Blunt Darts (11 page)

Doucette sniffed. “
That
doesn’t surprise me.” He licked his lips again, looked up at me, and took a deep breath. “John, moving to Boston and working on this paper—
The Gay News
I mean—has been the best … choice in my life. I’ve pretty much put Meade behind me. If … things got opened up again back there, I can’t be part of it.”

“I understand.”

“No. No, I don’t think you do.” Doucette seemed to puff up a little, regaining most of his facial color. “Working on this paper, you get cursed at and jeered at
and
threatened, but it’s all small-time stuff. Over the paper’s telephone, sometimes at home. That’s why I chose ‘unlisted.’ But, the Kinnington death, that was the real thing. If he … if it comes out that I’ve talked to you, I could be killed.” Doucette gave it a beat. “No joke, John. That was the threat three years ago.”

I tried my best steady look. “Thom, I promise that I will not tell anyone—at any time—that I’ve spoken with you.”

Doucette nodded once, then swallowed twice. I offered him the rest of my lemonade and he quaffed it. “So, what do you want to know?”

“As I started to say, I think there’s a connection between Diane Kinnington’s death and Stephen’s disappearance. I don’t know what that connection might be, but I think it could help me find him. Precious few people seem interested in contributing to that effort, including some of those who should be most concerned. Since I don’t know what I’m looking for, it would probably be best for you to just tell me all you know—or even suspect—about her death that night.”

A woman walked by with a dainty dog on a purple-ribbon leash.

“Okay,” said Doucette. He waited until she was beyond earshot, then began.

“I don’t remember whether it was March or April, John, but the weather was still cold and rainy.” Another beat. “You know much about small-town newspapers?”

“No.”

“Well, a reporter isn’t paid a lot, and the newsroom isn’t open after maybe three P.M.
SO,
you get most of your tips from the police radio. One advantage is that, by definition, you’re close to the action in your town, and the Boston papers and stations can’t beat you to the scene.

“Well, it must have been about one in the morning, maybe one-thirty. I couldn’t sleep that night, so I was dressed, but in bed, reading a novel. I was still living with my parents. I heard his … an officer named Gerald Blakey’s voice came over the scanner on my bureau.”

“I’ve met the man.”

Doucette visibly shivered, then continued. “Gerry was calling in to the dispatcher, saying a Mercedes had gone off the Swan Street bridge and was in the river.”

“Did Blakey say he saw the car go into the water?”

Thom Doucette finally looked at me as brightly as he had after his call to Mo. “No, which made me wonder how he could know it was a Mercedes. But I’ll get to that.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Go on.”

“When I heard Gerry’s call, I pulled on a slicker and some boots and drove there. It was a terrible night to be out and about. Still, the police station is in Meade Center and my parents live just off Swan, so I had as much as a mile or so lead on the rest of the cops. I got to the bridge first—that is, Gerry was the only one there when I arrived.”

“Go on.”

“It was raining so hard as I arrived that I’m not sure he heard me coming. When I slammed the car door, though, Gerry turned around. He was down at the foot of the bridge, near the riverbank.” Doucette paused. “John, have you seen the bridge?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, it’s on Swan Street, as you drive toward Bonham. The bridge is maybe half a mile, I don’t know, before the town line. Anyway, I angled in alongside Gerry’s cruiser on the Meade side of the bridge.

“When he saw it was me, he came scrambling up the bank, which was quite a sight, between him being so big and the bank so slippery. Gerry Blakey was cursing at me when he got to the top. That surprised me, because I hadn’t done anything.

“Before he could say anything specific, another cruiser roared up, lights flashing but no siren, and then Chief Smollett in his own car behind it. I remember there were two cops in the cruiser, one with a rope who ran up to Gerry and one who opened the trunk and started yanking scuba equipment out. Smollett came up and asked me what the hell I was doing there. Before I could tell him, the cop who’d been with Gerry rushed back and said, ‘Chief, Blakey says it’s Mrs. Kinnington. In the water, the judge’s wife.’

“Smollett left us and headed toward Blakey, who now had the rope, down on the riverbank. The other cop ran back to the cruiser to help with the scuba gear. I heard an ambulance siren. It looked pretty crowded near the water, so I ran out onto the bridge.

