Borderlines

Early the next morning, none of us had any doubts a crime had n committed. Bruce Wingate was found stabbed to death. A breathless, half-frozen teenage boy had been dispatched by Renon a bicycle to fetch me. Buster’s only comment had been, “Better b a coat. Cold’s back.”

There was frost on the grass; the surrounding bare trees looked old d withered in their icy, silver sheaths. The “warm snap had ended e the slam of a door, leaving the air brittle and raw, almost painful breathe too deeply. In the low spots-the ditches, the dips in the d, the hollows between the hills-ground fog lay as if clinging to dry The three of us piled into Buster’s pickup, placing the boy’s bike 0 the back.

Dulac’s ravine, where Wingate’s body had been found, a mile north of town, bordering a road off of I II. Dulac had been armer in the region years ago, and the road had once led to his house. th he and the house were long gone, but the road remained, a major raction to those who had to opt for backseats over bedrooms for their ments of intimacy.

Rennie’s pickup-green, battered, and flamboyantly splotched th dark red Rust-Oleum spots-was listing like a sinking rowboat at edge of the road.

We parked behind it and got out. A good twenty below us, at the bottom of a treacherously steep and ice-slicked pe, wreathed in a smokelike mist, stood Rennie Wilson and a man fluorescent orange carrying a rifle.

Between them, barely visible, lay uce Wingate, looking like the fallen ghost of a bird, dropped from air in midflight, with one wing still outstretched. The ravine was dry, walled in on the opposite side by a gentler, ch taller, heavily wooded slope that curved away above us. To my right, a footpath angled down from the road to the misteathed bottom, a time-worn pedestrian trail used by anyone who nted to climb the hill on the other side. The boy who had driven back th us was already running off toward it to join Rennie and to ogle body.

“Buster. What’s his name?” “Jimmy.” I shouted after him. “Jimmy! Hold it. I don’t want any more prints around there. Stay up on the road.”

The shout caused both Rennie and his companion to look up at us. I waved them toward the path. “He’s dead, right?” Rennie answered. “As a doornail.” “Then come on up. I want to keep that scene as clear of people as possible.” I walked down the road a bit and met them at the top of the path.

Rennie introduced us. “This is Joe Gunther, with the State’s Attorney’s office; Joe, this is Mitch Pearl. He found the body.” We shook hands.

Pearl was about thirty-eight years old, with brown hair and eyes, a clean-shaven square face, and a respectable beer gut. He wore a worried look on his face. “When did you find him?” I asked.

“About a half hour ago. I was following a set of deer tracks along the bottom of the ravine. I drove back to town and told Mr. Wilson here.”

“Anyone else know yet?” “I called Wirt, so I guess he’ll be here soon.

“Okay. Let’s try to keep this under our hats until the State Police show up. It’d be better if we could keep the road blocked off, as well as both slopes. So far, only you two have been to the bottom, is that right?” Both Rennie and Pearl nodded. “What’s the ground like down there?” Pearl answered. “Crusty, but pretty soft still from the last few days.

That’s why I went down there; I figured I’d find some tracks.” “Crust isn’t enough to hold you,” Rennie added. “By the end of the day, it should be like concrete.” “All right. All the more reason to keep people away. Where do you live, Mitch?” “Connecticut.” “You staying nearby?” “Lyndonville the LynBurke Motel.” “Can you stick around to give a statement to the police?” “Sure.” “Okay. Who’s got some paper something to write on?” The words and gestures were all automatic.

Despite the location, and my being far from my home turf, I was still a cop, and this was something, unfortunately, I knew all too well how to do.

Buster pulled a couple of large receipts out of his pocket and handed them over. “Back sides are blank.” “Thanks. I’m going down to have a look. Just keep everyone away and let me know when the troops arrive.”

Everyone nodded. I started down the path, tendrils of mist shroudg my feet and legs. The more I immersed myself between the two nks and into the fog, the more I felt like I was being sucked into the rth, surrounded by smoke without odor. The effect was heightened my concentration on the path, muddy and slick with the passage of veral pairs of feet already. In a few hours, unless the cold really set ,we were going to have to set up ropes to save people from skidding raight down to the bottom.

I stopped at the foot of the path and looked around. Above me, could hear muffled voices, the occasional scrape of a boot on gravel; here, in the ravine, I felt as if I was underwater. I was as aware of y breathing as if I were wearing a scuba tank. I took Buster’s receipts and my pen out of my pocket and began sketch what I found: the number of footprints and their directions, er cans, food wrappers, an occasional condom, assorted other trash. owly I walked, taking inventory, aware all the time of Wingate’s body ining definition the closer I got to it.

Finally, we were together, the only sharp-edged objects in the iddle of a cloud. I looked up and saw the hazy outlines of people oking down at me. It made me think of the gladiators in the center a locked arena. I turned my attention back to Wingate, trying to ncentrate.

He’d been stabbed many times by the look of it. His upper back d neck were covered with slash and puncture wounds. One ear as severed, lying two feet off to the side. He was wearing khaki nts, sneakers, and a pale windbreaker-not enough for the present Id temperature, but enough for earlier last night, when we’d last lked.

I studied the ground. There was a lot of blood, particularly from e left side of his neck. I bent over, trying not to move my feet and us add to the confusion of tracks. There was a gaping laceration just the left of the trachea: a bull’s-eye to the carotid. He would have died ithin a minute of receiving that wound alone.

