The Ragman's memory

11

“Okay, everybody,” I began, “we might as well get started.” I held up a copy of that morning’s newspaper. “As you can see, the Reformer has nothing to say about Shawna Davis today. Perhaps we can thank Ben Chambers for that. But whatever the reason, it gives us a small breather, just when we may need it.”

We were all in the squad’s conference room-Kunkle, Tyler, Sammie, Ron, and I, along with Tony Brandt and Jack Derby.

I dropped the paper onto the table we were gathered around. “From our perspective, the crucial difference between what we know and what we’re admitting is the phenobarbital we found in Shawna Davis’s hair. That distinction makes her death a homicide, at least until proven otherwise. I’d like to keep that distinction under wraps for as long as we can.

“You’ve all read the internal reports. You know how we’ve traced Shawna’s movements up to a couple of weeks before she died. Last night, in response to a tip we received because of yesterday’s article, Sammie and I talked to Mary Wallis, who admitted knowing Shawna and to last seeing her in late May. Wallis denied any knowledge of the thousand dollars, claimed Shawna only dropped by for the day on her way out of town, and said she’d only just learned about Shawna’s death from yesterday’s news reports. Sammie and I think there’s a lot she’s not saying. Mary Wallis, therefore, has become a prime suspect. But not only,” I added with emphasis, “because of her being seen with Shawna in May. Wallis also abruptly dropped her opposition to the convention center project shortly thereafter, just as the groundbreaking was taking place-a crucial piece of good luck for the developers. That may be a coincidence, but it’s one we shouldn’t ignore.”

I noticed Sammie’s surprised look at this additional piece of the puzzle-something I hadn’t had time to brief her on before.

“Unfortunately,” and here I waved a hand in Jack Derby’s direction, “by soft-pedaling our findings about Shawna, we also become the only ones treating her death as a homicide. That gives us a break from the press, but it also forces us to tiptoe with the investigation, including our communications with the State’s Attorney’s office. In the past, we’ve made it a habit-a good one, I think-to use his staff pretty freely for legal advice on warrants, affidavits, and whatnot. In a situation like this one, however, where the homicide may have wider implications, both the chief and Mr. Derby have decided that we better use a single conduit to his office-a person who will either directly answer our questions or pass them on to Mr. Derby. That person,” and here I felt my face flushing slightly, “is going to be Gail Zigman.”

There was a slight but telling stirring around the table, reflecting the same discomfort I’d felt when Derby had told me of his decision. Gail was not a lawyer yet, not a deputy state’s attorney, and her contract with the office was only good for six months. The use of a single conduit for sensitive cases was reasonable and routine enough. Using the temporary clerk as such was unheard of.

Derby rose to his feet as if drawn by the unvoiced doubts around him. “I better clarify that. Ms. Zigman, unlike any other member of my staff, has close and personal connections to both this department and to most of the people who make this town tick. Since it now appears your investigation will be touching on aspects of how this new convention center came about-and on who helped it along-I’ve chosen her as the best suited for the job. Not only is she uniquely qualified, but since she’s physically in the office more regularly than I or the deputies, she’s much better placed to route your questions to me-unless, of course, she knows the answer herself. This latter case would only apply to situations involving personalities and procedures within town government-not legal questions. If any of you have any problems with this arrangement, I’d be happy to try to resolve them.”

Kunkle, not surprisingly, spoke first. “We don’t even know what our assignments are, and we’re already covering our asses. I don’t care if you got some wannabe as your contact. I want to know why the hell you’re so twitchy. We got so little to go on here, it seems nuts to start sweating what the media’s going to do.”

This time, it was Tony Brandt who spoke up. “The media’s not the problem, Willy-it’s the freedom to move we want. If there is a link between Davis, Wallis, and the convention center job, it’ll take a hell of a lot of work to prove it. It’ll also kick up a hell of a lot of opposition if some powerful people get wind of it too early.”

Willy looked disgusted. “You mean NeverTom Chambers. Jesus, I knew that asshole would pop up sooner or later.”

