Gray Ghost

by William G. Tapply

  “What time is it?”

  “Not yet two. What about the coffee?”

  He shrugged. “Sure. Black.”

  She jerked her thumb at a stainless-steel electric coffee machine on a table in the corner of the room. “Help yourself.”

  Calhoun poured himself some coffee, then sat on one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs that were lined up against the wall opposite the other two men. He found an old Yankee magazine in the stack on the coffee table and began to thumb through it.

  A few minutes later Otis Maxner came breezing into the room. He looked at the two men in business suits and said, “Charles. Frederick. I’ll be right with you.” Then he seemed to notice Calhoun. He frowned. “I’m sorry, sir …”

  “I’m Stonewall Calhoun,” he said. “Sheriff Dickman’s deputy. We were here last Monday. I have a two o—clock appointment with you, and you’re five minutes late.”

  Maxner glanced at his secretary, who gave him a little nod. “Well, all right, Mr. Calhoun. Come on in.” To the other two men he said, “This’ll just be a minute.”

  Calhoun followed Maxner into his office.

  Maxner sat behind his desk and waved the back of his hand at one of the client chairs. “Have a seat. I hope we can make this quick. Those two men out there are important clients. They’ve got a big development deal in the works.” He puffed out his cheeks and blew out a breath. “So tell me how I can help you.”

  Calhoun sat. “I want to run some names by you.” He paused, then said, “Leslie Miller. Howard LaBranche. Anthony Boselli.”

  Maxner looked out the window for a minute. Then he brought his gaze back to Calhoun. “Leslie Miller doesn’t ring any bells, but Boselli and LaBranche were clients of mine back when I was a PD. This have any bearing on the questions you and the sheriff were asking about Errol Watson the other day?”

  “What can you tell me about Boselli and LaBranche?”

  “They’d both committed sex crimes,” Maxner said. “They couldn’t afford a lawyer, so they were assigned to me. Judge Roper heard both cases. There was nothing particularly unusual about them or the cases. Sex offenders are what they are. I did my best to defend them, which was my job, but they were guilty as hell, and they got convicted. I suppose they’re out now, committing more vile crimes? Is that what this is about?”

  “I wonder if you’ve heard anything more about Errol Watson,” said Calhoun. “Since the sheriff and I were here on Monday, I mean.”

  Maxner nodded. “I heard he was murdered. I—oh. You telling me Boselli and LaBranche got murdered, too?”

  “That’s right,” said Calhoun. “And that Leslie Miller, too. All of ‘em sex offenders, and counting Watson, all except Miller were defended by you in Judge Roper’s court.”

  “And you want me to help you figure out who’s killing these men, is that it?”

  Calhoun spread his hands. “Any ideas?”

  “All my paperwork from when I was a PD is stored away,” said Maxner. “I guess I could find those files for you, but it would take me a while.”

  Calhoun nodded. “Do that. How long is a while?”

  “A couple of days? It’s not on my computer. The files are in boxes in the attic of my home.” He smiled. “I never imagined I’d ever have any need for all that stuff, but I save everything.”

  Calhoun nodded. “Good.”

  “I’ll dig it out this weekend. I’ll give you a call. Okay? Was there anything else?” Maxner pushed himself halfway out of his seat, a hint that it was time for Calhoun to leave.

  Calhoun remained seated. “Tell me what You ‘remember about those two cases of yours. Any commonalities with the Errol Watson case, for example?”

  Maxner frowned. “Those cases happened several years ago, Mr. Calhoun. I had a lot of cases when I was a PD.”

  Calhoun nodded.

  “Well,” said Maxner slowly, “I do remember that the Watson case came before LaBranche and Boselli. The Watson case was memorable because of the victim’s family, that heartbreaking testimony of the father. We talked about that the other day.”

  “Yes. Franklin Dunbar.”

  Maxner lifted an index finger. “There was one thing,” he said.

  “Now that I’m thinking about it. An interesting thing, actually. I noticed it at the time, but I didn’t make too much of it. But now that I think of it…”

  “What is it?” said Calhoun.

