Bellows Falls Page 6

  “Nope—nor was Pierre’s gun. It may be pure coincidence, but it keeps gnawing at me—like I’m supposed to be hearing something I can’t quite make out.”

  Gail was by now cooking up a steamy mess in her skillet, throwing in handfuls of ingredients and stimulating a pungent aroma. “It’s a small state, Joe. People bump into each other all the time, especially if they’re in the same business.”

  “I know. I just keep wondering why Jasper ran from us, and why he ducked underground in the first place, changing his name and conning his way into the Retreat.”

  “I didn’t know he’d done that.” She drained the water from the pot and dumped the spaghetti into the skillet, mixing the contents together.

  “Yeah. Turns out years before, when he lived in Massachusetts… ” I paused. “Damn, that’s another coincidence. I need to find out if he and Bouch knew each other before coming to Vermont. Anyway, when he first sought out help for his addiction problem, he used a false identity, so his medical records were always under a different name from the one on file with NCIC. Clever for a kid.”

  “Who was also clever enough to want help,” Gail commented, dishing the meal onto two plates.

  “Or being instructed by someone else,” I said, still driven by the possibility of Bouch’s early involvement. “When he wanted to disappear here, he approached a local therapist and asked to be recommended to the Retreat, which is the standard route of admission. Having conned the first guy, he pulled the same gag on the Retreat examiners. After that, he only had to make sure his supposed cure took a nice long time to kick in.”

  We settled around the tile-topped island in the center of the kitchen and began eating. “I’m surprised they were all so easily duped,” Gail said. “You sure Jasper didn’t have some legitimate motivation? Maybe you had nothing to do with it. Maybe he wanted to kick his habit and the business both.”

  It was all hypothetical, of course, and it had nothing to do with a misdemeanor charge filed against a cop in Bellows Falls—at least so far—but the wheels were beginning to turn in my head. What had started as a favor from one chief to another might suddenly be becoming more interesting—and more relevant to my own department.

  · · ·

  Sammie Martens lived on Main Street in Brattleboro, in an apartment near the Municipal Building. I’d never been there before, but I had heard the ribbing she received because of it. Where most officers sought some distance from the department, and a semblance of normalcy in a home with a lawn and an above-ground pool, Sammie had opted for the ultimate short commute. In exchange, she’d been accused of sleeping in her SRT battle gear, and having a zip-line running from her building to the office so she could slide over traffic to cut down her response time. This was usually answered with an extended middle finger.

  There was no elevator, at least none I could find in the building’s gloomy lobby, so I took the broad wooden steps to the top.

  Sammie was waiting for me, gazing over the railing, smiling at my gradual pace. “You ought to try hopping up with your feet together.”

  I didn’t doubt for a moment that was one of her own regular habits. “That must make your neighbors happy.”

  She ushered me into her apartment, which turned out to be a single enormous, high-ceilinged room, stretching from the Main Street side to a row of windows overlooking the Connecticut River on the other. One of the short walls was covered with full-length mirrors. Placed throughout the vast space, like rest stops along a marathon, were weight machines, stray pieces of furniture, a small kitchenette, and a gathering spot for several rugged looking bicycles. In all, it looked like a cross between a sports equipment warehouse and a teenager’s crash pad. There wasn’t a zip-line in sight.

  “Cozy,” I muttered.

  She smiled, obviously pleased. “Used to be a ballet school. I love it here.” She steered me over to a pair of mismatched chairs, choosing a stool for herself. “Want some coffee?”

  I sat in an armchair. “I’m all coffeed out. I got to go back to Bellows Falls tomorrow on this internal, but I wanted to fly something by you first. Have we heard anything new on Jasper Morgan?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Did we ever dig deep into his background—have anyone check out his Massachusetts days?”

  “We backtracked to when he first used the phony ID on the therapists, but we did that by phone. Nobody actually went down there.”

  “Where was there, exactly?”

  “Lawrence, I think.”

  The same town Anne Murphy thought Bouch had come from.

