Bellows Falls (6 page)

“I’m not anti-cop,” she said. “The way I look at it, we do some of the same things in different ways. The best of you try to stop wife-beaters and the child abuse and the dope dealing, and those are all the things that make my job next to impossible. But I also depend on trust to get my foot in the door. I can’t be blabbing to you and expect to get anything done. I shit all over Norm just now ’cause I’ve done it to his face, but I don’t want to jeopardize the few gains I’ve made in Bellows Falls, especially not to protect some dumb cop’s reputation. He should’ve known better.”

I thought in silence for a few moments. “That’s fair. Could you describe the Bouches as parts of a bigger picture—without compromising confidentiality?”

“You ever hear the joke about what’s the most confusing day in BF?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“Father’s Day. It may not be a thigh slapper, but it cuts pretty close to the bone. Norm Bouch came up here like a lot of others, ’cause the living was cheap and the pickings were easy. He’s an urban animal—from Lawrence, I think—and what he learned growing up there helps him run circles around the local yokels. People like Jan. She was unmarried when she had her first kid, she’s never had a job in her life, and her mom’s fifteen years older than she is. She’s the product of generations of welfare-dependent women—people who wouldn’t know what to do with an opportunity if it bit them on the ass. Guys like Norm can walk in out of the blue, not even bother with the usual razzle-dazzle, and sweep these girls off their feet. We shake our heads and say ‘tut-tut’ when they get pregnant and hooked on drugs, but we don’t do jack shit about preventing the problem in the first place. We graduate kids from high school after giving them Home Economics and watching them run around the football field, and we don’t seem to care that they can barely read and write and know nothing whatsoever about contraception. Norm’s original spin in this routine is that he doesn’t just love-’em-and-leave-’em. He keeps the kids he fathers. Not that that’s good news—he coerced every one of the girls he impregnated to give up their babies, and not because he loves kids, either—he lets welfare and Jan handle them. With him, everything is possession and/or power. Father Flanagan he’s not, even if we can’t prove anything.”

“Jan’s on drugs?” I asked, extrapolating from her generalized portrait.

That brought her up short. She stared at me in silence, her mouth still half-open, and then sat back in her chair, perhaps defeated that I’d only listened to her outburst to satisfy my own ends. “I don’t guess that’s a state secret. Yeah.”

I ventured a guess at the source of part of her anger at Norman Bouch. “And Norm helped put her there?”

“You didn’t hear it from me.”

“Fair enough. She in pretty bad shape?”

“Not physically, but it takes some stamina to kick even the soft stuff, and she’s got none of that. To answer your question, she’s admitted to me using coke and marijuana—and booze, of course. That’s always there, like oxygen.”

A silence settled in the small room as we looked at each other, linked by the knowledge of a world we were both paid to travel wearing metaphorical hip boots, looking for souls to salvage.

“You ever feel you might’ve been at this too long?” I finally asked.

“Every day. It’s becoming hard for me to believe there are normal, happy families out there. I see a father walking down the street holding his daughter’s hand, and I wonder how long he’s been abusing her.”

I looked at her in astonishment. This was about as hard-bitten as I’d seen. And yet I shouldn’t have been surprised. We expect aberrant behavior to spread inside a prison, or conservative militarism to result from an Army career. To think that someone could work year after year in Anne Murphy’s job, and not become a burned-out cynic, was to expect a depth of character the likes of Mother Teresa’s.

I stood up and pocketed my recorder, half hoping my next interview would be with some besotted optimist. And yet I felt deeply for Anne Murphy. She was truly one of the good guys, fighting against both the bureaucracy—and the public’s perception of it—and her own clients, who had in many cases come to see resignation as a birthright.

“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate all you’ve done.”

“Good luck,” she answered. “You’ll need it.”

But this time she shook my hand.

· · ·

Bellows Falls’ town manager was a round, red-faced, busy-looking man with smudgy glasses. He walked around the outer periphery of his cluttered, dingy office like a blind man looking for a way out, his hands touching piles of papers, clipboards hanging from the walls, the spines of books lining the shelves. I half expected him to duck out of sight in mid-sentence when he reached the open door.

