Occam's Razor Read online

  “I don’t care how he looks. I want to know if he’s getting an attitude.”

  Walter paused. “He’s not happy.”

  “Well, pacify him. I gotta check my options.”

  The line went dead. The tape kept rolling.

  After a click, Walter said, “I didn’t hear that.”

  “What’re you, stupid? I said kill him. We don’t do that, he takes us all down—everyone. The son of a bitch’s been dumping shit for me for years. He knows places, people, the whole operation.”

  “Why not just take care of him, like he asks? He doesn’t look like he’s going to last too long anyhow.”

  “That’s just the point. If he knows he’s cooked, and we let him out of the bag, he’ll shoot his mouth off. What’s the problem here? You want to go to jail?”

  “No, no. I want assurances.”

  The other voice exploded. “You fucking peckerhead. We’re talking about killing a man. You want me to write you a note saying it’s okay, so the cops won’t bust your balls? Give me a fucking break.”

  “I’m a three-time loser on parole. They don’t need to prove anything to send me away. My PO gets even a whiff of this, I’m toast.”

  “You’re toast if you don’t do it, Walter. I’ll see to that.”

  There was a long silence. “I still want assurances.”

  The sigh at the other end was clearly audible. The voice, when it came back on, sounded like an indulgent father’s. “Tell you what. I’ll do it with you. That satisfy you?”

  “It helps. What do we do about the Mob?”

  “What Mob?”

  “He’s connected. He told me so. Shit, you know that. You hired him.”

  “It’s part-time. They won’t give a fuck. He’s not even Italian. He’s like a contract worker. Who cares what he does on his own time?”

  “You want to risk that?”

  I expected another outburst, but the other man paused instead.

  Almost a minute elapsed before he finally said, “We’ll pin it on somebody else.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Reynolds. You screwed up the break-in. We’ll use this instead. Find out what Reynolds drives and get hold of a look-alike. We’ll get rid of Resnick somewhere public and pin it on Reynolds—sic the cops and the Mob on him both.” He laughed.

  Walter sounded genuinely baffled. “I don’t get it.”

  “You moron. Just get the car. I’ll come down and put it together for you. In the meantime, make God-damn sure Resnick doesn’t disappear. Can you do that much? Not fuck up? Or is that pushing you too far?”

  “Up yours. I done a lot of shit for you. I don’t need to hear this.”

  “Fine. Don’t, then. Just sit on Resnick and I’ll be down.”

  The tape went quiet. J.P. fast-forwarded it, listened to more silence, repeated the process, and found the rest of it blank.

  Everyone in the room sat back. I realized we’d all been unconsciously leaning forward, as if to hear better.

  “Cool,” Willy murmured.

  “It’s a smoking gun, all right,” Derby agreed, “once we find out who belongs to the other voice.”

  “I can tell you that,” Tony said. “I met him once, at a party for his brother. It’s Danny Mullen.”

  · · ·

  We took our time getting an arrest warrant for Danny Mullen. Working with the state police Bureau of Criminal Investigation, we assembled evidence from the outside in, starting with his whereabouts on the night Resnick died and then securing items like phone records, fingerprints, business documents, and anything else we could think of that might link him to the murder. Included in this bundle was a thumbprint that matched one that Willy Kunkle had found on Billy Conyer’s wad of fresh bills and, more ominously, a work boot whose sole impression was a perfect mate to the subdermal footprint that Bernie Short had discovered under Phil Resnick’s skin during autopsy. In addition, forearmed by a comment made on Walter’s audiotape, we pursued and uncovered evidence of an illegal haz mat trucking operation that Danny had been running for almost fifteen years.

  By the time we did put the cuffs on Mullen’s wrists, Jack Derby was confident he had a winnable case on multiple levels—and an all-but-guaranteed victory against James Dunn in the primary.

  Not that the fate of a lowly SA could compete with the publicity stirred up by Danny’s jailing. He—and his relation to a gubernatorial candidate—dominated every front page in New England, and in many cases beyond.

