The Verdict on Each Man Dead

by David Whellams

  Henry moved back a step and relished Phil Mohlman’s textbook interrogation of Jerry Proffet. It was evident that Jerry craved inside facts that he might dangle over his less-informed neighbours, and Phil threw him a bone. “Mrs. Watson was found dead in the vacant building next door.” Before Proffet could jump in, he added, “The empty house. What do you know about Number 5?”

  “It’s been vacant for about two years. The previous owner, Robertson, just walked away one day. Casualty of the housing collapse. The George W. Bush recession hit SLC as hard as anywhere else, and …”

  Henry, steaming in the shag-carpet jungle (his bald head dripped sweat; Jerry’s stayed dry), decided that he despised Proffet. Maybe it was the bureaucratic self-importance. Henry was tempted to roll Gabriella’s severed head into the conversation, but instead he performed his tag team role.

  “What’s this street like, Mr. Proffet?” Henry said. “We notice two or three of the sixteen houses are vacant.”

  “Fourteen. There’s no Number 1 or 2. And the property at Number 6 was sold recently. Hollis is a good street.”

  “What can you tell us about Tom Watson?” Phil said.

  “Tom Watson kept an eye on the old Robertson place. But you say Gabriella was found in Unit 5, not their own house?”

  Phil said, “What do you mean ‘kept an eye on’?”

  “Tom volunteered to make sure no one broke into the house. Said he’d try to do some basic grooming around the property. He also volunteered to contact the city to force the mortgage holder to do the maintenance.”

  “I’ll bet,” said Henry. “Didn’t do a very thorough job, did he?”

  Proffet bridled. “Most of us are pretty house-proud. We put a lot of effort into our homes.” Seeing that he was going nowhere with the detectives, he turned polite. “Won’t you sit down, gentlemen?”

  They reluctantly took the La-Z-Boys. “Let me get this straight,” said Phil. “Watson tended the lawns at his own place, Maude Hampson’s, Number 5, and also the undeveloped half lots at the mouth of the street. Right?”

  “Tom was always willing to help.” Proffet realized it was an error to defend Tom Watson and fell silent.

  “Yet no one noticed him going in and out of Number 5?” Phil pressed. “He must’ve gone in there every day!”

  “The executive designated …”

  “While he was manicuring the lawns, he probably drove his John Deere mower right into the living room to harvest his crop,” Phil persisted.

  “The executive planned to contact the mortgage company to complain about the house left unattended,” Proffet stated.

  Henry fired his own rhetorical arrow. “I thought Tom Watson was minding the place.”

  “Kind of.”

  “By any chance, did Watson actually write that letter of complaint about the vacant house next to him?” Henry continued.

  Proffet nodded. “Well, I guess he sent it.”

  Both detectives were dripping sweat. Phil levered himself out of the La-Z-Boy. “The street association was defunct. The executive collapsed, didn’t I hear you say?”

  Proffet pulled back like a hedgehog under attack. “Not exactly. I continued to serve my street as de facto chairman. I’ve always been there for everyone, even when no longer eligible to run for president.”

  Phil was in a mood, Henry could tell. Perhaps the recliner had aggravated his back problem. “Explain the executive structure again, Mr. Proffet.”

  “Presidents serve a one-year stint. You can only be re-elected for one more term, then must skip a year before running again. But you can be on the executive in another capacity.”

  “Little restrictive, isn’t it? With only fourteen residents.”

  “Spouses can serve. That broadens the pool of candidates.”

  The extravagant rules bespoke condo politics, Henry thought, even though Hollis was entirely freehold.

  Phil pressed. “So was Tom Watson on the executive?”

  “From time to time. Never president. Gabriella ran the Beautification Committee. Tom volunteered for particular assignments.” Henry sensed the man was about to say missions.

  Henry tag-teamed. “You said earlier that this is a ‘good street.’ What did you mean by that, sir?”

  “Everybody gets along. Most participate in the annual barbecue. No trouble.”

  The detectives’ silence showed their disbelief. Jerry Proffet understood that the interview was in decline, and he rushed to make his case. “Every owner is hard-working, everyone has steady income, and Hollis is a very stable avenue.”

