by Gerry Boyle
“Scalabrini,” he said. “CID.”
“Jack McMorrow,” I said. “NYT.”
He smiled, an air of confidence to him, a pudgy sort of wisdom.
“So you knew the victim?”
“Met him once. A couple of days ago, just up the road. Asked him a couple of questions and he freaked out, went storming off. I told Investigator Reynolds this. From the Fire Marshal’s Office.”
“So you won’t mind telling me,” Scalabrini said. “What sort of questions?”
“About the fires. I’ve heard some people in town think he’s the arsonist.”
“What people?”
“A kid I met. At the firehouse. He was working there.”
Chief Frederick was under the tape and on me, finger in my face. “My firefighters would never do anything like this. And anyone who says so, he can answer to me.”
“Chief,” I said, “I think we got off on the wrong foot. The thing about firefighters and arson—that was uncalled for. I’m sure your boys there are good firemen. So I’m—”
“You got that right, McMorrow, And if you think you can come into this town—”
“Chief,” Scalabrini said.
“—and spread lies and—”
“Chief,” the detective said again.
Frederick paused, looked at him.
“Please back off,” Scalabrini said.
Frederick scowled. “But . . .”
Scalabrini looked at him, unblinking eyes hard as glass.
“I’m just telling you,” Frederick said, retreating. “Doesn’t do us any good to start barking up the wrong trees.”
And then he was under the tape, back with Foley and the deputy.
“What’d the kid say?” Scalabrini asked, undistracted.
I told him the story. The douche bag, the whack on the arm.
“So you tracked this Woodrow kid down, asked him about it?”
“Didn’t really track him. Just saw him walking down the road.”
“And you confronted him with this?”
“Started to, and he got all upset. He has some sort of spectrum disorder—autism or Asperger’s.”
The detective looked away. An evidence tech had arrived in a State Police box truck and was talking to the cops and the fire chief. They led her closer to the skidder and pointed at the ground.
“Not shy, are you, Mr. McMorrow?” Scalabrini said.
“Wouldn’t be the best thing for my job,” I said. “Or yours.”
“No,” he said.
The evidence tech was crouching, pointing at something with a pencil. She stood up and started walking toward her truck, the three men watching her backside.
“You think this kid was the fire starter?” the detective said.
“I don’t know. I guess you could ask Investigator Reynolds.”
“Oh, I will. But what’s your gut?”
“I don’t think his denial was rehearsed. He just went crazy.”
“How so?”
I recounted it. He slipped a notebook from his trouser pocket, a pen attached. I waited for him to get the pen out and start to scribble, felt the tables turn.
“What else?” he said.
“He said he was going to kill them. He was going to kill them all.”
“Did you take that threat seriously?”
“Not really. It was more like a kid having a temper tantrum, maybe out of control because of his condition.”
“Were you going to put this in the newspaper?”
I hesitated.
“I don’t know.”
Scalabrini looked up from his notebook, eyed me curiously.
“Speaking of which, I have a couple questions,” I said.
“Ask away.”
“On the record,” I said.
“Yessir,” the detective said.
“Someone tried to light that skidder on fire?”
“Yeah, but it didn’t catch. Reynolds will be here soon, I think.”
“Do you think this assault was connected to the fires?”
“No comment.”
“Loggers found him. Chief Frederick was first responder on the scene.”
“That’s correct.”
“What are his injuries—that you can tell?”
“I would describe his injuries as very serious, compounded by the amount of time he was lying out here.”
“How long?”
“I’d say several hours. A lot of blood loss. Head injuries bleed a lot. Loss of body temperature.”
“Multiple assailants?”
“Hard to say. We’re assessing the evidence at the scene. This was not a fistfight. It appears that someone intended to do serious damage.”
“Boot marks, that sort of thing?”
“Just evidence.”
“Okay,” I said. “For now.”
Scalabrini raised his eyebrows, lowered them.
“I’m going to talk to these kids, Ray and Paulie,” he said. “Tell ’em what you’ve told me.”
“Go for it,” I said.
“Just so you know.”
“Whatever,” I said.
He gave me the look again. “Play a little rough for a reporter, don’t you, Mr. McMorrow,” he said.
I shrugged.
“The truth can be a hard thing,” I said. “As we both know.”
He watched the evidence tech pouring the white goo onto the ground from a plastic tub. I slipped my phone out, snapped a few shots. Scalabrini didn’t seem to have noticed. Still looking away, he said, “Maybe somebody could’ve intervened. Warned both sides to go easy. If we’d known.”
“Not my job,” I said. “I just write stories. I don’t get involved.”
“Who you kidding, Mr. McMorrow? I’ve heard about you, read your stuff. Really know how to stir the pot.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Speaking of which, you know about the citizen patrol, right?”
“Oh, yeah.”
He reached into his back trouser pocket, took out a small case, fished out his card. I did the same, taking one from my wallet.
“So our paths will be crossing again,” I said.
“No doubt,” he said, and he turned away.