  “Normally,” said Maxner, “the people who come to watch a trial fall into three categories. One, friends and relatives. Of the victim and of the accused. Two, a few regulars, folks who think trials are high drama and show up every day. Retired folks, mostly. People with time on their hands. Three, reporters. Local papers covering the court.” Otis Maxner lifted his hand, then let it fall back on his desk. “So I noticed him. Dunbar. The father of Watson’s victim who made that—what would you call it? a threat?—during his testimony at Watson’s trial.”

  “You noticed him ?”

  “He was there, Mr. Calhoun. At Boselli’s and LaBranche’s trials. He was there every day. He sat in the back of the courtroom. Just sat there watching. I remember glancing his way occasionally and seeing his eyes on my clients. Every time I looked at him, he was just staring at my clients.”

  “You didn’t think this was strange?”

  “Sure,” said Maxner. “At the time, that’s exactly what I thought. It was strange, bordering on downright bizarre. But anybody can sit in a courtroom, and I just figured, the poor bastard, he developed some fascination with sex crimes and sex criminals. That’s not hard to understand. Anyway’” Maxner stopped suddenly. He blinked a couple of times, then said, “My God.”

  “What?” said Calhoun.

  “Somebody’s going around killing convicted sex offenders? Is that what seems to be happening?”

  “Seems to be,” said Calhoun.

  “Franklin Dunbar,” said Maxner.

  “He was at those trials, huh?”

  “Every day. Didn’t miss a minute of testimony.”

  “You think Dunbar’s doing this?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t say that,” said Maxner. “I couldn’t go that far. What do I know? But it’s an interesting coincidence, at least, isn’t it?”

  “It surely is that,” said Calhoun. “Can you think of any other commonalities?”

  Maxner shook his head. “This other case you mentioned … Miller? Was that the name?”

  “Leslie Miller. Yes.”

  “Isn’t that kind of messing up your theory?”

  “I don’t have a theory.”

  “I mean, the other three, all my clients, all convicted by Judge Roper, Franklin Dunbar witnessing all three cases?”

  “That ain’t a theory,” said Calhoun. “That’s just some commonalities.”

  “Well,” said Maxner, “if it was just those three, you’d have yourself a neat theory that poor Mr. Dunbar killed all of them, wouldn’t you ?”

  “It would be a start,” said Calhoun.

  Maxner shook his head. “Well, anyway. I can’t think of any other commonalities. My clients, Judge Roper’s courtroom, and Franklin Dunbar. That’s leaving Miller out of the equation.”

  “Okay,” said Calhoun. “Appreciate it. You’ll dig out those files for me ?”

  Maxner stood up. “Sure. I’ll call you Monday.” He came around from behind his desk. “So …” He held out his hand.

  Calhoun stood up and shook Otis Maxner’s hand. “You’ve been a big help. Thanks.”

  They went over to the door, and Maxner started to open it.

  “Oh, wait,” said Calhoun. “One more thing.”

  Maxner smiled. “I’ve got two very important clients out there, Mr. Calhoun. You usurped their two o—clock appointment, you know.”

  “Usurped.” Calhoun smiled. “Right. Sorry. The names Paul Vecchio and Albert Wolinski mean anything to you?”

  Maxner looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then shrugged. “No, I don’t think so. Might they have been
clients of mine? Are they sex offenders? Relatives of victims?”

  Calhoun shrugged. “Oh, well. Just a wild shot in the dark.” He waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Maxner was frowning. “I’m trying to think.”

  “Forget it,” said Calhoun. “Thanks for your help.”

  Maxner nodded, then opened his office door and held it for Calhoun, who went out into he reception area.

  Maxner stepped out and said, “Charles? Frederick? Sorry to keep you waiting. Come on in.”

  The two men in business suits stood up and walked past Maxner into his office. Maxner patted each man on the shoulder, nodded at Calhoun, then went in and shut the door behind him.

  Calhoun stood there for a minute.

  The secretary said, “Mr. Calhoun? Is there anything I can do for you ?”

  He turned to look at her. “Something I forgot to ask Mr. Maxner about. Local man name of Albert Wolinski. He sold his house down in Stroudwater a couple years ago. He wasn’t Mr. Maxner’s client, was he?”

  She looked at him. “I can’t talk about our clients, you know. Attorney-client privilege.”

