The actual village of Hinsdale lies several miles southeast of the bridge-a quiet, none-too-prosperous town, once dominated by the quasi-obligatory nineteenth-century mill and now looking for a substitute cash cow to help it survive. Home of several substantial trailer parks and mile upon mile of residential roads, Hinsdale had become a bedroom community for those looking for less expensive housing and New Hampshire’s lighter touch in the taxation department.
The high school was located just west of the village, at the back of a broad expanse of fields and parking lots. There, reflective under one of the bright sodium lights, was a marked cruiser, its muffler emitting a tenuous plume of vapor. I pulled up next to it, nose-to-tail, and rolled down my window to talk to Budd Sheeney, elbow-to-elbow.
“How’re you doing, Joe? You didn’t waste any time.”
Budd was a large man in his forties-big-bellied, broad-shouldered, sporting the straight bristle mustache so common to police officers. A Hinsdale boy from birth, he’d gone straight from the school surrounding us to the police department and had been there ever since. He knew everybody as though they were blood-related and was as comfortable in this community as a bullfrog in a pond.
“I was just coming into town when Ron called me,” I answered. “I hear you have something on Phil Resnick.”
“I got a tickle, yeah. Wasn’t sure how high that was on your list anymore.”
I didn’t know if I should believe that, but I didn’t see any harm in letting him play Santa Claus. “Pretty high, Budd. I’d appreciate any help you can give us.”
“Not a problem,” he answered casually. “It’s one of those guy-who-knows-a-guy things, though, and I haven’t checked it out. But according to my source, someone looking like Resnick was seen at Sandy Corcoran’s place around the time you’re interested in.”
“What makes you think it was Resnick?” I asked.
“You said he might’ve been burned. Supposedly, this one’s face and hands looked like one big blister.”
That stopped me. I remembered the ME saying that the chloracne reaction to the chemicals would have taken several days to develop-and that, at the time of exposure, Resnick probably wouldn’t have done much more than wipe the stuff off without giving it a thought. “You have a precise date on this sighting?”
Sheeney shook his head. “The reference I got was ‘a few days before’ you found that body, whatever that means. Supposedly the guy was seen looking out of one of Sandy’s windows.”
“Sounds good,” I said. “What’s the story with Sandy Corcoran?”
“Standard bad girl, but no headline-maker. She’s been clean for about eight months. Did a little time for drunk and disorderly back then, when she took a bottle to her boyfriend’s head-not that he noticed or cared. But it was in the racetrack parking lot, so we had to do something about it.”
I thought for a moment. “Okay. Could you round up a search warrant? I want to be able to move on her with full guns when the time comes. I’ll have Ron call you tomorrow to coordinate. That okay?”
Sheeney nodded gravely, now officially integrated. “You got it.”
Sandy Corcoran lived in a small, peeling house on Route 63 heading out of Hinsdale village. Neither in town nor in the suburbs, it hung like a tattered thread on the border, near a couple of others like it, just shy of where the road opened up to countryside and woods.
When I parked the car a hundred yards below it and killed my lights, it was almost seven o’clock the night following my talk with Sheeney. Willy and J.P. were in the car with me. Sammie had taken a few days off and hadn’t been seen or heard from since.
I saw Budd Sheeney’s bulk loom up ahead of us, his outline caught by the dim lights from the house behind him.
He crouched by my door as I rolled down the window. “She’s inside, alone. Got back from work about an hour ago. I have a man watching the rear.”
“Then let’s get going,” Willy said and swung out of the car.
We walked quietly up to the building’s front porch, littered with the remnants of a winter’s worth of cordwood, now reduced to a few logs and a dunelike pile of bark scraps. The air was still and surprisingly warm-a hopeful harbinger of long-awaited spring.
Sheeney knocked politely on the front door.
We heard footsteps against a backdrop of TV noise, and a shadow passed across the curtain next to us. “Who is it?” The voice was neither soft nor fearful. I remember the comment about Sandy laying a bottle across her boyfriend’s head.
“It’s Budd Sheeney, Sandy. Wondered if we could talk to you.”
The door swung open, splashing us with light. Before us stood a tall, muscular, statuesque black-haired woman, dressed in tight jeans and a tank top. Her feet were bare and her eyes hard. She had a tattoo of an eagle on her well-muscled shoulder. “Who’s we?”
Budd gestured in our direction. I answered, “Joe Gunther-Brattleboro Police. We’re investigating a homicide and thought maybe you could help us.”
“I haven’t killed anybody.”
“No one said you did, Sandy,” Budd said. “Can we come in?”
“It’s not that cold. We can talk here.”
I took the warrant Budd had handed me earlier and gave it to her. “We’d like it better inside.”
She took it from me but didn’t bother opening it. She stepped back. “You fucking guys.”
We took that as an invitation and filed past her into a cluttered living room, piled with clothes, several old pizza boxes, and an assortment of cast-aside magazines. The walls were decorated with Harley and rock star posters, a plastic cat clock, and an out-of-date calendar advertising a beach in Hawaii.
“I got nothing to say, you know?” she continued. “And I don’t know shit from any homicides.” She pointed at Sheeney and smirked. “Ask him. He watches me enough of the time. He could probably tell you more about what I done than I could.”
“How ’bout the night of January sixth?” I asked, ignoring that Sheeney had actually blushed a bit, “when the body of Phil Resnick was found on the railroad tracks in Brattleboro?”
The only reaction I registered was a slight hesitation in her answer. “I don’t know nothin’ about that.” She then followed with more bluster, pointing at J.P. and Willy, who were quietly poking around the room, heading off elsewhere into the house. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’?”
I walked over to the TV and switched it off. “Read the warrant, Ms. Corcoran. We’re here because a judge agrees that you’re up to your neck in trouble. Have a seat.” I motioned toward the couch.
“Eat shit,” she said.
“Your choice,” I continued. “We happen to know Phil Resnick was brought here shortly before he was murdered. When he was dumped on the tracks, he was already unconscious, probably because he’d been hit on the head.” I made a show of pausing a moment before adding, “Which is something you like to do, don’t you? Beaned your boyfriend not long before Resnick got his. State’s Attorney will like that pattern.”
“You’re so full of shit,” she said, but I thought her enthusiasm was beginning to flag.
“Not this time.” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder. “You know what they’re looking for?”
“Whatever it is, they won’t find it.”
“Not a single drop of blood?” I asked. “Not a fingerprint? What about his clothes? He was dressed like a bum when we found him. You don’t strike me as the neatest person around. If you forgot to remove, or vacuum, or wipe off even the tiniest bit of evidence, we’ll find it. After that, your life will be hell. Remember, we’re across the state line here. This’ll involve cops, prosecutors, and judges from both New Hampshire and Vermont if you don’t play ball. You could spend a lot of time in jail.”