He shook his head. “The way I see it, it already has.”
· · ·
Bill Allard laughed as we shoehorned ourselves back into his office. “Christ, that was hardball. What’s with this Willy Kunkle guy?”
Sammie rolled her eyes. “If you have to ask, you obviously don’t know the man.”
She knew that better than most. Still, I saw the relief in her face and hoped my gambit would benefit both Willy and her.
By conventional wisdom, however, neither chicanery nor time would be kind to them. Opinionated, headstrong, and passionate, they were fated to clash more than they might commingle. Which probably should have concerned me as their boss. But I’d known them for years and had seen their focus on the job, which is no doubt why they’d remained such perennial loners so far.
There was an additional influence working on me, of course, more personal and elusive. My own years-long relationship with Gail Zigman was undergoing some adjustment, ever since we’d decided to go back to living apart and she’d taken a job in Montpelier for half of each year. We’d shared a house only briefly—and then only because she’d needed to rebuild herself after a harrowing sexual assault—but I’d grown used to the domesticity and was by nature less driven than she to climb a career ladder.
Which made nurturing Sam and Willy’s odd romance all the more instinctive.
“Willy’s definitely an acquired taste,” I explained to Bill, “but he’s a dog with a bone on something like this, and I’m used to working with him.”
Allard slid behind his desk. “So who else do you want?”
I watched him carefully. “That’s a little risky, isn’t it? Given Stanton’s marching orders.”
He allowed a thin smile, revealing a bit of what had made him so successful within the ranks of the state police. “Stanton’s a good guy—savvy at paddling his chosen waters.” He paused and then added, “But he’s not Bureau chief.”
“Nevertheless,” I said, “I don’t want to be too obvious. He did say to pick someone from outside Windham County. How ’bout Lester Spinney?”
Sammie Martens immediately laughed, reminded of Spinney’s famous sense of humor. “I didn’t know he’d joined up. I thought he was happy investigating for the Attorney General.”
“He was happy working for Kathy Bartlett,” I emphasized, “but when the AG made her VBI special prosecutor, he figured he’d tag along.”
But Bill shook his head. “Maybe later, if things start heating up, but even I know you’ve worked with Spinney before. Stanton’s bound to smell a rat. We need some relative stranger we think’ll fit your style.”
I was stumped. I knew quite a few of the approximately one thousand full-time cops in the state, but only a handful had risked joining the Bureau so far. A conservative bunch by nature, police officers were inclined to sit back and watch when politics were in motion.
“You know Paul Spraiger?” Allard asked.
“I know his boss,” I answered, “assuming he’s the Spraiger from the Burlington PD.”
“One and the same. A twelve-year veteran. He was about to be rotated back into uniform when he decided he’d gotten used to plainclothes. He’s a quiet guy, a good interrogator—has a way of making people feel comfortable. Incredibly smart but keeps it to himself. He also speaks French, which might come in handy.”
I nodded. “Sounds good. What about the BCI intern?”
This time, Allard didn’t hesitate. “Tom Shanklin. He’s in the Middlesex barracks right now—a good people person, easy to get along with, popular with the troops, and a gung-ho Green-and-Gold type, but not obnoxious. If we can turn him around to what we’re up to, he’d be a great ambassador.”
“He been with BCI long?” Sammie asked, obviously mistrustful of all the strategizing.
Bill tried putting her at ease. “Oh yeah, years. He’s worked several major cases on his own. He’ll be an asset.”
I’d heard only good of Tom Shanklin, although we’d never met. I rose to my feet. “Okay by me, and unless you feel otherwise, we might as well keep it at five total for the moment, till we know what we’re facing. You want to meet with us once we’re all assembled?”
Allard’s smile suggested otherwise. “Give you all a rousing speech? I don’t think so. You’re the field man, Joe. Run things as you see fit. Just keep me informed and let me know when you need help.”
He escorted us four feet to his door and shook us both by the hand. “It looks like a good case to start with—custom-made for what we can offer. Maybe the governor wasn’t so crazy after all.”
