Proof Positive: A Joe Gunther Novel (Joe Gunther Series) Page 27

  Rachel let out a small gasp. “Those are just like the negative sleeves I found with his photographs. It’s thirty-five-millimeter film.”

  “There’s something else,” Joe said, reaching for the package, also having put on gloves. He shifted the negative sleeve to the back, revealing a small selection of eight-by-ten photos of poor quality.

  “What are they?” Sam asked.

  “They’re called positive proofs,” Rachel explained. “I learned about them when I started this project. Photographers usually did contact sheets of their negatives, to better see what they’d taken, but sometimes they also did quick and dirty blowups, to get a bigger image. The other ones I have of Ben’s look just like these.”

  Joe held them up, one at a time, for general viewing, saying, “Folks, this may be the proverbial smoking gun. Looks like Ben had an ace up his sleeve after all, which is what Jack Joyce’s been sweating over since this whole thing broke.”

  Silently, they leaned forward to see. Rachel was right about the print quality—they were poorly exposed and had been inadequately washed following development, resulting in brown stains mottling their surfaces. But they unmistakably showed a man from the back, lying on top of a young woman, her bare legs thrust apart; the same man holding a gun on another, dressed in fatigues but sporting a beard; the bearded man then clutching his chest and falling; and a fourth, quite blurred, of the shooter’s gun pointing around at the camera, as if ready to fire. The last picture didn’t show his face—or least not clearly enough to distinguish any features. Instead, the camera had, like prey focusing solely on the eyes of its attacker, instinctively centered on the gun.

  “Jesus,” Lester said softly.

  “Yeah,” Sam agreed. “So much for corroboration. Ben must’ve emptied one of his cameras just before Joyce reached him, and maybe shoved the roll into his pocket. I bet there’s an inventory somewhere in the bowels of the VA, listing a roll of film among Ben’s personal belongings.”

  “It still may not be enough,” Joe cautioned, his frustration clear to all. “Look at them carefully. It’s definitely an extra nail in Joyce’s coffin, but I doubt you could say for sure that’s Joyce. We’re gonna have to keep digging.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Deputy U.S. Attorney Frederick Rawlings frowned at the files and photographs spread across the conference table at his office back in Burlington. Appealing to Joe’s sense of fashion, he was dressed in an off-the-rack suit, a shirt with a slightly frayed collar, and a pair of boots suitable for the city slush outside. “We still have Frank Niles, supposedly willing to cut a deal,” Rawlings said hopefully.

  Joe looked him in the face. “I don’t want to do that. Plus, we have less against him than we do against his boss.”

  “I hear you, Joe,” Rawlings said agreeably. “But if we don’t get lucky soon, we may have to get practical.”

  Joe said in an even voice. “Niles is a sociopath. He tortured people to death.”

  They had just received word that Abigail Filson, Nancy’s mother, had died in the hospital without ever regaining consciousness.

  Rawlings let a few seconds elapse before asking, “What’s the status with the Chris Hadsel investigation?”

  “We’ve got analysts looking at her phone and background for any linkage to Joyce or anyone near him. So far, nothing. Like Niles and Watson, it seems she erased enough of her history to make her unrecognizable to her own mother.”

  Fred smiled. “I have a hard time believing that any of their mothers would care, but I take your point. What about the people Joyce supposedly paid off to keep quiet? You talk with any of them?”

  “We’re working on it. But if they’re smart,” Joe reluctantly had to concede, “they’ll keep their mouths shut. I think Bob Morgan was manna from heaven, and probably unique. Not only that, but if Joyce hasn’t reached out to every one of them by now and had come-to-Jesus chats, I’d be very surprised.”

  Rawlings sighed. “So, if you don’t want to trade with Niles, the other witnesses won’t play, and you’re not finding any connections between Joyce and his executioners—”he waved his hand at the messy tabletop. “—and none of the Vietnam photos can be used as rock solid proof, what is on your wish list?”

  Joe looked at him carefully. “Am I supposed to read into that? Like, unless I come up with something, you’re not going to prosecute?”

