I removed my coat and draped it over a chair, crossing the room to shake hands with both Shanklin and Spraiger. “I just left the Stowe PD,” I explained to all of them. “Chief Auerbach was very receptive and spoke well of Tom and Paul, which I hope is a good sign. I take it you’ve all introduced yourselves to each other?”
Everyone either nodded or didn’t disagree. It was my experience from working with other special units that conviviality comes slowly, delayed by a professional caution that sometimes borders on suspicion. Cops are a clannish bunch, dependent on one another for understanding, support, and sometimes their lives. It is a strong, long-lasting bond, of necessity forgiving of quirky personalities, but it takes time to form, since its foundation is trust, rather than simple compatibility. I noticed that Willy had parked himself in a far corner behind a small round table, removed and unapproachable. Sammie, despite her professional and personal ties to him, was perched on the low dresser across the room, next to the silent TV set. She knew the unspoken rules, knew Willy’s prickly ways, and knew to protect herself from them in a meeting with new acquaintances.
Shanklin and Spraiger were the unknowns. The first-short-haired, square-jawed, and military in bearing-seemed the most uncomfortable, as if fearing we’d be asking him to pass some rite of initiation. Spraiger was more unusual. Sitting comfortably in a chair with his legs crossed, he exuded an aura of utter stillness, bringing to mind either a shrink or a sage.
“This is obviously not how VBI was designed to come out of the gates,” I continued, “with Willy and Tom serving under their own colors. But starting as a mixed bag is kind of fitting. For the most part, we exist to integrate with other departments, so now we’re a polyglot ourselves.”
“And with zero credibility,” Willy added in a low growl from his core.
Every head in the room turned toward him.
“No problem there,” I answered, pretending he’d voiced a pertinent comment. “We have to start somewhere and our role is real enough. Auerbach’s so hard up for manpower, he’d like our help in a detailed search of the mountain site at oh-seven-hundred hours tomorrow morning, along with their hazardous terrain team. It’ll be a good way to get to know these folks and might get us some more information. I take it everyone’s read the report Sammie prepared on the case so far?”
“What’s the theory on the missing feet and arm?” Paul Spraiger asked quietly.
“Right now, we’re thinking they broke off, maybe when the body was dropped from an aircraft.”
“Implying a possible Canadian departure point that might be a red herring,” Tom Shanklin suggested, touching on what Auerbach and I had discussed.
“Possibly,” I agreed.
“Is there anything so far linking Jean Deschamps to Stowe, or even the U.S.?” he asked.
“His dead body,” Willy said glumly.
Again, there was a slight lull in the conversation, which I quickly filled, wishing Willy would stop acting like Oscar the Grouch. “Sad but true. Possession in this case is ten-tenths of the law-unless we can prove Deschamps was killed in Canada, he’s ours.”
“So, we’re going to have to work both sides of the border,” Spraiger suggested.
“That’s how it looks now,” I said. “The Sherbrooke police, the Mounties, and the Sûreté du Québec have been contacted for any information, but if Hillstrom’s right about the time of death, I don’t see them breaking into a big sweat over this.”
“Depending on who Deschamps was,” Sammie corrected.
“Right-which I hope we’ll learn tomorrow.”
“So what’s the plan?” Shanklin asked.
“That’s up to Auerbach,” I answered. “My guess is we’ll be looking into Deschamps’s history, trying to find out if and when he last entered the U.S. legally, interviewing old-timers here and in Canada to see if we can pick up a trail, checking airfields and all air traffic control radars for any mysterious, late-night flights, talking to the Stowe mountain folks to try to pin down when the body might’ve been put in place, and anything else you can think of. Unless we get some eighty-year-old pilot who shows up at the door and says, ‘Book me, Danno,’ I think we’ll be here for a while. This trail may be about as cold as it can get.”
“Great,” Willy muttered. “And while we run around looking like nobody can live without us, whoever planted this stiff will make it crystal clear why he did it. Seems to me it’d be smarter to just sit tight and see what happens.”
Spraiger, the French-speaker with the thoughtful air, considered Willy’s point carefully. “Unless the body wasn’t put there for us. Someone else could hear a message through the media coverage that we wouldn’t recognize, such as, ‘I did this once. I can do it again’ or, ‘I’m on your tail.’”
To his credit, Willy recognized the potential wisdom of this and so lapsed into silence.
I stood up from the edge of the bed and checked my watch. “Okay, let’s leave it there for now. It’s still early-use the evening to explore the town, get something to eat, maybe get better acquainted. Tom and Paul, I know you both have families and’ll be commuting, but if you want to hang out a couple of hours, feel free. It might be our last downtime for a while. I’ll be here reading the case file in case anyone wants to talk.
“Willy?” I asked as the rest of them headed for the door.
He’d stayed put, still wedged in his corner, looking at me with a sardonic smile. “Yeah, I know-gotta stay after class.”
I waited until the others had left before taking Sammie’s place on the low dresser, facing him across the room.
“What’s the lecture gonna be?” he asked. “Good attitude making for good teamwork?”
I was so used to him after all these years, I actually laughed. “The day you give anyone a good attitude, I’ll start watching my back. I figure this bunch’ll get used to you just like the old one did.”
“I may not be rid of the old one,” he reminded me.
I pursed my lips for a moment before telling him, “I wouldn’t be so sure. You flunk out here, you might not have anything to fall back on. I don’t think Brandt’ll take your shit for long-not without a buffer.”
He didn’t look impressed. “Right-Joe the buffer. Why do you keep doing that? Saving my ass… What d’you get out of it, beside a holiness medal from people like Sam?”
I paused before answering, hoping I understood myself enough to be truthful. “That may be part of it, although everyone else thinks I’m an idiot. I’m not sure-I was thinking just recently it maybe had to do with my not having kids, and your being a good example of why that had been a really smart move.”
He laughed and scratched his ear with his good hand. “With that fatherly approach, you may be right.”
“You’re a bright guy, Willy,” I continued more seriously. “And a better man than you admit, especially to yourself. I don’t want to see that wasted just because you’re a social misfit. Maybe I believe it would make me less of a human being if I let you slide, or maybe it’s because I want to be around when you finally wake up and realize what you’ve got to offer. That would be the ultimate last laugh.”
“One you’ll never live to enjoy,” he said, his grimness turned inward.
“Who knows?” I countered. “You don’t drink anymore, I haven’t heard of you beating on anyone lately, you work hard and get results, and you didn’t turn me down when I suggested joining this crew. Why is that, if you’re so convinced you’re worthless?”
He scowled at me, unhappy at having the tables turned. “Somebody had to cramp your style.”
I ignored the diversion. “Sam seems to think you’ve got something to offer.”
He could have come back with another one-liner-and would have in the old days. But I was right. He was in slow evolution, growing like a thwarted, water-starved plant toward whatever light he could see-including this job.
And he knew it.
He got up abruptly, graceful despite the useless, limp arm, which he kept from flopping around by leaving his left hand shoved into his pants pocket. “We done here?”