by Rick Boyer
Paul told me the kids broke down first. Alice swore she knew nothing of the operation. Her brother Terry backed her up, admitting that he was the one who sneaked Jack's room key during a party and had it copied, on his father's orders.
"When was this?" I asked Keegan.
"Shortly before the first burglary," he said, looking through his notebook.
"And Terry helped ransack the place?"
"Not according to him. We assume it was his father, maybe with help from his partners. But the older guys aren't talking yet."
"And who did the break-in at the cottage?"
"Oh, we got that one in the bag. The Isaacsons made a positive on Chisholm's kid. Didn't Joe tell you?"
"No. They identified Chisholm's son as the one who pawned the radio? jeez, I bet he's steamed at the kid."
"I would assume so. But he's not talking. All three partners are still silent. But just you wait: with a murder one rap out on them, they'll get scared and start pointing at one another. It won't be long."
The break came early the next day. Joe called me from Ten Ten Comm. Ave., where they were interviewing Hunter Whitesides, who was out on bail, thanks to a good lawyer and a hefty bank account. Joe said Whitesides wanted to talk and requested my presence also, since I was pressing charges for B and E.
"I thought it fitting that you be in on it, Doc, since you cracked the thing open. Whitesides is coming across pretty straight, I think. Either that, or he's a master liar. See you in an hour?"
* * *
"Thank you for coming, Dr. Adams," said Hunter Whitesides, who was dressed in subdued good taste, including a tropical-weight wool-and-silk Jacket I might have killed for. And I don't particularly go in for clothes.
His lawyer,John Higgins, sat in a blue three-piece slightly behind him and off to one side, ready to interrupt at the faintest hint that his client was treading on thin ice.
"I am here to admit in full candor that I am guilty as an accessory to breaking and entering," said Whitesides. "That, and that only. I have no knowledge whatsoever of the events or circumstances surrounding the unfortunate death of Andrew Cunningham."
Having given this opening statement, he sat at Joe's desk, hands clasped before him, ready for questioning. Which Joe and Paul proceeded with. There was a tape machine running, but no stenographer. Question: did he know Cunningham? Had he met him? Yes, briefly, to arrange for him to take the government cores and seismic data from the USGS warehouse on the Quissett campus. Had he been in contact with the Cunningham boy since then? Yes, once, aboard the Highlander, during a brief exchange in which Bill Henderson threatened to kill him unless he handed over the stolen data as agreed.
"And what was the agreement, Mr. Whitesides?" asked Keegan.
"That Cunningham was to deliver to us, in secret, the core samples and profile graphs for the sum of two thousand dollars."
"Which was paid to him?"
"No. To be paid when we received the data."
"The purpose of which was to attract investors and raise cash?"
"Yes. And Cunningham refused to give us the data as agreed, stating that the price was too low. He demanded ten thousand."
"Which you and your partners refused to pay him, is that correct?"
"Yes. Because it wasn't part of the deal. And frankly, we couldn't afford it anyway."
"What was the nature of the threat issued by Mr. Henderson?"
"It wasn't specific, just that Andy could wind up dead if he held out."
"And what was Mr. Cunningham's response to this?"
"He left the boat, saying we know where he could be reached if we changed our minds."
"And that was the last you saw of Mr. Cunningham?"
"Yes."
"You are certain?"
"Absolutely."
"May I ask a question?"
"Go ahead, Doc."
"Mr. Whitesides, you're certain that the last time you had contact with Cunningham was aboard Henderson's trawler?"
"Positive."
"You didn't even have as much as, say, a phone conversation with him afterwards?"
The man stared at me, his silver hair immaculately parted far down the side of his ruddy head, his fine clothes evidence of his status and upbringing in the highest circles. And yet, I saw him twitch slightly, saw his eyes lose a bit of their keen focus. He was coming a little unglued at the question.
"I, uh, might have. I don't remember."
"You don't remember. That's mighty unlikely. I say you did. I say you did because Andy called you from my house on the Cape. He called you the very same night he died."
