Occam's Razor Page 8

  He answered on the third ring.

  “Win, It’s Joe Gunther. Bobby Miller tells me you have some questions about Jim Reynolds.”

  “No,” he answered carefully. “Not Reynolds. Just about the break-in at his office.”

  “Can I ask why you want to know?” The question wasn’t as futile as it always appears on television. On TV, everything a private cop does is mantled by client confidentiality. In reality, PIs know they have to work closely with police and also know that making an issue over trivialities is both irritating and undermining.

  Johnston didn’t disappoint. “He hired me to find out who did it.”

  “Is he missing anything?”

  “Not that I know of. What was your take on it?”

  I had nothing to lose by being honest with him in turn, since I had nothing to begin with, anyway. “Can’t figure it out. He denied anything was missing, and we couldn’t tell if anything might’ve been added.”

  Johnston sounded mildly surprised, which he may or may not have been in fact. “Like what?”

  “Cute, Win. Rumor has it the man wouldn’t mind being governor. Was anything added?”

  Win chuckled, then said, “Okay, he is worried, but I don’t think it’s because anything happened. My guess is he hired me because he wants it to stop there. If I get lucky, I’m basically supposed to say, ‘We know who you are and we know what you did,’ and hope that ends it.”

  I took him at his word, at least for the moment. “Then I wish I could help you. Since there was nothing gone and no suspect in sight, we’ve pretty much dropped it. Bobby did notice a car heading off down the side street, but all he saw were taillights. His guess was he scared off whoever had broken in, and I think he’s probably right.”

  “Okay, Joe,” Win conceded after a moment. “I appreciate the help.”

  I sat staring at the phone for a long time after he’d hung up, remembering Stan Katz’s call to me earlier, along with something Bobby Miller had told me which I hadn’t passed on to Win Johnston—that the filing cabinet which appeared to have been rifled contained old, dog-eared files.

  I finally shook my head and returned to the matter at hand. Jim Reynolds would have to stand in line.

  · · ·

  I didn’t lie to Alice Simms, but when I did finally call her, I figured she had about thirty minutes to write her story and still make the deadline. That didn’t allow for a long question/answer session—a detail she assumed I’d planned from the start.

  “You don’t get public servant of the year for this,” she told me testily once she got on the phone.

  “You want it early and sketchy or late and fleshed-out?”

  “Knowing you guys, it’ll probably be late and sketchy. What’ve you got?”

  I cleared my throat and read from the SA-sanctioned statement I’d scribbled down following our ten p.m. squad meeting. “This afternoon, at 5:46 the Bratt PD was called to investigate a missing person complaint at the home of Brenda Croteau, aged twenty-three, living at number 38-B White Birch Avenue. The complaint had been filed by Ms. Croteau’s mother, June Dutelle, also of Brattleboro. Upon seeing what appeared to be a prostrate woman through one of the residence’s windows, officers entered the building and discovered Ms. Croteau’s dead body and that of her infant son, Sean. It appears right now that Ms. Croteau was the victim of a knife attack, while her son died of exposure after the home’s wood stove burned out.”

  I stopped, hearing Alice’s rapid typing in the background. “Going too fast?”

  “Not hardly.”

  “Okay. The victim’s mother stated that she’d been trying to locate her daughter for the last thirty-six hours, which lack of success stimulated her call to police. Brenda Croteau was married to James A. Croteau just over a year ago, although the couple has not lived together since before Sean’s birth.”

  “How old was the kid?” Alice asked.

  “Five months,” I answered and resumed my monotone. “Mr. Croteau is not a suspect at this time—”

  “Why not?” she interrupted again.

  “Mr. Croteau is not a suspect at this time,” I repeated, “but police are conducting a thorough investigation, and expectations are high that a solution will be reached in due course.”

  “For Christ’s sake. We’re all going to die in ‘due course.’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I continued reading. “Several leads are being developed based on evidence left at the scene and the manner of Ms. Croteau’s death. However, if anyone with knowledge of any of these individuals or of any events connected to or leading up to this crime would contact the police department, their cooperation would be greatly appreciated.”

