“They didn’t do a Vegas number?”
“I don’t think so. She told me she’s never been more than ten miles outside town her whole life.”
“Thanks. Keep away from the bottle, and keep my phone number and Greg’s handy, okay? You hit the sauce again, I’ll wring your neck.”
His laugh was short and halfhearted, but reassuring anyway. “Okay, Lieutenant.”
I made two more phone calls before dialing Kathy Bartlett.
“You find anything hopeful down there?” she asked after we’d exchanged greetings. “I just hung up on Jonathon, and he’s got nothing good to say.”
“Could be. The SA’s office here sicced SRS on Jan Bouch this morning. They didn’t find anything, but she’s biting her nails. I’m about to see if I can turn up the heat with a private visit of my own. How fast do you think you could pull an inquest together so you can really make her sweat?”
She had enough experience to quickly grasp what I was up to, and apparently enough trust in me not to play twenty questions, at least not at this point. “I’ll have to call around—see what court or judge might be willing to play. You might have a problem, though.”
“I know,” I quoted, “ ‘the privilege of communications made within a marriage.’ I don’t think they are married. A records check in Bellows Falls revealed nothing. Jan’s talked about a big church wedding to Brian, but I called the preacher and he knows nothing about it. I also found out Jan’s suffering from a psychiatric dependency disorder. My guess is she made up the marriage to feel closer to Norm, and he played along because he didn’t care either way.”
“We’re going to look pretty stupid if he whips out a marriage certificate at the last minute.”
“Could be that fear is what he’s counting on. We’ll never know unless we call his bluff.”
She only paused a moment. “Granted, but we’re not there yet. You have your interview, and I’ll make those calls. Talk to you later.”
· · ·
Jan Bouch looked at me as if I were a ghost, standing on her front stoop. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice trembling. “My husband’s not here.”
I made no effort to smile but spoke politely. “I know that. I’d like to talk to you, if that’s okay.”
She glanced around nervously. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s not such a great idea.”
“You spoke to SRS this morning.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you here about that?”
“I think you know why I’m here, Mrs. Bouch.”
She bit her lower lip, her eyes glistening. “Am I going to lose my kids?”
For an instant, I almost faltered, thinking of how I was about to become the latest of this woman’s abusers. “That’s pretty much up to you.”
Her resistance weakening, she kneaded the doorknob and shifted her weight uncertainly, her distress paradoxically stiffening my resolve.
“Mrs. Bouch,” I persisted. “Last time we talked, in the chief’s office at the police department, I suggested you seek help. You decided otherwise. Do you really want to turn me away again?”
She backed up quickly, opening the door wider, suddenly afraid we might be caught in the open. “Okay. Come in.”
I stepped inside, saw a few pieces of furniture placed haphazardly around the messy room off the hallway, and headed toward them, arranging two chairs so they faced each other. “Have a seat.”
She followed me in, looking at the walls and ceiling like a tourist on her first visit. Hesitantly, she did as I asked, sitting on the chair’s edge with her hands clenched in her lap.
“Mrs. Bouch, you must know things aren’t going well for you. You’ve been having an affair with a man facing a drug charge, you’re living with another against whom drug trafficking allegations have been made, the police department has a record of your chronic involvement in domestic abuse calls, you have an admitted history of repeated drug use, you’re receiving mental counseling, and you’ve just been visited by SRS. Do you have any idea what all that looks like?”
Tears were flowing down her face. “I try my best. I really do.”
“I know you do. Wasn’t I the one who offered you help?”
She nodded silently.
“What did I tell you?”
“That I should leave Norm. But I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
She gave me a pleading look.
I leaned forward, suddenly deciding to gamble on pure intuition. “I know you’re in pain, but despite what you think, you still have some options. Do you feel that inside you—the desire not to be pushed around so much?”
“I don’t know.”
“How did it feel when Norm ordered you to have an affair with Brian?”
Her eyes widened. “How did… ?”
“Or when he told you Brian was going to be hung out to dry—after you’d discovered you’d actually fallen in love with him?”
She rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know.”
“Jan,” I said, using her Christian name for the first time, “when you and Norm were at the police station, telling us the sexual harassment charges were false, and that you’d actually been having an affair with Brian, do you remember how you felt when you were asked whether Brian was ever in uniform when the two of you were together?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Norm opened his mouth to answer, and you beat him to it. Remember?”
Her face cleared suddenly. “I said, ‘No.’ I knew otherwise it would get Brian into trouble.”
I matched her enthusiasm with my own. “That’s right. You said, ‘No.’ But you did more than that. Why did you say it so fast, so clearly?”
She looked like she was concentrating for a final exam. “Because Norm was about to say, ‘Yes’?”
“Don’t ask me, Jan. Tell me. Was that the way it was?”
“Yes, it was. I didn’t want him to do that.”
“You stood up for yourself,” I said, “and you helped a friend. You may’ve caught hell later, but it felt good, didn’t it?”
“Yes,” but her voice had lost some of its edge.
“Would you like to stop using drugs?”
She perked back up. “Oh yes, I would.”
