Fruits of the Poisonous Tree (9 page)

Of course, the sexual assault of a prominent citizen had taken place—name or no name—and Women for Women was a logical place for a paper to seek background and quotes. But there was something in Susan’s eyes as we approached one another, an odd look of challenge that made me stop in my tracks and rethink my notions about Katz.

My reaction startled her slightly and saved me from repeating the gaffe I’d just committed with Al Santos. “She knows what she’s doing, Joe.”

There was only one
her 
between us, and only one thing
she 
could have done that would have brought Susan and me together at the
Reformer
.

“You’re just the messenger.”

She flared at that. “She’s done an amazingly courageous thing, entirely on her own. She’s a strong woman—you know damned well the only reason I’m here is because she’s in too much pain to do this in person. I’m proud to have carried her message here. If every abused woman had her guts, and everybody else stopped tiptoeing around this issue, we might start putting an end to it. Day after day, I listen to women who’ve been beaten or raped or mentally tortured, and I try to give them support and counsel, and all the time I wish I could say, ‘Stand up for yourself—plaster the walls with this bastard’s name. Tell his boss and his co-workers and his drinking buddies and everybody else what he does in his spare time.’ But I can only murmur that kind of advice, and then be understanding when it’s ignored. Who gains the most through an abused woman’s silence? It sure isn’t other women.”

I was stunned at my own thick-headedness. I should have known Gail would honor her own philosophy with action, especially at this worst of times. It was testament to my own lack of balance that I’d totally overlooked the obvious.

But my speechlessness stood me in good stead. Susan Raffner, her face still pink from her impassioned outburst, gave me a sympathetic smile. “Sorry—I’m taking all this a little personally. You’re probably the only cop who doesn’t need that lecture.”

I smiled back weakly. “I wouldn’t bet on it. Do you know how Katz is going to handle it?”

“Front page, with a head shot of Gail. They’re going to run a statement from her, an interview with me, and an updated story—I guess about what your people are doing.” She suddenly looked embarrassed and passed her hand across her forehead. “Is that why you’re here? When I saw you, I just assumed you were going in to try to stop it.”

I shrugged, not wanting to justify her stereotype, and happy to leave her slightly off balance. “Don’t worry about it. Give my love to Gail.”

She called after me as I moved toward the building’s front door, “Do you have anything new to tell Katz?”

I stopped and faced her. “It sounds like a cliché, but we’re doing everything we can. I’ll tell him we’re following a variety of leads—some quite promising—just to make whoever is out there sweat a little. But I’ll tell you privately we don’t have squat yet. We will, though. We’ll find the guy.”

She merely nodded, accepting it at face value. I half turned away again and then paused. “Could you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Tell Gail I’m proud of what she did.”

I DIDN'T HUNT DOWN
Stan Katz immediately. I borrowed a phone at the receptionist’s desk to call Brandt. I’d let Raffner assume why I was at the
Reformer
, but I knew better than to stick my neck out much farther. This was the last place Brandt wanted me visiting, especially alone.

I confirmed to him that Gail’s name was being released and gave him what details Raffner had told me about Katz’s plans.

“So how do you want to play it?” he asked once I was through, acting much cooler than I would have in his shoes.

“If we let them quote us now, it sounds more like we’re part of the overall plan—backing Gail up. It might help pacify the Mary Wallises of the world.”

“Does Katz know you’re there yet?”

“No. Want me to wait for you?”

There was a long pause—Tony weighing the options before him—before he surprised me with his answer. “No. Do it alone.”

I waited for him to explain his reasoning, but that was all he said. I finally filled in the void by muttering, “Okay—I’ll let you know how it goes.”

The
Reformer
’s home was a new, informally laid-out building, with a large central room filled with clusters of computer-equipped desks. People came and went largely unchallenged, pausing at the receptionist’s counter only if they needed directions. I therefore made my way to Katz’s small, windowless office without being announced, and was settling myself into his guest chair before he even noticed my arrival.

He looked up abruptly from the paperwork he’d been studying. “Joe—Jesus Christ. Small world.”

