The Ragman's memory

28

I emerged from the interrogation room after an hour and a half with Ben Chambers, my adrenaline pumping, the end of the case in sight, finally having heard the answer I’d been hoping for since the night Mary Wallis disappeared.

J.P. Tyler met me in the tiny hallway outside the viewing room, where he’d been videotaping the interrogation. “Get it all?”

“Yup.”

“Do me two favors. Round up Smith, Lavoie, and Stennis for SRT duty, and call Gail at home and have her meet me here. Tell her Mary is still alive and that we’re about to launch an operation to free her.”

I saw Ron sitting at his desk, phone in hand. He swung around at the sound of my voice and pointed at the receiver, “I’m lining up a no-knock warrant for the trailer right now.”

I gave him a thumbs-up and took Dr. Andrews by the elbow as he followed Tyler out of the viewing room. I had asked him to observe the interrogation to give us what insight he could. “Doctor, would you walk with me down to the basement? I’m assembling the Special Reaction Team, and we’ve got to change into our gear downstairs. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about Junior on the way.”

Andrews looked slightly startled at all the sudden activity. “Of course.”

I steered him out of the squad room and toward the stairs leading down. “Why did he do all this? It made more sense when we thought NeverTom was the crook.”

Andrews smiled slightly. “Don’t sell NeverTom short. He got where he is through a combination of blackmail, corruption, and intimidation that he’s practiced his entire adult life. That and the ghost of their father’s influence was what Ben was reacting against. People thought that after Ben Senior rejected Junior and turned his attention to Tom, Junior happily sought refuge in his books and philanthropy and making more money. In fact, he went into a slow simmer of rejection and envy, building up steam over the years until he finally blew. It was less obvious than NeverTom’s sociopathic personality, which found a therapeutic way to vent itself against political enemies, and in the end, as with anything that’s been penned up for too long, it was much more destructive.

“The classic love-hate twist to it all,” he continued, as I opened the door at the bottom of the stairs for him, “is that Ben set out to get his revenge on his brother by becoming his ally-he’s the one who recognized that more could be made from the convention center than just a little political mileage. To him, it was a way to make a fortune, and ride his brother’s coattails as high up the social ladder as possible, all the while knowing that it was he, and not Tom, who was responsible for that success.”

“But by saying Ben blew his cork, how do you explain the care and time he took in killing Shawna and Milo?” I asked.

Andrews shook his head apologetically. “For Ben, it was a sudden release of sorts, even if it was meticulously planned. He basically took his father’s and brother’s behavior and exaggerated it to make it his own. Where the other two plotted and planned and killed people figuratively, Ben did it in fact. As he said during the interrogation, his killing of Shawna was an experiment. It was a maiden voyage into a new lifestyle. Look at all the complexities of that crime-the Satanist overtones, in case the body was discovered before it totally disintegrated; the fact that he kept Shawna alive for a week so he could show her to Mary Wallis and prove his absolute power. That worked so well, Mary didn’t know Shawna wasn’t still alive until the skeleton was positively identified. And even then, Ben had a plan in place. He not only triggered the Satanist diversion by making an anonymous phone call, but when he grabbed Mary, he threw suspicion onto her by planting Shawna’s wallet in her house, even forcing Mary to put her fingerprints on it.”

“This signature pattern is repeated with the Milo killing. During the interrogation, Ben simply said Milo tried to blackmail Hennessy and him and therefore was taken care of. What he didn’t dwell on was the complex methodology, which again was less appropriate to the task than to satisfying his own psychological needs. Why use rabies? Because it’s arcane, experimental, takes brains to pull off. Anyone could’ve knocked Milo over the head and dumped him in a ditch. He would’ve been frozen solid by morning. But to use rabies was a sign of genius. A genius who needed recognition, of course, which is again why he made another anonymous phone call.

“The same pattern of camouflage and deflection is evident even while he was ostensibly helping NeverTom’s cause,” Andrews continued. “He used his brother’s phenobarbital on Shawna, cut up the rabid raccoon using his brother’s worktable and tools, and made it appear Tom was Eddy Knox’s sponsor at the Keene country club. Not only would all that get Tom into trouble if everything fell apart, but it imbued Ben with a secret power over the very person who had mentally tortured him his entire life.”

