by Archer Mayor
“Won’t be much longer. The cops aren’t helping. You been interviewed yet?”
“If you call it that. Pretty lame, if you ask me. If somebody on the inside did this, like they’re sayin’, I don’t know how asking a bunch of dumb-ass questions is gonna get them anywhere.”
“Yeah, right,” the other man laughed. “The guy’s gonna burst into tears at the first question and confess? I don’t think so.”
J.R. smiled in agreement and began moving along. “Hey, how smart can they be? They’re cops.”
But Hank wasn’t quite finished. He put down the drill he’d been holding and approached J.R. in an almost conspiratorial way before asking softly, “Seriously, what d’you think’s going on? People’re saying something worse might happen next. I mean, what was the purpose of this?”
J.R. held both palms heavenwards. “Beats me, Hank. Maybe they’re right—somebody we fired who got pissed off?”
Hank was unconvinced. “Pretty sophisticated way of doing it. Bypass all the security and set off a bunch of time-delayed bombs? Come on. There’s gotta be more to it than that.”
J.R. matched the other man’s low tone to say, “I shouldn’t say this, ’cause—well—it’s bad for morale, but I think you’re right. Between you and me, forget the company line or the cops. I think this was like a warning shot.”
Hank’s concern grew, his eyes widening. “Really?”
J.R. stood back. “Hell, you said it. I didn’t. It doesn’t make sense otherwise.” He waved his hand around for emphasis. “I mean, some damage was done, but it wasn’t a showstopper. What’s that tell you? You ask me, I think this is like the poor bastard in the crow’s nest yelling at the captain in that Titanic movie, ‘Iceberg ahead.’ Right? You know what happened next.”
And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away, smiling at the seed he hoped he’d planted.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“What?” Lester asked on the phone.
“Goddamn things,” his boss muttered angrily.
“That, I heard,” Lester said. “What did you say before?”
“Mick—” Joe’s voice cut out again.
“I heard ‘Mick,’” Lester told him. “What about him?”
“Shit—”
Lester laughed as Pat Smith cast him a look from across the borrowed GreenField office. He covered the mouthpiece and explained, “Gunther. He hates cell phones; always uses ’em where they’re guaranteed not to work. Self-fulfilling prophecy.”
But he knew the man well enough to simply hang on. Joe eventually came within reach of another cell tower.
“I said Mick used to work there.”
“Stop the car where you are,” Lester told him.
“Then why the hell do I have a goddamned mobile phone?” Joe countered.
“Point taken. Where did Mick used to work?”
“There. GreenField,” Joe explained. “It was about three years ago, for maybe a year. Liked it a lot, but apparently blew it by drinking. It may be nothing—they employ a ton of people like him—but it’s the kind of coincidence I don’t want to let lie. Too close for comfort.”
“No argument from me,” Lester agreed. “You know Sam’s been trying to get hold of you? Check your messages.”
“I was in Manchester Center, at Mick’s trailer. Met his neighbor and didn’t want the cell interrupting, so I turned it off. Nobody asked the guy during the canvass if he knew Mick—only if he’d seen or heard anything. Turns out they were buddies.”
Lester’s heart sank. “That’s my bad. Sorry.”
“No big deal,” Joe replied. “Just frustrating. We caught it. That’s what counts. What’s Sam want?”
“No idea. I just wanted to give you the heads-up. I don’t think it’s case related. Something personal, I think.”
“Got it. I’ll chase her down. Find out what you can about Mick, okay?”
“Got it. Happy motoring.”
Joe didn’t respond, which only made Lester laugh.
* * *
Sam and Joe met at the office, roughly midpoint from their respective spots of departure. Joe had succeeded in reaching her immediately after Lester’s call, but all she’d said was that she wanted to speak face-to-face.
“Well, here we are,” Joe greeted her from his desk as she entered. “I have a feeling this’ll be good, since I just now checked the dailies and found that both you and Willy fell down a twenty-four-hour rabbit hole. What’s cookin’?” His expression sombered as he read her face, and added, “Don’t tell me it’s bad news.”