  “Good. Do me a favor, then. Tomorrow, look a little harder into that, and keep an eye peeled for the name Norman Bouch. See if Jasper and Bouch ever crossed paths. Do a triangulation search if nothing pops up. Check out Bouch’s known associates and relatives in Lawrence, and see if any of them show up in Jasper’s background—maybe they had a mutual acquaintance.”

  “Who’s Norman Bouch?” she asked.

  “The main complainant on the case I’m working in Bellows Falls. But he’s also supposed to be freelancing as a drug dealer. And I found a witness who saw him and Jasper together a few years ago. Maybe Jasper’s sudden rise and fall had something to do with Bouch.”

  “Maybe all kinds of things,” Sammie said softly, her skepticism reminding me of Gail’s.

  “True, but I don’t like leaving a coincidence like this hanging.”

  Sammie didn’t look pleased. “If Bouch is the complainant, that makes him the injured party, right?”

  “Supposedly.”

  “Won’t it look a little funny, you doing a quote-unquote impartial internal, while you’re having the complainant investigated by another agency?”

  She was right, which I only found irritating. “Maybe we could try being discreet for once.”

  Not one to be cowed, Sammie merely stared at me and raised an eyebrow.

  · · ·

  I wasn’t in the right frame of mind entering my interview with the Bouches. Sammie’s comment of the night before still rankled, as did the sudden reappearance of Jasper Morgan, and biased me against both Norm and Jan Bouch. By forgoing the protocol that an internal investigator should stick with the stated facts and interview the complainants and witnesses first and foremost, I’d made a mess of my own objectivity. Sammie would have disqualified herself from the Bellows Falls case. I was too stubborn for that, which irritated me even more.

  Norm Bouch appeared on the other side of his screen door after I knocked, his mouth smiling and his eyes watchful. “You the guy who called?”

  “That’s right. Lieutenant Joe Gunther.”

  His eyes were those of an intelligent man—focused and analytical—but the rest of his face spoke only of the menace I’d seen reflected in the small boy’s face who’d had his ball deflated. My instinctive dislike of Norman Bouch was probably triggered by the same characteristic that made other people turn toward him—his self-assurance was as palpable as the shirt on his back. But my guess was it was the cruelty I’d seen in action that fueled it—and that was a motivator I’d never been able to tolerate.

  He pushed the door open but didn’t invite me in. “You with the PD?”

  “Not this one. I work in Brattleboro. I’ve been asked to look into the allegations against Officer Padget to avoid any possible conflicts of interest.”

  Seemingly relieved by this, the smile widened, and Bouch stepped aside. “Come in. You know Padget?”

  “We’ve never met, no. Is Mrs. Bouch around?”

  “Yeah, sure. Follow me.”

  He led me through a series of rooms in total tumult—clothes and toys on the floor, cheap furniture pushed helter-skelter, bare sheetrock walls with holes in them. There was an odor throughout of cat litter, stale sweat, and old food. I had been in more homes like this than I could possibly count.

  We headed toward a crescendo of young screaming voices and finally entered a kitchen where a woman was standing surrounded by five children, all clamoring
for a box of doughnuts she was holding above her head. The kitchen table was strewn with dirty dishes, spilled milk, and scattered clots of soft, indistinguishable food. The remains of breakfast cereal crunched underfoot.

  “For Christ’s sake,” Norm muttered. Wading into the fray, he snatched the box from his wife’s hands, walked to the back door, and threw it out into the yard. The kids vanished in a stampede, leaving silence and wreckage behind. Jan Bouch stayed rooted in place, her hand still held high, as if baffled by what had happened.

  Norm returned and steered her toward one of the chairs near the table in the room’s center. “Sit down—the man’s got some questions.” His manner toward her wasn’t brutal or threatening—it had the same condescending gentility I might have used on a pet dog.

  Jan Bouch had a lean, tired face framed in lank, unwashed blond hair. She looked much older than her eighteen years. Her movements were doll-like, her reactions slow and mechanical, and her eyes seemed unfocused. I had serious doubts her own breakfast had been chemical-free.

