I was pleased to see the satisfaction in his eyes. His youthful insecurities were hardening with time, and while he’d always have problems with someone like Willy Kunkle, I no longer harbored Tony Brandt’s ebbing skepticism that I’d backed the wrong horse as my second-in-command.
Sammie Martens and the infamous Kunkle were loitering outside my door-she almost at attention, a note pad clutched in her hand, and he typically leaning against the wall, sipping his coffee, and gazing out the window, looking bored. I waved them in as Ron happily departed for his newly established nerve center.
There is a media-hyped misconception among many people that the only difference between most cops and the people they bust is the badge in their pockets. In my personal experience, that’s mostly bunk-except with Willy. He was a cynical, hardbitten, nasty-minded street cop with a withered, crippled left arm he kept from flopping around by anchoring its hand in his pants pocket. He had no friends that I knew of, no pleasures outside his job, and no discernibly pleasant characteristics. He’d had a wife once, whom he’d taken to beating and who’d left him years ago, and he’d once fallen so far into the dumps that I’d thought we’d have to fire him. Instead, a sniper’s bullet in the arm had retired him on permanent disability.
That should have marked the end of his career, except that I’d encouraged him to challenge the town under the Americans with Disabilities Act to get his job back. He’d never thanked me for that apparent folly, but he’d never given me cause to regret it, either. For as bitter and disagreeable as he could be, he understood the workings of Brattleboro’s least desirable social circles like no man I’d ever met. And while he talked like them, acted like them, and at times even appeared indistinguishable from them, Willy Kunkle was positively driven to putting the “bad guys” in jail. He was, like a highly motivated but disturbingly hostile attack dog, unbeatable at his job. I just never had him tour the schools upholding the department’s image.
“Sammie tells me you didn’t have any better luck than she did.”
“Nope.”
“Did either one of you hear Jason Ryan’s name come up while you were poking around, in any context at all?”
Kunkle’s cup froze halfway to his lips. “Ryan? Don’t you think it’s a little early to get that desperate?”
Sammie merely shook her head.
“He threatened Gail just a few days ago-got so unruly at a board meeting, Santos was called in to throw him out.”
Kunkle shrugged instead of responding.
“I’d like you two to check him out-discreetly-especially what he was up to all last night. Find out if he’s been mouthing off about Gail, and see if you can nail down exactly what was said at that meeting.”
Kunkle made a face, drained his Styrofoam cup, and tossed it into my trashcan. He easily-even gracefully-shoved himself out of my guest chair with his powerful right arm.
Sammie, more polite, was looking at me dubiously. “You want us both on this?”
“As far as it makes sense-I want it fast and thorough. There is one other item, though. J.P. thinks Gail’s attacker entered through one of the living-room windows, and that he knew which one to choose beforehand. She had several windows replaced about a year ago, by whom I don’t remember-some local outfit. We’re thinking one of the workmen might have scoped her place out back then.”
They both nodded at that one, knowing full well that similar patterns had proven out in the past, in both rape cases and robberies.
Kunkle headed out the door, but Sammie lingered a moment, looking a little uncomfortable. “I’m sorry about what happened to Gail. Must be tough when it’s someone you know.”
I didn’t argue the point.
The next several hours were spent at Lou Biddle’s emergency intelligence meeting-discreetly held in the back room of the local ambulance squad-where a dozen of us culled through reams of files from Vermont’s Department of Corrections and those of law enforcement agencies from most of the towns and counties around Brattleboro, including several from Massachusetts and New Hampshire.
The mood was not encouraging, however. Stimulated already by Tyler’s faxed circulars, these people had already given their files a preliminary survey, all without a “hit.” Now, each of them discussed their second and third choices, mentioning the presence of a knife, the blindfolding of a victim, the use of physical restraints, the timing of an attack, or the fact that it had taken place in the victim’s home. And while I gratefully accepted even the most remote possibilities, I did so without much hope.
I was thanking all those around me for their help when the pager on my belt erupted with its familiar chirping. As the rest of the people in the room began gathering their things and filing out the door, I used a nearby wall phone to call my office.
Brandt answered immediately. “You finished there?”
“Just now.”
“You better get over to the Reformer. We just heard through the grapevine that Gail’s name is hitting the headlines tomorrow morning.”
I didn’t answer at first. Tony had predicted this would happen, and I’d even made a certain feeble mental effort to prepare for it. But now that it was becoming reality, I felt caught totally off guard.
“That information’s from the paper itself,” he added. “One of our friendlier contacts. Sorry.”
I smiled bitterly at that. “Does she know yet?”
“I have no idea.”
I weighed my options-to see Katz at the paper, to try to see Gail, or to do nothing-and tried not to let my feelings get the better of me.
I thanked Brandt for letting me know, gathered up the files, and gave them to Todd Lefevre. I told him I’d meet him at the office-that I wanted to quickly swing by the newspaper first. Whether it was a lack of concern, or a perceived look in my eye, he asked me no questions and didn’t insist on joining me.
I drove over to the Reformer offices in a simmering rage. The Brattleboro Reformer, once a reputable small-town blend of global and community news, had been going through rough times. Purchased a year ago by a Midwest news conglomerate, it had been reduced to a USA Today-style tabloid, its front-page banner changed from traditional black to sensationalist red, all its articles reduced to one-page news bites, and its old editor and much of his staff either encouraged to leave or downright fired.
One of the few holdovers, just barely, had been Stanley Katz, who’d actually already begun working for the Rutland Herald, in the western part of the state, before he was lured back. In the old days, as a writer, Stanley had delighted in making the police department miserable, motivated by a conviction that his efforts kept us honest. Now, rehired as editor-in-chief, he had loftier-and we thought more realistic-goals in mind, such as saving his paper from bankruptcy. Its brief and trendy foray into nouveau journalism-an unappealing package in a politically hard-nosed town-had been costing its owners a bundle, and everyone knew that Katz had his hands full.
Knowing all this convinced me that, in an effort to stem the tide, he’d reverted to the take-no-prisoners journalism of yore.
But there, it turned out, I was wrong. The first person I met at the Reformer building, exiting the front door, was Susan Raffner.
Of course, the sexual assault of a prominent citizen had taken place-name or no name-and Women for Women was a logical place for a paper to seek background and quotes. But there was something in Susan’s eyes as we approached one another, an odd look of challenge that made me stop in my tracks and rethink my notions about Katz.