Scent of Evil

9

Maxine Paroddy, the morning-shift dispatcher, rolled her office chair across the small room and handed me a phone message through the slot below the bulletproof glass separating her from the entrance hall. “Call Gail,” she said.

I glanced at the pink slip. “There wasn’t something from the medical examiner’s office, was there?”

“Not on this shift. You heard the radio yet?”

“Why?”

“WBRT got hold of Jardine’s name somehow.”

A small pop of disappointment went off in my chest; so much for any press conference. “I was afraid of that. I saw McDonald lurking.” I crossed the hall to the detective bureau. Jardine’s identity was no deep, dark secret, and would have been released soon in any case, but McDonald’s scooping the information early made me feel like a man holding a stray kitten, surrounded by a pack of gathering mongrels. I didn’t doubt they’d be joined by others before too long.

I closed the door to my office and sat at my desk, eyeing the phone and thinking of Gail. I’d been looking forward to our planned dinner the night before with the enthusiasm of a teenager hoping he’d get lucky. It astounded me that, after so many years, such moments of intense sensual anticipation should hit me so hard… and that being deprived of one should make me all the more eager for a rematch. For years after my wife’s death, I never dreamed that the vitality of my courtship days would ever come my way again.

Now, however, my eagerness was tainted with my growing concerns about the case, and I became downright alarmed when her opening words today were: “You’re in deep shit now.”

“Why?” I suddenly knew she was speaking as a selectman, and that Brandt’s and my little conspiracy to keep Woll’s name under wraps had been revealed.

“First, you never went to bed; I have that on high authority. That means you’ve probably been fueling yourself with enough chemical by-products to drop a horse.”

I thought back to the Dunkin’ Donuts, my brain flooding with relief. “Horses are over-bred, makes ’em weak. What’s the second reason?”

“I got a call from Mrs. Morse. She’s beginning to twitch.” Barbara Morse was the chair of the board of selectmen, and one of Gail’s major opponents on most issues. Everyone called her “Mrs.” Morse with the same cringing optimism that they call obnoxious, willful children “sweetheart”; it was an unconscious peace offering made before each and every encounter. I put the relief on hold.

“What does she have to twitch about? The body’s barely cold.” I heard the wariness in my own voice.

“You heard the radio?”

“I’ve heard about the radio. What are they saying?”

“That a young, successful local businessman has been found dead and that the police are totally stymied. That’s my shorthand, of course.” Her voice dropped slightly. “I met him once, at a chamber-of-commerce thing. He was a bit like a used-car salesman, but it’s odd knowing someone who’s been killed that way.”

Depends on what you do for a living, I thought. “What does Mrs. Morse’s twitching mean for us?”

“Not too much right now. Most of us are reacting just like you did: It’s too early to start getting hysterical. Still, she’s working the phone, wondering out loud if the town’s going to be turned inside out like it was by your friend in the ski mask, and whether we should be better prepared, just in case. I don’t think she’s getting far. On the other hand, it won’t take much to make the board overreact, once they’ve built up enough steam.”

I let out a sigh; it was depressing, but predictable-so far. Nevertheless, her comments did make me feel the first twinges of guilt. I was indeed keeping her in the dark, because of her official position, which made me feel doubly uncomfortable when I asked, “Do you want to know if you should fasten your seat belt?”

“Nope. I’m calling to ask if you’d like yesterday’s dinner tonight. I just wanted to let you know the drums were beginning to beat.”

I chuckled at that, off the hook again. “What’s on the menu-sliced tofu on sprouts flambé?” Gail was an unbending vegetarian.

“Worse.”

“You got a date… And thanks for the warning.”

“My pleasure. See you soon.”

I hung up and turned on my pilfered fan, both to cut through the heat and to soothe my conflicting emotions.

The state medical examiner, Beverly Hillstrom, and I had become fast friends over time. We were both wary of pat answers and distrustful of the expedience that often pushes through red tape. We had more than once compared notes privately just to make sure her findings hadn’t suffered in translation from her office to mine. But, as I’d reminded Klesczewski, I always waited until I had those findings in hand before I called. Until now.

“Hello, Lieutenant.” Her voice was cool and pleasant, as usual. There were times that second adjective slipped, allowing the first to freeze the air. But this time I’d caught her in her office, presumably grateful for a paperwork interruption. “What can I do for you, as if I couldn’t guess?”

“Ouch. I tried leaving you alone as long as possible, but I’m afraid my sweaty palms got the better of me.”

She chuckled. Despite our friendship, we always referred to one another by title. Somehow, I’d felt early on that was a line she preferred to leave in place, for whatever reasons. “Well, I take it that Dr. Gould told you what he told me.”

