by John Farrow
SIX
They drive onto the Dowbiggin campus in Émile’s white Cadillac Escalade, a gift in lieu of payment from a case he solved close to a year ago. Given the drama of a report that the library is being evacuated, he expects a crowd. Classes, though, are not in session, and foul weather has tempted neither students nor faculty to stroll on over. For those who have left the building, lingering outside under the relentlessly pelting rain does not appeal when nothing is to be gleaned.
Police vehicles continue to arrive. The former detective judges that the situation is dire given their numbers and the fact that both Hanover and New Hampshire state police are involved. Holyoake’s department is restricted to a single officer, and he’s probably here, too, although he operates under the aegis of the Hanover Police Department. Émile cannot say with conviction that a black sedan is FBI. He has a hunch it might be. He pulls in where parking is normally not permitted, close to the police perimeter, and asserts a certain official authority.
He hands his keys to Caroline.
“My chances of gaining access are remote. I’ll need to bluff my way through.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“That reduces our chances exponentially.”
“Excuse me? I need to get in,” Caroline insists.
“Actually,” he points out, “you don’t. Being upset only reinforces that. I’m not legally parked. If someone wants you to move, say you’re with the police. Tell them your uncle’s an off-duty cop who’s inside. If that’s not good enough, drive off and I’ll call you later for a pickup.”
Reluctantly, she agrees. At least they’re about to do something, which is as much as she can expect.
Émile tugs on a ball cap, climbs out and slams the door behind him. His waist-length jacket is considered rain resistant, not waterproof, which in this torrent means next to useless. He does a quick trot through the blinding sheets to where an officer stands guard, uncomfortably.
“Sir?” the young man in uniform challenges. He must yell as the rain smacking the pavement is loud. Draped in clear plastic, his cap funnels water onto Émile’s ankles and shoes.
“I’m a homicide detective!” Émile Cinq-Mars shouts back.
“Sir? Who with?”
Bluff number one, tripped up out of the gate.
“Retired!” Cinq-Mars admits.
“I can’t admit you, sir.”
“I thought I might lend my expertise! Probably I’ve covered more homicides than all these men combined!”
“Who with, sir?” the cop asks again. He’s a good man, Cinq-Mars can tell. He’d welcome him on his own team, if he still had a team. He’d have to teach him, though, not to be tricked. Unofficially, the young cop may have confirmed, without being aware of it, that the investigation concerns a homicide.
“I’m from Montreal! Quebec!” loudly, the former detective declares. He knows how well that’s going to go over anywhere in the United States. In his experience, the smaller the town, the less an impression such a comment will make. He adds, rather helplessly, “Canada!”
He can tell that the uniform is straining not to laugh.
“Okay, sir,” the guy manages to shout back instead of chuckling, “you’ll have to leave. I saw where you parked. You need to move your vehicle, sir. You understand.” He’s able to get his point across without straining his vocal cords.
Émile tries that, to be loud without shouting at the top of his lungs. “Unfortunately, I do. Who’s in charge?” he demands to know. The lowest rank on the scene isn’t going to break the rules for him, especially when a car pulls in, unmarked, and the bearing of the man in the passenger seat catches their attention. “Him?”
“Hanover chief of police,” the officer admits. “Sir, you should get out of this weather. I would if I could. Our officers and the state troopers have the situation under control.”
“FBI? Are they here?”
“Sir. Please.”
Émile reads the information off the badge on the patrol officer’s campaign-style hat. He’s with the town’s police department, and will do everything by the book with his boss on the scene. Émile gives the man a nod and heads across the front steps to intercept the police chief rushing into the building. Whether the man is intent on hurrying to the scene of a major crime or merely wants out of the rain is impossible to determine. Most likely both. With his eyes protected by the brim of his Smoky the Bear, the man nearly bumps into him, then looks up, startled.
“Chief,” Cinq-Mars says, interrupting his sprint. The man’s rank is declared on his blue hat. Uncommon for municipal police, the hats are the Hanover department’s choice.
“Who’re you?” A bark of a voice. Despite that, he projects a pleasant, avuncular look, as though to indicate that his bark is worse than his bite, or that he doesn’t have much of a bark, either. He’s white, about fifty, and his eyes squint as he tries to bring another person into focus through the rain.
