The Ragman's Memory Read online

  I helped topple him over onto his side, where he lay thrashing feebly. “Who the fuck’re you?” he gasped.

  “Joe Gunther. I’m a cop.” I was loosening the scarf he had tightly wound around his neck, hoping I had no open cuts on my hands. The smell this man put out was starting to affect my own breathing.

  “A cop. Jesus Fucking Christ. You damn near scared me to death.”

  I stepped back to stop my eyes from watering. “Sorry about that. I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Talk to me? So you hide down here? Why not walk up to me in the street?” He had struggled to a sitting position by now and was glaring at me with bloodshot eyes.

  “I didn’t know where else to find you.”

  There was a slight pause as we looked at each other. Finally, he pulled his cap from his head and rubbed his neck. “I could sue for brutality.”

  There wasn’t much punch to the comment. “I didn’t touch you,” I answered. “Besides, you’re not in any trouble. I just want to talk.”

  He considered that. “I’m not wanted for nothin’?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  He gave me a crooked, brown-toothed grin. “Then fuck off. Why should I talk to you?”

  I returned to my padded seat and watched him slowly regain his footing. “Because it’ll be worth your while.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know what you got to tell me. A little could get you five. A lot might get you twenty.”

  He took his coat off, revealing a second one under it. “Okay.”

  “You know Milo Douglas?” I asked him.

  “Sure. I know he’s dead, too.” Harris removed his second coat. Underneath was a ragged herringbone sports jacket. “You think he was done in?”

  “Do you?”

  He shrugged and took off the jacket. The next layer was a sweater. “Nah. I heard his ticker quit.”

  “Were you two friendly? Had you seen him recently?”

  Harris sat on the edge of his platform, still breathing hard, and retrieved one of his beers from the ground. “He was all right. Took to the life for the right reasons.”

  He popped the beer can and drank deeply.

  “When did you see him last?”

  “A few days ago.” Harris paused to belch loudly. “Maybe a week. We were sharing a Dumpster. But he’d picked up a bit of money. Was at a restaurant the night before. ’Course, he coulda’ been bullshittin’ me.”

  “He say where he got the money?”

  “Nope.” Harris took a second long swallow, finishing the can. He dropped it at his feet and reached for another.

  “Did Milo have a regular route?”

  “Pretty much, yeah. Up Putney Road early in the week, maybe spend the night at the north end, come back the next day. He’d work Canal end of the week. Sometimes he’d go by the kitchens, dependin’ on the weather. He didn’t like hangin’ around other people.” He opened the next can and half-killed it in a swig.

  “Did he ever talk about using that new construction site?”

  The other man was dubious. “To sleep, you mean? I don’t know—he never talked about it.”

  “Did he say the money would keep on coming? Or was it a one-shot deal?”

  Harris considered that for a while. “I don’t remember the words exactly, but I thought he’d hit on somethin’ pretty good. It’s like he had the best of both worlds, you know? The freedom of the life and steady cash for the necessaries.”

  He drained his second necessary and dropped it next to the first.

  “We didn’t find any money on him, or with his belongings.”

  He burst out laughing. “Well, shit. We get money, the last place we stash it is on us.” He smiled as he reached for a third can.

  “Would the stash be nearby? Where was he living last?”

  Harris drank, wiped his mouth and eyed me craftily. “Where’d you find him?”

  “Storm drain under the Whetstone bridge.” He toasted me with the can, obviously beginning to feel no pain. “Bingo. But the stash wouldn’t be there—too exposed. Depends. I knew a guy once with a bank account—I shit you not.”

  “You sure he didn’t say where the money came from?”

  John Harris killed the third can and made a pantomime of seeming thoughtful. “What’s the meter readin’ so far?”

  “Twenty if you get this last one, but it’s got to ring true.”

  He smiled and removed his sweater, dazzling me with a red-and-black checked wool shirt. “He said he was set. I said nobody was. He said maybe not, but he wasn’t goin’ to live forever neither, and this would sure as shit see him that far. I flat out asked him what his scam was. But he just said, ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ ”

  I pulled my wallet from my pocket and removed a twenty-dollar bill. “Did he say when he got lucky?”

