by Archer Mayor
Sumner sat on the edge of the high, padded table. “Close. Willy’s suffering from brachial plexus palsy.”
Sam nodded. “That was it.”
The doctor smiled thinly. “Right. I’ll keep this simple. When that bullet entered your shoulder, it did two things: It smashed the clavicle—what most people call the collarbone—and its shock wave drove microscopic bone fragments into the brachial plexus like a shotgun blast. The brachial plexus, which sounds like a Los Angeles interstate junction, is actually an interwoven complex of nerves—large and small and all entangled—that originate from high on the spinal column and work their way down your arm.”
She shifted around slightly to bring up a much more simplified anatomical image of the shoulder. “At the time of your initial repair,” she continued, “the surgeons exposed the damage, almost from neck to shoulder, and conducted a debridement and lavage procedure, removing bone and bullet fragments and pieces of clothing, and washing the area out. I know all that because I’ve accessed the medical files you made available to me through Victoria. Then they applied a clavicle wrap and a sling, and let Mother Nature do her thing.”
She returned the screen to its original image. “So far, so good. Given the times, they did good work. You lost the use of your arm, but you weren’t otherwise disabled. And I imagine you dealt with whatever pain arose later through Tylenol or Advil or some other analgesic. Is that more or less accurate?”
Willy kept things moving, rushing this forward to its promised relief. “Yup.”
He was also by now embarrassed and irritated by his near-miss relapse into substance abuse, the devastating consequences of which he knew all too well.
Sumner smiled appreciatively. “Nevertheless, those good old days are where your current complaint was born.” She used her pen to stab at a small array of tiny objects with no meaning to her audience. “These are a few of the bone fragments they missed,” she said. “And this opaque stuff here and here and here is representative of the scar tissue that formed around them—all of it impinging on the architecture of the brachial plexus.”
“How did they miss that?” Sammie asked, her frustration clear.
“They couldn’t see it,” Sumner replied calmly. “That’s what I was saying. When this all occurred, MR imaging didn’t exist. We had little better than the X-ray technology dating back a hundred years. All this activity—” She emphasized by tapping the screen in multiple places. “—is essentially invisible to the naked eye. I generously referred to it as bone fragments. Actually, that’s what they did extract. What we’ll be going after could be called bone dust.”
Willy scowled. “But it’s been there all along.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Slowly stimulating scar tissue, which then began to contract. There’s the irony of this particular tale: While the initial expansion caused no pain, as it moved in the opposite direction, it finally hit the radial nerve in a way that blew the top of your head off—neurologically speaking.”
Willy snapped his fingers. “But it happened overnight, damn near.”
“As it will,” Sumner said simply. “Nerves are like that.”
Sammie was transfixed by the complexity before her, the science of it edging out the suffering and loss the imagery represented. “That’s really him?”
“In exquisite detail,” Sumner answered. After a moment’s pause, she added, “Keep in mind that MRIs can be a little misleading until you learn to read them. If you consult a road map, the pavement is highlighted in red or blue, and the things lining or covering that road, like ditches, skid marks, rumble strips, paint striping, gouges, and the like don’t even appear. Not so in an MR image. Everything shows up. To the untrained eye, it can be a little daunting.”
“How will you do it?” Willy asked.
“Same as before,” she answered. “We’ll make an incision along the axis of the brachial plexus, divide the clavicle, wheel in a microscope to help me see what’s what, and look to reverse the neuropathy.”
“Which is what?” Sam asked.
“Neuropathy? The dysfunction of nerve tissue. That’s what all that dust and scarring has done. What I’ll be doing, Willy, is essentially running along the length of the nerves—roughly a foot, grand total—stripping each of its fibrous scar buildup, and removing each of those specks of bone dust as I go.”
“Oh,” Sam reacted. “A foot? That sounds much better.”
Willy was less sure. “How long does it take?”
“About fourteen hours.”
