Archer Mayor - The Ragman's memory

“Swell,” Derby murmured.

“That’s not what you’re going to tell the press, are you?” asked Gail. For years, she had been a selectman in this town, before a midlife reevaluation-precipitated by a traumatic sexual assault-had led her to revive a twenty-year-old, never-used law degree. That background made her as politically savvy as anyone I knew, a fact Jack Derby hadn’t missed from the moment she’d applied for the six-month clerkship.

I shook my head. “No, no. I’ll play it straight. But I have a bad feeling about this. The gold tooth will probably lead to a dentist, and the X-rays to an identity, but I doubt it’ll end in a whimper. Young people don’t generally wind up dead in a field without some help.”

“Sammie said there was a design on the tooth,” Tony commented.

“Yeah,” I answered slowly. “That is something I’m going to leave out, but I hope it’ll make finding the identity easier.” I leaned far over the table and borrowed Gail’s pad, tearing a back page out of it before giving it back.

“The tooth I found in the tree is the first bicuspid on the right side of the maxilla, or upper jaw, according to Evans. That’s the one right beside the canine, heading back toward the molars. And the gold isn’t a filling. It’s a colored aluminum cap, covering the whole tooth. The design faces outward, it’s been crudely scratched onto the cap’s surface, like with a knife point or something sharp, and it looks kind of like this.”

I held up my quick sketch of a utility pole with two crosstrees stuck into the mathematical symbol for infinity. “Ring a bell with anyone?”

The rest of them either shook their heads or remained silent.

“It looks astrological, but I’ve never seen it before,” Gail said. “I could ask around.”

I slid the piece of paper over to her. “Thanks.”

Jack Derby removed his tortoiseshell half-glasses and rubbed his eyes, looking like a tired college professor after a long day of reading term papers. He blinked at us blearily before asking, “Why not release the design? Wouldn’t that be helpful?”

“Maybe,” Tony Brandt admitted. “But not until we figure out its meaning,” he added with an ironic smile. “We’ve had enough surprises already.”

“The paper and Ted’ll be happy enough without it,” I said. “Especially if we make it look like we’re being open and cooperative.”

The silence greeting that last remark was revealing. We all knew from experience that a distracting cloud of politics, posturing, and publicity would soon be complicating our lives. The truth, and how much and which parts of it were revealed, would become hostage among those who could make the most currency from it-including everyone around this table.

I walked Gail to her car behind the bank building where the SA had his office. The total clearing of the clouds had made the night air so cold it felt brittle, an impression accentuated by the harsh shadows thrown out by the parking lot lights. Gail’s car was a shimmering white under a thick layer of sparkling, crystalline snow. It was now almost ten o’clock.

“You didn’t want to send those samples to Hillstrom instead of the crime lab?” she asked me.

Beverly Hillstrom was the state Medical Examiner, an old and trusted colleague with the persistence of a bloodhound, and the usual first recipient of any corpse-or parts thereof. “It was her choice. The lab’s the only one in Vermont that can do a DNA analysis, and that’s what’s going to give us the most exact information. She said she’d drive down to Waterbury and take a look at the samples before they start chopping them up-kill two birds with one stone. I got the distinct impression neither she nor the lab people were overworked right now. Our good luck-this would’ve taken a week or more otherwise. Now they’re saying they’ll get back to us in forty-eight hours.”

I took Gail’s briefcase while she brushed the snow from her car door with her mittened hand and groped for her key in her purse.

I hefted the bag. “This thing weighs a ton.”

She let out a weary sigh as she fitted the key to the door. “Homework. Between the clerkship, boning up for the exam this February, and a correspondence bar-review course I just started, I feel like I’m drowning in this crap. Tell you one thing-if I do pass the bar and get a job, it’ll feel like a vacation.”

She took the briefcase back from me and tossed it heavily onto the passenger seat, retrieving a combination brush and ice-scraper to clear off her front and rear windows. “You coming home now? We could grab a sandwich before I hit the books.”

I shook my head. “Got to talk to the newsboys. It’s only an hour or so before deadline, and I want to make sure we get our two cents in.”

She smiled tiredly. “Some couple. We saw a hell of a lot more of each other when we lived apart.”

I kissed her cheek. “Things’ll get better. I’ll check in on you when I get home.”

I saw her out of the parking lot before I cut back through the alleyway to Main Street, and began walking toward the spire-bristling, one-hundred-year-old, red-brick Municipal Center where my own office was located.

Despite the arctic cold, it was a beautiful night. The traffic was all but nonexistent, the snow had softened the harsh contours of the century-old industrial-era downtown, and I knew from experience that the usual nocturnal criminal activities would be held in check by the pause that typically followed winter storms.

My own mood didn’t match the surrounding peacefulness. The discovery of stray body parts was the obvious cause, but there was more. I had been a cop in Brattleboro for over thirty years, and while a town of twelve thousand people-albeit swelling to over forty thousand during the day-was hardly the crime capital of New England, I’d seen my fair share of uncivilized behavior.

Too much, perhaps. I thought back to Gail’s face in the harsh light of the parking lot. “Sexual assault” didn’t describe what she’d been through. We’d caught the man responsible, and Gail’s recovery had made her psychologists glow with self-satisfaction, but she’d changed in the process. Not intellectually, nor emotionally, nor even sexually, but she was no longer the same person I’d known before the attack. An intense ability to focus had been subtly upgraded to a quasi-obsessive drive. She was fueled by complex passions now-to be the best at her work, to see justice done, to put a stop to what had happened to her. There was a grim determination in her eyes that made me yearn for the untainted enthusiasm of old.

I knew that much of her original nature would return in time. It was still early-not even a year-and she was probably overloading her plate to dull the lingering fears and insecurities. She’d spent the past few months in South Royalton, at the Vermont Law School, taking an intense refresher course in criminal proceedings. The bar exam was a month and a half away, which meant endless hours of hitting the books. And she’d jumped when she’d heard of the six-month clerkship in Derby’s office.

On top of her therapy sessions… And our moving in together.

I stopped opposite the darkened library and looked back down Main Street stretching out to the south like an abandoned urban canyon, sand-bagged with snowbanks. I’d known Brattleboro all my life, although raised on a farm seventy miles north. It was a vibrant, lively, querulous place-populated by a life-saving mixture of blue-collar and retired hippie-and I’d seen it survive the economic body blows that had decimated other New England towns. But whether it was my years taking their toll, the price I’d seen Gail pay for who and what she was, or the fact that I’d just spent the afternoon watching a teacher turn the discovery of a few body parts into a learning experience for a child, I was feeling a sense of loss and despair.