The Ragman's Memory (31 page)

It wasn’t textbook logic, but it worked for me. “What’s her name?”

“Ginny Levasseur.”

“How could they be cooking the books?”

They looked at each other and shrugged. Nicole said, “There’s tons of ways to rip things off. Trucks come in here all day with stuff. There’re bills of lading and invoices and whatever, but it’s all paper. I mean, nobody actually climbs onto the trucks and counts to make sure every item’s on board that’s supposed to be.”

“And then it sits here forever,” Nancy added. “The guard’s a joke. Almost everybody’s got a pickup, and he never checks to see what’s in the back. All they have to do is grab something and throw a tarp over it. I bet they lose a fortune that way.”

“How ’bout someone higher up? Like one of the supervisors or the clerk of the works?” I pressed them.

But I could tell before they shook their heads that I’d gotten all they could give me. “Is that what you’re looking at him for?” Nicole asked. “Ripping off stuff?”

This time, I opted for caution. “I wish I could tell you. I want to thank you for your help, though. I need all the information I can get.”

“Well,” Nancy reiterated as they walked away, “I’d go after Ginny Levasseur.”

Nicole gave her friend a scolding nudge with her elbow, but it sounded like good advice.

· · ·

I radioed Dispatch from the patrol car that picked me up and asked them to have Ron Klesczewski meet me at the office. He’d been looking into what Tom Chambers was holding over Ned Fallows. But as important as that could be, I felt spurred by this morning’s discoveries to redirect him to better use.

He met me in the Municipal Building’s central hallway a quarter-hour later. “If you still have nothing on Fallows,” I began, “I think I’ve found something with more meat on it. Adele Sawyer was Paul Hennessy’s aunt. When I spoke to him just now, he reacted all wrong. A couple of on-site bookkeepers told me afterward he’s rumored to be ripping off the company and has a girlfriend in Payables at the head office. It may all be bullshit, but I put a bee up his nose about our being suspicious of him, and Sol’s watching him to see if he makes any sudden moves.”

“You think he killed his aunt?”

“Not really, but he fell on his alibi like it was a long-lost puppy, so he might’ve known when she was being killed. He’s connected to it all somehow, and I’m guessing he’s the weak link we need. We have to squeeze him hard enough to make him act. The girlfriend’s name is Ginny Levasseur. Find out what you can about her, too.”

Back in my office, I reached for the phone. It was early yet, and I hoped I could catch the Skyview’s attending psychiatrist, Dr. Andrews, before his workday took hold of him. Encouraged by my conversation with Hennessy, I wanted to find out if Bernie
had
seen something that might have traumatized him—and whether or not I could find out what it had been.

I was doubly lucky. Not only did Dr. Andrews answer his own phone, having just come into the office, but he exhibited none of the vagueness about Bernie that Harry the orderly had claimed he might.

“Wonderful guy,” said Andrews. “Full of stories. And a fascinating case. In my own experience he’s the only post-traumatic stress disorder to exhibit such deep-seated symptoms. Usually, they’re either transient or episodic in nature, although they can last for years at a stretch, especially if untreated, but Bernie seems permanently afflicted. He may have an element of what’s called Korsakoff’s syndrome, which is a classic alcohol-induced memory-loss phenomenon. It would exacerbate the PTSD and may explain why he can’t remember much after the early fifties.”

“Everything since then is blocked?”

“Well, no. That’s why I said he had an element of Korsakoff’s. There are times he appears more lucid, when I’ve noticed he assimilates current events into his dialogue. The problem is, I can never be absolutely sure of that. Nursing home life is bland, repetitive, and predictable, which is good—but it makes some forms of clinical observation a little difficult. I often wish I had the time and resources to put Bernie into an environment where I could really study him. As it is, I have a catch-as-catch-can relationship with him.”

“Have you seen him since the murder?” I asked.

“No. I haven’t had the time—typical, I’m afraid. I heard he was very worked up following the event.”

“Do you think he could’ve seen the murder take place?” I asked hopefully.

