Presumption of Guilt Read online

  The emotions crossing her face were beginning to pile into each other. “I suppose so.”

  “Thank you.” Joe turned on the machine and placed it by his side. “Shortly before he disappeared, did your husband injure his right shoulder?”

  She nodded, clearly distressed. Her hands were clasping and unclasping in her lap, seeking elusive comfort in one another. Finally, she settled for twisting the ring on her left hand.

  Joe opened the small bag he’d brought along, speaking as he did so, “Mrs. Mitchell, I’m sorry to do this, but the circumstances are so unusual, I’m not sure how else to proceed. A couple of days ago, a man’s body was discovered—a skeleton—who we’re pretty sure was your husband. We had a latex mask made that shows what he looked like when he died, in 1970.” He looked up at her, hesitating. “I have a copy of that in this bag. I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you be willing to look at it?”

  She didn’t answer right away, staring at Joe’s hand in the bag as if it might reappear with a snake—which, in a way, it was about to.

  “All right,” she said softly.

  In one gesture, Joe brought out the ivory-colored mask and cradled it in his extended hands, as if ghoulishly offering her a head on a plate.

  The face stared up at her, ghostly and expressionless, as she responded in kind.

  After a prolonged silence, Joe asked, “Is this your late husband?”

  She tore her eyes away, allowing him to banish the mask back into the bag. “Where did you find him?”

  Joe hedged his response. “Some people were dismantling an old warehouse, tearing up the concrete floor—”

  She straightened. “I heard that on the radio. The Yankee plant. That was Hank?”

  “Yes.”

  Her hand fluttered by her cheek a moment. “What was he doing there?”

  “Mrs. Mitchell,” Willy spoke, “did he have anything to do with that project?”

  She shook her head. “He was a roofer. He did some odd jobs on the side, but never there that I know of. How did he die?”

  “We’re still looking into that,” Joe answered quickly, laying Hank’s ring on the table and asking, “Is that his wedding band?”

  She picked it up and read the inscription. “Yes.”

  “What were the circumstances of his disappearance?” Willy asked, his tone encouraging. “You must’ve explained his sudden absence to yourself somehow—in order to make sense of it. You never called the police?”

  “No,” she answered, her expression softening with reminiscence. “No. In a way, he was already missing.” She replaced the ring and sank against the sofa cushions, looking as if she’d been dropped there from a height. Her hands had stopped fidgeting.

  “Our marriage was having problems. When Hank disappeared, he wasn’t living with us anymore. I’d asked him to move out.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She was quiet for a while, and then crossed her arms across her stomach and began rocking slightly, back and forth. Joe realized that she was silently weeping.

  “Can I get you anything, Mrs. Mitchell? A glass of water?” He looked around for at least a box of Kleenex.

  But she looked up and wiped her eyes with both palms. She took a deep breath. “It’s hard, even after so long.”

  Willy interpreted what she meant. “Hearing what really happened?”

  She nodded. “I never would’ve guessed it. He was so restless; so hungry for something else. I figured he took off. Those were the days, after all—‘free love.’ I thought the kids and I made him feel trapped.”

  “I know this is painful,” Joe said, “but we were hoping you could give us as many details as possible about Hank. We have to try to reconstruct what he was doing, who he was hanging out with … Things like that. How long before he went missing did you two split up, for example?”

  “Not even a month,” she answered, her voice stronger.

  “Where was he living?” Willy asked.

  “On Oak Street. A nice place. It was an apartment, on the top floor. I visited him there.”

  “Sounds fancy.”

  She gave him a surprised look. “Why not? We were doing pretty well.”

  Willy frowned. “I thought he was just a roofer.”

  “He was. Ridgeline Roofing. But he was the owner’s right-hand man—a partner, I suppose, really. He mostly got on roofs because he liked to get his hands dirty. Like I said: restless. But it made sense, too. It saved money, having him be management and labor, combined. And BB loved it.”

