The Surrogate Thief

by Archer Mayor

  Purvis shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Any friends who were into guns?”

  He was incredulous. “This is Vermont. Everybody’s into guns.” He scratched his cheek reflectively. “He had a friend named Dick who talked a lot about them. I think he belonged to a gun club. Kept inviting my dad to the range so they could shoot together. He might know.”

  “Dick who?”

  Chris looked up at the ceiling in concentration, sighing. “Oh, boy. I met him a few times. Italian name. ‘Ch-’ something. I’m sorry. I don’t remember. But he worked with my dad at the lumber mill, doing the same thing—stacker, or some such shit. The bottom of the bottom of the heap, was what he used to call it. They were the guys who basically handle the stuff the loaders and forklifts and the rest don’t mess with.”

  A small silence elapsed. Joe stood up. “You miss your dad.” He said it as a statement.

  Purvis leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Yeah. He had a lousy life and made all the wrong moves, but he was okay. He never hurt anybody.”

  Gunther patted him gently on the shoulder. “Talk to your dad’s friends, Chris. They might be more help than you think. It’s pretty clear you weren’t the only one to think he was a decent man.”

  Purvis looked up at him, squinting slightly through his thick glasses. “Okay. I’m sorry I got mad earlier.”

  Joe smiled. “Don’t worry about it. Take care of yourself.”

  This time they shook hands.

  Three days after Ellen’s funeral, Joe returned to work. No one thought he should. His brother, Leo, and his mother, who both lived in Thetford, Vermont, where Joe had been born and brought up, lobbied him to spend some time back home. The chief, whose name was Canaday but who was never called anything but “Chief,” told him to take as many days as he wanted. But Joe didn’t think he could stand much more time on his own. For weeks already he’d been traveling between the hospital and their small apartment, seeing day after day how his living alone was slowly eroding all traces of Ellen’s presence. His shaving equipment laid permanent claim to the rim of the bathroom sink, where in the past, it used to retreat behind the mirror until needed. Similarly, the kitchen cabinets yielded to cans and boxes of his choosing; the fridge emptied of perishable items and restocked with a few things to drink and little else. Joe’s clothes, draped here and there, became almost all there was to be seen outside the closet.

  As Ellen was vanishing inside her own body, so was she disappearing at home.

  The morning of the service, freshly dressed in black, Joe rented a fully furnished apartment on the corner of High and Oak, just a stroll from the center of downtown, so that after the funeral he’d have a new place to spend the night. He paid the rent on the old place for a couple of months, but he didn’t return there for six weeks.

  He needed to work, and with Klaus Oberfeldt’s death, he hoped he had something that might keep him on track.

  But that wasn’t all.

  He also needed to work because he’d let Maria Oberfeldt down. She’d been the only one railing for someone to address her husband’s beating, and no one, Joe especially, had given it proper attention.

  Now, in a world without Ellen, Joe could only think of who had killed Klaus Oberfeldt.

  Instinctively knowing that it was too late, he started with Shea’s inner circle, not including family. As far as could be determined, there was none of the latter. Given up for foster care as an infant, Pete had moved from home to home, establishing no lasting connections, deemed time and again incorrigible. He’d ended up in Brattleboro only because that’s where he’d turned eighteen, and had thus been flushed out of the system. As a result, like a parody of a homing pigeon, Pete Shea had returned to Brattleboro forever after, usually following one of his brief sojourns in the penal system.

  After rummaging through Shea’s apartment and meager possessions, Joe spent days chasing down old cell mates and drinking buddies and poring over the young man’s arrest records, scouring for a name that he hoped might hold some promise. He finally found it in Ted Moore, who was listed as having been busted with Shea twice, once for supplying minors with alcohol, again for being drunk and disorderly, and who was suspected of being a fence for some of Pete’s ill-gotten goods.

  Given the recent timing of their last known association, and the fact that Moore had been reported living it up just two days after the Oberfeldt assault, Joe thought Ted might well be worth a visit.

