The Surrogate Thief

Chapter 21

Kathy Bartlett had asked Joe if he had anything against Tom Bander-born T. J. Ralpher-beyond his past history as a bad boy and the fact that his rags-to-riches story had been born following Klaus Oberfeldt's death. Instinctively, he thought he did, and that it also connected the past with the present. But his hoped-for evidence, unlike Poe's in "The Purloined Letter," wasn't hidden in plain sight. If he was correct, it was the only thing actually missing from plain sight.

Upon returning to the VBI office that afternoon, he called the one contact he had in an arcane and much misunderstood profession.

"Court Reporters Associates," the woman answered on the other end.

"Hi. This is Joe Gunther, of the Vermont Bureau of Investigation. Is Penny Johnson there?"

Court Reporters Associates was a well-known Burlington-based firm with employees who worked all over the state. Joe's knowledge of them had been peripheral at best until he'd met the current owner, Penny Johnson, at a party thrown by the Windham County state's attorney several years back. For some reason, they'd both ended up in the same corner of the room and had passed the time trading resumes. It was a habit he'd practiced for as long as he could recall, and one he was blessing right now.

"Joe, how are you?" Penny's voice eventually said on the phone. "It's been quite a while."

"We haven't been wallflowers together in quite a while. Guess we both need to get out more."

She laughed. "After my average workday, the closest thing I want to see to a human being is on TV. What can I do for you?"

"I have some questions about your profession, actually. During a search recently, we came across some old… I don't know what you call them… the things that come out the end of your steno machines."

"Paper tapes," she said. "Is it indiscreet to ask who typed them?"

"Someone named Hannah Shriver."

"Oh." A shocked silence followed her reaction.

"Did you know her?" Joe asked, hardly believing his luck.

"No," was the slightly stammered reply. "But I read the papers, Joe. She was the poor woman killed at the fair, wasn't she?"

"Yes," he said, disappointed.

"And she was a court reporter?"

"Used to be, over thirty years ago. That's how far back these tapes go."

"Oh," Penny repeated, but this time he could hear the relief in her voice, as if by placing Hannah in a time long past, he'd also put her at a safe distance.

"I wanted to ask you how those tapes are produced," Gunther continued. "They're completely verbatim, right? Word for word?"

"That's correct."

"Just like the typed transcription that follows? Every 'ah' and 'um' included?"

"Every one, yes, painful as it is to read sometimes."

"So," he surmised, "if the typist chose to leave something out of the tape, then there's no one who would know it had ever been said, unless they were asked to recall the conversation from memory."

"No," she said.

Joe was taken aback. "No, what?"

"No, she wouldn't leave anything out. It doesn't work that way, Joe. It's not like taking minutes at a meeting, where you select the relevant parts. We're on autopilot, sometimes typing two hundred and sixty words a minute. Our fingers bypass our brains, in a way, and connect only to our ears. It's so much that way that sometimes I can actually daydream while I'm typing. It would be a real feat to interrupt that flow and start picking and choosing what to write down. In fact, I'm not sure it's even possible. I certainly couldn't do it."

Joe furrowed his brow, thinking of alternatives. "The same typist writes the transcription?"

"Yes, especially back then. Now, with computers, it's a little different, but if you weren't exaggerating about the time frame, then the whole process was very personalized, especially in how the tape reads. Each reporter had her own way of doing things."

"I thought it was basically shorthand," he said. "Once you know how to decipher it, it's like reading a regular language."

She sounded embarrassed. "Well, yes and no. We all come up with our own shortcuts, and they sometimes get pretty hard for other people to figure out."

"Meaning you might not be able to translate what's on a tape?" He couldn't keep the disappointment from his voice.

"It could be difficult," she admitted apologetically. "Although certainly feasible. It would just take a long time. Where was she trained?"

"Hang on," Joe said, and pawed through the files on his desk. "Champlain College," he finally announced, holding a sheet of paper before him.

"Oh, that's great," Penny said, relieved. "My old school. We probably know the same tricks. That'll help a lot. I'm assuming you want me to try to read her tape?"

"Would you mind?"

"Not at all. It will take a while, though, like I said. It's not the same as in the movies. It's more like solving a jigsaw puzzle without the box top."

"I have the transcription," he said hopefully.

"That'll help."

"And I even know the exact place I'm curious about."

Her reaction dispelled all his earlier concerns. "Oh, good Lord. Well, then, I should be able to do something pretty quickly. When can you get it to me?"

"Today," he answered. "By courier."

The ringing phone dragged him out of a deep sleep, making him wonder at first where he was. His dreams, as so often lately, had been of ancient history, while the faces populating them were from everywhere and every time.

"Hello?" he asked sleepily, automatically checking the clock by his bedside. In fact, it wasn't that late. He'd just gone to bed far earlier than usual, yielding to a weariness that he'd been staving off for days.

He half hoped it would be Gail again, maybe even calling from his driveway.

It was not.

"Joe? It's Katz. You sleeping?"

"Trick question, right? What do you want?"

