– ¦ I stopped at the apartment. My tape had two hangups. I reset the machine and changed my clothes. I figured it would be colder in the Berkshires and I wasn't sure when I would be able to change again. I put on a flannel shirt and a pair of khaki pants. I strapped my Chief's Special to my inside left calf and bloused the pant bottoms into the tops of a pair of L. L. Bean Maine hunting boots. I slung an old army pack (with a jacket, canteen, and candy bars) over my shoulder.
There was some plain white bond paper on my desk. I took a piece and wrote a short note, marked the envelope "Personal," and put a return address under the name "Pembroke." I mailed it on my way back to the car. Then I headed southwest.
The sun was still high, and children were out sunning and playing ball in seemingly every yard and field I passed. There was a constant gentle breeze of the kind that I remembered kept you from getting thirsty. The flannel shirt was making me thirsty. I took the exit that would bring me to Bonham Center first. Since Cal was a six-days-a-week cop, I stopped in at police headquarters and was told Chief Maslyk would be back in an hour. I had a late lunch at an uncrowded pub with a jukebox that played country-and-western. I returned to the station, and still had to cool my heels for twenty minutes until Cal Maslyk could see me.
I told him about my planned trip to the Berkshires. He asked me why I was telling him, and I said because I might need someone to come looking for me. He said he had some vacation time coming in September and that if I weren't back by then, he'd swing by Granville to check on me. I thanked him and left. It was only 4:00 and I couldn't see dropping in on Val that early. I decided to drive over to the Swan Street bridge. Thomas Doucette had already poked a lot of holes for me in Blakey's version of Diane Kinnington's accident, but a law professor of mine always had stressed that we actually should visit the scene of any incident.
I crisscrossed Bonham roads for thirty minutes without hitting Swan Street. I ended back in Bonham Center. Too proud to stop and ask directions, I took a road with a sign that said "Meade Center 3." Just past the center I came upon Swan Street. As I prepared to turn north onto it, a Meade police car drove through the intersection heading south. Officer Dexter was in the passenger's seat. He seemed to recognize me. I waved to him, but he didn't wave back.
I tumed onto Swan Street back toward Bonham and drove a little over a mile before seeing the bridge ahead. I was surprised. I had expected the bridge to be around a corner or curve, but it was clearly visible along the straight road for nearly four-tenths of a mile. Diane Kinnington, or anyone else, would have had no corner or curve to negotiate that night.
When I reached the bridge, I slowed and checked my rear-view mirror. There was no traffic behind me. I slowed to a crawl and went across the bridge as Blakey told Doucette he had done that rainy night. As Doucette had described it, there was a rock maybe twenty feet out whose crest was eight inches clear of the water line. There were replacement railings where Diane's car must have gone through, but the car couldn't have been going very fast to land so close to the bridge. I studied the spot where the Mercedes must have rested. When I reached the other end of the bridge, I stopped and got out. Again I looked to where the Mercedes must have been. Then I checked for traffic, backed across the bridge, and angled my car in the way Doucette had placed Blakey's cruiser. I tried to keep my eyes focused on the rock and the placement of the Mercedes as I sidestepped down the embankment. I stood at the river's edge and stared across to the other bank. If Doucette was accurate regarding the Mercedes's reclining angle against the rock in the water and the compass angle to the far shore, there was no way that Blakey could have seen a license plate or even a hood ornament to know it was the Kinnington car out there.
I heard a car crunch to a stop above me. I turned and looked up as a second car pulled alongside the first. Both were Meade police cruisers. Dexter and a big officer I hadn't seen before got out of the first cruiser. Chief Smollett and another big cop got out of the second cruiser. All came to the upper edge of the embankment and stared down at me. I stared back. Smollett put his fists on his hips and broke the stand-off. He wore a uniform parade hat, but civilian gray shirt and pants. "I thought I told you to get out and stay out of this town."
"Sorry to have to correct you, Chief," I replied as good-naturedly as possible, "but you told me only to get out of your office. You said nothing about town or about staying out, for that matter."
The two big cops turned expectantly to Smollett. Dexter looked down at his shoes. Smollett looked down at me.
