by John Farrow
Till gives him time before prompting him. “Unless what?”
“Unless a perpetrator is getting in his final licks before graduation, knowing he’ll be gone from the scene in a week or two, never to be located. This could be perceived as a good time to inflict harm, before leaving for good.”
Till turns the prospect over in his head. “So we have to act quickly.”
Although his remark could be framed as a question, Émile knows it’s not. “We always do,” he reminds him.
He could contest a few matters that the chief mentioned a moment ago, debating points with all the subtlety of a boot applied to a throat. He forgoes the vitriol. Wanting a rapist merely gone from the vicinity is a poor alternative to justice. And wanting to consider three murders in a day as an external war that’s come their way, as if paratroopers have tumbled out of the sky with no connection to any local malaise, is a typically human response. How can a series of murders be local? the thinking usually goes. This misfortune must’ve been imported. He senses that Till is a loyal citizen standing up for the good name of his community rather than being the skeptical, insightful investigating detective he needs to be in this situation, although he’s willing to concede that the pressures faced by small-town police chiefs are beyond his ken. Public exposure inherent to the position, the constant political and social stresses, differ from those experienced by representatives of large forces in cities where cops, even famous ones like himself, work anonymously through the course of their day. This man can’t eat a grape without someone questioning why it’s red and not green. Or from what country it arrived.
Or who picked it.
“What do you think so far, Émile? Anything?”
The query is the chief’s way of admitting that he’s confounded by events.
Émile elects to reassure him.
“It’s curious, Chief. Might even be unprecedented. I don’t envy you the challenge. We have three deaths. We can connect the victims to the same school, but not to one another. Why is a dead girl gifted with a necklace by her killer? Why did we find a similar one in Toomey’s glove box? What’s the meaning of the note urging him to take flight? Who told him to run? What’s been breached? When we look at this case, those aspects stick out—the matching necklaces and the warning note. They’re not clues exactly, or not ones that we can figure out. They can have import. They hold out the possibility of being an accident in our favor.”
“How do you mean, accident?” A car swishes by them as if they’re standing still, then brakes to slow down, the driver realizing at the last second that he’s speeding past a cop. He doesn’t know that this one has restricted authority on the highway, and falls in behind him. “Dingbat,” Till murmurs to himself.
Émile thinks the question through. “We can reasonably assume that the killer may never have known about the necklace in Toomey’s car. If he had known, would that have made any difference whatsoever? Would the killer have taken it away? Maybe, maybe not. If yes, then for what reason, if any, beyond its commercial value? The necklace connects Toomey’s death to Addie Langford’s, and without the necklace we’d only be speculating about a connection. The killer may have wanted to leave us with nothing more than speculations, but instead we have a powerful link. That just might be a very lucky accident. The other woman—what’s her name again? I have trouble remembering English names.”
“Malory Earle.”
“With respect to her, I believe we’ll collect her lover’s DNA. Which we can hope will prove telling. I have a hunch, though, that it won’t answer as many questions as it asks. We have to prepare for that anyway.”
“How so?” Till wonders. “I think it’ll answer questions.”
“Oh, let’s say she has a regular lover. Maybe he’s gone missing. That’ll make things easy. Let’s say Toomey’s her lover. I’m only suggesting that because they’re both dead. What’s up with that? Did he kill Malory Earle first? Then another person did him in? Doubt that. We’ve seen his day clothes and they aren’t bloody. I’m not counting on any link there. If Professor Toomey and Miss Earle were lovers, is there a third person in a triangle? Or does she have a lover and Toomey’s the third? Any chance that Toomey killed Addie? The necklace in his glove box is incriminating, no? Was it him? Why does he end up dead himself? Did poor Malory witness what she was not meant to see and did that lead to her death? That’ll be a supposition the troopers will make, I can guarantee it and they might be right. They will be right to check it out. Mentally, it’s hard for me to put Professor Toomey and young Addie together as lovers, although it’s also hard to put him and Miss Earle together. Maybe I can manage it. Addie, of course, could have been attracted to his mind, that happens, or it may have been a one-way obsession on Toomey’s part, leading to a pathological murder. That also happens. I still want to push through the three murders as being conjoined before treating them as separate incidents.”
“Or two might be linked, and one is off on its own.”
“Anything’s possible, but why are you saying that?”
Till mulls it over. “You’re looking at what connects the killings. Fine. I get that. But I’m conscious of what separates them out. They’re different. Night and day. Okay, a gunshot twice, and we’ll wait on ballistics to see if it’s the same weapon or not. One gunshot victim was brutalized with what must have been a cleaver, or a machete, and the other one was left to gag on his own blood after a single bullet. Otherwise, he wasn’t touched. The first victim we found was strangled, and we have the whole weird, sick component thing going on with that one, the dressing up and the pose. How can we not think that we don’t have three different killers on our hands?”
“Multiple killers doesn’t mean the crimes aren’t linked. Keep that in mind, too.”
“How does that happen?”
“You link the killers.”
“That’s a puzzle. I get the impression we need a lucky break or we’re toast.”
“Hmm,” Cinq-Mars opines.
“You disagree?” Till is catching on to his inflections.
