by A P Bateman
Now seated in Captain Dolbeck's office inside the police headquarters in Montpelier, they had said even less to each other as the police captain had brought them coffee in the ridiculously implausible plastic cups from the two-dollar vending machine in the hall.
“We got the body out of the lake on Saturday morning,” Dolbeck said. He yawned and stretched, like he had had a rough night. Stone looked at him and believed he had, but then again, the man had looked the same a few of days before. Maybe the guy just looked rough. “A twelve year old boy found him, poor lad. Floating face up in a bunch of weeds. The boy was fishing out on the lake over at Kennett’s Ridge. Kid's hook and line tangled in the weeds and he heaved the bunch of weeds to the shore. Got a mighty big surprise when he went to check his line.”
“What happened?” Stone asked. “Or is it too early to know just yet?”
“Well an autopsy will have to be done but the guy took a bullet straight to the forehead. Either a big-ass .44 or .45 magnum or something like a .50 Action Express. Having said that, it could well have been a double-tap from a medium caliber handgun, I'd say but don't quote me. The hole was real ragged, so I'd go with a quick one-two from something like a 9mm. Damn good shot, if that is the case. I mean exceptional. It took the whole back of his head off whatever it was. Just like a ripe watermelon. Just the face and a bit of the top of his head left. Just left it looking like an empty shell.” Isobel cringed, grimaced at the thought of the vivid picture the police captain had painted. “You okay, lady?”
She nodded, picked up her cup and hurried a sip of coffee. “Fine, yes, just fine.”
“I'll have to wait for the coroner of course, or assistant coroner. Hell, maybe the guy will be the chief coroner now. Guess he’ll have to interview like anybody else. But he’s a fine examiner. Anyway, the verdict should be an open and shut one. We can rule out suicide because the guy's hands were tied together with a length of wire. Real tight, and it cut real deep too. He must've struggled and panicked at the very end because it had cut through to the bone in some places. Like he was struggling for his life. Which he was, I guess...”
“You said the coroner had a history of infidelity,” Stone ruminated. “Jealous husband maybe?”
“Well, you sure as shit don't want it to be, do you?” Dolbeck smiled.
Stone returned the smile. “Well, no. No it would be better for my investigation if it wasn't.”
“Well, I wouldn't like to hazard a guess. The guy did have trouble keeping his pecker in his pants, that's for sure.” He looked at Isobel. “Once again ma’am, sorry for any profanity.” She shrugged like it didn't bother her either way and there was no need for an apology. He smiled and turned back towards Stone. “Affairs are quite common up here. Most get settled with a fist in the face. Or a few windows smashed on a guy’s automobile. I haven’t seen a murder for one, not cold blooded at least. Mind you, if you saw his wife, you'd have to ask yourself why this man played away from the marital bed. She's quite a looker, that's for sure. But hey, if she doesn't put out at night then the guy's got to go elsewhere, right? Either way, the guy did have a reputation for the ladies and he had an affair a short while ago, according to his wife. That's why she didn't file a missing person report until a couple of days ago and why we didn't move our asses as quick as we would have for someone without a history of doing such things.” He sipped some coffee from the stack of three plastic cups and smiled. “I really wouldn't say it was a jealous husband though. I may be wrong and again, don't quote me, but this is upstate Vermont. If a guy's doing something he shouldn't be doing, the men around here are likely to kick his ass big style out in the back lot of a bar the old fashioned way. Then they're just as likely to shake the guy's hand, buy him a drink and moan about their wife to him all night long. Hell, shit happens from time to time, but tying the guy up and blowing the back of his head out is a bit too gangland California for these parts. Besides, most people have hunting rifles or shotguns up here. A handgun has little or no use to the folk around here.”
Stone nodded. “Well, that helps me a little,” he paused. “Do you mind if I take a look at the log for around the time professor Leipzig was killed. A few days both sides of it would be all I need.”
“Sure,” Captain Dolbeck said. He stood up and eased his substantial bulk around the desk. “I'll just be a few minutes.”
When he left the room Isobel looked at Stone and frowned. “What is all this about? And where does Professor Leipzig fit into this?”
“Just faceless pieces of the same jigsaw puzzle. Hopefully we'll get a picture if we look hard enough.”
“We? Since when was it we?” She retorted. “I've just been dragged here, I'm not even part of this...”
“You took the damn drives, Isobel. What more of a part do you want? Hell, with what you did, you could sit in jail and rot before you got as much as a hearing. That's the way treason works.”
“Treason!” She snapped. “I was saving people!”
Stone laughed cynically. “Certain people could make treason stick on you like glue. From now on, you're with me, helping me with this investigation.”
“Since when?”
“Since treason still carries the death penalty,” Stone said sardonically. “Since you became useful to me. Since I worked out a vital missing link in this puzzle, just a minute ago in this room ...” He stopped mid-sentence as Dolbeck walked back in.
