by Tim Downs
“And you think your friend might have been murdered because of the cold case my deputy was working on?”
“It’s quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“I’d call it a possibility. So what is it you want from me?”
“I want to see the evidence for the case your deputy was working on—notes, photographs, physical evidence, everything you’ve got.”
Yanuzzi just looked at him for a moment. “You said you checked your friend’s phone records.”
“That’s right.”
“So Vidocq is looking into your friend’s murder?”
“Not exactly,” Nick said. “Vidocq won’t consider a case until it’s at least two years old—until the local authorities have given up on it.”
“Then you must be working with the Philadelphia police.”
Nick hesitated. “We . . . have an understanding.”
“Uh-huh. ’Cause those phone records you looked over would probably be considered case evidence, and I’m pretty sure Philly doesn’t make a habit of handing case evidence over to civilian personnel—and neither do I.”
“Okay,” Nick said, “you got me. I’m not here with Vidocq and I’m not working with the Philadelphia police. This guy was a friend of mine, okay? A very old friend—and I want to make sure nothing gets overlooked.”
“And you don’t think the boys in Philly are up to it?”
“They have a way of . . . missing things.”
“Like phone records?”
Nick felt his face getting hot. “Look, I’m a forensic professional. I’ve consulted with law enforcement agencies all over the world—including the FBI. What can it hurt to let me take a look at that evidence? I mean, it’s a cold case, right? It’s just sitting in a box somewhere.”
“And it’ll keep right on sitting there,” Yanuzzi said. “Sorry, Polchak, I appreciate your loyalty to your friend and all, but you can’t just walk in here and ask to see case evidence. It has to be an official request from another law enforcement agency—you oughta know that.”
“And you should know that I don’t need to see your evidence. Your deputy made a presentation to Vidocq, remember? I have a transcript of his presentation.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Because I wanted to see what you’d say.” Nick smiled.
“Thanks, Sheriff—you’ve been very helpful.”
At the door, Nick turned back. “By the way, you never told me how your deputy died.”
“Hunting accident,” Yanuzzi said.
“Hunting accident . . . In other words, somebody shot him.”
“Happens all the time up here. Big deer-hunting area.
People come from miles around for the first three days of buck season in December—some of them shouldn’t own a gun. ‘Three-day wonders,’ we call ’em. They hang out in the bars all night, then stumble out into the fields the next morning— bad combination. We had a local woman shot dead hanging out her laundry a couple years back. Does a woman look like a buck to you?”
“I’ve known a couple with horns,” Nick said. “Where was your deputy shot?”
“You know this area?”
“I was referring to the entry wound—where was it?”
“Why?”
“An accidental wound would most likely be off center—maybe a leg wound that severed the femoral artery or a gut wound that bled out. Now, a dead-center wound—straight through the heart or the skull, for example—that might suggest that somebody was taking aim.”
“Look, Polchak, if I won’t show you evidence from a cold case, then I sure won’t discuss a case that’s just a few months old. Take a hint, will ya?”
“I’ve never been very good at taking hints,” Nick said. “I guess I’m just not the subtle type. Your deputy’s name was Marty Keller, right?”
“So?”
“Any next of kin in town? Family? A wife maybe?”
“Now why do you want to know that?”
“So I can contact them. So I can try to convince them that their dear departed’s death might not have been an accident. So they can use Pennsylvania’s Sunshine Law to get a court order to claim that cold-case evidence and show it to me—which is their legal right as next of kin.”
Yanuzzi groaned.
“Look,” Nick said. “I don’t want to be a nuisance. I’ve got better things to do with my time, and I can see that you’ve got just tons of work to do around here. So here’s the deal: You give me the name and address of Keller’s next of kin, and I promise not to bother you anymore. No court orders requesting evidence, no angry next of kin pounding at your door—I just want to ask a few questions and I’ll be on my way.”
“Questions about Marty Keller.”