Unfortunately, he didn’t.

“When Chief Latour first told me about this situation, I was all but assured it was nothing,” Eric Shippee said, passing the doorway and placing a fingertip along the edge of a framed Norman Rockwell print. “Your exact words, Chief, were, ‘This is smaller than a wart on a rhino’s butt.’ Are you telling me something different now? Do we have a problem all of a sudden?”

Emile Latour gave me a beleaguered look and didn’t answer.

“Not necessarily,” I said, “but to do this investigation properly, it’s going to take more than a single afternoon.” I considered saying more, but I was already uncomfortable just being here and decided to keep things brief. I wasn’t sure why Latour had told Shippee about the allegations so early on, while downplaying them to such an absurd degree. It seemed he was opening himself up to trouble from two sides simultaneously, when simply keeping his mouth shut would have been perfectly appropriate. I wondered if I was dealing with incompetence, stupidity, cowardice, or something more devious I hadn’t yet sniffed out. It was the final possibility that made me nervous.

Shippee kept roaming, peering at me periodically from various spots around the room. Latour, predictably, returned to staring at the floor.

“You must’ve found out something by now,” Shippee persisted. “Was there sexual harassment or not?”

“It’s too early to tell. Accusations of this sort, especially against police officers, are often suspect—a way of getting back. But they all need to be looked at carefully—”

“I know the party line,” Shippee interrupted. “That’s precisely why I want to hear what you’ve found so far, so I can prepare for any fallout. In case you haven’t heard, this town is a lightning rod for trouble, and the press eats it up. We’ve been busting our asses lately to give Bellows Falls a better image, and I don’t need my own police department sneaking around behind my back with a piece of dynamite in their hands.”

I raised my eyebrows, not only at his mistrust, but at why such a supposedly mundane case should stimulate this kind of passion. “Have you heard something I haven’t?”

He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I instantly regretted having spoken. “Nothing. I’m picking up information where I can find it. I was told Norm Bouch travels in all the social circles, so I was wondering if you had something I could use—even a gut reaction.”

“Implying I’m not only hanging out with Bouch but holding back information as well?”

I got to my feet and headed for the door, stung by the man’s paranoid combativeness. “Why don’t you chew this over with Emile? I’ll go back to doing what I’ve been asked to do, as a courtesy, and I’ll report what I find to him. With any luck, we won’t have to meet again.”

I clattered down the noisy wooden steps of the town hall, through the ground floor lobby it shared with a movie theater, and emerged into the village square. It was ghostly gray outside, an odd mixture of ebbing daylight and glowing street-lamps. Half the stores had turned their lights on. Small clusters of teenagers drove or walked by like reconnaissance platoons looking for action. It was closing in on nine o’clock, and the weather was balmy. Experience told me it would be a busy night for the police, in Bellows Falls, Brattleboro, and elsewhere.

“Sorry about that.”

I turned as Emile Latour appeared in the town hall’s doorway, three steps above the sidewalk.

“You tell him everything you do?” I asked him.

He came down and stood beside me, watching the traffic go by. “Things run a little differently here. We’re smaller—we don’t have your department’s clout. And he doesn’t like surprises.”

“He doesn’t seem to like much of anything.”

“It’s just his style. He’s not a great people person, but he tries to keep his ship on an even keel. He’s also sucking up to this new bunch that’re trying to get the town back on its feet.”

I took a deep breath. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear any more about Bellows Falls’ contradictory identity crisis, at least not today. But I also didn’t want to call it quits with no more than the innuendoes I’d collected.

Latour’s hand snuck up and rubbed the back of his neck. “Hughie Cochran hired Bouch when he first hit town—still refers work to him now and then when he’s too booked. He runs an excavating business—septic tanks, in-ground swimming pools, trench work for pipelines, stuff like that. He’s honest and pretty successful and he hires a lot of the same people we deal with—short term grunt labor, either working to feed a drug habit, or killing time before they get busted again.” Latour sighed. “Anyhow, he’s good with them—seems to know what makes ’em tick. Maybe he’s what you’re after.”

