Occam's Razor (47 page)

I gave it all a cursory glance before asking Gail, “You have your cell phone?”

She stared at me. “You going to call someone? Now?”

“Yeah.”

She silently reached into her purse and handed me the phone. As I punched the keypad, I heard the lieutenant governor bang the gavel on the podium.

Ron Klesczewski answered on the second ring. “Ron, It’s Joe. You gotta do something for me.”

“I can’t hear you too well.”

“Too bad. I can’t talk any louder. Check the computer for the name Ellis Hastings.” I spelled it for him.

“What’s the context?” he asked. “Criminal record?”

“I don’t know. You’re going to have to look at everything you got. I think it’s really important, though, so do it fast.”

“No sweat. Where are you?”

“Montpelier. I’m on a cell phone.” I gave him the number.

“Okay. I’ll get right on it.”

Gail looked at me as I hit the disconnect button and kept the phone in my hand. “What’re you doing?” she whispered. In the background, the lieutenant governor was intoning the rules of procedure prior to ordering the vote for the next governor of the state of Vermont.

“I just saw Marcia Wilkin downstairs, in close company with Jim Reynolds. It made me remember something I saw in her house—a name. I think she’s what Reynolds has been cooking up against Mullen this last week.” I pointed a finger at the gallery high and across the cavernous room. “Look.”

Defying conventional decorum, Mark Mullen entered one of the gallery doors, stepped down to the rail overlooking the chamber, and remained standing there—like Caesar overseeing the forum. A small ripple of commentary flowed across the crowd.

The lieutenant governor banged the gavel and instructed the assembled legislators to mark their paper ballots. There is no electronic voting in Vermont—too high-tech. This count was going to be done by hand, on the spot, since only one hundred and eighty votes were being cast.

I glanced anxiously at the phone, increasingly convinced that what I’d tumbled to could directly affect what was happening before my eyes. As if reading my mind, it chirped loudly, causing several people nearby to scowl at me.

“Yeah,” I whispered loudly.

“I can barely hear you,” Ron said, “but here goes. It’s not much. Ellis Hastings died twenty-five years ago, victim of a hit-and-run. They never caught who did it.”

A second general murmur passed around the room. I looked up and saw Jim Reynolds appear at the other gallery door, across the chamber from where Mullen was still standing.

Mullen turned at the commotion, saw Reynolds, and smiled, bowing slightly. Reynolds gestured to the open doorway behind him, and Marcia Wilkin stepped in.

Mullen froze in place. His hand stopped halfway into a dismissive wave, his expression calcified, his smile looking suddenly grotesque.

Across the way, Marcia Wilkin moved to the rail herself, touching it with her fingertips to steady herself, and then slowly, emphatically shook her head twice at Mark Mullen. She then turned on her heel, walked past Reynolds, and vanished through the door she’d entered by. Mullen half collapsed, half sat on the railing, his face ashen.

In the swelling of voices that followed, I spoke more loudly to Ron.

“Where did Hastings die?”

“Route 12, just outside north Montpelier. He was crossing the road at night, apparently looking for a lost cat.”

“Cross-check the date and time of his death. Find me a crime that occurred the same time and in roughly the same vicinity. I’ll hang on.”

The phone to my ear, I watched Mullen wearily signal to one of his cronies, write him a note, and dismiss him. He then rose to his feet like a man of eighty and half stumbled up the few steps to the exit. Moments later, his messenger appeared at the main door to the chamber with the sergeant-at-arms, and they walked down the center aisle toward the startled lieutenant governor. The envoy then delivered the note to the podium and quickly retreated, as if he’d just pulled the pin on a grenade.

Which, in a sense, he had. The lieutenant governor cleared his throat, declared that candidate Mark Mullen had withdrawn from the race, and instructed the assemblage to cast their votes accordingly.

Now it was I who could barely hear Ron on the phone above the bedlam. “Joe?”

“Louder, Ron.”

“A grocery store in East Calais was robbed that night. Nobody was caught.”

“They get away in a car?”

“Yeah.”

“Headed south?”

“Yeah. What the hell’s going on up there? What’s that noise?”

I paused to watch the press people running for the doors. “The end of a career.”

