19
I sat at my desk, the long-awaited case file open before me. It was thicker than most, not surprising considering the subject, and it had the usual ragtag appearance of its peers-official reports, photographs, torn notepad pages, copies of letters, scribbled-on napkins, and whatnot-but it was missing the tone that should have been there. After a few years’ practice, these case files took on the feel of music manuscripts. Beneath the hodgepodge of mismatched paperwork, there was a rhythm of progression; beyond the banality of a beginning, a middle, and an end, there was the tempo of building enthusiasm, of increasing light being cast into dark corners.
It might have been all I’d gone through prior to this day, or the fact that my mind was already clouded with suspicions about the contents of this file, but I knew for a fact that something was wrong here.
Perhaps it was the lack of unanswered questions. Normally, especially on the odd scraps of paper, officers would scribble “what ifs” to their colleagues-questions designed to force them off their scent for a moment’s reflection, like a dog sniffing the air as well as the trail. Frank had done this with me when he’d proposed that Jamie Phillips might have been the victim of life insurance fraud. In any case where you didn’t find the burglar climbing out of the window with a bag full of silverware, this was standard practice-except here.
Here, everyone had marched in lockstep. The suspect had been caught, his rights had been read to him, evidence had been gathered, people had been interrogated, a case had been built according to the rules. But no fundamental questions had been asked-at least none that I could see. Kimberly’s bank records, her extraordinarily skimpy background, her curious lifestyle-or lack of one-all passed without challenge in the shadow cast by the evidence against Bill Davis. That-the superficial blood tests, the broken lamp, the scratch marks, the drugs, the rope used to tie her down, and all the rest-was the case. Nothing, from what I could read, was allowed to disturb that. Not even the most obvious question of alclass="underline" why had the crime occurred?
I got up and crossed tpausee ohe hall to Willy Kunkle’s office. The door was open. He was sitting behind his desk muttering into the phone, his face twisted with frustration and anger. He saw me before I could duck away.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
He covered the phone with his hand. “What do you want?”
“I need to talk about the Harris case. I’ll be in my office. No rush.”
I went back to my cubbyhole and waited. If Kimberly’s case file could be compared to a manuscript, then Kunkle was its editor. He had taken all the bits and pieces and put them in order; he had made sure all the forms were filled out, the procedures followed, the details attended to. He was neither the author nor the publisher, and therefore was not solely responsible for its contents. But more than anyone, he knew the workings of the whole.
Unfortunately, he was a head case. A Vietnam vet with an impeccable record, he had started, like most of us, from the bottom. Always high-strung and introspective, he had nonetheless channeled a furious energy into his work, spending hours of overtime on cases, regardless of their merit, and had wound up being regarded as an all-around grind. Despite this and coupled with a fifty-grit personality, there was no denying his capabilities. He became one of the youngest corporals ever to make Support Services. He also married, and the dual achievement made us hope his rough edges might round off.
But that didn’t happen. Inside his pressure-cooker mind boiled a thwarted ambition. He had left the Army because of slow promotions, and when Murphy elevated me to lieutenant a few years back, all but locking up the succession to captain, Kunkle began to unravel. His disappointment either led to or was heightened by his disintegrating marriage, a fact made all too obvious when a patrol car was called to his home by neighbors complaining of a domestic dispute. His eye-blackened wife didn’t file charges, but the story made the rounds.
We watched him, as cops will, with both sympathy and wariness. The bonds on a police force are stronger than elsewhere, allowing for an extraordinary amount of friction. But even in a department like ours, with minor exposure to truly dangerous elements, cops have to gauge the colleagues who might be asked to save their lives. So Willy Kunkle rode a seesaw in the eyes of his peers, and while most of us-most of the time-wanted him to settle on the right side of things, we all wished like hell he’d stop his teetering. He’d been at it for years.
He finally appeared at my doorway and stood there, his hands in his pockets. “You’re really going to blow it up, aren’t you?”
“I’ve got to look into it. It’s not my choice any more.”
“You realize I’ll probably get sued by that bastard Davis as soon as he gets a whiff of this.”
“If anyone gets sued, it’ll most likely be the town.”
“That’s a big comfort. My ass’ll be the first thing out the door.”
“You’ve got to admit something strange is going on.”
“I don’t have to admit a damned thing. I don’t happen to know what the hell is going on. People have been tip haeft"›“Yotoeing around here for weeks, and I haven’t been told word one.”
“You weren’t alone. Brandt didn’t know about most of it till just a while ago. Believe it or not, Murphy and I were trying to keep a lid on it to the end. If the shit hits the fan, we’re all going to be in the way.”
“So the lid is off?”
“It will be, yes.”
He looked at me with withering contempt. “Thanks a lot.”
“Don’t feel so sorry for yourself. Frank Murphy is dead because of all this, as are a few other people.”
“What, because he drove off the road?”
“No. Because we were forced off by a truck-deliberately.”
He knit his brow. “Why?”
“Because we were asking some questions that weren’t asked from the very start.”
“Like what?”
“Like who was Kimberly Harris really? Like wasn’t some of the evidence against Davis unbelievably overwhelming? Like what was behind the mysterious payments that started showing up in Harris’s checking account? Like why wasn’t the apartment manager exposed as a Peeping Tom?”
“Bullshit.”
“Fact, Willy-by his own admission. His nose greased her window night after night. Every time she jacked off, he was an appreciative audience. You should have heard his reviews. In fact, they ought to be part of this file.”
“I knew it. You are going to string me up.”
I slapped the desktop with my hand. “God damn it, why won’t you get your face out of the mirror? I could give a shit about stringing you up. I need a little cooperation here. Help me get the job done and maybe we can all avoid getting sued. Don’t you get it?”
“I get it. I just don’t happen to believe it.”
I took a deep breath and held up my hands. “All right-whatever. If that’s what you want to believe, that’s fine with me. Will you at least go over the file with me so we can maybe find what we missed the first time?”
“When?”
“Now.”
His eyes dropped and he passed his hand across his mouth. “I was going to take some personal time.”
I thought a moment. It might not be the worse thing to cut him a little slack, as a peace offering. “How much?”
“Just a couple of hours at the most. I got some trouble at home.”
“Go to it. We’ll do this later.” He didn’t burst into a smile and give me a hug, but his tone softened a shade. “Thanks.”
“No sweat. By the way, do you keep your old note pads?”
‹ height="0em" width="1em" align="left"›Gone was the soft tone. “Why?”
“I was thinking maybe we could compare them to this”-I put my hand on the file-“help freshen your memory.”
He shook his head scornfully. “You must think I just fell off the truck. I’ll go over that lousy file with you-that’s part of my job. But there’s no way in hell you’re ever going to see that note pad. That’s private.”