I paused near the end of the high, dark, basement hallway we’d been traveling. “Let’s back up a bit. Why did he grab Mary Wallis and put her under lock and key? Why not kill her?”

“A couple of reasons, as I see it. First of all, he had to do something after Shawna was proven dead, because his hold over Mary had suddenly vanished. He tried threatening her at first, which is why she seemed so secretive and fearful to you, but he soon realized that would yield only short-term results-that Mary would probably tell what she knew if you promised her protection. As to why he didn’t kill her, that’s a little less practically motivated. People who kill in this fashion need to justify the act in their own minds. That way, they aren’t so much butchers as unappreciated servants of society-it’s a form of vigilante mentality. Remember how he described Shawna, Milo, and Mrs. Sawyer?”

“A hooker, a bum, and a bitchy old woman with one foot in the grave.”

“Right-blemishes on the face of society, in his view. But Mary Wallis, regardless of politics, wasn’t a blemish-she was a community leader. That’s why Ben had to stop her in the first place. She was powerful enough to halt the construction project, so killing her created a moral problem. Also, I think in his demented way, he was hedging his bets in case he got caught. His whole demeanor changed when he told you about Mary still being alive, as if she had now become proof of both his good will and his rationality.”

I stopped beside the door to the locker room, letting some of the people J.P. had summoned file by us. I offered Andrews my hand. “Thank you for your help-with Bernie, too. We probably couldn’t have done this without you.”

Andrews smiled but shook his head. “Oh, I doubt that. People like Ben Chambers just think they’re invincible. It would have caught up to him sooner or later. For one thing, he wouldn’t have been able to keep such a success to himself. Being caught allows him to finally bathe in the limelight.”

“So what role did Hennessy play in all this?” Gail asked, after I’d brought her up to date.

I slowed for an upcoming curve in the road, the blue lights on top of the car flashing off the snowbanks on either side. I was leading a short caravan of vehicles, including an ambulance, to Sunset Lake Road in West Brattleboro, where Ben Chambers had told us Mary Wallis was being held captive in a trailer.

“It was purely financial. He’d been skimming Carroll Construction for years, which Ben discovered early on. When Ben hatched his plan to take over the convention center project, he needed someone dependable to remove Gene Lacaille from the picture. Hennessy supplied the answer-the PCB-and even salted the Keene construction site. Problem was, Hennessy was promised a piece of the action once Ben sold the project a few years down the line, but Hennessy was a short-term thinker, and maybe a little nervous about Ben. He decided to milk the deal up front by embezzling from Carroll like never before. Ben got pissed. That was the fight Milo overheard, and which got him killed. Hennessy’s greed was why Ben killed Adele Sawyer-to get his partner back under control.”

“And NeverTom knew nothing about any of it?” Gail asked skeptically.

“According to Ben, he knew only the bare necessities. Tom applied the pressure to Eddy Knox, Ned Fallows, and the others, and he was fully aware of the squeeze being put on Harold Matson and the bank, but he had nothing to do with the killings and thought the PCBs that stopped Lacaille’s Keene project were just a stroke of good luck. We’ve had him picked up by the state police in a Montpelier hotel about an hour ago. Politicking to the end. They’ll be delivering him to us in the morning.”

I slowed down, killed the blue lights, and got on the radio. We’d turned onto Sunset Lake Road and were now minutes away from the trailer Ben Chambers had told us about. “O-3 to all units. SRT assemble at the lead vehicle. All other units stand by for backup as assigned.”

I saw the string of headlights behind me die as I pulled over. I stepped out onto the frozen dirt road, grateful for the cloud-covered moon and the night’s total stillness. Appearing from the gloom like menacing ghosts, the rest of the Special Reaction Team gathered around, dressed as I was in black watch caps, black BDUs-Battle Dress Uniforms-and Kevlar vests.

I put my hand on Gail’s shoulder. “You wait here. Once we give the all-clear, come to the trailer. Okay?”

She nodded, her eyes narrow with tension.

Moving soundlessly in rubber-soled combat boots, I led the team up the road another quarter-mile. Just shy of the small clearing surrounding the trailer, whose anemically glowing windows we could just make out, I signaled the five people behind me to stop.