“I’m not interested in your deputy, Yanuzzi—that’s your business. All I care about is my friend—I want to know who killed him, and I want to know why. Your deputy talked to my friend on the phone several times before his death. Someone close to him might have overheard those conversations or discussed them later—and they might have information that could
help me. That’s all I’m interested in, so help me out and I’ll be on my way. Deal?”
Yanuzzi considered the offer. “Okay,” he said. “Marty had a wife—Michelle. Michelle moved away from the area, but she comes back to visit from time to time.”
“Any idea when she’ll be in town next?”
“She’s here now.”
“Lucky me. Where’s she staying?”
Yanuzzi jotted an address on a notepad and looked up at Nick. “You’re only asking questions about your friend—right?”
“Right.”
He slid the note across the desk.
Nick took the address and slipped it into his shirt pocket.
“Now you’ve been more than helpful,” he said. “Oh, one more thing—can you recommend a decent hotel?”
“What happened to ‘I’ll be on my way’?”
“It’s just for the night.”
“The Mountain View Lodge on the north end of town— only decent hotel in Pine Summit.”
“Thanks,” Nick said. “Nice meeting you—let’s hope we don’t have to do it again.”
***
When the door closed behind Polchak, Yanuzzi picked up the telephone and dialed a number. A voice on the other end answered: “Hey. What’s up?”
“He’s here,” Yanuzzi said, “and the guy is good.”
12
Nick swiped the key card in the lock and waited for the green light and the click of the dead bolt. He pushed the door open and stepped into the room. Not bad, he thought. Better than he expected—spacious and clean, with a king-size bed and even a flat-screen TV. He dropped his shoulder bag and laptop on the bed and took a look around. It was a little too honeymoon-haven for Nick’s taste, heavy on the reds and browns—a bit on the tawdry side, even. But all in all, the Mountain View Lodge was more than decent—Yanuzzi had undersold the place.
The bathroom was on the right; he pushed the door open and looked in. The room was enormous—twice the size necessary to perform even the most demanding biological function. In the center of the bathroom was a cherry-red fiberglass bathtub molded into the shape of a heart. Nick couldn’t believe his eyes—it was exactly what Alena had wished for, just like the photo from her old magazine. Talk about a blast from the past, he thought. Back in the seventies the heart-shaped bathtub had practically been the trademark of the Poconos, and couples used to flock here just for the chance to soak in a bathroom fixture shaped like a human organ. Nick never understood it—but then, he found human beings in general to be absurdly irrational. He looked over at the commode, half expecting it to be heart-shaped too. At least it would fit the anatomy.
He bent down and ran his hand along the tub’s smooth cool fiberglass. How much water does it take to fill this monstrosity? he wondered. Fifty gallons at least. Fifty gallons of water with suds on top—it would qualify as an EPA cleanup site. He tried to imagine himself re
clining in the tub with Alena beside him, surrounded by mountains of frothy white bubbles as they toasted each other with flutes of champagne. He wondered how long it would take before his glasses steamed over, leaving him totally blind . . . He wondered how long Alena would require him to sit there, bobbing like a pork roast in a Crock-Pot . . . He wondered which one would get to him first, the soul-sucking heat or the mind-numbing boredom.
Fortunately for Nick, there were no heart-shaped bathtubs at the hotel they reserved for their honeymoon—the Skytop Lodge in a town of the same name about twenty minutes south. Alena had resisted at first, but the wedding planner eventually convinced her that the Skytop Lodge was a much classier venue and the heart-shaped bathtub was a relic of the past. Nick pretended to be disappointed too, but he was secretly relieved—it meant one less bizarre honeymoon ritual he would have to endure.
He wondered how many more were still awaiting him.
Nick left his hotel room and walked down the hallway to the hotel lobby. The lobby did its best to capture the “mountain view” theme, though in fact the hotel was situated on fairly level ground due to its proximity to Lake Wallenpaupack just a couple of miles away. The lobby’s A-frame ceiling was ribbed with heavy wooden beams and there was a large chalet-style fireplace in the center made of smooth river rock with a mantel the size of a railroad tie.
