Authors: Archer Mayor
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 2002 by Archer Mayor
copyright © 2003 by Archer Mayor
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Cover design and art by Robert Santora
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THE SNIPER’S WIFE
“The unfamiliar setting brings out a new, edge-of-the-knife side of Kunkle’s incisive descriptive powers.”
New York Times Book Review
“The writing is strong, with sharp social observations throughout…. Gunther grows on you from novel to novel.”
Washington Post Book World
“As always in a Mayor novel, the investigation is detailed and authoritative.”
“Mayor keeps getting better with age…. Few writers deliver such well-rounded novels of such consistently high quality.”
Arizona Daily Star
“Here, Mayor does for New York what he has done for Vermont: He takes a longer, more careful look at the odd parts of a city we thought we knew all about.”
“Mayor’s understanding of human behavior makes his tortured protagonist an unforgettable character. His powers of description not confined to Vermont, the author imbues well-known and obscure New York neighborhoods with a sparkling sense of place.”
“One of the best contemporary American mystery writers.”
Providence Sunday Journal
“Mayor, a master of the slow-paced, small-town mystery, proves equally capable here of tightening his grip around the neck of the hard-boiled novel—without losing his feel for the subtlety of human interaction.”
“A must read…. Kunkle is a complex character…. The early police procedural takes off into an action-packed crescendo.”
“Deserves to move [Mayor] onto the A-list of mystery authors…. The plot is flawless, the writing is smooth, and, like all good mysteries, we care about the characters as much as the story…. Mayor has written one of the better mysteries of the year.”
“Strong…a powerful police procedural not so much because of the three seemingly separate parallel investigations but on account of the deep insight into what makes Willy what he is today.”
“One of the sharpest writers of police procedurals.”
Midwest Book Review
“A great storyteller.”
Maine Sunday Telegram
“Lead a cheer for Archer Mayor and his ability not only to understand human relationships, but to convey them to his readers.”
Washington Sunday Times
“Mayor’s major strength is his ability to etch personalities in their settings so that they are as vivid as a video.”
St. Petersburg Times
“Mayor’s strength lies in his dedication to the old-fashioned puzzle, brought to a reasonable conclusion.”
San Jose Mercury News
“Mayor knows how to keep you turning pages.”
“One of Mayor’s strongest points is his detailed knowledge and application of police procedure.”
Southbridge Evening News
Other Books by Archer Mayor
The Marble Mask
The Disposable Man
The Ragman’s Memory
The Dark Root
Fruits of the Poisonous Tree
The Skeleton’s Knee
Scent of Evil
To Bob Maas, for letting me glance
over his shoulder from the front
Seasoned veterans of the Joe Gunther series will note a change of approach in this book, not only with the narrative viewpoint, but with the setting as well.
The Sniper’s Wife
is placed in New York City for the most part. This onetime change of locale is just that—I will not be abandoning the places and people that I and my readers have come to call our own over the years. But I do hope I will be forever exploring new ideas and concepts as I’ve done in the past, and that you will all continue to enjoy the ride.
That having been said, I owe a big debt of thanks to a great many people who helped me get as good a grip on New York and the workings of its police and corrections departments as possible. I hope I have not let them down—a more generous and encouraging group I have rarely met—but if I have, the fault is mine. I have nothing but gratitude to those listed below and to the many others who lent me a hand along the way.
The New York City Police Department, in particular Commissioner (retired) Bernard Kerick; Deputy Chief Joe Reznick; Detective Walter Burnes; Officer Mel Maurice; Sergeant (retired) Bob Maas; and Deputy Chief Jane Perlov (NYPD retired, currently Chief of Police, Raleigh, North Carolina, Police Department).
The New York City Department of Correction, in particular Commander William Fraser; Captain William Burgos; Officer Richard De Jesus; and Officer Edward “Ray” Raymond.
The Portsmouth, New Hampshire, Police Department, in particular Lieutenant Janet Champlin.
The Department of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, in particular Joe Green.