  At the time Joe set out to locate Ted Moore, Brattleboro wasn’t the gentrified, politically active, socially diverse place of today. It was something else altogether. Vietnam was still in full swing; the seeds of the sixties had blossomed into protest, violence, and a universal social uneasiness; and all of it was palpable even in this remote pocket of Vermont. Kids made oinking sounds as police cars drove by, the sweet aroma of marijuana was in the air and clung to people’s tie-dyed clothing and long hair, jobs were scarce and the local economy terrible, and thirty-eight licensed outlets served liquor throughout town. The bars were full to capacity every Friday and Saturday night, dumping hundreds of quarrelsome patrons into the streets come closing time.

  Things finally got wild enough, regularly enough, that an edict was issued to all arresting officers: Start cuffing people flat on the ground—the hoods of the patrol cars are taking a beating from all the heads being thumped against them.

  There was an almost Wild West energy in the air separating the rebellious have-nots from the sheltered gentility. The police force and its famous “thin blue line” fit smoothly into this context, however inaccurately, between those paying them respect and those giving them trouble.

  As a result, the cops were in an element perversely to their liking. Underpaid, poorly staffed, overworked, and only marginally supported by the town fathers, they labored more for the mystique than for any job security. This wasn’t something you did for income. You did it for the same reason you thought people had once joined the Texas Rangers.

  And, to a great extent, you did it alone. When Joe became one of the few in this beleaguered department, it had two cars, one huge portable radio that barely reached base, and a flashing red light system located at the three major crossroads downtown, used to let the beat guys know they were being summoned. Cops learned to keep an eye peeled, depend on their wits, and interpret the law as it suited their needs. Countless disputes every weekend never even appeared in the paperwork, much less made it to court on Monday morning.

  It was against this backdrop, driven by guilt and coping with sorrow, that Joe set out to find Ted Moore.

  According to his police record, Moore was an itinerant carpenter, and according to the people Joe found loitering outside Moore’s run-down apartment building on Canal, he was helping build an extension onto the town garage on Putney Road.

  The present Putney Road is a traditional “miracle mile,” cluttered with chain stores, gas stations, and motels—as unique to Vermont as to suburban Iowa. When Joe Gunther went to meet Ted Moore, virtually the entire western side of the road was farmland. Not so the eastern, however, which is why Joe was never surprised by how the strip finally ended up. Directly across from the farm, like an urban metaphor for a slow-moving prairie blaze, stood restaurants, a drive-in, a dairy, and a couple of hamburger stands, all poised by the curb like a row of flames straining to jump a firebreak. Once that tourist-laden interstate appeared in the late sixties, just beyond the fields, Joe knew that the farmers’ days were all but done.

  The town garage occupied the southern edge of those fields. It was a large wooden structure, with a shed big enough for a winter’s supply of salted dirt, next to a few stalls housing the salt and the plow trucks. The “few” part was why Moore and others had been contracted to expand the garage.

  Joe pulled off next to several pickups and took his bearings. Adjacent to the salt shed was the equivalent of a wing, and at its far end were several men wearing tool belts, working on the roof. Below them, the walls of
the extension shimmered in clean, new pine siding.

  Gunther walked the length of the building and nonchalantly addressed the first workman he came across. “Is Ted Moore around?”

  The man’s reaction came as a surprise. Instead of answering directly, he turned and bellowed toward the roof crew, “Hey, Ted, you’ve got a visitor.”

  It was neither what Joe had wanted nor expected, and standing flat-footed in the parking lot while his hoped-for interviewee straightened up like a startled gazelle put him at precisely the disadvantage he’d been hoping to avoid.

  Sure enough, Ted Moore unbuckled his tool belt, dropped it with a crash, and vanished over the far side of the roof.

  “Thanks a lot,” Joe muttered as he set off in a sprint around the corner, hoping to cut the other man off.

  But there was no chance of that. By the time Joe caught sight of him, Moore had already leaped from his perch and was hotfooting it south down the length of the garage. Cursing his own stupidity for having parked where his quarry was now headed instead of driving straight to the site, Joe picked up his pace, praying that he was faster and in better shape than the carpenter.