  Rawlings shook his head. “No. I’m perfectly happy to go after a United States senator circumstantially—probably at the cost of my career. I’d just like as much ammo as you can give me.”

  Hardly mollified—since Joe knew that Rawlings acted only on the authority of his bosses, who could have a less generous take—Joe answered his earlier question. “I think I’ll go visit the senator.”

  “To what effect?”

  He stood up and walked to the door. “I’m an old-fashioned man, Fred. I like to do things face-to-face, if I can. Jack Joyce may be a bigwig politician and a rich guy with pals in the right places, but I want him to know who I am—and that a podunk cop from nowhere might have enough stubbornness to match his supposedly unbeatable muscle. You saying that’s out of bounds?”

  Fred gave him a gesture of surrender. “As long as you abide by the rules, it’s fine with me, Joe. Happy hunting.”

  * * *

  The meeting took place in Washington, D.C., but not at the senator’s office. Instead, Joe, Willy, and their official federal investigator liaison met with Joyce and his lawyer on the top floor of a nearby apartment building. Consistent with everything that Joe had recently learned about the man, the place was vast, pretentious, and designed to impress the kind of people Joe wouldn’t have wanted as friends.

  All the way to the stiff-backed butler who opened the door.

  “Special Agent Gunther?” the man inquired, fixing Joe with an impassive look.

  Joe displayed his credentials, as did the other two. The butler faded back from the door and allowed them in, by that gesture handing them over to a slim, well-dressed young woman, who escorted them to an office at the end of a long hallway.

  Joe resisted rolling his eyes at the set piece awaiting them: a long polished table, at the head of which sat a white-haired man in a dark suit, his legs casually crossed, attended by another, younger man standing by his side as if poised to run errands. Joyce, whom Joe recognized from photographs, had one arm resting on the table, the gold cuff link of its gleaming starched shirtsleeve reflecting off the polished wood.

  “Agent Gunther, I presume?” Joyce said with false heartiness.

  “Yeah,” Joe said, and introduced Willy and the fed, who had agreed beforehand to remain an observer only, to allow Joe and Willy a free hand.

  Joyce gestured toward his companion without turning his head. “Jeremy Littlefield, my attorney.” He then waved vaguely down the table. “Sit, sit.”

  The liaison accepted the invitation, but the two VBI agents moved to where the windows were at their backs, disrupting Joyce’s posed symmetry, forcing him to shift in his seat, and putting the daylight in his face.

  Still, he angled to maintain control. “I gather,” he said, “that you wanted to see me about certain matters that occurred in Vermont.” He smiled before adding, “I should warn you beforehand that I’ve never been to your beautiful state—just for the record.”

  “You were in Vietnam,” Joe began, ignoring him.

  Joyce looked surprised. “Everyone knows that.”

  “You volunteered.”

  “That’s correct. Nowadays, I’m willing to admit that I let my youthful patriotism get the better of political good sense.”

  “Word is that political good sense played a big role in directing that patriotism.”

  Joyce frowned. “You forget that they were sending us home piecemeal by commercial jet—no ticker tape parades for us—and to people who spit on us after we landed. To enter politics straight out of uniform in those days wasn’t the no-brainer it is now.”

  “You see co
mbat out there?” Joe asked.

  “I saw my share.”

  “How ’bout on March seventh, 1971?”

  “The date doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “What about the name Nathan Sievers?”

  Joyce paused to stare into the distance, murmuring, “Sievers, Sievers,” before he widened his eyes and said, “Right. A journalist. Quite unstable, if I recall.”

  “And Ben Kendall?”

  “The photographer,” he said smoothly. “It’s all coming back. I do remember him. A quiet, decent man. Tragic, what happened to him.”

  “Bob Morgan?”

  Joyce smiled thinly. “You sure you don’t mean Dan Smith or John Doe? Agent Gunther, you’re talking about a long time ago. There are moments from that time that will haunt me for life, as you can imagine, but individual names?”

  “You remembered Kendall,” Joe challenged him. “What can you tell me about what happened to him?”