  Both men looked at her until she explained, “Robert Barrett—everyone calls him BB. He later sold out to Vermont Amalgamated. Made a killing.” She waved her hand around to indicate the room. “That’s what paid for this.”

  Faced with their continued silence, she went on. “BB told me he’d put Hank’s money in a trust for me and the kids. I never knew about it, and I’m not sure to this day if I really believed it. Hank never mentioned any money. I always thought BB made it up so I wouldn’t feel like I was accepting charity.”

  “Very generous,” Willy said leadingly.

  “BB was in love with me,” she said without affectation.

  Joe felt Willy’s reaction as if it were an electrical crackle.

  “He was always a gentleman about it,” she went on. “Never pressed too hard, but after Hank was gone, he made his interest clear.”

  “Did you accept his advances?” Joe asked delicately.

  She smiled sadly. “Oh, no. BB was a nice man. Still is. He’s not that much older than me. But Hank was my guy.”

  It was said simply, as if read from a fairy tale, and prompted Willy to comment, “That must’ve disappointed BB.”

  “It did and it didn’t,” she responded. “I wasn’t the girl for him. I think he knew that, too. I was the dream he didn’t want to become real. He married three different women after I told him I wasn’t interested. None of them was even vaguely like me. I actually liked them—well, maybe not Doreen, the middle one. They were all funny and outspoken and daring. And each was like the next, so they obviously were his type, even if he couldn’t stay married to two of them. That’s what makes me think we would’ve been doomed in no time.”

  “What about other suitors?” Joe wanted to know. “You were a young woman when Hank left.”

  But again, she shook her head. “He and I had problems. Everybody does. But we were soul mates.” She pointed to the bag at Joe’s feet. “What you showed me today proves I was right all along. I never believed he just walked away, like people said.”

  “And your kids?” Willy asked. “How were they about all this?”

  “They took it hard. Greg was nine and Julie seven. It was toughest on Greg, of course—the whole father–son thing was shattered, and it seemed to leave him hanging, for years. That was the most difficult part for me to forgive.”

  She sighed before continuing. “Julie? Hard to tell. What was caused by Hank leaving, what was me going to work again, and what was just old-fashioned, hormonal, teenage baggage? She may have always been fated to be my wild child. That’s sure as heck how it turned out.”

  “What kind of work did you end up doing?” Joe asked.

  “Backroom stuff for Dixon’s Business Supply—filling orders, monitoring inventory, arranging contracts with local schools and businesses. I was the workforce behind the door that says ‘Employees Only.’ They were good to me, mostly left me alone, and helped me pay the bills—along with BB, like I said.”

  “Do you remember if BB made an extra effort to be friendly to Greg and Julie before Hank left?” Willy asked.

  She furrowed her brow. “BB? Why?”

  Willy tipped his hand with his next statement. “Mrs. Mitchell. Your husband didn’t end up buried in concrete by accident.”

  Joe flinched at his bluntness.

  She stared at both of them. “Are you saying…?”

  “Nothing,” Joe said firmly. “We have to ask questions to find out what happened. Thi
s is how we do it. It’s sometimes hard to hear, and it can make people think we’re going places we’re not. But if we don’t check every possibility—no matter how potentially hurtful or unlikely—we’re not doing our job. Can you understand that?”

  “Of course.”

  He kept going. “This was all a long time ago, so we have a lot of catching up to do. We have to reconstruct a world even you’ve left behind. I mean, in your mind, Hank might as well’ve been living in Hawaii with a whole new family. If you ever thought of him at all anymore. I was married once. Same thing—love of a lifetime. She died of cancer, and I never remarried. Nevertheless, it fades with time, doesn’t it? It becomes like the loss of a parent or a favorite relative. You move on.”

  She was nodding in agreement. “Yes. You do.”

  “Well, sadly, we’ve got to upset the applecart, and I’ll guarantee you that it’ll get confusing, and that your friends and relatives’re going to get worked up. It’s not anything we want, but we’re stuck with it, or we’ll never get to the truth.”

  “I guess so.”