There was a long, thoughtful silence at the other end of the line. I expected a speech about the difficulties and dangers of assuming too much from a couple of brief encounters, but he surprised me by admitting, “That’s quite possible. His attack on the other resident may well have been an acting out of the event. I also heard that he’s been expressing himself exclusively through his warrior persona, which might be another indicator that he witnessed something violent.”

“How could I get him to talk? I need a description of whoever killed her.”

His response was cautious. “Lieutenant, this man will not be the kind of witness you’re used to. If I were you, I wouldn’t pin too much hope on getting anything useful out of him, assuming he even saw what you hope he did.”

“I realize that. But right now I have nothing.”

“Well, I wouldn’t look to Bernie for your salvation. For one thing, I can pretty much guarantee you won’t get any verbal description. I have a theory—largely unfounded, by the way—that in some cases, one’s abilities fade in the reverse order in which they were learned as an infant. Thus, the verbal skills in a patient like this would be among the least reliable. He talks a mile a minute—that’s not what I mean—but he doesn’t make much sense anymore. Just as a baby’s first words are haphazard and often erroneously linked to what it’s trying to describe.”

“So what’s that leave me?” I asked.

“Well, some of the earliest senses are touch and sound. Another is the bonding reflex. I know that Bernie was terribly attached to his daughter, and that he has an affinity for young-looking slender women with long dark hair—the way his daughter looked when he last saw her lucidly. I’ve noticed he’s more relaxed among people fitting that description. Music can be helpful also, as can the touch of a docile animal, like an older cat or dog.

“What I’m saying is that if you can get him sensorially anesthetized, he might be able to express some of what he saw. But it’s liable to be very vague, assuming it surfaces at all, and it may demand a good deal of time.”

“Is there any harm in giving it a try?”

“I can’t imagine any harm, but if he’s never met you, there’s likely to be a barrier neither one of you could overcome in a single encounter.”

“
You
could though,” I said flatly, “especially if I supplied the woman, the cat, and some music.”

He burst out laughing. “You certainly make it sound easy—a Shake-’n-Bake therapy session. All right, I’m willing to give it a try, but I’ll have to think about the approach a bit, visit Bernie myself, and call you back on the timing. Is that acceptable?”

“Absolutely.”

“There is one thing I’d recommend in the meantime,” he added. “If you do have a specific woman in mind, have her meet him several times before the session, and have her bring the animal. The prior exposure will be important, and while he may not remember the woman from one meeting to the next, he might recall the animal.”

“Okay,” I said, “you got it. I’ll wait to hear from you.” I hung up smiling, imagining Gail’s reaction.

· · ·

Unfortunately, my good humor was short-lived. Moments later, the intercom buzzed, and Tony Brandt’s voice came over the speaker. “You better get over here, Joe. We’ve got problems.”

With memories still fresh in my mind of the earlier meeting with NeverTom, Wilson, and Nadeau, I crossed the hallway to Tony’s office with no small feeling of dread.

But although Tony was alone in his office, his expression was still grim as he waved a letter in the air. “Tom Chambers’s lawyer just sent me this, stating that unless we bring formal charges against his client, he’s going to sue the PD.”

I took a seat, depressed by how fast our stab at discretion had gone for nil. “For what?”

“That’s been left purposefully vague, but it obviously has to do with our current inquiries. What’s our status there?”

“Sammie got a subpoena this morning to grab all of Eddy Knox’s papers. She was hoping to pull him in this afternoon for the initial interrogation.”

“Does she think he’ll give us NeverTom?”

“I haven’t talked to her today. But if Tom Chambers is kicking up dust already, it sounds like Knox caught wind of what’s going on and went straight to him for help. Either that, or NeverTom heard through his own sources that we’ve been checking him out.” I pointed at the letter. “Maybe that’s a good sign. Why would NeverTom care about the smoke if there wasn’t any fire?”

“Possibly because he’s a mean-hearted son of a bitch. If he knows he’s innocent, this is a perfect opportunity to prove we’re out to drag him through the mud. And he’ll be able to pull in both Wilson and Gary Nadeau as witnesses to how uncooperative we were just a few days ago. I told you then he had something up his sleeve.”

I leaned forward and picked up the letter, scanning its contents quickly. “Does this affect our investigation?”

