The Dark Root

19

Walter Frazier's voice was filled with mock incredulity. “I guess this proves how crazy they are at headquarters.”

“You’re kidding,” I burst out, tightening my grip on the phone. “They bit?”

“All the way to the sinker. ’Course, matching the Rutland bullet to the one from Travers’s body and faxing the news to DC was a nice piece of work. They loved it, and to be honest, losing one of your own men had a big impact.”

I didn’t miss the irony of Dennis’s newfound stature in death. “So what’s next? A background check from the U.S. Marshals?”

“That’s pretty much done. I asked them to get it started after you and Dan left my office. A little unorthodox, but I thought it would help you hit the ground running.”

“Jesus, Walt, I’m really grateful. I know this only worked because you pushed it.”

He laughed at the other end. “Don’t kid yourself. They’ll be dancing in the streets the day I retire. Anyhow, I thought you’d like to know. I’m generating the appropriate paperwork now, but you better call Dan and find out how their office is going to coordinate things as lead agency. Keep that in mind, by the way-if the state police don’t like you for some reason, either now or down the line, they’re higher in the pecking order than you are, and I’ll have to listen to them. So be nice.”

“Does that mean you’re running the task force personally?” I asked, reading into his choice of words.

He laughed again. “You think I’d risk putting one of my fresh young agents with you? Forget it-I have some loyalty to the flag.”

I thanked him again and hung up, finally feeling the white-hot anger born of Dennis’s death beginning to cool-if only a little. There were no guarantees this task force would end in success, but at least a failure now wouldn’t be for lack of trying. That realization alone bore an element of peace.

The Vermont State Police are headquartered on Route 2, between Montpelier and Burlington, in the village of Waterbury, about a mile from Exit 10 off Interstate 89. The most memorable detail about its location, however, is not that it’s part of one of the ugliest, antiquated state-office-building complexes I’ve ever seen, but that it shares a driveway with the state mental hospital-a geographical coincidence that has forced the VSP to put up with more than their fair share of bad jokes.

Dan Flynn came down to the locked reception area to escort me up to his miniature empire on the second floor-two rooms crammed with computers and filing cabinets, manned by Flynn and a gnomish, silent man named William Shirtsleeve-a statewide phenomenon known to everyone as “Digger.”

Digger was nearing retirement, after spending all but the last three years of his adult life as a patrolman. For decades, he’d driven the roads of Vermont, moving among the regional barracks as part of his organization’s standard rotation, but never moving up the ranks, never aspiring to, or even accepting, a single desk job.

Unmarried, rarely socializing, William Shirtsleeve had lived to do one thing-be a street cop. Wherever he was stationed, he spent every hour he could away from the barracks, visiting people at their homes, dropping in on businesses-legitimate and otherwise-and visiting kids in schools, taking a special interest in the ones who showed the potential of becoming future clients.

Without taking notes, or making a display of his intentions, Shirtsleeve slowly began to accumulate what keyboard operators now call data. He began linking names to families to places to events to organizations to trends, constantly soaking up knowledge, until he became a walking encyclopedia of Vermont’s less-than-genteel society. For this quiet prowess he was eventually nicknamed Digger, and relied upon by colleagues from around the state to come up with the answers they couldn’t discover on their own.

When Dan Flynn was given permission to set up VCIN, he had only one man in mind to assist him-the one man he was told would turn him down cold. But Dan had asked anyway, and Digger had said yes without hesitation or explanation. For the past three years, as taciturn as ever, he’d plied his computers with the same dogged zeal he’d once applied to the communities he’d patrolled. Dan’s own personal theory was that, knowing his retirement was near, Digger had felt the need to deposit his hard-won knowledge someplace useful, and that VCIN had appeared as if by prophecy.

Like some ancient elephant imparting wisdom to later generations, Digger was describing the world as he knew it to the memory chips of Dan Flynn’s electronic files.