Despite his abrasive manner, Willy had put his finger on the heart of the matter. NeverTom Chambers, so nicknamed because he hated the sobriquet Tom, was Benjamin Chambers’s younger brother. Also rich and influential, he was as outspoken and vindictive as Benjamin was philanthropic and self-effacing. Worse-and most relevantly-NeverTom was a newly elected member of the board of selectmen, a position he was fully expected to abusively exploit. Considering that his brother owned the very project we were interested in, one he had vociferously supported even before he’d been elected, NeverTom’s habit of throwing his weight around was not a happy prospect.

“Think about it, Willy,” I cautioned him. “You really want him, his brother, their allies, the Bank of Brattleboro’s lawyers, and a few dozen other screamers all down your throat while you’re conducting an investigation that might lead to nothing? Who needs the aggravation?”

He waved his hand at me resignedly. “All right, all right. It just pisses me off. So what’re we supposed to be doing while we’re creeping around?”

“We’ve got three general points of focus,” I resumed. “First, keep beating the bushes for more on Shawna Davis. That we can do in the open, of course. The second is to focus on Mary Wallis, starting with a canvass of her neighbors-”

“That’ll be discreet,” Willy said with a smirk.

I stopped. “It can be. The mailman said he saw Shawna at her house. Mary confirmed it. It’s not too big a stretch to ask her neighbors if they saw Shawna in the area, and then engage them in a casual conversation about Wallis herself. She’s an unusual person and probably a hot topic on that street. It doesn’t have to tip our hand.”

“The third area of concentration,” I continued, “is to find out if any connection exists between Davis, Wallis, and the construction project. We need to examine how the project came about, and look at everyone involved. It also means we should study this recent white knight maneuver by Ben Chambers. This is where the most discretion will be necessary.”

I paused for a moment to let that sink in. “Okay. I’ve told Billy Manierre that we may be calling on his Patrol for help, but go easy on him. This is going to rack up the overtime, and I want to keep the town manager and the treasurer off our backs for as long as possible-”

“It’s not like we don’t have a shitload to do already, you know,” Willy reminded me.

“I realize that, so that might be a good way to use Billy. Patrol likes to do detective work. Get some of them to handle your lesser cases, and cut yourselves some slack. Shawna Davis is the priority case-bear down on anyone who admits knowing her, and keep after that inscription on the tooth. J.P., I want you to chase down the phenobarbital found in Shawna’s hair. Since it’s a prescription drug, it’ll have a paper trail. See if you can find out where it came from. Sammie, you start with the canvass of Mary’s neighborhood, then go wherever it leads you. And Ron, you take the construction project. That’ll involve a ton of paperwork. Find out if Justin Willette will help you out-he’s consulted for us before, he knows his stuff, and he’s told me several times he’s available whenever we need him.”

“I take it I can tell him what we’re up to?” Ron asked.

“Absolutely. Also, as each of you proceeds, you might end up with more or less to do. If that happens, Sammie and Harriet will act as coordinators and either get you more help, or reassign you as necessary. I’ll try to keep up on what everyone’s doing, and I’ll also be putting direct pressure on Mary Wallis."

“While I’ve got you all here,” I added, “I think I better mention something else I’m working on-something that may cause some commotion around town. As you know, Milo Douglas was found dead under the Whetstone bridge a few nights back. I had some doubts about the natural-causes ruling the Assistant ME came up with, so I sent his body to Burlington for an autopsy. I also questioned the two bums that were with him when he died. Now, I may be jumping the gun a little, since the ME hasn’t called back to confirm it, but I think Milo died of rabies.”

A small round of exclamations greeted that, which I quieted with a raised hand. “From what I’ve been told, only about two people a year die in this country from rabies, so if it turns out I’m right, there’re bound to be fireworks. I just wanted you all to know.”

“Was he bitten?” Tyler asked.

I hesitated answering, startled by the implications of the question. “I don’t know yet, but if he wasn’t, we’ll have to find out what happened.”

Unfortunately, the ominous undertone of Tyler’s question was almost immediately given credence. Following the staff meeting, I found a note stuck to my phone to call Beverly Hillstrom “ASAP.”

“You were right,” she said when I got her on the line. “We did a brain section and found rabies.”

“Were there any bite marks?”