  Joe gave her a supportive smile. “Fair enough. Now, let’s step away from some of this emotional stuff for a while and get a few nuts and bolts squared away. Would that be okay?”

  “All right.”

  “We’re still not messing up your plans for the evening? Fixing dinner or going out or anything?”

  “No. I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

  Willy saw his chance to smooth out any ripples he might have caused. “The thanks are all ours, Mrs. Mitchell. You’ve been a big help.”

  Joe gave him a sideways glance. His rough-edged colleague was not famous for conciliatory comments.

  “Let’s start with Robert Barrett, then,” Joe began. “BB—still living in the area?”

  “Oh, yes,” she replied, back in conversational mode. “He’s retired, but hale and hardy. Married to Number Three.”

  “How old is he?” Willy asked.

  She actually laughed, to Joe’s relief. “He must be almost seventy. I have no idea how he does it, but he’d give most fifty-year-olds a run for their money.”

  “And presumably, he’s doing well for himself,” Joe surmised.

  “Oh, you bet. He’s rich. First he sold Ridgeline to Vermont Amalgamated, which was good enough—at least for this town—and he was put on the board. But then, in no time, he turned around and took over Vermont Amalgamated. It was amazing. In fifteen years, he doubled its business and then sold it to some national outfit with initials I can never remember. It doesn’t matter, since they’ve left things alone. If you weren’t on the inside, you’d never know Vermont Amalgamated isn’t a local business anymore—it’s kind of like Ben and Jerry’s that way. Anyway, that deal made him millions, on top of what he already had. It’s one reason I’m not too proud to accept his generosity now and then. He’s rolling in dough.”

  “And where’s he live?”

  She gave them an address on Summit Circle, on the southern outskirts of Brattleboro—an upscale, newly developed area where the police were rarely summoned.

  “And your kids?” Joe asked casually. “Still dropping by for the occasional home-cooked meal—maybe with kids of their own? I saw the swing set and toys outside.”

  She smiled again. “Well, my daughter does, but I don’t get to see them very often. The swing set and the rest are mostly wishful thinking on my part. They do live around here. Greg’s in Dummerston, I think, and Julie’s in Vernon.” She recited the latter’s address, but then stopped, embarrassed. “This’ll sound terrible,” she said, “but I don’t actually know where Greg is right now. He’s going through a difficult phase. His sister knows.”

  “That’s okay,” Willy said offhandedly. “They both married?”

  “Julie’s on her second husband. Greg…” Sharon paused again, her expression wistful. “He’s had girlfriends, but never married, and now … I guess I’m old-fashioned, but I think it helps a relationship to get married. Anyhow, he broke up with the last one. He’s not seeing anyone, as far as I know. But, I probably wouldn’t—know, that is. I really only hear about Greg through Julie, and she’s too busy to spend much time with me. It’s hard to keep all those balls in the air nowadays.”

  “Julie has more than one child?” Joe interpreted.

  “Three,” Sharon said, raising her eyebrows. “Two by her first husband, one by the second. And they are a handful.”

  “She work, too?”

  “Oh, yes. Don’t they all? She’s a secretary at McGee, Conklin, here in town.”

  “That’s great,” Joe said. “You said they were relatively young when Hank went out of their lives, but they weren’t infants. How would you have characterized their relationship with him?”

  She shook her head thoughtfully. “He was great with them, and they loved him. They were hurt when he moved out. And when he disappeared, without leaving a word, things went downhill, like I said. To me, that just showed how attached they were to him.”

  “So no problems?”

  “No. I always thought he was a good father, especially since he wasn’t that great a husband.”

  Willy cleared his throat to ask, “Did your kids like BB coming around after Hank was gone?”

  She frowned at the characterization. “Coming around? He wasn’t a stray. BB was a family friend—always had been. Greg and Julie saw him all the time. His affection for me was private. The kids were never aware of it.”

  “Let’s talk about you and Hank,” Joe said. “What were your major problems?”