Caroline and Tim Scully
Michael J. and Sandra Lewis Smith
John McDonough, a true “dinosaur” from Massachusetts
To all of you, my deepest appreciation.
illy Kunkle dipped his large right hand into the sink and scooped a splash of warm water onto his face, washing away the last of the shaving soap. He straightened, used the edge of a towel hanging to the right of the mirror to mop his cheeks and chin with the same hand, and studied his reflection in the harsh fluorescent light.
He wasn’t looking for flaws in his shaving. And, God knows, there was no narcissism taking place. Willy was the first to acknowledge his was a purely functional appearance. He had what was necessary: a nose, two eyes, a mouth, none of it particularly remarkable. As far as it went, it was just a face.
And yet he studied it every morning the same way, carefully, warily, especially watching the eyes for any deepening of the intensity which even he found disturbing. Had he seen them on somebody else, they were eyes that would have given him pause—eyes which troubled him all the more that they were his. They were what made of the whole truly something to remember, and although he didn’t know it, they were the one feature almost every-one remembered about his face.
His scrutiny drifted lower, again as usual, to his neck, to his collarbone, and finally to his left shoulder and the useless arm below it. He’d been symmetrical once—at the very least that. Now he was someone who carried an arm as an eccentric might perpetually lug around a heavy stuffed animal.
Except that his burden wasn’t that interesting. It was just an arm, withered, pale, splotchy with poor circulation—something straight out of Dachau but pinned to his otherwise healthy body—put there by a rifle bullet in a police shootout years ago. In fact, the scar marked the dividing line between the alive and the dead of his body the way a ragged and permanent tear identifies where a sleeve has been torn from a shirt.
It did draw attention away from the eyes, though. People overlooked them altogether when describing him as “the cop with one arm.” Which was an advantage, as far as Willy was concerned. He appreciated that a lesser but adequately flamboyant deformity covered for a far more telling one. It suited his personality. And his need. As he’d watched those eyes every morning—those windows into the workings of his head—he’d actually become grateful for the arm. It was his own built-in red herring.
He reached up and turned off the light. Time to go to work.
Winter had passed by at last, even mud season was nearing an end. A year’s worth of weather in Vermont has been called nine months of winter and three more of damned poor sledding, but a quantity of subtleties is lost there. In fact, to those brought up in its midst, Vermont offers as many temperature and mood swings as any moderately complicated marriage, which is also how many natives view their relationship with the state.
Willy Kunkle was not a native. A “flatlander” by birth, transplanted from New York almost twenty years before, he didn’t much care about the local fondness for climatology. It was either hot or cold to him, dry or wet. And discussing it wasn’t going to change anything. Still, this was a very pleasant morning, and despite himself, he enjoyed the almost uncomfortably cold air drifting in through the open car window on his drive downtown.
Willy lived in Brattleboro, Vermont, a topsy-turvy, nineteenth century, postindustrial town of some twelve thousand residents squeezed into the state’s southeast corner, hard by the Connecticut River and straddling three of Interstate 91’s first exits out of Massachusetts.
This was a significant geographical detail. It made of Brattleboro the first taste of small-town Vermont to all those high-speed travelers coming out of the south, which is why a multimillion-dollar, high-tech welcome center had just been erected below Exit 1, and helped explain the town’s financial survival when other historical mementos, like Springfield, Bellows Falls, and Windsor farther north, complete with similarly picturesque redbrick hearts, had faded to become mere economic ghosts of their former selves.
More specific credit for Brattleboro’s stamina came from another unlikely flatlander source: back during the sixties, a small army of disaffected social dropouts, dizzy with blurry images of sylvan splendor and a thirst for isolation, barely crossed the state line to set up communes, natural food restaurants, and back-to-the-earth farms. Eventually, once the spiritual glow had either faded or aged, these erstwhile hippies amended enough of their more doctrinaire enthusiasms to become an integral part of an interestingly quirky, often contentious social fabric.