She sat at her own desk before speaking, clearly choosing her words carefully. “It’s Willy, and it’s a combination bad news–good news thing. It’s fine now, before you ask, or at least everything’s stable, so there’s no crisis.”
“Good,” Joe said slowly and leadingly, encouraging her to explain further.
“It’s his arm,” she went on, switching her gaze from her desktop to him and back again. “Turns out that all this time, it’s been hurting him. Not badly, and not all the time, but with twinges, I guess you’d call ’em. Or that’s how he described it. Point being that it was related to some nerve damage, or scar buildup around the nerves.”
“Can I interrupt for a sec?” Joe asked.
“Sure. Of course.”
“Is he okay? Where is he now?”
“At Upper Valley Surgical Specialists, under a John Doe.”
Joe sat up. “Jesus. Makes him sound dead.”
“He’s not. He’s not. But the pain hit the roof, to where he couldn’t function. It’s that bad. He says it’s like being hit by a Taser with no off switch.”
“Awful,” Joe remarked. “When did this start?”
“A few days ago,” she said quietly. “I’ve been really worried, you know, what with his history. I hope this won’t cause problems, but I even talked with Beverly about it, since she’s been so good to us.”
Joe waved that aside. “Of course that’s fine. But all this was before we were working the homicide or the arson, right? Why is your other half such a hardhead? He was probably barely functional. He worked all night at the warehouse in this condition?”
“He said it helped keep his mind off the pain,” she said, adding, “That’s not all. It gets a little worse. The other way he was dealing with it was by taking Oxys. Lots of them.”
Joe pressed his lips together before asking, “Is this where I don’t ask where he got them?”
“If you wouldn’t mind, yes,” she answered sheepishly. “But here’s the good news part: Sue Spinney admitted him into UVSS. She’s just started working there and has a best friend who’s head of nursing. Between the two of them, they got him a little more comfortable.”
“All right,” he said. “Then why the John Doe?”
“That’s to do with billing and privacy,” Sam explained, still sounding unusually meek. “Willy’s worried that if word gets out the arm’s acting up and he’s strung out on painkillers, it’ll cost him his job.”
Joe scratched his forehead before responding. “He’s half right. I’d chew him a new one myself if I catch him on unprescribed meds. But we already dealt with the disability. That’s why he’s on this squad. Why would any of that change just because some nerve’s kicking up?”
“That’s what Sue’s friend said, too, but you know Willy. And given what a lot of people think of him, I’m not sure I blame the guy.”
“Fair enough,” Joe conceded. “So what happens now? Is it settling down again?”
“No. We’re back in bad news territory. It’s gonna take an operation. They have to open up the arm to fix it.”
Joe scowled. “Damn. How do you fix something that’s been damaged for so long?”
“I don’t mean the arm itself,” Sam said. “At least, I don’t think so. My understanding is this is all about stopping the pain. Nothing more.” She stood up abruptly and began pacing back and forth. “Look, I don’t really know. So far, it’s just been Sue and Vic
toria—that’s her pal—who’ve been talking about what to do. The person who’ll really know is an orthopedic surgeon—a specialist in hands, arms, and shoulders.”
“That’s a specialty?”
“So I’m told. In this case, the necessary doc is already on staff, and ready to discuss the details.”
“So why’m I thinking there’s another shoe about to drop?” Joe asked.
“’Cause there is, I guess.… Maybe,” she replied. “We don’t know who’s gonna pay for it.”
Joe stared at her, astonished. “I am trusting my life to children,” he blurted out. “You people carry guns, for Christ’s sake; deprive people of their liberty. We pay for it,” he said loudly. “Jesus, Sam. He was shot in the line of duty. Maimed for life. How many times do you think that happens in this state? Of course, we’ll pay for the operation, and assuming it goes well, and he’s as good as he was before, and he chooses to return to duty, he’ll be returned to full-time status. Does that statement eliminate any lingering doubts?”