Sammie came up and handed me an infrared night-vision monocular. I scanned the area slowly, studying every pale, green-tinged detail for any anomalies, any movements. There were none.

“Okay,” I murmured. “It’s a go.”

Sammie, Sol Stennis, Marshall Smith, and I crossed the thick snow to the front door, making no more noise than the creakings in the trees nearby. The two remaining members of the team spread out to cover the far corners. In the reflected amber glimmering from the small, grimy windows, we could just make out a trailer whose traveling days were over-overpatched, sagging, and surrounded by insulating hay bales. The wispy smoke of a wood stove escaped into the night air from a crooked metal chimney. At the rear of the rig, plywood panels had been bolted to the windows of the room we’d been told was Mary Wallis’s prison.

Marshall Smith and I positioned ourselves to each side of the rickety door, located to the right of the long wall, while Sammie and Sol stood slightly back and to the center. All of us except Marshall were armed with thirteen-inch shotguns with powerful flashlights strapped to their barrels. Marshall had a pry bar which he quietly fitted between the door and the jamb. From inside, all we could hear were the muffled exclamations of a TV set.

At a nod from me, Marshall threw his weight against the pry bar, springing the door open. Following his own momentum, he fell away from the opening, allowing me and the two others to pour past him, while he circled around to bring up the rear, a pistol now in hand.

I went straight across the narrow space to the opposite wall, quickly checking to the right where there was only an empty sofa and table. Sammie and Sol came in covering the left, from where we’d heard the TV, she in a crouch, and he standing.

“Don’t move-Police,” we all shouted simultaneously.

Before us, sitting in matching upholstered rocking chairs, their mouths open in astonishment, were an elderly couple, their eyes as wide as the three shotgun barrels facing them.

“Tim and Bernice Walters,” I said, “you’re under arrest. Is there anyone here besides the woman you’re holding in back?”

Speechless, both of them shook their heads.

Sammie and Marshall moved farther into the trailer, checking all the doors, including the only locked one at the end of the narrow hallway. “Clear,” she reported. Our assault had taken about eight seconds.

I nodded to Sol, who pulled his radio from his web belt and forwarded the all-clear to the others. Sammie had Tim and Bernice Walters sit down on the floor next to each other and cuffed their hands behind their backs.

Gail arrived moments later, and I escorted her down the narrow hall, leaving Sammie to read from her Miranda card.

“You ready?” I asked her.

“Go on,” she urged.

I worked the heavy lock and pulled the door open. It was dark inside and utterly airless.

“Mary?” Gail asked tentatively, squinting to see better.

“Who’s there?” came the tired, confused reply.

A light flashed on, and Mary Wallis was revealed sitting up in bed, one hand on a small lamp, the other shielding her eyes. She looked dirty, haggard, and weak. “Gail?” she said incredulously.

Gail crossed the room and held her in her arms. I faded back to the front room. The old couple were being led outside by two patrolmen. Sammie glanced at me expectantly.

“She looks like hell,” I told her, “but she’s alive. Might as well bring up the ambulance.”

The next morning was overcast, the sky as gray as the now-gritty snow. There was a dampness to the cold, making it difficult to ward off. After the satisfaction of escorting Mary Wallis to the hospital and from there to her mother’s bedside, I’d returned to the office to bring the paperwork up to speed. What we’d stopped Ben Chambers from burning in his office had amounted to a gold mine of evidence against both him and his brother.

In addition, without fanfare or drama, Paul Hennessy had turned himself in at the dispatch window three hours earlier, having heard of our arrests on the radio-a special irony, I thought, considering how much I’d relied on the newspaper. Now, Stanley Katz’s “exclusive” on the case’s wrap-up would trail Ted McDonald’s reports by a full day. Sweet revenge for Ted, not that Katz had much to complain about-Hennessy would produce enough copy to keep Katz content for weeks.

Maxine Paroddy’s voice came over the intercom. “Lieutenant? State Police just called-they’re about five minutes out.”

I rose and grabbed my coat. “Willy?” I shouted across the squad room, “want to help with the honors?”

For once, there was no grousing. Kunkle appeared from around the corner, dressed for the weather. I wondered how long he’d been waiting. Although neither one of us had ever referred to it, I knew how NeverTom’s reference to Willy as a cripple had hurt, which was precisely why I’d asked for him now.