Sam’s mouth fell open. Willy ignored her. “You said, ‘Dividing the clavicle.’ That doesn’t sound good.”
Sumner did look a little rueful. “Yes. If the clavicle’s moved out of the way, it makes my life much easier. It also increases your chance of success. Look on the bright side: It’ll be a much better healing process than after the bullet shattered it.”
“Meaning that afterwards, I’ll be in a sling and swath like before,” he suggested.
“Correct. You could be up and about in a week or so, but the knitting of that bone, and the need for you to keep the region immobilized, will take closer to six weeks—if you behave.”
He smiled at the small editorial addendum. “You must’ve heard about me.”
“I have,” she said.
Sam had recovered from her earlier shock, at least partly. “Given all this time and effort, going nerve by nerve, will you be able to return his arm to normal?”
Sumner shook her head. “As I said at the top, at best, I hope to return things to the way they were before this onslaught of pain. If everything goes as anticipated, you may end up more pain free than you’ve ever been, but as for functionality, it’s just been too long. There is nothing for the restored nerves to connect to. That’s all atrophied away.”
“I don’t care,” Willy told her. “That, I’m used to. When do we start?”
Sumner stood up. “This is the part you’ll like. Tomorrow morning, if you’re willing.”
“Willing and able,” he said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Pat Smith had been correct about Bob Beaupré’s pickup. Joe discovered it—suitably dusty and utilitarian—parked on the edge of the pea-stoned dooryard fronting the house. Right beside the Cadillac Escalade and Porsche Boxster GTS, both of which were being needlessly washed, it appeared, by a man in dark blue utility clothes, outside the five-door garage.
Joe was in Colchester, Vermont, north of Burlington, and a fifteen-minute commute from GreenField’s corporate headquarters, in front of a home of—if such a term existed—rich, rural excess.
It was probably called a log cabin by its owner, and it appeared to be built of felled trees. But that’s where this and any notion of what Jeremiah Johnson might have called home parted ways.
It was large enough to make Joe stand and stare for a while, soaking it in.
“Nice, ain’t it?”
Joe turned to see the car washer watching him, the hose in his hand still dripping.
“You probably see a lot of people with their mouths open,” Joe said.
“Fair share,” the man said. “It’s not the kind of place most’re used to. Not around here.”
“Reminds me of those tourist lodges you see out West,” Joe observed. “Yellowstone or somewhere. How big is this?”
“Seven thousand square feet.”
“Damn.”
Joe studied the man more carefully—less the clothes and more the way he carried himself—before asking, “How long ago did you build it?”
Bob Beaupré chuckled and laid the hose on the ground, wiping his hands on his pants to dry them. “Busted. Most people just walk by me. Course, you’re not them, are you?”
“That can be good or bad,” Joe said, shaking hands. “Joe Gunther.”
“Call me Bob,” Beaupré requested, not bothering to answer the question. “You’re the one who phoned. You like to come in?”
“Absolutely.”
With Beaupré preceding hi
m, Joe stepped into a home with decor deserving of Newport, Rhode Island. The lobby’s arched and timbered ceiling lofted overhead, anchored by a chandelier made of an enormous stripped and lacquered tree trunk, festooned with lights running along its spider-leg-like roots, but modestly sized in these surroundings.
Joe’s host took him through a dining hall big enough for the Round Table, and into a library out of My Fair Lady, complete with two-story bookcases, a second-floor gallery running around its periphery, and a wrought iron spiral staircase in one corner.
Joe kept his counsel about all of it, but his expression was obviously not so guarded. Beaupré caught his look and smiled. “I know,” he said. “I went a little nuts. I saw too many musicals. Have a seat.” He gestured to a pair of leather armchairs before a movie-screen-sized row of French windows revealing what the massive house had been blocking: a broad wooden deck with a view of Malletts Bay, looking out onto Lake Champlain—comparable to something Joe imagined might be visible from the bridge of the Queen Elizabeth, as she was about to set sail.