“Acute cerebral ischemia?”

“Correct. That was definitely the cause of death.”

“Do you also agree with his hypothesis that the victim was taped to a chair and, quote-unquote, strangled by having his arteries shut off?”

“I find that entirely consistent.”

“What about the possible injection site? Was he shot up with anything?”

Again, I heard her soft laughter. “I give you high marks. A more impulsive man would have made that his first question. It was an injection site-we definitely ruled out an insect bite-and it’s also the reason you don’t have my report yet. I could fill out the death certificate now and be satisfied it was correct, but I agree with you and Dr. Gould that something about this whole thing is off-key.”

There was a pause. I could hear classical music in the background being reduced to a murmur. “So I took the liberty of contacting Dr. Isador Gramm, who works for the Department of Health on environmental matters.”

“Like pollution?”

“Yes. Primarily his focus, and most of his funding, is EPA. But he is also one of the only board-certified forensic toxicologists in New England, which makes him an invaluable resource. We’ve worked together in the past, and I respect him immensely.” Her choice of words, especially when coupled with that almost aloof tone, always made me think Dr. Hillstrom was just two steps away from bursting into Old English.

“How long will it take him to find something?” I asked, knowing full well how scientists, given an intricate puzzle, love to play with it for an eternity.

She didn’t pick up on my suspicious tone, or didn’t choose to. “That depends on what process of elimination he employs. He obviously has to compare our sample to known entities in order to come up with an identification. That’s quite a list, as you can imagine. I think, however, that you’ll be pleasantly surprised. This is an inspired researcher, and we have already given him a leg up.”

“How so?”

“Well, the histamine wheal-that’s the red halo around the injection site-is uncharacteristic of either heroin or cocaine, and the urinalysis revealed only cocaine metabolites, or leftovers if you will, indicating the victim’s last usage was several days ago. Furthermore, I removed a large tissue section at the injection site for Dr. Gramm’s use, which should be a big help to him.”

“So, the bottom line is what? A month?”

“At the outside. I’m not going to push him, since he’s doing this as a courtesy, but I have seen him when his interest is piqued. If that happens, results will be forthcoming much faster.”

I looked up and saw Tyler hovering outside my office door. I motioned him to enter and sit. “Let’s hope he’s piqued half to death, then. I really appreciate it, Doctor. I promise I’ll sit tight till I hear from you.”

“Not to worry, Lieutenant. It’s always a pleasure.”

I hung up and looked at Tyler. “What’ve you got?”

He leaned forward and placed one of our own fingerprint index cards on my desk. I twirled it around and read, “Millard ‘Milly’ Crawford.”

“Mr. Crawford’s thumb print was flat-dab in the middle of the cocaine envelope you found at Jardine’s place.”

I read the card more carefully. Milly Crawford was a regular client, an erstwhile car thief, dealer in stolen goods, and-recently-a drug dealer. I knew him personally, of course; few of these guys become regulars without also becoming acquaintances with everyone on the force. But I had never had much to do with him. “Nice work.”

“That ain’t all.” Tyler pulled his notebook from his pocket and thumbed through several pages. “The cigarette we found in the grave had saliva on it. We managed to type it-the guy was a secretor, lucky for us. It’s AB, which is pretty rare; only about ten percent of the population is AB, so that might come in handy somewhere down the road.”

Not too far down, I thought. I remembered from his file that John Woll’s blood type was AB.

Tyler flipped a page. “And last but not least, we found out that the woman’s blouse you found in Jardine’s laundry was probably bought at a store called One Hundred Main, which is, predictably, on Main Street.”

“Yeah, I know it-been open about six months.”

“Right. They import very upscale stuff, like that blouse, which, it turns out, is a rare designer item.”

“You don’t know yet who bought it, though?”

“No. I called the distributor in New Jersey, which led me to One Hundred Main. I called them, too, but only to ask if they’d sold any of the blouses. I figured you’d want to send somebody down there to get the details.”

“How many had they sold?”

He grinned and held up one finger.

I nodded. “Lucky again. Anything else?”

He got up. “That’s it. I should be hearing from Waterbury about the specific makeup of the cocaine later this afternoon, but I doubt it’ll be worth much. Unless it was stepped on with something weird like Tylenol or boric acid, it won’t really help identify the manufacturer.”

“Stepping on” cocaine meant cutting it with some cheap powdery substitute so dealers could swell both inventory and profits. In the movies, they always use powdered sugar or milk; real dealers know those are too sweet and detectable. “Do you know what Milly Crawford’s preference is?”