I looked over my shoulder and examined the grassy slope behind e, the one leading up to the road. There were no gouges, no scrapes, prints, no bent vegetation. No body had rolled down it on the way the bottom.

I slowly began to separate the footprints: Wingate’s sneakers, my n shoes, Rennie’s and Mitch’s lug soles, which I’d made a point of entally cataloging at the top of the path. There were others, what oked like one more pair of small smooth-soled sneakers and a third of lug soles.

Besides ourselves, at least three other people had shared this spot with Wingate. But that was far from certain; there’d been a lot of activity, much of it from Rennie.

“Hey, Rennie, how long were you down here?” I didn’t bother looking up to distinguish one shape from the others.

“Not long. Just enough to check it out. Why?” “Looks like you tap-danced all over the place.” It was said at half volume, more to myself than to him, but I shouldn’t have said it at all.

“Fuck you, Joe.” “Sorry, out of line.” “I didn’t know if the son of a bitch was dead or not.” “I know, I know.” The entire exchange had been pointless, reflecting more my own frustration than any anger toward Rennie. It irked the hell out of me that I’d been speaking to Wingate just hours before, too dull to sense something in the offing. The fact that I wasn’t clairvoyant never seemed an adequate explanation at times like these. This, I kept thinking, had been preventable somehow.

“Joey.” “Yeah, Buster.” “Wirt’s here.” Great, I thought. The Hun himself. “Okay. Tell him I’m coming up; I’ll meet him at the top.” I quickly added a few last notes to my diagram and backtracked as carefully as I could.

Wirt was not happy at my involvement, and demonstrated the fact at his officious best. “What were you doing down there?” I handed him the map I’d drawn. “Nailing down the scene before anyone else messed it up.

It’s damn near unreadable as it is.” He took the map without looking at it. “You shouldn’t have been down there,” he snapped. “You’re the SA’s man, not BCI.” I walked over to his patrol car and opened the door. “Can I use your radio?” “Absolutely not.” He scowled angrily.

“Look around, Corporal, and think about what you’re doing here.

Your problems aren’t my fault, but I can sure as hell make my problems yours. I swung into the car and unhooked the mike, telling the dispatcher to get hold of Hamilton for me. I knew my anger at Wirt was irrational. Wingate’s death made my elation following last night’s interview seem conceited and smug. I’d dropped the ball in midplay, and I was taking it out now on Wirt.

“You know what we’ve got here?” I asked Hamilton when he got on the radio.

“Affirmative.” “But not the identity.” “Correct.” “It’s the man from Natick.” There was a moment’s silence. People love to listen in on police quencies in Vermont. Part of that is due to the large number of lunteer firefighters in the state, most of whom listen to scanners the y elevator operators listen to Muzak; the other part is because in as like the Kingdom, everybody knows, or once knew, everybody e; scanners have become the electronic version of the old party line, d a primary reason why cops try to be as oblique as possible in their mmunications.

“Ten-four. What do you advise?” “Keep the scene locked up until the crime lab arrives instead of ting your boys have first crack.” “Why should I do that?” “Lots of foot prints. Any more people and you’ll lose them. Also, ere’s nothing here that’s going to change over the next couple of urs.” There was a pause. My request was neither unreasonable nor precedented, but Hamilton still had to suppress a cop’s natural urge jump in and start digging. “All right. Give me Wirt.”

Wirt was already there, of course, seething down my neck. I nded him the mike and slipped out of the car.

I walked over to Buster. “Can I borrow your truck?” “Sure.” “For what it’s worth, I just cleared with the State Police lieutenant charge of all this that no one, not even cops, are supposed to go down at path or get near that scene before the lab guys show up. “So I can drop Wirt if he tries?” “You can have fun thinking about it.” I walked over to the truck d noticed the bike was missing from the back. “Where’s Jimmy?”

Buster shrugged. “Beats me.” ‘Damn. I think we can assume the cat’s out of the bag.” I’d known from the very start that we’d never keep this a secret, but I had hoped could at least interview the man’s widow within scant minutes of his iscovery without being beaten to the punch.

Now I doubted I’d be able do even that.

I drove directly to the Rocky River Inn. For once, the place was mpletely empty. It looked like an abandoned warehouse, the dirty, lastic-filtered light seeping through onto unswept floors and strewnout furniture, highlighting the grime on the walls and the cobwebs n the light fixtures.

I walked up the stairs to the second floor, two at a time, finding, as before, the Wingates’ door open. Ellie Wingate was sitting on the bed, half-dressed in her slip, with Greta beside her. Greta looked up at me scornfully. “Oh, the great Brattleboro detective-come to save the day.” I nodded at Ellie, who seemed to be listening to distant whispers.

“She knows?” “I wasn’t going to let the police tell her.” I crouched down in front of her, putting my face in her line of sight.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Wingate. I’ll need your help to find out who did this.” “You’ve been no help so far,” Greta muttered. I looked over at her.

“Greta, either be quiet or leave.” The depth of her anger mixed with my own. I fought back the impulse to air my own frustration and tried instead to concentrate on the drawn-out process of picking up the pieces.

Greta gave me a withering look, but didn’t say anything more. I got the impression, though, that some bridge had been burned in her mind, that I would never be “Joey” to her again.

“Mrs. Wingate, when did you see your husband last?” Her eyes were startlingly blank. She blinked once in a great while, but otherwise didn’t move. Her mind was filled with so many other, more insistent voices, that mine must have had the impact of a mosquito hitting a window.

