by Archer Mayor
Her inaugural wanderings through these houses were therefore extensions of that homeschooling—another way to palpate society’s heartbeat from the inside. They were autopsies of a sort, conducted out of sight and in private, dedicated to enlightenment.
They were also scary, and the most exciting aspect of her education so far.
* * *
The textbook ideal for law enforcement field interviews is to put two investigators onto each assignment. It’s safer, better for later corroboration, and allows the two cops to compare notes and buddy up if the interviewee proves a tough nut to crack.
In rural policing, there wasn’t much opportunity for the ideal. There weren’t enough people, not enough money, and too much territory to cover. Teams of two simply weren’t practical.
There were exceptions. When the person of interest had proved dangerous in the past, or when there were several people to be interviewed at once, budget and manpower concerns were overridden.
Which explained why Sam and Lester were sharing a car late that afternoon. Following a discussion on best approaches, they’d chosen to tag-team Jimmy Stringer and Carlo Fuentes at the same time, in the same place.
Fair to say, it was the location of that place that had prompted the strategy. Lester had been told by the Brattleboro PD’s patrol division that, even decades later, the two men remained best friends, and had maintained a habit of regularly hanging out together, five days a week—bonded by habit, televised sports, and beer. Fuentes was the semiretired co-owner of a downtown watering hole, where Stringer might as well have had a brass plaque attached to his favorite stool.
Why not, the two detectives had reasoned, approach the two in their comfort zone, although early enough to find them sober?
It was dark when the cops entered, despite it being shortly after noon, and following the bright sunshine outside, they had to stop just inside the door and adjust to the gloom.
“Come on in,” a man’s voice called out from the back of the cave, followed by the laughing recommendation, “Walk straight ahead. When you’re about to bump into your first chair, you’ll just be able to see it. Trust me.”
Lester was game, and quickly discovered that about ten feet in, the soft neon glow did begin asserting itself. He made out two men by the row of taps—one seated, and one tending on the far side.
“Gentlemen,” he said, Sam following from close behind. “How’re you doing today?”
“Feeling no pain,” the bartender confessed. “What can we do for you? It can’t be a drink—you two look too fancy for that, unless it’s turned into a bad day at the office.”
By this time, what lighting there was had allowed the newcomers to take in their surroundings. Not that there was much to see. The tavern was one of Brattleboro’s older such establishments—stolid, static, and resistant to trendiness. It was strictly working-class, complete with a minimalist décor of stacked beer cans, stained posters, and grimy neon signs—along with a few battered, scarred, and much-repaired furnishings. Aside from the two before them, the room was empty.
“Thin crowd,” Spinney commented, reaching the bar and pulling out a couple of stools.
The barkeep smiled. “It is now. Come back later—then we’re good till closing.”
“Good to know,” Lester said, noticing that both men had barely glanced at him, preferring instead his far more attractive partner. Sam had placed her canvas bag on the bar and was rummaging around inside it.
Lester revealed his badge. “Lester Spinney, gents. This is Samantha Martens. We’re from the VBI.”
The bartender reached over to shake hands. “Carlo Fuentes. I thought you looked out of place. Have I got a nose, or what?”
The other man said guardedly, “Yeah, you got one of those.”
Lester turned to face him, hand extended. “And you are?”
“I gotta answer that?”
Spinney laughed, unfazed. “Yep, you do. But I can help. Jimmy Stringer, am I right?”
“If you knew, what d’ya ask for?” Put in an awkward position by Lester’s refusal to drop his hand, Stringer gave it a quick and reluctant shake.
“What’s on your mind, officers?” the friendlier Fuentes asked.
Sam spoke for the first time, the recorder she’d been searching for in hand. “A name from the distant past,” she said, matching her friendly tone to Lester’s, despite her instinctive distaste for a couple of men who seemed convinced that her face had slipped to the center of her chest. “Hank Mitchell.”
Stringer and Fuentes each reacted with surprise. “Hank?” Stringer said first. “What the fuck you care ’bout him? He’s been gone like half a century.”