"Hold it!" snapped Higgins, springing to his feet and approaching his client's side. "You don't have to answer that, Mr. Whitesides. We've agreed to—"
"I'll answer, goddammit!" said Whitesides, shifting his ample bottom around in the chair. "Don't forget, Higgins, the charge is murder one, and I know I didn't do it. I feel suckered enough by those other two. I'll be damned if I'll face a charge like that. alone. For all we know, they're talking right now, making up a story to put me away. Yes, Dr. Adams. Yes, I got a call from Andy Cunningham the night he died. But I was nowhere near him; I couldn't have had anything to do with his death."
"The murderers didn't have to be near the boy," said Paul Keegan slowly. His voice was full of menace. "It was a murder done by remote control. Doc, I think that was your expression.
"Okay, so where were you that Saturday night?" I asked.
"I was home, on Tuckernuck."
"Do you have any witness to swear to that?"
"No. I don't think so."
"We could check the phone records," said Joe, looking at Paul.
"See if a call was made from Doc's place that night to the island, to the number of the Whitesides residence. That sound like a good idea to you, Whitesides? Or, for some strange reason, does it maybe bother you?"
Whitesides got up and shuffled around the room, breathing heavily. He was almost all the way unglued now, but still, he didn't talk. Then Joe spoke.
"Mr. Whitesides, we've checked the records of the phone company for the night in question. The call Andy made was to a phone booth. We know where that phone booth is . . . and we think you know, too. Is there anything you'd like to say now?"
"Okay," he said in a hoarse whisper, "I wasn't on the island, I was in Woods Hole. I said I was home because . . . well, you know . . . because it's farther away from where the kid was that night. You know . . ."
"Okay, now we get a different version," said Keegan slowly, using his inquisition whisper. "You were on the Cape that night, in Woods Hole. Where?"
"The Forrest House. It's a little guest house out on Sippiwissett Road. A private home with rooms. I keep a room there year-round so I can stay there anytime I miss the ferry, or when I want to be on the mainland?
"Who saw you there? Anybody?"
"I don't know. Somebody, probably. I hope to hell somebody."
"Wouldn't matter," hissed Keegan. "Woods Hole's not that far from Eastham. At night, with light traffic, maybe an hour's drive, right Doc?"
I nodded. "But let's get back to this phone call. What did he say to you?"
"He said he wanted to give me the stuff he took from the Geological Survey. Give it to me alone, and then we could be partners together. He said he'd give me the stuff for free if I'd cut him in on the well, and leave the others out. He told me the other two were cheating me, since it was my land the well was on, so why keep them in?"
Joe and I exchanged a quick glance. The phone call was exactly as we had predicted. And of course, I had confronted Whitesides about the call without the slightest proof that he was on the receiving end of it; it was just logic and luck working in our favor.
"And what did you say?"
"I said no. Absolutely no way. We were a corporation, and that was that. And I warned him that he'd better keep his part of the deal or he'd be sorry."
"What was that supposed to mean?" asked Keegan.
"Nothing s
pecific; just a warning. Bill Henderson is nobody to mess with, let me tell you. You heard he put a guy in the hospital six years ago? In a bar fight in Fall River?"
Whitesides's attorney, Higgins, sat on the very edge of his chair, his eyes beginning to bug out.
"If you want to know, Cunningham's offer sounded attractive," continued Whitesides. "I knew I was sort of being taken for a ride. But frankly, I was a little afraid of Henderson. No way was I going to try and leave him out, and have him come after me."
"You say you were afraid of Henderson. What about Dr. Chisholm?"
"Not really, He's kind of bookish, even though he's a big guy. I think he's under Bill's thumb, too.”
"Is Bill Henderson capable of murder, Mr. Whitesides?" asked Joe.
Higgins jumped up and objected, saying the question was speculative, and that his client shouldn't be put in a position to answer it. He added quickly that, of course, it was obvious that his client was certainly not capable of such an act. Keegan growled that the jury would determine that. Both Higgins and Whitesides grew pale at this. I had to credit Paul Keegan. He was good at intimidation, he knew how to keep the fire going under Whitesides's feet. Seeing him squirm, and recalling the success of my earlier bluff, I decided to try another.