“No. Of course, that’s not the only way to catch rabies. He might have acquired it via saliva exposure through an abrasion or a skin lesion. There’s also the unlikely possibility of a respiratory infection-two people caught rabies by merely breathing the air of a bat-infested cave a few years ago. But that’s highly unlikely.”

I rubbed my forehead, thinking of Phil and Danny in their trailer, ignorant that I’d asked them to stay put solely to keep them isolated. “If anyone touched the body without wearing gloves, they’ll need shots, right?”

“It would be foolish to do otherwise. Saliva is the primary vehicle of transmission.”

That very point still had me worried. “Doctor, I know you don’t like to hypothesize, but what are the chances of someone catching rabies without being bitten?”

“Statistically? Very slim. I called Fish and Game about this. As you know, there’s a rabies epidemic going on right now in Vermont, so the state currently has a rich and current database of disease transmission routes. Of all known cases where rabies was delivered from one source to another, including human victims, every one was through an animal bite.”

“What does that lead you to conclude?” I asked cautiously, having heard in her voice a true element of concern.

“Nothing yet, but I’m not finished with my analysis. I’m going to examine this body with a fine-tooth comb, Lieutenant. Human death by rabies is extremely rare in this country and essentially nonexistent in urban settings. I’ll do everything I can to find out how this happened.”

I had a patrol car pick up Danny and Phil and transport them to the hospital to be cleaned, inoculated, and quarantined. Not trusting them to return for the series of five shots required, the county health officials gave them no choice but to remain as wards of the state. It was a far cry from the cheap beds, ready beer, and curbside deposits of secondhand fast food they preferred. I doubted they’d ever want to set eyes on me again.

It was mid-afternoon when I nosed my car into Arch Street, off of Main, and rolled down the steep, downhill curve that ended behind downtown’s distinctive twin row of stolid red-brick buildings parallel to the railroad tracks. Arch Street was a perfect example of Brattleboro’s unique personality. Down at the heels, littered, and ignored, it was thirty feet below and a stone’s throw east of the town’s vibrant business center, cut off by a rampart of intricately joined old buildings. And yet, just across the tracks and beyond a narrow swath of choking vegetation was a spectacular view of the glittering Connecticut River, and of towering, snow-capped Wantastiquet Mountain on the far bank-the very best scenery the town had to offer, enjoyed primarily by homeless alcoholics and dope-hungry teenagers. Both the contrast and the proximity of these settings spoke volumes about the character of a town at once embracing and bristling, seductive and cranky, charged with staunch conservatives and new liberals. It was not a place conducive to falling asleep at the wheel.

I got out of my car, locked it, and retraced my route partway up the hill toward Main Street. There, I left the pavement, cut through the tangled weeds, jumped down a small retaining wall, and found myself in a narrow gorge where the Whetstone emptied into the Connecticut. Upstream, the brook echoed loudly under the dark and looming bridge, now high overhead.

Picking my way carefully through the brittle underbrush along the bank, avoiding the ice-slick patches nestled among the rocks, I slowly made for the bridge’s gloomy shelter, its darkness emphasized by the dull roar of the water’s rush and the rumbling of the traffic above.

The vegetation petered out at the shadow’s edge, making progress easier, and I walked to the midpoint under the overpass and looked north, along the axis of Main Street. Before me was a five-foot-tall cement wall, topped by a narrow ledge, with a cement and stone abutment above it reaching all the way up to the bridge’s support beams. Just as George Capullo had described it, a roughly-cut entrance, not more than four feet in diameter, was located just above the ledge, looking much like the cave of some wild animal. It was the outlet of the Main Street storm drains, and the last place Milo had called home.

I gingerly placed both hands on the rim of the ledge, watching for broken glass, and hefted myself up. Standing amid the charred debris of Danny’s erstwhile campsite, I peered straight into the jet-black void of the tunnel, squinting against a steady breeze of surprisingly warm air.

I dug a flashlight out of my pocket and turned it on. Some ten feet ahead of me, beyond a rough-hewn ice-encrusted lobby of sorts, there was a bifurcation, with a narrow, tile-lined, twenty-four-inch drain angling off to the right, and a much larger, forty-two-inch cement culvert straight ahead, curving up and away, paralleling the street above.