Sam hit Record on her machine and placed it on the bar. “You don’t mind if I record this, do you? Saves on getting the details wrong.”
“Sure I mind,” Stringer predictably shot back.
But Fuentes overrode him. “Oh, for Chrissake, Jimmy. Lighten up.” He gave a wide smile to Sam and nodded. “You go ahead.”
“Mr. Stringer?” she asked.
“Yeah,” was the answer.
For the record, therefore, Sam quickly stated the time, date, and location of the conversation, along with who was present. She also inquired of both men if they’d been drinking enough to be inebriated, which they both vehemently denied. This last was a frequently awkward formality, ignored by many cops. More often than not, however, Sam had reaped the rewards in court later.
Fuentes remained affable through it all. “Why you wanna know ’bout Hank?”
“You knew him back when?” Lester asked.
“Sure. We all did. He was one of us.”
Sam kept the mood going. “How so?”
Jimmy lifted the beer bottle before him. “That’s how.”
“Drinking buddies?”
“That we were,” Carlo confirmed, adding, “Jimmy and I are the only two left.”
“The rest all dead?” Lester asked, surprised.
“Might as well be,” Jimmy said unhappily.
“No,” his friend corrected him. “They moved on. Well, some of them died, for sure. Tom Capsen turned toes up a month ago. But BB’s still around.”
“BB’s too good for losers like us,” Jimmy growled, taking a swig from his bottle.
“Who else?” Sam asked Carlo, the talker of the two.
“I don’t know. Johnny was part of it. Fred, Nicky, Dwayne Matteson. ’Member him, Jimmy? He was a character.”
“Long gone,” Jimmy said.
“Really?”
Carlo shrugged. “Yeah, actually. He’s right. When you look at it, there weren’t that many of us to start with. Johnny Lucas and BB may be all that’s left.” He shook his head in wonder. “Kind of amazing, when you think of it. Time flies.”
“What was Hank like?” Sam asked.
“I liked him,” Carlo predictably said. “Definitely one of the gang. He was BB’s right-hand man—kind of the brains, if you ask me. He could price a project like nobody I knew. Had the eye for it. But he didn’t put on airs like BB could.”
“He didn’t have an eye for other people’s wives,” Stringer said in a low voice. “That was BB’s specialty.”
“Oh, come on, Jimmy,” Carlo reprimanded him.
“Ouch,” Lester reacted. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s nothing,” Carlo tried saying.
“Bullshit,” Jimmy interrupted. “You know goddamn well he had the hots for her.”
“BB had the hots for Hank’s wife?” Sammie asked.
“We don’t know that for sure,” Carlo protested.
“Spare me,” Jimmy complained. “Maybe we didn’t know if they got it on. I’ll give you that. But his tongue fell out of his head every time he looked at her. Hank might as well’ve not even been in the room. It was so obvious.”
Takes one to know one, Sam thought, watching Jimmy still checking her out.
The front door opened to hit them with a blinding bolt of sunlight, outlining t
he figure of someone tall and slim.
“Hey, darlin’,” Carlo called out. “Come on over. We got guests.”
Repeating their own entrance ritual, Lester and Sam blinked to regain their night vision, gradually recognizing the newcomer as an older woman fashionably dressed in tight jeans and a bright tank top, with a sharp-angled, worn face that struck Sammie as having been once quite beautiful.
“Lacey Stringer,” Carlo introduced her. “This is Lester Spinney and Samantha Martens. They’re cops, asking about Hank Mitchell.”
Lester watched Stringer’s expression as she took them in, noticing a tension in her eyes that didn’t seem born of the moment.
“Lacey,” Carlo continued, “is Jimmy’s far, far, far better half.”
“Up yours,” Jimmy said, drinking again.
“She also helps out around here from time to time, waiting tables. I didn’t tell you folks,” Carlo said, “that I’m part-owner of this place. I’m not really the bartender, in case you were wondering. He’s due in a while. I just open up and shoot the shit a little with Jimmy here. When things get hot, they don’t want me gumming up the works. Too old and too slow.”
