Presumption of Guilt Read online

He brushed a few more times and spat into his own sink. “They work, but they are dorky. I always felt like a Ken doll, putting them on.”

  “I thought they looked cute,” she said. “And I can never look at a cop without thinking he has those things on underneath.”

  “Bet that does wonders for your respect for the uniform,” he guessed.

  She chortled, still intent on her task. “You kidding? With all the cops I know? Believe me, what they got under their clothes is the least of their problems when it comes to earning my respect.”

  “Hey.”

  She broke away long enough to kiss him quickly. “Hey, yourself. How many cops do you want me to have in my life, anyhow? I already got two. Wendy’ll probably want to sign up next.”

  That brought him up short. He looked at her closely. “She tell you that?”

  Susan snorted. “Gotcha. She’s a teenager, Les. You don’t want to know what she’s got on her mind.” She then added seriously, “But don’t be surprised if she does someday. Your kids happen to like you.”

  He smiled, pleased and a little embarrassed.

  “I do, too, goofball,” she said. “Go help your son. I can hear him still scratching around in there.”

  He kissed her neck on the way back out.

  * * *

  “You take her in,” Willy said shortly, from behind the wheel. “Can’t stand that knucklehead teacher.”

  Smiling, Sammie got out of the car to uncouple their child from the backseat, saying evenly, “You think she’s a knucklehead, which, in your world, makes her one of ninety percent of the world’s population. Also, she’s not a teacher, and she’s good people.”

  “I’ll have you know I’m lowering my standards,” he told her. “I’ll be hugging people next.”

  Laughing, Sam gathered up Emma and carried her along the walkway to the day care, toward the woman standing at the door. Ten feet shy, however, Sam put her daughter down and, holding her by one hand only, slowly walked her the rest of the way, enjoying the child’s ear-to-ear grin at her own success.

  “Oh, look at you,” the aforementioned knucklehead exclaimed, clapping her hands, squatting down, and opening her arms. “What a performance. Nice job, Emma.”

  Willy watched from the car, his window rolled down, waiting for Sam to return so they could continue to the office.

  “Give her a Milk-Bone, while you’re at it,” he groused, disguising his pride.

  * * *

  “This our guy?” Lester Spinney asked, picking up the 3-D copy of the Concrete Man’s death mask.

  “Nice sideburns,” Willy commented from behind his desk, adjusting his limp arm to settle more comfortably into his chair.

  “I had a pair like that,” Joe admitted.

  Everyone in the small office laughed at the image.

  “Jesus, boss. You must’ve looked like a French poodle.”

  Joe’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon. More like a dashing Vegas lounge lizard.”

  “Wow,” Sam joined in. “There’s an image I’ll have to work to forget.”

  They were on the second floor of one of Brattleboro’s landmark buildings, the municipal center, built on a hill in 1884 as the town high school and appropriated seventy years later for what it was now. Huge, brooding, clad in dark brick and marble, and topped off to look like a horror movie set, it housed a scattering of town offices, including the police department—the old stomping ground of three of the four current VBI squad members, excepting Lester.

  “Okay,” Joe announced, taking a perch on the windowsill behind his desk. “Let’s figure out who this groovy dude is and why he ended up where he did.”

  He picked up a printout and waved it before them. “I came in early this morning and updated the case file. In a nutshell, it now tells us what we’ve got so far: a married, white, right-handed carpenter or roofer—maybe thirty years old—whose last name probably starts with M, since the inscription inside the wedding band reads ‘HM and SM forever.’”

  “Always wondered how long forever was,” Willy said in a low voice.

  “The most solid information comes from the medical examiner’s office. At the time of death, our victim most likely had his right arm in a sling because of a combination dislocation/fracture. There’s a high probability this was fixed at a hospital, and the radiologist at the UVM Medical Center told me it’ll probably stand out, since it’s a rare double whammy of an injury.”

  “Start by going through records at Bratt Memorial?” Lester asked.

  “Sounds right to me,” Joe answered.

  “You sure about the carpenter/roofer background?” Willy asked.