I smiled and nodded at the typed sheet still in his hand, hoping to impress on him that my visit and Raffner’s were coordinated. “That Gail’s statement?”

He looked at the paper as if it had appeared from thin air. “You know about this?”

“Sure—we applaud her courage.”

He paused over my use of “we.” “The PD help her make up her mind?”

I gave him a suitably disappointed look. “Come on, Stan, does that sound likely? I would’ve thought Susan set you straight on that. You’re not going to butcher another story, are you?”

He sighed slightly. “Spare me.”

“It’s department policy that the release of the victim’s name be her decision alone, but we’re always grateful when and if she does. Makes our job a lot easier.”

“And I guess you could stand all the help you can get.” He smiled.

I kept playing the bland diplomat and planted another optimistic kernel. “We always appreciate any help, although the investigation’s coming along pretty well.”

“Meaning what? Suspects?”

“Meaning just what I said.”

Katz pursed his lips and glanced back at Gail’s statement, obviously hoping for a way to get under my “official statement” tent flaps. “How will her identity being known help you guys? Won’t it just mean more pressure?”

“Only on whoever assaulted her. Now everyone who knows Gail will be trying to think back to any suspicious event they may have witnessed between her and another guy. We certainly encourage that.”

“So you don’t have any suspects.”

“I didn’t say that.” My spokesman-ese was getting more fluent by the second. “No investigation is built in a vacuum. The more supporting evidence, the stronger the case—that’s a quote.”

Katz smirked in response. “Swell—original, too. If that’s all you got… ”

“Didn’t want you thinking we were anything other than supportive of Gail’s decision.”

He tried challenging my implication that Women for Women and we were closely allied. “Raffner didn’t mention the police at all.”

“That’s why I’m here. Susan’s main concern is Gail, as it should be. Mine is that the
Reformer
not get it in its head that Gail and we aren’t in full communication. She’s been an asset to this investigation from the start, and her letting you publish her name is just another example of that.”

Katz sat back in his chair and crossed his hands across his narrow stomach, realizing he was getting nowhere fast. He chewed on his lower lip for a moment, apparently pondering how to get to me. “What’s it like being the victim’s companion?” he finally asked.

I stood up to go. This was exactly where my being the police department mouthpiece could seriously backfire. “I hope you never get to find out.”

“Why not share it? You’re human, too. People would benefit hearing about this from a cop.”

“Maybe, but not now.” I moved toward the door.

“You don’t want to give ammunition to the people who think you shouldn’t be within a mile of this case, right?”

“Talk to Brandt and Dunn about that. I do what I’m told to do.”

I expected some sarcastic crack following that, but he surprised me by letting out an exasperated laugh. “My God, Joe, doesn’t what happened to Gail piss you off just a little?”

I looked at him without answering.

He suddenly left his chair, crossed over to the door, and closed it. “Off the record—just you and me: How’re you holding up? Has Brandt set anything up to protect you if the shit hits the fan? ’Cause I’m already getting phone calls from people wondering how the hell you’re going to stay impartial.”

I dearly wanted to be gone from here. “Like I said, talk to him.”

He shook his head. “I got the official line, Joe—I’ll run it like you want me to: ‘The police and Raffner and Gail are cozy as all hell.’ This is just for me.”

I looked at his face more carefully then, startled by his apparent candor, and noticing for the first time how exhausted he seemed. I began to understand what was eating at him—it had less to do with my position and more to do with his. “I guess things were a little more clear-cut back when you were a hired gun.”

He went back to his chair and sat down heavily. “I went after the story, pure and simple. I fought you guys to get it, and I fought the editors here to run it the way I wrote it.” He paused a moment before adding, “I’ve had to widen my views a little.”

I sighed inwardly, feeling less on the spot. At the beginning of this conversation, his blatant intention had been to lead me into an indiscretion, even, I suspected, after he’d shut the door and played “off the record.” But I sensed now he’d slipped off that track, distracted by the pressures of his new job. He was sounding like a man who had no one to talk with.

“The owners breathing down your neck?”