  This was not solely due to their simply being brothers, although that was bad enough as far as Mark Mullen’s political handlers were concerned. Far worse was the revelation by one of Danny’s nervous employees that as we’d been assembling facts against Danny, he’d burned a box of documents labeled with Mark’s name—not a good sign in a man claiming that the sole tie between himself and the speaker was familial.

  Unfortunately, there was little we could do about this report after the fact. As far as we could prove, Danny had ordered and participated in the killing of Phil Resnick without the knowledge or complicity of his brother.

  The press did not suffer such constraints. To them, Danny’s actions were so obviously linked to his brother’s political ambitions as to make the truth of the connection a foregone conclusion—proof or no proof. As a result, as Primary Day loomed near, Mark Mullen’s previously assured victory—even given his humiliation of Jim Reynolds over the law enforcement bill—began to look weak in the knees. Reynolds, for his part, simply kept to the high ground he’d staked out with his speech following the conference committee. It was a little hard watching him act the martyred saint, but I couldn’t help enjoying the irony of the situation. Reynolds had started his run for governor on the murdered bodies of innocent children and was now regaining momentum on the corpse of a Mob-connected truck driver—all while standing like a hero amid the ruins of a bill that had never stood a chance from the start. As one editorial put it, the man had achieved nothing and was about to ride that fact to the state’s top job.

  Reynolds, however, wasn’t my concern. Mark Mullen was.

  It was too much to believe that Danny’s bonfire hadn’t involved more than old business papers and embarrassing love letters, as Danny had claimed when confronted. Unfortunately, that point was now moot. The task ahead was to distinguish whether Danny had acted on his brother’s behalf spontaneously or on Mark’s outright bidding. The first would allow Mark to claim face-saving innocence, the second would not. We needed to know for sure where the line was drawn.

  And so we dug into Mark Mullen’s life as we’d just finished doing with his brother’s. And almost as soon as we started, we rediscovered a name from the recent past.

  I was on the phone with the sheriff of Orleans County, where the Mullens had grown up, asking him what he knew about Mark, when he suggested instead, “You ought to talk with Win Johnston. He came pokin’ around months ago askin’ the same questions. He’s probably way ahead of you—could save you a bunch of time. You know him?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I admitted, already looking up Win’s number.

  I called him moments later. “Win, it’s Joe. I think we ought to talk.”

  He laughed quietly, needing no more of a preamble. “I was wondering how long it would take you. Chelsea Royal in half an hour?”

  Gail often claims that I’ve trained my system to survive solely on Dunkin’ Donuts. It’s a joke, of course, made somewhat cruel by the recent closing of the downtown outlet of that gourmet chain—conveniently a stone’s throw from the office. But in fact, it’s Mom’s Meatloaf at the Chelsea Royal that I’d happily mainline well into my dotage, especially if followed by apple pie.

  The setting, admittedly, adds greatly to the appeal. The Chelsea Royal, located on the edge of West Brattleboro, almost directly opposite the state police barracks, is as close to a real diner as is available nowadays. The original shiny steel railroad car stands proud and distinct—complete with old neon sign—although adulterated somewhat by
the usual modern attachments of an additional dining area, bathrooms, and a kitchen. And it is justifiably popular, offering not just the kinds of food that fill me with joy and make Gail roll her eyes, but more offbeat fare for more sophisticated palates. It was a credit to Win and our friendship that he’d suggested it for a meet.

  Unfortunately, I’d already had lunch at my desk and had to settle for the pie and some coffee.

  Win Johnston was a pleasant-looking man, neither fat nor thin, short nor tall, with the kind of face people could never recall and a manner and voice best described as bland. When he was a state cop, he could make almost anyone open up. Now as a private investigator, he could nose around without drawing attention or leaving much of an impression. He was very good.

  He joined me in ordering some pie for himself.

  “Nice work you been doing,” he said once the waitress had delivered our orders.