“Sir, I’m a retired homicide detective from Montreal.” Émile hedges on that point. While he’s solved a significant number of murders in his day, much to the chagrin of homicide detectives, he was never a member of their department. He doesn’t need to explain that here, his standing flimsy enough as it is.
“Congratulations,” the man remarks. If not actually dripping with sarcasm, the officer is not above avoiding the attitude. “On your retirement, I mean. I’m happy for you. Sorry, no time to chat.”
“May I go inside with you?”
“Actually, no. You can’t.”
“I may be able to lend a hand.”
“You’re not getting the message here, are you? How do you want me to say this? I know a few different ways. Let me think now. No, just two different ways. One you heard. Should I say the other one?”
“Seriously, I might be useful inside.”
“Why’s that?” The policeman is brushing past him, not waiting for an answer. Cinq-Mars matches his gait. Being a tall man, his stride easily keeps pace with the chief’s, and he takes two steps at a time.
“It’s my area of expertise, that’s true, sir. That’s not all. There’s something you need to know.”
“What’s that?” The chief stops. He means to prevent Cinq-Mars from taking a step closer to the front door.
“I’m here because my niece’s girlfriend is missing. She’s a student at Dowbiggin, she’s been gone all night. If you need to make a positive identification, if it’s the missing friend—I pray it’s not—then I can help with that.”
The Hanover police chief grants Cinq-Mars a closer examination through the downpour. “First off, who said anything about a homicide?”
“Nobody but me. Word is going around about a body. We both know that college students don’t fall down stairs and die as a general rule. If one did, that would be tragic. I’m not sure the event would attract this many marked and unmarked vehicles. Unless you do things differently down here.”
“I’m sure we do things differently down here. Who said anything about needing an ID?” His eyes wander over to the duty officer as if it was him.
“Absolutely no one, sir. Unless you just did? Does the dead girl not have ID? I last saw the missing girl two days ago. Her image is very fresh in my mind. Also, look, I’ve got a few desperate kids that I need to help out. They’re frantic that the dead girl and their missing friend might be one and the same. Let me find that out, for their sake. They’re counting on me. Frankly, I’m hoping that I can’t help you, that it’s somebody else in there, but if we can spare my niece and her friends a whole lot of worry and upset, then why not? That helps us look for the missing girl elsewhere, you get to cross her off a list. On the other side of the ledger, if you need an ID on your victim and I happen to provide it, doesn’t that put you one step ahead of the game that much sooner?”
Cinq-Mars knows that if he was on the job and presented with a similar rant by a guy he didn’t know, he’d be suspicious enough to keep him around if for no other reason than to check h
im out. He would also eye him closely, up and down, as if placing him under a mental microscope to find out how he thrives under the scrutiny, exactly as this cop is doing right now. If he was the guardian at the gate, he’d then ask for his ID and let him through while keeping his suspicions handy. Long experience, however, has taught him that the next logical step for a cop to take is not necessarily what comes down the pike, at least not nearly as often as anyone might hope, expect, or prefer.
He waits with patience and suffers the man’s keen gaze.
“All right,” the chief concedes at last. “Let’s get out of the rain. Inside, you can show me your ID.”
Good man. “Thanks.”
“Whatever.” He’s keeping his suspicions on hold, too. Good cop.
They go through the proud library doors, opened for them by campus security. Once inside, the foyer doesn’t draw attention to itself. The beauty of the interior, the woodwork, the windows, the eloquence of the ceiling and the charm of the space is hinted at along the periphery.
The height of the ceiling inflicts the hushed tones of a library on him.
The chief of police is signaling with one finger for a plainclothes detective to come over and, after Émile extracts his ID from his wallet, has him check out his story. He reads the name aloud to the other officer, “Émile Cinq-Mars, is that how you pronounce it?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, spelling the name out as the other cop nods. Then the chief remarks, “It’s familiar. Tell you what. Google him on that fancy phone of yours. Show me what comes up.” While his underling checks him out, he flips through Émile’s various ID cards, which confirms that he’s a retired detective.
“If you’re here for commencement, you’re early.”
“I don’t recall saying that. It’s true, I’m here for commencement. I’m here early because my wife is from the area. Her mother’s dying. Not long to go.”
