Red Herring Read online

  Jack Judge went back to studying Dory, finally rising enough to hover over her like a parent delivering a good-night kiss.

  He spoke softly. “Nothing jumps out at first glance. I see no signs of strangulation, or bruising around the face or shoulders.” He reached out and deftly checked under the remnants of the torn nightgown before pressing against her sternum and along her collarbones and ribs, one by one, lifting each exposed breast gently to do so. Joe had seen several such exams, and even conducted a couple, but admired the man’s sensitive touch, as if the patient were still alive.

  “She’s cold and in full rigor,” Judge continued. “I’ll check lividity in a bit, but I suspect that’s fixed, too. That would fit your idea that this happened last night, right here.”

  He pulled a penlight from his outer pocket and moved to the scalp, where he parted her hair and began scanning the skin beneath. After a while, he straightened, frowning. “Can’t find the source of that blood right off, but there’s not much of it.” He quickly shined the light into each nostril and raised her stiffened lips off her teeth, also peering into the mouth. “It’s not castoff from there, so it may have come from whoever did this.”

  “You can call the guy an asshole, John,” Willy chided him, emphasizing the name. “Nobody’ll mind.”

  Judge had shifted to her hands, which he handled like porcelain, bending his body rather than manipulating them, so as to preserve their positioning, not to mention any trace evidence that might still be clinging there. Watching him, Joe suspected he’d done well as a medic, both highly competent and impervious to the likes of Willy.

  “Nothing obvious here, either,” the AME muttered. “Her nails are long enough to have done at least some damage, if she’d used them, but I don’t see anything.”

  He took a step to the left, directly above her midriff. Again, from his pocket, he extracted something Joe couldn’t at first identify, which turned out to be a small, powerful magnifying lens. Using both light and lens, Judge bent even closer to the body’s exposed pubic hair.

  Willy took a half pace backward. “You are shitting me.”

  Despite the circumstances, Joe smiled to himself. As unlikely as it seemed, cops were often squeamish around the dead, even tough guys like Kunkle. Joe wondered if Judge wasn’t subtly wreaking a little vengeance with this show of interest; Doreen would be going upstate for an autopsy soon, encased and sealed in a body bag. That’s where prints would be lifted, fingernails scraped, hair combed through, tissue samples collected. Not that Joe minded Judge’s thoroughness here and now—it gave them all a better snapshot—but he sensed with satisfaction a little psychological warfare taking place.

  Judge continued his close visual examination from her groin to her knees, paying close attention to the inner thighs, but looked disappointed when he finally straightened.

  “Nothing,” he stated. “No deposits, no stains, no signs of violence.”

  Willy scoffed. “Right. The expert. No offense, but I’ll wait for the doc’s vote on that.”

  “You’ve done this before,” Joe suggested, both to clarify and, he hoped, to set Willy right.

  Jack Judge nodded. “I was asked to investigate a few rape/homicides in Iraq.”

  Willy, also a combat vet, although carrying more baggage than most, looked away, pretending to be taking in the plate of melted ice cream, admonished but not willing to show it. “So, what do you think happened?” he asked as a peace offering.

  Judge shrugged. “Maybe less than it seems? Why, I don’t know.” He looked at Joe. “You ready for me to roll her over?”

  “Gently,” Joe agreed. “Yeah.”

  She wasn’t a large woman, and her stiffened state made it easy for Judge to simply lift an arm and a leg to pivot her onto her right side, just enough for the other two to bend down and examine the body’s underside.

  “Whoa,” Willy exclaimed.

  The cushions beneath were soaked with blood, which also covered the entirety of Ferenc’s back.

  Judge’s position put him at a disadvantage. “Can you see what caused it?”

  “Negative,” Willy commented, reaching out toward a hole in the nightgown, at about mid-lumbar level.

  “Hold it,” Joe said, touching Judge on the shoulder to get him to set her back into position. “We’ll let the ME give us that. I don’t want to disturb any more than we have. Knife, gun, or ice pick, we know something was used, and we know for sure we have a murder. Let’s just bag her hands carefully, wrap her up safe and sound, and do what we do best.”

