Stanton laughed. “No, you’re one of the few. Most applied as soon as they heard about it. We noticed you weren’t among them, so we all agreed I should make a personal approach. This isn’t an oh-by-the-way offer, Joe. We’d really like you on board.”
I turned to him. “I appreciate that, Dave, and I’m honored. There must be a hell of a lot of people in line.”
“There’re quite a few.”
“And I suppose the applicant list is confidential.”
His face betrayed a dawning wariness. “Yes.”
“Are either Sammie Martens or Willy Kunkle on it?”
He hesitated.
“The reason I ask is that Sammie Martens is one person I think you ought to consider closely-more than me.”
He relented. “We will, Joe. She is on the list. Just make sure she doesn’t find out I told you. She thinks she’s betraying you personally by trying to leave the PD.”
I wasn’t surprised, at either the ambition or the attending guilt. “What about Kunkle?”
He tried ducking the issue. “Every candidate will get the same scrutiny. Yours is just a special case.”
“Meaning he’s not on the list.”
Stanton shifted his weight as if his feet were overheating. “He didn’t apply. We can’t just arbitrarily pull names out of a hat. I have to assume he doesn’t want the job.”
“I didn’t apply, either.”
His expression changed to one of irritation. “You want it or not?”
“Yes, if you’ll consider Kunkle. I’ll make sure he applies.”
“The deadline’s passed.”
I just looked at him.
“Jesus. The man’s a head case. Everyone knows it. This is an elite unit. I don’t want to start it off with a total flake.”
“People are being judged on their qualifications, right? Not on whether you like them or not.”
“Of course.”
“Then all I’m asking is for him to be considered. If you won’t do that much, then you can cross my name off, too.”
Stanton let out a long sigh. “Okay, but if, by some miracle, he does make it, he’s your baby-wherever you decide to call home, that’s where he’ll be assigned. That much I can control. Then it’ll be up to you to ask me later to have his butt fired.”
I slapped him on the shoulder. “I don’t think I’ll be doing that, and if, as you say, he does make the cut, I also think you’ll be pleased with the results. He’ll make you proud.”
“If he does, I’ll consider the priesthood.”
“By the way,” I asked him, standing by the door, “since we’ve totally blown the confidentiality of this process, did either Ron Klesczewski or J.P. Tyler apply?”
“No. You going to round them up, too?”
I could tell from his tone of voice he was over the worst of it-plus the fact he was now smiling. “They’re probably happier where they are. Ron’s a small-town boy, and J.P. would feel overrun by the mobile crime lab people. I was just curious.”
I opened the heavy door and ushered Gail out, pausing on the threshold to look back at him. “Dave, I do appreciate the offer, and the slack you’re cutting me.”
He waved me away. “I know. Don’t worry about it.”
A few minutes later, Gail and I were maneuvering our way through the jammed reception room parallel to the House chamber, aiming for where Gail had reserved two spots near the west wing entrance, to the left of the speaker’s podium.
“That was a hell of a stunt,” she said angrily. “You damn near killed your own chances. And he’s right about Kunkle. He’ll be making the whole outfit look bad before you know it.”
“I don’t think so,” I answered mildly, not surprised by her outburst. “If he agrees to apply, I think they’ll be impressed. He’ll do a good job.”
“But why risk it, Joe? Why do you always bail him out? All he does is treat everyone like shit.”
“Willy’s very good, and if he doesn’t get a shot at this, he’ll be out of a job. If I join VBI without him, there’ll be no one to stop Tony Brandt from letting him go, especially with Brandt’s big emphasis on community policing. Sooner or later, Willy will offend someone, and that’ll be all Tony needs. After that, Willy’ll probably rediscover the bottle, get into some barroom brawl, and maybe even wind up in jail. He deserves better.” We’d reached the back staircase. “I have to go pee. I’ll find you in a bit.”
I disappeared before she could argue any more.
The men’s room downstairs is toward the front of the building, around the corner from the president pro tem’s office. As I came off the bottom step and headed that way, I saw a small group of people quickly entering the office-among them the pro tem, Jim Reynolds, and Marcia Wilkin. I stopped dead in my tracks, my need for a bathroom replaced by a thought that hit me like an electrical jolt.
I turned on my heel and ran back upstairs, noticing the crowd had abruptly thinned out, indicating that things were about to start in the House. In the hallway leading to where Gail had staked her claim, however, the going was much slower. I squeezed and elbowed my way along until I finally reached her, positioned just inside the doorway, with a perfect view of the podium, the chamber, and the viewing gallery high along the curving back wall.
The scene made me think of a Hollywood set, packed with a cast of thousands-a vaulting, ornate, ancient-looking room, filled with row upon row of people. The gallery was jammed, the walls lined with spectators, every desk filled. The evenly spaced chairs along the front wall, flanking the speaker’s podium onstage, were occupied by the senators from the other chamber, looking like firing squad targets without blindfolds.
I gave it all a cursory glance before asking Gail, “You have your cell phone?”
She stared at me. “You going to call someone? Now?”
“Yeah.”
She silently reached into her purse and handed me the phone. As I punched the keypad, I heard the lieutenant governor bang the gavel on the podium.
Ron Klesczewski answered on the second ring. “Ron, It’s Joe. You gotta do something for me.”
“I can’t hear you too well.”
“Too bad. I can’t talk any louder. Check the computer for the name Ellis Hastings.” I spelled it for him.
“What’s the context?” he asked. “Criminal record?”
“I don’t know. You’re going to have to look at everything you got. I think it’s really important, though, so do it fast.”
“No sweat. Where are you?”
“Montpelier. I’m on a cell phone.” I gave him the number.
“Okay. I’ll get right on it.”
Gail looked at me as I hit the disconnect button and kept the phone in my hand. “What’re you doing?” she whispered. In the background, the lieutenant governor was intoning the rules of procedure prior to ordering the vote for the next governor of the state of Vermont.
“I just saw Marcia Wilkin downstairs, in close company with Jim Reynolds. It made me remember something I saw in her house-a name. I think she’s what Reynolds has been cooking up against Mullen this last week.” I pointed a finger at the gallery high and across the cavernous room. “Look.”
Defying conventional decorum, Mark Mullen entered one of the gallery doors, stepped down to the rail overlooking the chamber, and remained standing there-like Caesar overseeing the forum. A small ripple of commentary flowed across the crowd.
The lieutenant governor banged the gavel and instructed the assembled legislators to mark their paper ballots. There is no electronic voting in Vermont-too high-tech. This count was going to be done by hand, on the spot, since only one hundred and eighty votes were being cast.
I glanced anxiously at the phone, increasingly convinced that what I’d tumbled to could directly affect what was happening before my eyes. As if reading my mind, it chirped loudly, causing several people nearby to scowl at me.
“Yeah,” I whispered loudly.
“I can barely hear you,” Ron said, “but here goes. It’s not much. Ellis Hastings died twenty-five years ago, victim of a hit-and-run. They never caught who did it.”