  “Mr. Bouch,” I began, “I wonder if I might talk to your wife alone to begin with.”

  She looked up at him, seeking guidance. He merely shook his head, the protective man of the family. “No. You got questions, you ask both of us.” He then cracked a broad smile, reminding me of the genial good-ol’-boy I’d been hearing about. “But no need to be uncomfortable. Take a seat. You want some coffee?”

  I turned down the coffee, but I couldn’t argue about his presence. I pulled out a seat, wiped the milk off it with a stray napkin, and sat opposite Jan. I placed the recorder on the table between us.

  “What’s that?” Norm asked, his voice flattening. “You tapin’ this?”

  “Just so there’re no misunderstandings. We want everything aboveboard.”

  He sat close to his wife, who immediately slipped her arm through his, a gesture he ignored. “Okay—that’s fair by me.”

  “Mrs. Bouch,” I asked, “would you tell me in your own words the grievance you have against Officer Padget?”

  Jan Bouch kept her eyes glued to the tabletop. “He’s been bothering me.”

  “In what way?”

  “He follows me when I go out, stares at me… ” Her voice trailed off.

  “Would you say he’s stalking you?”

  A small furrow appeared between her eyes. “I guess so.”

  “Why do the allegations specify sexual harassment?”

  “He is harassing me.”

  “He’s been telling her to dump me,” Norm said sorrowfully. “Telling her she’s wasting her talents. That she’s got great tits, and that he’d really know how to give her a good time.”

  I kept my eyes on Jan as he spoke. She looked like she was experiencing a physical pain, deep down. “When did he say this to you—exactly.”

  “On the street, last week.”

  “When last week, Mrs. Bouch? Did anyone else hear him address you?”

  Again, she glanced furtively at her husband, who seemed stumped this time. “What does it matter?” he joked. “Do you run around with a pad, writing down when people say stuff to you?”

  It dawned on me then why they’d chosen sexual harassment over stalking, a weightier allegation. Stalking takes time to establish, often a prior history of the two parties being involved, and it calls into play more times for which corroborating witnesses might be located. Sexual harassment, especially involving a cop, could be a one-shot deal, if all you wanted to do was get that cop into hot water.

  “Maybe you can tell me what you were doing when this conversation occurred,” I persisted. “Or where you were at the time.”

  Her face suddenly brightened, and she looked at me hopefully. “I was walking down the street, and he drove up next to me. He rolled the window down and that’s when he said it.”

  “Where on the street?”

  She faltered slightly. “Out front… Near Atkinson.”

  “He was driving along this street, came up behind you, and addressed you just as you reached Atkinson, is that right?”

  “Right.”

  “No,” Norm said, too late.

  “Which is it?” I asked, knowing Padget would have to have been driving the wrong way on a one-way street.

  Jan looked totally confused.

  “He was on Atkinson and met her on the corner,” Norm said, visibly struggling to maintain his composure. “She’s lousy with directions.”

  “And roughly what time of day was this?”

  Jan didn’t answer. Her husband let out a deep sigh, as if he’d just realized he was holding a losing hand of cards. He tried bluffing with another big smile. “Oh, I don’t know… Let’s see—about noon on Wednesday. Wouldn’t you say, honey?”

  “Sure,” she whispered.

  “Did Officer Padget approach you at any other time with similar comments?” I continued briskly.

  Having been ambushed once, Norm headed me off with a small burst of bluster. “Once isn’t enough? How many times does he have to do it before you guys consider it wrong?”

  I looked at him in silence for a few moments.

  “He did it that one time,” he finally said.

  “Mrs. Bouch, a few minutes ago you said Padget ‘follows me when I go out,’ to use your words, implying this has happened several times. If that’s true, we’d certainly like to know about it. If Officer Padget has acted improperly, he should be held accountable.”

  Still looking at the tabletop, Jan merely shook her head, as if she’d lost her way. “The other times were too vague,” Norm said. “He didn’t do anything you could put your finger on.”

