Occam's Razor (24 page)

“Your dad beating your mom?”

He smiled again, this time sadly. “He told you about that? I’m surprised. He usually writes it off as no big deal. I bet he didn’t tell you how it ended. Brian beat the crap out of him one night, and that was that. Dad split to find a different punching bag.”

“How did Billy fit into all this?”

Tim stared into the dark pool at the bottom of his own mug. “I always thought he and Robbie were the real victims—too young to defend themselves, too old to be oblivious like me. Bri and I were the lucky ones.”

“It was Robbie who died in Boston?”

He looked up at me sharply. “OD’d in Boston. Yeah. I had a nightmare once where I saw my mother and father swinging Robbie by his hands and feet and then throwing him onto an enormous needle—big as a spike—at the bottom of a ditch, skewering him like a butterfly to a corkboard. I didn’t need a shrink to explain that one to me.”

“But Billy stayed in town.”

“Yeah. His reaction was a little more complicated. He wanted to be a tough guy like Brian, but it didn’t come naturally. You could call his bluff pretty easily. For a while, all he did was hang out with younger kids—he could dominate them. But I guess that didn’t do it for him, ’cause later it was just the opposite. He’d spend all his time with older jerks who pretended they were God’s gift to cool.”

“Like who?”

He glanced around the room vaguely. “Oh, I don’t know. Jamie Good, Walter Freund, people like that.”

Both names had been mentioned by Janice Litchfield in connection with Brenda Croteau. The bridges between the Resnick homicide and Brenda’s were multiplying. “He hang around with Dwayne Matthews?” I asked, figuring I’d start with Croteau’s boyfriend.

But I drew a blank. “Who?”

“Janice Litchfield?”

“Oh, sure. He knew Janice. Everyone knows her. That wasn’t anything special, though. They were just friends.”

“Owen Tharp?”

His eyes widened at a name that was now headline news. “Owen? Is that what this was all about? Billy got killed because of Owen?”

I shook my head emphatically. “I didn’t say that. Owen comes from that circle—so did your brother. I just wondered if they knew each other.”

“Sure, they did. Owen was one of the younger kids Billy liked to push around.”

“Sounds like everyone pushed him around.”

Tim Conyer suddenly became pensive. “Yeah. He used to remind me of Robbie that way, sometimes—everybody’s punching bag, including his own.” He looked at me quizzically. “That’s what makes his killing that woman so weird. I never would’ve thought Owen had that in him.”

“Witnesses said he’d lash out sometimes—violently.”

Conyer nodded. “I suppose so. I saw it, too. But that was like when my brothers and I were kids. We’d slug it out—sometimes pretty good, too—but there was always a limit.”

I finished my coffee. “Tim, we have evidence Billy was involved in the killing of that man on the railroad tracks a while back. That’s why we went to see him last night—and why we think he decided to shoot it out. Do you know anything that might explain that? Did he talk recently about some money coming his way, or landing a big score, or maybe making some new friends?”

Tim was already shaking his head. “No. He was excited about something, but he never told me what it was. He probably knew I’d give him flak about it. I used to tell him he was headed for trouble, not that he ever listened.”

“How ’bout this last crowd of his—Good and the others? Any of them likely candidates for the railroad tracks killing? There might’ve been three people in on that.”

He looked at me helplessly. “Maybe. I don’t know. I have a hard time thinking of anybody killing somebody else. Billy’s friends aren’t nice people, but I always saw them more as show-offs, not killers.”

· · ·

That night, as if by unspoken arrangement, Gail and I were at home at close to a normal hour. We set about making dinner as usual, dividing the labor, where I sliced and diced and she did arcane things at the stove. At first we spoke tentatively, generally touching on the day’s activities, acting as if this were a first date and we two people only vaguely acquainted. There was an oddly competitive feeling about it, as if each of us were daring the other to open an intriguing but ominous package placed between us.

“Gail,” I finally began, “I know some of this is probably just in my head. Maybe it’s a midlife crisis or something.”

We had finally settled down at the small breakfast table in the kitchen, in front of a meal neither one of us had the appetite to eat.

“Midlife crises don’t happen to two people simultaneously,” she argued. “This isn’t just your problem.”