  For once, Willy didn’t argue, straightening up. He turned to Judge and asked with a tired, collegial half smile, “All right if we call the perp an asshole now?”

  “Fine by me,” Judge told him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Joe sat in his unmarked car in the driveway of Doreen Ferenc’s home, the engine running and the heater on, writing notes to himself on a legal pad. The vehicles were all on the Back Westminster Road, between Saxtons River and Bellows Falls. The road paralleled Interstate 91—sometimes almost touching it—but otherwise remained hazy in most people’s memories, leaving it to be used mostly by locals avoiding the geographical constraints of the faster road’s widely spaced exits.

  The passenger door suddenly opened, introducing a chilling wash of cold air and a tall, skinny man with angular features and a gentle, expressive face.

  “Hey, boss,” said Lester Spinney. “Looks like we got a live one this time, huh? So to speak.”

  Joe was used to this form of humor. Les had come to Joe’s Brattleboro-based squad from years with the state police, where he’d finally found the bureaucracy and office politics too stifling—especially given the abrupt option of joining the VBI, which was then new, actively recruiting, and offering to match all benefits and pensions of qualified applicants.

  “You could put it that way,” Joe agreed. “You been inside yet?”

  “Yeah. Willy gave me the nickel tour. He’s calling it a rape/murder as if he was getting an argument.”

  “He is. The AME’s claiming he doesn’t see any obvious signs of rape.”

  Spinney removed his watch cap and peeled off his gloves, adjusting to the heat. “Condom?” he suggested simply.

  Joe stared out the windshield. It had snowed overnight, a freak storm from nowhere, and then stopped almost as abruptly. By now, late morning, the sky was bright blue, ice-cold, and the frozen world below it so white, it pained the eye. The glare washed out the colors adorning a long row of cruisers, vans, and trucks and made them look like the discarded Christmas toys of some giant child. The problem was, Christmas wasn’t for two months yet, and no one Joe knew was prepared for ten inches of snow on the ground.

  He wasn’t among the complainers, though, for mixed in with the snow-covered tree branches overhead were broad swatches of bright fall foliage, forming entire bouquets of orange, red, yellow, and mottled green leaves—a beautiful and rare New England postcard.

  “Could be a condom, could be rough sex gone too far, could be a rape, or could be all three.”

  “Could’ve been staged, too.”

  Joe took his eyes off the scenery and blinked at him a couple of times. “Or could’ve been staged,” he agreed.

  “They find a weapon?” Spinney asked.

  “Nope.”

  “So it’s not a suicide or accident.”

  Joe smiled. “I doubt it.”

  It was a funny process, this preliminary stage. Everything was open to question, and everyone open to suggestion, to the level of the absurd. Except maybe Kunkle. Although Joe knew that Kunkle was asking himself questions; he just didn’t like sharing them with others.

  “The ME’ll probably tell us more,” Lester continued. “What’re our marching orders till then?”

  Joe glanced at his notes. “We better tell her mother first. Story so far is that Dory spent hours every day with her at the nursing home. Maybe they were the sisterly type, trading secrets. If so, assuming Mom survives
the shock and talks with us, maybe she’ll tell us about a boyfriend.”

  “Wouldn’t that be handy,” Spinney said.

  “We’ve been told Dory worked her entire career as the executive secretary for McNaughton Trucking, first for the old man, then for his son, Chuck.”

  Lester whistled softly. “Nice.”

  McNaughton Trucking was the region’s primary hauler, servicing most of the larger businesses in the tri-state corner of New Hampshire, Vermont, and Massachusetts. It was headquartered in West Chesterfield, across the river from Brattleboro, in tax-friendly New Hampshire, and was worth millions by anyone’s guess. Guessing, however, was about where reality stopped, since McNaughton was a family-owned, private business, and closed to public scrutiny.

  Lester turned in his seat to look anew at the modest house. “Sounds like she could’ve done better than this.”

  Joe tapped on the pad propped against his steering wheel. “Item three,” he read. “Check finances.”