Sammie merely smiled politely, no doubt wondering what she’d done to her career.
I felt no such constraints. “Well, if he was, we’ll probably all be out of a job soon enough.”
Chapter 4
TO MOST PEOPLE—ESPECIALLY THOSE “from away”—Stowe, Vermont, means downhill skiing. Which, sadly but understandably, counts for a great deal, since Vermont itself has been reduced to skiing, maple sugar, fall foliage, quaint villages, black-and-white cows, taciturn people who make for lousy waiters, and, just maybe, the eccentric top competitor in the luxury ice cream market.
Not surprisingly, the town didn’t start as a ski resort. The mountain that has made it such isn’t even named Stowe, but Mount Mansfield, and the village can follow its roots back to when skiing was unheard of and lumber its primary cash source. But it is tourist-dependent now, to the point where most of its money actually comes in during the summer months, and many of its key decision-makers are originally from out of state, referred to by disgruntled, dispossessed locals as “flatlanders.”
It has become a place gently at odds with itself, where wealth conflicts with poverty, residents with tourists, native-born with newcomer, tradition with the trendy. Even the population has extremes. Resting at 3,500 during the off-season, and swelling to 25,000 within the right couple of days, it supports seventy-two businesses selling liquor and the highest concentration of motels and hotels in the state. Among Vermonters, Stowe has been dubbed a “gold” town—its residents painted as financially above the norm, regardless of their origins or the actual size of their bank accounts. To be “from Stowe” is to be regarded differently, perhaps distrustfully, as if the person being scrutinized might be capable of some immediate capitalist sleight of hand that would play to the observer’s disadvantage.
As with all such perceptions, of course, the truth is far more complicated. In the huge mountain looming on the edge of town—the tallest in the state—Stowe had found an asset that could offer it some economic stability through the years. It made concessions to the outsiders and their money, watched how these visitors expressed their needs and desires, and slowly transformed itself from a ski slope’s service-oriented road stop to a year-round commercial enterprise, hosting antique car rallies, dog and horse shows, and a broad selection of hiking, biking, tennis, golf, and other outdoor activities. The fortunes of the company owning the actual ski resort have wobbled now and then, to the point where of old the town might have become alarmed, but the breadth of business diversity has reached such an extent by now that the once vital umbilical cord, though still important, isn’t what it used to be. Stowe as a whole has become a corporation, and the mountain business, like the parent of an ambitious, precocious family, has had to concede to being one of the crowd.
The police force for such a place faces a challenge, largely because of the population swings. The Stowe PD is in the unusual position of having more part-time officers, at seventeen, than its full-time staff of thirteen, just to handle the seasonal discrepancies. And they are a hard-working crew. On a per-officer, per-complaints-handled, per-day basis, the Stowe cops outwork the hundred-member police force in nearby Burlington, although the Burlington crew would correctly contend that their population contains a rougher mix of humanity. The Stowe PD also works high profile, conducting frequent vehicle stops, dropping in on bars and nightclubs unannounced and unasked, and generally making itself seen,
patrolling the streets in a small fleet of sport utility vehicles.
This visible police presence has been largely because of Frank Auerbach, whose philosophy was that the more cops the bad guys see, the less appealing Stowe will appear for easy pickings. And there certainly were bad guys—every year, drug dealers, thieves, con artists, and sexual predators came to town like camp followers trailing an advancing army. As a result, Auerbach’s force was trained to ask for more than just a driver’s license and registration at a vehicle stop. His officers could be downright chatty, wanting to know where you were headed and staying, what your plans were while in the area, what you did for a living, and what place you called home. The grumblers complained of harassment. Auerbach countered that if you kept your nose clean, you never had to have such a conversation. And he played no favorites, barring one exception. Selectmen, millionaires, and bums were all handled the same, but his “guys” as he called them—regardless of gender—he pampered as much as he could. He bought them the best shoes he could find, the best vehicles, guns, armored vests, and anything else he could think of, all from money forfeited from convicted drug dealers. The upside to the area’s expensive taste in narcotics was that the Stowe PD could reasonably join federally backed drug task forces, from the DEA on down, and thus benefit from the federal rules of booty sharing. To judge from the PD’s equipment, business had been good.