  “We’re just talking about selling a damn house,” said Calhoun.

  She shook her head.

  “I was wondering if he was a client. That’s all. This ain’t about state secrets.”

  She shrugged. “Sorry.”

  Calhoun grinned. “Okay. Thanks anyway.”

  Back outside, the misty fog seemed to be thickening. Calhoun thought about his fishing trip with Dr. Sam Surry. He hoped she’d remember to bring some foul-weather gear.

  Well, she might decide to cancel. It wasn’t going to be much of an afternoon for a boat ride.

  The fishing might be pretty good, though. He decided if she called, he’d encourage her to give it a try. Put a fly rod in her hand, hook her up with a blue or a striper, even a small one, and he guessed she’d have a pretty good time.

  He let Ralph out of the truck. The dog went sniffing among the damp shrubbery alongside the sidewalk.

  Calhoun took his cell phone from his pocket, pressed the button

  on the side, and said, “Dickman.” It rang a few times, and then the sheriff’s voice mail invited him to leave a message.

  “It’s your faithful deputy,” said Calhoun. “Just talked with Otis Maxner. Couple things to think about. One, he mentioned that Franklin Dunbar was in the courtroom for the trials of both Anthony Boselli and Howard LaBranche. They were both in Judge Roper’s court, so you might want to ask the judge if he remembers it the same way. The second thing I’m wondering is if Maxner handled Albie Wolinski’s closing when he sold his house. Albie’s name didn’t ring any bells with Maxner. His secretary wouldn’t say one way or the other. Just a thought. Okay. That’s all. I’m going fishing.”

  He put the phone back into his pocket and whistled up Ralph. “Want to go for a boat ride?”

  Ralph jumped into the truck and sat on the passenger seat with his ears perked up. He was ready to go.

  Calhoun drove back to the shop in Portland through the fog. The closer he got to the coast, the thicker it became. Even though it wasn’t yet four in the afternoon—still nearly three hours before sunset—the traffic was moving under the speed limit, and all the vehicles had their headlights on.

  He wondered if Dr. Sam Surry would be spooked by the fog. On Casco Bay, visibility would be under a hundred feet.

  He guessed it was about ten of four when he pulled into the parking lot beside the shop. Kate’s pickup was parked next to his trailered boat. A little black Honda SUV was pulled up near the door.

  Calhoun parked beside Kate’s truck, and he and Ralph got out. Ralph messed around in the bushes for a few minutes. Calhoun waited for him to finish, then snapped his fingers. Ralph came over and looked up at him. “Heel,” said Calhoun.

  When he opened the shop door, he heard that Kate had put on the Portland oldies station. Calhoun sometimes liked listening to that old time rock ‘n’ roll. He found that he could sing along with songs that he’d swear he’d never heard in his life. Of course, there was that whole life that he couldn’t remember. He supposed songs just got stuck in your head somewhere.

  Now he stood inside the doorway mouthing “Yackity-yack, don’t talk back,” the tune running in his head and his mind popping up the silly lyrics as the music came along from the radio.

  Kate was sitting at the fly-tying bench, and Dr. Sam Surry had pulled up a chair close beside her. They hadn’t seen him come in, apparently, because they didn’t even look up. Kate had a half-tied fly in the vise—it looked to Calhoun like a featherwing streamer of some kind, maybe even a Gray Ghost, the fly he’d been tying when Dr. Surry was here the other day—and she was concentrating on it, winding the thread with her right hand and holding the materials back with her left, but talking to Dr. Surry all the time.

  Dr. Surry had her head tilted toward Kate, and she was leaning forward a little, watching Kate’s fingers move on the half-tied fly.

  Dr. Surry said something, and Kate lifted her head and looked at her and smiled, and then Dr. Surry laughed.

  That’s when they seemed to notice Calhoun for the first time. Kate looked up and her mouth made a surprised O, and then Calhoun had the feeling that it wasn’t fly-tying they’d been talking about.

  He said, “Okay,” to Ralph, who was sitting on the floor behind him, and Ralph went over to Kate with his whole hind end wagging so she could pat him.

