A Blood Thing

by James Hankins

  Angela Baskin’s relentlessness certainly wasn’t helping Andrew’s state of mind, either. She had taken to questioning everything he did, everything he said, everywhere he went, and every decision he had made during his entire time in office—and she had the ear of every Vermonter, it seemed.

  When did everyone go back to relying on local TV reporters to catch up on the day’s events? he wondered. Didn’t anyone get the news from anonymous journalists on the Internet anymore?

  The buzzing of a cell phone interrupted his thoughts, and it took him a moment to realize that it wasn’t his personal device.

  After four days, the black cell phone was ringing.

  “Yes?” Andrew said into the phone. He knew he sounded hostile. He had good reason.

  “Good afternoon, Andy,” the caller said in his annoying robotic voice. “I feel like I can stop using your title, by the way. We’ve known each other awhile now.”

  “It’s ten days until the deadline you imposed on yourself to give us your evidence. Any chance you’re calling to tell me you’re turning it over early?”

  “Sorry, but no. In fact . . . well, you’re not going to like this.”

  The back of Andrew’s neck began to itch.

  “You’d better not be thinking about—”

  “Andy, I’m afraid you’ve done it again.”

  “Done what?”

  “Broken our agreement.”

  “Like hell I have.”

  “I’m not saying you did it personally.”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “You haven’t left Kyle Lewis alone, as we agreed. You’re having him followed.”

  Andrew hesitated only a split second before saying, “No, I’m not.”

  “Don’t be a fibber, Andy. Lewis caught them. Said they stuck out like sore thumbs.”

  “What the hell did you honestly expect?” Andrew snapped. “That we would just—”

  “Aha, I knew it,” the caller said triumphantly. “Honestly, Lewis wasn’t certain, but I decided to bluff, and it worked. You just tipped your hand.”

  Damn it. Andrew took a steadying breath. “Listen to me very carefully—”

  “No, Governor, you listen to me. I warned you to stay away from Lewis. And you haven’t. Now there will be repercussions.”

  The phone went dead at Andrew’s ear. He snapped it closed hard enough that he thought for a moment he’d cracked it.

  Andrew had never felt so helpless in his life. He was purportedly the most powerful man in Vermont, yet some faceless figure, a voice on the phone, was pulling his strings, making him dance like a marionette to a tune Andrew couldn’t even hear. His every action had been controlled, from his first choreographed act, the pardon of a low-level prisoner, to the action for which it paved the way—the release from prison of a violent career criminal who, it seemed, was part of a plan that would come to fruition sometime in the next ten days.

  God only knew what that plan was.

  There could be no doubt that, despite having spent much of his adult life in public service, Andrew had chosen his family’s welfare—especially poor, innocent Tyler’s—over that of the public at large. He could only pray that whatever Lewis and the blackmailer were doing, it didn’t involve physical harm to anyone—and if it did, that the detectives Henry had hired would prevent that from occurring.

  He prayed also that whatever “repercussions” the caller had in mind weren’t too devastating to whomever they were directed at.

  He glanced at the desk clock. He was already several minutes late to yet another meeting with his press secretary to discuss how to minimize the damage his pardons had done to his approval rating over the past few days. Poor Jim Garbose was doing his best to deflect and spin and recharacterize, but Andrew knew that the man was having as much difficulty as everyone else trying to understand the governor’s rationale behind the unusual pardons.

  Andrew hated to keep him waiting any longer, but he had calls to make. His siblings and his wife had to be alerted to the possibility that a bombshell would be dropping soon.