  Jeremy Littlefield bent at the waist slightly, as if ducking into the conversation. “My client has already addressed his faulty recall. I think it inadvisable to answer such questions without his being given more time to reflect.”

  Joe had anticipated such a tactic, and opened the accordion file he’d brought. He extracted two mug shots—one of Frank Niles, the other of the dead Neil Watson—and stepped forward to place them on the table, side by side. “This falls into the category of current events. You ever see these two men?”

  Joyce peered at them without much interest. “No.”

  The door opened and the butler entered, bearing a small silver tray with five cups, an ornate coffeepot, and the usual accessories. He set it silently in the middle of the table and withdrew like a forgotten thought.

  Everyone in the room ignored his offerings.

  Joe tapped the picture of Frank Niles and bluffed. “This one says he knows you.”

  “Then he’s mistaken,” Joyce responded. “That being said, there are hundreds of people who may believe they know me, whom I don’t know in turn. It’s that kind of job.”

  Predictable, Joe thought. The definition of deniability.

  Joe laid down a picture of Chris Hadsel. “She look familiar?”

  “No,” he said, barely looking.

  Another photo, taken by Ben, of Joyce in uniform, issuing commands. “Is this you?” Joe asked.

  For the first time, Joyce reacted, picking it up and sharing it with Littlefield. “Quite a few pounds ago,” he said. “God. And look at the hair.”

  “Do you remember the occasion?” Joe continued.

  The senator replaced the picture. “How would I? I’m guessing it’s the date you mentioned earlier. That would make dramatic sense, given your general line of questioning.” He raised his eyebrows. “And I do sense a bit of theater going on here. Compensating, perhaps, for a lack of substance?”

  “The day two men were shot under your command doesn’t stand out?” Joe pressed him.

  “Again—” Littlefield began.

  “If you mean Sievers and Kendall,” his client interrupted. “They were not under my command. The first was thrust upon me by the PR people, and Kendall was assigned by Signal Corps. I had no control over him.”

  “Sounds like you didn’t like Nathan Sievers.”

  “He had a chip on his shoulder—very antagonistic to our mission over there.”

  “Did that cause problems?”

  “The men disliked him more than I did. I had to play interference. It didn’t make my job any easier.”

  “Jack…,” Littlefield warned him.

  Joe kept speaking. “Are you implying that he was a friendly fire casualty?”

  “I implied nothing of the sort.”

  “But you are saying that he made things difficult.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Enough that you had to deal with him?” Joe asked.

  Littlefield tried again. “Special Agent Gunther, I think we’ve said all we’re going to say today—”

  Joyce stopped him with an upheld hand, his eyes on Joe’s. “I spoke to him several times.”

  “Your men have been quoted as saying that you considered Sievers a subversive element,” Joe said.

  “He was disruptive to discipline, which was never too strong at the best of times in those days.”

  “Did you have to take matters into your own hands?”

  Jeremy Littlefield laid a hand on his employer’s shoulder as Joyce opened his mouth to speak, and said firmly. “My client has already answered that.”

  But Joyce repeated blandly, “I spoke to him a few times, to no avail.”

  Joe reached into his file and pulled out a cropped blowup of one of Ben’s photographs, showing only the shocked face of Nathan Sievers.

  “Is this Sievers?” he asked, adding the picture to the growing pile on the table.

  “It might be. Again, it’s been a long time.”

  Joe added the full-frame image—no longer cropped—showing Joyce pointing his gun at Sievers. “What caused you to aim your service weapon at Nathan Sievers?” Joe asked.

  At this, Joyce crossed his arms. “I—”

  “My client has nothing to say,” Littlefield drowned him out in an exasperated tone, seizing the picture and peering at it. “Besides which, you can’t see this man’s face. You can’t tell who it is.”

  “Is that the same for this?” Joe asked, knowing that his one chance to confront Joyce was almost over. He quickly slapped down the next shot, of Sievers clutching his chest and falling, Joyce having fired.

