He paused and took a deep breath. "That day, I told myself I'd never get that close to anyone ever again."
"You're talking about Ellen."
"Yeah."
He pressed his fingertips against his eyes. "The T. J. Ralphers of the world-or whatever they're called-have no clue how far out the ripples go. Maybe it was his total lack of character that made me blow up. Damned if I know."
Gail waited for him to take his time. She thought of how little she'd understood of all this-not just recently, while she'd been distracted by her political ambitions, but during their whole time together, stretching back years. She'd heard some of it, certainly the broad outline, but without the attention it clearly deserved. Now she felt oddly unbalanced, torn between yielding to her own sentimentality, and the knowledge that what he'd revealed was a statement of fact. He would never get as close to anyone as he'd been to Ellen ever again-and despite the love that he and Gail had nurtured and nursed through the years, that included her.
She had fussed around identifying her own reasons for not committing conventionally to this union, through marriage or at least cohabitation. She'd looked at her upbringing, her own parents' struggles, the rape that had changed her life. But she'd rarely paused to look at him. To some degree, Joe Gunther had just been that lucky catch, the guy who would put up with her eccentricities.
Now, feeling a bit naive, she saw him in more depth-and while she was grateful for his devotion to her, this conversation had left her shaken.
She reached out, took his hand, and kissed it.
Kathy Bartlett's plan not to arrest Tom Bander prematurely was working well. While Walter Masius kept holding press conferences to decry the abuses being heaped on his client-little unconfirmed snippets of which, Joe was pretty certain, Bartlett was making sure got leaked-Bander himself had all but made a prison out of his sumptuous home. In the meantime, Greenberg was still talking, his three colleagues from the Tunbridge Fair had been rounded up and were adding their songs to his, and the Massachusetts State Police were updating their case daily with new and damning evidence linking Greenberg to the death of Pete Shea.
The only problem with all this momentum was that nothing, aside from Greenberg's word, linked Bander with what Greenberg claimed he'd done on Bander's orders. Greenberg's henchmen had been hired by him, not Bander, and no notes, e-mails, letters, outside witnesses, or phone records could be found tying Bander to Shriver or Shea or to the events leading up to their deaths.
Bartlett's case so far was entirely circumstantial.
Even the DNA Sammie Martens had collected hadn't proved as damning as everyone had hoped it would. Upon hearing that the swab was a perfect match for the drops found in the Oberfeldt store, Masius immediately announced that his client had cut himself upon entering the place earlier that day. According to the lawyer, Oberfeldt himself had even helped T. J. Ralpher to bandage his wound, since he'd felt guilty that a nail protruding from the counter had been to blame for the injury. Masius had almost made it sound as if the two men were friends.
Bartlett brushed the denial aside, but Joe could read between the lines. If this case went to trial, who was to say the jury would be any less swayed by that argument than some people he'd overheard discussing it in the street? Tellingly, one of them had even mentioned the phrase, "the benefit of the doubt."
Which is what made finally getting a phone call from Penny Anderson of the Court Reporters Association such a relief.
"You have any luck?" Joe asked her after a perfunctory exchange of greetings.
"It was harder than I thought," she conceded. "It's a little like deciphering someone else's really bad handwriting."
"But you did get it?"
"Oh, I got it," she said cheerfully. "And I also understand why she wasn't on the job for long, too. She was pretty bad."
Gunther glanced out the window, repressing the urge to yell at the woman to tell him what he wanted to know.
"Anyhow," Penny continued, "you were absolutely right about there being a missing piece, and it was exactly where you said it would be. Guess that's why you're the detective, right?"
"Right."
Penny finally picked up that he wasn't in a chatty mood. "So, I'll fax you a copy of what I transcribed, but would you like a sneak preview now?"
"That would be great."
She laughed. "Thought I'd never ask, right?"
Joe made no response, but he reached out and extracted a copy of the transcribed deposition Hannah had given the lawyer, Mr. Jennings.
"Okay. Here goes. Ready?"
Joe sighed silently. "Yup." MR. JENNINGS: We need to know if anyone saw you doing that. Getting your mail. MR. CONANT: T. J. was there. Came in just as I opened the box. MR. JENNINGS: Does T. J. have a last name? MR. CONANT: Sure. Everybody does. MR. JENNINGS: And what is T. J.'s last name? MR. CONANT: Ralpher. T. J. Ralpher. I have no clue what the T. J.'s for, so don't bother askin'. But he was a mess that night, so he'd sure as hell remember seein' me. He had a nosebleed to beat all. There was blood all over his shirt.
Joe interrupted her. "You're absolutely sure that's what it says?
"Oh, yes," was the response. "I know you wanted this done right, so I had one of my colleagues check it as well, to make double sure." She hesitated a moment and then asked, "Was that all right? I didn't think to ask."
Joe smiled. "That was perfect. Keep going." In the document before him, all mention of a bloody nose was missing, which is what made Conant's comment about not talking less odd than it had first appeared. Clearly, what he'd meant was that there had been no detailed discussion. MR. JENNINGS: Did you and T. J. talk? MR. CONANT: Nope. We're not like friends. He said hi, I said hi. We live in the same building. That's about it. All he said was that I should see the other guy. But he could vouch for me. I don't know shit about Mitch and that cow he calls a wife…
"That's good," Joe interrupted. "I got the rest in front of me. He doesn't mention Ralpher again, does he?"
"No. That's it."
"Penny, you're a peach. Next time I'm in Burlington, dinner's on me-your choice of restaurants."
"I don't know what my husband would say about that."
"He's invited, too. Fax me the whole thing, would you? And thanks again."
Lester Spinney was writing at his desk across from Joe, and looked up as Gunther replaced the phone's receiver. "Good news?"
"Not bad," Joe answered, dialing the phone. "David, it's Joe Gunther," he said. "You got a minute?"
David Hawke was the head of the state's crime lab, a man well used to cops calling him out of the blue and disrupting his day.
"Sure," he responded affably. "What's up?"
"Is there any way you can tell if a blood sample originated from a nosebleed?"
"Not from the makeup of the blood itself. Blood is blood, Joe. What're you talking about, specifically?"
"That three-decade-old stuff I've been bugging you about."
"Let me put you on hold so I can retrieve that file."
Joe stared into middle space as he waited. Spinney correctly interpreted the body language. "On hold?"
Gunther nodded.
"What're you after?"
"Remember that doctored deposition? I was just told that the missing section identifies Ralpher as having a nosebleed right after the Oberfeldt beating-and admitting that he got it in a fight."
"I thought Masius said the blood came from a cut hand."
"Exactly. If I can prove otherwise, it not only makes his client a liar but, if Hawke comes through, it'll strengthen my case."
"You still there?" David Hawke asked, back on again.
"Yeah. Go ahead."
"Well, I looked it over again. I don't have anything probative, but there are a couple of details supporting a nosebleed. The first is the blood pattern on the floor. It's consistent with having fallen from a height of about five feet. How tall is your suspect?"