The Ragman's Memory Read online

  “Can you describe Shawna’s teeth?”

  Her eyebrows knitted briefly before she said, “About average.”

  I was struck not by her bland choice of words, but by the fact she’d answered at all. Surely such a bizarre non sequitur would have normally produced a less measured response. The image of underlying calculation sharpened. “Any peculiarities?”

  “She had a gold tooth.” Mary touched her upper jaw without actually baring her own teeth. “About here.”

  “Was it decorated in any way?”

  This time her slight bafflement seemed genuine. “Decorated? No—it was just a gold tooth. Like a cap or something.”

  “She ever show any interest in Satanism or devil worship?”

  Her mouth opened slightly. “What? No—of course not.”

  “One last question,” I said, slowly getting to my feet. “What was Shawna going to do after she left town? Did she mention where she might go, or any people she might visit?”

  Mary remained poker-faced. “She was born and brought up in North Adams. It was all she knew. The whole world outside of there looked good to her.”

  I walked toward the front hall. “Mary, I’ll be honest with you. I still don’t think you’re being entirely straight with us. I don’t know why that is, but I hope you’re not into anything too deep. Because we’re going to keep digging until we find out what it is.”

  She surprised me then by the softness in her voice and the sadness in her face. “I know.”

  · · ·

  I closed Mary Wallis’s front door behind me and took a deep breath of cold air. I frequently interviewed people who were less than candid. Most of the time, I understood their motivations—they were usually lowlifes who knew that talking with me could either put them in jail or cost them dearly in some other way.

  But Mary was not one of those. She was a decent person who saw life as a cliff to be scaled, whose grim determination paradoxically fueled her vitality. As absurd as I’d seen her be, she thrived in her element.

  Tonight, I sensed that cliff had gotten the better of her, but that instead of being part of the obstacle, I represented a helping hand she felt incapable of accepting.

  Not that such insight was of any practical use. While it was nice to think she might be suffering from some outside influence—it was just as possible she was a nut in denial who’d seen Shawna as some historical alter ego and had killed her.

  · · ·

  I had just touched my car door handle when a shadow slid up beside me.

  “Get anything?” Willy Kunkle asked.

  “A small heart attack just now. What the hell’re you doing here?”

  “Got a tip on the inscription you’re not going to like.”

  I opened the door. “Get in. I’ll start up the heater.”

  He circled around and got into the passenger seat. “I just heard the paper’s running an article identifying the tooth inscription tomorrow, quoting some of the local Satanists on its meaning. My source is a devil worship groupie who says her pals’re licking their chops over the potential PR.”

  I adjusted the heater to its highest setting. “Why? The paper’ll probably make them out to be kooks.”

  “To these people, no publicity is bad publicity. Any notoriety—the worse the better—is like a free recruiting poster. Besides, this slant is pretty good. Implications of virgin sacrifice? It’ll have ’em coming out of the woods to sign up.”

  I stared out at the blackness ahead. “Swell.”

  Willy apparently thought it was. “The kicker is, they didn’t bring it to the paper. The paper called them and asked.”

  I turned to look at his dark outline, struck by the coincidence of two major headlines jockeying for space twice in three days. “Who called the paper?”

  “I don’t know. Interesting, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said thoughtfully. “’Course, it could’ve been one of the people you’ve been talking to—you’ve flashed that inscription around a fair bit, haven’t you?”

  “Not that much. And, I checked—everybody’s claiming ignorance.”

  I indicated the Wallis residence. “I asked Mary to describe Shawna’s tooth. She never saw any inscription, and said Shawna had no interest in Satanism.”

  Willy grunted, then softly said, “Maybe they’re right, then. Maybe it was a sacrifice.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Why not? If Jeffrey Dahmer can stock body snacks in his fridge, we can rate a single lousy human sacrifice, can’t we? All we got is that tooth, but we don’t know what the rest of the body looked like. It might’ve been covered with Satanist shit.”

  “You told me yourself the locals didn’t have anything to do with this. That the inscription was bullshit—to quote you.”

  “Might be legit, though.”

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The heater was beginning to kick in, making the car more comfortable. “All right. So who benefits by leaking this to the press? The Satanists, following your logic. Could also be someone in the department who wants to feel important. Who else?”

  But Kunkle responded by expanding the equation. “What’d you find out on the rabies angle? Is that what got Milo?”

  “Yeah—that’s going to be tomorrow’s other big headline—but there were no bite marks.”

  “So what d’you think happened?”

  “Hillstrom says you can catch it by breathing the wrong air, if you happen to be in a cave with a few million bats. So he could’ve caught it some other way. But she’s unhappy not having a credible explanation. What interests me isn’t so much the scientific angle, but the sensational method of death—titillating, just like with the Satanist tooth.”

  Kunkle grunted. “Somebody leaked the Satanist theory just to cause a commotion? Get us off the trail?”

  “Or make our lives more difficult,” I suggested. “It would be cheap insurance, after you killed someone, to gussy them up ritually, including inscribing a prominently visible tooth. If nobody ever found the body, that would be fine, but if they did, then the suspicion would be thrown onto something inflammatory like a bunch of Satanists.”