Tyler went back to his notebook. “I wrote that down somewhere… Last time we arrested him, he had several jars of Coke Buster in his apartment. I think that’s mannitol with a sexy name, but everyone uses it-you can buy it under that trade name in any head shop.”

I stopped him as he reached the door. “By the way, does Crawford still live at the same place?”

“Yup. Been there for years.”

I waited until he’d closed the door, pulled a set of keys from my pocket, and unlocked the only drawer in my desk I kept secure. There I had an extra gun and some ammunition-strictly against the rules-some private papers, and my “snitch book”-an address book filled with the names of Brattleboro’s nether world, some of whom, paradoxically, were pillars of the community. But whether they were high or low on the social ladder, or had criminal records or not, they were here if I’d ever thought they might be useful, and if I had some information on them that could be used as leverage. You never knew, for example, when an almost perfectly legit dealer in wrecked cars and scrap iron might be the innocent connection between a crook and his victim.

In this instance, however, my target wasn’t even remotely innocent. “Dummy” Fredericks, whose true given name was Alphonse, was one of society’s true leeches. At the ripe old age of thirty-two, he had benefited from just about every parking spot the establishment had ever conceived for the wayward. From reform school to prison, from halfway houses to alcohol wards, from methadone programs to mental-health clinics, Dummy had made the rounds. I expected that if anyone filled with altruism and grant money ever opened a treatment center for deranged, left-handed, bald, Argentine-born Lithuanians with severe chemical imbalances, Dummy would find some way to qualify.

I found him, after a couple of false starts, at one of the local detox houses. “Hi, Dummy, it’s Joe Gunther.”

There was a long pause during which I could hear, and from past experience almost smell, his rank breathing. Personal hygiene had never been one of Dummy’s great interests. “What d’ya want?”

“I want to give you twenty bucks.”

“What for?” Small talk had never been too big either.

“So you can buy some dope for me.”

“Can I get my ass shot off?”

“Only if you try. The dealer’s a friend of yours.”

“Why should I burn a friend?”

“I was using the term loosely. Besides, you’d burn your mother for twenty bucks.”

“She’s dead. Who is it?”

“Will you do it?”

“For forty.”

“Thirty if you do it right now, as soon as you hang up. I’ll meet you at Mortimer’s mother with the thirty and the buy cash. Deal?”

Another pause. “You guys must really be in a rush.”

“Come on, Dummy, don’t live up to your name. You don’t want to do it, I’ll call the next guy on my list.”

“Jesus, I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it. Who is it?”

“Milly Crawford.”

“That asshole? Shit, you could’ve had it cheaper.”

“Sure, you would’ve done it for free, right? We got a deal?”

“Yeah-Mortimer’s mother.”

I hung up and tapped my fingers on the desktop nervously.

There was one thing that needed doing before I headed back out. I called in Harriet Fritter and dictated enough information for her to prepare an affidavit for a duces tecum-a “produce the records”-search warrant for Charlie Jardine’s business files. Then I crossed the hallway to clear my deal with Dummy Fredericks with Brandt. He listened to my rationale, pulled out the money in old, mixed bills from the “informant fund,” recorded their serial numbers, and had me sign on the dotted line.

“Mortimer’s mother” was a century-old gravestone set far to the back of Morningside Cemetery, out of sight from the street but with a good, long view all around. The inscription read:

POTTER, HELENE 1810-1883

Here lies Mortimer’s mother,

Dead at the age of seventy-three.

All her life she compared to no other.

Now she’s at peace and so is he.

It had been Dummy’s and my meeting place for years, as well as a good spot to reflect on familial entanglements and the value of having the last word. I sat down in the shade cast by the headstone and waited.

Dummy’s role in all this hinged on the ever-growing rules and regs that kept us from jumping on the bad guys from impulse alone. We had Milly’s print on the bag of cocaine, that bag had been tied to a homicide victim, and Milly’s history was a long and documented treatise on criminal behavior. Nevertheless, we still had to establish that Milly hadn’t recently become a saint and that he was still up to his old habits. Only then could a warrant be issued to search his place for something that might tie him to Jardine’s death. In this light, the Dummy Frederickses of this world, for all their lack of esthetic appeal, had become crucial police adjuncts.

I half thought I smelled him before I saw him cresting the low grassy rise between South Main Street and our meeting place. He was dressed in a sweat-soaked, tie-dyed T-shirt and baggy Bermuda shorts of such incredible filthiness that I suddenly wondered if I might not be exposing myself to some environmental hazard.

A broken-toothed grin split his grimy, unshaven face. “Hi, Joe.”

“Hey, Dummy. Staying out of trouble?”

