Another Word for Murder

by Nero Blanc

  But his lack of enthusiasm for cold salt spray, choppy waves, and bobbing vessels battling the briny wasn’t his only unusual characteristic. A former cop who’d spent eight years working Homicide with the Newcastle Police Department before opening his own detective agency, his other peculiarity was that he didn’t like carrying a gun, and never had—a decision that had annoyed NPD’s captain for some reason. The captain had also frowned upon Rosco’s unorthodox approach to his investigations, although that might have been because his sometimes quirky methods brought unexpected results.

  Now in its sixth year, the Polycrates Detective Agency was doing well. It had new office space in a respected part of town, an impressive roster of former clients, and a reputation for thorough and honest work; ironically, a large percentage of which was marine-related insurance fraud. And all this with just a single employee, one Rosco Polycrates. Although he’d once made the fateful mistake of referring to Belle as a subcontractor of the agency, a term she relished—and used—with typical abandon.

  As Rosco settled into the chair behind his desk, he reached for the telephone and punched *1 into the auto-dialer and listened while the familiar tones skipped over the digits that would connect him to Belle’s cell phone. They’d only finished breakfast and kissed good-bye an hour before, but he saw no harm in telling her once again how much he adored her. Of course, the odds of Belle actually having the mobile phone on her person, or turned on, for that matter, were slim. Rosco was accustomed to leaving messages she forgot to retrieve—or when she did retrieve them, overlooked the day and month of the voice mail. But before the call could go through, there was a knock on his door. His nine-thirty appointment was early. He disconnected the phone without reaching his real or electronic wife and said, “Yes? Come in.” Although Rosco was fluent in Greek, his accent was pure Back-Bay-Boston drawl.

  Walter Gudgeon appeared to be in his early to midseventies, five-feet-nine, a bit heavier that he should have been, or probably wanted to be, with expensively cut, dark brown hair—the kind of chestnut shade that shouted professional dye job. He wore tailored slacks and a sports jacket, the clothes of a man who lived a comfortable, if understated, life. Rosco stood and said, “Mr. Gudgeon, I take it?”

  “Yes.” Gudgeon crossed to Rosco and extended his hand. He had a strong grip, which he seemed proud of, and spoke with a very slight accent, which Rosco decided was Scottish. “It’s nice to meet you. You’ve come highly recommended, Mr. Polycrates.”

  “Thanks. And please call me Rosco. Have a seat, will you?”

  Gudgeon sat in the leather chair opposite Rosco’s desk.

  “Out of curiosity, I don’t believe you mentioned how you found my agency when you made your appointment. Who was it who recommended me?”

  “Actually, I don’t remember who it was, now that you ask.”

  Gudgeon gave an uneasy smile. Rosco guessed it was nervousness at hiring a PI, though he found it a bit strange that the man couldn’t remember where the highly recommended had come from. A good way to determine what someone really wanted was to learn who had led them up to your front door.

  “Wasn’t there a Gudgeon who ran for mayor about fifteen years ago?” Rosco asked as he opened a small notebook.

  “That was my brother, Charlie. He lost in the primary. Got beat up, down, and sideways by the boys with the Big Money.”

  Rosco nodded in sympathy. “Well, no doubt, he would have been better than the clown sitting in the mayor’s chair now.”

  “I think that could also be said of my grandson’s hamster.”

  Rosco laughed. “Well, Mr. Gudgeon—”

  “Call me Walt. I’m not a formal guy and never have been.”

  “All right.” Rosco snapped his fingers. “Walt Gudgeon … Of course! Those are your trucks I see all over town; Gudgeon Electrical Contracting. Walt’s Wire Wagons.”

  Walter Gudgeon looked immensely pleased. “That’s right. Although I retired five years ago. My son, Young Walt, runs the show now. It’s really only seven trucks, but the red and gold lettering shows off well against those bright white panels. I designed the look myself. Young Walt wanted to go with green; dumbest idea I ever heard of. Those trucks are our only advertising. They have to turns heads when you see them, or what’s the use? Green; I still get a chuckle over that boneheaded concept.”