  “Or a hot topic like rabies,” Kunkle finished. “Every crank in town would be pounding on our door, demanding we take action.”

  “You mean, ‘will be pounding,’” I concluded mournfully, “’cause planned or not, that’s what’s going to happen.”

  14

  IT WAS AN IRONICALLY FUNNY FRONT page—a human rabies death shoulder to shoulder with the innuendo of Satanistic sacrifice. In its eagerness to be all things to all morbid appetites, the Reformer had wound up looking exactly like the kind of scandal sheet its new owners were fighting not to be.

  Unfortunately, I was one of the few who saw any humor in it, excluding, it turned out, the top brass.

  Harriet Fritter appeared at my door before I’d even removed my coat the next morning or gotten beyond the headlines. She didn’t look happy—apparently carrying the spirit of her message along with its content. “The chief wants you—he’s got Wilson and Nadeau with him—and Chambers.”

  I understood her sentiments. Wilson and Nadeau were respectively the town manager and legal counsel. Their presence in Tony’s office usually implied a pending lawsuit or personnel problems. Chambers, on the other hand, was NeverTom, the selectman-from-hell. His being there, without his four fellow board members, was both rare and even ethically questionable—unless he had an explanation, which I was sure he was going to make all too clear.

  I hung up my coat with a sigh. “Okay. If anyone else wants me—for anything at all—don’t hesitate to interrupt. The sooner the better.”

  I crossed the building’s central hallway to the police department’s other half—home of the Patrol Division’s shift room, Dispatch, and the chief ’s office. Maxine Paroddy, the head dispatcher, gave me a hopeful thumbs-up through her bulletproof window as she buzzed me through the door to the inner sanctum. The allusion to Christian lion food
did not go unnoticed.

  The four of them were gathered in Brandt’s office, its smoky atmosphere of a few hours ago now replaced with a palpable tension. Excepting Thomas Chambers, who sat comfortably sprawled in Tony’s best guest chair, the rest of them formed a group portrait of straight-backed reserve, all crossed legs and arms and tucked-in chins.

  “Have a seat,” Tony said, nodding at the one remaining chair, an armless, wheeled perch he’d stolen from his secretary.

  “What’s up?” I asked innocently. Whatever it was they were after, I’d already decided they’d have to work for it.

  NeverTom laughed good-naturedly, a bad sign to all who’d seen him in action. “I guess you haven’t seen the paper today, Joe. They’re screaming bloody murder.”

  I remained silent, although tempted to ask if “they” consisted of him alone.

  Wilson, the town manager, cleared his throat. Over the years—and especially since NeverTom had appeared on the board—Wilson had slowly traded whatever authority and integrity he might have had for the ease of simply riding the prevailing current. “Thomas has suggested it might be smart to come up with a damage-control strategy.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” I said. “What damage are we talking about?”

  NeverTom’s smile broadened. “Joe, we’re thinking ahead. I know you and your people are working hard on this, but you’re going to find yourselves trampled by the media before you know it.”

  “It’s never stopped us in the past, and we’ve been under much worse scrutiny.”

  “Of course you have,” he soothed. “But Satanist rituals and people dying of rabies? This’ll be on the national news tonight. We’ve already had to schedule one press conference for this afternoon just to meet demand.”

  It wasn’t too difficult guessing the source of that demand, which prompted me to blurt out, to instant regret, “Aren’t you breaking some kind of selectman by-law, meeting with us? I thought you weren’t supposed to act unilaterally.”

  Tony dove in quickly, just as Chambers was opening his mouth. “Thomas is here at the board’s bequest, Joe. Tell me what you were driving at, Thomas. Presumably, you have some ideas on how to help us out.”

  Chambers, torn between clawing me and opting for Tony’s graceful segue, straightened in his chair slightly. “I was thinking you’d appreciate some extra manpower. I was going to suggest the state police.”

  “Out of the question.” Tony’s flat statement hung in the air, a bitter aftertaste to his smooth words of a moment earlier.

  “I would agree with that,” I added, returning Tony’s favor. “The rabies death is a health issue—it affects this department only minimally. ’Course, if you want to bring in a battalion of Fish and Game wardens to beat the bushes, we won’t complain. The governor might not go for it, though.”

  Chambers scowled at me, his jaw muscles beginning to grind.

  “As for the Satanist hoopla,” I continued. “That’s based on a single scratching on a dead girl’s tooth. There is no evidence of Satanism having played any part in her death. Keep in mind that what the newspaper sees of both these cases represents about twenty percent of what’s actually there. The other eighty we’re keeping to ourselves precisely so we won’t be sidetracked by other people’s hysteria.”

  “I’m sorry you see my concerns as hysteria,” Chambers said darkly. “Chief Brandt, is he speaking on your behalf, or just letting his pride overrule his judgment?”

  Tony smiled slightly. “I think he’s right, Thomas. I can virtually guarantee the state police will politely laugh in your face if you ask them to bail us out. They’ve got far too much on their own plate to waste time helping us with some PR problems. In fact, not to be rude, but I don’t know why we’re even having this conversation, and I certainly don’t know why Gary’s here.”