  “No shit,” Phil said, adding a Boston inflection. “This is just a first contact, Mr. Proffet,” he stated, moving to the door. “We’ll be getting back to you, as early as this evening, if that’s okay.”

  “Yeah, of course. Whatever I can do to assist. This is a good street.”

  Out on the front path, Phil could restrain himself no longer. “Term limits!” he cried. He looked along the street at the tumult before the Second House, then looked at the sky. “The heat just went up from bake to fry.”

  “I’ll get moving,” Henry said.

  Phil Mohlman grunted. “Tell you what, if some resident on the evens leads you to someone on my side of the street, go ahead. Follow the leads. If we don’t hook up here, let’s meet at the Rose at six.”

  Both detectives had grasped that Proffet was holding a lot back. Neither was worried yet. When an investigation isn’t generating momentum, a detective will fall back on protocol and start to plod through the steps. The next step was to wade through the Hollisites, one by one, and circle back to Jerry Proffet.

  Henry was happy as he split off from Phil and strode up to Number 10.

  CHAPTER 5

  He had time for two or three interviews on the even-numbered flank of Hollis: 10, 12, and try for 14. Then he would join DeKlerk and Phil Mohlman at the Black Rose.

  Two Drug Squad cops were creeping around the vacant bungalows at Numbers 6 and 8, peering in windows like peeping Toms with Patriot Act permits. DeKlerk would need two warrants to penetrate the buildings. Henry doubted that either was ever a grow house in any case. Tom Watson was small-time, neither ruthless nor foolhardy enough to attempt a major expansion along his own street. Henry and Phil were confident they could hold the drug boys at bay while they amassed evidence from all the Hollis residents. “We’ll make early progress on all fronts,” he promised himself as he bounded up to the door at Number 10 and stabbed at the buzzer.

  Carleton Davis shattered Henry’s complacency. He must have been seventy, grizzled and shabby. Slightly crazed, he played the pirate, standing back from the landing in a defiant pose, legs apart like the captain of a ship, not an ounce of welcome in his face. The eye patch on his left socket bolstered the performance.

  “Better get out of the sun, Detective. Your bald pate is red as a chicken’s ass.”

  Is every Hollis resident going to be hostile? “I wasn’t aware that a chicken’s ass was red.”

  Davis’s cheeks were lined and sagging and his voice raspy, yet his gaze remained sharp. He stepped farther back into an air-conditioned hallway. “Come in if you have to.”

  Henry stepped inside. “How did you know I was a detective?”

  “That train of vehicles over there doesn’t mean tent show preachers have come to town, does it?”

  “Mr. Proffet down the way gave us a list of residents,” Henry said.

  “Proffet. He’s a cold bastard.”

  “Is that a joke, Mr. Davis?”

  “It’s a double entendre,” Davis said. “He claims to be military. I, on the other hand, was really in Vietnam. Who’s dead?”

  What the devil is he talking about? That’s not a double entendre. “Mrs. Watson.”

  “Shot?”

  “Stabbed, it appears.”

  “Beheaded?�
�� Davis’s demeanour didn’t change when he spoke the word.

  “What makes you ask that, sir?”

  “I was a military policeman in Danang. Policing is policing. You got Drug Unit folks over there. Emergency cube vans and an ambulance. One black plastic body bag carried from the house. Lots of special lamps. I know a marijuana operation when I see one … I was guessing about the decapitation.”

  “Oh, really?” Henry said. “I’ve never had a witness guess a decapitation.”

  “The husband didn’t do it.”

  “Why do you conclude that? Guessing again?” Nobody likes a smartass, Henry thought but did not say.

  “He was running the grow op, right? The big drug cartels took him out.”

  Henry knew the technique of tossing out salacious theories in order to open up a witness. Davis was playing it back at him. The fact that the old pirate’s guesses were largely right so far didn’t make Henry warm up to Carleton Davis. “We haven’t found him — yet.”

  “Buckets of blood?”

  “Why don’t you believe the husband killed her?”

  “Because Tom Watson is a mild-mannered guy. Not the most sociable dude but not the volatile, violent kind. Notice anything about the grow op site?”

