Open season

32

Gail found me fast asleep on a hallway bench outside Kunkle’s hospital room. I dreamed of her before I saw her, interspersing her face with dim snow-shrouded images of shouting policemen, Eskimos with crossbows, and peaceful half-heads haloed in pink blood.

She brought me back with a few gentle strokes across my forehead. “You want to go to bed?” She smiled.

“Aren’t we in bed?” I blinked hard several times and rubbed my eyes. I leaned forward, propping my elbows on my knees, and looked at the floor. It was speckled linoleum, with bright stripes running down the middle.

Gail rubbed my back; the sensation was muted by my coat.

“What time is it?”

“Almost midnight. How’s Kunkle?”

“Depressed-that’s normal for him. I’ll give him good cause this time, though. Doctor says he might lose the arm. He’ll sure as hell never play basketball again.”

“What happened out there, anyway?”

I rubbed my eyes again. “The roof fell in. It all came apart. Pretty fitting end to this whole stupid mess.”

She stood up and pulled me to my feet. “Come on home.”

It had stopped snowing sometime that afternoon, the storm dissipating with the suddenness of its arrival. The sun had glared from low on the horizon on a snow-thickened landscape of gentle curves and dips. The Sno-Cats had crawled in various directions across this smooth and sparkling world, inanely following Stark’s dim ski tracks, carrying Cioffi and the dead trooper back to the highway or just wandering back and forth across Mount Washington’s broad foot, their growls rendered tinny and ineffectual by the unimpressed white mountains staring down at them.

Gorham had become a town besieged as state troopers, sheriff ’s men and even the town constable marched about in contrasting uniforms, notebooks in hand, radios squawking. Patrol cars, ambulances, snow plows, a coroner’s station wagon all sported blue, red, and yellow flashing lights with a competitive energy wasted on the local population, none of whom was in the way. In contrast to the chaos that had led up to it, this flurry of post-shooting investigations had all the earmarks of textbook efficiency. McNaughton, I and everyone else had been interviewed again and again by the representatives of those offices who now had to pick up our broken pieces. The veiled skeptical glances and toneless questions had done little to bolster what was left of our pride.

The day had concluded with several hours of isometric exercise on a jump seat in the back of the lurching ambulance carrying Kunkle home to Brattleboro. By the time I slumped onto the front seat of Gail’s car, I had been awake and tense for roughly thirty-four hours.

And yet, now that I was back in the lap of normalcy, heading toward bed with nothing but warm and soothing comfort attending, my mind began to stir from its torpor. I ran it all through, from the discovery of “Kimberly’s” twisted nude body to the snow-dusted corpse of her murderer, and all I could see were unanswered possibilities. The only light left, the only potential oasis in this desert, floated in Cioffi’s last words.

“Does the name Teicher ring any bells?”

“John Teicher?”

“Maybe. Who is he?”

“Head of Leatherton, Inc. I met him a few times when he was coaxing a building permit out of the board for that industrial park-not that it was any great feat. We were pushovers. Why?”

I didn’t answer at first. I was basking in the oasis. This piece of chitchat had handed me the source of Cioffi’s wealth, the probable reason for Pam Stark’s death, and, I thought, the father of her fetus. The sensation that washed over me was not unlike pure bliss. For the first time, I was convinced all the puzzle pieces were on the table-and I had just caught a glimpse of the box top.

“Why, Joe? What’s Teicher got to do with this?”

“I don’t know. His name just came up. Drive me by the office.”

She stared at me in amazement. “Joe, it’s the middle of the night.”

“I need to talk to Tony.”

“You can barely talk to anyone. Can’t it wait?”

“No. Please.”

She shook her head and turned the car around.

· · ·

“You’re not going to be able to get a warrant just because Cioffi mentioned his name. You know that.” Tony was sitting on the edge of a cot he’d set up in his office. He was wearing his pants and an undershirt.

I nodded.

“You also know that if you waltz through his door and piss him off, he’s liable to stir things up a little-like reporting you to Tom Wilson or the board.”

I nodded again.

He stood up and put his shirt on. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks. Can I do it?”

“You’re asking permission?”

“I want backup-lots of it.”

“You really think this is it?”

“Yes.”

Brandt gave me a half smile. “We’re in such hot water now, I don’t see where a little extra can do any harm. I’ve already been given thirty days vacation without pay, so you might do me some good for once.”

“They suspended you?”

“Yes and no. They won’t identify it, but I’m out of here next week for a month. That’ll give ’em time to decide whether to make it permanent or not. If you come up with something, I might be invited back.” He gave me an odd smile, and added, “Of course, that’s a two-edged sword for you. They plan to have you stand in for me while I’m out. That might grow on you.”

“Bullshit.”

He continued smiling. “Thanks. Well, I’m off to the hospital, for what little good it’ll do. Let’s reconvene here at 8:00 A.M. I’ll set everything up.” He put on his jacket and patted me on the shoulder. “I’m sorry about the screwup, Joe. Try to get some sleep.”