The police captain was eating something, his cheeks full, like a chipmunk with a mouthful of nuts. Sugar glistened from the comers of the man's mouth and Stone concluded the he had swiped a jelly donut. “Here it is, right here. Lord only knows what use this will be to you. Professor Leipzig's accident was merely recorded, along with the· time and outcome. Casualties, location etc...”
Stone skipped the night of Leipzig's accident and looked at the rest of the log. He took a small leather-bound notebook out from his jacket pocket and started to write notes with a short stubby pencil. He flicked through the pages of the log and continued to write. The silence that accompanied his actions was deafening in its serene totality. Captain Dolbeck glanced somewhat awkwardly at Isobel, who simply smiled back amiably. After a few minutes, Stone stopped writing, closed the pages of the log and placed it down on the table. He took a sip of coffee from the flimsy plastic cup and smiled at the police captain.
“Thank you for your help,” he paused, as he stood up. “We'll take up no more of your day.”
THIRTY NINE
The sun was bright and the sky was a pale blue with scattered drifts of cotton candy cloud. People who knew what they were talking about would probably have called it Cumulus and Strata Cumulus cloud, but to both Stone and Isobel alike, they would have described it like children's cotton candy. Besides, cotton candy seemed a far nicer way to describe the sporadic puffs of white passing gently through the crystalline blue sky.
The sun was in their eyes as Stone pulled off the highway and onto a slip road towards a small town signposted as South Chesterton (pop. 1032).
“I feel like I'm in the Deep South,” Isobel commented. “Full of good ’old boys with pickup trucks and shotguns stowed in the gun rack behind the seat.” She laughed. “Population one thousand and thirty two, Jesus. You can just imagine the mayor, who also runs the gas station, running down to the sign and changing the number each time a woman gives birth, or some old timer gives out.”
Stone laughed with her. “Strange place, Vermont. Money all over the place. Ski resorts, hunting lodges for the wealthy city gents, farms and country businesses thriving, yet with little pockets of resistance dotted throughout.”
“I'm sure that South Chesterton is quite lovely,” she said. “But it sounds real hokey to me, at least it does from the sign.”
They drove onwards and as they neared the town they were first greeted with a balustrade of tall, mature spruce either side of the road. They had obviously been planted by hand many years previous, no doubt with the unselfish foresight so often demonstrated by p
eople who orchestrated such projects, but who would never live long enough to see them through to fruition. Whatever the reason behind the planting of the spruces, it certainly created a dramatic and beautiful effect as they neared the town, channeled towards the outskirts of the settlement by a tunnel of tall, monumental trees.
Stone had to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun as he drove. The effect of the vehicle's speed, coupled with the bright sunlight, led to a strobe-like effect as they were met with light-then-shade-then-light as they passed each thick trunk of the trees. He had read of similar plantings in France, ordered by Napoleon himself and suffered by the French almost two centuries later as cars passed those same trees. In many cases, every other tree had been felled to prevent the drivers of fast moving vehicles becoming entranced by the hypnotic effect. He figured that either the inhabitants of South Chesterton drove slower than the national limit, or that they just didn't give a damn about the potential for accidents occurred as a direct result of their beloved balustrade.
The sign once again gave the name of the town and the population in case anyone entering had forgotten, but Stone didn't recon anybody would. As he drove in past the neat rows of prefabricated houses, each with picket fences and tidy, well-kept lawns, he slowed his speed and started to look around for the town center.
“It doesn't look as hokey as it sounded,” Isobel commented. “It looks as though there's a little money at least.”
“And where there's a little money, you can always bet one thing ...”
“What's that?”
“There's people with less.”
Stone swung the car in front of a quiet looking diner, which was simply called Annie's, and was scripted, in a flowery, italic font. Blue writing on a brilliant white sign with a red border. “Very patriotic,” Isobel said. “I'm sensing blueberry or apple pie on the menu. Maybe even Maryland chicken with corn and biscuits.”
“And don't forget the gravy,” Stone smiled. “Giblet gravy and a side of chidlings.”
He switched off the engine and looked around the deserted town. Away in the distance he noticed an old man riding and even older bicycle. He was heading the other way.
“So what are we doing here?” Isobel unbuckled her seat belt and checked her face in the vanity mirror. “It's a little early for lunch.”
“I want to ask about, find a few things out.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved the notebook that he had used in Captain Dolbeck's office. He studied the pages for a moment, and then opened the door.
Annie’s was clean and well presented with mainly pictures of local fishermen on the walls proudly showing off their various catches. Huge trout and catfish. A Sixties Whirlitzer played in the furthest-most comer, quietly sending out the dulcet tones of Elvis Presley singing Love Me Tender. Stone walked up to the counter, followed closely by Isobel. She nudged him and pointed towards a sign for blueberry pie. They both smiled as he pointed to the sign for extras that was chalked up on a blackboard, which included giblet gravy and creamed corn. He suddenly felt very cosmopolitan, and at the same time, very arrogant. He reeled himself back in and coughed for the waitress's attention.