Chief Frederick, watching, fell away from the group and started for his truck. I headed for mine and our paths did cross, at the edge of the clearing. He was getting into his truck and he didn’t look at me as he hoisted his big frame up into the seat.
“What goes around comes around,” he said.
The door slammed shut. I stopped, stepped to the open window. “You talking to me, Chief?” I said.
He didn’t look at me, just started the motor, revved it once, put the truck in reverse, and roared backward. I had to jump aside.
14
It was ten o’clock and the general store was busy, the parking spaces full out front, the white-painted benches, too. One bench was taken up by a mother and kids, and as I got out of the truck I saw that it was Eve from the barn fire, Abbie and Elias beside her. They were eating strawberries, and as I approached Elias held up the green cardboard carton.
Eve said, “Hi there.”
I stopped, took a strawberry, and said thank you. Elias said, “You’re welcome,” and I saw that both he and his sister had strawberry juice running down their chins and onto their white T-shirts. Eve dabbed at them with a paper towel.
“Having a strawberry party?” I said.
“It’s not a party,” Elias said.
“They were hungry,” Eve said. “Want another?”
I demurred, and she held the box out and each child took one. They were chomping them down when a bearded, shaggy-haired guy came out of the store with a bag. He looked like a homesteader from another century.
“Daddy,” the kids said. “Drinks.”
He was very tall and rail-thin, and I pictured him folding himself into a truck cab. He looked at me, then at his wife, and she said, “Honey, this is—”
“Jack McMorrow,” I said, holding out my h
and.
“Jack is the newspaper reporter we met at the fire. I told you.”
“Peter Johnson,” he said. He reached over the bench and shook my hand, then took a jug of fruit punch from the bag and a stack of plastic cups. Each of the kids got a drink. Abbie spilled hers on her shirt, and for a moment it looked like blood, dripping down her chin.
“Honey,” Eve Johnson said, “be careful,” and she got up and crouched in front of her daughter, wiping with the paper towel. Her husband came around and stood beside me.
“So you’re a trucker,” I said.
“Mostly,” he said, watching the kids. “A little carpentry in between. Whatever it takes.”
“And a firefighter.”
“Oh, yeah. We all try to pitch in.”
“Been busy lately, huh?”
A pause this time, wariness creeping in, the chief’s no-press edict.
“Hasn’t been slow,” Johnson said.
“You heard about what happened last night?”
A longer pause, Johnson staring straight ahead, rocking slightly on his running shoes.
“I guess I heard something,” he said.
“Sad business,” I said.
He took a step back and turned away from his family. I turned, too, and we looked across the common and down the hill, the fields on the far side dotted with hay bales.
“Very,” he said.
I waited.
“Not for any story or anything,” Johnson said. “I mean, what do you call it?”
“Off the record?”
“Yeah. I mean, between us, I don’t like to see nobody get hurt.”
“No,” I said.
“And I don’t approve of violence, generally.”
“Right.”
“But this guy had to be stopped,” Johnson said.
“Woodrow.”
“Right. I mean, I’m on the road, three or four days at a time. I can’t have some crazy running around town setting fires.”
“No,” I said.
“Bought a couple of those rope ladders, the ones that hook on the windowsill.”
“Because of this?” I said.
“Yeah. But hey, can you see her trying to get those kids down a rope ladder? In the dark. The house on fire?”
“It would be difficult.”
“These houses go up fast.”
“Yes.”
“And we live kind of out in the boonies. So it’s not like the fire department is around the corner.”
“No.”
“So what if she dropped one of ’em? What if she got one out and couldn’t get back in for the other one? I can’t even think about it.”
“I’m sure you can’t.”
“So like I said, I don’t like seeing anybody get hurt.”
“So you think it was this kid? Woodrow?”
Johnson waved to a passing pickup, the Sanctuary Fire Department tag on the back license plate. The driver waved back.
“Well, that’s what they were saying around town.”
He turned and glanced back at his kids, Eve gathering up Abbie, with her red-stained shirt, Elias stomping his plastic cup flat on the pavement.
“Thing about a case like this,” Johnson said.
“What’s that?”
He looked at me.
“Time will tell,” he said, and he reached for his son and turned away.
The family headed for their old pickup and I went into the store. The place was bustling, a line at the counter and Harold running the register, the high school girl from the previous day bagging. I made a loop through the store, didn’t see Russell or Lasha or any of the people I knew. I considered getting a cup of tea but the line was too long, so I walked back outside into the sunshine. I stood for a minute and called Roxanne. Waited. She didn’t answer and I felt a stomach flip of panic, pushed it away, but still started for the truck.
And the phone buzzed.
I answered it, heard Roxanne’s voice. In a millisecond I knew from her tone that she was fine. “We’re good,” she said. “Sophie is playing with Mary. They’re having a tea party. Clair and I brushed Pokey. You know he’s getting ticks?”
“Yuck,” I said.
“We’re picking them off him but his mane is so thick.”
“And what about Alphonse. Foley call again?”