"A statement. We're going with a story that VBI is investigating Tom Bander for murder."

Gunther sat up. "What? That's bullshit."

"On the record?"

"Whoa. No. Just a minute. Jesus Christ, Stan. What kind of high school stunt is this?"

"I didn't think you'd be asleep," Katz said defensively.

"So you call me three seconds before press time? Give me a break. This is an ambush."

"So," Katz drawled, "no comment, is it?"

"Up yours. Tell me what fantasy you and your Deformer crew have cooked up this time."

"I have a solid source telling me you guys are after Tom Bander. You denying that?"

"You said we were investigating him for murder. If that's your story, it's a bald-faced lie."

Katz was enjoying himself. "Interesting answer. Very precise. So, maybe not for murder, but you are chasing him for something."

"Good night, Stanley."

"No, no. Wait, Joe. Don't hang up. I'll tell you what I got. You arrested a man named Gabriel Greenberg for the murder of Hannah Shriver."

"That's public record," Joe said, feeling his face warm with anger. Couldn't keep a lid on a goddamn thing around here.

"The same Gabriel Greenberg who works for Tom Bander."

Joe remained silent. He had no idea how Katz was getting his information. So far, none of this was the deep, dark, secret stuff being shared among investigators, for which he was grateful. That probably meant Stan was just making good use of his standard contacts inside the PD.

"Right?" Katz insisted.

"You asking?"

"No, I'm not asking. I'm looking for a confirmation."

"No comment."

"All right, fine," Katz said heatedly. "Fuck you, too. We're going with this, Joe, whether you comment or not."

"Going with what, Stanley? You haven't told me anything, yet."

"That you busted one of Bander's employees for murder and that you're tearing into all of their backgrounds."

Joe began feeling slightly better. "That's it? How do you go from there to our going after Bander for murder?"

He could hear the reporter sigh with exasperation before Katz asked, "How's Gail taking the news?"

Gunther didn't answer.

Katz perked up. "Uh-oh. Hit a chord?"

"Stanley, you are such a jerk. I haven't talked to her about this. I have no idea how she's taking it."

"You're kidding. Bander is Parker's money bag-the power behind the throne. If he gets mired in this shit, Parker can kiss his ass good-bye."

In Joe's continued silence, Katz followed that with, "Come to think of it, that could get Gail in trouble, too. I mean, here you are, busting the guy who's backing her opponent and all but giving her an election she would've been hard-pressed to win otherwise. Talk about a conflict. Wow. You have any thoughts on that?"

Gunther hung up the phone.

At home the next morning, at about the time he imagined the first papers were being delivered, Joe got a call from Susan Raffner. Her opening line substituted for any conventional greeting.

"What the hell were you thinking, talking to that asshole? I thought at least you were a professional."

Gunther hesitated, struck by his own forbearance. There was a time when he would have let her have it right back. Now he was surprised how little impact such words delivered.

"Good morning to you, too, Susan."

"To hell with that. I am royally pissed off at you, Joe. You sleep with this woman, goddamn it. The least you could've done was make a phone call."

"Is this making you feel better?"

"You think this is a joke?"

Again Gunther hung up the phone, this time hearing the tinny voice struggling out of the earpiece all the way down until he severed the connection.

Clearly, he needed to read the paper-and leave his house.

In fact, Katz's article didn't say much. It mentioned names, drew a few vague connections, and made much ado about the senate race and the fact that the VBI wasn't talking, as if that implied a Watergate-size scandal in the making. Joe was unhappy to see a passing reference connecting him to Gail, but he had to admit that only the context was painful. Their relationship was widely known. The bottom line, as he interpreted it, was that the article was as harmless for the cops as it was clearly explosive politically. For that, he felt sorry for Gail. She and Parker and Bander were going to be grilled in the media, and it wouldn't just be local. But for the short run, he could most likely remain safe behind a barricade of "no comments."

Thus comforted, he was prepared for the reactions he got on entering the basement command center. He waved his hand placidly at the few alarmed or angry faces bearing outrage at a so-called renegade press, and issued a couple of the verbal bromides he'd been telling himself during the car trip over here. No big deal. Just keep on track.

Seeing Willy Kunkle approaching fast, however, as he was setting his coffee on his desk, made him brace for the worst. Willy placed a faxed report beside the coffee mug. "I always knew sleeping with her would get you in trouble," he said.

"Very tasteful, Willy. What're you doing up so early?"

"Thought I'd bring you a little good news to balance the bad," he said.

"Oh, yeah?" Joe picked up the fax.

"Yup. The lab matched not one but two samples of blood on Greenberg's hunting knife. They extracted them from where the blade meets the guard and at the bottom of the 'Made in USA' stamp at the base. Looking at it with the naked eye, you couldn't see a thing."

Joe stared at him, a smile slowly spreading across his face. "You going to tell me, or do I have to read it?"

Willy waggled his eyebrows. "Perfect matches to both Shriver and Shea. I love it when bad guys don't ditch their toys."