NO OFFICIAL EXPLANATION WAS EVER FORTHCOMING
from Mark Mullen. To all questions about why he had withdrawn from the race, he merely said he wanted to help his brother in his time of need. Marcia Wilkin was never seen again in Montpelier, or in the company of now Governor James Reynolds, and to inquiries concerning her—or her identity—he and his associates responded with uncomprehending silence.

None of which stopped me from dropping by Win Johnston’s home in Putney a few days following the joint assembly. He met me at the door with his characteristic gentle smile, and invited me to share a cup of coffee in his sunny kitchen.

“I had a small private bet with myself about when you’d come by.”

“Who won?”

He laughed and shoved both sugar and milk across the counter at me. “What would you like to know?”

“You free to talk this time?”

“To you? Confidentially? Absolutely. I would have been earlier than this if Mullen hadn’t turned into such a loose cannon.”

“Desperate man, desperate measures, I suppose. Which begs my first question: Did he know of or play a role in his brother’s activities?”

Win looked at me thoughtfully. “I would’ve told you about any actionable crime I’d discovered. I told you that. But basically, I’ve reached the same conclusions you have. I think Danny killed Resnick because he went over some kind of edge. Maybe fraternal competition, maybe he just wanted to show he could make a big decision on his own. We’ll probably never know. As for Mark being aware of Danny’s other illegal activities, I’m sure he was. Danny was Mark’s cash cow, and they had to’ve both been in on it. But they were careful, neat, and organized—until Danny cracked.

“Meaning,” he added as he lifted his mug to his lips, “I don’t have one shred of proof.”

“I’m guessing Mark ripped off the East Calais grocery store twenty-five years ago and then ran over Ellis Hastings during the getaway. Am I right?”

He nodded. “Mark and Danny both, with Marcia in attendance. It started as a dare, according to her, but after the hit-and-run, they were instantly in over their heads. It was a watershed event in several ways. It broke up the romance between Mark and her, cemented the bond between the two brothers, and saddled all three of them with a secret that worked like a cancer on them forever after. From starting out as three teenagers on a lark, they ended that night as three co-conspirators for life. Only this last time, it was Mark who went over the top, fighting too hard to become governor. That’s what forced Marcia to step forward.”

“Why so late in the game?” I asked.

“You should know. She only made up her mind after you had that little chat with her. Ticked me off when I heard about it, given all the time I’d wasted on her. You must have a knack with the ladies.”

“Not likely.”

He shrugged. “Well, you did with her. As long as Mark was speaker, doing good for the state and its people, Marcia could justify keeping silent. The statute of limitations for the hit-and-run had long since passed, Mark was highly regarded, and just between you and me, I don’t think Marcia minded the life of a kept woman, especially since she didn’t have to do anything to earn it.

“But then things went off track. Danny was implicated in the Resnick killing, which Marcia didn’t have a hard time believing, and Mark started obsessing on the governorship. The more driven he became—through the primary and the general election—the more she began to doubt that she should stay silent. Shortly after you dropped by, she supposedly called Mark and pleaded with him to drop out. I guess he really let her have it, calling her a self-serving bloodsucker and all sorts of other stuff. She’s a pretty religious woman, probably as a result of that night, and she took it pretty hard. She did a lot of thinking, tried contacting him several more times—he wouldn’t even talk to her—and finally, stimulated by something you’d said to her, she called me. What you saw under the dome was the end result.”

“So she was ready to spill it all?”

“Yup, and obviously Mark believed her. She’d left him a final message about what she was going to do. He called her bluff and lost.”

“You think this story won’t leak out somehow?” I asked.

“Only you, me, and Marcia know the truth. The deal with Reynolds was that not even he could be told. His job was to appear in the gallery, gesture her in, and benefit from the end result. It was a show of blind faith on his part—and the only rabbit he had in his hat, anyhow. To this day, he has no idea what it was all about, or even who she is, and I’ve told him not to bother digging.”

A long silence fell between us as we each lapsed into reflection.

“Amazing thing, this thirst for power,” I finally said.

“Yeah, and you can bet it’s still alive in Mark. He’ll be starting from scratch, but I’ll guarantee you he’ll be running for something again soon—it just won’t be governor.”