“You want coffee or something?” Beaupré asked, settling in and looking like the groundskeeper taking liberties in the boss’s absence. Joe noticed that he’d left a trail of wet footprints upon entering the building.
Beaupré began predictably, taking an educated guess at Joe’s motive for coming. “I appreciate your dropping by to meet face-to-face. I heard an hour ago that we’re almost back to normal at the warehouse. You folks gotten closer to finding out who did it?”
“Not in any way that would make you happy,” Joe told him. “But to our way of thinking, we’re making progress.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Basically, we make algorithms in cases with so many suspects. Lists of people who were in the right place at the right time; with past criminal records; who’ve stood out for what they’ve done or said against the company; with knowledge of the battery recharging process; and so on. Generally, after a while, patterns start showing up. It takes time, but it works well in the long run. Speaking of which, have you thought of anyone who might’ve wanted to kick your shins this way?”
“By burning me to the ground?” Beaupré asked in a surprised voice. “You must have one hell of a pair of shins.”
“I don’t think that was the intent,” Joe said. “The brains behind this were more than capable of destroying the whole place. What happened was a choice to do otherwise. That suggests a complicated motive.”
Beaupré didn’t respond, instead staring sightlessly out through the French doors.
“Right now,” Joe resumed, “we’re pursuing typical leads: disgruntled employees, oddball personalities, even pissed-off competitors. But we don’t have your insight into a lot of potential bad actors. You know best about past contracts gone sour or people who’ve felt stepped on. Yours is a highly competitive business. You’ve got farmers, producers, and suppliers all lined up with similar goods, clamoring for attention. You’ve got other wholesalers trying to undersell or outperform you, and you’ve got customers complaining about pricing and contracts and lack of attention. The list goes on.”
Beaupré had begun shaking his head. “I know. Believe me.”
“Well, that’s my point,” Joe stressed. “We’ve got a big crew on this, but we could stand any help you can provide. I heard about how you regularly reach into the organization to get a driver, and I’m sure you know more people and more details than anyone else in the company. GreenField is part of your DNA. What I’m asking is for you to run it through your mind—way outside the box we’re working in—and see what you might come up with.”
“I have been mulling it over,” Beaupré said, looking at Joe directly again. “It occurred to me this might be personal. But so far…” He left the phrase unfinished.
Joe broached his other subject of interest. “Speaking of that,” he began, “I was wondering if you remember a man who once worked as one of your drivers, named Mick Durocher?”
Beaupré’s response was instant and positive. “Mick? Oh, sure. Good guy.” He paused and asked, “You’re not thinking of him for this, are you? Your algorithms need work if you are.” He looked around the room somewhat restlessly. “You sure you don’t want something to drink? A lemonade or iced tea or something? I’m thirstier than I thought.”
He rose and moved to the oversized desk that dominated a corner of the library and pushed a button. “Why has Mick’s name come up?” he asked. “You know he left the company years ago.”
“Why was that?” Joe countered instead of answering. “He reads like the perfect employee.” Joe noted that Beaupré had either not made the connection between the murder in the headlines, featuring Michael Durocher, and the man he knew as Mick or he wasn’t owning up to it.
Beaupré snorted as a maid entered the room and stopped near the door. Her boss gave one last look at Joe, who shook his head. “I’m all set.”
“One lemonade, Mary,” Beaupré requested. “Thanks.”
He returned to his seat, crossing his legs and getting comfortable once more. “In a word? Drinking. Mick was the perfect employee until he opened a bottle. I wish I could say that was rare among my employees, but I can’t. It sort of goes with the territory. We actually set up a program to fight it a few years ago. Brought people in who knew what they were talking about as counselors. It’s still up and running, having some success, I hope. But Mick wouldn’t get near it.”
“How long did he drive for you?”
“A few months. That’s the usual. I try for a regular turnover, ’cause I know what it means to the troops.”