  The song on the radio ended, and the familiar raspy voice of the obnoxious guy who owned the Ford agency in South Portland started yelling about great deals on new and used Ford trucks.

  Calhoun went over to the radio on the shelf and turned it off. Then he looked at Kate and Sam Surry. “I can’t stand that guy,” he said.

  They were both smiling at him, as if they were privy to some secret that they weren’t going to share with him.

  He figured they’d been talking about him, and he was surprised that it didn’t make him uncomfortable. Actually, he kind of liked the idea.

  He looked at Dr. Sam Surry and said, “Ready to go fishing?”

  Kate said, “In this fog?”

  He shrugged. “I ain’t likely to get lost, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Kate turned to Dr. Surry. “He’s right. He always knows where he is. It’s spooky.” She looked up at him. “I’ll still worry, you know. I don’t like fog like this. You could ram a rock. You could get run down by a tanker or some drunk teenager in a cigarette boat. What if your motor quits?”

  He smiled at Kate, then shifted his gaze to Dr. Surry and arched his eyebrows. “Up to you, ma’am.”

  She nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  Kate said, “I hope you got that cell phone with you.” To Dr. Surry she said, “He refuses to use GPS, and he claims his boat radio’s broke. He hates having electronics aboard when he goes fishing.”

  Calhoun patted his pocket. “I got the damn phone.”

  “Please don’t leave it in your truck,” Kate said.

  “Right,” he said. “So if I get lost, I can call and say, ‘Help, I’m lost.’ And whoever I talk to will say, ‘Where are you?’ And I’ll say, ‘How the hell should I know? If I knew, I wouldn’t be lost, would I?’“

  Kate smiled. “Please bring the phone.”

  “Phones are against the rules of my boat.”

  “This one time,” she said, “break your damn rule. Just to make me feel better.”

  Dr. Surry turned to Kate. “I’ve got a phone,” she said in a fake whisper. “I’ll smuggle it aboard.”

  Now the two of them were conspiring. He wondered what Kate had been saying about him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  There were no other vehicles parked in the lot at the East End boat landing. The fog lay in a gray wet blanket over Casco Bay. From the landing you could make out a few dark shapes out there, islands that normally were fully visible in all their colorful details.

  Calho
un stopped at the top of the ramp, and he and Dr. Surry transferred all the gear from the back of the truck to the boat, while Ralph padded along the edge of the water, sniffing the seaweed and driftwood and peeing frequently.

  After they got the boat loaded up, Calhoun climbed back into the truck. He backed the trailered boat into the water, pulled the emergency brake, and got out. He went around to the back, undid the safety hook, and disconnected the trailer lights. Then he un-cranked the chain, unhooked the boat, grabbed the bow line, and gave the boat a shove. He held onto the line as the boat floated off the trailer.

  He handed the line to Dr. Surry. “Hang on to this while I park the truck.”

  She took the line. She was wearing a new-looking Simms rain outfit. It was pale blue, and it fit her nicely. She looked good in it. The blue, he noticed, made her eyes seem bigger. He wondered if Kate had sold it to her.

  He thought maybe he’d have the opportunity to ask her if they’d been talking about him. Maybe she could give him some in- sight into Kate’s frame of mind. He believed that women understood each other the way a man never could.

  Or maybe Kate had just been showing her how to tie flies.

  “Be right back,” he said to Sam Surry, and she smiled and showed him that she had a good grip on the line.

  He got into the truck, and Ralph hopped in with him. He drove up the ramp and parked in the lot. When he got out and looked back, his boat and Sam Surry were just blurry black-and-white shapes in the fog.

  He thought about leaving his cell phone in the truck, but Kate wanted him to bring it, and he decided that no harm would come from it. Maybe he’d even give her a call when they were out there, tell her about all the stripers they were catching, ease her mind.

  A rule didn’t make much sense if there weren’t circumstances when you should break it.

  Ralph trotted along beside him as he headed back to his boat. They had just started down the sloping ramp when Ralph stopped and growled deep in his chest.

  “It’s just Dr. Surry,” Calhoun said. “What’s your—”

  Then he stopped. Somebody, another human shape, was with her.

  Ralph was standing there stiff-legged, his growl a low menacing rumble.