by Archer Mayor
Joe looked up in amazement. He was struggling to recall when he’d last heard Willy go on about any historical tidbit. Lester Spinney, another member of their four-person squad, indulged without the slightest provocation, but Willy?
“That was called in by a thief, right?” Willy asked.
“Yeah,” Joe replied. “Jason Newville. You know him?”
“I know who he knows. I’ve seen him, is all. Too low on the totem pole. He steal anything before he found the body?”
Increasingly intrigued by Willy’s interest, Joe told him, “No, but he made two prior visits before he fell over the body. I guess he was scoping the place out and building up courage.”
Willy laughed. “That fits. You met him?”
“Newville?” Joe asked. “No. Why?”
“Total wimp, from what I know. Still, I can see the appeal of a hoarder house. The Collyer place had something like fourteen pianos, a car in the basement, maybe twenty-five thousand books—about a hundred and forty tons of crap, total.”
“Why would any of that appeal to Newville?” Joe wanted to know.
“Because of the value of it all. The Collyers’ estate was priced at over a million bucks, in 1947 dollars,” Willy stated. “That’s what sticks to these loonies: Every hoader’s somehow sitting on a pile of gold coins. Burglars circle these dumps like flies on shit. You been to a hoarder house, haven’t you?”
“Sure,” Joe conceded, recalling several without hesitation.
“You ever see anything other than a thousand stuffed teddy bears, or a million moldy newspapers, or the world’s biggest stack of garbage bags full of clothes? Or all three?”
“No.”
Willy returned to his desk across the small room, still speaking. “Well, there you have it. That’s the truth of it. But I guarantee you that every chicken-headed, douche bag thief I know will swear on a stack of Bibles that all hoarders are just millionaires dressed by Goodwill. Dumber than hell.”
He sat down and without another word began poking through some paperwork, his interest in Joe’s research extinguished as quickly as it had caught fire.
Joe resumed watching the screen as Rachel followed the late Ben Kendall around his cluttered realm. Embarrassed to be counted among Willy’s misinformed losers, he couldn’t deny sharing the notion that there was something rational lurking beneath Ben’s mania. After all, wasn’t it smart to hide something in the midst of plenty?
Of course, in Joe’s case, it wasn’t necessarily jewels or money that he was envisioning. It was answers.
* * *
Rachel hesitated getting out of the car at the end of Ben’s rutted driveway.
“You sure you’re okay with this?” Joe asked her.
She nodded once sharply. “Positive.” She pulled open the door handle. “It’s just a little weird, coming back.”
They entered the clearing side by side, Joe watchful, as cops tend to be; Rachel more introverted, her eyes straight ahead.
“I looked at the video you sent me,” he told her as they approached the main house. “You could tell how Ben warmed to you, in short order.”
“I think he was lonely,” she responded. “He got along with everybody, but it was mostly on the surface. I noticed that when we went out collecting, he was great as long as he kept moving. If anyone talked too long, or tried to get closer than a couple of one-liners, I could see him tense up. He had these escape phrases, like, ‘Well, don’t wanna lose the day,’ or ‘Gotta go. Promised Wayne I’d get there by three,’ even though there was no Wayne. I felt like the one exception.”
“You mentioned how things improved between you,” Joe said. “And also how you had to keep your eye on his mood swings. Was there any consistency there toward the end, as in a prolonged bad temper or a growing anxiety? I’m wondering if something was eating at him that he didn’t tell you about.”
She considered it, but her reply came as no surprise. “Nothing stands out,” she said. “He seemed fine, last time I saw him. Really, the end of that footage says it all. He was more upbeat than usual. Off camera, he was even showing a little interest in the exhibition—even in maybe wanting to come see it. But he wouldn’t really talk about it—not in so many words.”
They had stepped around a couple of the larger piles in the front yard and were now standing near the main entrance, where they paused.
Joe indicated the mechanical “haystacks” around them. “The way he photographed these, and the stuff inside—obsessively, really—made me think of the Impressionists.”
She laughed. “Monet? I guess you’re right, only in black-and-white.”
Joe nodded before asking, “Did you ever get a feeling that there may’ve been more to them than just scrap metal and junk? I mean, I understand he was a hoarder and that everything meant something to him, but was there maybe something of worth, in real terms?”
She shook her head. “Truly valuable? Not that I ever saw.”
He still wondered if the modern photographs’ so outnumbering the older ones wasn’t in some way significant.
“Your mom tell you what’s happening next?” Joe asked her after a moment.
Rachel was surprised, suddenly looking, to Joe’s eyes, like a younger version of her mother. “No. What?”
“Well, since she’s actually the legal owner here, and since we can’t prove any crime took place, she and I were thinking she might pay to have most of this cleaned out.”
Rachel was sympathetic, sentimentality aside. “I guess I can understand that. I didn’t realize Mom inherited it.”
“She bought it in the first place. She was the quote-unquote bank he paid every month. It was her way of helping him save face.”