· · ·

Hughie Cochran lived between Bellows Falls and Saxton’s River, along one of the thousands of dirt roads that seemingly vanish into the Vermont hills, and along which live most of the state’s residents. Slowly driving in the growing darkness, I passed a farm, an antique business, several homes, including one estate with vast acreage, a couple of trailers, and a place that looked like an auto junkyard advertising itself as a garage—a string of unzoned anomalies I could have found in any one of our fourteen counties. Cochran’s house, a simply built ranch-style surrounded by a well-kept lawn, was near the top of the hill, with a commanding view of the distant New Hampshire mountains—the only sign of which right now was a random sprinkling of tiny lights.

A burly man in a baseball cap and a T-shirt stepped onto the porch as I got out of my car. He was holding two mugs in his hands, one of which he handed me as I approached. “Thought you might want some coffee. My wife brewed a fresh batch after you called.”

Cochran didn’t offer to shake hands, nor did I. This was a type of man I’d known all my life—hard-working, conservative, intensely private, and utterly, if quietly, faithful to the triad of church, family, and flag. Hughie Cochran knew where he came from and where he was headed, and he had a pragmatic distrust of any dream that didn’t come stamped on a single weekly megabucks ticket. Years from now, when he was in his seventies and in a nursing home, a victim of too much coffee, beer, and starchy food, he would look back on his life, as embodied by his children, with stoical satisfaction. And I wouldn’t be one to argue with him.

He gestured to a couple of metal lawn chairs at the end of the porch. “Have a seat.”

The only light came from within the house—three yellow squares that spread obliquely across the floorboards to the grass beyond. Sounds of muted conversation and canned television laughter barely made it through the walls.

Cochran took his time fitting his large frame into the chair and then carefully took a long pull from his coffee mug. “Nice time of the evening.”

I followed his example and agreed. “Must be quite a view.”

“It’s pretty nice. We moved up here about ten years ago. My wife had a longing to get out of town.”

“Bellows Falls?”

“Just outside—that’s where I keep the business. She wanted to get away from all that dust and noise. Can’t say I blame her, though it took me forever to make the move. I like it now, but it was hard separating from work… Gets to be a habit.”

He stared contentedly out at the darkness. I knew better than to rush him.

“So—on the phone you said you’re a Brattleboro policeman.”

“Yeah. Helping out the locals a bit. Just a small deal, but they needed an outsider—for appearances.”

I left it at that. He took another swallow. “And you want to know about Norm.”

“Only what you’re comfortable with. I’ve got to talk to him tomorrow. I was curious what makes him tick.”

Cochran laughed gently. “I don’t know what I could give you there. I’m no psychologist—just a dozer driver.”

“Who’s hired a lot of people and hasn’t made too many mistakes, from what I hear.”

There was a slightly embarrassed but pleased moment of silence. “Well… I’ve done all right so far, I guess.”

I let a moment’s silence remind him of my question.

Cochran scratched his cheek. “He’s a good guy—easy to get along with. He does the job you tell him to.”

“And then what?”

The other man shook his head, smiling sadly. “That’s the catch. When he’s left on his own, I think his mind wanders to what he’d like to do, instead of what he’s supposed to be doin’. But he does good work, and he’s real easy-goin’. I hardly ever had trouble with him.”

“He worked for you when he first arrived in the area, right? Why did he leave?”

“Wanted to go independent. A lot of them do after they get a taste for it. Most of ’em go bust, of course—the overhead, the insurance, maintaining the equipment, trying to get people to pay you for what you done. People think you dig a hole and walk away with the money, but there’s a lot more to it.”

“But Norm made a go of it.”

Hughie Cochran frowned. “Yeah… I guess. He just does it part-time. Must’ve got a deal on the equipment or something, so he owns it outright, or doesn’t pay much monthly. Otherwise, I don’t see how he keeps hold of it, not with the few jobs he does. He’s a smart man, though. He could really go places if he wanted to.” He laughed suddenly. “Not that I’m going to tell him how to run me out of business.”

I returned to a small point he’d implied earlier. “Was there something in the back of your mind when you said you ‘hardly ever’ had trouble with him?”