He’d slid back into social mode with Lacey’s arrival, but not even she was buying it.
“Why d’you want to know about Hank?” she asked bluntly, skipping any amenities.
Lester regretted the timing of her arrival, since he’d been interested in hearing about BB and Sharon. Now he was further put off by Lacey’s husband adding, “Yeah. You never told us: Who gives a shit about Hank? What’s going on?”
This was the downside to conducting group interviews. Sammie glanced at her partner, who gave her a barely perceptible nod of acquiescence.
“He’s been found dead,” she said. “Somebody killed him.”
Carlo reacted with, “Wow. You don’t say?” while Jimmy growled, “I knew it.” But Lacey’s face drained, her mouth tightened, and she took a step back before saying, “Fuck you.” She then abruptly headed toward the back and presumably to the kitchen beyond.
Neither of the men at the bar took note.
“Damn,” Carlo said. “What does that mean? Was he living around here and nobody knew it? Like a hermit? Doesn’t sound like him at all.”
“Jesus H. Christ, Carlo,” Jimmy castigated him. “Sometimes your head is so far up your ass, I’m amazed you can breathe.”
“What?” the bar owner asked, baffled by his friend’s attitude.
“It’s all over the news,” Jimmy said tiredly. “They found a skeleton at VY—been buried in concrete for decades.” He eyed Lester. “Right? That’s Hank, ain’t it?”
Sammie quietly eased away, leaving Lester to continue the conversation, and followed Lacey into the bar’s nether regions. Predictably, this back section of the establishment made the front look ritzy. Sam didn’t focus much on Vermont public health laws, but she assumed from what she saw that no health inspectors had been here in recorded history.
She found Lacey standing before an ancient open fridge, pulling out limes and lemons and slapping them down hard onto a worn and filthy cutting board.
“Lacey?” she said quietly, so as not to startle her.
The other woman stopped, her shoulders slumping. Sam circled around, glanced at her tearstained face, and led her to a nearby stool, closing the fridge door as she went.
She leaned her hip against the counter and gently stroked Lacey’s shoulder. “Sorry you had to hear it that way. We had no idea you were close to him.”
The older woman wiped her eyes with the back of one hand, her head still bowed.
“I heard he was a good guy,” Sam said.
“Yeah.” Lacey’s voice was almost inaudibly soft against the background noise of old and ailing kitchen appliances.
“When did you last see him?”
Lacey looked up. Her makeup was smeared. The harsh overhead lighting made her look haggard beyond her years. “He was here one minute and gone the next,” she said. “No warning. I didn’t know what had happened to him.”
“You were living together at the time?”
Her responding smile was sad. “Don’t I wish. That’s what I wanted.” She jerked a thumb toward the front of the bar. “I was ready to dump that prick and move in with Hank. In a heartbeat.”
“You were already married to Jimmy?”
“He knocked me up at sixteen. Yeah, we were married, not that it ever mattered.”
“Okay,” Sam said, hoping to keep her on track. “So why didn’t it happen with Hank? Hadn’t he left his wife by then?”
“Sure, but not for me. I loved him; not the other way around. He was still mooning for that stuck-up bitch. What he ever saw in her is beyond me, but it was always Sharon, Sharon, Sharon.”
Sam scratched her forehead. “So you two were never lovers?”
Lacey sighed. “I tried. Believe me. I did everything but pull his pants down. He wasn’t interested.”
“Tell me what happened, the last day you saw him.”
“Nothin’ to tell. I was at his place, on Oak Street. I tried to go there every day, just to prove I was stickin’ to it. That day, I went by, and he wasn’t there. And that was it. Never saw him again.”
“There must’ve been talk,” Sam said leadingly.
“There was, but because he’d already moved out of the house, everybody was thinkin’ he’d just blown town, headed for the wild blue yonder.”
“Did that make sense to you?”
“Not really,” she conceded. “But it didn’t not make sense, either, if you know what I mean. He was restless and he could be a little crazy sometimes. It’s not like it was the class loser suddenly becoming a movie star.”
