Devin took a long pull from one of the bottles the waitress had dropped off. “Then one of the other guy’s friends pulled Ronnie off and all hell broke loose. They went down in a pile, and the next thing you know, Ronnie’s hand is bleeding and he says his ankle’s broke. He’s limping and dragging his right foot. We take him down to the infirmary and the nurse bandaged his hand and said his ankle was just sprained, so she taped it up.”
“But he must’ve faked it,” Earl said. “When he got the chance, he took off running like he used to on the track team.”
Devin waggled his Budweiser in Earl’s face and his voice rose. “He really was cut pretty bad. I saw the blood. We found a shank made from a ballpoint pen later. Course, nobody would say whose it was. The ankle, I dunno. Ronnie was at the bottom of a pile of guys, and his leg was twisted under him. It seemed like he coulda twisted it. But people said he took off like a jackrabbit, so I guess that sprain musta been fake.”
“Who was the inmate who started the fight?”
“Dude named Wade Cochran. Real pain in the ass.”
“He from around here?”
“Nah. Lives clear on the other side of the county. When he’s not in jail, that is.”
“Still there now?”
“Just got released. He was only serving thirty days for drunk and disorderly. But he’ll be back. He’s a frequent flyer.”
At that moment, Brett returned from his sojourn on the dance floor. The conversation turned to other things and the beer flowed even faster than before. Frank could see he’d reached his limit pumping Devin. He waved to Earl and took off, shouldering through the knot of smokers standing just outside the door.
At home, the house was silent. He slipped into bed next to Penny and she reached out to him groggily.
Then she recoiled. “Where have you been? You smell awful.”
“Conducting an interrogation. At the Mountainside.”
Penny scooted over to her side of the bed. “You’re lucky I’m not the suspicious type.”
Chapter 17
The next day Frank ran a background check on Wade Cochran and found seventeen years of steady but minor trouble with the law: vandalism, shoplifting, possession of stolen goods, DUI, possession of marijuana, drunk and disorderly. One conviction for breaking and entering that got him a year in Dannemora, but all his other time had been served at the county jail.
For every arrest on his record, Cochran had probably committed ten other crimes that he’d gotten away with. He looked like a full-time low-life who earned enough money to keep himself intoxicated by stealing, fencing, and dealing. But there was no violence in his record—no assault, no domestic abuse, no weapons. For every crime, he’d done his time and been released.
Cochran lived in a little hamlet west of Newcomb, which was about as far away from Trout Run as you could get and still be in Essex County. He didn’t seem to have much in common with Ronnie Gatrell, who before his recent spectacular crime spree, had been a law-abiding, more-or-less gainfully employed member of society. Could they have known each other before meeting up in jail?
A mug shot in the file showed a gaunt, weasely face framed by stringy dark hair. Stats: 5’9”, 150 pounds. Why would a scrawny punk like Cochran pick a fight with a man who had six inches and sixty pounds on him? Frank had known brawlers who couldn’t seem to stop themselves from fighting even when the deck was clearly stacked against them, but Cochran had no record of violence. The fight at the jail looked more and more suspicious.
Frank finished the morning patrol and set off on the long drive to Newcomb, taking the Northway south, then driving west on county roads. The landscape here was less mountainous than in Trout Run and the road ran past a network of pretty lakes. But it was still too chilly for lakeside vacationers, and the four or five modest motels looked empty. Small wonder that Cochran was a hustler. The region didn’t offer much in the way of gainful employment.
Wade Cochran lived in an apartment above a convenience store on the main street in town. There was no doorbell and no name over the rusty mailbox, but the clerk in the store had confirmed that Cochran lived here. Frank looked up at the windows before he walked up the rickety wood staircase that led to the second floor. One had a crooked, torn blind pulled halfway down; the other had a faded, pink-flowered sheet tacked over it. A shiny purple Harley Superlow that still had dealer tags was parked on a small patch of gravel by the back door. Cochran’s? Or did he have a visitor?
Frank climbed the stairs and knocked. He heard rustling inside, but no one opened the door. He pounded louder and raised his voice, “Wade Cochran, open up. This is the Trout Run police. I need to talk to you.”