All this I researched before heading out to visit Frank Auerbach for the first time, alone and unofficially, hoping to smooth whatever rough water might have been created by the ham-handed way our services had been offered. Happily, I already knew the door was at least half open. Bill Allard had been right—Auerbach had phoned to accept the offer of VBI assistance before Sam and I had left VSP headquarters—apparently stimulated by Hillstrom’s findings. But I had no idea if Auerbach had felt pressured to do so or had merely yielded to need and curiosity. Knowing the truth, I thought, would be crucial to our getting along, so I’d done some fast homework, leaving Sammie to call the team together and write up a quick report.
The police department is located on the west side of Route 100, just below the northernmost—and larger—of Stowe’s two villages. It is a modest building, one-and-a-half stories, red brick, and set deeply enough into a hollow by the side of the road that by the time you notice the fire and rescue station next door, you’ve already passed it by.
I pulled into the parking lot, hemmed in by stained, craggy walls of piled-up snow, and got out of my car, enjoying the cold on my face after the steady blast from the heater.
I’d passed the PD’s driveway once already on this trip—after arranging for lodging at a local motel—to explore the village’s small, busy, appealingly plain heart farther on, hoping to put into some perspective all the information I’d just acquired.
It had been a worthwhile detour. Along the twelve-mile drive north of Interstate 89, I’d been struck by a growing commercial momentum on both sides of Route 100. The gas stations, tourist shops, motels, and restaurants had become increasingly serried, creating the visual equivalent of an encroaching critical mass. The village itself was the natural apogee of all this, teeming with a blur of multihued cars and people. But despite the activity and some of the tacky architecture leading up to it, the unpretentious town of a hundred years earlier showed through, clapboarded, useful, and blandly functional. As background to the colorful Spandex and insulated ski clothes, stalwart behind the endless stream of high-end SUVs, the buildings held their own against most modern influences, content to look as they had for decades.
And crouching to the west, white-capped and gleaming against a shimmering blue sky, was the stimulus for it all. Mount Mansfield hovered like a multipeaked Olympus, majestic, daunting, both maternal and threatening, its sheer bulk endowing it with indefinable deeper meaning.
Knowing that somewhere high on its slopes, an old, near mummified corpse had mysteriously been deposited made me wonder for whom that meaning boded ill.
I entered the police department lobby, unbuttoned my coat in the sudden warmth, and stepped up to a counter blocked by a sliding glass window.
“Hi. Is the chief in?” I asked a slim, middle-aged woman through the open half of the window.
She looked up from her typing and smiled. “May I have your name?”
“Joe Gunther. Vermont Bureau of Investigation.”
She stared at me for what felt like a long count. “I’m sorry?”
I extracted my new shield from an inner pocket and showed it to her. “Joe Gunther. I’m a cop.”
She rose and approached the window, her face expressing pure wonder. “No… I mean, yeah, but what was the other thing—the Bureau?”
I gave her the badge for closer scrutiny. “The Vermont Bureau of Investigation—new statewide unit.”
She returned it cheerfully, seemingly recovered. “Neat. I just never heard of it. The chief expecting you?”
“Not by name, but he knows we’re coming.”
Looking mystified again, she said, “I’ll check,” and disappeared.
Moments later, a tall, large, barrel-chested bald man dressed in a white uniform shirt and black cargo pants entered the reception area and stuck out a meaty hand. “Joe Gunther? Frank Auerbach. Glad to meet you at last. You’re a famous guy.”
“So was Son of Sam.”
He laughed and waved me through the inner door. “Oh, oh—wobbly self-image there. People giving you shit about this VBI thing?”
