He waited for a slow count of five while they each studied the cover sheets before them, no doubt judging their own ranking in the perceived pecking order of assignments-territoriality being the incurable rash that it is-before he concluded, "All right. Thank you all, and best of luck."
Chapter 17
In fact, Joe was as guilty of being as territorial as anyone else. The assignment he chose for himself-after scrutinizing the employment timeline that Willy had reconstructed from Hannah Shriver's files and financial records-was to analyze her activities at the time he'd been trying to solve the Oberfeldt robbery-assault. Despite his statement at the meeting that Hannah's murder should take priority over all else, there was no doubt in his mind that every aspect of this recent mayhem was rooted in that ancient case.
Willy's timeline was by no means complete. Some of the documents removed from Hannah's place were helpful-old tax returns, copies of resumes where she'd outlined her professional history, and a few pieces of correspondence. But Willy had shown his mettle by also digging into the town clerks' offices in both Townshend and Brattleboro, checking tax records, property transfers, and the like, and filling in a few additional holes.
To Joe's relief, however, the few remaining gaps fell outside his scope of interest, if just barely. At the time of Klaus Oberfeldt's assault, Hannah Shriver was working as a self-employed court reporter, although by six months later, she'd apparently moved on to something else as yet unknown.
His biggest problem was in how to proceed. So much elapsed time was going to be difficult to backtrack. Hannah's contemporaries would be middle-aged at best, possibly far afield, and probably have only vague and faulty memories of her. And that was if he found them. He'd brightened when he first heard of the court reporter job, hoping that such a connection to the judiciary, however vague, might hold some promise, but a trip to the county court building revealed that reporters' names weren't indexed to the jobs they'd completed, and that locating any such past efforts would require a case-by-case review of everything in the archives. An onerous effort, which, even if successful, still wouldn't address any jobs she might have done for the various private attorneys across town. The term "court reporter," after all, wasn't restricted to the people Willy alluded to when he'd conjured up his vision of Perry Mason. Reporters functioned in all sorts of capacities, transcribing depositions, sworn statements, and any conversations where the participants wanted a full and accurate rendering of what was said. The fruits of their labors weren't always filed with the court.
If Hannah Shriver had been killed because of something related to her job, it was going to be a neat trick finding it.
There was another possible avenue. At the Tunbridge Fair, Nick Letourneau had mentioned that Hannah had a mother residing just outside Brattleboro, who hadn't yet been approached for questioning. Generally, Joe liked having such conversations with more facts in hand, but it was clearly time to start hoping for a little dumb luck.
Natalie Shriver lived at Pleasant Acres, a sprawling complex south of town. Part home for the elderly, part straightforward nursing home, it was the only such facility of its size in this entire corner of Vermont, its brethren having been mauled to death in the never-ending and always changing struggle among the powers of Medicare, Medi-caid, the health care industry, and the state.
Mrs. Shriver, he happily discovered, lived in the independent wing, meaning, he hoped, that she might be more helpful than he'd feared upon first learning of her address. On the other hand, he knew that she'd learned of her daughter's death by now, and while he'd never had children, Joe had witnessed the grief of parents outliving their youngsters. Such misery was hard to imagine, even after his own experience with loss.
A cheery LPN escorted him down a series of hallways, eventually delivering him to the open doorway of a large, bright room overlooking a gently sloping lawn and some manicured trees. Sitting by the large window, looking out, was a small, slight woman with a full head of white hair, who turned toward them as the nurse gently knocked on the door.
"Natalie?" she said gently. "You have a visitor."
The old woman merely watched them with a vacant expression.
"It's okay," the nurse whispered to Joe. "Just sit with her awhile. She needs the company."
In a louder voice she added, "Okay. I'll leave you two alone. If you need me, you know how to get me coming."
Joe waited until she'd left before entering the room a few feet. "Mrs. Shriver? Is it okay that I'm here? I don't want to disturb you. I know you've just been through a huge shock."
Natalie Shriver tiredly waved a hand toward the other chair by the window. "It's all right."
Joe sat opposite her. "I'm a police officer, Mrs. Shriver."
"Natalie. Everyone calls me that."
"Okay. I'm Joe. I'm really sorry to bother you, but I'd like to ask you a few questions about Hannah."
Natalie's tired, pale blue eyes studied him as if searching for salvation. "That would be fine."
"Before we start, is there anything I can get for you, or would you like to ask me about what happened?"
She blinked a couple of times, he thought perhaps translating his words into something she could decipher.
"No."
"Okay. If you don't mind, then, I'll be direct, only because I don't want to drag this out more than I have to. But if anything I say upsets you, or if you want to stop at any time, please just tell me. Times like these are tough enough without people like me making them worse."
She continued looking at him, and finally acknowledged his speech with a barely perceptible nod.
"All right," he began, unsure of what to make of her silence. "Do you know of anyone who might've wished Hannah harm?"
"No." The answer came after a moment's reflection.
"Did she mention that she was involved in anything or with anyone that might've been even slightly risky, or which might've caused you concern?"
"No."
"How about just the reverse? Did she seem upbeat lately, perhaps excited about something good coming her way?"
"No."
Gunther paused to rethink his approach. There was nothing hostile in the woman's responses. Her voice was thin but steady, her expression open.
It dawned on him where he might have gone wrong. "When was the last time you saw your daughter, Natalie?"
This time there was a slight frown. "I'm not sure. I think it was about five years ago, but it might have been longer. Time isn't quite the same when you reach my age."
Joe couldn't resist smiling a little. God knows, time had been a little confusing to him, too, lately. "I may be gaining on you, then," he said. "If it's not too personal, were the two of you not close, or was your daughter just very busy?"
This time the small smile was hers. "You have a nice way of putting things. Do you have any children?"
Whether it was the directness he already sensed in this woman, or simply a decision to set the mood by opening up first, he chose to answer her honestly.
"I wish I did. I wanted to, a long time ago, but my wife died of cancer and I never had the heart to try anything like that again."