Occam's Razor (28 page)

“Jesus, Tony—”

“I know, I know. Hold your horses. Do what you’ve got to. Just warn your troops to tread carefully. Derby may be wet behind the ears politically, but it won’t be good for any of us if Owen Tharp’s case gets thrown out of court on some technicality. Remember, if you start asking questions of people who’re planted in both the Resnick and Tharp cases, and one of them blabs something revealing about Tharp, that’s got to be shared, either with Derby or McNeil—if it looks like he could use it.” He slid off the filing cabinet and moved toward the door. “That’s the law. So watch out. That’s all I’m saying.”

I waited until he was gone and then rubbed my face vigorously with my hands, wondering what the hell else could go wrong.

· · ·

As things turned out, I didn’t have to chase down Jim Reynolds to ask him about the night Phil Resnick was murdered. He called me, and he didn’t sound pleased.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I took the phone away from my ear and looked at it, wondering how many other politicians were going to rake me over the coals today. I seriously considered hanging up on him.

“Shouldn’t you be asking Stan Katz that?” I asked instead. I had since read the article in the
Reformer
. It did make for some serious entertainment. Katz had done the writing himself, much to Alice Simms’s irritation, no doubt, and he’d done a good job. It had been suggestive to the very brink of libel, without falling over.

“I’m leaving Katz to my lawyer,” he blustered. “I want to find out what your beef is with me. I know a lot of cops are upset about my bill, but I thought you, of all people, were above this kind of character assassination.”

I almost laughed at the narcissism of it. I was looking into a homicide, and he thought I had an ax to grind over his bill. “Believe me, Senator, I couldn’t care less about what you’re doing up there. You want to get together, though, I’d be happy to oblige. I have some more questions to ask you.”

There was a surprised and wary silence at the other end. “What about?”

“I’d prefer to do it in person.”

Anger crept back into his voice. “Fine. I’ll be at the house tonight. Come at eight.” He hung up before I could answer.

· · ·

Laura Reynolds opened the door, looking less than thrilled to see me. She was polite, though, and took my coat, showed me to the living room, and offered me something to drink. I declined, she happily abandoned me, and I sat alone by a crackling fire, surrounded by tasteful indirect lighting, soft carpeting, and furniture that looked like no child had ever thrown up on it. It was unusually pristine for a house full of kids. Then again, few of my house calls were to places with live-in help and heated garages.

Reynolds let me stew for a while, either testing me or trying to put me in my place. But I was content to enjoy the fire and the comfortable sofa, and spend the night there if necessary.

It wasn’t. He appeared fifteen minutes later, with no apology, and sat in a wingback opposite me, crossing his legs in a commanding manner—the lord of all around him.

“What’ve you got for me now, Lieutenant? My car been seen running people down again?”

“Where were you on the night Resnick died?” I asked bluntly, tiring of the theatrics.

He froze for a split second and then furrowed his brow. “Ah. You found out about that, did you?”

Brilliant, I thought. He’d headed me off at the pass, skipping a denial altogether.
“Where were you?” I repeated.

“At a clandestine political meeting, the nature of which I’d like not to disclose.”

“You won’t necessarily have to, if the other person or people involved can corroborate your being there.”

He tapped his chin with his fingertip and glanced up at the ceiling. “To reveal one would be to reveal the other. I’m afraid that would be too risky, especially given what’s already happened. I am sorry.”

I merely stared at him.

“Lieutenant, I know you told me earlier you couldn’t care less, but what I’m trying to do in Montpelier is to change something running all the way back to the state’s beginnings. That isn’t going to be easy. There are many people who think I’m right, but most of them can’t afford to admit it in public. That means my dealings with them have to take place discreetly, as on the night in question. That was the first such instance, as I’m sure my nosy neighbor told you. But it won’t be the last. Be prepared to hear him report all sorts of midnight sorties, because the back room deal-making has only just begun.”

“What was your relationship with Phil Resnick five years ago, during the Katahdin Trucking case?”

