Occam's Razor

by Mayor, Archer

  Sammie didn’t respond, and after a few moments of silence, I turned to look at her. She was staring off into space, her face small, pale, and sad.

  I reached out and touched her shoulder. “You okay?”

  She smiled wanly and laid her hand on mine, giving it a squeeze. “I should ask you the same thing.”

  “I think so,” I answered. “I’ve been debating with myself all night. Maybe that’s why I was in the woodshop—sort of getting myself re-anchored to something. I know we’ve just gone back to the way things were—even with her working up in Montpelier—but I miss what we had.”

  “Tell me about it,” she said wistfully.

  “You still think about him a lot?” I asked.

  “Not him—it,” she answered. “I know now he wouldn’t have worked out, for a whole bunch of reasons, but I really liked that closeness with someone.”

  The kettle began to whistle. I spooned out the chocolate, poured in the water, added a little half-and-half, and set the end results in front of her. “I have whipped cream.”

  Her face brightened. “No kidding?”

  I got the canister out of the fridge and shot a small iceberg into her mug. She took a careful sip, putting a dollop of cream on her nose, which she wiped off with the back of her hand, laughing.

  I thought of how we represented far sides of the same spectrum—she at the start of adult life, and I much closer to the end. “You looking for someone else?” I asked after a while.

  Her mood had lightened, her tone become jauntier. “Shit, no. I’m still walking wounded. I think I will in the long run, though. I can see what people are talking about now.”

  “This won’t be the last time you get hammered,” I cautioned.

  “Oh, I know. That’s what made me think it was such a crock. I used to watch my parents duke it out and think, no way I was going to fall into the same trap. But I’ll give Andy that much—for all his bullshit, he showed me what it could be like. And you and Gail showed me, too.”

  I looked at her, surprised, hardly thinking we set an example for anyone. “You’re kidding. We live in separate towns, for Christ’s sake.”

  “But you love each other, even so.”

  I sipped my drink silently, reflecting on how simple she made it sound—and on how she might be right.

  After a moment, I resurfaced from my thoughts. “I never asked—why did you drop by tonight?”

  She held up her mug and smiled. “For this.”

  31

  THE YEAR HAD COME FULL CIRCLE. It was January again, the ground was covered with snow, and I was back in the State House, elbowing through a throng of people. This time, however, Gail was beside me, beaming with enthusiasm, fueled by a renewed passion for working in the political storm.

  “They say he has it wrapped up. He’s been twisting arms, calling in markers, making all sorts of deals. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days—been working on pure adrenaline.”

  We were crushed together, navigating the hallway like tandem kayakers in a raging stream. All around us the air was filled with similar conversations, the showdown at the joint assembly being the only topic in town.

  I’d come in the day before and spent the night at Gail’s new condo, drawn not just by curiosity—although that would have been enough—but also by an invitation from Dave Stanton, the Commissioner of Public Safety. He’d asked me to meet him outside the governor’s office on the second floor shortly before the big vote was scheduled to take place.

  Gail’s running commentary was still going strong as we reached the black iron staircase and began working our way up. “Reynolds has been just the opposite—damn near invisible. People say he’s been holding secret strategy sessions, but no one I’ve talked to has been approached for their vote, so I’m damned if I know what the strategy’s supposed to be.”

  The governor’s office faces the top of the western staircase, and I saw Stanton framed in its doorway, craning to see over the crowd. He waved at us as we came into view. “Joe. Gail—good to see you again. Governor Howell said we could use his office. Why don’t you come in?”

  Gail glanced at me and raised her eyebrows questioningly. “He didn’t say it was private,” I whispered.

  We followed him through the small reception area into the largest, least appealing office I’ve ever visited. It was huge in all regards, with enormous windows and a two-story ceiling. The paintings and furniture were grandly historic, and the restored plaster on the walls and ceiling elegant and ornate, but the overall impression was of those old Soviet banquet halls on TV, where heads of state were photographed shaking hands, their smiles prefabricated and their eyes cold.