“Ellie.” I reached out and touched her cheek. Her eyes shifted onto mine, but without appreciable recognition.

Her brow furrowed just a hint. “Last night,” she said in a whisper.

“When last night?” The furrow deepened. “Bedtime.” “You both went to bed at the same time?” Two blinks in a row. The eyes seemed to focus a little. “Yes.” The voice was stronger, but somehow less real.

“He didn’t wake you when he got up?” “No. I’d taken a Valium.” “How many?” Her body English all seemed very odd to me, a cross between being entranced and rehearsed, as if two behavior patterns were tugging at her simultaneously. “What did you do after I left last night?” “We went to bed.” “You didn’t talk to anyone? Didn’t see anyone?” She shook her head.

“You saw me,” Greta said. She sounded hurt.

Ellie Wingate nodded but didn’t look at her. “Oh, yes.” “What did you talk about?” She shrugged. Greta answered. “I gave them a letter and they told how you’d treated them… I should have known.” I turned back to the stricken woman, trying to make my voice d as bland as before. “What was in the letter, Ellie?” She didn’t answer. I straightened and glanced around the room. bed was still unmade, there were a couple of suitcases in the corner, e odds and ends on the bureau top and the bedside table, some hes hanging over the chair-basically the same as I remembered night.

I glanced at the trash basket near the bed. On the top was a pled, baIled-up envelope. I squatted down and poked at it with my and the back of my fingernail, trying to spread it open wide enough ead. I made out “Bruce Wingate” handwritten across the front in pt. My high hopes fell a little when I saw the envelope was empty. I tapped it with the pen. “Is this what Greta gave you last night, e?” She glanced over distractedly and became very still. “Where’s the letter that was inside?” “I don’t know.” She went back to studying her hands. “What did it say?” “I don’t remember.” I thought a different approach might shake more out of her. hen did you tear your stockings?” She raised her head disconcertedly. “What?” I repeated the question. “Yesterday,”

she said, frowning. “The envelope was on top, Ellie. It was put in the trash after you w out the stockings last night, after you took them off.

Isn’t this same envelope Greta handed you?” She closed up again. “I don’t remember.” Greta had been fidgeting in silence, either in deference to me, zch I seriously doubted, or because even she was beginning to realize not everything was as it seemed. Prolonged silences, however, were her strong suit. “Enough, Joe. She’s in shock.” I struggled with a surge of anger. Ellie Wingate’s husband was now g dead with his face in the dirt and yet she still seemed as unwilling elp me now as they’d both been earlier. Her reaction was baffling.

“How did you get the letter, Greta?” “It was in their cubbyhole downstairs. I don’t know how it got re.

“Any idea when?” She shrugged. “Could have been anytime-from midafternoon on.

I rose and crossed to the bathroom. Over the sink were several prescription bottles. I tore off a piece of toilet paper to keep my fingerprints from contaminating the one labelled Diazepam and then opened it, pouring the contents into my palm. There were twenty tablets. I read the label again carefully. Ellie said she took a Valium before bed. Prescription medicine labels sometimes border on Sanskrit, but this one I could figure out. The date of issue was about a month ago; the contents listed twenty tablets. None were missing.

I had called Mel Hamilton from the pay phone downstairs and was sitting on the top step of the staircase when he found me fifteen minutes later.

The Wingates’ door was still open, but Greta had moved Ellie to her own apartment at the end of the hall, albeit with a predictable amount of grumbling. Even she, however, could see that events had progressed beyond her ability to control them.

Hamilton was slightly winded when he reached the top. “You’ve been busy.” I raised my eyebrows, surprised at his acerbic tone of voice.

“Oh?” “You’ve contaminated a crime scene, overrun the attending State trooper, and now you’ve presumably ransacked the dead man’s apartment and interviewed his widow. I’m surprised you bothered to call me.

His face was as bland as ever, but he was truly irritated. He was also correct. While a Vermont cop is a cop anywhere in the state, regardless ofjurisdiction, I had been acting more by instinct than with good manners. The worst part was, I hadn’t given it a second thought until now. “I did contact you about cordoning off the crime scene.” It sounded lame as I said it.

“True, but you didn’t tell me you’d treated my trooper like a doormat or that you’d wandered straight into the middle of the crime scene.

We looked at each other for a moment. I was at a loss for words.

agonizing the local State Police head of the BCI had not been my nt. He was a man who could make things very difficult for me down line, when time came for his people and the State’s Attorney’s office oordinate the building of a case.

But a slow half smile crossed his face. “Thanks for the crime scene ch, by the way, and for locking the area up. It was a good call.” That was a relief, and deserved a reciprocal peace offering. “I’m y about Wirt.”

“Well, he can be a pain in the ass, but he knows his job. So, what you call me for?” I explained about the envelope, the Diazepam bottle, and the fact Ellie was under Greta’s care down the hall, ripe for further quesing.

Hamilton nodded and turned on his heel. “I brought along a pIe of people I want you to meet before we do any more interviewHe led the way down to the lobby. There, admiring his surroundas if he were at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, stood a tall, der man with glasses, straight blond hair, and the angular grace of raffe. He gave us a demonic, ear-to-ear grin and stuck a thin, bony d out to me. “Joe Gunther, right? I hear you’re the one who planted ‘hurry-up-and-wait’ order in the lieutenant’s ear here.” Hamilton allowed a tight smile, more reminiscent of the man I’d yesterday at the barracks. It made me think suddenly that his stiff eanor was a conscious attempt to create precision and order in the St of those people who relied on their guts for guidance. “This is ective Sergeant Lester Spinney. He’s under my command in the St. nsbury BCI; he’s also one of the four members of our new Major mes Squad.” “Hello,” I said, and shook his hand, wondering if his opening line e him for me or against me.

