“It’s pure music, Joe. I’m very happy about what’s happening.”
“I’m sorry I had to leave so early,” he said. “All this stuff-”
She cut him off. “If you start apologizing for that, then I’ll have to join in, and there will never be an end to it. A pinkie swear, Special Agent-in-Charge Joe Gunther: Never let that be a problem. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Would you like to hear about your two cremated bodies? It’s preliminary, but it’s fine with me if it’s acceptable to you.”
He wasn’t about to turn her down. “Absolutely, Doctor. Proceed.”
“The female-Barbara Barber-clearly died of smoke inhalation, and her body was then consumed by the fire. From the report and photographs I received, I have no problem with the police suggestion that she died sitting in her wheelchair. William Friel, however, is a little more problematic, in that I found no signs of the same COD. His throat and lungs were clear of the soot I found in his mother, and his carbon dioxide level was within normal limits. His body did suffer extensively from the fire, making some of this hypothesis only approximately accurate, but right now, I’m thinking that in his particular microenvironment during the conflagration, Mr. Friel died of inhaling super-heated air-a flash fire-rather than of any products of combustion, such as smoke. In some cases, I can find perhaps a cardiac event to explain findings like these, but Mr. Friel appears to have had a perfectly normal middle-aged anatomy. He didn’t even have much alcohol in his system, which is something else I look for, especially in house fires.”
“And naturally, you didn’t find a bullet,” Joe said.
“Nor a bashed-in skull, nor a ligature around his neck,” she agreed. “As always, the toxicology screen will be coming back in a few weeks and may have something not readily apparent today, but right now, I’m afraid I’m going to have to label this one the same way I did Mr. Marshall.”
“Undetermined,” Joe concluded.
“Sadly, yes,” she concurred. “There is a lingering question deserving of further analysis, however,” she added hopefully.
“Oh?”
“It’s not much. But, again, it’s among the details I search for in cases like this. I always ask myself, ‘Why didn’t they get out?’ That’s usually answered by circumstances, as with Ms. Barber, who couldn’t move from her wheelchair, or by things like alcohol, drugs, or pre-conflagration death or disability. But as far as we know, Mr. Friel suffered from none of those. So, why did he stay in the building? It had to have been reeking of gas, given the way it went up.”
Joe was nodding at the phone in agreement, enjoying in part how the back-and-forth between them-always a natural part of their friendship-felt only enhanced by their personal relationship having reached a new level. It served him as a tiny confirmation of the good feeling he’d been carrying around all day.
“Have you considered suicide?” Hillstrom asked suddenly.
“What?”
“It’s not unheard of. You feel your world is at a dead end, you’re caring for someone whose suffering is only going to worsen…” She left the rest of her sentence unfinished.
Instinctively, he rejected the idea, but he recognized her scientific process. And he’d been to the house. It wasn’t a stretch to superimpose her scenario onto the life of William Friel.
Still, considering their other death of interest-and Beverly’s similarly unsatisfactory finding-it was unlikely that Friel, with his roundabout connection to Gorden Marshall, should all of a sudden choose this moment to park himself and his mother with Marshall at the morgue.
Somebody lethal was controlling events here, from deep within the shadows, and as far as Joe knew, the only likely victim left-with direct ties to all three deaths-was Barb’s demented sister, wandering around on the loose. They’d circulated the “Be on the Lookout” press release, and it had been getting coverage in the media, but the state remained semi-crippled and distracted by the storm’s aftereffects, and Joe was suspicious of the publicity’s true impact.
“Thanks, Beverly,” he told Hillstrom. “You’ve left me thinking, as usual.”
“Coming back north soon?” she inquired seductively.
“Count on it,” he replied.
* * *
Joe had been crossing the manicured lawn of The Woods during his call to Beverly, and now entered the main building to locate Sam-whom he’d asked to join him here, prepared for a long stay-and Lester, recently discharged from the hospital and cleared for light duty.
He found them setting up in a small conference room in the office suite where they’d first met Hannah Eastridge.
“Hillstrom have anything?” Sam asked as he entered, knowing that Joe had been calling the medical examiner-although ignorant of their enhanced relationship.
“Another undetermined,” he said. “Whoever’s doing this is either very careful or really lucky. There was no smoke in Friel’s lungs, though, which certainly implies he was dead before the fire reached him.”
“Same for the mom?” Lester asked.
“No. With her, it looks like straight cause-and-effect. Makes sense-he was the one who needed to be taken out before the house could be rigged.”
“Which, of course,” Sam added, still arranging pads and recording equipment on the table, “is another unproven theory.”
“You not liking the arson/homicide premise?” Joe asked, his tone suggesting that he was open to suggestion.
She looked up startled, ever the loyalist. “No, no. I was just saying.”
“Point taken,” he told them. “But it can’t hurt to proceed on that theory until a better one comes up.”
“Works for me,” she stressed again.
“How do you want to do this, boss?” Lester asked, waving his hand across the table.
Joe sat on a chair against the wall, to keep out of the way. “We have a vague sense of who some of Marshall’s friends were in this place. So we should start by interviewing them, one by one, while at the same time drilling down for more names. The man was a community leader, so he was on committees, advisory groups, and what have you. He was also a covert Woods founder, according to his daughter, and tied in to a bunch who’re probably less easy to identify, for obvious reasons. But they’re no doubt old Vermont politicos and/or financial types.” He mused, “If we actually do get the goods on some of them, we might be able to use that as leverage. If nothing else, it would be fun to blow the whistle on ’em to the IRS.”
Spinney laughed at the notion.
“The other thing to chase down,” Joe resumed, “would be Marshall’s phone records. Plus, the usual canvass details like neighbors, friends, et cetera. His daughter might be helpful with some of that, but not much. She kept her distance. Oh, and interview the waiters from the dining room-they see stuff nobody ever thinks to ask them about. Could be that one of them saw the old boy schmoozing with someone we’re not supposed to know.”
Joe rose and moved to the door. “This is gonna take some time.” He cast a look at Sammie. “How’s Willy doing with Rozanski? He interruptable? There’s no question now that this case is the bigger deal-and you could stand the help.”
Sam gave him a smile. “But you wanted to test the water with me first before you called him up?”
“Something like that. Also, if he’s about to close it, he might as well be given a little rope.”
“I don’t know, boss,” she said honestly. “This one’s become personal, somehow. You know how he gets with those.”
They all knew that. “Where is he?” Joe asked, also aware that Willy wouldn’t have logged his whereabouts with Dispatch or anywhere else, as each of them was supposed to.
“Northeast Kingdom,” she said. “That’s all I know. Something about having found a family member who lives in the boonies.”
Joe considered that, during which Spinney spoke up, “I don’t mind cutting him a little slack. God knows, we’ll be here for a few days.”
Joe stepped into the doorway and nodded. “Okay-a couple of days. Then I’ll yank his leash.”