  “Which might’ve been speeded up if you’d shared a little.”

  He smiled and cut into his pie. “And violated a contract in the process.”

  “Can you tell me now what you were up to?” I asked.

  “Some of it, sure. Not all.” He took time to savor a mouthful with a contented smile. I didn’t press him.

  “The initial investigation you know about,” he finally resumed. “To dig into that office break-in. But it wasn’t quite as unfocused as I implied when you asked me. Reynolds suspected Mullen from the start. He’d known for a couple of years the two of them were in competition, and that sooner or later things might turn nasty. The break-in was like a warning shot.”

  “Which Mullen are you talking about?”

  “Either one. They’re joined at the hip. Danny feels he owes his younger brother pretty much everything, so there’s not much he wouldn’t do for him, and Mark’s come to rely on his always being there. They’re like two halves of a pair of scissors that way.”

  “Very poetic,” I said sourly. “Does that make Mark a killer, too?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered candidly. “I suppose it’s a possibility.”

  “You sure you don’t know?” I asked pointedly.

  “Me? Yes, I’m sure. I’d be straight about that.”

  “Tell me about the break-in, then. You called it a warning shot. Was that its intention?”

  “Oh, no. Our guess is it was something like Watergate—plant a bug or two for a little competitive eavesdropping. I found out later Danny had bought some miniature audio equipment through a mail-order catalog.”

  “What about the open filing cabinets?”

  Win raised his eyebrows, looking bemused. “Like Jim told you—sloppy housekeeping. As far as we know—or at least according to Reynolds—there were no signs that whoever jimmied that door ever got into the office. Your boys scared ’em off.”

  I moved on, curiously disappointed. “Why is Danny so beholden to Mark?”

  He chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds before admitting, “That I can’t say.”

  The body language was eloquent enough, but I asked anyway. “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Won’t. That part is confidential and involves nothing prosecutable.”

  I didn’t push him. He’d said what he could, and I wanted to keep him talking.

  I retreated to firmer ground. “We have a tape proving the office break-in was Danny’s doing, and you just mentioned his buying some bugs, but given their closeness, you think Mark was behind it?”

  He took a sip of coffee. “That’s one of the amazing things about them. According to people who’ve known them since they were kids, they’ve always been like Siamese twins, at least when it comes to sharing information. But I dug till I thought I’d disappear from view, and I couldn’t find any business documents linking them together, or anyone who’d been privy to their private conversations. I read about the papers Danny was supposed to have burned—it didn’t surprise me he could fit them all into a single box. Probably wasn’t half full. As far as I could tell, everything was spoken, and kept strictly between the two of them. They were like their own secret society, with Danny handling the money and Mark the power.”

  “Be interesting if Mark wins the election.”

  Win nodded in agreement. “No argument there. Of course, there’s no proof any of it’s true.” He paused and then added, “On the other hand, Danny had no qualms about killing someone for the cause. I suppose that shows a certain prejudice.”

  I laughed with my mouth full.

  Win smiled at my reaction but then became serious again. “I don’t know, Joe. All I’ve learned tells me you’re on the right track, trying to connect Danny to Mark on this killing, but I’m damned if I know where you’ll find the evidence.”

  We both ate in silence for a while, chewing as much on the information as the food. I suddenly paused in midbite, however, struck by an odd revelation. “You know something weird?” I told him. “I’ve never even met Danny Mullen. It’s almost like he was the puppeteer in this whole thing—pulling the strings, but always out of sight.”

  “You’d like him,” Win said. “He’s like his brother that way. Very good-natured, very approachable. I guess it goes without saying he does have a temper, though.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. The voice I’d heard on that tape recording had hardly been good-natured.

  “What’re you doing for Reynolds now?” I asked after another pause. “You implied you’re still under contract.”

  Despite our both being trapped in a booth together, I could almost sense him stepping back. “Yeah, I’m checking a few odds and ends. Mostly wrapping things up. The primary’s almost here, so it won’t be too much longer.”