“They don’t know this business—not at this level. They saw
USA Today 
go through the ceiling and thought, ‘Hey—why not us?’ All their money comes from shopping malls and condo villages. They have no idea a tabloid tattler just raises the hackles of a town like Brattleboro.”

I thought of the damn-the-torpedoes ambition that had marked most of Katz’s career as a reporter. “And you hope Gail might be the story to turn them around?”

He caught the tone of my voice. “Look, we’re not exactly best friends, but we have worked together in the past, right? And besides the all-reporters-eat-shit paranoia you guys call normal, have I ever really stuck it to you—at least when you didn’t deserve it?”

“That’s too many qualifiers, Stan. If you were a used car, I don’t think I’d buy you.”

He became abruptly more animated. “Cut it out. I’m trying to do something you ought to be supporting here. The shopping-mall kings want short, dirty details and peek-a-boo photos. I want this paper to be a public forum, where this town can share its views—”

“Like it used to be.”

“Fine—only better, but if I don’t get the PD to help me, it’s not going to work and the paper’ll go down the tubes.”

“And you’ll be out of a job.”

His face fell into a scowl. “That’s not the point. I can get another job.”

“But your résumé wouldn’t look as good.”

He began to respond angrily, but I gestured to him to wait. “All right, all right. I’ll pass this along to Tony. But if you want us to open up more to you, you’ll probably have to make some show of good faith.”

“Like what?” His eyes narrowed instinctively.

“Tony’s the one to work that out with, but—just as an example—I don’t think it would hurt if you let us see some of the articles you’re about to print concerning us, just so we can correct the mistakes.”

His jaw tightened. “No way.”

I reopened the door, relieved at least that my involvement in the case had been forgotten for the moment. “Well, like I said, it’s not my department. Talk to Tony. In the meantime, giving us a fair shake in the paper might help win him over.”

He nodded distractedly, his enthusiasm blunted by my unsympathetic self-interest, and he didn’t even look up as I left. I did understand his position, even though I’d made little effort to show it. He’d never had the responsibilities he was facing now, nor had he ever had to build bridges of mutual trust, at least not of this magnitude. And time was running out for him. The paper’s circulation was dropping.

As I walked through the darkness to my car, I wondered what a thawing out between the paper and the department might entail, and how far Katz was willing to go. After all, how much credibility do you give a man under pressure?

The irony of the question—and that I was the one asking it—was not lost on me.

· · ·

Driving slowly down Putney Road, back toward town, the disappointment I’d felt following the intelligence meeting returned in force. Despite what I’d told Stanley, not finding an MO that clearly fit the case was a serious setback. It meant we had nothing to help us differentiate among the growing number of suspects already coming our way. Tyler had gloated over his single strand of red wool and said, “This little baby will place him at the scene.” But it was a precarious boast at best and would be a downright hollow one if we never found a
him 
in the first place.

I was about half a mile from the end of the Putney Road commercial strip, close to where it dips down to the bridge which connects it to one of Brattleboro’s older and more affluent residential neighborhoods, when my portable police radio put out a call to a nearby restaurant for a reported brawl.

I paid little attention to this—it being a natural for a patrol unit—until Dispatch followed the call with an inquiry of my whereabouts. I keyed the mike and answered, “M-80 from O-3; I’m on the Putney Road near the bridge.”

“This one might be of interest to you.”

I took my eyes off the road and glanced quickly at the radio, as if some further explanation might appear in spectral writing. With half the town monitoring our radio conversations—a practice so peculiarly widespread, we referred to our unseen audience as “scannerland”—some of our messages became cryptic to a fault. I therefore knew better than to ask for details and merely responded, “10-4. O-3 is responding.”

The restaurant in question was located right at the edge of the Retreat Meadows. Once a flood plain of fields belonging to a local drug-and-alcohol rehabilitation facility named the Retreat, it was now, thanks to a dam farther down the Connecticut River, a scenic, lake-like pocket that marked the confluence of the Connecticut and the West Rivers. The restaurant’s broad veranda had become an idyllic platform for watching canoeists, fishermen, and outboard-motor enthusiasts in summertime, and ice fishermen and skaters during the winter months.