Rachel smiled. “That sounds like her.”
“Anyhow, a clean-out crew will be coming soon, complete with heavy equipment. They may even open up one of the walls, for better access.”
She looked mournfully at the tired house. “He would have hated that.”
“I know,” he suggested. “I have an idea: Would you be interested in filming the disassembly? It might supply some sort of conclusion for your project, and it would be handy for us as a document.”
The idea seemed to lighten her mood, even though he’d been admiring her stoicism so far. “That would be cool. I was kind of lost about what to do now.”
“Great,” he said. “I’ll mention it to your mom, to let her know we’re all on the same page.” He shoved the door open with his shoulder. “I gotta warn you, Rachel: You might not want to do this. It smells bad and it could bring back memories.”
She joined him at the door, her nose wrinkling. “No, no. I’m okay. If it’ll help you out, I’m game.” She paused before admitting, “It is pretty gross, though, isn’t it?”
His need to know overriding a protective instinct, Joe preceded her and turned on the flashlight that he’d brought from the car. He asked her over his shoulder, “Was it always so nasty smelling?”
She began looking around, her curiosity drawing her in and helping her down the tunnel of stacked paper. “Not this much. He didn’t eat indoors hardly at all, and then mostly in one spot, way to the back. He called it his kitchen, but I doubt it was. You couldn’t really tell what most of the rooms were anymore. He’d created his own miniature neighborhoods—where he slept, where he ate. He reminded me of an animal that way. I mean, in the best sense,” she added quickly. “Anyhow, to answer your question, it was musty, but that was it. This is way worse.”
She reached where the tunnel opened onto the waist-high, undulating field that Joe had encountered a few days ago. He kept playing the light around.
Her voice hesitant, she turned and asked, “Could I have the light? There’s something weird.…” She left the sentence hanging.
He passed it over and watched as she not only shone it on various aspects of their view, but suddenly scampered up onto the pile in order to check out a few details.
“What’re you finding?” he asked.
Joe gazed across what looked like a sea of rubbish. “You can tell that?”
“I was here so often, studying it through a lensfinder. It sort of got in my head. Remember when I told you that Ben may not have been neat, but did have a sense of how things were in relation to each other?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s why he hated people messing with his stuff.”
“Okay,” Joe coaxed her.
“That’s what I’m saying,” she stressed. “It has been messed with. Almost everywhere, things have been moved.”
“They did have to get him out,” Joe said delicately.
But she wasn’t deterred. “No. I thought I noticed it outside, too. It’s like when somebody goes through a drawer of your private things, you know? Nothing’s missing, but everything’s been shifted a little.”
Spurred on by her discovery, they proceeded to other parts of the house, including areas Joe had never visited. Rachel had the surefootedness of a seasoned cave guide, and shared her knowledge throughout. In the process, she helped Joe shape a better picture of the man who had once called this home.
Also, far to the back of the house, she found support for her earlier statement.
“There,” she said, shining her light at a blank patch of wall. “He had some pictures there. They’re gone.”
“What did they show?” Joe asked, wiping his damp forehead.
“A woman. She was young and pretty. They were old black-and-whites. I asked him about her, ’cause there were no other decorations like them anywhere else, but he wouldn’t say more than, ‘A friend.’”
Joe looked around the room. “What did he use this spot for?”
“I always called it his bedroom,” she said, adding, “Not that you can tell.”
By the end, dirty and sweaty despite the cool weather, they found themselves back outside, wiping their hands on their pants and stretching out their kinks.
“That’s what it was like every day,” she said, almost happily. “It brought out the kid in you.” Her expression grew somber again as she restated her earlier premise. “Except for that weird shifting thing. I think I know how I can prove it to you.”
“Oh?” Joe asked.
“Compare how it looks now to what you can see in the video. Room by room, you’ll see what I mean.”
Joe considered the exploration they’d just completed, along with the hours he’d already spent on her video. “I’ll take your word for it, Rachel. Still, what you’re saying would’ve taken somebody a lot of time.”
“I know.”
He nodded. “Okay, then. All the more reason I’d like you along with your camera when we take the place apart.”
* * *
Neil Watson was pissed. “It takes him a week to call a meeting, and now he wants it at two in the morning. What the hell’s that about?”
His partner turned off the car’s ignition. “Give it a rest. He was out of town. Why do you care, anyhow? You been dying to break the latest news to him?”
Neil stayed quiet. The other man, Frank Niles, opened his door and stepped out onto the street, instinctively looking around for any suspicious signs of life. This was Manhattan, of course, so that standard had to be flexible, but the time of night helped—there was little activity of any sort visible. And it was cold. Even the hotel’s doormen were out of sight, probably smoking in the break room.
Frank leaned back into the car and looked across the front seat. “You coming?”
“I have a choice?”
Frank slammed the door, muttering to himself, “We should be married, for Christ’s sake.”
He waited for his sidekick to join him before they headed into the hotel lobby.
