Archer Mayor - Occam's razor

We were both silent for a moment, Ron absorbing what I’d just said, and I embarrassed for running my mouth. I hadn’t realized until then how the Melcourt mess had gotten under my skin. Subconsciously, I adopted Willy’s attitude of simply being thankful it hadn’t been us caught in the limelight. But Ron’s curiosity had forced me to admit that some kind of overhaul was in fact past due.

I glanced out the window at the cold, gray sky, forgetful of Ron still standing awkwardly in the doorway-suddenly aware that another bulwark I counted on for stability was threatening to shift.

That Gail’s gradual evolution would cost me her company was no more assured than that the governor and his pet senator would put an end to my job, but the possibilities were there, palpably close, and they filled me with something akin to fear.

Investigations, even of headline grabbers like a man being hit by a train, proceed at a curiously slow pace. Trained as we are by television and the movies, we expect things to move at breakneck speed and for things like lab reports and forensic analyses to appear on demand.

They don’t.

There are certain things that happen quickly, of course. The scene is thoroughly picked over, all witnesses located and interviewed, all evidence processed and forwarded appropriately. But then-frustratingly-you sometimes have to stop and wait, with all your instincts receptive, like a hunter in the forest outwaiting the game he knows to be standing stock-still nearby.

Such a pause occurred during the two days following our discovery of the bum on the tracks. Matching the chemicals from the abandoned truck to the tox scan being done on his blood was going to take time, as were the variety of tests J.P. had ordered on the odds and ends he’d found at the scene. That we were prepared for. Running “PCH” through the computers at Motor Vehicles and not getting a hit was much more frustrating.

As was searching for anything more about the three men who had dumped the body.

I put Willy in charge of beating the bushes on that one, not only because it was his particular expertise but also because Sammie, for the first time ever, called in sick.

I called her at home as soon as I heard, since along with everyone else I assumed only death could keep her off the job. She did sound terrible on the phone, and told me she’d be out for a couple of days only, but I thought she was a little cagey about the nature of her illness, and I was irritated by her reluctance to see a doctor. Since things were less than frantic at work, however-for the moment-I decided not to pursue it. Considering all she’d given this department, I had little cause for complaint, and God knows she had sick days due. But I was suspicious about what was really going on, especially since Kunkle, after I asked him what he knew about it, gave me an angrier-than-usual brush-off. Issues of privacy notwithstanding, I wasn’t going to give this too much more time before asking for an explanation.

Fortunately, my attention was soon diverted. On the third day, both Tyler and Klesczewski, from different directions, kicked the investigation back into motion.

Tyler appeared at my office first, triumphantly holding a fingerprint card in his hand, which he brandished before me like an award. It was the standard form with ten available slots, one for each fingertip, with only one of the slots filled with the familiar loops and swirls of a print. “I found it,” he proclaimed. “One fresh fingertip. Not a hundred yards from where the body was.”

“Some animal grab it like you thought?”

“Hard to tell. And it’s not guaranteed. Dumb as it sounds, we don’t know for sure if it is John Doe’s, and we definitely don’t know if John Doe ever had his prints taken, or if the one print will be enough to bring a file out of the computer, but it’s better than nothing. I sent the finger itself up to Waterbury for a DNA comparison with the body, so that can be settled at least, and I was about to see what the AFIS computer could do with that.” He gestured at the card he’d placed on my desk.

I returned it to him. “Nice work. You actually been looking for that all this time?”

He smiled, a little embarrassed. “I just couldn’t shake the idea there had to be leftovers somewhere. The people who put him there counted on train wheels being like meat grinders. But they’re also sharp-edged and narrow and kick up a lot of wind as they pass. I was hoping maybe all that energy moved one of the hands slightly. I couldn’t believe nothing was left behind except mush.”

“You did well. Let’s hope it pans out.”

Ron Klesczewski came next, an hour later. “Remember that offline NCIC check I was doing on the truck’s registration?” he asked, not expecting me to answer. “Well, it paid off. A month ago, a state trooper in Connecticut stopped the truck for a broken light. He let the driver go but recorded the plate number and the rest.”

He handed me a typed sheet of paper and kept speaking, “Philip Resnick, New Jersey, DOB 4/8/51. I fed the name into the computer. He’s got priors for grand theft auto in his home state. Also disposing of stolen property, breaking and entering with intent to burgle, consorting with known felons while on probation, and a bunch of recent motor vehicle violations, all related to truck usage.”

“Any of it tied to hazardous materials?” I asked.

“Yup. Two. But no convictions. I haven’t had time to call up the locals for more details.”

“So he’s our guy?”

Ron’s enthusiasm slipped a notch. “Maybe. The truck’s leased, and it’s had more than one driver. I think Resnick was the latest, but the NCIC check also came up with some earlier entries listing other drivers. So I can’t swear to it. Not yet.”

“That’s okay. Let Tyler know. Maybe the name’ll help him find a match to that fingerprint. Still nothing on the PCH partial Ed Renaud claims he saw?”

Ron shook his head. “I’m not sure where to go with that.”

“Try changing the letters-P to B-something like that. I always think D and O look the same from a distance. Maybe Ed was slightly off somewhere.”

Ron nodded and smiled ruefully. “Okay. Guess I’ll find out how patient DMV is.”

I sat back in my chair, feeling good. Things were coming together gradually, logically, and with the curious harmony that touched almost every case eventually. This was the point I enjoyed the most, where I still wasn’t sure where we were headed but could sense the coordinates slowly organizing, like a flight of birds gathering into a pattern.

But there were still oddities threatening the symmetry. It looked as if Philip Resnick had been the driver of the truck, that he’d recently dumped a load of toxic waste, and that he’d been contaminated in the process. But his death remained unexplained, as did the reason why those three men dispatched him the way they did, combining stealth and carelessness so randomly. I was used to the fact that most of the crooks we dealt with had low IQs, but there’d been none of the usual stupidity here.

Tyler’s finding that finger was a stroke of luck, as was Ron’s discovery of Resnick’s identity, which the three men in the car had apparently worked hard to keep secret. But their efforts seemed contradictory. Why the elaborate charade, making Resnick into a bum and depositing him where he’d be found within hours? Why not simply tie a cinder block to his body and dump him in a pond? Or bury him in the woods?

The good feeling I’d enjoyed minutes earlier drained away. It seemed our efforts-perhaps even our successes-were being orchestrated somehow, making the man on the tracks a part of something bigger.

Maybe something ongoing.