“Go away. I ain’t done nothin’.”
“That motorcycle parked out here was reported stolen.”
The door flew open. “That bike ain’t stolen. I bought it fair and square. I got the papers to prove it.”
A disheveled and weed-reeking Cochran stood in the doorway, attempting to zip his jeans over a pair of tighty-whities that looked to have been washed in the same load as his Red Sox t-shirt. He was even scrawnier in person than in his mug shot. If he weighed one-fifty, Frank was Mr. Universe.
“I’d like to see those papers.”
“You got no right…” Cochran’s voice trailed off, too stoned to recall exactly what Frank had no right to do.
Frank stepped past Cochran into the putrid interior of the one-room apartment. Honestly, some days his job was so easy it wasn’t even fun.
“I hear you’re some fighter, Wade. Put a man twice your size in the jail infirmary. That’s quite an accomplishment.”
“Yeah, well…he shoudn’ta messed with me.”
“I hear you started it. What made you do that?”
Wade backed away and stumbled into a lawn chair that made up one-third of the apartment’s furniture. A TV and a mattress on the floor completed the décor. He raked his fingers through his greasy hair and left his hands on the side of his head. Maybe he was afraid his brains would leak out. “Wait…why you askin’ me about that fight? I thought you were here about my bike.”
Frank took a shot in the dark. “I’m thinking they’re related. Where did you get the money for a Harley? You just get hired on at Google?”
The wisecrack sailed over Wade’s head. “I…uh…I won some money.”
“In the Lottery?”
Wade grabbed the lifeline thrown to him. “Yeah. Yeah. Bought a winning Lotto. Finally hit.”
“You know Lottery winners are a matter of public record. Easy enough to check.” Frank pulled out his phone.
“I mean a poker game. I won at poker. Yeah.”
“High-stakes poker is illegal here in New York. You haven’t been to Vegas lately, have you?”
Wade plopped into the lawn chair and rocked. “Leave me alone. That bike is mine.” A wracking cough convulsed him and he spit into an empty Red Bull can on the floor.
Frank almost felt sorry for the guy. Clearly, he had so little. “What did you have to do to get that bike, Wade? Pick a little fight with Ronnie Gatrell? Get your buddies to pile on? Scratch Ronnie up some?”
“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”
“Someone offered you money to do that, didn’t they?”
Wade shook his head. His forehead creased with the effort of thinking of a response. Then he brightened. Cue the lightening bolt of inspiration. “Ain’t nobody in jail has any money.” He leaned back, satisfied that he’d bowled Frank over with his logic.
“Ronnie Gatrell himself offered you money to start the fight, didn’t he? How did you know him?”
Wade snorted. “That’s crazy. Why would he want to get himself beat up?”
The combination of low IQ and high intoxication had rendered Wade incapable of deception. He probably hadn’t made the connection that the fight had been a necessary precursor to Ronnie’s escape. But if Ronnie hadn’t approached Wade himself, who had made the offer?”
Frank had memorized the n
ames of the guards on duty with Devin during the fight. He rattled them off to Wade. “Which one of them paid you?”
Wade looked like the kid in the back row called out by the algebra teacher, so Frank knew he’d taken a wrong turn in the questioning. He backed up. Who else could have made the offer?
Then the lightening bolt hit him.
“You’ve been in the county jail a lot, haven’t you, Wade?”
“Yeah. Shit happens.”
“Sometimes, when the weather’s cold and you’re hungry and sick, you probably look forward to jail. Maybe you go over to Lake Placid and sit on a bench in front of the police station and light up a joint. That’s probably good for a couple weeks of steady meals and a warm bed.”
“Whatever. My cousin kicked me outta his house. You try livin’ on the street in February.” Wade coughed again and wiped his nose with the hem of his shirt.
“Sounds like you might have had a touch of bronchitis this winter. Did the nurse in the infirmary fix you up?”
“Yeah, she gave me some shit to take. She—” Wade glanced at Frank, then quickly averted his eyes.
“The nurse is your friend, isn’t she, Wade?” Frank spoke softly. “She looks out for you. So naturally, you look out for her. She asked you to do her a favor. It wasn’t hard. So you did it, right? And then when you were released, this nice bike was waiting for you.”