“Some of the railing was broken away, and you could just see the driver’s side of the car, from about the middle of that window up, and the hood ornament pointing away from the bridge.”

“How far from it?”

“Maybe twenty, twenty-five feet? There’s a big boulder with the Mercedes sort of slanting up on it, like the car had tried to drive over the rock and got stuck partway. Then I—”

“Just a second, Thom,” I said. “From where you were on the bridge, could you tell it was a Mercedes?”

“From the hood ornament, but it was raining and blowing so hard, I might be remembering more the later TV coverage.”

“Could Blakey have identified the car from
his
angle?”

“No. I looked as closely as I could. That rain was really coming down, and anyway, Gerry, on the bank, was off to the side. In terms of perspective and line of sight, he was directly behind that car’s trunk.”

“In those days, cars had license plates both front and rear. Could Blakey maybe have seen a registry tag from where he was?”

“No. Nor could I. Both were below water. You couldn’t even tell what color the car was, the rain was blowing so hard.”

“Go on.”

“Let’s see.” Doucette counted on his fingers. “I tried to take a few pictures with my thirty-five millimeter, but the conditions were pretty hopeless, and none of them came out. I was just putting my camera away when the ambulance finally arrived. Also right about then, the cop with the SCUBA gear got into the water, and he swam out with a rope around his waist.”

“Did the diver struggle with the current?”

“No. But he was swimming hard, and I’m guessing he’s pretty strong in the water, given his job and all. Then he got to the car, grabbed hold of the door on the driver’s side, and yanked on it. Took a few times before that door opened.”

“Wait a minute. The
driver’s
door was closed?”

“Well, it was hard to tell from where I was. I mean, you really couldn’t
see
whether the door was closed, but that diver did seem to be tugging on the handle for a while. And, like you asked me before, the river didn’t seem to have much current. Still, I suppose the door could be pushing a lot of water in front of it.”

“Go on.”

“After the diver got the door open, he swung his head and shoulders inside, then he turned to the chief and the others on shore. He took out his mouthpiece and yelled, “Nobody, Chief. No body inside.” Smollett waved his hand in a circle over his head, and the diver replaced the mouthpiece and went under. Despite the rain, you could follow his progress by watching the rope. After the diver zigzagged back and forth on the bridge side of the car a few times, he circled around the car, kind of jump-roping his line over the top of it. But then he finally came up, shaking his head, and Chief Smollett waved him in. The diver swam ashore, and then—”

“Any trouble with the current this time?”

“No.” Doucette stopped for a moment. “No. In fact, this time the guy was swimming pretty effortlessly.” Doucette blushed a little. “I remember thinking, ‘No rush on the way back in. Nobody to save.’”

“What happened then?”

“When the diver got to shore, Smollett seemed to ask him a few questions, then motioned everybody to climb up the bank. I trotted to the cars. Gerry was the first one back. He waved off the ambulance guys, who waited for the chief to tell them to pack it in. I went up to Gerry as he reached his cruiser, and asked him what happened.

“He said ‘The judge’s wife, Mrs. Kinnington. Her car went into the river.’

“Then I said to him, ‘Did you see it happen?’

“Gerry replied, ‘No. I was driving across the bridge when I noticed its railing was broken through, and then I saw a car in the water. So I hit reverse, got out, and went down the bank. I couldn’t see anybody, so I came back up just as you pulled in.’”

I tried to picture it. “Did you ask Blakey about his identification of the car?”

“Yes.” Doucette grinned. “I asked him how he could tell it was her car, since it was already covered with water. He turned around, looked at the car, turned back, and grabbed my slicker like this,” Doucette clutched and twisted his shirt front, “and slammed me into the side of the cruiser. ‘If you
ever
say a fuckin’ word about this, or print one, you’re dead.’” Doucette grew still. “I think Gerry Blakey really meant it.”

“Anything more?”

Doucette closed his eyes. “Smollett came up and told Gerry he should check on the other side of the bridge—another car had stopped—to make sure there weren’t more ‘vehicles’ involved. Gerry whispered to me, ‘Remember,’ and sort of sloshed off. Smollett gave me his usual disgusted look, but he walked back to the other cruiser, where the diver was putting his equipment back in the trunk.