Spinney laughed. “Come on, you’re faking it. You don’t really w what MCS is, do you?” He had me there. “I’m a little behind on reading the mail I get you guys.” He smiled and looked at Hamilton. “And you wonder why I’m h a great detective. We’re supposed to be the A-Team-Don Johndriving Fords.” “Supposed to be?” I asked.

He smiled apologetically. “Well, that’s the way it would be in the vies.” Hamilton sighed. Spinney, all fresh-faced and boyish, didn’t look like he’d been away from home that many years. It was difficult imagining him as the elite of anything outside an intramural basketball league.

“How long you been with the State Police?” “Twelve years.” I was impressed.

“Gotcha, right? Everyone always thinks they screwed up the paperwork.”

“It did occur to me.” He shoved his long, thin hands deep into his pockets. The gesture seemed to calm him. His voice was abruptly quieter, his sentences more measured. Still, an almost juvenile enthusiasm remained in his eyes.

“No, I’ve been at this awhile. Being made a member of MCS has been the high point of my career.” “You still haven’t told me what it is.” He laughed and shook his head. “Right, right. Sorry. They also call us the Homicide Unit. Any time there’s a crime like this, they call the four of us in to support the local barracks BCI team. That way, we get a lot of experience and become the homicide experts within BCI.” “Sounds reasonable. How long has MCS been around?” “About six months.” I glanced over at Hamilton. “MCS is not in control; they are purely support. The local barracks Bureau of Criminal Investigation crew still supplies the case officer and heads the investigation; MCS does what the case officer tells them to do. Of course, their advice is appreciated.”

I’d always been a little slow to follow the ins and outs of the State Police command structure-it seemed so much larger than the number of people within it. “I thought you said he was from your barracks.” “He is, but he’s still in a support mode as a Major Crimes Squad member.

Crofter Smith, one of our regular BCI, will be the case officer on this one.” He looked at Spinney. “Where is Smith, by the way?” My spirits sagged at the mention of the name. I knew nothing about the man, and I had obviously misjudged Hamilton at first glance, but the impression Smith had made when we’d “met” inside the burned building had been less than overwhelming. I did recall, though, that Jonathon Michael had rated him a good cop. I tried to hang some hope on that thought.

“He’s outside-the local decor was getting to him, classic as it is.

We have different tastes.” I decided to ask the question foremost in my mind before Smith crossed the threshold. “Where do I stand in all this? I don’t want to ung out between you and Potter on this thing. I’d like to know how people see me.” “As an asset.” Spinney answered immediately, which came as a ial relief.

Hamilton was slower and more diplomatic, and a whole lot more mfortable.

“We’re talking apples and oranges. It’s not up to me ace you anywhere in our structure. Technically, you’re an indepenwith whom we share what we find. Plus,” he added more sternly, ‘ve been a bit of a loose cannon so far.” “Come on, Lieutenant, put him in with me under Smith. God he’d be a good buffer between us.” Hamilton looked like he was being forced to eat something disful. “This is inappropriate; it’s not the way it works.” “If I’m a freelance, so to speak, couldn’t I just keep Spinney here pany, as his sort-of guest?” Hamilton shook his head. “That’s between you two and Smith. On r, it’s an unstructured relationship. You guys do what you want; make it work and don’t step on people’s toes anymore.” He wandered toward the front door, as if for some fresher, less lsive air, although I knew it was to fetch Smith. “So, you and Smith need a buffer?” Spinney shrugged as an answer and changed the subject. “I’m a an of yours.” “Yeah?” “Yeah. I followed that Ski Mask case you handled down in Bratt0 very

‘damn-the-rules-full-speed-ahead.’… Balls.” I followed his look.

Crofter Smith had entered the building and oming toward us with the studied expression of the serious official. “What’s his problem?” I muttered.

“I used to be, but from what I’ve been hearing about you, I think oing to be both of us now.

Smith stopped in front of us and nodded his head curtly at Spin”Les.”

Spinney aped the gesture with a small smile. “Croft.” I had taken stant and instinctive liking to Spinney, but it occurred to me that ever ended up on his bad side, as Smith obviously had, Spinney’s y humor could be used to peck you to death. It evoked in me a quiver of sympathy for Smith that I hoped I could nourish. Smith stared at him for a couple of seconds, his expression blank, e turning to me. “So you’re Potter’s man.” His voice had the same chromatic quality I’d noticed earlier.

“Among other things.” “I’m Crofter Smith. I’ve been put in charge of this investigation.” He didn’t offer his hand. “Is this yours?” He handed me the sketch I’d made of the scene.

“Yup.” “What do you think we have over there?” His monotone reminded me of a bad l950s science-fiction movie. “Don’t know. That’s why I suggested the lab go in there first; there’re a lot of footprints.”

“There’s also a lot of time being wasted.” “Maybe.” “Hamilton didn’t argue the point.” It struck me as I said it that shoving his boss down his throat was not the way to get on Smith’s best side. It was possible I had nothing to lose, but I didn’t know that yet and instantly regretted the comment. Smith gave me a baleful look.

“I’m not Hamilton.” “I know, dumb thing to say.