“I’m seeing you-can’t be too good.”

I pulled out the envelope into which I’d put the buy money and waved it under his nose. “You know the drill-as soon as you accept this, we’re joined at the hip. You go straight from my car to Milly’s place, make the buy, come straight back to my car, and hand over the goods and any change. You driving?”

“Yup.” He was looking pleased with the prospect of cutting a reasonable transaction with Milly and pocketing the aforementioned change. He might get away with it, too, but only if he could find a hiding place between Milly’s apartment and my car, because I would search him there; using him didn’t mean I had to trust him.

“All right, I’ll drive you back to your car when we’re through, then. Take your shirt off.”

He looked affronted. “Here? Come on.”

“Off, or no deal.” I could have patted him down, but I was reluctant to touch him without rubber gloves.

Still he demurred. “What am I making out of this?”

“Thirty bucks, as agreed.”

“Forget it.”

I glowered. “I don’t have time for this-it’s too goddamn hot. Thirty-five or get the hell out of here.”

With an expression of great distaste, he peeled the grungy T-shirt over his head, revealing a vast expanse of soft, pale, blotchy flesh. While the search after the buy would be to check for his ripping me off, this one was for James Dunn, indirectly. I had to be able to later state categorically, under oath, that Dummy had carried no other cash and no drugs whatsoever into the meet with Milly.

He dropped the shirt onto the grass, and I gingerly examined it. “Okay, drop the pants.”

“I will not.”

I sighed at his modesty. This was the same man we had once busted for walking naked down Main Street at ten on a Friday night. Of course, he’d been slimmer then. “Believe me, Dummy, I like this a hell of lot less than you do.” I waved the money again. “And I’m not getting a cut of the pie.”

He dropped the shorts, muttering, “I should be gettin’ more,” revealing an absolute lack of underclothing. He looked around nervously, as if expecting a Girl Scout troop to crest the hill at any moment. “Hurry up.”

I poked at the shorts, turning the pockets inside out, and had him turn around. Satisfied at last, I separated one hundred dollars from the rest of the money and had him sign a receipt for it. The thirty-five extra I’d hang onto until after the buy. “All right. We’ll ride together, I’ll find a parking place within sight of Milly’s front door, and you do your thing, okay? You screw up, and I’ll bring Kunkle out of retirement just to flatten you.”

Willy Kunkle, recently retired with a damaged right arm, had been the department’s narcotics specialist. He’d also had a notoriously cranky personality, from which the likes of Dummy Fredericks had suffered repeatedly. Dummy grinned, hopping on one foot as he got back into his pants, the cash like a bouquet of flowers in his fist. “Don’t give it another thought.”

Milly lived on a short, horseshoe-shaped street called Horton Place, right off Canal. It was narrow and one-way and lined with tall, old, skinny wooden apartment buildings made spindly by the presence of railed balconies across the front of every floor. I parked inconspicuously at the mouth of the street, where I could see Milly’s third-floor apartment by merely slumping in my seat. I radioed Maxine Paroddy at Dispatch to let her know where I was, if not what I was up to, and then settled down to wait a few minutes, feeling my shirt slowly gluing to the Naugahyde cover of the seat. I wanted to see what was up in the neighborhood before letting Dummy go. He sat quietly beside me, smelling up the car.

After about five minutes of watching a perfectly normal residential block, I decided to go ahead. I nodded to Dummy and saw him shamble up the steps to the front door and disappear. This was not the stuff of Don Johnson and “Miami Vice.” There were no stakeouts, no guns, no surreptitious mutterings over portable radios, not even any backup. Drug dealers in Brattleboro probably made annually what carwash attendants did; they just didn’t have to work as hard. Occasionally, we did go the full nine yards, including putting on bulletproof vests-we even had our own SWAT, or “Special Reaction Team”-but we did that more in practice than in real life. What they did with monotonous regularity in South Florida and other drug-infested hot spots we did once in a blue moon. Encounters like the one I was attending between Milly and Dummy had all the built-in tension of watching two rummies on a park bench lean against each other for support.

All of which explains why it took me five long seconds to react when Dummy suddenly appeared at the third-floor balcony of Milly Crawford’s apartment, waving two blood-covered hands and shouting, “He’s been shot. Joe, he’s bleeding all over the place.”

I finally bolted up in my seat, grabbed the radio, told Maxine to send backup and to dispatch Rescue, Inc., for a gunshot wound, and began running for the building.

While I ran, I wondered what had gone wrong-why had Milly been shot just as I was about to round him up? With the adrenaline came a feeling that this investigation had just been torn violently from my hands and was about to be scattered in the sun-parched wind.