“I don’t have to talk to you. You didn’t read me my rights or nuthin.’ “
“That’s because I haven’t arrested you.” Maybe with a little more rope, Wade would hang himself and Nancy Tomlinson too. Frank clapped Wade on the shoulder. “You take care of yourself, Wade. You wouldn’t want to have an accident on that bike.”
Wade breathed unsteadily through his mouth until Frank was out the door. From the corner of his eye, Frank caught the twitch of the sheet over the window as he descended the stairs. He got into the patrol car and drove off. Once he was out of sight of the apartment, Frank turned into the parking lot of a closed motel and parked behind the building. A few minutes later he heard the roar of a Harley racing down the street. He counted to twenty, then looped back to the convenience store on the ground floor of Wade’s building.
Another set of eyes would be useful.
Chapter 18
Anyone might think that Lew Meyerson would be grateful for the lead that Frank uncovered in the investigation of Ronnie Gatrell’s escape. But gratitude was one emotion distinctly absent from the room.
“What were you doing clear over in Newcomb talking to someone who hasn’t committed a crime in your jurisdiction?” Meyerson demanded.
“I received some information from local contacts and followed up on it.” Frank had anticipated Meyerson’s bluster and vowed not to let himself get testy in return.
“Received how?”
“By keeping my ears open. By talking to people who know other people who know Wade Cochran.”
Meyerson swiveled his desk chair and jabbed an index finger in Frank’s direction. “You interfered in an ongoing investigation being managed by the state police and the sheriff’s department. You charged in and upset a delicate process.”
“Delicate, my ass! You and the sheriff didn’t have a clue as to what was going on at that jail. I’m telling you, you need to bring in that nurse for interrogation. She’s the inside contact who facilitated Gatrell’s escape.”
“Nancy Tomlinson has been a solid, reliable employee of the county jail for nearly twenty years. I’m not ruining a woman’s career based on your fantasies and dubious information you coerced out of a scumbag like Wade Cochran.”
Frank chose to let the “fantasies” insult pass. He knew Meyerson well enough to see he was lashing out to defend himself. “I didn’t have to coerce Cochran. I just interviewed him. If you and the sheriff had done it, maybe you would have learned what I did.”
“We talked to him at the time of the escape. He didn’t say anything about Nurse Tomlinson or any payments he received to attack Gatrell.”
Frank clenched the arms of his chair. “Of course he didn’t announce it. Doesn’t it strike you as suspicious that the guy who picked the fight with Gatrell, a guy who was practically homeless, suddenly has nine thousand dollars in cash to buy a new motorcycle?”
Meyerson snorted. “I’ll grant you Cochran didn’t save up his pennies to buy the bike, but I can’t concern myself with how punks like him survive. He got lucky for once and came out ahead in one of his deals. Give him a few months and he’ll lose the bike to the next meth cooker he deals with.”
“So you’re not going to talk to Cochran again? The guy’s dumber than dirt. You don’t need Dick Cheney to make him crack.”
“He’s a scumbag drug addict. I could get him to say that space aliens persuaded him to attack Gatrell. Any information he provides is worthless.”
“Granted Cochran wouldn’t be a stellar witness in court. But you can use his information to put some pressure on Nancy Tomlinson. C’mon—talk to the woman!”
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Bennett. Do you honestly think we never questioned the nurse whose bandages made it impossible to put cuffs and shackles on Gatrell? We talked to her within an hour of the escape. She was totally calm and professional. She showed us other inmate files that indicated the measures she took were standard procedure for treating the kind of injuries Gatrell sustained.”
“You mean the kind of injuries she told Cochran to inflict. She ordered up those injuries so she could deliver those particular treatments.”
Meyerson threw his hands in the air. “Oh, the vast conspiracy! Why would she risk a well-paying job with benefits to help an inmate she didn’t even know?”
“What makes you so sure she didn’t know Ronnie? They both live in Verona. She’s divorced, he’s a good-looking guy. You simply asked her and took her word when she said no?”