  “Such as?”

  “These are damned bungalows! How many plants can you fit in one of these units? No basement, tiny attic.”

  Henry had cooled off now and, repelled by the man, determined to leave as fast as possible. “You mean, Watson thought small-time?”

  Davis leaned in. “Detective, not only that, but I invite you to think through the other side of the equation. Whoever attacked the Watsons was hot, bothered, and bloody about very small-scale competition. Ask yourself why. It must have been a drug gang. They believe in zero tolerance.” Davis grinned at his bad joke.

  “Did people on the street suspect he was growing marijuana? Did you?”

  Davis heaved an exaggerated shrug. “No. I don’t bother with neighbours or their dogs.”

  Henry had tried to hook Davis with false intimacy. Now it was time to harden his approach. “That’s exactly what you and the other residents on the street do, Davis, you mind each other’s business. Did Tom Watson participate in the street association?”

  “Not much. I myself dropped out of the committee a while ago.”

  “Why?”

  “Too much autocracy. Nice word for fascism. Ordering people around, suggesting we all paint our front doors the same colour.”

  “What colour was that?”

  “Can’t recall.”

  “Did you participate in the barbecues, Mr. Davis?”

  “Sure. I make a mean Texas chili. Detective, have you noticed something strange about our street executive?”

  “I’ve only met one of them. What?”

  “Why does a pissant street like this need such an elaborate association? Think about what I say, Detective. A cut-rate marijuana business produces a massacre. A small side street has an oversize mini-government. What’s out of whack?”

  Henry had a creepy feeling that the residents of Hollis were already closing ranks, like muskox at the approach of wolves. He decided to provoke Davis. “Are any of your neighbours LDS?”

  Davis looked baffled, then livid. Good. “Uh, not unless Devereau at Number 13 is. Why? Oh, I get it. You think Mormons would have handled this problem more civilized, like. Well, you polygamist, one thing gets the wagons circled is Mormons laying siege all around us. We have our own unwritten rules on Hollis Street. No Mormon owners, nope.”

  What’s out of whack is you, you thug. Henry marvelled at his own anger.

  “You ever suspect Tom Watson of trafficking drugs?”

  “You call what he does trafficking?”

  “You seem to know the scale of the threat he posed to the cartels, or didn’t pose.”

  Davis smirked. “Not hard to understand a mom-and-pop murder, am I right?”

  “No, you’re wrong, Mr. Davis. Murder makes it a big deal.”

  Henry left Davis ranting about magic underwear and secret teachings. Henry had heard it all a thousand times. Hollis was an uptight street, and Henry was becoming a connoisseur of its overreaction.

  Henry went out into the heat. He ignored the murder site and loped to Number 12, his shaved dome rivered with sweat.

  The feeling was growing in Henry that there was something off-kilter about these homeowners. They were defensive, quick with theories, but blinkered, as if a collective failure to see — to smell — bags of weed flowing out of the death house was a trivial lapse. They spooked him.

  He tried the buzzer at 12 and was greeted by the widow Anderssen in her nurse’s uniform. She was about to leave for the swing shift at Pioneer Valley Hospital, and no, he couldn’t come in. She had been at work during the crucial time period, seen nothing. She worked the night shift yesterday, got home at 5 a.m., and missed everything. She barely knew the Watsons. When Henry asked did the executive of HASA do a good job, she shrugged. “At least Jerry Proffet put in that pinyon tree across the way. Keeps it watered.”

  The owner of Number 14, Jakob Wazinski, was in his backyard firing up his barbecue when Henry came around the side of the house. Here was the first of the two-storey homes and the final residence on Henry’s roster; Mohlman and Jackson would do the rest, although he hadn’t seen either of them on the sidewalk.

  About sixty and wrapped in a chef’s apron, his weapon of choice a spatula, the emperor of Number 14 did not seem surprised by Henry’s arrival, though he leered at his suit and tie. Almost bald himself, Wazinski smiled at Henry’s shaved pate, as if they now had something in common. Wazinski adhered to the Hollis Street pattern, keeping one step ahead of every question by offering his opinions unbidden.

