Fruits of the Poisonous Tree

17

Tony Brandt's voice on the phone was both hesitant and slightly defiant. “I hope you’ve gotten used to the idea of getting a medal.”

It was midway through the second week of my convalescence, and all four of us had been playing cards in the living room following dinner. The group behind me laughed suddenly at something Leo said, and I stretched the telephone cord until I was just inside the front hallway. “Why?” was all I asked.

“’Cause the ceremony’s tomorrow morning, up where you are. Dunn’s invited the press and a few flunkies-yours truly included-we’ll do it in your front yard if the weather’s good.”

“Whether I like it or not.”

“Whether you like it or not. ’Course, you could make us look like jerks and skip town for a while.”

I waited for more and then asked, “Is that a recommendation?”

He chuckled briefly. “I guess not. Wishful thinking. For a second, I could picture Dunn trying to explain where you were… ”

“Is he going to graciously give me a call in an hour and ask my permission, or is that what you’re doing now?”

The answering silence had no mirth in it. “Yeah,” he finally admitted, “James is tied up till late tonight-asked me to do the honors. Apologies and all that.”

“Right. What time?”

“Ten in the morning.”

I digested the news, slowly accepting that there was little I could do about it without involving the department in publicity it didn’t deserve. Brandt saying he was going to be there confirmed that, regardless of whatever furor might have preceded this decision, he’d lost, and now it was time for a proper stiff upper lip. “Tell him I’ll be here.”

Tony was more resigned than pleased. “Okay.”

“Do me a favor, though, will you? Could you bring a synopsis of Vogel’s case up with you tomorrow?”

There was a long pause. He knew I hadn’t merely run out of reading material. “You working on something?”

“I just want to refresh my mind on a few points.”

“All right,” he said slowly. “Nothing up your sleeve?”

He didn’t want to know-not really. I wasn’t sure I did myself.

“Nope. See you tomorrow.”

Unfortunately, the next day was beautiful. The sky was a startling shade of electric blue, making a picture-perfect backdrop for the miles of gaudily dressed trees that swept down the valley from the farmhouse’s front door. Even the giant maple in the yard was at its best-a wild craze of red and orange impressionist daubings, looming high overhead in a dazzling canopy. I shook my head with disgust at the whole display and slammed the door on it, returning to the kitchen.

It was not the happy gathering one might have expected on such an occasion, despite Leo’s best efforts to make it cheerful. Reinforcing my gloom, Gail had barely said a word since I’d mentioned the ceremony the night before, and my mother kept looking nervously from one of us to the other, as if anxious to find out whose fuse was going to prove shorter.

I was troubled by Gail myself. There was no great love between her and Dunn, and the blatant opportunism of his little maneuver hadn’t been lost on any of us. But there was something beyond that, and I was fearful it stemmed from my having asked her to recount the rape. I wondered if reliving the trauma had been exactly the wrong thing for her to have done. But despite several gentle attempts to get her to talk, she kept to herself. Perhaps Dunn’s contrived ceremony was the last straw for her. She had, after all, come up not only to help me out, but also to get away from the turmoil and pressure that Brattleboro had come to represent.

So we ate breakfast largely in silence and ended up retreating to our separate corners of the house to await the circus’s arrival.

Our worst fears were well founded. The string of cars that eventually crested the driveway reminded me of the funeral cortege of some latter-day martyr. Not only were all the Brattleboro luminaries there in force, but the town’s familiar media corps had been reinforced by a dozen more from around the region, including two TV trucks.

As I stood in the doorway, pointing out the cast of characters to Leo as they milled around like a bunch of actors on break, he shook his head and asked, “Who the hell did they leave behind?”

Brandt was the first to come over to shake hands, complimenting Leo as he gave me an appraising eye. “Nice work-he almost looks better than before he was run through.”

“Jesus, Tony,” I muttered, my eyes fixed on the throng.

He gave me a hopeless shrug. “It was out of my hands, Joe. I told Dunn we were tabling the Medal of Honor at your request, and he just said, ‘Then I’ll do it my way.’”

“What crap,” I muttered.

“You know, what all of us admit except you is that you deserve this citation. Besides, we don’t do this job for the money, Joe, and people like you give other cops something to be proud of.”

I was too frustrated to answer, feeling I was being celebrated simply for surviving.

“Well,” Tony filled the silence impatiently. “Let’s get it over with.”

From that point on, it was difficult identifying who was in control, as we were unsuccessfully posed in front of one photogenic location after another. I, my mother-included because she was deemed picturesque-Brandt, Dunn, and a sullen Gail, were shuffled from the front steps, to the base of the maple, to the bottom of the yard. Finally, at the outer limits of his patience, Dunn ended it abruptly by giving a short, clenched-teeth speech about what a wonderful fellow I was and thrust his precious plaque at me as if he couldn’t get rid of it fast enough-all before a semicircle of clicking cameras, tape recorders, and bulky TV camcorders.

When it was over, after Dunn had left and we’d returned to the house, fending off the crowd of reporters with a barrage of “no comments,” Tony Brandt handed over a cardboard box filled with documents.

