Archer Mayor - Occam's razor

“Is he too scared to talk?” Gail asked, her professional curiosity stirring.

“I don’t think so. The dumping was always at night. He never knew any of the drivers. Sometimes didn’t even see them. And the arrangements were made on the phone. He’s just the one left holding the bag, pure and simple.”

I rubbed my eyes and stood back up, heading for bed. “It’s not up to me anyway. It’s an ANR case now. And maybe we’ll get a lead on the train track guy from the medical examiner tomorrow-either that or a witness we haven’t talked to yet. It’s still pretty early.”

I paused at the door by her chair and looked down at her. “Something interesting did come up, though. Kunkle claims Sammie’s fallen for someone she met during the canvass.”

Gail smiled. “It’s about time. You know him?”

“No,” I admitted. “I’d like to, though. Be interesting to see who could turn her head so fast after all this time.”

Gail looked reflective and echoed my own concerns. “Yeah. Does seem a little unlikely. Hope she’s thinking straight.”

I kissed her again and told her I’d see her later in bed. She said she’d be done in a while. Then I wandered down the darkened hallway, mixed feelings buried deep, hoping against odds I was wrong, and wondering how much time I had left.

The retreat meadows are one of Brattleboro’s most attractive misnomers. Meadows no longer, they are actually a single large body of shallow water where the West River spills into the Connecticut on the northern edge of downtown.

There had been meadowland there once, of course, but a downstream dam built years ago had raised both rivers and forced the floodplain to forever submerge. The Retreat part of the name came from the facility overlooking the water-a highly regarded psychiatric and addiction treatment center that looked more like a small college than a place for those in crisis.

The Meadows are quite extensive, dotted with islands, fringed with reed banks, and looking for all intents and purposes like a lake of ancient lineage. They are also one of Brattleboro’s primary attractions, popular in the summer for boating and fishing, and frequented in winter by skaters and a haphazard collection of ice fishing shanties.

Ice fishing is one of those peculiar northern pastimes, born of necessity and maintained through habit. Once in a long while, someone will actually drill a hole, plant a stool by its edge, and drop in a line, utterly dependent on good weather and thick clothing. The standard, however, has moved beyond such a primitive approach. Shanties, most often home-built, occupy a sliding scale of sophistication, from surrounding the fisherman on his stool with four plywood walls and a roof, to giving him a wood-burning stove, a stereo system, a wooden floor, a cot, and several windows to enjoy the view outside. Many men claim their shanties, and the vast amounts of time they spend in them, have enhanced the serenity of their marriages.

I’d been told it was just such a man I was to visit.

Sammie had put me on to him, he being one of her missing potential witnesses. His wife had been instructed to tell him to call us when he came in. Whether she had and he hadn’t, or whether he’d simply never returned home, I wasn’t above making house calls on a sheet of ice.

His refuge wasn’t hard to find-small, red, with a shed-type roof and a crescent moon carved in the door. No windows. “Just like an outhouse,” as his wife had said.

I knocked on the rattly door, conscious of how quiet it was out in the middle of the lake, the town’s heartbeat reduced to a muted, distant hum. I was unsure how it felt exactly-either like being among a scattering of chess pieces on an enormous pale board or, paradoxically, being a bird in flight. The unadulterated distance from the shore and all it represented made me feel strangely remote-a thousand feet above the surface, hovering over a cloud.

“Who is it?” The voice emanating from the moon was low and throaty, as if the man inside had a cold.

“Mr. Renaud? It’s Joe Gunther. Brattleboro Police,” I said softly, aware of the shanties nearby leaning slightly toward us, listening in.

“For Christ’s sake.”

The door flew back on its leather hinges, almost knocking me over. My feet skittered on the smooth ice as I regained my balance. Edward Renaud stood before me, unapologetic, filling the narrow doorway with a huge, bulbous frame, clad entirely in black-and-red-checked wool, including a hat with earflaps.

“I got a license.”

“I’m sure you do,” I said, extending a hand. “I’m not here about that.”

He took hold of my hand with the tips of his blunt fingers, as if cutting down on the amount of washing he’d have to do later.

“I was wondering if I could ask you about last night,” I added.

He looked at me for a moment and then stepped back into the gloom of the shanty. “I gotta watch the line.”

I crossed the threshold into a small, dark, curiously comforting space and closed the door behind me, less for privacy and more to sample the environment this man so obviously enjoyed.

A narrow bench ran the length of three of the shanty’s walls. Renaud’s massive bulk filled one side entirely. I settled gingerly near the door, feeling dwarfed. The fishing hole between us was black and mysterious, but the ice around it glowed softly with the prismed morning sun, filling the tiny space with a faintly religious aura.

“It’s nice in here,” I commented.

“I like it.” Renaud had the voice of someone whose lungs are never totally free of fluids. Judging from his appearance, I had no doubt his heart was running on reserve.

“You were home last night?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you see anything unusual out your back window, around one in the morning?”

“Who says I did?”

I couldn’t decide if he was being coy for the hell of it, wanted me to rat on his wife, or if he was genuinely concerned someone might’ve seen him and wished him ill. In any case, I got the feeling he knew exactly what I was after.

I tried for neutrality. “We’re asking everyone in your neighborhood.”

Given my doubts, his response couldn’t have been more bland. “Yeah, I did. Car came up along the tracks. Three guys did something around the side I couldn’t see, and then they left.”

“Could you see what they were up to?”

“No. A corner of the building’s in the way. I could only see half the car.”

“So you heard about it later?”

“My wife told me somebody got squashed by the train.”

“What was it that caught your eye? And what were you doing up that late anyhow?”

“Taking a leak. Their lights were off. Seemed funny.”

I hoped he’d been playing me like a fish from the start. “Did you get a good look at the car?”

“Dark blue Crown Vic. Four-door,” he said without hesitation. “Maybe mid-nineties.”

“And a license plate?”

“Only half of one. PCH. Made me think of perch.” He pointed to the hole in the ice, smiling slightly in triumph, feeling suddenly generous. “Like them down there. I saw it ’cause the car drove toward me when it left, and I could just make out the first half. The rest was numbers, but that’s all I could tell.”

“Did you see any of the men?”

He shook his large head. “Too dark.”

I stood up reluctantly, seduced by the shanty’s tranquility, and pushed the door open to the now blinding light. “Thank you, Mr. Renaud. You’ve been a big help.”

He stayed still, his eyes fixed on the hole. “Sure.”

I gently closed the door so as not to disturb his meditation any further.

“Jesus H. Christ.”

I entered our detective bureau from the small conference room next door. Willy Kunkle, feet up on his desk, newspaper across his lap, was shaking his head in disgust. Tyler was sitting at an adjacent workstation, typically not saying a word.