“Our second job is to locate the subject of the astrology chart that was stolen from Fuller’s house. We now know from an evaluation we had made of a copy of that chart that the subject was born at 10:55 P.M., eastern standard time, on April 7, 1946, in the Mount Vernon/ White Plains area of New York, just north of Manhattan. I know a lot of you are probably as skeptical about this as I am, but it is a lead, and we need to see if we can match a name to those statistics.”
DeFlorio let out a whistle. “Christ. Does that mean we got to call every hospital?”
“No,” Kunkle growled scornfully. “County or town clerks have those records, assuming they’re cooperative.”
Brandt stirred in his seat. “Actually, there may be an easier way-bypassing the clerks and the fees and the paperwork. When I took the FBI Academy refresher course a few years ago, I got friendly with a state police investigator from that area who might be able to help us out. Let me give him a call. If I make it sound urgent enough, we might get something in a couple of hours instead of waiting days for the bureaucrats to get stimulated.”
I nodded my agreement. “Okay, that’ll allow us to concentrate on the ex-Hippie Hollow residents. Sammie, you were the one who interviewed the old mortician at the Retreat, right?”
She paused in gathering her papers together. “Yes, for what it was worth-he was pretty far gone.”
“He probably had an assistant back then. Maybe he or she might remember something.” Sammie reddened slightly, perhaps feeling I was finding fault with her. “I’ll call and find out.”
“Okay. If there is such a person, set up an interview ASAP. We can do it together.”
I turned my attention to the rest of them, who were beginning to head for the door. “We’ll reconvene here at 1630.”
Sammie stuck her head into Brandt’s office a half hour later and announced she’d located the mortician’s ex-assistant. I made my apologies to Billy Manierre and Brandt and joined her with a sigh of relief. The three of us had been discussing how to juggle the schedules of both the Special Response Team and Billy’s three patrol shifts, and I’d been finding the process difficult to deal with objectively.
Roland Bennet-the name Sammie had gotten from the mortician-was part owner of the Chameleon Café on Flat Street, Brattleboro’s one forthright gay bar. There was a large “Closed” sign in the window; Sammie pounded on the door as she’d been instructed on the phone, and in a few moments we heard rapid footsteps approaching from the inside.
Bennet greeted us like a long-lost aunt; he was expansive, gregarious, and utterly unfazed by our official status. “I apologize for the smell in here-too many cigarettes and too many bodies. You don’t mind if I leave the door open, do you? I have a fan going in the back, but it takes forever without a cross current.”
He ushered us though the small lobby to a twenty-foot oak and brass bar that lined one wall of the place and pulled out a couple of stools for us. He then circled behind the bar. “Can I get you anything to drink? Juice? Maybe a mid-morning snack?” At the back of the large room, beyond a cluster of small tables and a door leading to the kitchen, the dance floor was being vacuumed by a young man wearing bib-top overalls and no shirt.
We both shook our heads.
Bennet looked me over. “So, you’re Joe Gunther. I’ve seen you around-I just never put the name to the face. You wanted to talk to me about my days in the body business?”
I returned his smile, not knowing-or caring-if his slightly campy tone was natural or just for my benefit. “We understand you worked for Ed Guillaume in the late sixties, early seventies.”
“That’s right-I made ’em look good one last time.”
“Do you remember making Hannah Coyner look good in 1970?”
He laughed. “Good God, no-none of them had names as far as I was concerned.”
“She died of cancer. Her husband was Fred Coyner. He might’ve visited the parlor with two hippies-bell-bottoms, long hair.” I laid the photos of Fuller and Pendergast on the bar.
Bennet took a long moment studying them, especially the one of David Pendergast. A slow smile spread across his face. “I remember this one. He took my breath away-God, that was so many years ago.”
I felt Sammie, as conventional as most cops, struggling to maintain her composure.
“Do you remember anything specific? Anything he said or did?”
“Don’t I wish. I never even spoke to him. I saw them through an open door. I worked mostly in the back; old Guillaume did the soft-shoe stuff. But I remember seeing this one and just staring-he was so beautiful.”
“You didn’t overhear anything?”
“No. It was always the usual claptrap, anyway.” He held the picture in his hand like a star-struck movie fan. “That’s amazing, seeing him so many years later.”
I removed the photo gently and replaced it with Fuller’s-the one that had been artificially “youthened.”
“How about him? Was he the other guy?”
Bennet made a face. “There was no other guy. It was a girl.”
I turned in surprise to Sammie. “Was Guillaume sure about it being two men?”
“I wouldn’t say he was sure about anything.”
I looked back at Bennet. “Are you sure it was a girl?”
He crinkled his nose at me, hamming it up now. “I may not have much use for them, but I know what they look like.”
“All right. Just at a glance, did they seem like a couple?”
He thought back and finally shook his head. “It’s hard-that long ago, but I don’t think so.” Then he smiled. “I was only really interested in him, you know?”
I gathered the pictures together and put them in my pocket.
Bennet watched the last one go with an expression of regret. “Thanks, Mr. Bennet; you’ve been a big help.”
He smiled again, back to hamming it up. “My pleasure. Come back when you’re off duty sometime-and bring your friend in the photo if you find him.”
I pushed Sammie out the door before she could explode.
Later that afternoon, Dennis DeFlorio called me on the phone, sounding slightly out of breath, as usual. “Joe, I’ve found somebody here who used to live on the buses, but he’s not being too friendly.”
“Where are you?”
“Putney-The Sourdough Bakery. This guy’s one of the bakers, named Gary Schenk.”
“I’ll be right up.”
Putney is about seven miles north of Brattleboro on the interstate, and is famous for its pride, its politics, and its dense population of artistic types.
The Sourdough Bakery bragged of twenty-year-old commune roots and was run by mostly underfed-looking, soft-spoken vegetarians. I found Dennis in the parking lot near the building’s rear entrance, his fat, sweaty, meat-fed body looking particularly out of place.
“He’s inside-refuses to talk to me.”
“Okay. Why don’t you wait in your car? I’ll let you know what I find out later.”
He didn’t look unhappy with the suggestion. While others might have taken offense, Dennis took almost everything as it came-which had both its up and down sides.
The temperature inside the bakery was blistering, and as soon as I’d introduced myself to Gary Schenk, I moved the interview back outside, near a small corral containing the garbage cans.
Schenk was in his mid-forties, with long hair held in place by a colorful bandanna, and sporting a thick and handsome waxed mustache, obviously a source of some vanity. He was not overly happy to see me. “What do you guys want, anyway?”
“Detective DeFlorio didn’t explain?”
“He said you were trying to find someone from the Hippie Hollow days. That was a long time ago.”
“He show you pictures?”