“This isn’t everything, of course. I left out all the chain-of-evidence data, most of the legal mumbo-jumbo, and a lot of stuff I didn’t think you’d be interested in-including the physical evidence, which stays under lock and key. That basically leaves the narrative documents-who did what when-the relevant technical paperwork, and a lot of photographs. That what you were after?”

I nodded at the box. “I really appreciate it, Tony.”

We were still standing in the front hallway, Brandt having declined an invitation by my mother to stay for lunch. He looked at me long enough to force me to finally meet his eyes. “You going to tell me why you want all this?”

“I would if I could.”

“Something must have got you thinking.”

I shook my head. “It’s not like I’ve got a problem. Gail and I were just talking the other night, and I started asking myself questions-niggly little ones. The answers are all probably in there.” I pointed my chin at the box.

“And if they aren’t?”

I raised both palms toward the ceiling. “I’ll call you.”

Tony Brandt mulled that over for a while, absentmindedly chewing his lower lip. “You realize this thing could go to court anytime. Dunn’s only hoping it won’t before the election.”

“You think it might?” I asked, surprised. Dunn wasn’t the only one expecting a drawn-out process. Virtually none of us had ever seen a felony case go in front of a judge in anything under twelve months-and that was considered fast.

“No,” he admitted. “But you never know. Tom Kelly’s still playing coy-no depositions, no continuances, no delaying tactics whatsoever. I just want to be sure that, regardless of when they go in, we’ve made damned sure Dunn’s got everything he needs. If you’ve got doubts, I want to hear them now. If Dunn ends up screwing up on his own, that’s his problem, but I don’t want him dropping the ball because of something we did or didn’t do.”

“I understand,” I said neutrally, sensitive to the hackles I’d raised in his mind. “But I’ve got to do my job regardless of the timing.”

He seemed to stop breathing for a moment, and then let out a long sigh. “Just do it soon, okay?”

He moved toward the front door. I followed him out. “Things a little wild back home?” I asked, stimulated by his pessimistic tone.

“You been watching the news? Between the vigils, the public meetings, the media, and Dunn and Derby chewing on each other every day, this case is about the only topic in town. That crazy bastard Jason Ryan has anointed himself the Joan of Arc of the feminist movement, if you can believe that, and he’s started passing out pepper Mace to damn near every woman he meets. So now the usual domestic disputes and parking-lot squabbles are starting to involve chemical warfare, with a few of our guys getting zapped in the process. The town’s a zoo, and if you want my opinion, all it would take is for some loony to do something really crazy, to put us on the map big time.”

Over the many years I’d worked with him, I’d rarely seen Tony Brandt so worked up. I patted his shoulder as we reached his car. “Look, I’ve probably just had too much time on my hands, and nothing else to think about. I’ll read through what you brought me, re-familiarize myself with the case, and then drop it, okay? I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”

He turned and looked at me then and echoed what was going on in my own brain. “I know you too well, Joe, and that scares the shit out of me.”

I moved the box upstairs and spread its contents in orderly piles around my old bedroom, feeling an odd twinge of pleasure as I did so. I realized how much I’d been missing the job. Beyond any questions I might have harbored concerning this particular investigation, I found myself happy merely manipulating the tools of my craft. The eye-witness accounts, case reports, forensic sheets, and crime-scene photos passed before my eyes with a comforting familiarity and were as welcome and rewarding as the exercises I’d been doing to retrain my muscles. I even kidded myself that perhaps my reason for asking for these documents had been subconsciously therapeutic, with no bearing on the actual integrity of the case.

I was lost in this reacquaintance ritual when a knock at the door made me look up. Gail was standing quietly on the threshold, her expression guarded. “What are you doing, Joe?”

I felt suddenly and inexplicably guilty, as if caught in an act of lapsed faith. “Oh. Tony brought up a synopsis of your case-basically what he’s handing over to Dunn. I thought I’d look it over again-it’s been a long time.”

She watched me in silence, her face impassive, her eyes taking in the carefully stacked piles. “Leo’s looking for you.”

I checked my watch in surprise. I’d lost track of time and had completely forgotten our afternoon training. Gail was already walking back down the dark hallway toward the stairs. I quickly got to my feet and went after her. “Gail…”

She turned in the gloomy light and faced me silently, her arms by her sides, her body tired and defeated. I reached out and held her shoulders, to no response. “Something’s wrong. Was it our talk last night? Or Dunn and his stupid plaque?”

She smiled wanly and shrugged. “I’m just feeling a little blue. It’s just part of the process. Our talk was good. I know it’s what I’m supposed to do.”

“Is there anything I can do to make things easier?”

She raised her hand then and laid it on my forearm. “Not unless you could give me amnesia.” She shook her head, the smile fading entirely. “I think I’ll take a nap. You go work out with your brother.” She paused a moment and then asked, “You’re doing a lot better, aren’t you?”

“I’m getting there. I still don’t have much stamina, but the strength is coming back. Why?”

“I was just thinking that I wasn’t doing much good up here anymore. Maybe I ought to go back to Bratt-help Susan out.”

“Would that make you feel better?”

She slipped her shoulders from under my hands and turned away again. “I don’t know. I’ll take a nap first.”