He paused, I think a little startled by the apology, and then turned to glance at the closed front door for no apparent reason. He spoke to me with his back turned. “So tell me about him.” I glanced at Spinney, who rolled his eyes and smiled before I catered to Smith’s request. I gave him everything I knew, from Wingate’s defenestration to his admission last night of owning a supposedly stolen 9 mm. I was in the middle of replaying my interview with Ellie Wingate a few minutes ago when his portable radio squawked that the Vermont State Police Crime Lab had arrived at the ravIne.

Smith acknowledged the message and marched for the door. He turned back when he noticed that neither Spinney nor I had moved. “You coming?” he asked his colleague.

Spinney shrugged. “Not much I can do until they’re finished. If it’s all right with you two, I’d like to follow up with Mrs. Wingate.” “Suit yourself,” and Smith was gone.

We both stood silently for a moment, looking at where he’d been standing. “Well, he didn’t say we couldn’t team up,” Spinney murmured.

I smiled. “Glad to have you. What’s he like to work with?” Spinney made a face. “What you see is what we got.” “Is he any good? I was told he’s Hamilton’s senior man.” “He is that.” Spinney waved his hand, as if to shoo away a fly.

“Oh, hell, he deserves it, too. He works hard, gets results-he’s good at what he does. I just think he has no personality.” I gave a shrug and turned toward the staircase. “Want to meet the widow?” We were halfway up the stairs when the front door opened below We both looked down to see a tall, tanned, immaculately dressed an in loafers, tan slacks, a herringbone sports coat, sweater, and tie. Bruce Wingate’s wardrobe had once struck me as J.C. Penney strivg for bigger times, this guy was an advertisement for Gentleman I uarterly.

He turned a vaguely George Hamilton-type face toward us, obvisly startled. “Who are you?” Before either one of us could answer, I saw Ellie Wingate swing to view at the top of the stairs, with Greta hard on her heels. “Paul, ank God you’re here.” “Paul” double-stepped up the stairs. Spinney and I moved aside let him float on by. His after-shave lingered in the air behind him, using Spinney to cock an eyebrow and tilt his head slightly to one e, like an emaciated owl spying a vole from afar. At the top of the stairs, Spinney introduced us both to the stranger. e’re with the police.” The other man shook our hands. “Paul Gorman, a friend of the ily. Have you found out anything yet?” “We’re just beginning.” “Of course, and no doubt you want to speak with Ellie.

Give us couple of minutes, will you?” Without waiting for an answer, he returned to the women and ooped them up. We watched them wend their way down the hall to eta’s apartment.

Spinney gave a theatrical gaze toward the blotchy ceiling. “Ohhhy and who was that cast of characters?” “The square one with the red face was Greta Lynn, who owns this mp; the lady in distress is Mrs. Wingate; and Gorman heads up eedom to Choose, or FTC, some sort of Boston-based deprogramng organization for parents with children ‘abducted’ by cults.”

“I thought FTC was the Federal Trade Commission.” I glanced down the hall. Greta had been left standing outside her or. She saw me looking and turned her back, obviously embarrassed having been so obviously excluded from Gorman and Ellie’s little -together.

“Interesting,” I muttered.

Spinney followed my look. “Not in the mood to share, I guess. So I me,” he added, leaning his bony hip against the newel post. “What’s zng on here? You think Edward Sarris has anything to do with zngate’s death?” “Him or anyone else. If this were the movies, he’d be the bad guy sure.” “Wingate burns five of Sarris’s people to death, so Sarris knocks off Wingate?” Spinney had obviously been briefed on the case earlier. “Right.” “But you don’t like that.” I ran my fingers through my hair and scratched my neck. “It could be that simple. I’d like some details, though.” Greta’s door opened and Gorman’s inappropriately smiling face appeared.

“Please, come in.” “Sounds like a dentist,” Spinney muttered. But to me, it sounded worse, like a man who had taken control. I very much doubted that the interview we were about to conduct would get us very far; Gorman would see to that. The question was, why?

He led us-including Greta, who seemed more like a guest in her own home down a short, dark, somewhat sour-smelling corridor to another door.

We entered a large living room, the corner windows of which looked down onto Route I 14 and North Street. The surprise was that it was bright, cheery, immaculately clean, smelled like roses, and was furnished not with antiques, but with an assortment of beautifully maintained, well-coordinated pieces. It was embracing, gently feminine, and very homey-an unthinkable jewel buried in the middle of a gigantic rotting hulk of a building.

“My God, Greta, this is amazing.” She didn’t answer, indeed, she looked quite angry that her secret had gotten out. Gorman settled comfortably onto a sofa next to a strained Ellie Wingate and waved us to the various seats around the room. “Now, how may Mrs. Wingate help you?” he asked, with all the charm of a yacht salesman.

I looked at Spinney. He sat back in an armchair and stuck his long legs out, an easy smile on his face. “Just a few questions, nothing remarkable.” Ellie Wingate sat as before, her hands in her lap, her eyes focused on the ground, but her back was ramrod-stiff-not the curved, caved-in posture I’d come to expect from most people with her recent grief. This was a woman far more nervous than bereaved. “Fire away, Sergeant.” Gorman leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees, his hands gathered loosely before him, his body language shifting to a let’s-shoot-the-shit-with-the-boys kind of guy.

“Why are you here’?” Gorman let a second pass before smiling. “Ellie called me. Told me what had happened.” “When did you call him, Mrs. Wingate?” Gorman answered for her. “This morning. A little over an hour 0. Actually, she had Greta here do it for her.” He looked like the cat ate the canary. “Where were you?” “In Hanover, New Hampshire.”