“Or live peacefully with your children, happy and in control and without fear?”
“I’d like that.”
“What’s the biggest barrier between you and those goals?”
Her eyes widened at the possibility of a single simple solution. “The drugs?”
“That’s pretty big,” I agreed. “But what brought them into your life?”
“Norm?” she asked in a whisper.
I leaned forward. “What would change if he were out of the picture?”
“I could get my life back,” she suggested, almost to herself.
I wasn’t sure how great she’d actually find that to be, but I wasn’t about to quibble. While I was blatantly manipulating her with my own self-interest, there was also no way I didn’t think Jan Bouch could stand an improvement in her life.
“Here’s another one—what do you think will happen if you let things continue the way they’re going?”
The tears began flowing again. “They’ll take my kids away?”
I kept quiet, cautious about saying too much. Instead, I got to my feet and began walking around the room, dominating it with my presence, occasionally passing behind her to heighten her insecurity.
“Mrs. Bouch, I don’t need to tell you that forces are at work right now that are bigger than anything you can do to fight them. You’ve gotten used to being pushed around by Norm, but that’s nothing compared to this. There is a silver lining in that, though. You know what it is?”
I was behind her when I said this and paused long enough to force her to ask, “What?”
“It’s that those larger forces are on your side. They want you to succeed, to live with your kids, to have a normal, happy life. They want to make sure Norm doesn’t hurt any
more people than he already has… Like he’s hurt you.”
Predictably, she wavered there. “He’s not a bad man.”
“You asked him for a favor when you first got together and began having children, didn’t you?” I asked, my voice lowered, my head just behind hers. “You asked him for something that wouldn’t have cost him a thing, but which meant everything to you—and to those same children.”
Her head bent forward and her weeping increased.
“He forced you to live a lie because he wouldn’t make this simple dream come true, didn’t he?”
Her entire body was shaking by now, bent over almost double. I tried to use that grief to temper the adrenaline I felt coursing through me, but I couldn’t resist seeing it as a measure of my success. The gap between me and Norm—at least regarding this one pathetic soul—had grown immeasurably close. His victim had become mine.
“He wouldn’t even marry you, would he, Jan?” I ended in a whisper.
“No,” she wailed. “I wanted my kids to be different from me, but he wouldn’t do it. That’s why I lied about being married.”
At last, I put both my hands on her shoulders, bridging the gap I’d so cynically created. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You did it for good reason. You tried your best. And if Norm hadn’t kept pushing, it might’ve worked.”
I circled around to face her, crouching low so I could see her eyes. “It’s fallen apart, and you know who’s to blame. I know it’s scary, and that you don’t want to do it, but for your children, you’re going to have to make some choices. You won’t be alone this time. People will be there to help you, but you’ll have to help them, too. Do you understand?”
She nodded dumbly. I knew she had no idea what I was talking about. That would come later, and at the hands of others—others, I comforted myself, who really would have her best interests at heart.
“Some people are going to want to talk to you about Norm,” I resumed. “Ask you questions about his business dealings. You may not think you know anything, but your helping them in any way will be crucial. It’ll be at a special meeting called an inquest, and the only people there will be a judge and a prosecutor—a friend of mine named Kathy. Are you willing to be a part of that?”
Again, she nodded.
“All right. I think it might be better if Norm doesn’t find out about this. Remember the women I mentioned in the chief’s office a few days ago, who take care of people like you and your kids?”
“The shelter?”
“Right. I can have all of you taken there right now, where Norm can’t find you, so you can be safe until Kathy and the judge ask you those questions. Are you agreeable to that?”
“Okay,” she said simply.
I straightened up, the tension draining out of me. The frustration I’d felt losing Lenny Markham to the legal system was finally dissipating in the face of new expectations.
“You stay here,” I said to her. “I’ve got a few phone calls to make.”
Chapter 22
JONATHON MICHAEL FOUND ME AT THE WOMEN For Women shelter in Brattleboro, three hours after my conversation with Jan Bouch, and right after Gail and I had finally handed her and the kids over to the shelter’s staff. Those few hours had seemed without end, since as soon as I’d gotten Jan to agree to an inquest, I was sure Norm would come waltzing through the front door and ruin everything.
“I just hung up on Kathy,” Jonathon said, walking across the parking lot with me. “She’s arranged a date here in town with Judge Rachael Aumand, at eight tomorrow morning.”
I turned to stare at him. “Tomorrow morning? How the hell did she pull that off?”
He smiled. “The judge said she’d come to work ninety minutes early. Kathy can be very persuasive, especially after what happened in Burlington. ’Course, I don’t think it hurt that Aumand and she went to law school together. Lucky, too, ’cause there isn’t an opening in the court docket till next month.”
“Thank God for living in a pea-sized state,” I muttered.
“There’s something else,” Jon added. “I’m guessing you asked Greg Davis to keep an eye on Norm Bouch?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “Last night and this morning both. I didn’t want Norm busting in on me.”
“Well, he’s been trying to get hold of you—left a message with Kathy. Norm’s disappeared. He didn’t show up at the site he’s been working on, and no one’s seen him around town.”