In response, she circled his desk without comment and threw her arms around his neck.
* * *
Joe was as impressed as everyone by the panorama from the inner window. He stood at the doorway, ignoring the two people hunched over the large central table, transfixed by the vista of the warehouse beyond. Even with his previous visits to the building, he still couldn’t get used to its setting—not to mention the drama of this particular view.
“It’s like a sports arena, all hollowed out, isn’t it?” he mused.
Lester and Pat Smith both straightened and looked at him.
“Hey, boss,” Lester greeted him.
Joe crossed over to them.
“This is Pat Smith,” Lester continued, gesturing to his colleague, who shook hands with Joe.
“We know each other,” Joe said to her. “Although it’s been a few years. Congratulations on joining this outfit.”
“Thanks,” she said. “It’s good to see you. And thanks for the heads-up about Michael Durocher.”
Joe glanced at the document-laden table. “He actually surfaced? I’m so used to him supposedly being places where nobody’s really seen him.”
“Nope,” Lester confirmed, leaning over and retrieving a file. “They knew him here.”
“Before we get into that,” Joe suggested, “would you both please tell me that as a result of this aha moment, you checked to see if Teri Parker ever worked here, too?”
Pat laughed. “We did, and she didn’t. Les brought me up to speed on the weird connection. Speaking as GreenField’s head of security, I’m guessing there’s no point arguing that our arson and your murder could be a coincidence, given how many people we hire and the overall shallow employment pool.”
“You can argue it all you want,” Joe said. “But you know we can’t think that way. Until we can prove otherwise, the murder of Teri Parker is absolutely tied to this mess. Sorry.”
Pat merely looked rueful. “No apologies needed. I had to ask for the record.”
“Your boss gonna have a cow?” Lester asked.
“Beaupré?” she replied. “Not a chance. He’s a good guy. He’ll understand once I spell it out.”
“Okay,” Joe resumed. “I just wanted that out of the way first. Did you two have a chance to do more than pull Mick’s file?”
“We read it,” Lester stated, “but that’s it so far.”
“I gotta say,” Pat added, taking the folder and leafing through it. “He doesn’t come across as your run-of-the-mill murderer. Not that there is such a thing, but you get the idea. We do quarterly reports on employees here, in part because we know what level of society we often hire from, and he consistently rates terms like friendly, eager, helpful, a team player.”
“Not the sullen recluse we got from the barkeeps and Thurley,” Lester said.
“That was probably recent history,” Joe told them. “According to the neighbor I interviewed, the dark stuff came later, after he washed out. I don’t think it’s unreasonable for both portraits to apply. One thing I’m wondering, just so we don’t forget it later: Did something here push him back into the bottle?”
“There’s no mention of it,” Pat said, scanning the pages more carefully. “But having read my fair share of these, they’re not necessarily accurate biographies. A lot can happen from one quarter to the next, and the supervisors who write the evals aren’t Ph.D.s in psychology. Politics play a role, too. Sometimes a rating’s better or worse than it should be because of something personal going on. This whole place is a soap opera now and then.”
“What was his job?” Joe asked.
“He began conventionally enough,” she said. “Without using our in-house terminology, he went from someone who prepares pallets for shipment—that includes operating the big shrink-wrappers that keep everything from shifting en route—to running a jack. That’s a nice move up the ladder in a short time, but not unheard of. What is a little unusual is that he got tapped to drive the big chief around in his pickup. That usually takes longer.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It’s one of Beaupré’s quirks,” Pat replied. “And it works, which kind of amazed me at first. Bob Beaupré reaches into the company on a revolving basis and taps the high performers among the rank and file to drive him around for a while.”
“A chauffeur?”