The man seems suddenly quiet. “Sorry to hear that,” he says eventually, an odd delay. A thought seems to have occurred to him and caused a change of attitude. He hands the wallet back. “Where’d you say you were staying?”
He hadn’t mentioned it, of course. Cinq-Mars detects that the question only sounds casual. It’s intended to suss him out. “I didn’t. I’ve been put up at my mother-in-law’s house. She lives on a horse farm. Or did. She won’t be coming home, we’re told.”
“I know who that sounds like,” the sheriff reveals.
“Who?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Mary Lowndes.”
The chief checks him with a glance again. He’s gone up in stature. The man knows the name.
Émile elevates several more notches when the officer’s detective shows him what’s come up on the screen of his smartphone. He probably didn’t expect that Émile’s fame is known on the Internet. What’s online is as much myth as reality, but there it is, the dismemberment of the Hells Angels, the scorched-earth policy with respect to the Mafia, a legendary detective busting the bad guys.
“You’ve got a rep,” the cop confirms, flipping through screen pages with his thumb, then hands the phone back to his officer. “Look at that. A handsome guy when you were younger.”
“Always with the nose, though.”
“Can’t be hid.”
“People tell me they never notice.”
“People lie,” the chief deadpans.
“Most do,” Cinq-Mars concurs. While he made peace with his impressive honker eons ago, it’s an adjustment for others in his presence. He doesn’t mind helping them along.
“Let’s go see what trouble has come to our sweet town,” the chief suggests. “I can warn you that it’s tragic news.” Although he’s warning up to him, Cinq-Mars finds himself suspicious of that. Perhaps it’s a dose of fame causing folks to treat him differently, yet he senses that in this instance something else is going on. He’s puzzled by this cop.
They walk at a clip through the library. Cinq-Mars wishes he could muffle their footsteps. Their wet shoes squeak as they go.
“Who’s here?” Cinq-Mars asks. “State troopers. FBI. Anybody else?”
The cop gives him a look. “Why would FBI be here?”
“I saw a car. It had that FBI look.”
“One of ours, maybe,” the chief tells him. “We try to look good.” Then he holds out his hand. “My apologies. Bad manners. Alex Till.”
“Pleased to meet you, Chief.”
“With all due respect to your record, this will be in and out. Give us an ID if you can, then go. You understand. As it is, I’ll be jammed up with state troopers.”
“Whose jurisdiction is this?”
“Starts with me. Some will say it’s too big for my department. Let alone for my britches. State will take over.”
“Who decides?”
“The governor. I’m all out of influence in his office. Never had much to begin with. Troopers stake a claim to influence. Point of fact, they own this governor.”
“If I see anything, I’ll take it to you. Let you know.”
“What do you mean, see anything?”
“I’m not putting anybody down. At times I catch a detail, that’s all. I’ve worked a lot of scenes.”
“All due respect, Émile—may I call you Émile?”
“Please.”
“All due respect, don’t meddle.”
He might as well ask him not to look both ways when crossing a street. It can be done, but why live like that?
As they walk through a gauntlet then upstairs, the chief refers to everyone by name, including a few members of the library staff who’ve been asked to stay behind. They ascend in an elevator, then pass through a gate in a grille. A fence, Cinq-Mars is thinking, indoors. They enter through a doorway at the base of the clock tower. Amid the hubbub of officers, they see, lying on the stairs as though posing for a fashion shoot, with flower petals littered across her body, a deceased young woman. The one he was hoping not to find. The ramifications will stagger his household, as he has the worst news to report.
“Well?” Chief Till inquires.
Cinq-Mars nods. “Think so,” he says, a lie. He knows so. “May I take a closer look?”
“You think you have a name?”
“Ninety percent. Can I step up? People keep blocking my view.”
“Yeah. Sure. Coming through!” he calls out. “Let us through, I may have an ID here.”
The comment clears a path and other officers and a forensics crew step clear to give Émile access. He squats down. He knows whom he’s looking at, but seeks to maintain as accurate a visual memory of the scene as possible. He takes his time. He studies the girl’s form, her dress which is totally out of place, the sash, the ribbon in her hair, the exacting makeup, the ligature marks on her throat, the substantial necklace, the lipstick shade, the absence of life in her eyes, a kind of calling card betwixt her fingers. He’s accustomed to being in the company of the dead. Nonetheless, if he stares at this young woman for very long it’ll break his heart.