I thought back to the woman at the counter. “Assuming they even know about it.”
He led me into an office just off the small dispatch area. It was cramped, unassuming, and had two doors he left wide open, one looking out into the building’s central hallway, the other leading to the squad room in back. There was a symbolism here that apparently reflected the man.
“This is your first case, right?” he asked. “For VBI, I mean.”
I sat in the chair he offered me. “Yes, and I’m sorry about the way you were approached. Must’ve seemed a little lacking in subtlety.”
He shrugged. “Didn’t bother me. You want some coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
“The way I figure it,” he resumed, pouring himself a cup from a Thermos parked on his windowsill, “you people have resources I don’t, and you’ll be falling all over yourselves trying to make a good impression. You are going to give me the spiel about how I get all the credit afterward, aren’t you?”
I gave him a hapless look. So far, I instinctively liked this man, but with that comment I wasn’t sure I could distinguish bluntness from irony—I didn’t know him well enough yet. “That is the spiel. We’ll work under your command, talk to the press only by your say-so, and vanish as soon as you don’t want us anymore.”
He nodded. “Sounds okay. ’Course, BCI already does all that.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “with the difference that they wouldn’t actually work under your command. They would work with you. Not that it usually makes any real difference,” I added quickly, sensing he might still send us packing. “But it’s a point I’m sure you can appreciate. In any case, this isn’t a competition. I didn’t dream up this unit, and didn’t apply for it when it was born. But I ended up joining because I think it’s right to have a major crimes squad that’s open to all that’re qualified. Again, that’s not meant to be disrespectful to the VSP—just more democratic. And the best of BCI will end up in VBI anyhow.”
Frank Auerbach smiled broadly, obviously enjoying himself. “Okay. That’s great. Between you and me, I don’t really care. I’m happy where I am, and I’m happy for any help I can get. How you and the state police duke it out is your business. Just so long as you don’t make me the kewpie doll,” he added, his smile fading.
“That’s the deal,” I promised.
“Good,” he concluded. “How many people are you bringing on board?”
“Five right now, including me. More later if we’ve got them. And our own special prosecutor to help
us through the shoals, especially if we end up in Canada, and since both the governor and the commissioner are cheering us on, money won’t be a problem, either.”
“Any of you speak French? It’s going to be a pain in the ass otherwise.”
“Supposedly Paul Spraiger does, late of the Burlington PD. We’ve never worked together before.”
“I know Paul,” Auerbach said. “He’s good—quiet, real smart. What about Jean Deschamps? You done any digging yet?”
I shook my head. “Despite our pushy manners, I didn’t want to presume. We’d like you to take the lead on how to proceed. I should add, though, that my boss, Bill Allard, has a contact with the Sûreté in Sherbrooke—one of their investigators he met at a conference.” I handed him a slip of paper. “Gilles Lacombe. Apparently, they hit it off, and Lacombe was singing the praises of cross-jurisdictional cooperation.”
“Thanks. I already sent faxes to the Mounties, the Sherbrooke police, and the Sûreté,” Auerbach said, taking the note, “asking them to check their old files, but given the way this is looking, we’ll need all the inside help we can get. I’m assuming Hillstrom told you what she told me, that the guy’s probably been dead fifty years or more.”
“She did. What gets me, though, is why he was frozen in the first place, why he’s surfaced now, and how the hell did he get on the mountain?”
“Airplane?” Auerbach suggested. “He was found in a pretty deep hole, and there were no signs anyone dragged him there.”
I was glad to have that suspicion confirmed. “You have an airport just north of here, don’t you?”
“Morrisville, yeah, like a dozen others all over Vermont. Morrisville is unmanned at night and doesn’t have a tower, so we’ll check it out. But you gotta wonder: If all you’re going to do with a dead body is dump it across town, why go to all the trouble of airmailing it? We got dumpsters like everyone else. Plus, the guy was a Canadian,” he added meaningfully.
The Marble Mask Page 3