“Good morning, Ma’am,” he smiled, as she turned around. “Can I get an orange juice and a...” He looked to Isobel.
“A coffee, please.”
“...And a coffee, thanks.” The waitress nodded curtly and poured the coffee first. She placed it down next to Isobel, and left her a large pot of cream and a bowl of sugar. She poured Stone's orange juice from a large glass jug, straight from the chill cabinet and put it in front of him. He dropped a five-dollar bill on the table and smiled. “Perhaps you could help us? We're looking for a man who lives in these parts.”
“Sure, I’ll try. Go ahead.” She said, taking the five and ringing it through the till. She dropped the change onto a tea plate and handed it over to him. “If he lives out here, I'll know him.”
Stone smiled. “Joe Carver. Around seventy years of age...”
“Hobo Joe,” she scoffed. “Yeah, I know him. Those two are more trouble than they're worth. Couple of old tramps.”
“Who else?” Stone asked.
“Jeff... Don't know his surname. They live out in the woods, somewhere in the hills towards Hawk's Ridge. Always falling out, then getting drunk and becoming the best of pals again. They don't come into town much anymore, on account of the beating they both got when they ruffled a few feathers down at The Lockup.”
“The Lockup?” Isobel asked. “What's that?”
“Honey, you don't want to go there. The place is a bar down on Canyon Drive. The building was a jail back around the civil war. Hence the name. It’s out of town, but the young and the dumb come from all around on account that they don’t mind who they serve. Kids and college students mainly. And those barred from other places… Stick to the Woodsman Lodge across the way.” She pointed across the street at a log-paneled building. “That place is a bit classier, serves the weekend skiing set in the winter and the environmental lot through the summer months.”
“So where can I find Hobo Joe?” Stone asked.
She looked at her wristwatch and frowned. “Round about now, I'd try the fishing hole on the edge of town. Just west of here past the general stores and on for about two miles.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Yeah, that should be about right. He catches trout and catfish and sells them to the general store or the hotel out on Brenham's View. Just gets beer money, but that's good enough for him.”
“And if he's not there?”
“Then he's out in the woods someplace,” she paused. “And you ain't never going to find him out there.”
“Thanks,” Stone finished his orange juice and waited as Isobel hurried her coffee down. He dropped another couple of fives on the counter and smiled at the waitress. “You've been a great help.”
“Thank you, honey,” she smiled. “You have yourselves a nice day.”
The Mustang was loud and ostentatious and Stone was very much aware of it as he ambled along the street and headed towards the opposite side of town. The car was suitable for city and suburban life, but out here in the country, in the mountains in particular, it was far from discreet. The exhaust rumbled loudly and he refrained from using too much throttle as he crawled along the street.
“So who's Hobo Joe?” Isobel leant back in her seat and watched the rows of neat houses pass by. “How does he fit into all this?”
“I'd rather not say, just a hunch at the moment,” he paused. “But there was more to the log back at Captain Dolbeck's office than I had first realized on my previous visit.”
“Such as?”
“A coincidence.”
“And from that, you can make the right assumptions?”
“I don't like assumptions,” Stone paused. “Besides, you know what they say about assumption being the mother of all disaster?”
She laughed. “So if not an assumption?”
“A hunch. And like I said about the early days of this investigation, it was anomalies that led me to the door of the bioresearch facility. Nothing more than two plus two.”
“Adds up to four, last I tried.”
Stone looked around, but kept heading straight out of town. He craned his neck to see through a bank of trees to his left and smiled. “That looks like the place,” he said. “There's water through the trees, it must be the fishing hole.” He swung the Mustang across the road and into a narrow lane. The lane widened quickly and became a large piece of flat ground. There were tire tracks ground into the dry earth and it was obvious that the place was a regular haunt for people, most probably the residents of South Chesterton.
“What a delightful setting,” Isobel remarked, as they rounded a visual barrier of tall water reeds and they caught sight of the fishing hole.
Indeed it was a delightful setting. And far removed from the images that the name had conjured. It was a small lake really, but probably still around three acres in size, with a small waterfall over flat rock
s at the narrowest edge and what looked like a fast moving brook at the opposite end. In the middle of the lake was a tiny wooded island about forty feet by sixty with a small clearing in the center. The lake looked shallow at the shore, from anywhere between mere inches to just a few feet deep, depending on the height of the bank and was the darkest of blues further out, indicating a considerable depth.
Stone switched off the Mustang's engine and the silence was almost eerie in comparison.
He looked across at Isobel and smiled. “Let's take a walk.”
The earth was soft yet dry and it was apparent that the clearing acted as a parking lot for the visitors but apart from the Mustang, it was completely deserted. They walked over to the water's edge and looked out across the smooth water of the lake. At four points, divided almost equally, there was a single white life-saving ring held high in view by a post. Each had a coil of orange buoy line gathered neatly and hooked to the post underneath.