They didn’t stop at the desk or pause on their way to the distant bank of elevators. They knew where they were going, even though they had never been here before. That was the whole point: to meet rarely and to do so in a new place—even a new state—every time.
They rode to the top floor. Frank gave that much to this particular client: He knew how to live.
The penthouse suites were in fact large apartments, so the room they were let into by a noncommunicative butler was a full-fledged lobby. Looking around, Neil let out a low whistle, which just further irritated Frank.
The butler gestured to them to follow him, which they did through a living room, past a bar and a small kitchen, and into a dark office lighted solely by a lamp on the corner of an expansive hardwood desk. Through the windows, they could see a panorama of the city’s lights—the Milky Way brought down to earth and spread out for display.
At the desk sat an older man in a suit, watching them. “Jonathan,” he demanded of the butler, who lingered in the doorway. “What the hell are you standing around for?”
“Will you be wanting coffee or anything else, sir?” was the bland reply, delivered with the slightest of bows.
The man shook his head with disgust. “I know to ask for something when I want it, for Christ’s sake.” He flicked his hand impatiently. “We’re fine. Leave.”
“Very good, sir.” The butler disappeared, closing the door behind him.
His employer pointed to two chairs across from the desk. “Sit.”
Frank nodded. “Senator,” he greeted the man, and took one of the chairs. Neil remained silent as he joined them.
“Tell me about the woman,” the senator ordered.
“She was a dead end,” Frank reported.
“Is that supposed to be funny?”
Frank shook his head. “No. Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. She gave us nothing, and we tried everything we got.”
The older man held up a hand. “Spare me. Overlooking that you came highly recommended and are costing me a fortune you aren’t earning, what are you suggesting as your next step?”
Hoping that Neil would keep quiet, Frank said lightly, “We have a plan, but I thought you didn’t want details, unless that’s changed.”
“They only change if you feed me a line of bullshit.”
Frank sharpened his own tone a bit. “You asked us to find the lost ark. If it was easy, it wouldn’t be lost. We’re working our way up the line and we’re making progress. It’s not like this little project hasn’t cost us, too.”
“You are doing your best to reduce the population, from what I understand.”
“Senator—”
But the latter cut him off. “Yes, yes. I get it. Fine. All I want to hear is that you’re getting somewhere. I’m sure you’ll find a way to bill me for all your inconveniences. Listen to me, Niles. This is very time sensitive. Will you get the job done?”
“Yes,” Frank told him.
Neil remained silent.
The senator watched them without comment for a couple of ponderous seconds, and then dismissed them by looking away. “That’s all, then.”
The two men filed out, led by the impassive butler.
CHAPTER SIX
Joe turned off the table saw and sighted along the edge of the board he’d just cut. He’d added a woodworking shop to his small rented house, which itself was attached to the rear of an old Victorian residence on Green Street in Brattleboro. This was in large part to accommodate his late father’s tool collection, but also to give himself something to do outside work. He’d been married only once, briefly as a young man, and never had children. Now, a widower for decades, he had Beverly as a romantic partner, his squad as a surrogate family, his love of reading, and this shop to balance out the rest.
All in all, especially given some of the lumps he’d encountered reaching this stage, life could have been far worse. The only problem recently was that he’d run out of recipients for birdhouses and jewelry boxes, which had forced him to move on to picnic tables and lawn benches.
“That one ours?” a woman asked from the door between the house and the shop. Most people knew to simply
enter his place and seek him out. Joe lacked the distrust of most cops, and usually left his door unlocked.
Joe glanced over to see Sammie Martens leaning against the doorjamb. The squad’s sole woman, and, like Willy, a cop who dated back to before the VBI’s existence—to when the three of them had worked as detectives for the Brattleboro PD—Sammie occupied a special place in Joe’s heart. Small, spare, and intense, she’d survived a dysfunctional childhood, fled to the military, joined law enforcement, and become a bull terrier on the job. She’d made of her boss a mentor, to the point where he’d once sensed that, if the cards were down, she would’ve taken any bullet heading his way.
But that field was now more crowded. She had fallen in love with Willy Kunkle—of all unlikely people—and had a daughter with him named Emma. To everyone’s surprise, most of all Sam’s, she and Willy had moved in together and begun to approach normalcy, albeit one fitting their own quirky needs. For Joe, that development had demanded tricky navigating. He’d come to see her as a surrogate daughter, almost. Much as he championed Willy to most detractors, Joe was still struggling with seeing him as a virtual son-in-law.
Joe held up the board. “Yup—one picnic table, in the making.”
“You know there’s no rush,” she said. “I heard there might be snow coming next week.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he said. “But you won’t be getting this too soon anyhow. In the spring, guaranteed.” He propped the board against the table saw. “What brings you to the neighborhood? You want some coffee?”
She shook her head. “I’m on my way to pick up Emma at day care, but I’m early. I wanted to drop by and ask about the hoarder case. Willy said you had something cooking.”