I waved an empty fork at the roof over our heads. “Is it this? Living together? We were doing pretty well before.”

Her smile was forlorn. “Moving in together wasn’t what changed things, Joe.”

I was irritated she thought I’d belittle what she’d been through. “I know that. But it’s something we can do something about. I can’t take back the rape.”

Now she looked angry. “The rape isn’t yours to do
anything
about. It just happened. It wasn’t preventable. But it did happen to me. It affected both of us—I know that—and it cost you, too. But it cost me more.”

I replaced the fork carefully, struggling to choose correctly from a tangle of emotional options. “I’m not trying to take ownership of it, Gail. Or play it down. I just meant there has to be a way for us to move onwards—as a couple. It was a life-altering thing, but I don’t see why it has to destroy how we feel about each other.”

“Was it the rape that started you feeling differently?” she asked, still suspicious.

I knew most of my choices were charged with harm and hurt. We were like two glasses, filled to the brim, balancing on an unsteady tray held between the both of us.

“It was the rape,” I began slowly, “that changed the course of your life. I’d gotten used to the ways things were, and I had trouble keeping pace with the new direction you were taking.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but I held up my hand, suddenly clear on what I wanted to say. “Please, hang on. There’s no fault implied there. I was amazed at how you rallied—I still am. And even more amazed at how you grew from an event that’s ended other women’s lives. In fact, it made me feel like I was standing still in the middle of some road, while you were making tracks like there was no tomorrow. Your rebirth, if you want to call it that, left me wondering what
I
had done lately—stuck in the same job, the same town, the same routine. I began wondering what possible worth I could be to you.”

“Joe,” she began to interrupt, her voice softer, but I stopped her again.

“Let me get this out. I’m not playing for sympathy here. I’m trying to be realistic. For whatever reasons, you’ve been given a second shot at life, and you’re going at it hammer and tongs—as you should. It’s not all that different from before, after all—being a Realtor, a selectman, all those board positions you had—but now there’s an intensity that wasn’t there before. You used to do what you did because life just turned out that way. Now I don’t know if I can keep up with you, or if it’ll be any good if I try.”

One of the things I liked most about Gail was her reluctance to tell people what they wanted to hear. She didn’t say she was sorry when she wasn’t, didn’t offer condolences when she didn’t feel them, and didn’t dole out sentimental soothings just to make an issue go away.

She could have argued against what I’d just said, but I wasn’t surprised she didn’t.

“Does this tie into when the AG threw the book at you?” she asked.

I thought about that for a moment. The year before, I’d been framed by people who’d wanted me out of the way, and a Young Turk from the Attorney General’s office had wasted no time playing into their hands. Only a revelation of the truth and a last-minute pardon from the governor had saved my job. Part of the AG’s reasoning had been that my living with a younger, richer, upwardly mobile woman—with whom I could no longer keep pace—had made me open to corruption. He’d been wrong on the facts, but he’d cut close to the bone emotionally. I had been feeling outdistanced.

“Partly,” I admitted. “One of the reasons we always worked so well together was because we gave each other lots of space. We moved in together because you needed the company—you were wounded. Temporarily. But now that you’re healthy again, I’m feeling a little like the nurse who’s been allowed to stay on just for sentimental reasons. You’re so strong and so motivated and so wrapped up in the things you’re doing, I guess I’ve started to feel a little sorry for myself.”

“And you want your old life back,” she said.

I shook my head. “That’s oversimplifying it. I want to know what
you’re
feeling. I want us to find something that works for both of us. I’m not pretending we can just turn the clock back, and I sure as hell don’t want us to split up. What I used to feel being with you was an inner calm—a sense of completeness. I just want to know if that can be revived.”

There was more welling up inside me—all on the same theme. But I fell silent, knowing that to go on would be either futile or unnecessary—and fearing that I’d said too much already.

Gail got up and circled the small table and pulled me to my feet. She kissed me long and hard, her arms wrapped tightly around me. When she pulled back, her eyes were moist, as were mine, but her voice was recharged with purpose. “I’ll never meet another man like you—ever—and I don’t plan on losing you now. But I don’t want to talk anymore. I want to take you to bed. Okay?”