  “How do you think Officer Padget came to focus on you in the first place, Mrs. Bouch? Did you know him prior to these incidents?”

  She rubbed her forehead with her fingertips, hard enough to leave small oval blanches behind. “I, uh… I don’t—”

  “Of course we did,” Norm interrupted, his voice sharp now. “There’re only about six cops in the whole town. Everyone gets to know them sooner or later.” He laughed awkwardly. “And I won’t deny they been here a couple of times when we got a little rowdy.”

  “Was Brian Padget ever among the officers who responded to those calls?”

  A flash of irritation swept across Norm’s face. “I don’t know. You can look that up, can’t you?”

  “Mrs. Bouch, let me rephrase this a different way. When was the first time you ever saw Officer Padget?”

  She answered quickly, “Oh, it was a long—”

  Again her husband stopped her, this time with a hand laid heavily on her forearm. I noticed that when she tried to move it away, she couldn’t.

  “Who can tell, Lieutenant?” Norm answered with a smile. “You see a cop on the beat, you don’t pay attention. It wasn’t till he started coming on to her that we really noticed, and that was just recent. We reported it right off.”

  “Have either of you had any contact with Officer Padget since the time he drove up next to you and said those things?”

  “No,” Norm answered flatly, apparently tired of the game at last, and hoping to end it as soon as possible.

  I decided to accommodate him. Turning off the recorder and slipping it into my pocket, I got to my feet. “I think that ought to do it for the moment. I want to thank you for your cooperation. I understand the stress you must both be under. We should be able to reach a determination on this matter within a few days. I hope you understand the process we have to follow, for the good of all involved.”

  Ignoring a perfect opportunity to harp on how the system takes care of its own, Norm rose with me instead and merely muttered, “Sure, sure.”

  I stuck my hand out to Jan. “It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Bouch. Thanks for your help.”

  She looked at the hand reluctantly at first, but I forced her to take it by simply not moving. My persistence paid off—her hand was hot and damp with sweat, and trembling slightly. She was a nervous wreck, and I was pretty sure why.

&nbs
p; She didn’t join us as Norm escorted me back through the house to the front door.

  Norm was all smiles again but without the eagerness he’d shown earlier. “I sure appreciate your coming over, and I’m sorry about my wife. This thing has really shaken her up, you know? It’s kind of a shock when a police officer pulls something like that—I mean, you don’t expect it. You were really professional about it, though. That’ll help her a lot.”

  I stepped out onto the porch and faced him. “We do what we can, Mr. Bouch. We also try to make people accountable for their actions, regardless of who they are.”

  The smile didn’t falter, but the eyes and voice turned cold. “That’s good, Lieutenant. You have a good day.”

  Chapter 6

  THE CONVENIENCE STORE near the Bouch home had a small counter with a couple of stools near its front window. I sat there, watching the street, waiting for Jan Bouch to emerge.

  She rewarded me three hours later, stepping out to the sidewalk and walking toward Atkinson—the same scenario she’d painted earlier with Padget as the fall guy. She walked like someone expecting a pail of cold water to drop on her at any moment, stiff-limbed and cringing.

  I left the store and followed her from the opposite side of the street, not crossing until I’d passed her house, hoping Norm didn’t have his nose glued to the window.

  “Mrs. Bouch,” I said gently as I walked up behind her.

  She whirled around to face me, her eyes wide, her hand across her mouth. “What do you want?”

  I gave her a reassuring smile, falling into place beside her. “Don’t be alarmed. There’re a lot of questions in a situation like this. It’s like packing a suitcase for a long trip. You have to think about what you need, and sometimes you have to backtrack because you forget something. It’s just part of the process. You feeling okay about what I was asking at your house?”

  “Sure… I guess so.” She continued walking jerkily, all tensed up.

  We reached the corner at Atkinson Street. I stopped and looked around. “This where Padget approached you?”

  Her voice was almost lost in the passing traffic. “Yes… Norm should be here.”