He smiled indulgently, getting on my nerves. “Right. The trip to Maine. My ‘relationship,’ as you call it, consisted of a single interview, during which I asked him about his working for the company. I discovered as a result that he would be playing no part in my defense strategy, and thus I never spoke with him again.”

“You found out he was tied to the Mob.”

Again, he beat me to it. “Correct,” he said simply.

“How was it Katahdin knew to hire you in the first place?”

“I’ve had experience in environmental law,” he said vaguely. “They could have chosen someone else. I never asked.”

“Why was your office broken into?”

“That’s why I hired Win Johnston. So far, I don’t know.”

“You must have suspicions. You don’t hire a private detective if you think some teenager was trying to steal a computer.”

“I’m a lawyer and a politician, and I’m cautious by nature. For all I know, it was a teenager, but I’ve learned not to make assumptions. That, I might add, is something you should learn.”

I stood up. “That’s not what I’m doing. I am trying to find out why you’re under every rock I kick over.”

He waved a hand at me. “If you’re leaving, Lieutenant, please don’t. I’d like to talk some more. Do you mind?”

I considered his offer. I’d gotten nowhere so far and had been about to leave pissed off and disappointed. Maybe, with a little time and flattery, his ego might get the better of him and let something slip. I sat back down.

Now he was Mister Sociability. “I’m sure my wife offered, but won’t you have a drink? A cognac, maybe, or a cup of coffee? I’m going to have a little something.”

“Sure. Coffee’d be fine.”

He rose, moved toward the back, and called out, “Honey, could you rustle up some coffee for the lieutenant?”

There was no response, which didn’t faze him in the slightest. He crossed the room to a large cabinet mounted into the wall and opened a pair of double doors to reveal a full bar. He poured something into an overlarge snifter and regained his seat.

“She shouldn’t be long,” he said soothingly, placing his drink by his side untouched.

He crossed his legs again. “I wanted to thank you for your testimony the other day. You were very good. You’ve obviously thought a great deal about your profession.”

“I’ve been at it a while.”

“That could be said of a lot of deadhead old-timers. You’ve learned the system inside out.” He suddenly laughed. “From both sides, given what that deputy AG tried to pull last year. You’ve made it work for you, and you’re widely respected as a result.”

“It was a governor’s pardon that got me off the hook with the AG. I would’ve been out of a job otherwise.”

He dismissed that. “Nonsense. It was common knowledge that one man used the rules of evidence to go after you for his own selfish interests. I happen to know the AG himself lobbied the governor on your behalf—and he wasn’t alone, either. You’re far more widely regarded than you know or admit. Let me ask you something: Even though it’s still being hammered out in committee, what do you think of my bill?”

“I don’t think it matters.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Too much modesty can have the same effect as too little. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that?”

“No. But I wasn’t being modest anyhow. I don’t think it matters because I don’t think it’ll become law.”

He smiled thinly. “Why not?”

“You’ve taken advantage of some popular momentum due to Amos Melcourt killing those kids. You’ve also been allowed that momentum by people who’re taking their time to stop you dead in your tracks.”

“And who are they?”

Laura Reynolds entered the room bearing a small tray with a cup, some sugar, and a little pitcher of milk. She placed it on the table next to me without comment or eye contact.

“Thank you,” I said.

She glanced up, gave me a small nod, and left as quietly as she’d come. Reynolds acted as if she’d never been there, staring at me throughout, awaiting his answer—a man used to being served.

I fixed my coffee as I spoke. “You name it. You claim you’re thinking in terms of efficiency, the public good, and planning for the future. Almost every cop in uniform thinks of job security. You’re threatening that.”

“That’s not true. The number of police officers won’t necessarily change. Just the way they’re organized. They’ll all be in one department, with their leader ranked at cabinet level, and with the same access to the state budget as any other agency. They’ll have better pay, more benefits, and many more opportunities for advancement and diversity. If tagging moose is your thing, and you used to be stuck in the Burlington PD, in this new organization you can just ask for a transfer to the wildlife unit. Equipment will be first-rate, training will be improved, and the political clout will be as never before. It’s an absolute win-win situation. Occam’s Razor, practically applied.”