  Rosco was beginning to wonder just how retired Gudgeon was if “Young Walt” wasn’t allowed to paint the fleet another color if he chose to. “What can I help you with Walt?” he asked.

  Gudgeon looked down at his hands as they rested in his lap and fiddled with his thumbnail. “I’m not sure where to start with all of this, but I guess what I’d like you to do is find a missing person.”

  “All right.” Rosco picked up a pen. “Are we talking about a friend or acquaintance from your past … or a family member, or—?”

  “Not a family member, no.” The words jumped out, and the nervous movement of Gudgeon’s hands increased until he clenched them purposely together.

  Rosco put down his pen and leaned slightly back in his chair. “Have you contacted the police?” It was a natural question, but he gathered the answer would be in the negative.

  “No,” was the hurried reply.

  “Well, the police department is where most folks start when someone goes missing—”

  “I don’t want …” Gudgeon interrupted in the same jerky rhythm, “I mean, I can’t … well, this is a private matter. That’s why I’m here. You’re a private eye. I need to keep this information between the two of us.”

  “I see.” Rosco regarded his visitor; experience had taught him that silence was often a good method for gathering information. People who possessed secrets usually had a need for sharing their stories.

  “It’s not that I’ve done anything illegal …” Gudgeon continued, “It’s just that my kids … well, they worry about me … think I’m getting old and kind of loopy … if they knew about …” The words ceased; Walt Gudgeon stared at his hands while Rosco waited. Then after a moment he added, “We can keep this just between us, can’t we?”

  “Of course, Walt. I wouldn’t be in business if I didn’t keep my clients’ information confidential.”

  Gudgeon thought, then finally leaped ahead. “Okay, the person … the girl, I mean … her name is Dawn. Dawn Davis.” Then he corrected himself. “Woman, really, not a girl. She’s twenty-six or -seven. It’s not what it sounds like, though, a romance of some kind, but, well, I’m sure that’s how my kids will view the situation—an old guy like me … Dawn’s been gone for almost four weeks. At least, it was over three weeks ago when I lost track of her …” Again, the speech trailed off.

  Rosco sat back in his chair, studying the older man. When potential clients claimed that they were innocent of illicit behavior and hadn’t been involved in unfortunate romances, usually they were lying on both counts. “And you want me to find this Dawn Davis, is that it?”

  “Yes. That’s why I’m here.” Gudgeon’s voice had started to verge on the shrill. “I mean, she was so sick … And now she’s just plain gone.”

  “Maybe you need to begin from the beginning here, Mr. Gudgeon—”

  “Walt.”

  “Walt. I can’t help you if I don’t know what you’re after.”

  “I told you. I want you to find Dawn.”

  “But you don’t want to contact the police or have your family involved.”

  “That’s correct. The situation needs to be kept between the two of us. Just us.”

  “Even though she’s a sick woman, as you stated—which I’m guessing refers to a physical illness rather than a mental one? Or am I mistaken?”

  “Physical.”

  Rosco was starting to believe he’d embarked on an endless game of twenty questions. He sighed and retrieved his notebook, but Walt spoke again before Rosco could formulate his next query.

  “Her last name is Davis, like I said. I-I don’t have her address, Or phone number. That’s part of
the problem. I don’t know where to start looking. As I told you, she’s twenty-six or -seven; about five-foot-four or maybe five-five, slim, good figure, attractive, with auburn hair that falls midway down her back. Curls a little bit at the ends—especially when the weather’s damp.”

  Rosco heard the wistful tone. No romance, he thought, tell me another one.

  Rosco said, “Caucasian? Hispanic? African-American?”

  Gudgeon thought for a moment. “Caucasian.”

  “And obviously you’ve tried the phone book?”