We went outside and stood around the parking lot for a few minutes. Willy had slept no more than I had and was in no mood for conversation. Eventually, the crunching of tires on old ice announced the arrival of the dark green state police cruiser. We waited for the car to roll to a stop, and then Willy bent forward to open the back door.

Thomas Chambers sat in the rear, his eyes fixed straight ahead, his cuffed hands nestled in his lap. Two troopers emerged from the front.

“Quiet ride?” I asked the driver.

“Yeah-snowing a little up north.”

“Coffee’s fresh inside.”

Willy reached into the car and grabbed NeverTom’s arm. Chambers jerked it away angrily. “Get your hands off me.”

Willy laughed and dragged Chambers completely out of the car, landing him on his knees. “Not this time, asshole.” With his one good arm, he lifted the other man up as if he weighed no more than a child. The two troopers looked slightly alarmed.

“Not to worry,” I muttered. “He had it coming.”

The driver nodded and went around the car to park it properly, while his companion joined us as we walked toward the building.

It was the slight crackle of ice underfoot that caught my attention. Otherwise, the dark shadow appeared from around the building’s edge with all the sound of a gentle breeze. I glanced over casually, expecting to see one of our officers walking toward the parked cruisers. Instead, it was Ned Fallows who stood there, legs slightly apart, a semiautomatic pistol held in both hands. Willy Kunkle, oblivious to all but his prisoner, was directly between Fallows and his target.

“Gun,” I shouted, diving in front of Chambers and pushing Willy hard in the chest with one hand.

The explosion went off just as I hit the icy ground, Willy’s startled cry still in my ears. I heard the trooper who’d been walking behind us shout, “Freeze,” and looked up to see Fallows standing, hands high in the air, the pistol at his feet. I rolled over to check the damage he’d done. Willy was struggling to get up. Tom Chambers lay spread-eagled on his back, motionless.

Willy’s face was twisted with humiliation and outrage. He looked from Fallows to Chambers’s prone body. “God damn it,” he yelled at me, “I could’ve handled it. What the fuck did you push me for?”

A pool of blood was rapidly expanding from the gaping wound in Chambers’s head. I slowly got to my feet and walked tiredly over to Ned Fallows, taking him by the arm. I looked him in the face for a moment, studying its familiar, haggard lines. “You did this because of what I told you, didn’t you?”

His eyes flickered to mine for a moment, but thankfully, he didn’t answer.

I sat exhausted in my office, my head throbbing. Instead of the elation I’d hungered for, especially with Mary Wallis being found alive, all I felt was sorrow and loss and depression. The motivations I’d recently witnessed-Ben Chambers and his amoral brother; Paul Hennessy and his beguilingly dissolute girlfriend; Ned Fallows, whose life of good work had grown twisted and bitter with pride-had shaken my trust in human nature. I thought of their victims-Shawna, Milo, Mary Wallis, Adele Sawyer, even poor old Bernie, who’d been forced to revisit the battlefield that had scarred him-and wondered how it was that they should have been singled out for such wanton destruction. It seemed so carelessly capricious. The irony was that NeverTom-who’d killed no one-had wound up the victim of his own devices.

Unfortunately, that gave me no solace. Too much damage lay in the way.

“Joe?”

I looked up and saw Gail standing in the doorway, the smile on her face oddly fitting the tears in her eyes. We silently embraced, lost in each other’s arms-the mutual harbor we’d nurtured over the years.

She knew of my troubles as if by telepathy, and after a few moments unhooked my coat from the back of the door and said, “Let’s go home.”

“It’s the middle of the day.”

“And other people can finish it-for both of us.”

I sighed at the sense of relief that gave me and let her slip the coat over my shoulders.

Outside, I held open my passenger door for her and circled around to the other side. As I slid in behind the wheel, she handed me a large sheet of paper. “This was on the seat. What is it?”

I held it up. It was a beautifully rendered pencil sketch of the Skyview Nursing Home, huddled against a looming black mass of hills, vanishing into a star-packed sky. “I think it’s a gift.”

“Anyone I should worry about?” she asked with a smile.

I laughed and carefully placed the picture on the back seat. “No… Not in the least.”