  “Nope. Like I said, it coulda been all bullshit. He was Dumpster-diving, right?”

  I got up and handed him the twenty. “Thanks, Mr. Harris. You’ve been a big help.” I motioned toward the door. “By the way, I saw how you got that bulb going—good way to burn the whole place down. I’m going to get an electrician in here to put a switch in, so keep out of sight till he’s done.”

  “I don’t want no fucking electrician.”

  “Live with it or leave—your choice. See you around.”

  · · ·

  It was cold and dark on the street, and well after 10 p.m. I’d waited almost six hours for Harris.

  Elliot Street butts into Main, a ten minute walk from the Municipal Center. Considering where I’d just been, the fresh air, frigid as it was, had become a near-medical necessity. I walked along the well-lit, mostly empty streets with my coat open, willing the cloying heat and lingering smells to disappear. It was one of my favorite combinations of weather and time—late night in midwinter. Brattleboro was at its most benign—its businesses mostly closed, its workers dispersed to surrounding towns. It murmured of warm homes, people with their feet up and their stomachs full. Even the John Harrises were settling down, albeit less wholesomely, preparing for a comfortable night’s oblivion. When I’d been on patrol, years ago, I’d looked forward to hitting the streets near midnight, less to catch bad guys and drunks, and more to experience the peace of mind I was longing for now.

  Instead, with the little John Harris had given me, I was beginning to sense a threatening pattern forming. It was illusory as yet—a fragile linkage of names and events—but it had purpose behind it. A girl had been killed after being sedated for a week. A bum had been paid off, who’d then died of an unlikely disease. A once outspoken activist had become inexplicably mute. And hovering near them all, vague and yet oddly persistent, was the biggest single real estate deal this town had ever seen.

  Somewhere in this quiet, peaceful town, behind a set of windows throwing yellow light upon the snow, there was ambition brewing and ruthless conniving. I only hoped I could identify it and stop it, before it reached its goal—and disappeared.

  13

  CIRCLING THE MUNICIPAL CENTER to reach the parking lot, I had been planning on heading home without stopping at the office. I wasn’t anticipating a good night’s sleep—I knew how my brain worked better than that. But I thought I might try thinking horizontally, maybe getting lucky around four in the morning, and passing out for a few hours.

  Seeing Tony Brandt’s office lights on, however, I changed my mind.

  He was working at his computer, smoking his ever-present pipe, filling the office with a thick cloud of smoke he’d been recently told was now strictly forbidden, under penalty of state law.

  I left the door open to air the place out a bit. “Still at it?” I asked, parking myself on a low filing cabinet.

  He sat back and pushed his glasses up to rub his eyes. “Yeah—budget crunching. Last year’s level funding is looking generous compared to this. I’m considering cuts I would have laughed at a few months ago.”

  I didn’t answer, reconsidering the impulse t
hat had sent me in here.

  “So,” he added, seemingly out of the blue, “I guess Milo did have rabies.”

  I looked at him closely. “How’d you hear about that?”

  “The ME’s office released it late this afternoon, following standard protocol, and the Reformer picked it up, along with a lot of other people. It’s the first U.S. death of rabies in two years, the first urban death in twenty, and they’re going to paint the town with it. Between the Davis remains, the convention center rescue, and this, Stanley Katz’s subscription drive is going to go through the roof.”

  His voice made it clear he didn’t share Katz’s joy. “I wish someone had asked Hillstrom to sit on the story until we had a chance to sort it out. It was a little embarrassing handing out a suitable quote when I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about.”

  I was grateful for the mildness of his reproach. We both knew Hillstrom would’ve honored just such a request—if I’d asked her. “I didn’t even think of it. She and I talked right after the staff meeting. That’s when she confirmed it was rabies. I asked her to do some more homework on it, but it never crossed my mind she’d release what she had to the media.”