  “You write all that?” she asked, sounding incredulous. I was slightly offended. “To help you out, yes. You want to clean it up, feel free. And you can add that autopsy results will be forthcoming.”

  “I will. Can I ask you some questions, or is that all I’m going to get?”

  “You won’t get much more. What’re you after?”

  She laughed. “Well, for starters, what the hell happened? Was it a rape, a robbery, or what? Did she know the guy? What was she involved in that got her killed? And what about the hubby? He got ruled out pretty quick.”

  “Off the record, he was in Burlington, with an alibi.”

  “An alibi? You said the baby died of hypothermia after the stove died out, which means a lot of time’s gone by between now and when she died. How could he have an alibi?”

  “Again off the record, because he’s in jail.”

  There was dead silence at the other end, followed by, “I guess that would do it. He could’ve hired someone.”

  “Okay, Alice. That’s it. We’ll be in touch.”

  I heard her say something, but didn’t catch it since the phone was already halfway back to its cradle.

  Gail smiled at me from across my office—about five feet. She’d dropped by to see how I was doing.

  “Alice unhappy with your press release?”

  I sat back in my chair and locked my fingers behind my head. “I can’t blame her, but it’s a catch-22. They get pissed because we’re so closemouthed. We get pissed because they don’t show any discretion. I know it’s old-fashioned, but I keep thinking back to when people like Eisenhower could trust journalists to keep quiet about D-Day and the Manhattan Project.”

  “You can thank Vietnam for ending that,” Gail said. “Was that really true, what you told her about wrapping things up fast because of evidence left at the scene?”

  I shook my head. “No. I gilded the lily a bit there. J.P. found a bloody smudge that looked like it came from someone’s knee. He also dusted for fingerprints, but it looks like half the Russian army’s passed through that house. We didn’t find a weapon or a nosy next-door neighbor, and we didn’t get anything from the victim’s mother. And you heard what I said about the hubby.”

  Gail frowned. “Sounds like you’re up a creek.”

  “I doubt it,” I answered. “Brenda hung out with a rough crowd. We’ll get something from one of them. Generally all you have to do is ask enough questions, and sooner or later somebody spills the beans. These ain’t Ph.D.s, and there is no honor among thieves. What we’re guessing is that she was fixing dinner, let her assailant in, and they got into an argument in the kitchen. There was a cutting board near where she died but no knife. Tomorrow, when it’s light, we’ll comb the neighborhood. I’m hoping we’ll find it in the bushes somewhere, complete with prints. If past history’s any guide, I won’t have lied to Alice about wrapping this up soon.”

  Gail gave me a long, considered look. “I’d hate to see you eat those words.”

  I shrugged. “I might. Alice asked if hubby could’ve hired a hit man. It could get complicated. This is only if the pattern stays typical.”

  Gail changed the subject. “You heard from Sammie?”

  “Yeah. She’s back on board. Turned up all out of breath at the scene. Pissed me off, to be h
onest. If the call had been for a cat up a tree, she’d still be on the sick list. I was going to talk to her about it.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s earned the privilege to have a private life. Everybody else has one, goes on vacations, takes recreational sick days—except you, maybe. She’s never done any of those. She’s just becoming normal—and hoping her male colleagues will allow her that right. I think you’d be a real jerk to call her on the carpet.”

  She was right. Sammie had spoiled us rotten. But I wished Gail hadn’t put it in just those words. To feel like a jerk was a whole lot less painful than being called one out loud.

  “I won’t.” I held up my right hand. “Promise.”

  Gail stretched and rubbed her eyes. She’d come here from her office, and I knew she was planning at least a couple more hours of study time at home. “You going to pull an all-nighter?” she asked.

  I checked my watch. “Could be. We’ve invited some of Brenda Croteau’s old playmates in for a grilling session. Might take a while.”

  She got up and gave me a kiss. “Okay. See ya later.”