  The town attorney looked as if he wished he could vanish into the rug. He waved his hand vaguely and muttered, “Purely informational.”

  Tony rose, forcing everyone to follow suit quickly, as if we all knew the meeting had come to a smooth and natural conclusion. “Please tell the board how much we appreciate their concern, but right now there’s more thunder than storm to all this. And assure them that if and when we feel the need, we won’t hesitate to ask for help. In the meantime, I think you should hold that press conference. We’ll keep at our job, and the town manager can be the conduit between us and the board, as usual.”

  Chambers had little choice but to join the small herd as Tony ushered us all toward the door, but he wasn’t leaving without one last shot. “I think you’re being foolish. The way to kill this thing is with overwhelming force—take away the opposition’s firepower.”

  By now, Tony had his hand on the door, and was closing it slowly behind them. He’d motioned me to stay. “I think you’re talking politics, Thomas. This is just a police investigation with a few media fireworks—no point breaking out the National Guard.”

  We watched them through Tony’s inner-office window, filing by the radio room in a disorganized, disgruntled bundle. I had no doubt the wrath we’d stoked in Chambers was now burning Wilson’s ears.

  “That was bizarre,” Tony said mildly.

  I laughed, forever impressed by his ability to dismiss such encounters. “I guess,” I agreed. “Why was Gary part of it?”

  “He handles discipline and termination matters from the top down. NeverTom had him here to make a point. We screw up, and our asses are up for grabs—or so he thinks.”

  He crossed over to his desk and sat back down, clearly conscious of what NeverTom didn’t yet know about our ever-widening investigation. “Ron’s the one looking into the convention center, isn’t he? He find anything yet?”

  I was sorry I had nothing to tell him. “I could give him more help.”

  He fixed me with a pointed look. “Do that, but tread lightly. If NeverTom catches wind we’re looking into his brother’s new business deal, we won’t know what hit us. He’s powerful and nasty. Not a healthy combination.”

  I thought over Tony’s parting words as I returned to my office. Thomas Chambers was an opportunistic, manipulative, ambitious man. When Gail was on the select board, she’d fed me the inside dope on his quiet but ruthless behind-the-scenes ascent to power. It had been textbook Machiavelli. What most of the public saw, however, was someone else entirely—an easygoing local celebrity, wealthy and connected, who’d quickly mastered the art of the populist sound bite and been elected to the board by a working-class mandate. It was a dangerous mixture of perception and reality and would make our job a nightmare if we didn’t proceed carefully. So, while Ben Chambers’s construction project had only dimly appeared on our horizon, we were going to have to give it a paranoid-tinged priority.

  I paused at Maxine’s window. “Can you reach Willy?”

  She depressed the transit button of the microphone before her. “O-5 from M-80.”

  There was a short pause. “O-5.”

  “What’s your 20?”

  “Green and Whipple, heading north.”

  “Stand by for a message from O-2.” Maxine raised her eyebrows inquiringly.

  “Tell him to pick me up in the parking lot, if he’s available.”

  She repeated the message, and we both heard a “10-4” in the exasperated tone a tired mother reserves for an obnoxious child.

  Maxine smiled at me. “He says he’d be delighted to pick you up, Lieutenant.”

  “Thanks, Max.”

  · · ·

  Willy’s greeting matched his voice on the radio when I got into his car five minutes later. “What do you want?”

  I refused the bait. The morning had been taxing enough already. “You find any other connection between Shawna and the building project besides Wallis dropping her opposition?”

  “Not yet. Where did you want to go?”

  “The building site. I was digging through Milo’s personal effects yesterday—found one of those cheap, complimentary ballpoint pens with ‘C
arroll Construction’ written on it. And a pal of Milo’s told me he’d recently come into money.”

  Willy’s sour face cracked into a smile. “No shit,” he muttered and put the car into gear.

  · · ·

  The construction site of the future hotel/convention center was once again stirring with activity. After a month in mothballs, bulldozers and backhoes were cleaning out several storms’ worth of accumulated snow, and crews were milling around the enclosed shell of the huge building, inside of which most of the work would be done during the winter months.

  Typically, Willy parked his car under a large sign reading “No Parking” and pocketed the keys to make sure it would stay there.

  We showed our identifications to a listless security guard, and passed through the gate after accepting two visitor hardhats. Not far from us, just inside the fence, several trailers were lined up end to end, housing the managerial and office staff. I headed away from these, toward the building itself—an enormous, squat, L-shaped monstrosity that presently looked either half-built, or half-wrecked. Its gaping windows and doors were covered with thick, slightly ballooning plastic, in an effort to contain the warmth of the dully roaring space heaters within. It gave the place a vaguely bug-eyed appearance.

  “What’re we looking for?” Willy asked, as we picked our way gingerly across the newly exposed, rubble-strewn surface.

  “I don’t know. This job keeps coming up on our radarscope. You tell me.”

  Willy nodded as if I’d formulated a detailed plan of attack.

  We entered through a tall, overlapping plastic curtain, much like what they hang before industrial freezers. Despite the openness of the structure’s interior—all girders, steel grids, exposed duct work, and dangling utilities—the atmosphere was comfortably dry and warm.