Knowing all this, however, never helped me in dealing with the man himself, who now-as in the past-responded to my greeting by keeping his eyes firmly glued to the monitor’s screen, and muttering, “Uh-huh.”

Dan, the exact opposite in all ways, laughed, slapped me on the back, and steered me through to his inner office, a seven-by-nine-foot aggravated closet entirely decorated in Boston Bruins paraphernalia, from stuffed bears to pennants to magnetic hockey pucks to bumper stickers taped to the window.

“Quite the character, huh?” he stated, as always not expecting a response. “Don’t know what I’d do without him. Three years into this project, and half our information is still inside his head.”

He settled in front of a battered metal desk shoved up under the room’s one window and motioned to a chair wedged in between two tall filing cabinets. His face became suddenly serious. “I’m real sorry about Dennis. And I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral-boss said he couldn’t spare me. How’s everyone taking it?”

I sat on the edge of my seat, leaning forward to avoid the feeling of being swallowed whole by my two looming metal neighbors. “Not very well. The worst part is, Dennis’s death was the one push we needed when it came to getting the go-ahead from the board of selectmen. Billy Manierre made a pitch to the board like a born-again evangelist-I’ve never seen him so passionate-and Tony weighed in from the hospital with a letter not only saying that I had his blessing, but forecasting the end of the world as they knew it if they didn’t go along. I couldn’t believe it.”

“Lucky they did. A lot of people would’ve had egg on their faces otherwise.”

I sensed something beyond a colorful generalization in this. “You too?”

His seriousness yielded to a smile. “Not me. I’m the knight in shining armor here, helping out a beleaguered colleague. You’re the one making my bosses feel queasy-hotdog local cop, hell-bent on becoming a federal officer so he can get revenge.”

“And involving the VSP in his schemes?” I finished for him.

He raised his eyebrows sympathetically. “You think they’re wrong to be concerned? The death of a colleague can cut pretty deep.”

I conceded his point. “No. I’m amazed they went along with it.”

He leaned back, his expression amused. “Right-the green and the gold, the stuffy Vermont State Police, the you-guys/us-guys of law enforcement. Surprised you, didn’t we? I won’t deny we deserved some of that in the old days, but times are changing.” He suddenly leaped to his feet and headed for the door. “And as further proof of it, I’m going to introduce you to your partner.”

He was gone. I staggered to my feet, hitting a shoulder on one of the cabinets, and swung out after him, catching up as he strode quickly across the hallway to a closed door marked Conference.

He paused there theatrically, and then threw the door open to let me in. Standing in the room, studying a wall map through gold-rimmed glasses, was a tall, sandy-haired, alarmingly skinny man in his mid-thirties. He turned as I entered and gave me a wide, crooked smile. “Hey, Joe-long time.”

I laughed and crossed over to shake his hand, the sense of relief like a tonic. “Lester Spinney. I don’t believe it.”

From the time Dan Flynn had first indicated an interest in joining forces, the question in my mind had always been who they’d team me up with. I’d expressed my concern to Flynn, of course, but he’d reasonably answered that it wasn’t his shot to call. Seeing Spinney, however, convinced me that if not Flynn, then someone in the state police had made sure personality conflicts were not going to be blamed if this task force fell apart.

Spinney and I had first met years ago, when I’d been temporarily assigned to the Essex County State’s Attorney’s office as a special investigator. Ron Potter, the SA, was facing a tough murder case, and had pushed a little hard to make sure his investigator was fully included in what was a state police case.

Despite the implied lack of trust, no blood had been spilled. With only a couple of exceptions, the state cops had made room for me, and relations had been civil enough. But even the most cooperative among them had taken their gauge of me before fully opening up-except for Lester Spinney. Whether because of his naturally trusting nature or a personality that just happened to perfectly dovetail with mine, Spinney and I had connected from the moment we’d met-a compatibility that, through a bruising, emotionally charged investigation, had only grown. His independence, sense of humor, and spontaneity had formed the perfect link between me and a state organization that in those days had not been famous for any one of those three traits, at least not outside their own ranks.