  I gave him a long, level look. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

  He smiled benevolently. “You know the rules, Joe. If I find anything you can move on, I’ll call you in a heartbeat.”

  We finished our snack, exchanging gossip and updating one another on what we were up to. Win observed that the way Gail was going, she’d probably wind up governor herself someday, and I didn’t disagree.

  After we parted, however, I didn’t wait to get to the office to act on what Win had refused to tell me. Driving back toward downtown, I called Ron on the cell phone.

  “I just had coffee with Winthrop Johnston. He’s been digging into the Mullens. I think he’s found something he won’t talk about. It’s nothing criminal—he would’ve fessed up to that—but I want to know what it is. Get everyone working on this, including the BCI people, and let’s see if we can track who he’s been talking to.”

  “Why bother if you know it’s not criminal?” Ron asked.

  “Because he wasn’t hired to put Mark Mullen in jail. He’s just looking for dirt that’ll get Reynolds the election. If we dig a little deeper in some of the same holes, we might just get lucky and find something to prosecute.”

  30

  MARCIA WILKIN LIVED IN BRISTOL, VERMONT, a small town northeast of Middlebury, tucked into a steep-sided narrow gap between the Hogback and South mountains, and hard up against some of the most dramatic, rugged areas the Green Mountains have to offer—Camel’s Hump, Sugarbush, and Mad River Glen among them. Driving out of the Champlain valley toward the axelike incision splitting this solid wall—under a flat, gray skillet of ominous, snow-laden clouds—I felt I was about to be swallowed alive by a dark and looming menace so vast and intractable that no one would bother looking for me once news of my disappearance leaked out.

  It was now late November, closing in on a year since we’d discovered Phil Resnick across the railroad tracks in the middle of the night. A year in which law enforcement in Vermont had been threatened with total overhaul and undergone a major readjustment, in which a bright political star had clashed with one of the state’s Democratic standard bearers—and begun a battle they were waging even now—and in which a stack of dead bodies had been attributed to ambition, paranoia, and greed, but whose final rationale had yet to be explained.

  And which
had stimulated this trip.

  According to our research, Marcia Wilkin had not only known both Danny and Mark Mullen as young men, but—we strongly suspected—maintained powerful and secret ties to them to this day.

  Unfortunately, that still didn’t give us much. Danny Mullen, in jail awaiting trial for murder, hadn’t said a word since the day he’d been cuffed. It was only wishful thinking on my part, therefore, that Marcia Wilkin had the answers Danny was refusing to divulge. But by now—weeks of interviews, computer searches, and brainstorms later—it was all I had left to go on.

  It had been a generally riotous fall. The September primary hadn’t followed anyone’s forecast. Most people I knew had entered the polls confident Mark Mullen would carry the day—despite all the bad publicity—only to discover the next morning that Jim Reynolds had won. Saint Sebastian, riddled with the arrows of his opponent’s devious ways, had pulled off his message of principle over politics.

  But whether convinced that Reynolds was no paragon of either purity or innocence—a suspicion I shared—or merely yielding to his own thwarted ambition, Mark Mullen had thrown over the applecart of convention, declared himself an independent candidate, and stormed undeterred toward the November general elections, to the outrage and consternation of his party.

  The chaos attending this move had revived national interest. Once again, articles, news reports, and TV shows were featured daily about the man-who-would-be-governor—come hell or high water—and whose brother was suspected of murdering on his behalf, turning the whole political contest into a carnival.

  Little did we all realize that we were only two-thirds into a three-act play. With the same quirkiness that had once stimulated the state’s voters to elect a Democrat, a Republican, and an ex-Socialist each to Congress, they once again befuddled the pundits by splitting the vote four ways in November. The Republican, given no real chance to begin, limped across the line in third place, just ahead of a Liberty Union candidate, who, by miraculously winning fifteen percent of a disgusted electorate, further inhibited either Reynolds or Mullen from capturing a majority, although Reynolds did end up with the higher popular count.