Our progress was predictably slow. Blinded by snow, deafened by the water’s roar, and confused by the hidden terrain, we tried keeping to the bank, stumbling every few feet, bruising our freezing hands on the slippery rocks. It quickly became impossible to differentiate between solid ground and water under the snow’s crust, and we both were soon wet to the knees, beginning a hypothermic descent that our bodies could only fight for so long. Sammie was probably already totally numb, but I wasn’t counting on that to slow her down.
As we went, I kept updating dispatch by radio, suggesting places where intercept teams could get to the water. But the weather, the traffic, and the number of accidents around town were limiting our stretched resources. The backup unit I’d had standing by had been notified too late to be of immediate use, and while they were now driving east to head off Owen farther downstream, I wasn’t sure they’d be successful, blue lights or not.
The terrain got worse. The banks steepened and the stream bed narrowed, forcing us deeper into the faster-running water. Now all three of us were soaked, and the initial sting of cold had become a violent throbbing, making numbness a blessing and frostbite a real possibility. I’d waited too long to call off what never should have started in the first place.
Complicating this, however, was Sammie. Barely visible ahead of us, making no pretense of fighting the rapids, she’d allowed herself finally to be simply swept along. Either because of the cold or her own hardheadedness, she’d gone beyond being rational.
“Ron,” I shouted over the water’s roar. “We got to get her out. To hell with Owen.”
Ron nodded and, to my utter astonishment, plunged headlong into the water, like a lifeguard into the summer surf.
We had struggled to just shy of the Williams Street bend in the stream, where an abrupt drop-off creates a quasi-chasm in the midst of a rocky, tree-choked glen. Although this spot is near the heart of one of the largest towns in Vermont, there was no evidence anywhere that we were within a hundred miles of civilization.
Except, just before the falls, for a narrow, low-slung metal trestle carrying a six-inch sewage pipe from one bank to the other.
As I gingerly drew within sight of it, unwilling to yield to the water’s rage as had my colleagues, I saw them both-along with Owen Tharp-draped or pinned against the overpass like bugs on a windshield wiper. Sammie had one arm hooked through the metalwork and the other arm around Owen’s neck, while Ron was keeping both of them from being carried over the edge to the rocks below. I updated the others by radio and, moving like an awkward, antiquated robot, tried to help Ron keep everyone alive.
12
The three of us were in Sammie’s hosital room the next morning when Willy Kunkle walked in. We’d been kept overnight for observation-including Owen, under guard-to assure that our cold-water adventure hadn’t led to more than a craving for lots of hot coffee. Fortunately, it had not.
“Don’t you look cute,” Willy observed of our hospital gowns. “Sam, climb out of bed so I can see if that’s one of those tie-across-the-back models.”
Sammie still hadn’t regained her sense of humor since losing Tharp to a slippery stone. “Up yours.”
“How’s Owen?” I asked diplomatically.
Willy was unusually cheerful. “He’s fine, and getting VIP treatment, since he totally spilled his guts. He’s already in our lockup, waiting for arraignment.”
“He confessed?” Ron asked.
“Yup. Last night, after the docs let us at him. Described where he left the body, the knife he used, and where he threw it by the side of the road. J.P. and me checked his apartment and gave Judith the third degree-there’s a lovely woman, by the way-and she even handed over some bloody clothes she was going to get rid of.”
“Anything fitting the knee-print we found next to Brenda’s body?” I asked.
“Don’t know. J.P.’s hoarding it. All I saw was a jacket with a smeared cuff and a shoe with a couple of drops on it. Looked like Owen must’ve split before it got real messy.”
“The arraignment’s this afternoon?” Ron asked, always conscious of deadlines. “You been able to get the paperwork ready?”
Kunkle looked at him scornfully. “Scared you might be replaced, Ronnie? Actually, it was so easy I wonder why you make such a big deal out of it all the time. Job security, I guess.”
I cut him off as Ron’s face reddened. “Why did he do it?”
Willy perched on the edge of Sammie’s bed. “That part’s a little melodramatic, but then I think Owen’s a few bricks shy of a load. He says he had a girlfriend a couple of years back who died of some bad dope. He didn’t know it was Brenda then that supplied her, but when he found out, he got good and hopped up and went over to confront her. She told him to pound sand and he sliced-’n’-diced her-just like that.”
“Who told him it was Brenda?”
“No one. He said he discovered it for himself-that she’d poisoned the stuff.”
“He know about the kid in the back room?”
“Negative. Not that it matters. It’s a two-for-one sale, according to the SA-Felony Murder Rule.”
Thinking of the election later in the year, I asked, “The SA going to handle it himself?”
Willy smiled. “Nope. Your love-mate is, with him looking over her shoulder, of course.”
Gail?” I blurted out.
“Unless you switched partners. Derby wants to spend his quality time rallying votes. Rumor has it James Dunn wants the office back in November. Total bullshit, of course-everyone hates Dunn-but Derby’s got sweaty palms. Plus, he thinks if he lets one of his deputies handle it, it’ll show off the office’s depth-he’s fighting the image of being a headline hog as well as a micro-manager, just like Dunn used to be. Looks like the public defender’s office is going to assign Reggie McNeil from their side. Should be fun for Gail, given Reggie’s habits.”
McNeil had made a reputation of using anything and everything in defense of his clients-sometimes to the point of getting his wrist slapped by his boss, the defender general. This zeal did not endear him to anyone I knew in law enforcement.
“How do you know McNeil’s got it? Wouldn’t that happen at the arraignment?” I asked, surprised.
“Right after Owen fessed up”-Willy gave Ron a meaningful look-“which was right after we Mirandized him nice and legal-I guess he suddenly got cold feet. Maybe it was hearing himself out loud or something. Anyhow, he clammed up-a little late-and said he wanted a lawyer. Asked for McNeil personally. Not that that scum-bag isn’t a household name to every loser in town.”
“McNeil is such a jerk…” Sammie began joining in, but came to a full stop, her mouth half open and her eyes on the door.
We all followed her gaze and saw a tall, slim man with long dark hair, dressed in a thigh-length leather jacket. He had high cheekbones, a permanent five o’clock shadow, a strong chin, and penetrating eyes. To my jaundiced eye, he looked like a wannabe fashion model, touched by just enough cheapness to ruin the effect.
“Andy,” Sammie said in a slightly strangled voice.
Andy Padgett looked uncomfortably at the bunch of us, obviously caught unawares by our presence.
“Hey, babe,” he said cautiously, his voice muted.
Willy turned to Sammie in mock outrage. “You never let me call you that. How’s he get away with it?”
Sammie’s lips barely moved. “Fuck off, Willy.”
I got up and crossed over to shake Padgett’s hand, hoping to dilute the tension. Gail and Ron’s wife had dropped by to see us the night before, and we’d all had a good time. I felt badly now that Sammie’s chance at the same kind of comfort was being ruined. “Hi. I’m Joe Gunther. Glad to meet you. This is Ron Klesczewski. Willy Kunkle I think you already know.”
Padgett’s grip was brief. His eyes only briefly met mine. “Yeah. Hi.”
“Sammie’s said good things about you.”