But inevitably, that’s where it had ended. I’d returned to Brattleboro, and he’d continued working for their newly formed Major Crimes Squad-a mobile homicide unit of several specialists who traveled all over the state whenever they were called upon. We had exchanged phone calls a couple of times, he’d dropped by my office once or twice when he’d been in the area, and that had been it. We’d lost touch. The pleasure I felt at seeing him here, therefore, ran deeper than even I would have suspected.

The three of us sat around the small conference table in the middle of the room and caught up, trading war stories and information about mutual acquaintances, with Dan using his own specialized knowledge to fill in the blanks Spinney and I could not. Just as Digger kept Flynn updated on the criminal elements, so the nature of Flynn’s job dictated that he know the whereabouts and activities of every trooper within the organization.

Twenty minutes later, however, after we’d either talked up, run down, or reminisced about every mutually known name we could think of, Dan Flynn checked his watch and stood up. “Okay, time to meet the others.”

He led us down the hall to a second conference room, this one obviously reserved more for ceremony than for function-with portraits instead of maps on the walls, and a polished wooden table replacing the coffee stained, composite-topped model we’d just left. Seeing who was there to greet us, however, I understood the urge for a little pomp. Seated around the table, chatting among themselves, were Walter Frazier of the FBI, Margaret Lanier from the U.S. Attorney’s office, Richard Gibbons, the state’s sole U.S. Marshal, and Colonel Jeremy “Skip” McMasters, the uniformed head of the Vermont State Police.

This combination swearing-in and briefing had been arranged several days earlier, after Frazier’s bosses had given him the go-ahead, so having everyone here was not a complete surprise. Seeing them rise upon our entrance, however, and touring the table to greet each one, I was struck for the first time by just how big an operation I’d set in motion, and how many people had helped make it happen. Only now did I feel the weight of the cumulative faith they’d all put in me. Remembering also the Brattleboro Board of Selectmen, and Billy Manierre and Tony Brandt and Jack Derby, I realized that if my ambitions proved unsuccessful, I was not going to be the only one disappointed. Of course, that very fact carried its own built-in stimulus-I was obviously also not alone believing the job could get done, or that the effort was worth making. That, as much as the headstone that marked his grave, was a credit to what Dennis DeFlorio had worked for.

The ceremony making Spinney and me Deputy U.S. Marshals was short and only moderately formal; afterward, Walt Frazier, removing his jacket and sitting at the head of the table, took over the meeting.

“If anyone had told me a month ago that I’d be sitting here now, I would’ve told him he’d lost his mind. So I want to start this thing off by thanking you all for your cunning, your perseverance, and your willingness to take a chance. According to precedent, and maybe even procedure, we shouldn’t be here.

“I’ve come to think that the reasons we are have less to do with blatant self-service-or the lost life of a colleague-and more to do with potential. This case lends itself to cooperation. From what any of us can tell so far, it is relatively contained and involves only a limited cast of characters, but the latter are spread out wide enough, and are mobile enough, to have frustrated any one of us if we’d chosen to act independently.”

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Technically, I’m running this show, so I wanted-just this once-to bore you with a little philosophy, to give you the pitch I gave to my brass in Washington, so I know we’re all on the same wavelength.

“What we’re about to do here is an experiment of sorts-a limited, small-scale exercise in mutual aid. I just said this is a small, contained case. I don’t actually know that for sure. It’s just how it looks now. But if it is, and we deal with it fast and well, people will take notice. There’s a lot of paranoia about Asian crime, and I make no bones about being one of the paranoids. Not only do I think this particular criminal element is bigger and badder than anything we’ve seen before, I also think it has its own built-in booby trap. If Asian criminals are not brought up short at this early stage, not only are they going to make the Cosa Nostra look pathetic by comparison, but they’re going to make all Asians look like crooks, and that is a racist by-product that scares the hell out of me.