  With any luck, they’d all be near their phones.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Henry slipped his cell phone back into his pocket and tried to make sense of the latest update that Dave Junior had just given him—namely, the still-somewhat-surprising news that Kyle Lewis had spent his first four days of freedom not doing much of anything, certainly nothing worth committing murder and blackmail to spring him for. He’d merely wandered around in almost aimless fashion, only now and then visiting a questionable part of town, or stopping by a questionable place of business, or speaking with a person of unquestionably bad reputation. But he hadn’t done anything illegal yet. The detectives’ theory, one Henry deemed reasonable, was that he was killing time before a scheduled meeting with someone—perhaps the blackmailer himself, though Henry didn’t share that piece with Dave Junior’s guys. But the thinking was that Lewis probably had some special knowledge needed to pull off a job or heist of some kind—maybe he had a desired familiarity with a specific location, or perhaps he possessed a much-needed skill of which Henry wasn’t aware. Maybe he had contacts that someone needed. Whatever the case, for now, he wasn’t doing much. And, for that matter, neither was Gabriel Torrance, who still seemed to be meandering without purpose through the streets of several Vermont towns, though that had become old news by now.

  Henry needed a pick-me-up. He grabbed his coffee mug and was in the process of locking his office door behind him on his way to the break room when he heard a familiar voice. “Hello, Henry.”

  He turned to find Commissioner of Public Safety Warren Haddonfield walking down the hall toward him. Haddonfield was a big honcho. In addition to being in charge of the Department of Public Safety, as his title implied, he also oversaw other areas, including the state’s forensics lab and crime information center. Additionally, he was in charge of the Vermont State Police. Although Henry was a lieutenant and there were higher ranks in the VSP, he reported directly to Haddonfield to help preserve the integrity of his Internal Affairs role. Otherwise, he might not be free to investigate his superiors, if needed, without fear of facing adverse employment actions.

  Henry almost said, Hey, boss, the way he often greeted Haddonfield, but something in the man’s demeanor made him change his mind. “Hello, Commissioner,” he said, and because Haddonfield’s steps were slowing as he approached, he added. “Looking for me, sir?”

  “Got a sec?”

  “Of course.” He started to unlock his office door.

  “Let’s head to my office,” Haddonfield said, and the first warning bell sounded faintly in Henry’s head.

  The phone in his pocket vibrated, causing another warning bell to ring, but he didn’t dare sneak a peek.

  “Lead the way, sir.”

  They passed the elevators and headed left to the commissioner’s office. Henry had been there many times before. It was far bigger and more nicely appointed than Henry’s office. It paid to be the commissioner of public safety.

  Haddonfield took a seat behind his desk and pointed to the straight-backed chairs in front of it. Henry took a seat in one. Haddonfield looked troubled, and Henry’s mind flashed back to the time he’d been sent to the principal’s office in the eighth grade after having been caught by a teacher’s aide with his hand up Tina Herlihy’s shirt in the science section of the school library.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” he asked as the vibration of the phone in his pocket told him that the caller had left a message.

  “Got an incident of trooper misconduct.”

  Henry relaxed a little. This wasn’t the typical way an investigation found its way to him—usually, he received a written complaint dictated to a trooper on duty when a member of the public called or stopped in with a complaint, or perhaps a supervisor gave him a call about some matter that warranted his attention. Never before had Haddonfield himself come to Henry directly and personally. But in and of itself, that wasn’
t cause for alarm.

  “Okay,” Henry said, pulling a pen and small notebook from his pocket.

  “No need to write anything down, Henry. Got something here I need you to see, though.” He angled his computer monitor so that both he and Henry could see it. “An email came in a little while ago, with a video attached, and it was routed to me. I’m told it was also sent to all the local news outlets.”

  Another bell clanged in Henry’s head, and it was louder this time. Much louder.

  Haddonfield nudged his computer mouse, and his screen, which had been dark, crackled to life. In black and white video, Henry saw a parking lot he recognized at once, though he’d seen it from a different angle. It was the lot behind the nail salon. He saw himself looking up at the buildings for security cameras. He watched as he knelt beside the wooden pallets and removed the white plastic bag, which he now knew had contained jewelry covered with dried blood that no doubt had once belonged to Sally Graham, wrapped in a Pac-Man T-shirt that belonged to Tyler, though Haddonfield couldn’t have known those things.