To the local police, however, Brattleboro’s proximity to New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and the interstate had been slowly transforming the town from what the chamber of commerce called the gateway to Vermont into its doormat, a magnet for all the ills leaking out of the urban south—a cynical and narrow view, no doubt, but allowable given the source.
It also helped explain Willy Kunkle’s presence here.
An ex–New York City patrolman, a Vietnam vet, and a dedicated alcoholic, Willy had ended up in Brattleboro first because he’d needed gas on his way to someplace— anyplace—he hadn’t been to before, perhaps Canada. It hadn’t been love at first sight or like having a revelation, but the double discovery of Brattleboro’s busy downtown and a poster advertising openings at the police department had conspired to make him stay.
He’d begun by walking the streets, shunning patrol cars in exchange for the traditional beat, and had honed a talent for making contacts and connections in those parts of town few upstanding citizens cared to acknowledge. In the process, he’d become the one cop who most reliably could extract information where others came up emptyhanded.
Thus, a serendipitous stop for gas and a job had led to a personal and professional progression he’d tried since to forget. Marching less to his own drummer and more as if on autopilot, Willy went through the standard evolutionary motions, watching himself like a spectator at a private parade. He met a local girl more confused than he, married her without much thought from either one of them, got transferred to the detective bureau in reward for his good work, and began hitting the bottle as never before.
Over a long, slow, agonizing period of years, he became like a gambler, his stake eroding to nothing, fully aware that his chances of winning were nil, but unwilling to change strategies and unable to leave the table. The alcohol abuse and disillusion led to self-loathing and anger, to wife abuse and a preordained divorce. He was crippled by a bullet in the line of duty, transferred off the police force, and came within half a step of joining the people he’d once been paid to arrest.
Then, in defiance of the gravitational pull he should have followed straight to the bottom, and with much the same disappointed bewilderment experienced by a drowner miraculously pulled back from a death finally become soothingly seductive, he was put back on the police payroll, told to fill in the proper paperwork, and accepted as a member of a newly created, statewide investigative agency called the Vermont Bureau of Investigation, with five regional offices, including one in Brattleboro.
Thus encouraged—almost cajoled—he’d gone from the edge of oblivion to getting on the wagon by his own sheer willpower, finding himself romantically involved with a female co-worker, and being regarded as one of the elite in his profession.
A roller-coaster ride of mixed and paradoxical emotions, and a happy, bittersweet end result entirely due— as he saw it in a typically angry dismissal of his own personal efforts—to a man named Joe Gunther.
Willy frowned and sighed heavily at the thought, cresting the top of High Street as it descended to intersect Main downtown, nearby Mount Wantastiquet in neighboring New Hampshire looming over a wall of buildings directly before him like a sleeping giant.
Joe Gunther hung on Willy’s mind almost as much as the dead arm now resting in his lap.
Willy had read somewhere—unless he’d seen it at the movies—that in certain cultures, if you saved someone’s life, that poor bastard was stuck having to return the debt and therefore keep you company until the day he could make good. If ever.
Well, much as he hated to admit it, Willy probably owed his life to Joe Gunther. Joe had been his boss on the police department’s detective squad, had hovered sympathetically when he’d wrestled with booze and the divorce. He’d threatened to invoke the Americans with Disabilities Act and sue the town to get Willy back on the force after his injury. He’d cut him slack time and again, hadn’t taken offense when Willy did his damnedest to give it, and had acted as a go-between when Willy had fallen in love with Sammie Martens—the other detective who’d made the move from the PD to the Bureau. Finally, after the legislature had created the VBI and the commissioner of public safety had tapped Joe as its field force commander, he’d made it clear that he wouldn’t take the job unless Willy’s application was given a fair review, after which he’d persuaded Willy to apply.
Why? Because Joe was a decent guy who acted the same way with everyone, and because, while he might not have been the life of any party, he was like a dog with a bone when it came to doing the right thing.
There were times, lots of times, when Willy raged at this man.
He waited at the stoplight, preparing to turn left up Main. There was a shorter route to the office, but driving through downtown every morning had become a ritual.