"Mr. Whitesides, now that you've apparently come clean on the phone call, how about telling us about your meeting with Andy later that night? Was it on the beach? On Sunken Meadow Road? Or did you pick him up near our cottage in your big blue Mercedes and go somewhere to talk it over?"
"What? What meeting? There was no meeting later on. I swear it. I swear it on a stack of Bibles. As God is my witness, there was no meeting; I stayed in Forrest House the rest of that night."
"Be careful, Mr. Whitesides. We're talking murder one here. Murder One.”
But Whitesides, panicked, swore up and down he wasn't there. That it must have been somebody else. That the other two were out to frame him, et cetera, et cetera. Seeing his client's distress, Higgins called an end to the interview, and Joe, Paul, and I left the building shortly after they did.
The three of us were sitting over in the Greek's across the street from state police headquarters at Ten Ten Comm. Ave., having subs when Kevin O'Hearn, Joe's office mate and partner, came in.
Joe and Paul read over their notes while I attacked my half of a steak and cheese sub. That's a sandwich made with grill-fried shaved beef, lots of provolone cheese melted on top, oil, spices, tomato chunks, vinegar, and crushed hot peppers, all in a big Italian roll. It is the finest sandwich ever invented. But since I go light on lunch, I was only having half. Joe was eating the other half, along with a sub of his own: jumbo meatball and sausage. "So . . . ," quipped O'Hearn, "don't leave me in the dark, fellas. What does everybody think?"
There was only the muted sound of grinding molars in reply. "C'mon, you guys. Fill me in. I'm shittin' pink."
Joe raised his eyes at him. "That is not dinner table talk," he said.
"Oh. Well ex-cuuuuuusse me."
"You may do a lot of things, Kev, but shitting pink isn't one of them," I said. "What'll you have? I'll buy."
"Thanks Doc. You're the only gentleman here. I'll have a lobster salad sub and a large Sprite."
He said lobster like this; lawbstah. I took out the money and started to get up from the table.
"Don't put yourself out, Doc; I'll go up and get it."
He slid off the slick red vinyl of the booth seat and waddled up to the counter. Joe saw him and swallowed fast.
"Hey Kev! As long as you're up there would y—"
"Fuck you, asshole."
Cops.
Kevin quickly returned with his food and slid into the booth.
"So what do I think?" said Joe philosophically as he wiped his mouth and blew over the top of his coffee cup. "I guess what I think is that poor Hunter Whitesides is telling the truth."
"Same here," said Keegan.
"Doc?"
"I agree. Joe, why don't you try and get a detailed financial background on him, see what his motivation was for getting mixed up in the scheme? Still, no matter how desperate he's been, I don't think murder is in the cards for him."
"I'm putting my money on Henderson," said Keegan softly. "He hates to be crossed, he's got a bad temper, and he's done violence in the past."
More chewing and blowing on coffee. Then Kevin said: "How about the drugs business? The lethal pills that killed the kid? How'd Henderson the fisherman have the savvy to pull that off?"
Keegan said, "Doc's the expert on that. Doc?"
"Well, since they roped Andy into stealing for them for a price, it's reasonable to assume that Henderson knew Andy pretty well. He made contact with the kid shortly after Andy arrived at Woods Hole and started dating his daughter. I mean, would Henderson walk up to Cunningham, introduce himself, and right off the bat say hey, we want you to steal something for us?"
Headshakes all around the booth.
"'Course not. Therefore, the deal they finally struck suggests that they saw each other often, and knew each other well. We thought old man Hartzell was a good bet for it because he's a biologist. But would he know about Andy's epilepsy? Not too likely, since the kids hated him and didn't talk with him more than they had to. But Henderson was in a perfect situation to learn of the illness. Why? Because Andy told Alice, his lady love, and Alice might easily have let it slip at home."
"Hey, that's good, Doc," said Joe. "Isn't that good?"
Nods all around the booth.
"Of course it's good; I'm the medical examiner for Barnstable County. You guys forgetting that?"
"You're a regular genius, Doc," said Keegan, picking his line, straight teeth with a matchbook cover. "Joe, how come you never mentioned Doc's past adventures to me?"