I nodded and followed her upstairs.

RON FOUND ME THE NEXT MORNING
in the officer’s room, pouring myself a cup of coffee.

He waved a fax at me. “Finally heard back from the Portland court clerk. Five years ago, Jim Reynolds defended Katahdin Trucking on a case of illegal shipping of hazardous materials.”

I took the sheet from him and studied its contents. “I’ll be damned.”

“That give us enough for a
duces tecum
search of his office yet?”

I shook my head. “He’s a defense lawyer—this just proves it. And most of the other things we have, or had, against him still don’t amount to much. Even a judge who hated the guy wouldn’t cut us papers on this. And Derby sure as hell wouldn’t.”

Ron looked disappointed.

“Which only means we’re jumping the gun slightly,” I added to cheer him up. “Find out who in Katahdin was involved. Let’s see if we can form a link between Resnick, Katahdin, and Reynolds. That might give us enough to get through his door.”

I saw the morning paper lying on the kitchenette table amid the debris of several people’s fast-food breakfasts. The headlines were still screaming about the killing of Billy Conyer two nights ago. “I guess they’re having a field day,” I commented between sips of coffee.

Ron followed my glance. “You read it yet? Katz wrote an article about undue force, violence in general, and the irony of our being more part of the problem than part of the solution.”

“Catchy. Sammie in yet? I never got a chance to compare notes with her about Conyer yesterday.”

Ron told me she’d come in early, and I followed him back to our squad room.

Sammie didn’t look good. She was disheveled, had bags under her eyes, and appeared to have gone all night without sleep. I sat next to her desk and asked quietly, “You okay?”

Her answer was almost curt. “Fine. What’d you find out from the Conyer brothers?”

“And good morning to you.”

She sighed irritably. “Andy and I had a fight last night.”

“Gail and I had one the night before.”

She looked at me for a long time and then allowed a half smile. “What a drag, huh?”

“I don’t know. We made up.” I didn’t add to what ambiguous effect.

Her shoulders slumped slightly. “I suppose we will, too. I forgot how hard this junk is.”

“You haven’t had a lot of experience at it, Sam. It does get easier. What happened?”

She hesitated before admitting. “The job got in the way. You know how I was supposed to check into Conyer’s inner circle? Well, Andy cropped up again.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I mean, I know he’s no choirboy. I also know he doesn’t have a record. But he did hang out… I guess I should say he does hang out with some guys who do.”

I smiled to hide my concern. “So do we. What makes this different?”

“One of Conyer’s favorite dives was the Dirty Dollar. Andy’s a regular there. They knew each other, and Andy never fessed up to it. The son of a bitch fired a shot at me, and Andy never admitted he knew him. I had to go to the Dollar, poke around, and find it out for myself. I felt like a total jerk.”

Her pallor gave way to flushed cheeks as she worked herself up. I had no problem imagining the scene at her place last night. “He might’ve been hoping you wouldn’t find out. Did you dig up any criminal ties between him and Conyer?”

“No. As far as I could tell, they just drank together sometimes.”

“Then that’s probably all there was to it. After all, it wouldn’t have changed anything if he had told you he’d known Conyer, right? The guy was already dead. What’s Andy’s take on your job?”

“He doesn’t think much of it, and he sure as hell doesn’t like Kunkle. And from what he told me, I’m about ready to tear Willy a new asshole myself.” She suddenly leaned forward, speaking right into my face. “Andy said Willy’s been checking up on him—talking to neighbors, co-workers, hanging out on his street. I couldn’t believe it. Like everybody I know’s been holding out on me, like I was some fucking retard.”

I put my hand on her shoulder. “Whoa. Take a breather. You know that’s not true. Come on—sit back.”

I pushed her slightly and she settled back in her chair. But her face remained grim.

“Sammie, you checked him out yourself. You just told me so.”

Her mouth tightened.

“Willy thinks more of you than he lets on. You’re probably the one person on the whole squad he considers a friend.”

“Some friend.”

“Yeah, some friend. You fall head over heels for a guy you found at an all-night poker game during a homicide investigation. Wouldn’t you have been concerned if you’d been Willy? You two are partners, for Christ’s sake.”