He smiled suddenly. “Rumor has it you’ve gotten ambitious, too.”

I made a face. “Yeah, I suppose so. I’m not real comfortable with it yet. All I’ve done is apply—I still haven’t heard back. But I’m not sure I’m up for a whole new organization, anyhow—new colleagues, new bosses, new routine. I’m feeling like a pretty old dog right now. ‘Nervous’ might be a better word.”

“You’ll be okay. I think it’ll be good for you. I
know
you’ll be good for them.”

It was a nice thing for him to say—typical of the man. But as I drove back to Brattleboro later that afternoon, my doubts lingered on, both about the job and my motivations for wanting it. I had a pretty good idea how VBI officers were going to be treated by every other law enforcement agency in the state. If ambition was in fact what was fueling me, then the flak I fully expected to encounter might end up being categorized as just deserts.

I had cast the die, though, so time would tell. To that degree, things were pleasantly out of my hands.

But I hadn’t forgotten the condition I’d set to Dave Stanton, and while I had no idea what Willy Kunkle might say, I was determined to make him the offer.

The timing had to be right, though, for both of us.

I wasn’t going to approach him at work. That seemed totally inappropriate. And that night, as I fine-tuned my woodworking equipment and honed my collection of chisels, I realized that part of my caution stemmed from the consequences of a possible rejection. If he turned me down, I’d be forced to reconsider my own course of action, and by now, almost guiltily, I was beginning to look forward to the challenge.

Around ten, I gave in, killed the lights, got in my car, and drove across town to Kunkle’s house. It was snowing gently, not too cold, no wind at all—a perfect winter evening. A soft and elegant coat of pure white was draped over everything horizontal, including the tops of all the outermost tree branches. The snow glistened in my headlights as if salted with flakes of mica.

No lights were on at Kunkle’s, which was unusual for a night owl like him, but the surprising explanation was parked in his driveway. Nose-to-nose with his own beaten-up Ford was another car, also covered with snow, making the house look like any other average young couple’s.

The car was Sammie’s.

I drove by without stopping. My conversation could wait, and if this sign was any evidence, it might turn out to be easier than I’d thought.

If you enjoyed
Occam’s Razor
, look for
The Marble Mask
, eleventh in the Joe Gunther series.

“JOE. YOU STILL THERE? TALK TO ME, BUDDY.”

I didn’t open my eyes. It was so dark I felt if I did, more light might fall out than enter, sapping what little energy I had left. I remembered having the same sensation once as a kid, when my brother Leo and I had hidden in one of my father’s grain boxes in the barn, closed the cover over us and shut out all light and air. Lack of oxygen wasn’t the issue, though—we were out of there, pale and laughing too loudly, long before suffocation became a threat. It was darkness that had defeated us—invasive, all absorbing, reaching in through our wide open eyes to extract whatever was keeping us alive. Squeezing my lids shut had been like hanging onto a cliff edge with my fingertips.

Which paradoxically made me wonder if suffocation could be a problem here, entombed as I was. Certainly I felt sleepy, which I’d heard was one of the signs, but then that counted for cold, too, and God knows I was cold.

“Joe? We need to know if you’re still okay. Give us an indicator at least—hit the transmit button a couple of times if you don’t feel like talking.”

I really didn’t. I was talked out—talking to them, talking to myself. I wasn’t even sure where the radio was anymore. I’d shoved it under my coat when I’d pulled my arms out of the sleeves to turn my parka into a thermal straight jacket and better preserve my body heat. Besides, assuming I could find it, I doubted my fingers could operate the damn thing. That was probably why they’d told me to just hit the transmit button—they were guessing I was almost gone.

I thought about that for a moment, which was no mean feat in itself. My mind had been wandering for hours, easily bringing up images of my parents, life on the farm, Leo, times during combat I’d thought were the coldest a man could endure.

Until tonight.

But pondering the here and now was both a challenge and a bore—an impediment to more pleasant things. The vague memory that I hadn’t lost the radio at all, but was still holding it in a numb and senseless hand, barely caused a flicker of concern. I was far too busy leafing through my life’s album, evoking sunny, warm, open places.