“Excuse me,” Nick said to a young woman behind the desk.
When her eyes met Nick’s she took a quick step backward and tucked her chin back into her neck until it was nothing but a stack of U-shaped wrinkles. “Whoa! Wow. Hey—you’ve got the biggest peepers I’ve ever seen.” She stood there staring and blinking, as though she were trying her best to match the size of Nick’s eyes.
“It’s the lenses,” Nick said. “They tend to magnify.”
“Right. Sure. That explains it then. Sorry—that was rude. Sometimes I mean to think something, but I end up saying it instead.”
“I have the same problem,” Nick said. “There should be a fax for me—several pages. The name is—”
“Dr. Polchak, right? Hi—I’m Holly. I know your name ’cause I always check the registration list when I come on duty. I noticed you ’cause you’re a doctor and you checked in alone. Oh—oops.”
“Don’t tell me,” Nick said. “You meant to think that.”
“Yeah. Um—I’ll just check on that fax.”
Holly looked young, probably in her mid- to late twenties, not much older than some of Nick’s students back at NC State. She had freckled skin and a lean face that looked even leaner because of her brownish-blonde hair that was parted in the middle and hung down straight on either side. She disappeared into a back room and emerged a moment later with a nine-by-twelve manila envelope.
“Yep. Got it. Right here—lots of pages, just like you said.”
“Thanks.” Nick reached into his shirt pocket and took out the note Yanuzzi had given him. “Do you know this area?” he asked.
“Me? Oh, sure. Yeah, I grew up around here. Why?”
“I need some help with an address.” He handed her the slip of paper.
“Wow. This is—you know—way out in the boonies.”
“Can you give me directions?”
“Sure. Yeah. I can do that. Okay, this road out front here? Not the little one, that’s a service road. The big one? That’s called—”
“Why don’t you write it down for me?” Nick suggested. “I get easily confused.” Nick hoped that the process of committing Holly’s thoughts to paper might lend them more coherence— though some of his students’ papers suggested otherwise. “Tell you what, I’ll stop back in a few minutes. Does the hotel have a coffee shop or something? I’d like to grab some dinner before I head out.”
“Dinner, yeah. Definitely. Right down that hallway to the left—the Pike Room.”
“Thanks.”
Nick found the Pike Room almost empty; the few patrons scattered around the dining area were dressed like locals. A bit early for the tourists, he thought—too warm for skiers and too cold for boaters. He took a seat at a four-top near the center of the room where he would have plenty of light and emptied the contents of the manila envelope onto the table.
Once Nick was able to trace Pete’s phone records to Marty Keller, he had called Bill Fleisher and asked him to fax everything he had on the case Keller had presented to Vidocq—notes, interviews, any photos that might be available. Nick was disappointed at what he saw: a few pages of hand-scrawled notes, a list of names and phone numbers relevant to the case—Pete’s included—an autopsy report, and a couple of crime scene photos showing a man’s body lying facedown beside a bed. Nick shook his head; there’s nothing more useless than a fax of a photograph—only the most prominent features were discernible.
“Hi, hon. What can I getcha?”
Nick didn’t bother making eye contact with the waitress.
“What’s good here?”
“You name it.”
“I could name all kinds of things I might regret later. What do the locals go for?”
“Fried pork chops.”
“What else?”
“Chicken-fried steak.”
“Keep going.”
“Beer-battered shrimp.”
“What’s the life expectancy around here?”
“You expect me to stand here and read you the whole menu?”
“Would you? That way I can keep working.”
Nick heard the slap of plastic against the table and looked up to see the waitress’s backside already halfway across the room. “Hey,” he called after her. “How about meat loaf? That’s a hunk of meat shaped like a loaf.”