  “He cheated on me, for one thing,” she said quickly.

  “Who with?” Willy wanted to know.

  “I don’t know. I asked him to give me at least that much respect—to tell me who it was. But he just denied it.”

  “There was no doubt about it?”

  “No. I found a crumpled love note in his pocket once, when I was doing the laundry. Nothing specific. Just something like ‘I love you,’ or whatever; it’s been too long and I was pretty upset. Then I began to pay attention, and there were other clues. He’d hang up the phone when I came into the room. I found a movie ticket in his truck for a night when he’d said he was working late. And one night, I even smelled her on him when he came home.”

  “But he never fessed up?”

  “No. That made me so mad—to be taken for a fool. He said he’d never seen the note, hadn’t gone to the movies, and that I was being paranoid about the phone. He wouldn’t even talk about what I’d smelled.”

  “You said he drank, too.”

  She let out a long breath, heavier than a sigh. “Drank, hung out with friends, wouldn’t keep his promises. I told him he reminded me of a dog, pulling on his leash all the time. To be honest, I wasn’t surprised when I realized he was seeing someone else. It sort of became inevitable.”

  “Did he hang out with the same people?” Joe asked. “People we might be able to interview?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said. “BB was one of them. They were more like brothers than business partners that way. But I think even BB began to feel bad about how Hank was acting at the end, and BB was no saint.”

  “Do you think he knows who the other woman was?”

  She frowned in response. “I don’t. I asked him, when he was trying to get me to be with him, after Hank left. He suspected something was going on, like I did, but he swore he had no clue who it was, and I believed him.”

  “How ’bout Hank’s other friends?”

  She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Maybe. I only knew two or three of them, anyhow, and I know there were more. But he’d meet them at bars or the bowling alley or wherever, when I’d be home with the kids, so I never knew who they were.”

  Willy took a pad out and handed it to her, flipped open to a blank page. “Could you write down any names you can remember?” he asked. “And add anything else, like addresses or workplaces, even hometowns. Anything to help us find them.”

  “Of course,” she sa
id, picking up a pen from the coffee table and setting to work as the conversation continued. “It’s going to be a pretty rough list. I hope you know that.”

  “Not a problem,” Joe reassured her.

  “By the way,” Willy asked suddenly, “did you or your husband know anyone named William Neathawk in the late ’60s? Worked on the VY project.”

  She shook her head, sticking to her writing. “No. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Tell us about your parents or any siblings,” Joe requested. “They must’ve been saddened by the way your marriage was going.”

  Sharon paused in her task. “My mom was sad, but my dad was a drunk, so he didn’t care.”

  “Did either of them express any anger toward Hank?”

  “My mom figured that was the way all men acted, and my dad … I don’t really remember. I think he probably said something like, ‘I knew he was a loser when I met him.’ That was how he was.”

  “They’re both dead?”

  “Years ago.”

  “And your siblings?”

  “I have a brother and a sister. They haven’t lived here in forever—couldn’t get out of Vermont fast enough.”

  “Could you add their information to that list?” Willy requested.

  “Of course.” She’d resumed writing, but now looked up to ask, “Are you going to pester all these people?”

  “Pester?” Joe came back. “Your husband may’ve been murdered. You do get that.”

  She gave him a level look, and finally spoke with some of the passion he imagined she prided herself on bottling up. “My husband’s been dead to me for over forty years, Mr. Whatever-Your-Name-Is. You come in here and say you dug him up, and I’m doing what I can to help. And maybe one of these loser friends of his did hit him over the head with a shovel or a beer bottle. I don’t know. But you’re wasting your time and our taxpayer money if you think that my daughter or son—or my dead mother—killed him. That’s a pile of baloney.”

  Joe placed a business card on the table between them. “It’s Gunther,” he answered calmly, “and I hear what you’re saying, Mrs. Mitchell. And you’re probably right. But if you were just another taxpayer, you’d want us to solve this thing as fast and as accurately as possible. We can’t do that until we know as much about your husband’s life as we can.”