“I suppose, technically. But that’s not how it comes across. It’s like what they said about Sam Walton of Walmart fame, who, in the early days, used to show up at stores in his pickup truck and jeans. Beaupré just likes other people to do the driving. It’s still a truck, and he’s also dressed down, but the way he does it, he gets to use the phone on the road if he needs to, or shoot the breeze with his driver if not. He finds out how things are on the floor, and he leaves a good impression with the driver, who takes that back when he cycles out of the job.”
“Huh,” Joe grunted. “There’s always some new wrinkle. How long’s each cycle last?”
“It’s not set in stone. Not every matchup is made in heaven. Bob never makes a big deal out of it when he doesn’t like his driver much, but they’ll be out in a month or so. Where there’s chemistry, it might last longer.”
“It’s like the governor’s security detail,” Lester commented.
“Yeah,” Pat agreed. “But friendlier. No guns or suits.”
“All right,” Joe returned to the topic at hand. “So you’re saying Mick got this perk with less than a year on the job. And it’s a reflection of performance, is that right?”
“Yup. The final choice is always Bob’s—after management gives him a selection—but that’s the pool he selects from, and it’s popular. It’s gonna be a ton more fun to drive the chief around than schlep pallets in a dark warehouse at high speed. And the word’s out that the boss is a cool dude. It’s the proverbial win–win.”
Joe sat opposite them at the big table. “Unless it bends either one of you out of joint, I’d like to chat with Master Bob about Mick.”
In response to them both shaking their heads, he continued, “Have you found any connections between Mick and the people you’ve been considering for this arson?”
“It’s early yet,” Lester answered realistically. “You only told us about Mick an hour ago. But we did start overlaying his old schedule and his coworkers with the people who’re still around. If nothing else, it’ll give us a narrower field than we had before.”
Pat laughed. “Yeah—like almost the whole company.”
Joe looked at them in surprise. “You must’ve cut down the suspects list more than that.”
“Not as much as you think,” Lester told him. “That was the genius of the battery balloons. They could’ve been put in place anytime, not just the shift when the fires broke out.”
“Which opens up the pool almost exponentially,” Pat followed up.
“It’s true that we have people with past criminal records or on-site poor performance evals,” Lester wen
t on. “But that doesn’t mean we can ignore the others. Having a record just means you were caught. We all know that’s probably not the majority of people out there who are misbehaving.”
Joe once more cast an eye across the files spread between them. “Swell,” he said, getting back up. “If you can stand it, I’ll try to come back to lend a hand after I chase down Bob Beaupré.”
Lester smiled tiredly. “We’ll be here.”
* * *
Abigail Sumner was Willy’s kind of doctor: the precise opposite of the upbeat, hand-holding, sympathetic type he couldn’t stand. She entered the exam room where he and Sam were sitting, gave them a perfectly friendly if just serviceable smile, and forewent all handshakes or chitchat in favor of placing a laptop computer on the elevated treatment table lining the wall opposite them.
“I’m Dr. Sumner,” she said, glancing over her shoulder quickly, while typing in commands. “I’ll have the privilege of untangling the mess in your arm and giving you your life back. At least the one you were used to.”
She straightened as an image appeared on the screen, and stood back to reveal it.
“These are the results of the MRI we made earlier,” she explained. “To the layman, they’re borderline incomprehensible. To me and my consulting neurology colleague, they represent a predictable picture of our biology’s frequent tendency to not leave well enough alone.”
Almost comically on cue, Sam and Willy both leaned forward to better see what they’d just been told they wouldn’t understand.
Sumner dutifully played along, taking a pen from her lab coat pocket and using it as a pointer, manipulating the images via the touchpad with her other hand as she went.
“First things first,” she began. “What have you been told so far, so I can address your fears and misunderstandings from the start?”
Willy sat back. “Ask her.” He jerked a thumb at Sammie. “I’ve been out of it so much, you don’t wanna know what I remember.”
“Victoria thought it might be a palsy, I think,” Sam said. “I’ll get it wrong, but it was something involving the plexus, and that it might be a tumor, although she said not to get excited about that word, because they aren’t all cancerous.”