“These folks are successful because they’re fluid, they’ve got a huge network, they’re not burdened by bureaucracy, and yet they respond to a chain of command. They’re also loyal to and trusting of one another, within their individual organizations, and that’s where we hope to have the advantage. Using the broader resources and connections within this room, I think we can beat this particular group at its own game, and maybe set an example that other law-enforcement people can learn from.”

He made a small, self-deprecating gesture and concluded. “Okay-end of speech. Just something I wanted to get out.”

I smiled at his style. In short order, Walt Frazier had just rallied the troops, established the theme of our cause, and declared himself our leader, all without becoming either domineering or pompous. And it was on that note that both Gibbons and McMasters took their leave-content to be periodically updated by the regular reports that we all knew were soon to regiment our lives-letting the rest of us get down to nuts and bolts.

Dan Flynn began with the basics. “A couple of housekeeping notes. Since the point of this task force is to be as fast on our feet as the opposition, there is not going to be an official home base. There’ll be a central post office instead, and that’ll be me, or Digger, if I’m not around. We’ll coordinate the flow of information, and my secretary’ll make most of the paperwork neat and tidy. If something crops up in the middle of the night, nobody’ll be here, since we’re basically eight-to-five, but we’ll have open computers, phone machines, and a teletype. Digger and I always check them first thing every morning.”

He pulled several business cards from his pocket and handed them around the table. “That’s got my and Digger’s home and pager numbers, just in case the shit hits the fan-not that we’d be able to do much about it till we got back here-but I thought you might like it anyway. The way we’re going to handle things from this end is to notify all the departments in VCIN that a special anti-Asian crime task force has been set up, but that it needs all the help it can get. Same rules will apply to them as before-they’ll retain their own information through the pointer-card system-but since this is a federal deal, any participants who give up jurisdiction will get a piece of any seized assets, along with official letters of commendation. That ought to encourage participation.

“From our end, we’ll keep in constant touch with Lester and Joe, and anyone else you two recommend, so that anything we learn can be acted on immediately.”

He paused a moment, as if to shift gears. “From my viewpoint, it’d be nice if all information was routed through here, but I realize you might have to do things differently in a pinch. If so, all I ask is that you let me know as soon as you can.”

He was looking directly at Lester Spinney as he said this, a small ghost of resignation in his voice, which told me that Spinney’s renegade reputation was still intact.

Spinney smiled and gave an almost imperceptible nod of the head. Flynn accepted that response at face value and yielded the floor. Next, Margaret “Maggie” Lanier passed out business cards. “The same holds true for me, only you don’t have to wait for the shit to hit the fan, or until morning for me to act on your request. If you need a search warrant at 2:00 A.M., either call me at home or on my beeper.

“Now, first off, have either one of you worked on the federal level before?” Spinney and I exchanged glances. “Nope,” I answered for us both. “I’ve had some training in procedures.”

“Me, too,” Spinney added, “but not much.”

Maggie smiled. “Then you’re in for a treat. It’s a liberating experience.” She pulled her briefcase up onto the table and extracted two thick folders, one for each of us. “These contain some of the basics. We made them up for occasions just like this, where we don’t have the time or the leisure to send you to Washington or wherever for the standard crash course. Basically, they’re a kind of question-answer primer consisting of the most frequently encountered differences between what you’re used to and how we operate.

“You’ll find ours is a more pro-prosecution system, with fewer constraints, more flexibility, and total mobility. If you have any doubts or questions along the way, though, especially given your inexperience-and nobody’s available to advise you-just act according to the state rules you’re used to. There’s no way you can screw up. Vermont is so pro-defendant, and your regulations so restrictive, I’m amazed you people put anyone in jail.

“Anyway, if you think you have probable cause at any point, call me and I’ll help you write up the warrant application. You can give me the facts over the phone, send them in a fax, or deliver them in person, but whatever method you use, at some point you’ll have to appear in the flesh to sign at the bottom. I can’t go to a magistrate without that signature.”