  Lester chuckled briefly. “Right; shoulda known. What else you got there?”

  Joe was not enthusiastic. “Standard stuff—phone records, appointment calendars, answering machine, family interviews, neighborhood canvass—already under way—coworkers, personal files and records, whatever forensics might find and the ME coughs up. If precedent is any indicator, this poor woman pissed off somebody in her life.”

  “Single woman, nice-looking,” Spinney mused. “You think she was passed along from father to son with the rest of the business?”

  “Maybe,” Joe agreed. “Looked like she was a photographer who liked to travel. Her mom’s nurse claims she and Dory were bosom buddies.”

  “You believe that?”

  “She does; she must have her reasons.”

  Spinney paused to think. “They find any tracks anywhere?”

  Joe shook his head. “Only belonging to the neighbor who saw her through the window and called us.” He suddenly added a note to his list.

  “What?” Lester was watching him.

  “Her doc,” he said. “Probably nothing. He claims he hasn’t seen her in ten months. Can’t hurt to drop by, though.”

  “Should we go through her photographs?” Lester asked.

  “Sure. Starting with whatever’s still in the camera.”

  Now they were both silent.

  “It’s not looking really good, is it?”

  Joe cast him a look. “We haven’t even started. Could be the first person we interview bursts into tears and fesses up. It happens.”

  “But your gut’s saying not this time, right?”

  Joe took in a long breath and let it out slowly.

  “Not this time.”

  Doreen Ferenc’s mother was named Margaret Agostini, or Maggie—at least by the nursing-home staff in Bellows Falls. Joe found her sitting by a bay window in the common room on the second floor of the century-old building, staring out at a small cluster of children throwing snowballs.

  Joe had been met at the front door by Brenda Small, the nurse interviewed earlier on the phone, who’d hustled him upstairs, fawning and cooing and clucking about “the tragedy.” It was only upon seeing the victim’s mother staring out that window, however, that he’d clued in on one possible reason behind the nurse’s focused attentions.

  He stopped at the door and gently steered her back into the hallway by the upper arm.

  She gave him a surprised look. “What’s wrong?”

  He played a reliable card. “Did I say anything was wrong?”

  She blinked and wet her lips, broadcasting her discomfort. “No.”

  He sighed. “Brenda, it’s over and done with now, so you can stop worrying. There won’t be any repercussions. I just need to know: You already told her about Doreen, didn’t you?”

  Brenda’s eyes widened, preparing him for the standard array of excuses he’d heard from others in similar circumstances. Her choice, however, was at least unique.

  “She already knew,” Brenda explained in a high whisper. “I could see it in her eyes. So sad. It would’ve been cruel not to share that pain.”

  She opened her mouth to continue, but Joe stopped her. “That’s enough for the moment, Brenda. Thank you. Just leave us alone for a few minutes, okay? I’ll wrap things up quickly and then you and I can talk. Deal?”

  Brenda looked confused. “Okay.”

  Joe left her and softly approached the old woman, moving a low stool to the side of her chair and settling down next to her.

  “Hi, Mrs. Agostini. My name’s Joe. I’m a police officer, and I am so sorry to be meeting under these circumstances.”

  He left it there for a moment, gauging his audience. She acted as if he hadn’t even entered the room.

  He reached out and gently touched her forearm. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  It was never much of a one-liner, but it occasionally opened a minor portal.

  Not this time.

  “Mrs. Agostini,” he tried again, “I would like to find out what happened to Doreen, and I sure could use your help. You two were so close. She may have told you something that would point me in the right direction, even if it didn’t sound like much to you.”

  Still nothing. Joe sat there for a moment longer, and then finally reached into his pocket, extracted a business card, and left it in the old woman’s lap, explaining, “That’s how to reach me when you’re ready, Mrs. Agostini. I know it’s tough right now, so feel free to call, night or day.”

  He patted her arm again and got up, half hoping for one last chance. But she hadn’t moved a muscle, and didn’t start now.

  He found Brenda Small still lingering in the hallway.