“Detective Cinq-Mars?” Till asks him. Everyone knows that he’s had more than enough time to positively identify the victim.
He stands. “Her name is Addie. I believe that’s short for Adele. Her last name is Langford. My niece can tell you more. I understand that she’s from Michigan. She’s to graduate this year.”
Giving her a name and a background sketch causes the professionals to take a moment of commemoration. All that promise and intelligence and beauty, gone.
“Thanks,” Chief Till remarks. “Sorry about this.”
“My niece is outside. In my car. You may want to talk to her. Let me break the news first. Give her a minute to adjust. As best she can, that is. This will be a shock.”
“Sure, Émile. We do have to talk to her, of course. Let me give the troopers a heads-up. We’ll take it from here. They’ll want to talk to her the same time I do, I expect.”
“Go easy,” Émile whispers, with intensity. He knows that he’ll have no infl
uence on how they conduct themselves. He’s assuming that the sadness that now pervades the room, which will soon extend across the campus and include the town, will govern how the first interviews are to be conducted.
Before he departs, Émile takes one last look at the room, and at the deceased young woman. The most striking element is her pose. He can’t believe that her wardrobe or her positioning is accidental. This is what he’s expected to see, and he tries to look past the elaborate presentation. This has been planned, suggesting a manic-compulsive at work. Criminals who are like that—being tight, controlled, and meticulous in their planning and execution—can be difficult to shake loose. None of which is welcome news. Killers like this one are rare and that will enhance the difficulties for investigators. The young woman’s regular clothes have been disposed of, something Till will want to study. If he doesn’t think to ask what she was wearing before being dressed up in a costume, he’ll make sure he does.
He wonders what’s on that calling card.
Till is gone awhile, receiving and vetting information. When he returns, Cinq-Mars inquires, “Strangulation?”
“Looks like.”
“Rape?” he requests under his breath. He almost doesn’t want to know.
“To be determined. Except for the bruising on her throat, she looks untouched. Unblemished, although nobody’s lifted her dress yet.”
“Hmm,” Cinq-Mars grunts. Had his wife been present, she’d identify his utterance as a distinctive note of contention.
Apparently, the chief also holds to a dissenting view. “That’ll likely fall apart, of course. She’s been dolled up. Ever hear of a rapist-killer who dresses his victim to the nines and tidies her up after the fact then puts her on display?”
“Can’t say I have,” Cinq-Mars admits.
“Think again, sir,” Till relates. “You have now.”
SEVEN
Her jet-blackness, Professor Philip Toomey ruminates, and her brains, causes the experience to feel strange and simultaneously wonderful. A substantial body, that’s another aspect that he can’t explain. Powerful, round, inexplicably firm and soft at the same moment. She stands an inch taller than him and is equally heavy, and her shape, her dimensions were never previously inside his mental docket, which makes the whole of the experience flat-out surprising. Initially, anyway. As well, the woman is so tough-world, backstreet smart, which is new to him, and he loves that part, too. And yet, somewhat to his consternation, the real surprise is the sheer blackness of her, for him an otherworldliness where his senses get lost. Not only lost in her, lost in this otherworldliness, beginning with the neighborhood, the stark faces, the veneer of suffering, the subset of a subset of a vegetative misery and lament, and he wants to kill his colleague for those profane remarks and imagines that particular murder as a warm act of love, of contrition, of expiation and personal forgiveness, a debt paid, a bounty collected, although even his warm murderous latent intent is inexplicable and confounding. Not that it matters. He isn’t going to kill anybody. Not when the fleshy heat of her is upon him and he smothers himself in her folds and rhythms, slathers her, moistures her slick perspirations, and feels himself lifted and slammed down again by her whimsy, her own courtship of him both unfathomable and wholly redeeming. Somehow. Some way. She doesn’t meet smart men in her world as an equal, and he supposes that that is the reverse attraction for her. She gets it on with him mentally. Walking through the rain he feels the tug in his trousers and the bulge in his heart and lungs, as if it’s her blood now that’s pumping through his veins, about to deliver him to an inexplicable and brazen sense of himself.