“I know what meat loaf is,” she muttered.
“And a starch. Coffee too.”
He returned to the deputy’s handwritten notes to see if he could piece together an overview of the case. It seemed fairly mundane—so mundane, in fact, that Nick had a hard time understanding why Keller had gone to the time and trouble to present it to Vidocq at all. According to the notes, almost three years ago an old man named George Hotchkiss had been found dead in his lake home on the western shore of Lake Wallenpaupack. Hotchkiss was an invalid, it said, completely bedridden during the months leading up to his death, and a home-care provider had been hired to make daily visits to the house. Nick searched for the home-care provider’s name . . . Here it is—Curtis Medlin. Apparently Medlin was responsible for the old man’s care, but one day he came to the house and found himself out of a job—because his employer was lying facedown on the floor on the left side of the bed, dead as the proverbial doornail. Nick referred to the blurry crime scene photo again . . . There was the victim, just as described, lying facedown on a carpeted floor.
Since the home-care provider had been the last person to see Hotchkiss alive, the police automatically suspected him of negligence or foul play. Nick reviewed the autopsy report: Sure enough, the old man’s body had been underweight and had shown signs of dehydration. But Medlin claimed that his employer’s condition had been steadily declining in the months prior to his death, and that the old man had become belligerent about taking his meals and consuming adequate fluids. The confrontation between Medlin and the police turned into “your word against mine” and, lacking any convincing physical evidence, the police decided not to file charges against Medlin.
Nick frowned. That’s it? This is what Pete was working on? At its worst it was a simple case of health-care negligence, not murder—and apparently the authorities didn’t even consider the evidence substantial enough to bring charges for negligence. So why would Deputy Keller bring this case to Vidocq when Vidocq takes only murder cases? Where was the evidence that convinced the deputy the old man’s death was not the result of natural causes? What was it about this case that would catch the interest of a forensic botanist like Pete Boudreau? And what in the world did Pete think Nick would have to contribute? He flipped through the pages again.
I just don’t see it . . . What am I missin
g?
Nick heard the sound of a ceramic plate sliding across the table toward him. He held out his open right hand and, after a groan from the waitress, he felt the handle of a fork slapped against his palm. Without looking at the plate he jabbed the fork into something soft, twisted it, and brought it to his mouth.
“How is everything?” the waitress asked drily.
“Yummy,” Nick replied.
“Want me to pour the coffee down your throat?”
“Let’s let it cool first,” Nick said. “Did you ever know a man named George Hotchkiss?”
“Who?”
“George Hotchkiss. An old guy—lived over on Lake Wallenpaupack.”
“Sure, I remember him—had one of the nicest places on the whole lake. Died a couple years back, I think.”
“Do you remember anything about the circumstances surrounding his death?”
“You mean like from the newspaper?”
“I can read the newspaper myself. You’re a waitress—you hear a lot of gossip—what did the locals have to say about it?”
“I don’t listen to gossip,” she said.
“Okay, then you ‘overhear a lot of conversations.’ Better?”
“I don’t remember much,” she said. “Just that some male nurse from up in Honesdale was supposed to look in on him but didn’t.”
“How do you know he didn’t?”
“The old man died, didn’t he?”
“Nobody lives forever. Maybe he just died from old age.”
“Maybe.”
“Where’s this nurse now? Has anybody seen him since the old man’s death?”
“Went back to Honesdale, I suppose—probably moved away ’cause of all the talk. I hope he changed jobs, anyway—I sure wouldn’t want that man lookin’ in on me.”
“Can’t say I blame you.” Nick checked the deputy’s contact sheet. The waitress’s memory was correct; Curtis Medlin had a Honesdale address. Nick searched for another address: the home of the deceased, George Hotchkiss. He looked up at the waitress: “The old man’s lake house—who owns the place now?”
“Probably some transplant from the eastern shore—that’s where they all seem to come from these days. Where you from?”