  “I suppose you’re here about Mrs. Watson. I’m Jake Wooski. Officially Wazinski. Don’t call me Wazinski.”

  He grated on Henry. The smile was too broad and the patter too Three Stooges. Henry, the heat getting to him, said, “Only if I have to arrest you.”

  Jake got the joke right off and slapped the flaming barbecue with his spatula, sending sparks onto the parched patio. “Husband did it. Want a beer?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You a Mormon, then?”

  “Yeah, but I still wouldn’t drink that light beer.”

  “Hah! Be glad to answer all your questions if you can guess what kind of beer — real beer — I got in that cooler.”

  “Heineken.”

  “Jesus. How’d you guess?”

  “Just a good judge of character, Jake.”

  The heat was pickling Henry’s egg-domed brain. How is it that everyone knows about the crime? He looked down the line of thirsting backyards and caught one of DeKlerk’s men poking around Number 8. Ah, well, Hollisites, your sins will emerge, I have no doubt. He needed an ally on the street, and Wazinski would serve for now. The man seemed harmless. Henry took a lawn chair in the shade of the house and accepted an orange juice.

  “So what makes you think the husband did it, sir?”

  Wooski took a walk around the inferno zone and waved his utensil like a laser pointer.

  “The street lamp.”

  “How so?”

  “The bulb in front of Number 5 is burnt out. Wait until sundown, then you’ll see.”

  “But Number 5 has been vacant for months, and fixing the light would have been at the private owner’s discretion,” Henry said.

  Wooski shook his head. “Watson made sure it stayed dark. That’s an example of his cleverness. Concealed his comings and goings.”

  Wooski’s theory wasn’t wrong, it just wasn’t enough, and Henry prepared to press, but then: “When the wife is murdered, don’t the police start with the husband?” a female voice said.

  Henry turned to greet Mrs. Wooski, who for some reason was car
rying her own spatula. Paulette stood five-foot-nothing. She was cheerfully brazen and coxcombed with rooster-red hair. Her idea of sunblock was pancake makeup to cover her leatherized skin. Maybe she puts it on with the spatula. The Utah sun had carved runoff furrows into her cheeks.

  “Dear, Detective Pastern. Detective, Paulette.”

  “Glad to meetcha. We always wondered about the Watsons …”

  “Yes, we did,” Jake said.

  Henry worked to keep the discussion on track. “I hear that Mr. Watson was on the executive committee at one time. That sounds like he tried to fit in.”

  Paulette leaned close. “He was on, what was it, Jake, the Street Improvement Subcommittee? She was on the Plantings and Grooming Subcommittee.”

  “Not sure. Those committees changed names more often than a Nazi in Argentina.”

  “Was Tom Watson ever president or vice-president or treasurer?”

  Jake thought over the question. “No. The most important thing he was ever assigned was contacting the city about the mess at the empty properties at 5 and 8. She had her hands full with the plantings on the street. See how scorched it gets. She was good. No one volunteered their water feed to keep the plants irrigated, but she strong-armed the owners into opening their taps, so to speak.”

  “Weren’t you on the street committee yourself, Jake?” Henry said.

  “I quit. Couldn’t stand Jerry Proffet.”

  “You had a fight?” Henry said.

  “Nah, not about the vacant houses particularly. What we had in common caused the rift, you might say. He was a sunshine soldier. I fought in Vietnam. Me and Davis at Number 10 were on the front line.”

  Henry had the feeling that not every resident wanted to talk, but those that did felt compelled to diss Jerry Proffet.

  Jake finished his Heineken, opened another. He grew philosophical. “After ten years, something happens. Lethargy sets in, a community becomes apathetic somehow. The centre cannot hold.”

  Henry was startled to hear Yeats quoted. Over the next ten minutes, he annotated Jerry Proffet’s house chart with the number of years each owner had lived on Hollis Street according to Jake. The majority had resided here the full ten years since Forest Vale broke ground in 2002. The owners maintained standards, but the rules put in place by Jerry Proffet eventually proved abrasive, providing the touchstone for each neighbour’s disillusionment with the community’s prospects. Wooski and Davis dropped out of the committee. Widow Anderssen ignored the committee. Maude Hampson was content to spy and scold.