“A lucky break, I’ll take that. Or damn good detective work. That works, too.”
“I hear you. Amen to that. I don’t disagree. I just think it might be up to us.”
They come off the highway at Lebanon, New Hampshire, and drive through the heart of that industrial town before heading along a winding road into the countryside. The speed limit is thirty-five and Till again makes a point of sticking to it, although he’s in a squad car and this isn’t his town or jurisdiction. He could get away with pushing the limit here but chooses not to. While Émile admires that, another thought has nothing to do with Till being a stickler for the letter of the law. Intuition tells him that the chief wants to stretch out their discourse for as long as possible.
Indeed, the man seems chagrined when they arrive at Émile’s mother-in-law’s place. He parks after the long and bumpy road ends at the farmhouse, then cuts the ignition, as though to invite Émile to stay and chat.
“I gotta get in,” Émile says, two fingers on the rocker switch that opens the door.
“Hang on a second,” Till tells him.
Émile forgives him for that. The man is accustomed to giving orders to underlings and has forgotten himself, neglecting the status of his passenger as an independent citizen. The chief’s thinking processes appear to cause him general discomfort.
“Something you don’t know, you should know,” Till says. In a way, a riddle.
“What’s that?”
Cinq-Mars doesn’t expect to be surprised, but he is by what the man says next.
“Your mother-in-law, Mrs. Lowndes.”
He never imagined she’d merit a mention in the context of their day.
“Yeah?” Why is the other man straining to get his words out?
“Just coming clean here,” Till begins, then shuts down again.
“Okay,” Émile says after a few moments have passed. “Come clean.”
Suddenly, the
dam breaks. “She’s been good to me. Helped me out with work when I was a kid. Later, she took my side when we had an uprising against me, she fought to turn that tide. She was very kind when my wife fell ill. My wife recovered, thank God, when it was touch and go through the chemo and all that. She’s contributed materially and in practical ways to the department, and to the fire department. Given us a financial boost from time to time.”
Cinq-Mars doesn’t quite know what to say, and ends up saying what strikes him as inane under the circumstances. “I still can’t believe that American towns elect their sheriffs and police chiefs. I’ll never get that.”
“Bad and good to it,” Till suggests. “A man who’s hired can always be fired, I suppose, and not necessarily when he deserves to be. A man who’s elected can always lose next time. Fortunately, they don’t get kicked out all that often under either system.”
“Or unfortunately, as the case may be,” Cinq-Mars puts in, giving Till a chuckle.
“Right you are, Émile. I’m not, though. If that’s what you think. Elected.”
“No?”
“Selected. By a committee. Hired and fired by the mayor and town council.”
“You’re right. That can be its own political beast.”
“If you’re wondering why I invited you in on this case, it’s partly because I owe a lot to your mother-in-law. She’s been an important person in my career. In my life, too. I’ll miss her when she’s gone. At this point, if she wasn’t in her current circumstances and you weren’t around, I could be talking to her about what’s transpired, hoping she might share a few aspects with her genius son-in-law.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Halfway serious, maybe.”
Émile knows that he is. He remembers, only now, that from time to time he did hear from Mrs. Lowndes about certain crimes in and around Hanover. “Unfortunately, that wouldn’t help you. Her mind is pretty much gone.”
“Oh no.”
“That’s not the half of it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. She’s spoken well of you often, Émile. I mean, back when she was one sharp lady. You made her proud.”
This is a surprise as well. When the marriage commenced, the much older, French-speaking, crime-busting, Canadian husband for her daughter didn’t live up to the woman’s standard for an ideal candidate.
Till chuckles again. “I’ve heard both sides. Past and present. But she got to know you, Émile, and heard about your accomplishments as a detective. Over the years, her pride grew. She came to understand her daughter’s choice of husband. She was happy you two were together. Told me quite a few stories. She thought I’d be interested in hearing about another cop’s success.”
“I guess she got that part wrong.”
“Nobody’s perfect. She had that one major flaw.”
The exchange is fine as far as it goes, although Émile thinks to challenge him. “Chief, when we met this morning, you Googled me.”
“Only for show.” A third time, Till enjoys a laugh. “I didn’t want you to know you had an in with the local chief of police. For one thing, I didn’t know if I’d like you. Didn’t know if you’d impose all that bona fide success on me. Rub my nose in it, maybe. And you have, a little. I didn’t open up. I was aware of your rep, Émile. Truth be told, I was intimidated the moment you introduced yourself and I’ve been trying to stay above water ever since.”
“That’s not easy to do today,” Émile says, and waits for Till to catch the reference and chuckle once more.
After a delay, he comes through.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” the visiting detective asks, “why was there an uprising against you?”