  It was, in all fairness, a ceremonial office. Howell’s real one was across the parking lot in the Pavilion Building. This was used for large photo ops and political meetings when the Legislature was in session. But with just the three of us in its midst, especially after Stanton had closed the massive door with a thud, the most impressive thing about it was its emptiness.

  It apparently struck him the same way. He looked around like the sole visitor at a royal mausoleum and shook his head. “Sorry about the setting. It was the only private place I could think of.”

  “No problem,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “It’s a job offer. We were wondering if you’d like to join the new bureau.”

  Reynolds and Mullen had both made the same invitation—to join an organization that had yet to exist. I’d dismissed their offers as standard political smoke, since neither one of them had actually been in a position to hire me.

  This man was, and the job was now real. I was flattered by the offer, and despite two dress rehearsals, surprised. I was no spring chicken, and had assumed the new VBI would be staffed largely by the thirty-something crowd and mostly drawn from the state police.

  I decided to respond cautiously. “Who do you mean by ‘we’?”

  “There’s a candidate review board. I’m its head. The offer would be pending a physical exam and a background check, but if what I see now is what you got, I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

  “Have you formulated a structure for this unit yet?”

  “It’s been slow, but we’re getting there. It won’t be top-heavy. We’re dividing the state into five regions—the four corners and the middle—and the people assigned to them will live in those regions, but they’ll be free to wander wherever the job takes them. Right now, we don’t see much ranking. The point of the exercise is that this represents the best and brightest—you shouldn’t need a bunch of supervisors looking over your shoulders. You’ll report to a head either in Burlington or Waterbury—probably the first, so people won’t think you’re state police—and he’ll in turn report to the Attorney General. Details still need to be worked out, and we’re looking for input from the first draft of candidates, but that’s basically it. You’d keep all the seniority and benefits you’ve built up in Brattleboro, plus get a big boost in pay and get into the state’s retirement and health coverage programs, all of which will be portable when you leave.”

  I walked over to the island-sized desk near the middle of the room. It was covered with an enormous sheet of glass and had dozens of photographs pinned under it like fish under ice. “You’re not having face-to-face interviews like this with every candidate, are you?”

  Stanton laughed. “No, you’re one of the few. Most applied as soon as they heard about it. We noticed you weren’t among them, so we all agreed I should make a personal approach. This isn’t an oh-by-the-way offer, Joe. We’d really like you on board.”

  I turned to him. “I appreciate that, Dave, and I’m honored. There must be a hell of a lot of people in line.”

  “There’re quite a few.”

  “And I suppose the applicant list is confidential.”

  His face betrayed a dawning wariness. “Yes.”

  “Are either Sammie Martens or Willy Kunkle on it?”

  He hesitated.

  “The r
eason I ask is that Sammie Martens is one person I think you ought to consider closely—more than me.”

  He relented. “We will, Joe. She is on the list. Just make sure she doesn’t find out I told you. She thinks she’s betraying you personally by trying to leave the PD.”

  I wasn’t surprised, at either the ambition or the attending guilt. “What about Kunkle?”

  He tried ducking the issue. “Every candidate will get the same scrutiny. Yours is just a special case.”

  “Meaning he’s not on the list.”

  Stanton shifted his weight as if his feet were overheating. “He didn’t apply. We can’t just arbitrarily pull names out of a hat. I have to assume he doesn’t want the job.”

  “I didn’t apply, either.”

  His expression changed to one of irritation. “You want it or not?”

  “Yes, if you’ll consider Kunkle. I’ll make sure he applies.”

  “The deadline’s passed.”

  I just looked at him.

  “Jesus. The man’s a head case. Everyone knows it. This is an elite unit. I don’t want to start it off with a total flake.”

  “People are being judged on their qualifications, right? Not on whether you like them or not.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then all I’m asking is for him to be considered. If you won’t do that much, then you can cross my name off, too.”