  “Yes.”

  “And no Dawn Davis, either listed or unlisted? It’s not an uncommon name.”

  “There’s three in the book. I called and hung up because it wasn’t her. The vocal quality wasn’t the same.” Gudgeon shook his head. “You see, she always phoned me. She said she …” His voice faded away again.

  “You know what, Mr. Gudgeon … I mean, Walt,” Rosco set his pen down on the desk and leaned in toward his visitor. “Why don’t you describe your relationship to Ms. Davis? No notes on my part, okay? But I have to know what I’m dealing with if I’m going to help you.”

  Gudgeon put his head in his hands and all but groaned. “I just want to find her, that’s all. I just need to know that she’s alive. That she’s not in any trouble. That she came through everything all right.”

  Rosco didn’t like playing the psychiatrist; he preferred a more direct approach. But direct didn’t work with everyone, and it sure wasn’t working at the moment. He decided to nibble away at Gudgeon’s edges in the hopes of gathering more concrete data. “When did you come to this country, Walt?” he asked.

  Gudgeon looked up and smiled. “I like to think I’ve lost the accent. Foolish thought, huh? I came over from Scotland fifty years ago. I was fifteen when we sailed into Boston Harbor.”

  “And you’ve done well for yourself.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Damn straight, I have. I’m the top electrical contractor in the city.”

  “And your son now runs the company?”

  Gudgeon chortled. “He tries to.”

  “Any other children?”

  “Four daughters. That’s enough to drive a man insane, I’ll tell you that much. I don’t recommend it to anyone.”

  “And your wife?”

  “She passed away a year and a half ago.” Gudgeon said this without taking a breath. The statement seemed to bear no emotional weight. Sensing that Rosco was aware of this dearth of grief, Walt followed with a quick, “She was a fine woman. Raised five solid children; may she rest in peace.”

  “And getting back to Dawn Davis, when did you meet her?”

  “That was about two months ago. Out at the Harbor Mall … In the food court.”

  Rosco waited for more, but Gudgeon had again lapsed into silence. Rosco slid his chair back from his desk and made a show of leaving his notebook and pen untouched. “If you truly want to find Ms. Davis, you’re going to have to tell me everything about her. Including her relationship to you.”

  Gudgeon made no reply, and so Rosco continued, “Let’s start with the moment you met her. But first: Do you want a coffee or something? I can phone down to Lawson’s. They’ll send it right up.”

  “No. No, I’m fine.” He inhaled deeply and let the air out slowly. Finally he said, “Okay. Back in early August I was at the mall doing my laps—”

  “There’s a pool at the Harbor Mall?”

  “No, no, I go there every morning at eleven and do laps around the mall; on foot, for exercise. I circle the mall at a good pace for an hour, then go to the food court for lunch. I know, it’s a dumb time to go. It’s always jammed by then, but I like seeing all the people, the kids running around, teenage couples hanging out—especially in the summer when there’s no school. I live alone now, and it gets pretty dull. Anyway, one day, I think it was a Saturday, because the court was packed and all the tables were filled, Dawn came up to me with her lunch and asked if she could share the table. Of course, I said yes. She was a polite young woman, and there weren’t any empty spots. We had a nice chat; hit it off really well, actually … and that was that.”

  “That’s all you saw of her?”

  “No, no. A few days later I saw her again at the food court. I waved, and I asked her to join me.”

  “She didn’t approach you; you called her over? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I don’t even think she saw me sitting there till I called her name. Anyway, she seemed a little out if it. Her eyes were puffy, like she’d been crying. She’s got these really soft green gold eyes, but they were all pink and sore-looking. It really broke my heart. I asked her what was wrong, but she refused to talk. She said her problems were her own and she wasn’t about to get a stranger involved. I pushed her for information, but she refused to say anything more. We then kind of finished our lunches in silence, but I could see that she was on the verge of tears the entire time. I gave her my phone number and told her she could call me anytime she wanted, night or day.”