“And you knew to call him there?” Spinney looked to Ellie aln.

She looked up, but Gorman answered for her once more. “I have ar phone.

All my calls get forwarded to wherever I am.” Ah, I thought, aren’t we clever. I glanced at my watch. If the call d been a little over a hour ago, that would have meant that immedily upon hearing of her husband’s death, Ellie had dispatched Greta the phone. It struck me as an unusual reaction, especially in someone hard hit as Ellie Wingate obviously was.

What was she trying to ver up?

“And you dropped everything to come tearing up here.” “Of course.

Wouldn’t you have done the same thing?” Spinney shifted in his seat.

“Mrs. Wingate, how are you feeling?” “She’s upset pretty natural reaction, isn’t it?” “Mrs. Wingate?” She looked up, her lips tight.

“Feel like talking?” She nodded.

“I know you already talked to Joe here. But I just want to hear or myself.” “That’s fine,” she whispered.

“Okay. So you two went to bed last night, and when you woke up, ur husband was gone. Is that right?” “Yes.” “What did you do then?”

“Then?” “Yes, after you realized he was gone.

“I started to get dressed. Then Mrs. Lynn came and told me Bruce had been… killed.” “Where did you think he’d gone?” “I don’t know.” “Were you concerned?” “No, well I mean… I don’t remember.” “Did you think he’d gotten up early to go for a walk?” “What does it matter, Sergeant?

She was barely awake.” “Mrs. Wingate, what did you think?” “I was sleepy.” “Was your husband in the habit of going out early, before you got up?” “You were the one who said that.” Spinney, as always, ignored Gorman.

“Was he?” “No.” “So it was odd, his not being there?” Gorman sat forward on the edge of his seat, his voice harder than before. “I’m not sure I like this. You’re implying Ellie knows something she’s not admitting.”

“Am I?” “I think so. And as her friend, I think I ought to tell her not to speak any further with you.” “Is that right, Mrs. Wingate? You want to stop talking with us?” She looked from us to Gorman and back.

“We’re trying to find the man who killed your husband. Anything you could tell us might help.” “I would like to help, but I took a Valium last night. I was asleep.” I cleared my throat and Spinney glanced over to me, cocking an eyebrow.

“Ellie,” I said, “I looked at your prescription bottle. It was filled a month ago. All twenty pills are still in the bottle.” Ellie’s eyes shot up and flitted nervously between Spinney and me. “I… I was asleep.” “This has nothing to do with finding out who killed this poor woman’s husband. If you suspect her of something, then come out and say it.

Otherwise, I’m going to ask you to leave.” I heard a car drive up outside and a door slam. A few moments later there was a knock at the door. Spinney rose and left the room.

“Ellie, do you have something you want to tell me?” “No.” “I think you do. I think you know who wrote that note last night. I think your husband may have gone off to meet someone. Was that note from Julie? Or from someone claiming to know where she was?” Her hands were a tight ball in her lap, the knuckles white. “No.” I heard Spinney talking with someone in the hall, then steps going back down toward the stairs.

“That’s enough. What are you implying?” Spinney spoke from the hall door. “We’re implying that Mrs. Wingate knows more than she’s telling us. She lied about the Valium and we think she’s lying about the identity of whoever wrote that note.” Gorman stood up and grabbed Ellie’s elbow, just as her husband had earlier. The repetition of the gesture deepened my already-keen interest in her she was taking on the look of a talisman of sorts, the “~ r of the secrets. Did she know if Wingate started that fire? Did Il Fox beforehand? Did she know who killed her husband? orman’s voice pulled me back to the present. “We’re leaving. is lying dead out there, and you’re in here badgering his widow. ‘re so hung up on getting who killed him, talk to Sarris. That’s man, or one of his goons. Bruce Wingate challenged his authority, ow Bruce is dead. It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure that ut.” rose as Mrs. Wingate did. “Are you leaving, Ellie, or do you want k with us further?” pinney stood in the doorway, filling it. Ellie looked around the ‘Please get out of the way, Sergeant.” ‘Ellie?” I asked again. ‘I want to go,” she whispered. pinney stood aside. “Where’re you headed?”

‘Home,” she said vaguely.

‘You’re not going to try to find Julie, after all this?” I asked.

‘That’s my job now,” Gorman answered. “I’ll be staying at the Horse Motel in St. Johnsbury until this mess is cleared up.” He d her past Spinney into the hallway.

pinney reached out and touched his arm as he passed. “I know Wingate is eager to get home and put this behind her, but like it t, we’re going to have to ask her more questions over the next e of days.” ‘So?” pinney leaned forward just a hair-a hint of aggressive body age. “Mr.

Gorman, you know and I know that there are some ems with all this, some unanswered questions. It would be a lot if she stuck around here for a while. Cooperation from you will in your favor.” orman started to answer, but then paused a moment. “All right. Mrs.

Wingate up at my motel for a couple of days. But no more, nderstand?

She needs to get back to a familiar environmenta e.

pinney smiled. “Thank you, appreciate it.” eaving Greta behind, we followed them downstairs and watched rman piled Ellie into his car.

“We’ll send along her things after ime lab’s through with them.” orman flipped a hand at me. “Whatever.” He walked around driver’s side of the car, got in, and drove off toward II 4. As left, I saw Ellie’s white face looking back at us, drawn and strained-stressed, I thought, as much by her knowledge as by her grief.