  Stanton let out a long sigh. “Okay, but if, by some miracle, he does make it, he’s your baby—wherever you decide to call home, that’s where he’ll be assigned. That much I can control. Then it’ll be up to you to ask me later to have his butt fired.”

  I slapped him on the shoulder. “I don’t think I’ll be doing that, and if, as you say, he does make the cut, I also think you’ll be pleased with the results. He’ll make you proud.”

  “If he does, I’ll consider the priesthood.”

  “By the way,” I asked him, standing by the door, “since we’ve totally blown the confidentiality of this process, did either Ron Klesczewski or J.P. Tyler apply?”

  “No. You going to round them up, too?”

  I could tell from his tone of voice he was over the worst of it—plus the fact he was now smiling. “They’re probably happier where they are. Ron’s a small-town boy, and J.P. would feel overrun by the mobile crime lab people. I was just curious.”

  I opened the heavy door and ushered Gail out, pausing on the threshold to look back at him. “Dave, I do appreciate the offer, and the slack you’re cutting me.”

  He waved me away. “I know. Don’t worry about it.”

  · · ·

  A few minutes later, Gail and I were maneuvering our way through the jammed reception room parallel to the House chamber, aiming for where Gail had reserved two spots near the west wing entrance, to the left of the speaker’s podium.

  “That was a hell of a stunt,” she said angrily. “You damn near killed your own chances. And he’s right about Kunkle. He’ll be making the whole outfit look bad before you know it.”

  “I don’t think so,” I answered mildly, not surprised by her outburst. “If he agrees to apply, I think they’ll be impressed. He’ll do a good job.”

  “But why risk it, Joe? Why do you always bail him out? All he does is treat everyone like shit.”

  “Willy’s very good, and if he doesn’t get a shot at this, he’ll be out of a job. If I join VBI without him, there’ll be no one to stop Tony Brandt from letting him go, especially with Brandt’s big emphasis on community policing. Sooner or later, Willy will offend someone, and that’ll be all Tony needs. After that, Willy’ll probably rediscover the bottle, get into some barroom brawl, and maybe even wind up in jail. He deserves better.” We’d reached the back staircase. “I have to go pee. I’ll find you in a bit.”

  I disappeared before she could argue any more.

  The men’s room downstairs is toward the front of the building, around the corner from the president pro tem’s office. As I came off the bottom step and headed that way, I saw a small group of people quickly entering the office—among them the pro tem, Jim Reynolds, and Marcia Wilkin. I stopped dead in my tracks, my need for a bathroom replaced by a thought that hit me like an electrical jolt.

  I turned on my heel and ran back upstairs, noticing the crowd had abruptly thinned out, indicating that things were about to start in the House. In the hallway leading to where Gail had staked her claim, however, the going was much slower. I squeezed and elbowed my way along until I finally reached her, positioned just inside the doorway, with a perfect view of the podium, the chamber, and the viewing gallery high along the curving back wall.

  The scene made me think of a Hollywood set, packed with a cast of thousands—a vaulting, ornate, ancient-looking room, filled with row upon row of people. The gallery was jammed, the walls lined with spectators, every desk filled. The evenly spaced chairs along the front wall, flanking the speaker’s podium onstage, were occupied by the senators from the other chamber, looking like firing squad targets without blindfolds.

  I gave it all a cursory glance before asking Gail, “You have your cell phone?”

  She stared at me. “You going to call someone? Now?”

  “Yeah.”

  She silently reached into her purse and handed me the phone. As I punched the keypad, I heard the lieutenant governor bang the gavel on the podium.

  Ron Klesczewski answered on the second ring. “Ron, It’s Joe. You gotta do something for me.”

  “I can’t hear you too well.”

  “Too bad. I can’t talk any louder. Check the computer for the name Ellis Hastings.” I spelled it for him.

  “What’s the context?” he asked. “Criminal record?”

  “I don’t know. You’re going to have to look at everything you got. I think it’s really important, though, so do it fast.”