Haunted by Phil’s harrowing images of Milo’s demented, spasmodic crawl toward the firelight, I headed for the wider of the two drains. There I came to a pleasant discovery. The misgivings I’d been harboring of a smelly, sewer-like environment were displaced by a dry, smooth, clean cement tube, wide enough for me to comfortably proceed in a low crouch.

Locked in the earth’s deep embrace, the tunnel radiated a steady, even temperature-cool in the summer, warm right now. And fed as it was by the gutter inlets in the street, the circulating air was clean and fresh. As I moved rapidly along its length, I had to admire Milo’s aesthetic pragmatism. Aside from the utter lack of light, this was private, protected, and comfortable.

It was also totally empty. For well over a hundred feet, I followed my flashlight’s halo, the monotony of my surroundings only occasionally punctuated by the pain of hitting my spine against the tubular roof. Mercifully, just as my legs were about to collapse from their confined range of motion, I came to a service shaft-a vertical junction of the tunnel I’d been in, and another of the same size, heading the same way, about six feet above it. A manhole blocked an outlet some fifteen feet above. A steel ladder lined one side of the small silo.

I paused to stretch and get the circulation back in my legs. I also killed my flashlight momentarily to get a feel for the dark. The sudden loss of sight was absolute, and oddly liberating. I found my hearing abruptly enhanced and became aware of new sounds that had been accompanying me from the start-the muffled thunder of a busy town going about its daily life. I could hear and distinguish the differing types of traffic, the dulled thumps of tires passing over the manhole cover, even the muted scrapings of shovels working to free the sidewalk of packed snow and ice. It was all seductively womb-like and added to the place’s aura of safety.

That, however, was because I was healthy and alert. Had I been in Milo’s condition, craving fluids while dreading the taste of my own saliva, my body racked by agonizing paroxysms and my head feeling as if it were about to explode, this haven must have seemed like a tomb, and the long crawl out of it a hopeless, frustrating, suffocating torture.

Tempered by this new insight, I climbed the ladder to the next tunnel and kept going-essentially up the middle of Main Street-alone, silent, and utterly beyond reach.

Finally, after another 150 feet, I found what I was after-a piece of plywood, laid along the tunnel floor, allowing for the occasional water to pass beneath it. Perched on its edge was the earthly sum total of a man who had slipped from this life with barely a ripple.

Standing my flashlight on end, so that its beam reflected off the pale, curved ceiling, I removed my winter gloves, replaced them with latex ones, and carefully began dissecting Milo’s belongings.

As with the contents of his pockets at the funeral home, there wasn’t much to see. Clothing for the most part, along with rags, towels, and blankets, in various shapes and stages of disintegration. There were several candle stubs and, surprisingly I thought, a couple of paperback books, albeit on the level of Conan the Barbarian. There was also a plastic bag filled with more personal items-letters so old and worn as to be basically illegible, photographs of people who meant nothing to me, a couple of pocketknives, one of which seemed an old and treasured heirloom. There was a stopped watch with a broken strap, a woman’s tortoiseshell barrette, a blank diary with leather covers. As I spread these items and more before me, I knew each must have been as eloquent to Milo as they were meaningless and mute to me. I imagined him occasionally laying them out by candlelight, and losing himself in reflection, tucked away in the bowels of a town that paid him no heed whatsoever.

The bottom of the bag held less interesting debris-petrified chewing gum, rusty paper clips, stiff rubber bands by the dozen, odd scraps of paper. There was also an assortment of pencils, long and short, and a hodgepodge of cheap ballpoint pens, some of which had been dismantled as makeshift cigarette holders.

Finally despairing of finding anything of value in all this, I began preparing to bring it to the office, where brighter light and more time might yield better results. It was then, almost by happenstance, that I focused on the writing along the shaft of one of the ballpoint pens.

Obviously a promotional giveaway, colored a bright blue, the bold yellow lettering spelled out, “Carroll Construction.”

I froze in mid-motion, my brain suddenly filled with more questions than I could grasp. Here again, as with Mary Wallis-and perhaps through her to Shawna Davis-was a connection, however tenuous, to the fifteen-million-dollar convention center that so many hopes and incomes were riding upon.