“Yes. Said they’re concentrating on Massachusetts. New Bedford area. I guess that’s where his prison buddy is from. He told the police that Alphonse had been writing to people down there, setting up sort of a safe-house thing.”
“Good. Sounds like they’ll be picking him up.”
“And putting him back in jail,” Roxanne said.
“Great,” I said. “So you okay if I make one more stop here before I head home?”
“Sure. How’s the boy?”
“Not good. Beaten unconscious and left on the ground all night.”
“Awful,” Roxanne said.
“Not if you live here,” I said.
I wanted Woodrow’s parents, but they’d be at the hospital in Lewiston. Maybe tomorrow. That left my next question: Was the citizen patrol still going forward? Did the patrollers think the vigilantes had gotten the right guy? Or maybe the two groups were one and the same.
I walked across the common, past the war monuments and the cannons and, now, a memorial for Woodrow Harvey. There was a hand-painted sympathy sign on cardboard that read WOODROW—WE LOVE YOU.
I stopped and looked at the display. There were flowers spread on the grass in front of the sign, a piece of paper with a song lyric, something about souls and scars, by a band I’d never heard of. It was hard to say whether it was all enough to assuage their guilt.
I crossed the street to the block of storefronts. Sanctuary Brokers was on the corner, flowering plants hanging from under the blue awning with the big SB. The silver Mercedes SUV was parked out front.
I pushed the door open, heard the bell jangle above my head. I crossed to the center of the outer office, heard elevator jazz and voices from somewhere out back. I went to a big board that had the latest listings, lovely homes photographed from the precise angle that would make them look lovelier. There were big colonials, cozy Capes, sprawling lawns and colorful perennial gardens. I was reading about a waterfront place with a pool, tennis court, and newly renovated stables when there was a rattle from behind the scenes.
Tory came into the office, wiping his hands, a toilet running somewhere.
“Jack,” he said, the broad smile flashing on like a light. “Good to see you.”
He marched toward me with his hand out like I’d saved his life. His grip was firm and the handshake was long and he was grinning and beaming like he could send some sort of X-rays into my head that would make me buy the first house he showed me.
We finally broke apart and he saw the listing I’d been reading, said, “Handsome place. The Montagues, the sellers—breaks their hearts to give it up, but they’re getting older, and their only daughter lives in Boca Raton. And they want to be near the grandchildren, as you can expect. Still, you talk to Kip Montague—the attorney? Montague, Lewis, and Dorchester?—and he tears right up at the prospect of leaving Sanctuary.”
Tory paused, started back in.
“Rita is showing some property. She’s going to be so sorry she missed you.”
“I’m sure,” I said, “but I actually have a question for you.”
The grin again, the belief that there is no problem that can’t be solved with a positive attitude.
“Question away, Jack. Hey, can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“No,” I said. “Thanks. Listen, I just got back from Horseback Road.”
Tory folded his tanned arms across his blue SB polo shirt.
“A sad business.”
“I guess so.”
“I don’t like to see any young person hurt for any reason. Rita and I, we don’t have children of our own, but we run the Key Club at the high school. I mean, I just love the kids, their energy
. It’s just so contagious. We have a Key Club Facebook page and the kids are just so funny and smart. The things that—”
“Woodrow Harvey.”
“The young man who was hurt.”
“Beaten unconscious, actually.”
“Horrible. My heart goes out to his parents. I mean, what they must be going through.”
“He is a suspect in the arson fires.”
“I had heard that, Jack. I mean, I have no way of knowing whether it’s true. I mean, that’s up to the police and the fire marshal’s office to determine.”
“But you’re organizing a citizen patrol of the town.”
“To aid the investigators. They can’t be everywhere. I mean, a couple of patrols out every night, that could make a huge difference. Eyes on the ground, you know? Did you know there are only two arson dogs in Maine? Some of us are talking about starting a fund-raising project to buy a third dog. I mean, the training is very expensive. It’s something like—”
“So my question, Tory,” I said.
“Yes.”
“If the suspect is incapacitated, will you still have the patrol?”
“Well, that’s a good question, Jack.”
“What’s the answer?”
He hesitated, for the first time.
“This is for your story in the New York Times?”
“Yes. I’d like it to be.”
Tory held his forefinger up to his mouth and pursed his lips.
“I want to get this right,” he said.
“Take your time,” I said. I slipped my notebook from the back pocket of my jeans, pen from the front. Waited.
“The short answer is yes, Jack. I don’t know that this young man has perpetrated any of these crimes. If he didn’t, somebody else did, and they’re still out there.”
“Right,” I said, taking notes.
“Well, until we know, we can’t take a chance.”
“When do the patrols begin?”
“Soon.”
“As in tonight?”
“Possibly. Off the record, we’re trying not to tip our hand.”
“Are your people going to be armed?”
“My goodness, you do go for the jugular.”
The smile. I waited.
“Well, I know that many people in town do have permits to carry firearms. I don’t know whether they will or will not be carrying firearms in their capacity as patrol members.”
“You’re not going to frisk them,” I said.
