Occam's Razor (43 page)

He hadn’t had time to fasten his seat belt.

I straightened and turned to Sammie. “Of the three men who killed Phil Resnick, it looks like we’re down to one.”

WE RETURNED TO THE TRACK AFTER THE STATE POLICE
took over the crash site. The evening’s events had been canceled, and thousands of departing spectators were being detoured through various exits, forcing Sean to inch along in a parody of his earlier glory. By the time we got back to where the late models were parked, Danny Mullen was long gone and his crew was tight-lipped about his whereabouts.

I found it a frustrating end to a day that had begun far more hopefully.

In contrast, Sammie seemed curiously upbeat. “Too bad Walter committed dumbicide, but at least now we know who to focus on.”

Since I remembered she’d been on a tear to go after Mark Mullen earlier, she now had me guessing. “Danny or Mark?”

She stared at me. “Danny. You know God-damn well he tucked Walter out of sight ’cause he was on the payroll. No frigging way that’s some kind of fluke.”

I didn’t disagree. “What about his brother?”

“Same thing. They’re in it together. One guy does up-front showboating, the other one breaks legs and raises the money. All we need now is enough to justify a warrant for all his paperwork, and I bet we get him cold.”

I remained silent in the face of her enthusiasm. “You don’t think so?” She challenged me.

I hesitated before answering. “I don’t doubt Danny’s got dirt under his nails, and I don’t doubt Mark wants to be governor. I do wonder how neat and tidy it all is.”

Sammie was dismissive. “But it is neat and tidy. That’s what’s fouled us up from the start—Phil Resnick, Owen Tharp, Brenda Croteau, Walter Freund, Billy Conyer. All of them were like cobwebs hitting us in the face, keeping us from seeing the root cause of it all. If you take it back to the Mullens, it gets real simple.”

I thought back to what was the biggest objection to William of Occam’s famous razor in his day—that if the answer to a problem was arrived at by extracting or excluding all pseudo-explanations, who was to decide which of those was superfluous and which had merit? Might the process not become too simplified and miss a vital truth?

I decided to hold off debate and take advantage of Sammie’s reborn energy to get her to open up a little. “I’m glad you got the bit back in your teeth.”

That caught her by surprise. She looked out the side window at the passing darkness for a while before finally saying, “Yeah, well.”

“I owe you an apology,” I continued. “I think I’m partly to blame for what happened between you and Andy.”

She switched her gaze to me. “How?”

“After I talked to him about hanging out at the Dirty Dollar, drinking with Billy Conyer and the others, I dropped the ball. I knew Brenda used to go there, too. It would’ve been logical to find out if they knew each other—I did ask him, but only in passing. I should’ve checked into it. If I had, it might’ve made things easier for you.”

She merely shrugged. “I doubt it. Any way you look at it, he lied to me. Wouldn’t’ve mattered when I found out.”

“You really loved him.” It wasn’t a question.

“Whatever that is.”

“Don’t be so cynical. It doesn’t make you a sucker because you fell for the wrong guy. Everything in life takes practice, otherwise every teenage hot flash would end up in a lifelong commitment.”

She flared up a little. “I’m not a teenager.”

I kept silent, hoping I’d uncorked things enough that they’d start flowing on their own.

After a pause, she added, “It just felt so right. He was really good company.”

“You sure you were right to dump him?”

She surprised me by sighing tiredly. “Yeah. You know, it’s funny, saying what good company he was. It’s almost like hearing someone else talking. He wasn’t that good company. To tell you straight, he was mostly just terrific in bed. And I was really horny. Sounds pathetic, but that’s what I miss the most right now. I never did have what I see with you and Gail—the deeper stuff.”

I laughed. “Better not go too far with that. We’re looking for a place for me to live right now.”

She stared at me in total amazement. “What?”

I flapped my hand dismissively in the air, “It’s not that big a deal. We’re putting things back to where they were before she was raped. If anything, it’s a sign of restored health. We lived apart all those years because we knew we were probably too independent to share the same roof. Not that it was a bad experience—it was actually kind of nice—but you got to stick your neck out sometimes to make things work. Gail’s strong again, and she needs her space.”

“And you?”