  “It’s a reasonable fit only, given the injuries and the physical findings. His bone structure indicates strenuous activity for most of his life, involving heavy use of the right arm.”

  “Like swinging a framing hammer,” Willy filled in.

  “Yup.” Joe paused before resuming. “So, checking the hospital records for 1970 looks like our first priority. If we come up blank locally, we’ll put the word out to an ever-expanding ring of medical facilities in Vermont, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts. VCIC in Waterbury ran the prints from the latex cast through the Vermont database, with no success, and the lab is doing the same with the collected DNA. The hope is that, if nothing else, we might at least get some familial hits that’ll point us in the right direction to do a few interviews.

  “Last but not least,” he continued, standing up, “we need to do a records search. Vermont Yankee paperwork has to be combed through for anything unusual—reported fights, unexplained employee departures, unusual events—around the time of the burial. And let’s not forget William Neathawk, the owner of the van that caught fire. Also, all missing persons complaints need to be reviewed. A lot of this is going to involve old-fashioned legwork. Most of the relevant material’s going to be in filing cabinets. Some of it may be computer indexed—if we’re lucky.”

  Joe crossed over to the coffee machine and refreshed his cup, adding the maple syrup and artificial creamer that made his colleagues cringe. “An additional historical note, since I’m the dinosaur in the room. Vermont in the late ’60s, early ’70s was going through a transformation no one would guess nowadays. In 1967 and ’68, homicides jumped from four a year to around twenty. The hippie counterculture, the Vietnam War protests, the interstate coming through, unemployment … The population jumped sixty thousand, because of urban flight, at the same time about twenty-five hundred farms went belly-up. This state was reeling, and I’m barely touching the surface.”

  Joe saw Willy roll his eyes and quickly reached his conclusion. “I remember some of those killings—a baby left to freeze to death; an old woman cut open, Jack the Ripper–style; a teenager shooting his parents ’cause they’d pissed him off. Keep that stuff in mind. We’re going to be hunting ghosts. You need to know what times were like when this guy caught a knife in the chest. It was a different world—not all love and peace like people think.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Elizabeth Pace looked up from her computer screen and tilted her head to one side. “Joe Gunther. Good Lord. How many years has it been?”

  He was leaning against her office doorjamb. “Too many. My fault. No excuse.”

  She saved what she’d been writing and sat back. “Pretty good excuse, from what I’ve heard. You’re a bigwig now—major crimes. Far cry from when you used to drop by the ER and ask for favors.” She chuckled at his expression. “I’m kidding. I was always happy to help. I don’t say this about all cops, but you are one of the good guys. You always have been.”

  “Thank you. Takes one to know one.” He indicated the office. “And talk about bigwigs. From night nurse to director of the whole department.”

  She pursed her lips dismissively. “I just outlived the competition. And now that I’m here, I’m not sure I wasn’t happier working nights. Nobody told me that all the jackasses pulled the day shifts. Doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Getting a
way from the jackasses is one reason I took the new job,” he told her.

  She nodded sympathetically. “So what’re you after now? Must be a biggie for you to renew old acquaintances.”

  He shook his head. “You are becoming cynical, Elizabeth.” He patted his jacket pocket. “This time, I actually have a warrant. I was hoping to mix a drive-by hello with some help managing the system. What I’m after may be a little offbeat.”

  She pointed to her guest chair. “You were never a dull visitor, Joe. Tell me.”

  He took up her offer as he spoke. “Nineteen seventy. A man may have come here to be treated for a combination dislocated shoulder–fractured humerus. We need to take a look at his records.”

  Her white hair spoke of Elizabeth Pace’s years of experience and ability to catch what counted. She thought a moment before responding, “May have?”

  “He was disposed of locally right after,” Joe partially explained. “So we’re hoping he was treated locally, too.”

  She laughed outright. “Listen to you. Do you think we all live under a rock? It was front-page news in the paper—‘Skeleton Dug Up at Vermont Yankee.’ Trust me—I think I know where he was disposed of.”

  He gave an embarrassed shrug. “Force of habit. I haven’t read the paper yet.”