I almost skipped the soaps that day. After my workout with Leo, I returned to my paper piles and began to discover that nostalgia had played no part in my need to review what we’d done. Things no longer felt as solid to me as they had before Vogel stuck me with his knife. I still had no palpable evidence leading me anywhere, but I did have a growing list of questions that needed definite answers.

None of which eclipsed my concerns about Gail. Her abrupt emotional nose dive shouldn’t have been unexpected. But it reminded me too much of the days immediately following the rape, when she’d been absorbed by her friends, and I’d ended up on the outside.

My mother turned down the sound before I even reached my chair.

“So what’s going on?” she asked me bluntly.

I quoted Gail. “It’s a process that has its ups and downs.”

She shook her head impatiently. “I know that. Did you talk to her about that idiocy this morning?”

“I’ve tried… ” I stopped, and thought about the question more carefully, countering with a question of my own. “What about this morning? She’s a politician herself. She may have thought it was a lousy thing to do, but she knows the game.”

Again, my mother looked disgusted. “I thought you’d missed the point. I could see it by the way you handled things.”

I rubbed my forehead in exasperation. “What are you driving at?”

She looked at me closely. “Where’s Gail’s award?” She then squeezed my hand supportively, sat back in her chair, and hit the remote, her message delivered. The earnest murmurings of insincere people filled the room.

I sat there beside her, stunned by my own shortsightedness. I was no longer in the mood to watch TV; nor did I want to further aggravate Gail by waking her up just to be contrite and make myself feel better. So I did what I’d done for most of my life when the complexities of human nature outpaced me-I went back to work.

My weeks in a coma had given me distance from the case, allowing my mind to float free of the momentum and prejudice that had grown as we’d gotten closer to Bob Vogel. Now, that passion had been supplanted by an analytical coolness, granting me the chance to play devil’s advocate with many of the clues we’d collected with indiscriminate enthusiasm.

For example: the rape itself. We had built strong, credible bridges linking Gail’s account, the evidence found at the scene, and Bob Vogel’s MO. My perusal of Tony’s selected documents told me that these bridges had been strengthened by corroboration and tailored for clarity.

So where was the problem?

While attempting to fit a person to a crime, police officers are supposed to probe for the loopholes, no matter how flimsy. Much of this falls into the “vagaries of human nature” department, such as, in our situation, the assumption that Bob Vogel had continued to learn from each of his previous assaults, altering the way he blocked his victims’ vision, restrained their movements, and protected his hands by using gloves when he beat them.

My concern was that we hadn’t questioned hard enough, instead caving in to the weight of attractive evidence and increasingly turning our backs on a significant number of apparently minor questions.

Such as: Why, after stealthily entering the house and removing his clothes-presumably to help shield his identity-did Vogel climb onto Gail before bagging her head? By so doing, he’d woken her up prematurely and had run the risk of being identified.

Why did he whisper, when the two of them had never met, and there was no way she’d recognize his voice?

During the rape, he’d taken the time to go on a rampage, breaking lamps and tearing apart Gail’s drawers and closet. But why had he been so methodical, working his way around the room in a clockwise direction? Why had he spared the fancy TV set-the largest target in the room-and why had he said, “Shit,” when the expensive Mexican plate she’d had hanging on the wall fell and broke? Surely such destruction was the whole point of the exercise. Hadn’t he called her a “snotty god-damn bitch,” implying a sense of social and financial inferiority-a factor which had played no apparent part in Vogel’s previous rapes? It was an odd choice of words from someone whose vocabulary tended to wallow among the truly obscene-a phrase that sounded even vaguely effeminate.

And what about the means of entry? It had been easy to effect-the simple sliding of a knife blade across a window’s loose lock-but that had been the only such vulnerable window in the house. An unlikely coincidence unless Vogel had been inside before, scoping things out-a supposition for which we had no evidence. Murchison, the glass man, had been a good suspect there, but according to a forensics report from Waterbury-the blood-stained knife found in Vogel’s trailer was a perfect match for the scratch marks on the lock.

And what about Vogel’s presence in the area shortly before the attack? The neighbor who’d hired him to work on her lawn had positively identified him, but to our knowledge, Vogel had never staked out his intended victims before in that fashion. Furthermore, assuming that he’d set fire to the regular yard man’s equipment so he could legitimately get close to Gail’s house, why hadn’t he gone door to door afterward, pretending to offer his services to others? That simple ploy could have put him right at Gail’s doorstep, and-if he’d properly conned her-might have gotten him inside.

I hadn’t lost sight of all the evidence we had against Bob Vogel, or of the fact that his own actions, once he’d been accused, had hardly been those of an innocent victim. But I was troubled by what I was finding.

With the sun having surrendered to the room’s overhead light, and the sounds of dinner being prepared in the kitchen below, I sat back from my research and stared at the floor in contemplation, Tony Brandt’s words of caution echoing in my ears. If you’re going to kick over the apple cart, he’d implied, do it now and don’t be wrong.

What I needed was a sounding board, and of the two best ones I’d used in the past, one-Tony Brandt himself-was in Brattleboro, while the other was downstairs, slowly drifting away from me on a raft of her own misery.