Tony shook his head. “It’s just a threat so far, and a bogus one at that—you can’t sue a department for making inquiries. He’s just trying to put us on the defensive. He probably also has more than a few indiscretions he doesn’t want us digging up by accident. I just wanted you to know we got his dander up. This is most likely just the opening shot, by the way. He’s perfectly capable of calling another press conference and railing at us in public. He’d have little to lose, guilty or not.”

I got up, nodding. “Okay. Thanks, Tony—keep me posted.”

· · ·

Back at my office, however, NeverTom’s attempt at a preemptive strike against us kept preying on my mind, and gave birth to an idea of how to both feed him some of his own medicine, and help us look into his and his brother’s financial dealings. It flew in the face of my professional instincts, and I was pretty sure that if Jack Derby found out about it, it could possibly cost me my job. But I still couldn’t shake its appeal. I picked up the phone and dialed Gail for consultation.

“You alone?” I asked once I had her on the line.

“What’re you offering, a little phone sex?”

I laughed. “Let me run something by you first.”

“That doesn’t sound like half as much fun. Go ahead—I’m alone for the moment.”

“NeverTom’s sicced his lawyer on us, threatening to sue because we’re digging into his affairs. I know it’s all hot air, but it got me wondering. What if I pull a Deep Throat with Stan Katz? Leak him a little inside information on Tom, get the
Reformer
to do some of our legwork for us, and throw a bit of Tom’s shit back in his face all at the same time?”

There was a long pause before she answered. “Why do you need to do that?”

“Because NeverTom is well connected, rich, and not tied down by rules or bureaucracy. We’re understaffed, in the dark, and handcuffed by regulations—most of them designed to stop us from doing our job. If I could get Katz fired up enough, it might give us a crucial advantage in finding out what’s going on. I know he’d protect my identity, and now that the paper’s employee-owned, he’s got no outside bosses to tell him what to do.”

There was another long silence before she said, “You want my honest opinion? I think NeverTom Chambers has gotten under your skin, and you’re going to make damn sure he takes the rap for something, even if it’s just bad publicity. From what I’ve seen so far, you don’t have a thing on him. Is that still true?”

I admitted as much.

“You might soon, though, with Eddy Knox coming in. And if the bank is implicated, that could involve some federal charges. The PD gets threatened with lawsuits all the time, Joe. But you keep playing by the rules. That’s both the department’s strength and the twenty-pound weight around its neck.”

I made no comment, hearing in her words my own inner debate, and also wondering if she was about to reach the same conclusion I had.

“So now another rich, powerful, arrogant jerk is shooting his mouth off. Only, this time you’re thinking, ‘What the hell? A few suggestions in the right place, and I can watch the fur fly without getting damaged, and maybe pick up a few insights along the way.’ Is that about it? You feeling like rebelling against a lifetime of traditional rectitude?”

I started laughing. “Yeah—that’s close enough.”

She joined me for a few seconds, took a breath, and then said, “I say, ‘Go for it.’ If ever there was a guy worth breaking a rule or two to get, it’s NeverTom.”

She hung up before I could ask her if she knew of anyone with an old cat.

SHEILA KELLY AND J.P. TYLER CAME BY
my office later that morning, both hesitating in the doorway as if uncertain about how to proceed.

“You got something?” I asked them, waving them in.

Sheila, as tall and faintly glamorous as J.P. was short and homely, deferred to his seniority. “Yeah,” he said, “we may have found a hook on Thomas Chambers.”

They both sat down.

“I better warn you,” J.P. continued, “this is strictly anecdotal so far. We had to make sure not to do anything that might be thrown out in court later on, so we consulted only public records, and made it clear to everyone we talked to that what we were after was purely informational. I did tape every conversation, though, and had each person sign a release.”

I noticed Sheila fighting to hide a smile, and wondered how many times in the last two days she’d been tempted to wring his compulsive little neck.

“From what we were told,” J.P. went on, “and from what Sheila obtained from the records, it looks like Thomas Chambers influenced Harold Matson—and through him the Bank of Brattleboro—to finance the convention center, although neither Chambers nor his brother had any financial involvement in it at that time.”

“Aside from owning adjacent property,” Sheila added.