  “It’s all right. You’re forgiven. But you don’t have a name. Or do you?”

  “Nope.”

  She rolled her chair back, stood up, and gestured at the door. “Let’s go fishing, then.”

  * * *

  It was late in the afternoon before Joe returned to the VBI office. Nevertheless, the rest of his crew was still there, including Emma, who was standing in a portacrib in one corner, supporting herself by the top rail, greeting him with a wide, drooly grin.

  He crossed over, crouched down, and ran his fingers across her hands. “Hey, sweetie. How’ve you been?”

  It wasn’t unusual, seeing her suddenly appear. Her parents had good child care, but scheduling could be tricky, and neither Joe nor Lester minded the extra company.

  Still, Sam asked, “Okay, boss?”

  He glanced at her, sitting at her desk. “Of course. If she’s going to replace you two, she’d better know how things work.”

  “I’d sooner she was a lion tamer,” Willy groused.

  “Phooey,” Sam challenged him. “You love this job.”

  “It’s not me we’re talking about.”

  “No,” Joe interrupted. “It’s not.” He slapped an old, yellowed file on his desk. “It’s this guy.”

  “You found him?” Lester asked.

  “Henry ‘Hank’ Mitchell,” Joe said. “He looks right for it—the dates line up, injuries sound the same, but I need to see the X-rays Hillstrom generated.”

  He slipped a large negative out of the old file as Lester called up what they hoped would be the same image on his computer. The squad clustered around the screen at the same time Joe held Mitchell’s old hospital X-ray up to the light.

  “That the upper arm, boss?” Spinney asked.

  “Yeah. Says ‘right/anterior,’ if that helps.”

  “There,” Lester announced, hitting a few keys and sitting back so they could all compare the two pictures. All except Willy, of course, who hadn’t moved from his desk.

  “Broken arm’s a broken arm,” he told them. “Even if they look the same, it won’t be a hundred percent proof, and I bet they don’t—X-rays being the interpretive things they are, sometimes. Am I right?”

  “I think they do,” Sam argued.

  Joe put the old X-ray back. “I agree, but Willy’s right. Too many variables in the two shots. Doesn’t matter—we weren’t going to proceed any differently, X-ray or no X-ray.”

  “Woulda been fun if they’d matched perfectly,” Lester said, disappointed. He cast a look at Willy. “You are such a buzzkill.”

  Willy enjoyed that. Nevertheless, almost as a peace offering, he said, “Hank Mitchell matches the HM inside the ring. That better?” He then asked Joe, “What’s the address for Mitchell? And his emergency contact info?”

  Joe had already read the file that the hospital retrieved from its crosstown storage site.

  “On Greenhill Parkway, and—to your point about the ring—the contact name’s Sharon Mitchell. SM. That being said, I’d be surprised if anyone’s still living there.”

  “Why?” Sam asked.

  “Forty years,” Willy answered for him. “Long time.”

  “Actually,” Joe said, “I was thinking about the location. Once upon a time, Greenhill Parkway might’ve had some appeal.”

  “Before the interstate chopped off everyone’s backyard in the mid-’60s,” Sam finished the thought. “Got it. Not a great place to call home anymore.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Joe mused. “Whatever the case, it’s a start, as is the name Sharon Mitchell.”

  “What else does the record say?” Willy wanted to know.

  “Hank was a smoker, drank too much, was urged to lose some weight,” Joe recited. “Not much beside the shoulder problem that brought him in.”

  “I didn’t mean that stuff,” Willy cut in. “He’s dead. Who cares? Was it a workmen’s comp deal? Who was the employer?”

  “Lighten up, Willy,” Sammie said softly.

  Elsewhere, that would have elicited a comeback. Here, he merely mumbled, “Sorry.” This group had been working together for so many years, they’d virtually become family—with all the attending allowances and shortcomings.

  “Ridgeline Roofing,” Joe answered. “I remember when they were bought out by Vermont Amalgamated a couple of decades ago. It was a big deal.”