  I watched her go, caught between wanting to leave with her and knowing it wouldn’t make any difference. Throughout our relationship, our jobs had paradoxically become the same haven other people made out of spending time off together, or having a family. Fundamentally, we were two loners, and if, as I feared, we were to go our separate ways, it would probably be as natural a transition as when a normal couple decides to move into a smaller apartment after the kids leave home.

  No big deal.

  8

  BASED ON WHAT JUNE DUTELLE had told us about her daughter’s friends, we decided to pull in both Janice Litchfield and Jamie Good for questioning that night. A phone conversation with Brenda Croteau’s husband, James—safely tucked away in the Burlington jail—also added Dwayne Matthews to the list, supposedly Brenda’s current boyfriend.

  In what amounted to a drawing of straws, I got Janice Litchfield. Willy and Sam got the other two. Ron and J.P. were sent to bed so at least somebody would be conscious the next day.

  The police department has only one official interrogation room, the traditional small box with a one-way mirror. Since we knew Jamie the best, he being a repeat customer, he got the box, and Willy along with it. Janice Litchfield and I ended up in a small cubbyhole used by the department’s office manager.

  Litchfield was in her mid-twenties, thin to the point of scrawniness, and equipped with spiky purple hair and all the standard hardware accessories, from tongue and eyebrow posts to a half dozen earrings running up each lobe. She also sported a rose tattoo on her temple, which I rather liked.

  I had her sit in a straight-backed chair in the corner, while I remained standing. “Would you like me to call you Janice or Miss Litchfield?” I asked her.

  She was sitting slouched over and knock-kneed, scratching at one set of painted nails with the other. “I don’t care.”

  “All right. We’ll make it Janice. You want a soda or some coffee?”

  “No.”

  “Anyone tell you why we asked you to come here tonight?”

  “No—I figured it was about Brenda.”

  “How did you hear about that?”

  “I just heard. Everybody did. It’s all over town.”

  “They saying who did it?”

  “No.”

  “You have any ideas about that?”

  “No.”

  I reached back in time. “How long have you known Brenda?”

  “Since before high school.”

  “Middle school or around the neighborhood?”

  “Middle school. I knew about her when we were kids, but I didn’t know her.”

  “What was she like?”

  Janice hunched her shoulders slightly, eyes still glued to her fingertips. As far as I knew, she hadn’t looked at me once yet. “Normal—you know.”

  I had no idea what defined normal here, although I had my suspicions. “You describe her as a follower or a leader?”

  “Kind of a leader, I guess.”

  “How was she with boys?”

  “Pretty tough. She didn’t take no shit from them.”

  “That get her into trouble with them?”

  “Nah. They kind of like that—sometimes.”

  “Until they don’t get what they want?”

  She looked up quickly, and just as quickly dropped her gaze. But I’d seen the smile. “You mean sex? That wasn’t a problem. She wanted it, too. She just didn’t let them control her.”

  I picked up a feeling of envy there. “So what happened after high school? You two keep in touch?”

  “Sure. We were best friends.”

  “You must be pretty sad she’s dead, then.”

  The fingers suddenly stopped their nervous dance. Her head tucked in just a fraction more. “Sure.”

  I paused, considering my course. “Must be scary,” I finally said.

  She didn’t answer.

  “The two of you did some risky things together.”

  She nodded, almost imperceptibly.

  “You worried that’s what got her killed?”

  “Sort of.” It was barely a whisper.

  “You may be right, Janice.”

  Silence filled the room. I crouched next to her so I could look up into her face. Her expression was rigid with concentration. “Janice, I’d like to stop whoever did this from doing it again. What were you and Brenda up to that might’ve killed her?”

  Her eyes slid over to me at last, her chin trembling slightly. She sounded bewildered. “It could’ve been anything.”

  Of that, unfortunately, I had no doubt. For the next hour, I extracted details of a life as haphazardly brutal and careless as any in the urban front lines to our south. We kid ourselves in Vermont that because of the trees, fields, and our thinned-out, monochrome population, life is somehow saner up here. But it isn’t architecture, density, or racial mix that breeds despair and self-destruction. It’s the training and instincts we supply our young at home, and there Janice Litchfield and Brenda Croteau and a few thousand others like them had been as shortchanged in bucolic Vermont as any shattered child in the ghetto.