I thought of how poorly words stand in for one’s feelings sometimes. Reducing all that Gail and I were going through to a few snippets of rationalized thinking made it feel trivial and painless, which it definitely was not.

But Sam didn’t need to hear that right now.

“It works for me, too. That house was always a little big for my taste, and it looks like Gail’ll be commuting a lot to Montpelier when she starts up with StayGreen. I think I’d be better off with a small place I can call my own. I’ve been missing my old habits. I like to play music and read. I’ve been thinking of setting up a woodworking shop, like I had when I was a kid.”

Sammie still seemed shocked by what I was admitting.

“You know,” I told her, “sometimes the trick to making a relationship work is realizing you don’t have to see eye-to-eye on everything. You don’t have to like the same things, or keep the same hours, or have the same ambitions. You don’t even have to live in the same house. If you admire and respect and love one another, the rest is just details that can always be worked out. I think a lot of people fall apart because they get tangled up in a skirmish they turn into a major battle.”

“You telling me something here?” she asked a little sharply.

“I doubt it’s anything you don’t already know. You’re an aggressive, type-A perfectionist. That’s good on the job—a bit of a pain sometimes—but you got to learn to shift gears when you’re at home. Didn’t you like staying home when you were with Andy, just putting your feet up and watching TV or whatever?”

She didn’t answer. The hurt she was feeling was eloquent enough.

· · ·

My concern that Sammie was overrating the Mullen brothers—to the exclusion of all others—was eased the next morning when Harriet told me over the intercom that a woman was waiting in the hallway to see me.

I stepped outside to find Sandy Corcoran sitting on the park-style bench we kept there for people awaiting Breathalyzer tests or to settle their parking tickets. She was still rigged out in black—heavy boots, a leather jacket, and several chains looping this way and that—but her demeanor was significantly more civil.

“Hey, Sandy,” I greeted her. “What’s up?”

With a hint of medieval clanking, she reached into one of her pockets and handed me a key. “Belonged to Walter. With him dead, I figured maybe you should have it.”

I held it in my palm. It was obviously to a safe-deposit box. “He give it to you to hold?”

“I guess. He called it his insurance policy and told me to hide it where no one could find it. ’Cept him, of course.”

“You know what it is?”

She shook her head and stood up. “Don’t want to neither.”

With that, she thudded down the hallway.

· · ·

It took some doing finding the bank that owned the key, and even more on Jack Derby’s part to legally fit the key to the lockbox and take hold of its contents. When he did, what we had was a single cassette tape.

Given what we’d all been through so far, it seemed only fair to share the tape’s contents with everyone involved, so the premiere took place in Derby’s conference room, with most of my squad, most of his office—including Gail—and Tony Brandt attending.

J.P. waited until we’d settled down before hitting the play button. Walter Freund’s voice filled the air. “I got him out of the motel, like you said. He’s stashed at a friend’s place.” The other voice was obviously on the far end of the phone line.

“What’s he saying?”

“Same thing—he wants to be taken care of.”

“Or?”

“Or nothing. He wants to be checked out. He’s scared he’ll get cancer or something. He looks like shit. And he’s probably right—that junk rotted his clothes, for Christ’s sake.”

“I don’t care how he looks. I want to know if he’s getting an attitude.”

Walter paused. “He’s not happy.”

“Well, pacify him. I gotta check my options.”

The line went dead. The tape kept rolling.

After a click, Walter said, “I didn’t hear that.”

“What’re you, stupid? I said kill him. We don’t do that, he takes us all down—everyone. The son of a bitch’s been dumping shit for me for years. He knows places, people, the whole operation.”

“Why not just take care of him, like he asks? He doesn’t look like he’s going to last too long anyhow.”

“That’s just the point. If he knows he’s cooked, and we let him out of the bag, he’ll shoot his mouth off. What’s the problem here? You want to go to jail?”

“No, no. I want assurances.”

The other voice exploded. “You fucking peckerhead. We’re talking about killing a man. You want me to write you a note saying it’s okay, so the cops won’t bust your balls? Give me a fucking break.”

“I’m a three-time loser on parole. They don’t need to prove anything to send me away. My PO gets even a whiff of this, I’m toast.”