  Lester cut in. Still staring at his computer screen, he announced, “I got a Sharon Mitchell out of DMV residing in Bratt on Chestnut Street.”

  “How old?” Willy asked.

  “Sixty-six,” Lester said, throwing in her birth date.

  Sammie had also been typing rapidly, and now added, “Nothing popping up on the Spillman or Valcour databases, so she’s either well behaved or never been caught.”

  “Let’s hope for the second,” Willy said. “I hate the boring ones.”

  Joe looked at them all. “Okay. One of you has Emma to care for; Les, you probably wouldn’t mind getting home. Who’s joining me to break the news to Mrs. Mitchell?”

  * * *

  Chestnut Street had also been victimized by the interstate’s being laid out like a runway across Brattleboro’s map. From a bird’s-eye view, Chestnut now resembled a garden hose, severed by a lawn mower and abandoned on the grass. Homeowners giving directions to their address had to specify whether to approach from the east or the west.

  The street’s fate at the hands of town planners notwithstanding, it had become—perhaps as a result—a quiet, pleasantly ignored, almost suburban nook in the midst of a busy town. The houses were in the plain, postwar style of an old TV sitcom, but well maintained, mostly single-story, with paved driveways and nurtured lawns. Joe and Willy headed west—Sam had opted to stay with Emma—until they came to the address listed as Sharon Mitchell’s, some six doors shy of where Chestnut smacked into the embankment leading up to the interstate above.

  With Joe carrying a small package, both men got out of the car, crossed a lawn decorated with a swing set and a few scattered toys, and stepped up onto the concrete stoop of a split-level home. Confirming their research, a copper plaque by the door read, MITCHELL.

  Willy cocked his head at the sight of it. “Think we got the right place?” He rang the bell.

  The door opened to reveal a slightly built woman with professionally dyed hair, carefully flattering clothes, and well-tended nails—all of which Joe took in with a glance as he and Willy swung back their jackets to reveal the badges clipped to their belts. Joe noticed a gold ring on her finger.

  “Mrs. Mitchell?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “We’re from the police. I’m Joe Gunther and this is William Kunkle. Are we catching you at an okay time?”


  “For what?” she asked evenly, her cool blue eyes moving from one of them to the other—and taking in the arm unnaturally anchored to Willy’s left trouser pocket.

  Joe smiled. “Good question. We’re working on a case where your name came up. We just wanted to ask you a couple of things about that.”

  “Do I need a lawyer?” The question was asked peacefully.

  Joe was used to it—not that it happened frequently—and instinctively summoned his default expression of surprise. “Goodness. Well, of course, you may call one if you’d like, but there’s no need that I know of. We’re just looking for information.”

  “There may be more,” he was impressed to hear Willy add. “We might have some news for you.”

  Mitchell’s face paled. “Is everyone all right? You’re not here about any of the kids, are you?”

  Joe held up his free hand. “No. Absolutely not. As far as we know, they’re all fine. Could we come in?”

  She stepped back without hesitation. “Of course.”

  She preceded them into an immaculate, fresh-smelling living room, saying, “This is pretty mysterious. I hope it’s not bad news.”

  She sat on a couch, waving them to a pair of chairs opposite.

  “To be honest,” Joe began, “it might be. Do you know—or did you know—a man named Henry Mitchell? Hank?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What is this about?”

  Willy’s voice was unusually supportive. “Please, ma’am. Could you answer the question first?”

  “He was my husband. Or he still is, unless you’re going to tell me different.”

  “You haven’t seen him recently?” Joe asked.

  Her smile was sorrowful. “You could say that. He walked out on us forty years ago. What have you found out about him?”

  “A couple of more details first, Mrs. Mitchell,” Joe stalled her. “I know this is hard, and we appreciate your patience, but we’ve got to be sure that we’re talking about the same person. Are you okay with that?”

  “Of course I am.”

  Willy glanced at Joe, who produced a small recorder from his pocket and held it up. “This is important enough to us, Mrs. Mitchell, that I’d like your permission to record the conversation. Just so there’re no misunderstandings later on.”