“Do you remember what you talked about when you were together?”
Beaupré’s eyebrows shot up. “Talked about? Who the hell knows? Sports, the weather, maybe local politics, although probably not with him. Family comes up with these guys. I think he had a daughter he felt badly about. I don’t remember her name.”
“From what I heard,” Joe said, “he was chosen for driver duty earlier than most. Why was that?”
Beaupré laughed. “I wouldn’t know—for exactly that reason. If I’m suspected of playing favorites, that would turn the process on its ear, wouldn’t it? Somebody in HR picks ’em out. They end up in a pool of deserving employees who work hard, don’t take too many sick days, have the least accidents, all the rest of it. I only pick from that pool, pretty much at random.”
Joe opened his mouth to speak as the other man cut him off, adding, “That’s not to say I don’t sometimes ask for one or two of them to stay longer if I like ’em. I am the boss, after all. But that’s the only favoritism I show, and believe me, it’s totally self-serving. Some of these success stories are so dull that getting a good one is worth his weight in gold.”
The lemonade arrived. Following a token sip from his glass, Beaupré asked, “You never answered my question. Why the interest in Mick?”
“He came up in another investigation,” Joe answered, deciding not to enlighten him. “We just noticed he’d worked for you once. Interesting coincidence.”
“Oh. Well, I hope that’s all it is. I liked Mick. Worked hard, mostly kept his mouth shut, which I appreciate when we’re on the road. When he showed up drunk at work—after his stint with me as driver—I don’t think there were any hard feelings when we had to let him go. He was always a straight shooter, and if my memory’s right, he took it like a stand-up guy. Like so many others with that problem, they aren’t bad people. They have a sickness. That’s why we set up the program. But you know what they say: Ya gotta hit bottom before you can pick yourself up. I guess Mick wasn’t there yet. I’m sorry to hear he’s in trouble.”
“So you haven’t been in touch since he left your employment?” Joe asked.
Beaupré shook his head. “Nope. You wouldn’t tell me what he’s done, I guess.”
“It’ll come out sooner than later,” Joe said. “But I’ll let the prosecutors and the press decide that.”
Beaupré nodded. “Understood.” H
e placed the otherwise ignored glass on a nearby side table and stood up. “Was there anything else?”
Joe joined him, speaking as they returned the way they’d come. “Not at the moment. I’ll be sure to keep you up to date as things proceed.”
“And I’ll give some more thought to who might’ve done this from my perspective,” Beaupré said. “I could sure live without any more crap like this.”
He took Joe to the front door. “Good luck, Mr. Gunther. Don’t hesitate to reach out if you think of anything else.”
It had been a perfectly civil, almost bland exchange, from start to finish. And yet, Joe strongly suspected that it would be resumed in the near future, where the pleasantries might be lacking. Call it instinct, or what younger types like Lester referred to as “Spidey sense,” but there was something going on in this oversized Lincoln Logs pile that made Joe think he’d be back to talk with its owner.
* * *
“This is the second house I’ve stared at from the outside today,” Joe said.
Beverly turned to look at him. “Really? Are you house shopping?”
“Not a chance,” he laughed. “It was Bob Beaupré’s, in Colchester. It sure didn’t look like this. And it sure wasn’t this sweet.”
They were standing before a small, immaculately restored Greek Revival on two acres of land near downtown Windsor, overlooking the local lake. It was quiet, very pretty, and bucolic, while within easy reach of Main Street.
“Bigger?” Beverly asked.
Joe pointed with his chin. “This whole place would’ve fit into his garage, with minimal customizing.”
He didn’t add that her own house south of Burlington struck him as being almost in the same class. But that, he knew, had been purchased by her ex-husband, a high-priced lawyer with a penchant for flashing cash.
“You like it?” he asked her.
They’d been inside already, and had walked the property. He thought it was great, but hadn’t yet said a word.