“You’re toast if you don’t do it, Walter. I’ll see to that.”

There was a long silence. “I still want assurances.”

The sigh at the other end was clearly audible. The voice, when it came back on, sounded like an indulgent father’s. “Tell you what. I’ll do it with you. That satisfy you?”

“It helps. What do we do about the Mob?”

“What Mob?”

“He’s connected. He told me so. Shit, you know that. You hired him.”

“It’s part-time. They won’t give a fuck. He’s not even Italian. He’s like a contract worker. Who cares what he does on his own time?”

“You want to risk that?”

I expected another outburst, but the other man paused instead.

Almost a minute elapsed before he finally said, “We’ll pin it on somebody else.”

“What? Who?”

“Reynolds. You screwed up the break-in. We’ll use this instead. Find out what Reynolds drives and get hold of a look-alike. We’ll get rid of Resnick somewhere public and pin it on Reynolds—sic the cops and the Mob on him both.” He laughed.

Walter sounded genuinely baffled. “I don’t get it.”

“You moron. Just get the car. I’ll come down and put it together for you. In the meantime, make God-damn sure Resnick doesn’t disappear. Can you do that much? Not fuck up? Or is that pushing you too far?”

“Up yours. I done a lot of shit for you. I don’t need to hear this.”

“Fine. Don’t, then. Just sit on Resnick and I’ll be down.”

The tape went quiet. J.P. fast-forwarded it, listened to more silence, repeated the process, and found the rest of it blank.

Everyone in the room sat back. I realized we’d all been unconsciously leaning forward, as if to hear better.

“Cool,” Willy murmured.

“It’s a smoking gun, all right,” Derby agreed, “once we find out who belongs to the other voice.”

“I can tell you that,” Tony said. “I met him once, at a party for his brother. It’s Danny Mullen.”

· · ·

We took our time getting an arrest warrant for Danny Mullen. Working with the state police Bureau of Criminal Investigation, we assembled evidence from the outside in, starting with his whereabouts on the night Resnick died and then securing items like phone records, fingerprints, business documents, and anything else we could think of that might link him to the murder. Included in this bundle was a thumbprint that matched one that Willy Kunkle had found on Billy Conyer’s wad of fresh bills and, more ominously, a work boot whose sole impression was a perfect mate to the subdermal footprint that Bernie Short had discovered under Phil Resnick’s skin during autopsy. In addition, forearmed by a comment made on Walter’s audiotape, we pursued and uncovered evidence of an illegal haz mat trucking operation that Danny had been running for almost fifteen years.

By the time we did put the cuffs on Mullen’s wrists, Jack Derby was confident he had a winnable case on multiple levels—and an all-but-guaranteed victory against James Dunn in the primary.

Not that the fate of a lowly SA could compete with the publicity stirred up by Danny’s jailing. He—and his relation to a gubernatorial candidate—dominated every front page in New England, and in many cases beyond.

This was not solely due to their simply being brothers, although that was bad enough as far as Mark Mullen’s political handlers were concerned. Far worse was the revelation by one of Danny’s nervous employees that as we’d been assembling facts against Danny, he’d burned a box of documents labeled with Mark’s name—not a good sign in a man claiming that the sole tie between himself and the speaker was familial.

Unfortunately, there was little we could do about this report after the fact. As far as we could prove, Danny had ordered and participated in the killing of Phil Resnick without the knowledge or complicity of his brother.

The press did not suffer such constraints. To them, Danny’s actions were so obviously linked to his brother’s political ambitions as to make the truth of the connection a foregone conclusion—proof or no proof. As a result, as Primary Day loomed near, Mark Mullen’s previously assured victory—even given his humiliation of Jim Reynolds over the law enforcement bill—began to look weak in the knees. Reynolds, for his part, simply kept to the high ground he’d staked out with his speech following the conference committee. It was a little hard watching him act the martyred saint, but I couldn’t help enjoying the irony of the situation. Reynolds had started his run for governor on the murdered bodies of innocent children and was now regaining momentum on the corpse of a Mob-connected truck driver—all while standing like a hero amid the ruins of a bill that had never stood a chance from the start. As one editorial put it, the man had achieved nothing and was about to ride that fact to the state’s top job.