Archer Mayor - Fruits of the Poisonous Tree

Brandt had his hands in his jacket pocket, fidgeting with his pipe. I knew he was dying to fire it up, something he never did at one of Tyler’s scenes, for fear of leaving a shred of tobacco behind. He was obviously getting restless as a result. “Okay, then. We’ll get out of your hair.”

He turned on his heel and was about to work his way down the long staircase, with me behind him, when Tyler stopped us with a question: “You going to talk to her again soon?”

I answered. “We’ll try to-kind of depends on her. Why?”

“It’s a gut reaction so far, but I’d say the guy knew her-well enough that she’d recognize him if she’s given the chance.”

I nodded and went after Brandt, reflecting wistfully that no one in that room, including myself, had referred to Gail by name.

We found Todd Lefevre outside on the deck, chatting with the patrolman on guard. Lefevre’s was an unusual-and highly envied-job. A law-enforcement officer, he belonged to no department. His only boss was the State’s Attorney, and his jurisdiction extended as far as the SA’s. Lefevre could run his own investigations, delegate them to other officers, or cooperate as he was doing here. He worked with sheriffs, municipal departments, the state police, or any relevant federal agency, and could, if the job required it and the money was available, travel anywhere outside Vermont’s borders to do what he had to do. The only downside was that he existed on the SA’s say-so, and on the state legislature’s willingness to fund his position, both of which definitely blunted the appeal. Not only was James Dunn a weak excuse for a human being, but from a one-time high of eleven state investigators, there were now only three full-timers left.

Chances were good Windham County would be allowed to keep one of those, but for the first time in his career, all bets were off concerning Dunn’s future-and therefore Todd’s-at the polls. Dunn’s opponent, Jack Derby, was as low-key and appealing as the State’s Attorney was not, and he seemed to have all of Dunn’s ability, judging from a very respectable twenty-year career as a trial lawyer. Dunn’s acknowledgment of his own vulnerability was highlighted by a sudden newfound interest in popular opinion, complete with awkward appearances at Rotary lunches and Red Cross fundraisers.

Todd didn’t seem concerned by any of it, however, remaining as affable and easygoing as always, and he greeted us with none of the election-time heartburn I knew a major case like this ignited in his boss. Perhaps the prospect of Todd’s own potential unemployment was offset by a secret enjoyment in finally seeing “the gargoyle” sweat. In any case, I knew he was too discreet to tip his hand either way.

“Tyler working his magic?” he asked as we joined him.

Brandt nodded, crossing to the railing. “Yeah, with Ron. How’s Dennis doing?”

Lefevre chuckled. “He’s got ’em organized like a bunch of Boy Scouts on parade.”

Almost cut off from view by the far corner of the building, we could see a long line of patrolmen, traffic officers, auxiliary members, and even a few borrowed state troopers marching slowly across the field under the supervision of Dennis DeFlorio, the detective squad’s weakest link. A good-ol’-boy with a limited imagination, and ambition only for his pension, Dennis was never good enough to give me hope, or poor enough to give me cause to replace him. He did, however, have an unflagging sense of humor, never pretended he was better than we knew him to be, and always did what was asked of him. I was confident that if something could be found out in that field, he would probably come up with it.

“Where’re Sammie and Willy?” Lefevre asked conversationally.

I turned away from the distant search line and looked at him. We had worked together before, and with pleasure. For years he’d been both the liaison to Dunn’s office and the man who inherited our cases after arraignment, when the SA officially took over control. But things would be different this time. Without having discussed it with Brandt, I knew Todd would be nearby from the start-the price Dunn was exacting from Tony for allowing me on this case.

I smiled and accounted for the two missing members of my squad. “On the street, squeezing their snitches.”

He nodded. Brandt had hitched one leg up onto the railing and was stuffing his beloved pipe with tobacco, glancing at the two of us without a word.

“So what’s next?” Todd asked.

I appreciated his courtesy, granting me the illusion of leadership, but I waved a hand toward Tony. “I would guess a door-to-door inquiry’s being made right now.”

Brandt nodded, his cheeks puffing eagerly behind a balloon of smoke. “Then I guess it’s time to talk to Gail,” I quietly conceded.

Brattleboro is an unusually mixed bag of a town. An icon of the previous century’s industrial might, it has an imposing downtown of stolid red-brick buildings, a few obligatory tree-lined neighborhoods of impressive Victorian showpieces, and a vast number of standard, modest, updated nineteenth-century homes-in good or poor shape depending on the locale. The whole thing rests on a broken-backed, topsy-turvy, creek- and river-creased patch of land, and looks like some oversized historical plaster diorama that’s been dropped by mistake and abandoned. Its few modern touches-a Dunkin’ Donuts right at its heart, and a dreary commercial strip heading north out of town-barely make an impression. It remains a town that the architectural ravages of the optimistic, taste-free fifties and sixties essentially bypassed.

Sprinkled throughout, however, just off the well-traveled thoroughfares, Brattleboro has a contrasting scattering of neighborhoods unique unto themselves. They are poor or middle-class or shyly redolent of old money, but they all share a separateness from the whole, as if, during the town’s early evolution, hidden genetic strains of other far-distant communities were subversively introduced.

One of these enclaves clusters around the Chestnut Hill Reservoir-a football-field-sized, cement-lined pond with a potentially commanding view of the town in three directions. Curiously, the potential is all that’s there, since the surrounding trees have been allowed to slowly shut out the urban scenery, leaving only glimpses of what might be available. In the same vein, the standard trappings of an exclusive, remote, dead-end block have all been dressed down. The houses are muted to dullness, the street and lawns nondescript, and the reservoir itself, historically the town’s first private water supply, is almost ugly-concrete-wrapped and encircled by a rusty chain-link fence.

It was overlooking this dark, brooding, cold slab of water that Susan Raffner had her home, and it was there that Lefevre, Brandt, and I, in two separate cars, negotiated the narrow, potholed street-twisting up like an urban goat path-in order to speak with Gail.

The uncharacteristically chilly weather set the mood of the place-the low, gray sky leaching down into the tentacles of the trees all around. The foliage was still green and full, but in this light it all looked somber and cold; and our breath collected in vaporous clouds about our heads as we emerged from the warm cocoons of our cars.

Raffner’s house fit the tone set by its neighbors-large, dark, shingle-sided and unimposing-and like them, it murmured comfortably of a hundred and fifty years of generations spinning away through endless successive life cycles. It was through the echoes of those embracing ghosts that we made our way across the frost-dappled lawn, up the porch steps, and to the front door. It was still early, not even eight o’clock.

Raffner answered the doorbell, her face poised between suspicion and hope. “You catch him?”