  “Sir,” he began, but Haddonfield cut him off with an upraised hand.

  Henry then watched as he carried the bag out of the parking lot. Then nothing happened for several long moments. Haddonfield didn’t fast forward, though Henry knew what they would see if he did. It didn’t matter, though; they’d see it soon enough. Until then, for two minutes and thirteen seconds, Haddonfield was content to wait in silence. Henry again opened his mouth to speak, but Haddonfield silenced him with only a glare this time, and they sat quietly for several more moments that lasted an eternity to Henry. Eventually, two Rutland Police officers entered the lot. One searched behind the pallets without success while the other found a white plastic bag behind some large planters. Finally, Haddonfield stopped the recording.

  “Sir?” Henry began, and this time Haddonfield let him speak. The problem was that he had nothing to say.

  “How did you know that bag would be there, Henry?”

  “I got an anonymous tip.”

  “I see. Did you suspect the bag contained evidence relating to your brother’s case?”

  “Of course not,” he lied. “I was just told there was a bag of evidence there, something we should see.”

  “You didn’t think to call it in?”

  “I thought it might be a prank.”

  “I want that bag, Henry, and whatever was inside.”

  “I can’t give it to you, sir,” Henry said truthfully, given that the bag was at the bottom of the Chittenden Reservoir. “I don’t have it anymore. There was nothing in it but empty snack bags and wrappers. Potato chips. Hostess cupcakes. I threw it all out. Figured it had definitely been a prank.”

  Haddonfield gave him a hard stare. “Why did you take it with you then? Why not put it back where it was?”

  “All due respect, sir,” Henry said, “and I’m not trying to sound like a smart-ass here, believe me, but that would have been littering.”

  Haddonfield took a deep breath. Below his boss’s sight line, Henry wiped his palms on his pant legs, palms that had grown damp.

  “We have reason to believe that bag contained evidence related to your brother’s murder case.”

  “No, sir. Just trash.”

  “Because the other bag? The one the locals found? That did, in fact, contain evidence we strongly believe relates to your brother’s case.”

  “Well, that’s good then. Because Tyler’s innocent. And if it really does, then I think the anonymous caller was just messing with me, sir. Wanted to get me into trouble. Probably found the real bag of evidence and added a second bag full of snack wrappers to screw with me.”

  “Who would want to do that, Lieutenant?”

  He wanted to say, The guy who framed Tyler and is blackmailing and threatening our entire family. Instead, he said, “Oh, let’s see . . . dozens of cops I’ve investigated over the years. Anyone I’ve ever arrested. Any member of the public who doesn’t like my brother, the governor, or my other brother, the murder suspect, or God knows who else.”

  Haddonfield sighed heavily. “There’s going to be a full investigation. You know how it goes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s usually your job, but I’ll ask the FBI office in Burlington to help us out with this.”

  “I understand.”

  “What’s on your plate right now?”

  Henry knew what he was asking. “Nothing pressing, sir. Nothing major. Run-of-the-mill investigations.”

  “Nothing that won’t keep for a little while?”

  “No, sir.”

  “If I knew for an absolute fact that the bag you took contained evidence in a case, rather than having to rely on the word of an anonymous caller, you’d already have been arrested. As it is, consider yourself suspended without pay until this matter is resolved one way or another. And I expect you’ll cooperate fully when asked to do so.”

  “Of course.”

  Haddonfield nodded. In a different, less officious tone, he said, “You’re going to lose your job, Henry. Hell, you may go to prison.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I can’t help you. Not with this going so public. And besides . . . I wouldn’t want to. Not with something like this.”

  Henry understood. He’d breached a trust . . . hell, several trusts—the public’s, the VSP’s, and Haddonfield’s—in profound fashion.

  “I understand, Commissioner.”