I wondered if he was trying to put me in my place. “Occam,” I answered, “was talking about theological philosophy, not employment concerns.”

He made a funny tucked-in gesture with his chin, as if I’d just punched him gently in the chest, which perhaps I had. During my short stint in college, I’d spent most of my time with my nose buried in books—including a few on philosophy and ethics.

I used his surprise to press him further. “Are you saying that part-time deputy sheriff who let Amos Melcourt slip by will have a job?”

A look of irritation crossed his face. “Of course there will be standards to meet. That’s only reasonable. You can’t have any woodchuck who chooses to just sign up.”

“Maybe not, but with the sixty-eight different employment possibilities we have right now, that woodchuck has a better chance of being hired than he would with your single police force. And all the guys who are currently in uniform but who might be just barely hanging on—they’re going to fight you with everything they’ve got. And that’s not even mentioning the pride factor. You really think the Green-and-Gold are going to tolerate being anything else? Being forced to be on a par with someone out of Bellows Falls or Brattleboro or Windsor?”

He shook his head tiredly, obviously bored by the very debate he’d set in motion. “Look, all that really doesn’t matter. The police, no matter who they are, don’t have a strong constituency in the Legislature. Once the public hears the details of the final bill and sees the logic behind it, all that naysaying will be identified as the narrow self-interest it is. The police are essentially a military organization. They’ll do as they’re told.”

“They may be military in appearance,” I pressed him, “but they exist because civilians created them. Selectmen and voters all over this state won’t be too thrilled with having their homegrown, handpicked departments replaced with some top-heavy, faceless state agency, no matter how rational the explanation. Bellows Falls measures a single square mile, and is maybe eight minutes away from one of the larger state police barracks, but year after year they fund their own PD, despite all the statistics that tell them it’s nuts. Local control’s still a big thing here. Why do you think it took Vermont so long just to get 911 adopted? And that looked like a total no-brainer.”

He gave me the indulgent look of a long-suffering parent. “This is not some flash-in-the-pan, election-year notion, Lieutenant, as you know full well. As early as 1990, the Windham Foundation hosted a conference on this topic, and the general consensus from everyone attending—from sheriffs to local cops to the state police—was that this course of action made the most sense in addressing a raft of problems we’ve been saddled with for decades. In fact, that same year, the various agencies in Chittenden County pooled together to form CUSI, with a focus on sexual assault cases, and it’s proven very effective, as has its St. Albans-based counterpart, the Northwest Unit for Special Investigations. Things move slowly, I know, and sometimes it takes a tragedy like what happened up north to give them the push they need, but that doesn’t mean they can’t eventually happen. You just need enough people to believe in the cause.”

I resisted pointing out that while the Windham Foundation meeting he’d mentioned had concluded that policing could be improved using a regional approach—and not a single police agency—everyone in attendance had also agreed that none of them would live long enough to see any of their recommendations become reality.

“In any case, I’d like to make you a proposal,” he continued. “When all this comes to pass, I’d like you to consider a leadership position in this new organization.”

I deflected the offer, which I didn’t see as his to make in any case. “Have you come up with a name for it yet?”

He smiled broadly. “Tentatively, yes. The Agency for Criminal Justice has been kicked around, but that sounds a little flat to me. I prefer the Vermont Bureau of Investigation—VBI for short.”

“Very flashy. Sounds like an army dressed in business suits and barn boots.”

He lifted his snifter in a toast. “You can laugh now, but I’ll see this thing through. To your health.”

I returned the gesture without comment.

· · ·

Gail was reading in bed when I got home. “Where’ve you been? I called the office an hour ago.”

“Having an out-of-body experience with Jim Reynolds. Strangest conversation I’ve had in a long time.”

She smiled sadly. “That’s saying something, given the ones we’ve been having.”

I sat beside her and squeezed her hand. “Those haven’t been strange. They’ve been painful.”