Joe shrugged and sipped his coffee. O'Hearn was grinning at him.
"And another thing, Joe, speaking of past adventures. Why aren't you married? I'd a thought you'd be quite the family man."
"Forget it, Paul," said O'Hearn quietly. He'd felt my kick under the table.
"Huh? Aw, c'mon. I know he's not gay. Joe, you're not gay, are you?"
"No," said Joe. "I'm not gay."
"Paul. I said forget it, okay?" said O'Hearn. He'd lost his smile. Keegan looked dumbfounded at all of us.
"I say something wrong?"
"It's a long story, Paul," I said. "Maybe we'll talk about it some time."
I looked at Joe. He hadn't moved. just sipped his coffee. But I noticed that a shiny curtain of sweat had formed on his lip and his hands shook a bit. Keegan mumbled some kind of apology and nobody said anything. There wasn't much talking after that, and we got up to leave the Greek's. I left the tip. Keegan was making a beeline for his cruiser parked down the street. O'Hearn and Joe were walking back to Ten Ten. Kev had his arm around Joe's shoulder and was trying to tell him a joke. Good old Kev. Joe seemed to be walking okay, and when he turned to give me a quick goodbye, I could've sworn he was smiling.
TWENTY-NINE
WELL, IT SEESAWED back and forth with the gang from OEI. For a corporation with such a lofty name, and with stated objectives and ideals as fancy as those that appeared in the company's charter, it sure sounded strange to hear the partners arguing—secondhand, as Mary and I were obliged to hear it from Joe—about who really killed Andy Cunningham. Whitesides seemed to us to be mostly in the clear, since his chances of financial gain seemed to remain constant whether Andy lived or died. Henderson remained the best suspect, not only because of his forceful personality and fierce temper, but because he was most financially strapped. And if Andy had indeed convinced Hunter Whitesides to dump the other two and strike a deal on his own with Andy's help, then he'd be left utterly out in the cold.
Michael Chisholm was the mystery man, a mild-mannered, bearded guy with a doctorate in geology who seemed at first blush immune from greed and financial pressures. But life is full of surprises; in addition to the Isaacsons fingering Chisholm's son, Jim, as the young man who cam
e into their shop to pawn my radio, Chisholm's estranged wife, Barbara, established that he was a cokehead and a wife beater. Barbara was more than eager to document his drug dependency, fits of temper, sullen depressions, and random violence, not to mention his woeful financial situation.
With each passing day, the state guys up in Boston tried to tighten the noose by playing one suspect against another. Every day, more accusations and "proofs" were hurled at each defendant by the others. But whenever the prosecutors thought they had a chance to close the net, the defense lawyers intervened and left them with nothing.
So while things got stickier and stickier between the three erstwhile partners, definite tie-ins to Andy's death were not established. Nobody on our side dared admit it, but it was becoming clear that while we had them dead to rights on the oil scam, the murder charge wasn't going anywhere. And Jack's trial date was fast approaching. Mary was very down. So was I, but doing my best to hide it.
Mary and I were down at the cottage that third week in September, trying to have fun. Jack, who was still at Woods Hole with his brother and Tom McDonnough, was keeping busy and trying to get through life one day at a time. Still, we knew he was watching the days slip by, and watching the dreaded date approach. Joe was coming down to stay with us about every other night. He was growing more tired and fidgety with each visit. "I don't know, you guys . . . ," he sighed as he sipped his afterdinner cappuccino, "I just don't know anymore. I was so sure we had 'em. Now, I just . . . shit, I don't know . . ."
This was Friday night, September 22, six weeks to the night since Andy Cunningham died. We were sitting out on the porch, treating ourselves to yet another glorious sunset. "I'm beginning to doubt we'll ever put them in the bag for it," Joe continued wearily. "We're so close. And God knows we've got the lawyers jumping through hoops, each guy busy trying to incriminate the others. Christ, you'd think something would shake loose pretty soon."
"You don't think they planned it together?" asked Mary.
"We all thought so at first. But then came Whitesides's voluntary confessional Monday, and his story seems to be holding together. We did find a witness at Forrest House who recalls him there most of the night in question."