"You been bothering our citizens," Smollett continued, not raising his voice. Now everyone was looking down at me again.
"Just which citizen or citizens am I supposed to have bothered?"
Smollett's jaw worked a little before he answered. "Harold Sturdevant for one. He says you were in his house upsetting his daughter."
"I was in his house with his wife's permission talking with her daughter."
"Hal said she was crying."
"She was. Is he prepared to sign a complaint about it?"
"He don't need to sign a complaint."
"Sure he does," I replied. "If you receive any complaints, I'd be happy to review them with you and the Department of Public Safety when my license comes up for renewal."
The two big cops had been following our exchange with their heads, like sideline spectators watching tennis volleys. Now they had their heads toward Smollett, and Dexter was still examining his shoeshine.
Smollett changed neither his pose nor his expression. Just his voice grew strident. "I don't like wise-ass private detectives," he said.
My neck was actually getting stiff from looking up at them. There was a boulder nearby about knee high. I walked to it, sat down, and leaned back. The rock's surface was still warm from the June sun. "Maybe if we pooled our information on Stephen Kinnington, we could be more civil with each other."
Smollett began to tremble, his uniform hat rocking slightly over his head the way a pot lid does as the water boils beneath it. "Bring
… him… up… here," he said, each word enunciated like a separate sentence.
The two big cops started sidestepping down immediately. Dexter reluctantly started down too. I said, "You know, Chief, there isn't a snowball's chance that Blakey could have identified that Mercedes that night."
Dexter and the big boys stopped dead and looked from me to the chief. Smollett said, "I said bring him up here," this time all in one sentence.
Just as the troops resumed their advance and I searched futilely for another delaying line, a car came barreling down Swan Street from the direction opposite the way I'd come. The troops halted again as Smollett looked over to the car. It stopped on the bridge and two car doors opened and closed.
"Afternoon, Will," said a welcome voice.
"Your car is blocking traffic," growled Smollett in reply.
Chief Calvin Maslyk's short, sturdy frame came into view. "Oh, there's never much traffic along here this time on a Saturday." A uniformed Bonham cop slightly larger than the biggest of Smollett's men loomed into view behind Cal. Maslyk looked down at me. "Afternoon, John."
"Chief," I said, smiling.
Cal didn't smile back, so I dropped mine.
"This is none of your affair, Cal," said Smollett, an officious tone replacing the angry one. "You're out of your jurisdiction?
Cal shrugged, unbuttoned a shirt pocket, fished for something in it. "Mr. Cuddy and I have a date at our pistol range. When one of my boys picked up Dexter's transmission to you over the radio, I thought I'd come out and pick him up for it." Maslyk found a cigarette and resumed his fishing, this time for a match.
"Since when did your men start monitoring my radio frequency'?" snapped Smollett.
Maslyk smiled soothingly as he came up with his light. "Nobody was monitoring anybody, Will. One of the boys was just scanning and picked it up."
Maslyk struck the match off his side-turned shoe. I hadn't seen that in years. "You know how it is, Will," said Maslyk as he cupped his hands around the match and tilted his face forward to light the cigarette.
Smollett fumed silently, then gestured to his troops with his head toward the cars. Dexter looked relieved and scampered back up. The two big ones looked disappointed and went sulkily back up, one stumbling to a knee to add insult, and dust, to injury. The four got into their cars, backed out, and gunned their engines down the road toward Meade.
I was sweating a bit more heavily than my flannel shirt and the rock's radiant heat could account for. "Thanks, Cal," I said quietly as I stood up.
"This time you were lucky. I can't have a man assigned to listen in on Smollett's transmissions, and hell, next time they'll use phones anyways."
I was halfway up the bank. "I agree," I said.
"This is not a good town for an outsider. Not when he's poking into old deaths, important deaths." Cal waved his hand at the bridge and river.
"I agree," I repeated as I reached the top.
"So, you got any questions?" Cal asked.
"Just one," I said. "Where do you get those matches? They're impressive as hell."
Cal tossed his cigarette and stomped toward his car, jerking a hand for his driver to follow. "Goddamned wise-ass private eyes."