  “And did she?”

  “No. I didn’t hear anything from her. But about a week later I saw her again at the food court. She still seemed in pretty bad shape when she sat down. Very pale. She didn’t look healthy at all. This time I refused to let her leave until she told me what was going on. She finally broke down; she must have sobbed for five minutes before she regained enough composure to speak clearly. It seems she’d been on a kidney dialysis treatment for the last two years and was waiting for a donor kidney. The treatments had exhausted nearly all of her savings. At any rate, Newcastle Memorial had informed her that they’d found a matching donor, but that since she’d recently let her health insurance premiums lapse, and now had no way to pay for the surgery, they were going to have to move to the next person on their list. I mean, it was just a horrible situation.”

  “Did you offer to help out?”

  Gudgeon rubbed at a small vein that protruded on the left side of his forehead. “I did, but Dawn refused. Steadfastly refused. Wouldn’t even hear of such a notion. She told me the operation alone was going to cost close to $250,000. She knew there was no way she would ever be able to pay me back.”

  “What about family? Wasn’t there anyone else Ms. Davis could turn to?”

  “An ex-boyfriend was all she had, but he’d ditched her early on in the treatment process; a completely unsupportive jerk from what I could tell.” Gudgeon stopped and looked down at his hands, which were again resting in his lap. “I mean … I had the cash. It seemed stupid to have it sitting in the bank when this girl was in such trouble. By the end of the day … well, I was able to convince her that it was the right thing to do, for her to take the money. If the kidney was available … I mean, hell, it might’ve been a long time before another one came within reach.”

  “That was extremely generous of you, Walt,” was Rosco’s sole response. Whether the vanished Dawn Davis had pulled a fast one or not, Gudgeon had made a kind and noble gesture.

  “It’s just money,” was the shy reply. “My kids might not agree if they knew. But you can’t take it with you, can you? I mean, aren’t we supposed to help people in need if we can? Everyone just wants to get rich; and they could give a hoot about their fellow man.”

  “You’re right, the world would be a better place if other folks believed as you do, Walt,” Rosco told him. The opinion that the gullible might also be poorer, Rosco kept to himself. “How did you give her the money? Was it a check or cash?”

  “It was a wire transfer from my bank into her account.”

  “And you have that account number, I take it.”

  “No.”

  Rosco reached for his pad and pen. “Not a problem; your bank will have it on file. So I gather you haven’t seen Ms. Davis since you gave her the money?”

  Gudgeon held up his hands. “Wait, hold on there, Rosco. Dawn didn’t steal this money from me, if that’s what you’re thinking. I saw her quite a few times after the funds were transferred.
She was very insistent about telling me how she was doing: what the prognosis was and so forth, how much better she was feeling knowing she was going to be cured … And she kept telling me how bad she felt about taking the money. She … she wanted to make it up to me … had all sorts of payment schedules she’d made up—every one of which would have outlasted me.” He stopped and smiled, and again Rosco noted the tenderness of the expression. “Anyway, the operation wasn’t scheduled until a little over three weeks ago. I drove Dawn to the hospital myself. She’d had the money in her account for almost a month by then. If I was being conned, she would have skipped town long before that.”

  “Okay,” Rosco said. “I’m just not convinced that Newcastle Memorial plays that kind of hardball in situations such as you described. Failing kidneys aren’t anything to fool around with. I don’t see them turning a patient away for lack of funds. There are agencies that can step in to help indigent patients.”

  “They had another match for that kidney,” Gudgeon argued, raising his voice. “They didn’t need her. They had Dawn on the ropes. They were going to go with the person who could pay. Health care’s changed; it’s big business now. They don’t care about the little guy.”

  “Did you visit Ms. Davis in the hospital?”

  “No. She didn’t want any visitors.”

  “Phone her?”

  “No. She had no phone in her room.”

  “And when exactly did she disappear?”