Archer Mayor - Bellows Falls

I didn’t doubt for a moment that was one of her own regular habits. “That must make your neighbors happy.”

She ushered me into her apartment, which turned out to be a single enormous, high-ceilinged room, stretching from the Main Street side to a row of windows overlooking the Connecticut River on the other. One of the short walls was covered with full-length mirrors. Placed throughout the vast space, like rest stops along a marathon, were weight machines, stray pieces of furniture, a small kitchenette, and a gathering spot for several rugged looking bicycles. In all, it looked like a cross between a sports equipment warehouse and a teenager’s crash pad. There wasn’t a zip-line in sight.

“Cozy,” I muttered.

She smiled, obviously pleased. “Used to be a ballet school. I love it here.” She steered me over to a pair of mismatched chairs, choosing a stool for herself. “Want some coffee?”

I sat in an armchair. “I’m all coffeed out. I got to go back to Bellows Falls tomorrow on this internal, but I wanted to fly something by you first. Have we heard anything new on Jasper Morgan?”

“Not a word.”

“Did we ever dig deep into his background-have anyone check out his Massachusetts days?”

“We backtracked to when he first used the phony ID on the therapists, but we did that by phone. Nobody actually went down there.”

“Where was there , exactly?”

“Lawrence, I think.”

The same town Anne Murphy thought Bouch had come from.

“Good. Do me a favor, then. Tomorrow, look a little harder into that, and keep an eye peeled for the name Norman Bouch. See if Jasper and Bouch ever crossed paths. Do a triangulation search if nothing pops up. Check out Bouch’s known associates and relatives in Lawrence, and see if any of them show up in Jasper’s background-maybe they had a mutual acquaintance.”

“Who’s Norman Bouch?” she asked.

“The main complainant on the case I’m working in Bellows Falls. But he’s also supposed to be freelancing as a drug dealer. And I found a witness who saw him and Jasper together a few years ago. Maybe Jasper’s sudden rise and fall had something to do with Bouch.”

“Maybe all kinds of things,” Sammie said softly, her skepticism reminding me of Gail’s.

“True, but I don’t like leaving a coincidence like this hanging.”

Sammie didn’t look pleased. “If Bouch is the complainant, that makes him the injured party, right?”

“Supposedly.”

“Won’t it look a little funny, you doing a quote-unquote impartial internal, while you’re having the complainant investigated by another agency?”

She was right, which I only found irritating. “Maybe we could try being discreet for once.”

Not one to be cowed, Sammie merely stared at me and raised an eyebrow.

I wasn’t in the right frame of mind entering my interview with the Bouches. Sammie’s comment of the night before still rankled, as did the sudden reappearance of Jasper Morgan, and biased me against both Norm and Jan Bouch. By forgoing the protocol that an internal investigator should stick with the stated facts and interview the complainants and witnesses first and foremost, I’d made a mess of my own objectivity. Sammie would have disqualified herself from the Bellows Falls case. I was too stubborn for that, which irritated me even more.

Norm Bouch appeared on the other side of his screen door after I knocked, his mouth smiling and his eyes watchful. “You the guy who called?”

“That’s right. Lieutenant Joe Gunther.”

His eyes were those of an intelligent man-focused and analytical-but the rest of his face spoke only of the menace I’d seen reflected in the small boy’s face who’d had his ball deflated. My instinctive dislike of Norman Bouch was probably triggered by the same characteristic that made other people turn toward him-his self-assurance was as palpable as the shirt on his back. But my guess was it was the cruelty I’d seen in action that fueled it-and that was a motivator I’d never been able to tolerate.

He pushed the door open but didn’t invite me in. “You with the PD?”

“Not this one. I work in Brattleboro. I’ve been asked to look into the allegations against Officer Padget to avoid any possible conflicts of interest.”

Seemingly relieved by this, the smile widened, and Bouch stepped aside. “Come in. You know Padget?”

“We’ve never met, no. Is Mrs. Bouch around?”

“Yeah, sure. Follow me.”

He led me through a series of rooms in total tumult-clothes and toys on the floor, cheap furniture pushed helter-skelter, bare sheetrock walls with holes in them. There was an odor throughout of cat litter, stale sweat, and old food. I had been in more homes like this than I could possibly count.

We headed toward a crescendo of young screaming voices and finally entered a kitchen where a woman was standing surrounded by five children, all clamoring for a box of doughnuts she was holding above her head. The kitchen table was strewn with dirty dishes, spilled milk, and scattered clots of soft, indistinguishable food. The remains of breakfast cereal crunched underfoot.

“For Christ’s sake,” Norm muttered. Wading into the fray, he snatched the box from his wife’s hands, walked to the back door, and threw it out into the yard. The kids vanished in a stampede, leaving silence and wreckage behind. Jan Bouch stayed rooted in place, her hand still held high, as if baffled by what had happened.

Norm returned and steered her toward one of the chairs near the table in the room’s center. “Sit down-the man’s got some questions.” His manner toward her wasn’t brutal or threatening-it had the same condescending gentility I might have used on a pet dog.

Jan Bouch had a lean, tired face framed in lank, unwashed blond hair. She looked much older than her eighteen years. Her movements were doll-like, her reactions slow and mechanical, and her eyes seemed unfocused. I had serious doubts her own breakfast had been chemical-free.

“Mr. Bouch,” I began, “I wonder if I might talk to your wife alone to begin with.”

She looked up at him, seeking guidance. He merely shook his head, the protective man of the family. “No. You got questions, you ask both of us.” He then cracked a broad smile, reminding me of the genial good-ol’-boy I’d been hearing about. “But no need to be uncomfortable. Take a seat. You want some coffee?”

I turned down the coffee, but I couldn’t argue about his presence. I pulled out a seat, wiped the milk off it with a stray napkin, and sat opposite Jan. I placed the recorder on the table between us.

“What’s that?” Norm asked, his voice flattening. “You tapin’ this?”

“Just so there’re no misunderstandings. We want everything aboveboard.”

He sat close to his wife, who immediately slipped her arm through his, a gesture he ignored. “Okay-that’s fair by me.”

“Mrs. Bouch,” I asked, “would you tell me in your own words the grievance you have against Officer Padget?”

Jan Bouch kept her eyes glued to the tabletop. “He’s been bothering me.”

“In what way?”

“He follows me when I go out, stares at me… ” Her voice trailed off.

“Would you say he’s stalking you?”

A small furrow appeared between her eyes. “I guess so.”

“Why do the allegations specify sexual harassment?”

“He is harassing me.”

“He’s been telling her to dump me,” Norm said sorrowfully. “Telling her she’s wasting her talents. That she’s got great tits, and that he’d really know how to give her a good time.”

I kept my eyes on Jan as he spoke. She looked like she was experiencing a physical pain, deep down. “When did he say this to you-exactly.”