  “She always does, Joe. It’s part of her job.”

  “I know. I blew it. I guess I was distracted by her saying there were no animal bites. She says that’s extraordinarily rare.”

  Tony gave me a quizzical look. “You think it was something other than an animal?”

  “Milo had come into money recently—supposedly enough to keep him going for life—at least his kind of life. But he was very coy about its source. Point is, if someone was paying him off for some reason, they don’t have to anymore.”

  Tony was skeptical, and still obviously irritated with me. “Murder using rabies? Sounds like a movie.”

  “We’re already considering murder using phenobarbital.”

  I gave Tony credit—he didn’t reject the comparison out of hand.

  “How would you do it? Inject it?”

  I shook my head. “I haven’t the slightest idea. The body’s a big place to hide a small hole, though, and that body especially had its fair share of hiding places—sores, pimples, bug bites, Christ knows what else. I suppose you could smear rabid saliva on a piece of toast.”

  Tony raised his eyebrows.

  “Hillstrom’s the one who wants to do more tests,” I said defensively. “And you have to admit, Milo’s death is hardly clear-cut.”

  He changed the subject after a slight pause. “Your crew find anything new on any other front?”

  I shook my head. “Too early, and I’ve been out of the office since this afternoon finding one of Milo’s buddies. Willy’s checking Shawna’s local contacts, such as they were, but I think if anyone’s got more to tell us, it’s Mary Wallis—assuming we can get her to open up. Her grief is real, but I think it’s connected to something she’s not telling us.”

  Tony didn’t respond, presumably underwhelmed by how much guesswork I was passing off as substance.

  I rose to my feet and left, unwilling to give him any more to think about.

  · · ·

  I wasn’t really expecting to find anyone in the squad room, but a light radiating from Sammie Martens’s small enclave came as no surprise.

  I circled the workstations and leaned against the edge of her partition. She was bent over a yellow legal pad, making lists of names. “What’re you working on?”

  She looked up at me, her expression keen. “Tabulating the canvass—or what I’ve got so far. Shawna Davis wasn’t just there for a few hours, Joe. I’ve got three people on Mary’s block who saw her on different days. And the contexts are interesting, too. Except for the mailman’s, all the sightings were either through a window or an open door. Nobody saw her going for a walk, or hanging out on the lawn, or riding in the car with Mary. One of them even said she asked Mary who her friend was, and Mary basically told her to mind her own business.”

  I smiled at having my suspicions confirmed. “What time span are we talking about?”

  “Right now, I wouldn’t stick my neck out further than four days. People don’t remember dates. I had to ask most of them what they were doing at the time, so they could pin it to a day of the week, but it hasn’t been a total success. Two solids are a guy who swears he saw her on a Tuesday; the woman who actually talked to Mary says she saw Shawna on her way to play bridge, which is always a Friday. That gives us the four days, but with no guarantees that Shawna was there throughout, or even that those memories are a hundred percent. Still, the odds of four neighbors witnessing someone visiting for a few hours only are pretty slim. A week or so is more likely.”

  “I think you’re right. How did they say Mary was acting?”

  Sammie made a face. “Fine. Totally normal. They all said that, including the one who was told to bug off. Two of them claimed she even seemed happy. Hardly the lurking conspirator.”

  “She may’ve been telling the truth about the thousand dollars.”

  Sammie didn’t look convinced. “I suppose, but then why the effort to keep Shawna under wraps?”

  I straightened and checked my watch. A little after eleven—not a bad time to catch someone off balance. “Maybe I’ll let you know.”

  · · ·

  My plan had been to get Mary out of bed, putting her at a psychological disadvantage. But as I drew even with her house, I could see her lights were still on.

  The response to my knock, however, was a long time coming. And when the door finally opened, her face was neither mournful, sleepy, nor conspiratorial. It was plainly frightened.

  “Are you all right?” I blurted, looking over her shoulder into an empty hallway.

  Her expression quickly switched to an all-too-familiar anger. “What do you mean, am I all right? It’s almost midnight. What do you want?”