Spinney looked at her quizzically. “What if I’m sitting on a house in the boonies behind Lunenberg?”

Lanier didn’t relent. “Find somebody to do the sitting while you get to me in Burlington. If Walt gives you a federal vehicle, most of them have car phones with scramblers. You can call me on the way, give me what I need to know, and I’ll have the application ready and waiting when you arrive.” She paused to address his skeptical expression. “The good news is that you can get a warrant at the drop of a hat-probable cause is not what it is at the state level-and in some instances you don’t even need a warrant where you did before. Also, you don’t have to ambush a judge in the men’s room during a break in some trial. I can roust a magistrate just like you can roust me.”

“Well,” Walt cautioned, “don’t get carried away, either.”

Maggie shook her head impatiently. “All right, all right. But you’re still going to hate going back to the state system after all this is over. I’ll guarantee you that. Another big item I should mention: When you want to interview someone who could’ve told you to take a hike in the old days? Now you can hit them with a subpoena to appear in your office for a deposition. They don’t want to do it, they’re in contempt and it’s off to jail. Same thing with documents. If you think they won’t cooperate, you can walk in with a subpoena and seize what you’re after. And if push comes to shove, you also have the grand jury, which sits on alternating Thursdays in either Rutland or Burlington. If a witness refuses to talk to you, you can haul them in front of the grand jury and then I’ll be the one asking the questions. If they still refuse, the judge can find them in contempt and jail them for the remainder of the term. Since grand juries are convened for up to two years at a time sometimes, that can be a convincing threat.”

“Of course,” Walter weighed in again, cautioning against Maggie’s brisk optimism, “I would tread carefully there. Just because that particular tool is available, doesn’t mean it should be overused.” I could sense the sweat of his distant masters, and wondered if Maggie Lanier-usually the more conservative, as a prosecutor-was using this opportunity to indulge in a little playful chain-pulling. Politics, I knew, ran hot and heavy among the various federal branches, and you never knew who might be sore about someone else-and who might use you as a convenient, if unwitting, cudgel.

My suspicions were surprisingly addressed by Frazier’s very next statement, delivered with obvious discomfort. “Actually, this brings up a point that I don’t want to overemphasize-it’s a kind of last-ditch loophole, in a way, but I think I ought to get it out in the open, just so you all know…”

“An escape clause?” Maggie asked incredulously. Spinney lifted a single eyebrow and gave me a tired smile. Walter shifted restlessly in his seat. “That’s not its intention…”

“Oh, come on, Walter,” Maggie interrupted again, drawing out his name, “that’s exactly its intention.” She turned to us. “They’ve written themselves an out if this whole thing gets sticky. They’ve done it before-they’ve all done it before. In exchange for footing the bill and giving you locals a little extra clout, they reserve the right to either close down or kidnap the case, whichever suits them best.”

There was an embarrassed silence. Frazier cleared his throat, caught between the policy makers behind him and the people he’d committed to in this room. It was palpably obvious now why he’d been called down to Washington to fine-tune this deal. I could also tell from his expression that he’d been victimized as much as we.

“There’s a snowball’s chance in hell it’ll be invoked,” he said stiffly. “And given that, it’s not such a bad deal, considering the risk the Bureau’s taking.”

“I agree,” I said quickly and was relieved to see Spinney nodding his head next to me. “We knew going in this probably wouldn’t fly. That it has-even with a few strings attached-doesn’t bother me. I’d be nervous in their shoes, too.”

Maggie merely smiled and shook her head. Dan Flynn remained perfectly circumspect. Maggie wrapped up her pitch. “Read through those folders, call me if you have any questions, and now that I’ve dumped all over Walter, I probably ought to ’fess up that my boss is having kittens, too. He’d appreciate it if you kept in touch.”

Spinney looked at me and raised both eyebrows. “Makes you wonder why we don’t do this sort of thing more often, doesn’t it?”