  Littlefield stretched out fast and placed his hand flat on the picture to block Joyce from seeing it. “That’s enough, Agent Gunther. We are finished here. You may leave. Now.”

  Joe began to slowly collect the contents of his file. He spoke with more confidence than he felt, grappling with the fact that this man might get away with what he’d done, virtually without a scratch, and that because of it, Frank Niles was in an even stronger position to work out a deal with the U.S. Attorney. “Senator,” he said, struggling to ignore a spreading flush of defeat. “What I’ve shown you today is barely the beginning. We’ve got you in such a web of your own making that Mr. Littlefield here is going to need an army of expensive help. You cannot go around killing people—not years ago and far away, and certainly not now and in this country—and expect to get away with it.”

  He finished refiling the photos and retreated halfway to the door—held open by the quiet and ubiquitous butler—before turning to add, “Remember the names Nate Sievers, Ben Kendall, and Jennifer Sisto, Tommy Bajek, Jarek Sroka, and just recently Abigail Filson, Silencing them took a lot of planning, Senator, and involved hiding a lot of evidence. Too much, in fact. The loose ends we’re picking up almost daily will be used against you before long. And I didn’t list the men who died after returning from Vietnam—men who thought they’d seen the worst there was to see, until they met you.”

  His anger just shy of boiling over, he indicated their lavish surroundings, adding, “Enjoy all this while you’ve got it.”

  “Enough,” Littlefield warned him.

  Joe considered saying more, but surprisingly, it was Willy who took his upper arm and gently guided him toward the exit, saying, “Steady, boss. I think I got something.”

  The three of them, including the federal escort, followed the butler back down the hallway.

  Joe could barely murmur through his fury, “It better be good, whatever it is, ’cause this fucker’s gonna get away with it.”

  Willy was unusually even-toned, not even commenting on Joe’s rare crude language. “You had me convinced in there. If I was Littlefield, I’d be worried.”

  Joe stared at him. “Are you shitting me?” he whispered harshly, keenly aware of the butler just ahead. “We don’t even have a good case against Niles. He plays it right, he’ll get off with next to nothing and still won’t have to rat out this asshole.” He jerked his thumb backwards. “We need a smoking gun—dates, names, a di
ary, or access to somebody’s e-mail account.” He paused to shake his head in disgust. “A frigging miracle.”

  “Maybe not,” Willy said mildly, adding in a slightly louder voice, “Could be we haven’t asked the right person for help.”

  They’d passed a string of rooms containing several staffers by now, and were almost at the front door. Willy touched the butler on the shoulder and asked, “What’s your name?”

  The inquiry seemed to startle the fellow. He slowed and looked at them. “Mine? Jonathan French.”

  Willy checked over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t being overheard. “The invisible man,” he said quietly. “Sees all, hears all.”

  Joe stared at him, his mouth half open, his corroding bitterness momentarily stilled.

  “I saw how you looked at the pictures on the table,” Willy said. “When you came in with the coffee. You knew those two men.”

  A long pause settled among them, during which French’s expression slowly changed from his impassive norm to something approaching a relieved smile.

  “Mr. Niles and Mr. Watson?” he then asked calmly. “Yes—them and much more.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Joe muttered.

  ALSO BY ARCHER MAYOR

  Three Can Keep a Secret

  Paradise City

  Tag Man

  Red Herring

  The Price of Malice

  The Catch

  Chat

  The Second Mouse

  St. Albans Fire

  The Surrogate Thief

  Gatekeeper

  The Sniper’s Wife

  Tucker Peak

  The Marble Mask

  Occam’s Razor

  The Disposable Man

  Bellows Falls

  The Ragman’s Memory

  The Dark Root

  Fruits of the Poisonous Tree

  The Skeleton’s Knee

  Scent of Evil

  Borderlines

  Open Season

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ARCHER MAYOR, in addition to writing the New York Times bestselling Joe Gunther series, is an investigator for the sheriff’s department and the state medical examiner, and has twenty-five years of experience as a firefighter/EMT. He lives near Brattleboro, Vermont.