  “Please collect your things, lock up your office, and give your keys to Sergeant Yasovich. Along with your badge and gun, of course. He’s waiting outside.”

  Which meant that Sergeant Yasovich was going to escort Henry to his office, oversee the gathering of his things and the locking up of his office, then walk Henry out of the building. Henry didn’t blame Haddonfield. The man didn’t have a choice. Nor would he blame Yasovich, though he could imagine the feeling of schadenfreude the good sergeant would experience upon facilitating the expulsion of the head of Internal Affairs from the building under a cloud of suspicion.

  “Understood, sir,” Henry said.

  He rose and headed for the door.

  “And Henry?” Haddonfield said, not without sympathy. “Get yourself a really good lawyer. You’re going to need one.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  As soon as the video of Henry in the nail salon parking lot hit the news outlets, it began to spread rapidly, like blood in water, and it wasn’t long before the sharks were circling. A day later, Andrew stood at a podium in the press briefing room of the Pavilion facing a huge school of them, members of the news media in a standing-room-only crowd. Dozens of video cameras pointed at him. Hundreds of eyes watching him; thousands more would see him on the news or the Internet later. The questions came at him hard and fast with barely enough time between them for him to try to answer.

  “Were you aware that your brother Henry was planning to destroy evidence in Tyler’s case?”

  “Why did you pardon both Gabriel Torrance and Kyle Lewis within a matter of weeks?”

  “Have you tried to use your position to influence Tyler’s murder investigation?”

  “Do you feel as though you have a conflict of interest in trying to run the state while charges are pending, or soon will be, against both of your brothers?”

  “Given the serious allegations against two of your family members, are you going to issue a public apology to former Governor Barker for your many insinuations about corruption in his administration?”

  “Are you going to try to convince the state attorney not to file obstruction charges against Lieutenant Kane?”

  “Are you considering resigning from office?”

  Andrew did his best to answer, and Jim Garbose stepped in now and then to referee the bloodbath, slow the questions down, and give each reporter a chance to hurl a dagger at him. And through it all, Angela Baskin sat in the front row, the look on her face convincing Andrew that she was content to take it all in, to let the rest of the pack
bring him down.

  When it was finally over, when Garbose finally called the match—a TKO for the reporters—Andrew left the podium feeling battered and bruised. What he didn’t feel was wronged. He deserved this. He wasn’t guilty of most of what they were accusing him of, but he was guilty nonetheless. Guilty of a lot of things. Of putting his family’s welfare over that of the people of Vermont. Of not turning the black cell phone over to the authorities immediately after receiving it. Of allowing Henry to convince him that he needed to keep his options open in case—just in case—he wanted to negotiate with the blackmailer. Of pardoning Gabriel Torrance. Of being foolish enough to hope that the caller would do as he promised in return. And, finally, of pardoning Kyle Lewis.

  Yes, he was guilty of so many things. And what was worse . . . he knew, even now, that if this all led to Tyler’s freedom, he could live with it. Just a few short weeks ago, he couldn’t have imagined compromising himself in the first place, much less justifying it to himself. Those were things his father might have done, that Jackpot Barker definitely did, but not Andrew Kane. Yet he realized that as long as Tyler was acquitted, and as long as Lewis didn’t hurt any—

  “Andrew?” Garbose said. “You okay?”

  Andrew blinked. The open elevator doors in front of him were starting to close with them still inside the car. Garbose shot a hand out and held them open.

  “Sir?”

  Andrew hadn’t even realized he was on the elevator. He’d been lost in thought as his press secretary led him up to his offices on the fifth floor. He stepped out of the elevator car, and Garbose followed.

  “I’m fine, Jim. Thanks for your help.”

  “Not sure how much help I was down there today.”

  “I meant thanks for your help all along. Today, before today, and everything you’ll be doing to help me going forward. I’m afraid you’ll be earning your salary in the days ahead.”

  “I guess it’s about time,” Garbose said.