Meyerson untwisted a paper clip until it snapped in his hands. “She works in Lewis; he works in Trout Run and Verona. She sent her son to Catholic school; the Gatrells’ son is older and goes to public school. The Gatrells are into hunting, fishing, camping; Nurse Tomlinson does scrapbooking in her spare time. She told us she recognized Ronnie’s face. She knew where the daycare center was because she’d passed the sign many times. But she wasn’t acquainted with either of the Gatrells. Their paths simply didn’t cross. And Pam Gatrell herself verified that.”
“So that’s it? You’re not willing to dig any deeper?” Frank shed his vow to remain calm like a too-heavy sweater. Why were cops everywhere so territorial? The NYPD vs. the NYFD, the FBI vs. the CIA—big fish or small, no one was ever willing to share information, yield control, accept advice.
“We’ve questioned her. We’re satisfied.”
“Are you telling me in all your years as a cop you’ve never gone back and re-interviewed someone based on new information?”
“New valid information.” Meyerson rose from his desk. “The state police will handle this investigation. I would think you and Earl have more than enough to keep you busy now that you’re responsible for both Trout Run and Verona.”
Frank knew when he’d been dismissed. But he wasn’t done with Gatrell’s escape. Not by a long shot.
As he was about to leave the office, Meyerson’s voice called him back. “And I better not hear that you’re hassling Nancy Tomlinson. Or there will be trouble.”
Chapter 19
Wade Cochran and Ronnie Gatrell were soon pushed out of Frank’s mind by matters closer to home.
Penny clutched Frank’s arm as they entered the Family Court hearing room in the Essex County courthouse. She was almost unrecognizable as the wife he loved. Her usual colorful scarves and clattering bracelets and sparkly earrings had been left at home. She wore a shapeless navy blue suit Frank hadn’t even known she possessed. A sedate clip held her dark hair back from her pale, worried face. He would have told her she looked like a banker at a funeral to make her laugh, but he was pretty sure she’d cry.
Family Court was a grand title for a place no more imposing than a corporate office park meeting room. Anita and her court-appointed lawyer sat in chairs on the left side of the room, while Edwin, Lucy, their well-paid lawyer and all their character witnesses—Pastor Bob, two of Olivia’s teachers, and a neighbor—clustered on the right.
No Olivia.
After a few preliminaries, the hearing got underway. The character witnesses came forward and testified to Edwin and Lucy’s skills as parents: their involvement in the PTA, their commitment to the church youth group and the library reading club, their dedication to improving Olivia’s education, health and nutrition. Others testified to the material benefits Olivia enjoyed: her own bedroom with an extra bed for sleep-over guests, a piano, shelves of books, swimming lessons in summer, ice-skating lessons in winter.
Frank stole a glance at Anita. She stared blankly at the New York State seal above the judge’s head as the witnesses described all the benefits she would never be able to offer her daughter. These things weren’t supposed to matter, but Frank felt sure they must. The judge was human; he couldn’t help recognizing the quality of life Edwin and Lucy had provided for their foster child. Frank began to feel more confident that Lucy and Edwin would prevail, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for Anita. How might her life have turned out if she’d had guardian angels like Edwin and Lucy to rescue her?
When the character witnesses finished their testimony, Edwin’s lawyer outlined the true crux of their case: Anita had never tried to contact her daughter in the five years she’d been imprisoned, and that was grounds for abandonment.
The judge turned to Anita. “Can you answer that, Ms. Veech?”
Anita had been sitting with her head bowed throughout this part of the proceedings. Now she lifted it and gazed around the courtroom, taking the time to make eye contact with Edwin, Frank, Trudy, and finally, the judge.
“When I first got to Albion, I was getting hassled by some of the other prisoners, you know, ‘cause of my weight…and my teeth. The guards kept moving me around to different cellblocks. I never got those first letters and drawings Olivia sent to me.” She attempted a smile that was more like a grimace. “Mail at the prison doesn’t come with a tracking code. Sometimes you get it, sometimes you don’t. And it’s not like I expected anyone to be sending me anything.”
False Cast: a small town murder mystery (Frank Bennett Adirondack Mountain Mystery Series Book 5) Page 10