  “Is she okay?”

  “I doubt it,” he told her. “Is there someplace you and I could chat?”

  “Me?”

  Joe considered a suitable comeback, as usual floating what Willy might say in the back of his mind, before merely saying, “Sure, why not? You and Doreen were close, right?”

  Her face lit up. “Oh, yes.” She crossed her fingers. “Like that.”

  She led the way down the dark hallway, still wood-paneled and stately from when it was built as a private home a century earlier, and turned into a small break room just beyond the back staircase.

  There, she settled fussily into a chair at the table, folded her hands before her, and gave him her full attention.

  He closed the door and sat opposite her. “Just so I can get a handle on Mrs. Agostini’s state of mind,” he began gently, “could you tell me how you broke the news of her daughter’s death?”

  Her eyes grew sad for Doreen’s mom. “It’s like I told you. I didn’t need to tell her. She knew. Like when a pet knows his master has died, you know?”

  He knew of the folklore; he was less sure about comparing a dog and its master to this mother and daughter. Unless Brenda Small was subtly heading somewhere.

  “So she said something?”

  “It wasn’t necessary. I saved her the heartbreak. I just wrapped my arms around her and said that it was all right, that Doreen had gone straight to Heaven and hadn’t suffered at all, and that everybody has to die sooner or later, even if it seems unfair sometimes. That God’s Plan was always right, no matter how mysterious.”

  Joe paused before opening his mouth, mostly to stifle his immediate reaction. “How did she take it?”

  Brenda said simply, “She had to soak it in, didn’t she?”

  “That’s what she’s still doing? Soaking it in?”

  “Sure.”

  He pursed his lips. “She hasn’t said a word?”

  “Not out loud. I’m sure she’s talking with the Lord, though, seeking his comfort and guidance.”

  Joe nodded. “Understandable. She’s a religious person?”

  Brenda laughed. “Oh, no. Not Maggie. She takes a tough line there, but I knew in her heart she didn’t believe what she was saying. That’s why I felt okay about bending your little rule and sharing her grief with her. I kn
ow one of God’s chosen when I see them, and Maggie definitely fits the bill.”

  Joe was starting to sympathize with Maggie’s choice to become catatonic. “What was she like normally, from day to day? Like when her daughter came to visit?”

  “The life of the party. Laughing and making jokes. Sometimes I thought the two of them were like kids in a tree house, they had so much fun together.”

  “And you and Doreen?” he asked. “What kinds of things did you talk about?”

  “Well, of course, her mother was Dory’s first priority,” Brenda explained. “So she wanted to make absolutely sure I knew how important that was to her.”

  “She paid you,” Joe stated flatly, making it sound like the most natural and sisterly of acts.

  Brenda flushed slightly and cast her gaze upon the tabletop. “Well, she did help me sometimes in taking extra care of Maggie.”

  Joe began to sense an inkling of revenge in Brenda’s delivery of bad news this morning.

  “I’m just trying to confirm something I heard earlier,” he lied. “That Doreen might’ve been a little stuck up sometimes. Not that she was a bad person, of course. But maybe a bit superior?”

  Brenda smiled her forgiveness. “People can’t be blamed for the way they were brought up,” she said.

  “That’s very nice of you,” Joe commented, feeling on more solid ground. “Most folks would’ve taken offense.”

  “That’s not my way.”

  I bet, he thought. “Still,” he suggested, “it’s like what they say about apples not falling far from the tree. I guess Maggie had her moments when she could be a handful.”

  Brenda rolled her eyes, becoming ever more comfortable with this empathetic listener. “You can say that again. I sometimes felt like I was in one of those old movies, where the queen pushes all her servants around. And Dory and Maggie together were like double that.”

  She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “The two of them ganged up on me once, asking me what all Maggie’s medicines were for, like I was trying to poison her or something.”

  “Something had gone wrong?” Joe asked.

  She sat back and dismissed the notion with a wave of the hand. “Probably something she ate. She had diarrhea and felt sick. But of course, it had to be me and how I was doing her meds.”