  By the end of my session with Janice, I was armed with a long list of names, and a sense of confusion as deep as her own. Given what I’d learned, Brenda could have been killed for drugs, sex, money, or because the type of coffee she drank wasn’t the right brand. I was certainly no longer wondering how she could afford to live beyond the means of a welfare recipient.

  Later, close to midnight, Willy, Sam, and I met around the long table in the conference room adjacent to the squad room. Each of us had pads of paper covered with notes.

  “Okay,” I began. “Willy, why don’t you start off?”

  Kunkle looked like he’d just stepped into something disagreeable. “If there was any justice, Jamie Good would be a permanent boy-toy in some federal pen. That guy is the slimiest piece of shit I ever met.”

  “Meaning he gave you nothin’,” Sammie interpreted.

  “I wanted to rip his head off.”

  “Were he and Brenda tight?” I asked.

  “He said they knew each other, had slept together, done drugs together. But that’s like asking puppies if they piss on the same newspaper. He said it didn’t mean a thing, and I believe him. I know his type, and I know him personally. He was having fun in there. I don’t think he killed her.”

  “He know who did?”

  “He’d like to. That’s the one thing that got him down. He would’ve loved to have held that over my head, but he couldn’t.”

  “Or didn’t,” I suggested.

  “He’s not that self-restrained,” Willy countered, “and I know him well. Much as I hate to admit it, I think he’s clean.”

  We both looked at Sammie.

  “I can’t say the same about Dwayne Matthews,” she admitted. “He says they were getting along fine, that he last saw
her day before yesterday, around noon at her house, but he’s cagey. Denies ever doing drugs, although we got him down as a probable dealer; said he didn’t have a record, till I put it in front of him.”

  “What kinds of stuff?” Willy asked.

  “Penny-ante—disorderly, assault, petty theft, B&E, possession—usual kinds of recreation. Nothing armed, nothing lethal, nothing that had upward mobility written on it. We’ve never actually caught him at anything.”

  “Janice told me Brenda was into everything that moved,” I said, “and usually got paid for it. Did Dwayne share that opinion?”

  “Not really,” Sammie answered. “He called her a wild chick, but it was hard to tell if he meant sexually, criminally, or socially. He was real evasive. He did say he thought she drank too much and overdid it with dope. Gave me some sanctimonious shit about how he’d told her it was a bad influence on the baby.”

  “I did a record check on Brenda,” Willy said. “Maybe Dwayne was vague because he didn’t know where to start. Her sheet covers prostitution, drunk and disorderly, possession of and selling a controlled substance, assault, probation violations, receiving stolen goods. My kind of woman.”

  “That would explain hanging out with Jamie Good,” Sam muttered.

  “Neither of you knew about her before?” I asked. “With a reputation like that?”

  “It’s from here and there,” Willy explained. “She traveled around, mostly in-state. Good’s a hometown boy. Brenda was a wanderer.”

  I wondered if we’d end up going outside of Brattleboro for our solution. Generally, these types of crimes occurred close to the nest, but Brenda’s restless background left that door wide open.

  First things first, though. I tapped my pad with my fingertip. “Let’s compare the names each of them gave us. See if we can come up with some kind of family tree. Maybe someone’ll stand out.”

  There are two major groupings for homicides: the slam-dunks and the who-dun-its. The slam-dunks, luckily for us and unhappily for fiction writers, are by far the most common. Someone gets pissed off, lashes out, and either waits remorsefully for us to arrive or at most hightails it home, leaving ten witnesses behind to point the way. With these, we sift through an excess of testimony, making sure the perpetual contradictions are explained (he was left-handed, he was right-handed; he was fat and short; he was tall and skinny). Basically, it amounts to legalistic traffic control, done in close cooperation with the prosecutors inheriting the ball.