  But running wasn’t Ted Moore’s only tactic. About halfway along, and urged on by the incongruous cheers of his distant coworkers, he paused, doubled over from the exertion, and picked up a three-foot length of rebar from the littered ground.

  Joe didn’t hesitate. Still coming on at full tilt, he pulled his snub-nosed revolver from his holster and took aim.

  Moore dropped the metal rod and resumed running.

  This time, however, knowing he was athletically outclassed, he veered toward the towering salt shed beside him, and a small exterior staircase angling toward a narrow access door at its apex—used during the winter to reach the top of the salt pile inside. Joe could see Moore’s plan: If he got through that door and blocked it from the inside, Gunther would have to go around, allowing Moore ample time to reach his pickup and escape. Even if Joe didn’t try following, he’d probably still be too late to make up for the shortcut.

  Joe took the stairs two at a time, the ringing of his shoes against the metal steps matching Moore’s high above him.

  But not that much higher. Already flagging, Moore was clearly finding his uphill option a real challenge. Gasping for air, helping himself along with both hands on the railing, he was stumbling every few feet, reducing the gap between them.

  By the time he reached the door, he didn’t bother trying to block it behind him. He merely threw it open and disappeared from sight, Gunther barely ten feet below.

  Inside, there was a small platform leading to a ladder that dropped into the salt pile like a straw into a milkshake. The drop would have been thirty feet had the shed been empty. Right now, in preparation for the coming winter, it was over half full.

  Ted Moore staggered toward the ladder’s top, swung around to face it, and tried to descend. Gunther took a more practical approach. He ran to the platform’s edge and kicked Moore in the head, sending him sailing backward through the air to land with a thud ten feet below.

  Gunther then climbed down the ladder at a leisurely pace to crouch by the other man’s side.

  Moore’s arms and legs were moving slightly, as if he were keeping afloat in the water. His eyes were wide and fixed on Joe’s.

  “You almost killed me,” he said in a whisper, the air knocked out of him.

  Joe rolled him over, handcuffed him, and rolled him back. Moore’s sweaty face was now caked with salty sand.

  “And what were you going to do with that rebar, asshole?” he asked.

  “I didn’t know who you were.”

  “Bullshit. Why’d you run?”

  “I thought you were the brother of some girl I knocked up.”

  Joe picked up a fistful of sand and dumped it onto Ted’s face, blinding him and making him choke.

  His hands bound, Moore thrashed around for half a minute, spitting and catching his breath. “What the fuck’re you doing?” he complained.

  Joe picked up another fistful and held it where Moore could see it. “Trying to have a conversation. Why’d you run?”

  Moore was blinking furiously against the sting in his eyes. “You can’t do this.”

  Gunther moved to open his hand.

  “No, no. Okay. I’ll tell you. I ripped off a store last night. I thought you were after me for that.” He paused for a moment, his brains almost making noises as he realized his admission. “Weren’t you?” he added plaintively.

  Gunther smiled and sat back more comfortably, noticing that a couple of workmen had appeared far below, looking up the hill at them from around the edge of the open bay doors. He waved cheerfully and gestured to them to leave.

  “I am now,” he answered.

  Moore closed his eyes tiredly. “Shit.”

  “Actually,” Joe admitted, “I just wanted to ask you about Pete Shea.”

  The other man grimaced. “What the fuck do I know about Pete?”

  “I don’t know. Educate me.”

  Moore tried to look surprised, but the gesture let more dirt into his eyes. “Ah, shit. Come on. Let me sit up.”

  Gunther pulled him to a sitting position.

  Ted hung his head and shook it violently a couple of times. “Jesus, that smarts.”

  “Talk to me about Pete,” Joe said again.

  Moore’s voice was angry. “Pete, Pete . . . The son of a bitch isn’t even around anymore. Hasn’t been for months. What’s the big deal?”

  “Where’d he go?”

  Ted looked up at him and slowly enunciated, “I do not know.”

  Joe pushed him flat onto his back again, swiveled around, and placed his forearm against the man’s throat, making him gag.

  This time, Joe was the one speaking slowly and clearly. “Cut the crap, Teddy, or you’ll be grateful for a mouthful of salt.”