  “To talk.”

  “Ask my neighbors. I’m sure there’re a couple you missed.”

  “Maybe so,” I answered, making no apologies. “They’ve already made a liar out of you.”

  Her mouth opened in astonishment, and she made to close the door in my face. I stopped it with my hand. “We know Shawna was here for several days, Mary. We can talk about that now, or I can make it official—and cause you a world of trouble.”

  She looked at my face and finally stood aside. “You people are costing me a fortune in heating bills.”

  I stepped inside and removed my coat.

  “Don’t make yourself comfortable, Joe. You’re not staying that long. So what if she was here? Is there something illegal in that?”

  “There might be if you knew you were harboring a criminal.”

  “I didn’t. I told you that.”

  I was struck at how different she was from the first time we’d talked. Then, she’d floated somewhere between wistful, mournful, and deceptive. It had only been at the end that she’d started breathing fire. This time, the hostility was immediate, but fueled, I sensed, by the anxiety I’d glimpsed as she’d opened the door. Talking to the neighbors may have been even more constructive than Sammie believed.

  “We told you she’d stolen some money. Why didn’t you tell us the truth then, Mary? A lot of people think you’re hiding something.”

  She buried her fingers in her hair, looking down at the floor, and then walked toward an open archway beyond the hall.

  I followed her into a living room not designed for entertainment or relaxation, but more as an ongoing command center equipped with several long tables holding stacks of leaflets, documents, posters, and books. There were two computers, both turned off, a printer, a copier, a postage meter, and an array of paper cutters and layout tools for making newsletters, announcements, and picket signs, all of which I’d seen her and her colleagues employ in the past. Covering the walls were posters, pictures, and framed newspaper headlines touting over a dozen disparate causes.

  Mary Wallis headed for the sole piece of furniture built for comfort—a battered La-Z-
Boy recliner—and sank into it with an effort, her eyes closed, her head back. I noticed a bottle of beer and a telephone next to her on a small table.

  I straddled an upright chair I pulled out from under one of the conference tables, sensing a small window of vulnerability I wasn’t about to let slip by. I kept my voice low and quiet. “What was going on between you and Shawna?”

  She opened her eyes and smiled weakly. “I don’t really know. Maybe an aging woman’s fantasy.”

  “Seeing yourself in a troubled girl?”

  “Partly.”

  “Did you know she’d broken the law?”

  “Not specifically. I didn’t know about the money. But it was clear she was hiding.”

  “From what?”

  “She said it was her mother. I guess we know now it was the man she stole from.”

  I wondered if that was wishful thinking, an attempt to mislead me, or truly what she believed. “You think she was telling the truth about her mother?”

  Mary raised her eyebrows. “Just because a girl’s eighteen doesn’t erase the fear her family might come after her. The law hasn’t done her much good in the past—why should she trust it now? You probably know a little about my background. When I ran from home, I was scared to death about exactly that, even though I knew damn well nobody was going to come after me. Maybe the paranoia comes from hoping somebody’ll actually care enough to chase you—who knows?”

  “How long was Shawna here?”

  “A week, more or less.”

  “Why did she leave?”

  Mary looked at me for a moment, weighing her answer. I realized then I hadn’t been so clever. She’d allowed me a perception of honesty because we’d been treading safe ground. Her next words told me this was no longer the case. “I think my expectations were one-sided. Shawna wasn’t like me after all—and she didn’t share my hopes for her.”

  “You had a falling out?”

  “Not exactly. She just left one day. I’d been out doing something, and she was gone when I returned.”

  I read in a book once that a visitor to Paris a hundred years ago stepped out into the street early one winter morning and was surprised to see that the road wasn’t sheeted in frost, but rather criss-crossed by narrow, frozen bands, running at all angles. His companion—a native—explained that the bands of frost were reflections of the slightly warmer sewer lines and drains running under the street, and that given the first glimmer of sun, all evidence of them would vanish. It was an image I’d never forgotten—and one which returned to me now, watching Mary’s placid face.