboard. “One scenario has it that Wingate illed Sylvester-or Fox lit the fire and killed the others indirectly.
%198 Two nights later, someone, perhaps his daughter, contacted him and killed him at the ravine, framing Rennie Wilson to avert attention from herself or the Order. There are several problems with that, however.
A) It is unclear whether Wingate was in possession of the gun we think was fired at the top of the stairs. B) The assumption that Julie Wingate might have killed her father is complicated by the presence of several other people at the meeting at which her father died. C) The growing evidence seems to be reinforcing, rather than weakening the premise that Rennie Wilson did indeed kill Bruce Wingate.” He stopped pacing. “So, we switch around the cast of characters, see if we can get a better fit. Our own people reinterviewed Nadine Wilson today to ask her of her husband’s whereabouts on the night of the fire. She knows he was there later; in fact, he responded from home to fight the fire, but she’s vague about his actions or location earlier.
Vague enough, in fact, to suggest that he could have been in the Order house and shot Sylvester, perhaps with Julie Wingate as his accomplice.
This possibility is given credibility if we assume that Julie and Rennie were still lovers. If so, they both killed Sylvester-Fox-because Fox kept Julie on a short leash, perhaps against her will. Later, they killed her father out of revenge, as well as to get him off Julie’s back.” He leaned forward on the table and smiled. “None of that, of course, helps us to understand why or by whom-Rennie was killed. It seems, according to Lieutenant Bishop, that, if Julie was involved, she and some man went to meet with Rennie, had a chat, and then left peacefully. We’re saying Julie, obviously, because both sets of moccasin prints were apparently made by the same person; in point of fact, we have no proof Julie was anywhere near any of these scenes of violence.” “So maybe it was a small man, or a fat child, or maybe Ellie and/or Greta,” Spinney muttered, audibly enough so the whole room heard.
I gave Hamilton high marks. He actually chuckled. “Or an envoy of Sarris’s, for that matter. Lieutenant Gunther found out Wilson had been blackmailing him for a steady supply of Order women.” “Doesn’t that place Sarris pretty high on the list?” Apple asked.
“He had good reason to want both Wingate and Wilson dead.” “Why would he frame Wilson just to kill him later?” Apple shrugged.
“Just because it sounds off-base doesn’t mean it is. Is there at least enough on the blackmail angle to get some sort of warrant and force Sarris to talk?” Hamilton looked at Potter and raised his eyebrows.
Potter shrugged.
“It’s pretty thin. Chaney doesn’t even know it was blackmail just that Rennie ‘had something on Sarris,’ to quote Joe’s report. And we can’t go after Julie now any more than we could %199 before. As the lieutenant said, we still can’t place her at any of the crimes.”
“Lieutenant Hamilton,” I asked, “did you get a report back on the saliva on that envelope we found in the Wingates’ room? Maybe that’Il help us.” Hamilton nodded and started pawing through the pile of papers before him. He finally located a sheet and held it up. “Here it is.”
“Does it say what the blood type is?” He scanned the report. “B, but we don’t know Julie’s.” “We could get it, though.” Potter pulled at his chin a couple of times. “It seems to me a whole lot of people are refusing to talk in this case. If we held an inquest, we might get them to talk.” “Yeah,” Apple said. “We could get the whole goddamn bunch of ‘em in front of a judge and sweat ‘em individually.” Apple was smiling at the thought. Of all of us, he’d had the most frustrating time, knocking fruitlessly on doors, getting nowhere with people who might as well have lost their tongues. He looked like Potter had just made him a gift. “It is true, Lieutenant,” Smith chimed in, “that we might make better time using an inquest.” An inquest, as leg
ally described in Vermont, is almost unique to that state. It is a secret criminal proceeding in which almost anybody and his uncle can be subpoenaed to appear before a judge to answer questions from the State’s Attorney. The person so summoned cannot bring his or her lawyer into the courtroom, although they can leave the room and consult with their lawyer outside if and when they like, but if they do not answer or cooperate with the process, the judge can order them jailed for contempt. In the short run, inquests give frustrated cops a moment of joy-as Apple had just demonstrated. In the long run, however, they can become legal nightmares, later triggering cumbersome discovery motions by the defense-if the case ever goes to trialand even raising questions of constitutionality. I spoke up from the back of the room, aware, once again, that I was differing with Smith. “I disagree. If we set up an inquest now, I think we’ll end up taking it on the chin.” “Why?” “First, it’ll take a week or so to set up, which is a long time with the vultures circling around outside.” I jerked my thumb at the window.
“Second, once we do set it up, the press’ll be standing around outside grilling everyone who goes in or out of that courtroom. An inquest is a rumor mill almost by design.” %200 “If we get what we want, who cares about the press?” Apple countered.
“We’re stuck with ‘em anyhow.” “I don’t think we’ll get anything. Apple, you’ve been scratching at these people for days. What makes you think they won’t stay clammed up in front of a judge?” “He’ll throw them in jail, that’s why.” “That’Il play right into their hands. Sarris can then say his people are being persecuted, that they didn’t say or do anything. I’m afraid an inquest now could stop us dead in our tracks.
We’ve done a lot in a few days. Why risk screwing it all up with a potential circus?” I noticed heads were turning from me to Potter, as if they were watching a tennis game. I looked at Smith to check for any vicarious enjoyment, but as usual, his face betrayed nothing.