  “I don’t know. Honest,” Moore half croaked.

  Joe pulled him up again roughly. “Why did he leave town?”

  “He was spooked. Said you guys were after him. He said you were going to pin the storekeeper beating on him.”

  “Did he do it?”

  “Like he’d tell me. Of course he said he didn’t do it.”

  “What do you think?” Joe asked him.

  “Me? I don’t know. It wasn’t Pete’s style, but what’s that worth? A guy gets juiced, somebody pisses him off, then suddenly it’s not his style, but he does it anyhow. He was pretty cranked last I saw him.”

  “What’re they saying on the street?”

  Ted Moore shrugged. “They’re saying he did it. But nobody knows squat. They say Paul McCartney’s dead, too.”

  “Was Pete flashing around any cash before he took off?”

  “Nah. He was just acting paranoid. I didn’t know any money was involved. That wasn’t in the papers.”

  Joe ignored him. “You were seen spending a lot right after the old man went down.”

  Moore looked innocent. “Me?”

  Joe only had to reach for Moore’s throat to make the man concede, “All right, all right. Jesus H. Christ. I had some money. Fine. It had nothing to do with that shit.”

  Joe looked into his face and believed what he heard. He reached around and opened the handcuffs. Moore massaged his wrists and then rubbed his face with both hands, brushing the sand away.

  “You’re not bustin’ me?” he asked cautiously.

  “You still have what you stole last night?”

  “Yeah. It’s at home.”

  Joe tilted his head slightly. “Then, no—not if you hand it over. We’ll do it now.” He stood up and yanked Moore to his feet, not admitting that since he’d cuffed him and had him confess without Mirandizing him, there wasn’t a bust to speak of.

  “Is there anyone else in town Pete might’ve confided in?” Joe asked as they sidestepped down the slope.

  “Not Pete. Kept to himself, pretty much.”

  “No girlfriend?”

  The o
ther man looked surprised. “Hey, there’s always a girlfriend—Katie Clark, if you’re interested. They even lived together, but that’ll be a dead end, too.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Chemistry. Pete’s been gone for months, and Katie started hanging with somebody else a week later—no love lost, if you ask me. If he’d contacted her or anyone else, I would’ve heard. This crowd isn’t big on keeping secrets.”

  He paused and eyed Gunther as if struck by something wholly original. “That’s a first, you know? I mean, sooner or later, you always hear about where a guy ends up, even if it’s dead. But not Pete. Not so far.”

  Chapter 7

  Joe Gunther was thinking back to that unorthodox salt pile interview when he entered the VBI office, his brain still working on how to link two events separated by three decades.

  “Deep in thought?” came a voice. “Better not strain yourself.”

  Joe glanced over to the one desk in the room that was wedged into a corner. That quasi-defensive positioning combined with the mess spilling over the desk’s surface made its occupant look as if he were hunkered behind sandbags. Psychologically speaking, the image fit perfectly.

  “Hey, Willy,” Joe said distractedly, walking over to his own desk.

  Willy Kunkle was the squad’s odd man. Though he had been crippled by a sniper bullet years ago and saddled with a dangling left arm, Willy’s sour and biting personality predated any such cause-and-effect explanation. Despite the injury, the post-traumatic stress disorder following his stint in Vietnam, his tortuous recovery from alcoholism, and one wildly failed marriage, Willy—as he was the first to admit—was a self-made man.

  A boss’s nightmare, he was still loyal, intelligent, and tenacious enough to have not only earned Joe’s respect but his protection as well. Several times, when Willy had been threatened with termination, Joe had found ways to keep him on board. When asked why, especially by Gail, who openly loathed the man, and even once or twice by Sam, who was currently Willy’s girlfriend, Joe usually ducked the issue. Left to their own conclusions, therefore, people considered all possibilities, from Willy’s being a substitute son to Joe’s becoming senile. There were other, less well known interpretations, however, the most telling of which was that once upon a time, as Ted Moore could have attested, Joe’s methods hadn’t differed all that much from Willy’s own. Both battle-scarred vets, they’d had difficulty reining in the style of retribution they’d witnessed all too often in combat.