Spinney looked at me. “Holding out on the sleeping pills, hey?” “Not on purpose. I was about to tell Smith when he took off.” “No sweat; it went okay. We got other problems, though.” “What?” “You know a guy named Rennie Wilson?” “Sure.” The introduction of Rennie’s name in this context startled me. I looked at Spinney’s serious face and felt the plug being pulled from some small but sensitive vial in my chest. “Why?”

“They just found his lighter at the scene, under the body.” “I don’t want to talk to these butt-heads.” Rennie sat on the tailgate of his pickup, his feet dangling, his arms crossed over his chest, his torso rocking slightly back and forth like a tightly wound-up toy.

“So they told me.” “Fucking assholes.” Spinney stood nearby. Slowly, without much movement, he got all the troopers and most everyone else away from the truck. “Shit. I was the one that got all these bozos up here in the first place. Some murderer.” From where I stood, I could see into the ravine. Bruce Wingate’s body was being placed into a black body bag, his hands enveloped in clear plastic sacks. The almost mystical feeling of this morning-of the lonely corpse wreathed in foggy tendrils-had been replaced with one of mechanical industry. Crime lab technicians, troopers, and plainclothesmen were slowly combing the outlying reaches of the scene, using tape measures, cameras, and assorted esoterica. The ground was littered with evidence cans, tool boxes, and odd pieces of equipment.

Wingate, in his bag, looked uncomfortably out of place, as if he’d fallen unnoticed out the back of some ambulance.

Rennie followed my gaze. “What the fuck kind of airhead do they think I am? I’m going to kill a guy, ditch his body in that hole, and then call everyone except the fucking National Guard? Get real. I’d have to be some kind of dick-head, you know?” Procedure is that the body stays as found while the search team through its routine. Only then does the medical examiner come o an examination, and finally roll the body over to check the other That’s when they found the lighter, lying on the ground. I noticed medical examiner was a man this time, presumably Hillstrom’s I rep. He was a heavyset bald man with black-rimmed glasses who ed to have difficulty moving around.

I looked at Rennie. I’d known him a long time, had seen him fly he handle many times, although never violently. Still, he was impulbull-headed, and right now, incredibly angry. God knows I didn’t him to be guilty of Wingate’s murder, but in all honesty I couldn’t him out. “It’s not unheard of for the guilty party to scream the est, just to divert attention.” “Well, what about the lighter? Shit. IfI was that smart, why would left the fucking lighter behind? Besides, I haven’t seen that damn g in months.” “The lighter might have fallen out of your pocket by accident.” “I told you I lost it months ago.” I didn’t reply.

He looked around at the now distant state cops. “Assholes.” “You told them you’d only talk to me. So talk.” “I didn’t do it.” “Okay. So how ‘bout I ask some dumb questions, just for the rd?” “Do I have a choice?”

I was starting to feel he was protesting too much for his own “You’re not under arrest, Rennie. You can leave right now, if want. In fact, maybe you ought to just stay quiet and get a law”You’re shittin’ me.”

“If I were in your position, that’s what I’d do.” He gave me a devious sidelong glance. “What is this, reverse hology?” “I’m just saying we can talk if you want to-you’re under no gation.” “I didn’t do it, Joe.”

“So you want to talk?” He shrugged, considerably calmer. “Got nothin’

to hide.” “Where were you last night?” He laughed bitterly. “Oh, I love that. I was carving up that ass,you know?” “I told you you wouldn’t like the questions.” “All right, all right. I got off work; I went home and cleaned up a little; I went into Lyndonville to have a few drinks; drove around a little; and went to bed. End of story.” “Where did you have the few drinks?” “Some bar.” The vagueness sent a small but palpable chill through me. An innocent man in a tight squeeze would know the value of accuracy. “Which bar?” “Shit, I don’t know-The Maple Door. It’s on Route 5, down from the Miss Lyndonville Diner.” “Anyone see you there?” He looked at me, his face flushed with anger. “No. I went alone into the place; nobody was there. I poured myself a drink, left the money on the counter, and then I left.” “I meant anyone who might know you. He muttered something. “No. I never been there before.” “Talk to the bartender?” “No, except to order.” “What did you drink?” “Shit, I don’t know-beer.” “What time?” “Who knows?” “What time you get home?” “Late. Nadine was asleep.” “You wake her up?” “No. I slept in the spare room. I do that when I come in late.” None of this was what I wanted to hear. Rennie had always been belligerent in front of authority, so his blowing steam didn’t bother me. But I sensed he wasn’t being straight, and that troubled me a lot. It made his bluster less childish and more like a coverup.

“How’d you lose the lighter?” He paused, obviously weighing his response. “I don’t remember.” I was beginning to hate this; the scales were tipping farther and farther against him. It was difficult keeping the skepticism out of my voIce.

“And you don’t have the slightest idea when you lost it?” He shrugged.

“No, maybe six months ago. I don’t know.” I let a few seconds pass. I scratched my forehead. Perhaps I was overreacting; I had hoped to find him absolutely innocent. Now I was having some serious doubts.

His voice, sounding tired, broke through my thoughts. “Am I really in deep shit here?” I looked at his face florid, worn, made older than his years through hard times and hard liquor. “As far as they’re concerned,” I headed toward the troopers and Spinney, “you’re their Number One spect.