  “No sweat. Where are you?”

  “Montpelier. I’m on a cell phone.” I gave him the number.

  “Okay. I’ll get right on it.”

  Gail looked at me as I hit the disconnect button and kept the phone in my hand. “What’re you doing?” she whispered. In the background, the lieutenant governor was intoning the rules of procedure prior to ordering the vote for the next governor of the state of Vermont.

  “I just saw Marcia Wilkin downstairs, in close company with Jim Reynolds. It made me remember something I saw in her house—a name. I think she’s what Reynolds has been cooking up against Mullen this last week.” I pointed a finger at the gallery high and across the cavernous room. “Look.”

  Defying conventional decorum, Mark Mullen entered one of the gallery doors, stepped down to the rail overlooking the chamber, and remained standing there—like Caesar overseeing the forum. A small ripple of commentary flowed across the crowd.

  The lieutenant governor banged the gavel and instructed the assembled legislators to mark their paper ballots. There is no electronic voting in Vermont—too high-tech. This count was going to be done by hand, on the spot, since only one hundred and eighty votes were being cast.

  I glanced anxiously at the phone, increasingly convinced that what I’d tumbled to could directly affect what was happening before my eyes. As if reading my mind, it chirped loudly, causing several people nearby to scowl at me.

  “Yeah,” I whispered loudly.

  “I can barely hear you,” Ron said, “but here goes. It’s not much. Ellis Hastings died twenty-five years ago, victim of a hit-and-run. They never caught who did it.”

  A second general murmur passed around the room. I looked up and saw Jim Reynolds appear at the other gallery door, across the chamber from where Mullen was still standing.

  Mullen turned at the commotion, saw Reynolds, and smiled, bowing slightly. Reynolds gestured to the open doorway behind him, and Marcia Wilkin stepped in.

  Mullen froze in place. His hand stopped halfway into a dismissive wave, his expression calcified, his smile looking suddenly grotesque.

  Across the way, Marcia Wilkin m
oved to the rail herself, touching it with her fingertips to steady herself, and then slowly, emphatically shook her head twice at Mark Mullen. She then turned on her heel, walked past Reynolds, and vanished through the door she’d entered by. Mullen half collapsed, half sat on the railing, his face ashen.

  In the swelling of voices that followed, I spoke more loudly to Ron.

  “Where did Hastings die?”

  “Route 12, just outside north Montpelier. He was crossing the road at night, apparently looking for a lost cat.”

  “Cross-check the date and time of his death. Find me a crime that occurred the same time and in roughly the same vicinity. I’ll hang on.”

  The phone to my ear, I watched Mullen wearily signal to one of his cronies, write him a note, and dismiss him. He then rose to his feet like a man of eighty and half stumbled up the few steps to the exit. Moments later, his messenger appeared at the main door to the chamber with the sergeant-at-arms, and they walked down the center aisle toward the startled lieutenant governor. The envoy then delivered the note to the podium and quickly retreated, as if he’d just pulled the pin on a grenade.

  Which, in a sense, he had. The lieutenant governor cleared his throat, declared that candidate Mark Mullen had withdrawn from the race, and instructed the assemblage to cast their votes accordingly.

  Now it was I who could barely hear Ron on the phone above the bedlam. “Joe?”

  “Louder, Ron.”

  “A grocery store in East Calais was robbed that night. Nobody was caught.”

  “They get away in a car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Headed south?”

  “Yeah. What the hell’s going on up there? What’s that noise?”

  I paused to watch the press people running for the doors. “The end of a career.”

  32

  NO OFFICIAL EXPLANATION WAS EVER FORTHCOMING from Mark Mullen. To all questions about why he had withdrawn from the race, he merely said he wanted to help his brother in his time of need. Marcia Wilkin was never seen again in Montpelier, or in the company of now Governor James Reynolds, and to inquiries concerning her—or her identity—he and his associates responded with uncomprehending silence.