“John, I got into my car and drove home. Gerry’s threat had really shaken me. I was just pulling out my house key when I heard a honk behind me. I turned, and it was Gerry in his cruiser. He rolled down the window and said, ‘Remember,’ again. Just the one word, like that. Then he drove off. I went in and didn’t fall asleep till nine or ten in the morning. I never wrote the story. I never really saw Gerry Blakey again, either, because I moved to Boston a little while after that.” Doucette paused. “I think that’s about it.”

He made a great, credible witness. “Ever talk with anyone else about what you saw and Blakey said?”

Doucette’s palms pantomimed shoving me away from him. “No way, John. Oh, my parents knew the Kinnington incident was what pushed me to move out. It hit Mom hard.” Doucette cleared his throat and voice. “You’ve met Gerry. He and I are the same age. We went to high school together. He was always so big, but never good at athletics. Not well-coordinated enough, I guess. Just big. And aware, painfully aware, of his hair. He started to lose it when he was a sophomore, and it was pretty well gone by our senior year. Anyway, one day he and I were walking home from school, and we started talking, and well, we went into the woods and gave each other sex. He was real nervous, I think it was his first time ever, and I wasn’t exactly experienced. Anyway, we left the woods separately.

“The next day, I was walking to school, and a lot of guys suspected—funny, I still think of it that way, it’s certainly the right word for back then—‘suspected’—I was gay. One of them was jibing me that morning. He was a lot bigger than I was, but—like everybody else—a lot
smaller
than Gerry. So, I went up to Gerry between classes and asked him if he could please tell the other guy to lay off me. Well, Gerry grabbed me by the collar and slammed me against a wall of lockers, my books flying all over the place. Then he hissed at me like a snake, ‘I don’t protect faggots. Now stay away from me.’ A bunch of other guys and girls turned around to stare, and Gerry huffed off. I was so embarrassed. It was so bad that the other kids didn’t even bother to make fun. I gathered up my books, got to the boys’ room, and threw up. Then I cried.

“A few weeks later, I was walking home from school alone. I heard somebody running behind me. I turned, and it was Gerry. He apologized for embarrassing me, and then he asked me to go into the woods again. We did, but this time because I was scared of him. When we finished, Gerry said, ‘You know, cock-breath, if you ever tell anyone about this, I’ll kill you. Remember.’ He used the same word as that later time—‘remember’—like maybe his parents laid it on him when he was young, and he believed it had some kind of magic.”

I thought back to Gerald Blakey saying that to me as I left Judge Kinnington’s lobby, but decided it wouldn’t help Thom Doucette any. “Did you ever learn anything more about Diane Kinnington’s death?”

A firm shake of his head. “No. I mean, I read the newspaper account in the
Banner,
which was just a neutral rehash of a police report. I also read the
Globe
article, which wasn’t much more elaborate. And I did know about Mrs. Kinnington’s, ah, social life? But Gerry’s threats pretty much blanked me out on her death. In fact, I probably haven’t spent as much time on it in the last four years
total
as I have with you on this bench.”

I stretched my legs and stood up. “You’ve been a big help.” Doucette stood, and we shook hands. “And no one will ever know I spoke with you.”

“One last thing,” he said as we walked from the park. “As you know, I guess, Mrs. Kinnington’s body was never found. After talking to you today, giving you answers and listening to them myself, I’m pretty sure of something else. I think you already figured it out, but you weren’t there that night, and I was.”

We’d come to our parting spot, me for my car and Doucette for his office. He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked me straight in the eye. “Mrs. Kinnington wasn’t in her car when it went off that bridge. And, from square one, Gerry Blakey knew it.”

Thom Doucette turned and trotted, despite the heat, back toward his newspaper’s office.

I
DROVE BACK TO
the apartment house and double-parked out front. I took the steps two at a time, and just caught the tail end of a dial-tone noise as I opened my apartment door. Someone’s time for a message had just run out. I waited until I heard the machine turn off with a click, then rewound the tape to
PLAYBACK
. There were two messages, the first from Val:

“John, I’ve arranged to have us meet Kim at two o’clock at the Sturdevants’. You’ll never find it without me, and, anyway, Mrs. Sturdevant wouldn’t talk to you without my being there. I don’t know how much time I have left—I hate these machines—so pick me up at one-thirty here. I mean here at my house. Remember, 17 Ford …”