“You’re not in any trouble, you know. You haven’t broken any laws. The worst you’ve done is waste my time and make Detective Martens feel bad. You could fix that by telling us why you came to us. Did someone tell you to?”
He didn’t answer.
“You done talking to us, Milo?” Still no response.
I tried one last time. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill and extended it to him. He shifted his gaze to the bill. “Take it.”
He hesitated.
“No strings. I don’t know why you tried to jerk us around. I know word’s gotten out we’re looking for whoever was under that bridge, so maybe you thought it would be a lark to be him. Maybe someone threatened you or paid you off to do this. Beats me. But understand something, Milo. Whoever really was under that bridge had better watch his ass, because there’s someone looking for him, the same guy who’s killed two other people. So spread the word around. Tell whoever it is to come to us, or we’ll all be going to his funeral.”
Again, there was a long silence in the room.
“Is that all?” he muttered.
“Yeah. You can leave if you’d like. Call us if you want to talk more.”
Milo rose to his feet, pulling the five dollars from between my fingers as he did so. He shambled out the door silently, leaving it open behind him.
Sammie looked at me with a crestfallen expression. “I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t be. Somebody tells you he’s somebody else, you believe it. It’s natural.”
“You didn’t.”
“At first I did. You would’ve tumbled to him eventually; his story was pretty leaky. Anyway, maybe it’ll do some good. If he spreads the word around, we might get lucky.” I got up and stretched. “Well, I’m hitting the hay. Tell Dispatch I’ll be at home, will you?”
Twenty minutes later, as I walked around opening windows and turning on fans in my apartment, I mulled over what we had so far. Two dead bodies, one an up-and-coming successful businessman with an unconventional past history and a hyperactive interest in sex and drugs; the other a lowbrow hustler and petty thief found in possession of enough narcotics to make a big-time dealer proud. Was Jardine financing Milly Crawford? Did Milly kill Jardine and then get killed in turn? If so, then by whom? Did John Woll kill Jardine out of jealousy? It made sense, but it didn’t explain the connection between Milly and Woll, unless, of course, drugs were the motive, and not jealousy. There had been cases where cops had been used as protection by drug dealers, but that didn’t seem to fit here. John Woll was a low-ranking patrolman and had not, as far as I knew, had anything to do with drug investigations within the department.
Plus there was the assumption that John, if dirty, had transported Jardine’s body in his patrol car, while on duty, to bury it in full view of any potential passerby. If he’d been that stupid, then why should I believe he was now cunning enough to kill Milly and stalk whatever bum might have seen him from under the bridge? Why so paranoid now if he’d been so careless and nonchalant initially?
And what of Tucker Wentworth and Arthur Clyde? What had two older, successful, veteran financiers seen in a local high-school graduate with an undistinguished string of minimum-wage service jobs in his wake? Were they as successful as they appeared? Had the lure of drug money caught their interest and led them to employ both Jardine and Milly Crawford as part of their organization? If so, then what had gone wrong? From all appearances, Milly hadn’t really begun to tap into his chemical treasure trove-he’d been nipped in the bud and his product left for us to collect. His murder, I still felt, had been a risky, unplanned affair, committed to shut him up fast, not because he’d been guilty of any transgression. What had it been that he could have told us?
And then there was Blaire Wentworth, reputedly a devoted daughter, and apparently one of Jardine’s lovers. Where did she fit? And was Rose Woll as innocent and unrealistic as she seemed?
I lay on top of my bed, naked, the two fans I’d placed on either side of me moving just enough air to keep me from soaking the sheets with sweat. As much as I needed sleep, I knew my mind would not shut down easily. It would keep working, mulling over the angles, applying less and less logic as my thoughts became more like dreams.
Indeed, when I finally did fall asleep, it was to the image of Luman Jackson, laughing maniacally, dragging the entire police department into court for “willfully ignoring the wishes of a town father,” while a shadowy figure, his hands red with blood, faded gradually to the extreme limit of my vision and then vanished.
17
The morning edition of the Brattleboro Reformer proved worse than I’d imagined. The body we had dug up the day before was identified as Charlie Jardine, Milly Crawford’s murder was described as having taken place under our noses, and the drug seizure came across less as a coup and more as dumb luck.
The editorial didn’t help. It bemoaned a world in which a small, almost rural town like Brattleboro could become the target of drug traffic and questioned the police department’s ability to stem the potential “coming tide.” The hand-wringing prose reflected the paper’s new scarlet banner and made me nostalgic for the tough-minded but clear-sighted Reformer of old.
Indeed, both the neighboring Keene Sentinel and Greenfield Reporter, which had also clarioned our troubles across their front pages, seemed downright muted in comparison.
On the other hand, despite Katz’s vague promise, more shocking revelations were conspicuously absent. Both ABC Investments and Morris, McGill were mentioned, but only as places of employment. Either Stanley had shied away, or he was biding his time. I wasn’t putting money on the first.
Predictably, the mood in the squad room was thunderous. Dennis DeFlorio was sputtering as he read one of the ten copies of the Reformer that were scattered around like oversized confetti: “‘Police were noncommittal about the timing of their arrival at the murder scene, but from their promptness and from overheard radio transmissions between mobile police units and their dispatcher, it was apparent one or more of them had been positioned near Horton Place before Mr. Crawford was killed, for reasons unexplained. Later, one police officer was overheard saying, “He really pulled the rug out from under us,” referring apparently to the murderer.’ Can you believe this shit? I bet that son of a bitch quoted himself.”
They were all there, including Sammie Martens, who looked like she hadn’t gotten any sleep at all. I walked to the door of the meeting room and gestured to everyone to follow me. Harriet brought up the rear, yellow legal pad in hand.
I sat at the head of the table and waited for them to settle down. “We’re going to have to ignore the press reports as much as possible. With the change of management at the Reformer I think we’ll all be seeing some pretty sensational stuff, a lot of which is going to get under our skin. This is the first time something this big has come their way, and the local editor is trying to satisfy his Midwestern bosses. So, either get used to it or change subscriptions.” I didn’t add that if the politicians got warmed up, the press would be the least of our problems.
“At least Ted’s playing it straight,” someone muttered.
That much was true. On my short drive in, I’d tuned in to several radio reports. McDonald, the only local newscaster, had been his usual brief, straight, and to-the-point self. I guessed it helped when you had no time to editorialize. Ted, unlike Stan Katz, didn’t have the luxury of a single story and thirty column inches to fill. To McDonald, we were merely the lead item in a four-minute summary, including the weather. Indeed, I often thought that my colleagues’ preference for McDonald over Katz was based solely on Ted’s inability to take up as much of their time with his reporting. Personally, while I found him by far the more unpleasant of the two, Katz got my nod as the better journalist. It was an opinion, however, that wild horses couldn’t drag out of me in public.