“How were things between him and everybody else?” Sam inquired. “His colleagues, buddies, even Sharon, for that matter. Were there any animosities?”
“Any what?”
“Bad feelings. Was anybody particularly mad at him, or vice-versa?”
“Sharon probably wasn’t too happy with him. She’d thrown him out of the house.”
“What was that about?” Sam asked.
“She likes things neat and tidy and predictable,” Lacey explained. “That’s why I thought we’d be good together. I don’t go around looking like I got a prybar up my ass.”
“Did Hank talk about their splitting up?”
Lacey made a face. “Yeah. Again and again, and I had to pretend like I gave a damn.”
Sam’s brow was furrowed by now. “Let me get this straight, just so I’m solid—I heard she threw him out ’cause he was cheating on her, but you’re saying he kept talking about their getting back together.”
“That’s what I said.”
“I just don’t want to make any wrong assumptions. Lacey, is it possible he was seeing someone besides you?”
The older woman took it like a pragmatist. “Anything’s possible. But I seriously doubt it. What I do know is that he pissed and moaned about his marriage, and I had to hold his hand.”
“But you kept at it,” Sam encouraged her. “You musta done that ’cause you felt you were getting somewhere.”
“I was just being stupid,” Lacey said dismissively. She again glanced toward the front of the building, adding, “Being married to an asshole can do that to you.”
“Okay,” Sam moved on, feeling she’d exhausted the matter. “Apart from Sharon, who else might’ve been unhappy with him? How ’bout Jimmy? Did he know of your interest in Hank?”
“He’s never given a shit.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Lacey gave a frustrated toss of her head. “He puts on a ’tude, but it never goes anywhere.”
“So he knew,” Sam pressed her.
“I told him nothing was goin’ on. After Hank took off—well, after we thought he took off—that was the end of it.”
Sam said nothing, letting the silence speak for her.
“No frigging way,” Lacey finally said. “Jimmy may be a douche b
ag, but he’s not a killer. Plus, he didn’t really care back then—any more than he does now.”
“So, even at the time Hank went missing, you had no suspicions that maybe Jimmy had done him dirt?”
She was shaking her head partway through the question. “No way. Like I said. Never crossed my mind, and it woulda, otherwise, ’cause I can read that dope like a book. But about Hank, Jimmy was all bark and no bite. I mean, shit, you don’t think I would’na known?” Lacey waved her hand. “No, no, no. There’s nothin’ to that.”
“Okay,” Sammie soothed her. “I got it. So that’s Sharon and Jimmy crossed off. Anyone else?”
Lacey ran her hand through her hair. “Jeez. This is all so long ago. BB wasn’t real happy.”
Sam frowned. “Why?”
“The business,” Lacey told her. “BB’s hot stuff now, and he was always a smooth talker, but everybody knew it was Hank that brought in the business and made Ridgeline a profit in those days. I think BB figured he was up shit creek when Hank did a Houdini.”
“What about Johnny Lucas?” Sam asked. “I heard he came in and saved the day.”
Lacey smiled. “Damn, you been pokin’ around, haven’t you? Well, you’re right—sort of. Johnny joined up, but he only saved the day afterwards. I guess BB had to check him out, or get used to him, or somethin’. BB probably had enough money on hand to tide him over till Johnny got going.”
“Tell me about Johnny,” Sam requested. “I haven’t met him yet.”
“He was okay,” Lacey said. “Kinda kept to himself. I haven’t seen him in years—ever since he and BB went separate ways after Ridgeline sold to Vermont Amalgamated. But in the early days, he and BB, both, used to hang out with the rest of us.”
“He get along with Hank?”
“Damn,” Lacey said. “You’re like a broken record. I don’t know. I guess so. Forty years is forty years, lady. I’m not gonna remember shit like that. Were people sayin’ that Johnny killed Hank after Hank disappeared? No. No more than they were saying that about anyone, ’cause we all thought Hank had moved to California to become a hippie or something.”