And I got to tell you, your story doesn’t help you much.” I half-wanted him to blow a cork then, but he didn’t. He just said tly, “No, guess not.” “Did you see Bruce Wingate after you two had that fight the he was pushed out the window?” “No. I went home.” “Not even walking around later?” “No.” “You didn’t see him and his wife the next morning after the fire?” “Yeah, I guess I saw them then. That was it, though, and I didn’t to them. I didn’t even go near them.” “When do you get off work?” “Six-thirty. I worked late.” “Alone?” “Yeah. I had some paperwork to shove around.” “Night shift wasn’t there?” “Sure they were there. I was working in back.” “So you got home about seven?” “Yeah.”

“Nadine home?” “Yeah. She doesn’t get out much,” he said matter-of-factly. I knew was in a wheelchair, which obviously restricted her somewhat. I rubbed my eyes with my fingers. “Jesus, Rennie, you’re not ing yourself much here.” He flared a little at that.

“Not my fault I wasn’t giving some judge owjob all night. How did I know I’d need an alibi?” “All right, anything else to add?” “Nope.”

“Well, you want to talk more, I’ll be around.” I walked over to Spinney; Smith was standing next to him. “He he quit work at six-thirty, went home, went drinking at The Maple r, drove around a bit, and then hit the sack, all without seeing ne or being seen by anyone he knew.” “What about the lighter?” Smith asked. I was struck by the fact Smith must have acquiesced to Rennie’s demand to talk to me He didn’t seem any friendlier-his body language still told me I as welcome as a head cold-but I decided I’d take it as a good sign. “Says he lost it six months ago, but doesn’t know where.” “When but not where? That’s a little odd.” “I know.” Smith’s furrow deepened. “Well, it’s too early to do anything about him yet. Let’s wait until the lab results are in. I’ll have people check the bar and his workplace. We better get a search warrant for his house.” “What grounds?” I asked.

“Footprints,” Spinney piped up. “Unless he flew in for the kill.” “What about the shoes he has on?” Smith gave me a peeved look. “I already checked. They don’t match.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll get the warrant. If I’m lucky, I should be back in an hour or two.” We all three looked up as Rennie drove by, his rear tires spitting gravel. He ignored us, staring straight ahead.

“He had a fight with Wingate a few nights ago.” The other two turned to stare at me. I described everything that happened on the night Wingate was thrown out Fox’s window.

Spinney shook his head. “But Rennie didn’t come back at Wingate after he was punched? He just walked away?” “Yup.” “I don’t know Rennie, but that seems a little out of character.” I couldn’t answer that. I wasn’t sure I knew anything about Rennie’s character anymore. “I wonder why he was killed way out here?” Smith mused, looking around.

I shrugged. “Quiet place for a meeting if you don’t want witnesses.”

“Or for a murder,” Spinney added.

Smith checked his watch. “I’ll post a discreet watch on his house to see if he tries to remove anything before we can get in there with a warrant. I’ll also have the lab guys go over Wingate’s room to see what we can find there.” He walked off toward the large green van that housed the crime lab and its crew of four. “What’re your plans?” Spinney asked me.

I looked to the bottom of the ravine. “I think I’ll poke around here for a bit, maybe talk to the M.E. I’d like to look at the footprints again, just to get them straight in my mind-that is, assuming there’s anything left to see. How ‘bout you?” “I want to check out Wingate’s room. Why don’t I meet you at the Rocky River in about an hour and a half”’ I nodded and headed down the steep trail leading to the bottom of the ravine, using a rope someone had anchored to the top to help keep my footing. As I’d suspected would happen with all this traffic, the trail had become treacherously slippery.

Below me, the medical examiner was directing two troopers to ce the loaded body bag onto a stretcher. He glanced up and studied slow progress. “Are you Joe Gunther?” “That’s right.” “I’m Dr. Hoard, the local M.E. Dr. Hillstrom told me to keep an out for you.” I got to the bottom finally and walked over to him. “That was nice er.” “She said to tell you what you wanted to know, not that I have ch at this stage.”

Despite the cool air, I noticed his forehead was ded with sweat. He took off his glasses and wiped them with a dkerchief.

“So what do you have?” “He was killed by a good half-dozen blows of a knife, a big one he looks of it. Probably a kitchen knife.” He bent down and undid zipper to the bag. It was a little startling to see Wingate reappear, and dirty, his deadly, almost yellow cast emphasized by his black ud.

Hoard rolled him over slightly and pulled down his jacket and to reveal the base of the neck. “See how some of the wounds gap others look narrow?” I squatted down and looked. There was little blood-it had mostly ined away-and the cuts looked like they could have been made in Ie, bloodless chicken carcass. “Yeah.” “That’s because of what we call Langer’s lines. The skin is a fabric ntermingled dermal collagen and elastic fibers that tend to run thwise along a body and form a pattern called the lines of cleavage. knife cuts across Langer’s lines, the wound gaps, because the erlying fabric tension is pulling at a ninety-degree angle to the sion. If, on the other hand, the cut is parallel to Langer’s lines-and lines of cleavage-the wound is narrow.

“Does that tell you anything?” “If the stab wound is straight in and out, and if it runs parallel to ger’s lines, you can often tell the blade’s width and thickness. e,” he pointed to a single gash. “See?

It’s wide, but the back of the e isn’t thick like a hunting knife’s would be.” He let Wingate roll “Of course, that’s pure speculation.

He’s going straight to Burlon now, where Dr.

Hillstrom can do a more detailed analysis.” “When do you think he died?”

He smiled. “Last night sometime.” I looked at him.

“Sorry, I wish I were joking. Actually, it’s about all I can tell you.