The pedestrian walk sign began flashing, accompanied by an obnoxious chirping sound designed to help the blind cross safely. Willy shook his head. Only in Brattleboro, capital city of granola heads, where nothing ever happened without everyone worrying about how everyone else
about it. There was enough hot air in this town to pop the
back to the surface like a cork.
This cynicism belied Willy’s years of service to this community, and his caring for its vital signs the way a doctor would a patient’s every ache and pain.
He drove north, up Main toward the new, modern courthouse, perched on a grassy knoll like a shiny anchored ship, forcing the street to split around it like a current. Across the way, balanced on a second hill, was a complete architectural contrast: the ancient municipal building. A remodeled nineteenth century school, all bricks and spires and wrought-iron knickknacks, it was where Willy used to work as a cop and still did as a special agent, since the VBI had a small office located on the monstrosity’s second floor.
His morning rounds completed, Willy circled the courthouse, cut around the block, and parked in the lot behind the municipal building.
Upstairs, Sammie Martens paused by the window at the end of the central hallway just outside the ladies’ room, holding a pitcher of water intended for the office coffee machine. She saw Willy get out of his car, cross the parking lot, and vanish from view as he entered the building.
She waited to greet him, knowing he’d come straight up, as usual. She preferred seeing him first in private, if possible, especially if they hadn’t spent the previous night together. It helped prepare her for whatever mood he might be in. Dark to middling was the standard she’d grown used to before they’d become intimate, although nowadays, she was happy to note, there was the occasional suggestion that he was lightening up.
She listened in vain for his footsteps coming up the stairs, eventually resting the pitcher on the windowsill. It seemed he’d run into someone in the lobby.
She glanced out the window again, attracted by a sudden movement below, and saw Willy running back to his car, fumbling for his keys.
Surprised, she returned to the office, placed the water beside the coffeemaker, and addressed the older man sitting behind one of the four corner desks.
“Joe, did we just have a call come in? My pager didn’t go off.”
Joe Gunther looked up from what he’d been reading and gave her a thoughtful look before answering. “Not that I know of.”
“I just saw Willy go running back out of the building to his car.”
Her boss sat back in his chair and pursed his lips. “Maybe he forgot something at home.”
She wasn’t convinced. “Maybe. It didn’t look like that. I saw him drive up like usual and waited for him at the top of the stairs for almost five minutes. He never made it.”
Sam was suddenly struck by her own odd choice of words.
Gunther was used to Willy’s ways. In the past, it had usually paid to give him a little leeway, and sometimes much more than a little. Whether Willy was the son Joe had never had or merely possessed by a spirit Joe found perversely irresistible, the bottom line remained that Willy Kunkle was one of the most instinctive police officers Joe had ever worked with, and therefore worth a little more than the usual slack.
“Give him half an hour, Sam. That’ll allow for a round trip home and then some. After that, we can start shaking the bushes. If he’s on to something, the first thing he’ll want is to be left alone.”
Sammie Martens went back to making coffee, unsatisfied and faintly apprehensive.
Exactly one-half hour later, she glanced at Gunther again, who merely caught her eye and nodded without comment. Sammie picked up the phone and called Willy’s house.
There was no answer.
Frustrated, she rose and headed for the door. “I’m going downstairs—see if I can find out what set him off.”
She turned into the radio dispatch area on the first floor and rapped on the bulletproof glass separating the dispatchers from the public. A woman half rose in her seat to peer over the console between them. “Hey, Sam.” Her voice was made metallic by the two-way intercom. “What’s happenin’?”
“I’m looking for Willy. You see him this morning?”
The woman’s expression registered surprise, then confusion. “He didn’t tell you guys?” She gestured to the side. “Come around to the door.”
Sammie moved down the hallway to a locked door that opened almost as soon as she reached it. The dispatcher took her through the patrol officer’s room to an empty office normally used by the PD’s parking enforcement division, calling through the door of her own office as she did so, “Wayne, cover for me a sec, will you?”