“He must’ve heard about Lenny,” I said.
“Maybe. I hope he didn’t hear about you snatching his wife, too.”
We reached my car and I pulled open the door. “You think we should issue a BOL?”
Jonathon shook his head emphatically. A BOL involved a lot of people all of a sudden, none of whom knew the details behind the request. It also had a way of leaking outside police circles, often to the press. “It might spook him more than we want,” he said. “Push him underground. Right now, he’s probably scrambling to make sure Lenny isn’t the start of a major hemorrhage. What might be better is a selective BOL, to every unit with a specific interest in the drug business. If Norm is running around checking for damage, it’s bound to cause a ripple somewhere.”
“Time to mend fences with Steve Kiley?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.
“Say what you will about the task force,” he answered, “they have better connections than anyone I know.”
I swung in behind the steering wheel and looked up at him. “Let’s meet up at the Municipal Building. We can call him from there.”
· · ·
There were two messages waiting for me at the office—one from Beverly Hillstrom, the state’s medical examiner, the other from Brian Padget. After introducing Jonathon to Sammie, and asking her to show him what she had on our two homicides, I dialed Padget’s number first. Given the time I’d spent trying to straighten him out, I wasn’t about to let him dangle longer than necessary.
“Hi, Brian. It’s Joe,” I said after he’d picked up.
“I been doing what you asked, thinking back over everything. I thought of something that’s probably pretty dumb, but I can’t get it out of my head. You know how you got me to spruce up this morning? Shave, shower, and all that? Well, I use aftershave—always have. Could that be a way to get coke into my system?”
The simplicity of the idea was startling. “Do you feel any numbness after using it?”
“No. That’s why I think it’s probably wrong. But I bleed a little when I shave—my skin’s not all that great—and it just seemed possible. It’d be like I was giving myself a dozen miniature injections, sort of. But I didn’t feel anything, and I can’t see or smell anything wrong with the stuff.”
“You wouldn’t,” I said. “It’s mostly alcohol, perfume, and coloring. It would cover anything. Stay where you are. I’m sending someone up to take the aftershave to be tested. And keep your fingers crossed. I don’t think this sounds crazy at all.”
I dialed Isador Gramm in Burlington next, the only board-certified forensic toxicologist in the state, and a man I’d consulted in the past to great advantage.
“Is it possible?” I asked him after explaining Padget’s theory.
“I’ve never heard of it, but I suppose so. You say he bleeds as a result of shaving?”
“Yes.”
There was a thoughtful pause at the other end. “I can’t see where it wouldn’t work, Joe. Alcohol would not only completely dissolve the cocaine, but it would work as a carrier taking it into the system. It would be tough for whoever spiked the aftershave to come up with just the right amount—enough to appear in the urinalysis, but not so much that your victim would notice—but that could be dumb luck. I think the coke, by the way, would have to be pure. Any cutting agent would mess things up—either make the aftershave cloudy or inhibit the effect of the cocaine.”
“I know this is a little unusual, but if I had a courier hand-deliver this bottle to you in about three hours, could you run it through your machinery and
bill it to the AG’s office?”
“Moving up in the world, are we? Sure, I don’t see why not. Send it on.”
I called over to the Patrol Division and arranged for a courier. Then I dialed Beverly Hillstrom’s number.
“You do send me the most curious packages,” she told me minutes later. “Although I’ll tell you right up front that I have nothing to report on the small skeletonized remains, other than it appears to have been a male Caucasian in his mid-teens. I found absolutely nothing on what might have killed him.”
I was disappointed with that, less because it implied an investigative dead end, and more because I truly hated the idea of taking someone so young, and dumping him into the bureaucratic equivalent of a pauper’s grave.
“What about Morgan?” I asked.
“There I can be more helpful. I’ll be faxing you my full report later, but I know how you like a sneak preview. Also, I found something you might find interesting, which I’ll tell about in a moment.
“Al Gould,” she continued, “was right on the mark concerning cause of death. The first bullet caught him through the body at a sharply oblique angle, a wound which if treated within an hour or so need not have been lethal, although it did stimulate significant blood loss. The second bullet was fatal, removing the right carotid and part of the jugular and causing massive exsanguination. Both bullets passed without measurable residue or noticeable fragmentation, and both appeared to me to have been shot from far enough away not to leave any powder marks. Of course, I’ve sent the clothing and samples to the lab, but my guess—which will not appear in the report—is that your shooter was not overly skillful. I think the first shot was intended for the heart, missing it posteriorly, and the second was probably aimed at the head—the standard coup de grâce between the eyes—ending up in the throat. So unless you’re dealing with someone very clever, you can eliminate any known crack shots.
“The body otherwise,” she went on, “was unremarkable in presentation, typical of a young male in good condition. Toxicology hasn’t reported back yet—they’ll be sending you separate findings in any case—but I wouldn’t be surprised to find both alcohol and drugs present. Mr. Morgan’s inner workings showed typical signs of both, albeit not to the extent they’re often present in older and/or more self-abusive people. I would say he got around without noticeable deficit.
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