The homeless man’s lips seemed cracked, and Student #5 knew the man’s throat would be parched by fear. It hadn’t been hard to get him drunk the night before, to the point of unconsciousness. There was some humor in this, he realized, because Timothy Warner was undoubtedly familiar with the same stupor. Student #5 believed there were both irony and intellectual symmetry in using a drunk to kill a drunk.
He popped open another beer and held the cold bottle to the man’s lips. The homeless mad slurped wildly at the drink.
“Better?”
The man nodded.
“Want a chaser?”
Student #5 held up a large bottle of cheap whiskey.
The man nodded again, and Student #5 generously poured some into the man’s mouth. He wondered, Is he thinking, If I have to die, I might as well go out drunk? Probably. Makes sense.
“Do what I say, and there will be more.”
The man looked eager.
“A good performance. That’s what I want. I need you to continue for five, no, at least ten minutes. That will seem like a long time, but keep it up. No breaks. Do you understand?”
The man’s eyes twitched a yes.
“Think of it this way: You are calling for help. That help will save you. So I’d put heart and soul into it. It’s your best chance.” The homeless man seemed ready. “Okay. Start… now!” He pushed the “record” button on the old-fashioned tape machine and glanced down at his wristwatch.
The first Help! was croaked, a word spoken with sandpaper.
Student #5 used his arms to gesture, like someone mimicking an orchestra conductor. The words started to flow, genuine, sincere, totally panicked, rising like an aria of despair.
38
The drive from the motel near the airport outside of Hartford, Connecticut, to Charlemont, Massachusetts, took nearly two hours, but more than the time involved, it was the change from urban to rural that kept Andy Candy’s eyes on the passing scenery. For the last twenty minutes or so, they paralleled the Deerfield River. It glistened in the morning sunlight. Moth was familiar with the history of a famous massacre that had taken place nearby back in the 1700s-local Native Americans doing in some settlers in unpleasant fashion-and started to mention it, until he realized that bringing up centuries-old ambush killings might not be the right tone for this day.
They passed rolling hills covered with thick stands of tall fir trees. The Green Mountains of Vermont loomed in the distance. It was the antithesis of Miami-which was all neon, glowing lights, concrete, and palm trees, a go-go atmosphere. This was a far different America, different even from the farmland and forest that they’d seen in New Jersey when they went to see Jeremy Hogan. This seemed almost antique. Andy Candy couldn’t have said exactly how it was different-but there was an odd feel to the isolation they were driving into. A good place to hide, she thought, and this made her shift about with growing tension.
The town of Charlemont was even smaller than they expected it would be. A bedraggled gas station. A pizza place. A general store. A church. It lacked most of the romantic New England qualities of slightly more substantial old towns. No grassy common and stately white clapboard homes built in the 1800s. Instead, it was spread along both sides of a road, near the river, with some whitewater outfitters and a nearby modest ski area that offered zip-line trips in the off-season. To say it was quiet would have been an exaggeration.
Susan Terry was driving. She pulled into the parking lot in front of a redbrick building with a large old-fashioned bell tower rising in its center. There was a sign: “Town Offices.”
“Just follow my lead,” she said as she parked.
Inside it was cool, shadowy. A town directory pointed them toward the Charlemont Police Department. Susan Terry saw that it listed only four names-and one was designated “river patrol.” She guessed this was the officer best equipped to deal with folks who got into trouble canoeing on the water without life jackets.
There were two people in the office, both in uniform, a middle-aged man and woman. They looked up when Susan Terry entered, trailed by Andy Candy and Moth.
“Help you?” asked the man pleasantly. Andy Candy assumed he was accustomed to helping strangers out with routine messes. In the fall the area was likely filled with leaf peepers traveling to see the foliage.
Susan Terry produced her badge. She smiled. Friendly. But focused. “Sorry to show up without advance warning,” she said. “But we need a little assistance. I’m with the Miami-Dade County Attorney’s Office, and a resident of your fine town is a potential witness in a felony case we have down in Florida. He might be reluctant to give me a statement-and I think we will need an officer to accompany us to his home so we can question him appropriately.”
She lied easily. Moth knew this capability went hand-in-glove with drug use and alcoholism. When one was so accustomed to lying to oneself, it wasn’t hard to lie to others.
The Charlemont policeman nodded. “Don’t get this sort of request too often,” he said. “Sure you wouldn’t prefer a state trooper? There’s a barracks not too far away.”
“Local jurisdiction is better from the legal point of view.”
“Okay. What sort of felony are we talking about?”
“Homicide.”
This made both officers hesitate. “We’ve never had a murder here, at least none that I can remember,” the man said. “Don’t know if we’ve ever even had someone connected to a murder.”
“We have them all the time down in Miami,” Susan said lightly.
“Who are these young folks?” the policeman asked, gesturing at Moth and Andy Candy.
“The other witnesses. It’s important that they get a look at the fellow up here.”
“He a suspect?”
“Not precisely. Just a person of interest for my case.”
“You expect trouble?”
Susan smiled, shrugged. “No one’s ever all that eager to help out in a criminal case, especially one that’s out of state. That’s kind of why we’re here unannounced.”
The cops nodded in agreement. This made sense. “So you want us to…”
“Drive up. Knock on the door with me. Give me some backup if I need it. Encourage a conversation. Just a little muscle-flexing.”
She made it sound like this was nothing more complex than a discussion over unpaid parking tickets. Susan’s mind churned with possibilities. She imagined flight and absence. Or perhaps door-slamming refusal. The possibility of gunfire. In truth, she had no idea what to expect, but having a uniformed officer was undoubtedly going to help. A part of her would have preferred a detachment of Marines. She’d faced many criminals, but always with an upper hand-in a courtroom or when they were already behind bars. Still, she believed she had the advantage here of surprise and numbers, It did not occur to her that she might be wrong.
“We can do that. Where we going?”
“Fellow’s name is Munroe, lives out-”
“In those old trailers on Zoar Road, near the catch-and-release trout management area. We know it,” the woman cop interrupted.
“You know him?”
“Not really.” The male cop took over seamlessly. Andy Candy figured they were husband and wife. “See the guy in his truck from time to time. This is a small town, so you get to know all the names. He’s not there too much, which makes me think he’s got some other home somewhere, although he don’t look like he’s got any spare change lying about to help him maintain more than one place. Definitely keeps to himself. Can’t recall ever going out there on any call of any sort.”