“Handing out parking tickets to the rich and powerful, refusing to rescind. A situation where it was the principle of the thing, because the rich and powerful were insistent that I ticket the poor and the not-so-powerful for holding a street party. So I did. Rules are rules. The poor were ticketed the next time they didn’t comply, their pockets emptied. The rich felt that different rules applied to them, that they could park in a no-parking zone while playing bridge and having a few drinks through the evening, coming back out onto the streets a bit wobbly and getting in behind the wheel. They demanded that I needed to be replaced for ticketing them when, if I was doing my job properly, I should have pulled a few of them over on suspicion of DUI. I gave them a break and they tried to remove me for my insolence. My insubordination, the mayor called it. Mrs. Lowndes turned that tide. Got public support behind me. I’ll always be grateful. I only regret that I never nailed a few for DUI. Next time, I will. Or not. Anyway,” Till concludes, “I want you to know that you have my sincere sympathies, and your wife, of course, at this difficult hour. Your wife’s mom will be sorely missed when she passes.”
“Thank you. I’ll let Sandra know you said that.”
Émile clicks the car door open. He then removes his right hand from the armrest, offers it to Till, and the two men shake. Knowing why he’s been graced with this attention, why he’s been granted certain allowances, that it’s a family connection, helps him feel better about his role in the investigation.
* * *
On his way into the house, Émile notices lights on in the upstairs bedrooms, and in the living room downstairs. He finds Sandra on her own on the sofa by the fireplace, kisses her, and crosses to the liquor cabinet for a nightcap.
“I thought you’d be inviting your new friend in,” Sandra says. “You could have.”
“We’re weary. Him and me both. Do we have guests?”
Sandra nods. But does not speak.
Émile sits opposite her, in the best chair available for his back. It’s good that he’s been on his feet a lot, not stuck in a car seat, for when he gets tired his back is usually the first body part to proclaim its weariness. He smiles, not to express happiness, rather to acknowledge the comfort of her company, and their privacy, given all that’s transpired.
Sandra inhales deeply.
“What’s wrong?” Until this moment, he hasn’t noticed the depth of the change in her.
“I got the call,” she replies. She tilts her head up, and tries to hold his gaze even as her eyes water.
“Sandra.”
“Mom’s gone.”
“Oh sweetie.”
He crosses to her then, and she weeps again, not for the first time, he now realizes.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”
“That’s all right. Caro was here, and then her mom came over. We all had a good cry.” Sandra shakes the tears away. “We talked. We’re done in, too. In the end Caro and Charlotte chose to stay. Because it’s Mom’s house? I don’t know. Saying good-bye for the night seemed too difficult. I suppose we’re in that terribly difficult zone where we’re hurting and also feeling partly relieved. We don’t quite know what to do with that.” She exhales a long sigh. “Tomorrow the planning starts. So much to do in the days ahead. Tonight, I want nothing more than to sit a while, then go to bed and sleep. My mom’s gone. It was time. But she’s gone. Hey, I’m an orphan now, you know?”
She’s weepy again. Émile can see that she’s taking this as well as can be expected. A few days ago he would not have predicted any such thing. Time has passed, the circumstances have changed. Her grief will be heartfelt and prolonged, but there’s no need for histrionics, not after the day’s tragedy, and the circumstances of her mother’s passing have predicated this sense of relief. The key, if a need for a key exists, is not to feel guilty for experiencing an updraft of relief. A life has passed on. All over the world new lives are being welcomed and celebrated at that very moment. One cannot occur without the other, and the only tragedy, the only greater sadness, is reserved for the young life taken prematurely, and for those whose final end is violent, and not natural at all.
“How did your evening go?” Sandra inquires, wanting a change of subject.
Émile gestures with his chin. He retreats the few steps across the carpet to his scotc
h. As the change of pace to the conversation is Sandra’s way of coping with the moment, he provides her with a comprehensive, and yet abbreviated, version of the night’s events. That he went to visit not just one murder scene, but two, is chilling, and does help detract her from grief in an odd way.
“Two more murders,” she states, not as a question, or even with surprise.
Émile sips his drink and considers a raid on the fridge.
“How do you explain that?”
He can’t. “We have a connection between the murdered professor and Addie. They were both in possession of a similar necklace. The third murder may be incidental. We’ll know better once forensics has had a chance to report. I have a question for Caro, but it can wait until morning.”
“About?”
He rocks his head as though he’s not sure. “To ask if she knew the dead guy, Professor Toomey. Is she aware of any connection between him and Addie?”
“What did he teach?”
“International affairs, along those lines. I don’t recall what Addie was studying.”
“Not a large institution, Émile. Pretty much everyone studied international something.”
“Oh yeah. I did know that.”
“Are you wondering if Addie was carrying on with a professor?”
That slight rock of his head again. “Caro described her as romantically adventuresome. So it’s possible. Do you think we can move this talk into the kitchen?” Émile requests. “I haven’t eaten.”
Salami and cheese on rye becomes the sandwich that suits the hour, with a side of leftover salad. He returns to the other room for a whiskey refill. On his return, he finds that Caroline has come down the stairs and sits on a lower step.
“I guess all detectives drink whiskey,” she notes.
“I believe in God,” Cinq-Mars replies, which mystifies her.
“What’s your point about that exactly?”
“It’s not an exact point.” He decides to test her. “Why do you think I said it?”
She doesn’t arrive at a response, and Émile sees that it was unfair to ask. The girl is bone-tired, worn down by a double grief in her life. They remain in the hall between the kitchen and the den. Sandra comes partway toward them, leans against the wall.
