Archer Mayor - Occam's razor

“Desperate man, desperate measures, I suppose. Which begs my first question: Did he know of or play a role in his brother’s activities?”

Win looked at me thoughtfully. “I would’ve told you about any actionable crime I’d discovered. I told you that. But basically, I’ve reached the same conclusions you have. I think Danny killed Resnick because he went over some kind of edge. Maybe fraternal competition, maybe he just wanted to show he could make a big decision on his own. We’ll probably never know. As for Mark being aware of Danny’s other illegal activities, I’m sure he was. Danny was Mark’s cash cow, and they had to’ve both been in on it. But they were careful, neat, and organized-until Danny cracked.

“Meaning,” he added as he lifted his mug to his lips, “I don’t have one shred of proof.”

“I’m guessing Mark ripped off the East Calais grocery store twenty-five years ago and then ran over Ellis Hastings during the getaway. Am I right?”

He nodded. “Mark and Danny both, with Marcia in attendance. It started as a dare, according to her, but after the hit-and-run, they were instantly in over their heads. It was a watershed event in several ways. It broke up the romance between Mark and her, cemented the bond between the two brothers, and saddled all three of them with a secret that worked like a cancer on them forever after. From starting out as three teenagers on a lark, they ended that night as three co-conspirators for life. Only this last time, it was Mark who went over the top, fighting too hard to become governor. That’s what forced Marcia to step forward.”

“Why so late in the game?” I asked.

“You should know. She only made up her mind after you had that little chat with her. Ticked me off when I heard about it, given all the time I’d wasted on her. You must have a knack with the ladies.”

“Not likely.”

He shrugged. “Well, you did with her. As long as Mark was speaker, doing good for the state and its people, Marcia could justify keeping silent. The statute of limitations for the hit-and-run had long since passed, Mark was highly regarded, and just between you and me, I don’t think Marcia minded the life of a kept woman, especially since she didn’t have to do anything to earn it.

“But then things went off track. Danny was implicated in the Resnick killing, which Marcia didn’t have a hard time believing, and Mark started obsessing on the governorship. The more driven he became-through the primary and the general election-the more she began to doubt that she should stay silent. Shortly after you dropped by, she supposedly called Mark and pleaded with him to drop out. I guess he really let her have it, calling her a self-serving bloodsucker and all sorts of other stuff. She’s a pretty religious woman, probably as a result of that night, and she took it pretty hard. She did a lot of thinking, tried contacting him several more times-he wouldn’t even talk to her-and finally, stimulated by something you’d said to her, she called me. What you saw under the dome was the end result.”

“So she was ready to spill it all?”

“Yup, and obviously Mark believed her. She’d left him a final message about what she was going to do. He called her bluff and lost.”

“You think this story won’t leak out somehow?” I asked.

“Only you, me, and Marcia know the truth. The deal with Reynolds was that not even he could be told. His job was to appear in the gallery, gesture her in, and benefit from the end result. It was a show of blind faith on his part-and the only rabbit he had in his hat, anyhow. To this day, he has no idea what it was all about, or even who she is, and I’ve told him not to bother digging.”

A long silence fell between us as we each lapsed into reflection.

“Amazing thing, this thirst for power,” I finally said.

“Yeah, and you can bet it’s still alive in Mark. He’ll be starting from scratch, but I’ll guarantee you he’ll be running for something again soon-it just won’t be governor.”

He smiled suddenly. “Rumor has it you’ve gotten ambitious, too.”

I made a face. “Yeah, I suppose so. I’m not real comfortable with it yet. All I’ve done is apply-I still haven’t heard back. But I’m not sure I’m up for a whole new organization, anyhow-new colleagues, new bosses, new routine. I’m feeling like a pretty old dog right now. ‘Nervous’ might be a better word.”

“You’ll be okay. I think it’ll be good for you. I know you’ll be good for them.”

It was a nice thing for him to say-typical of the man. But as I drove back to Brattleboro later that afternoon, my doubts lingered on, both about the job and my motivations for wanting it. I had a pretty good idea how VBI officers were going to be treated by every other law enforcement agency in the state. If ambition was in fact what was fueling me, then the flak I fully expected to encounter might end up being categorized as just deserts.

I had cast the die, though, so time would tell. To that degree, things were pleasantly out of my hands.

But I hadn’t forgotten the condition I’d set to Dave Stanton, and while I had no idea what Willy Kunkle might say, I was determined to make him the offer.

The timing had to be right, though, for both of us.

I wasn’t going to approach him at work. That seemed totally inappropriate. And that night, as I fine-tuned my woodworking equipment and honed my collection of chisels, I realized that part of my caution stemmed from the consequences of a possible rejection. If he turned me down, I’d be forced to reconsider my own course of action, and by now, almost guiltily, I was beginning to look forward to the challenge.

Around ten, I gave in, killed the lights, got in my car, and drove across town to Kunkle’s house. It was snowing gently, not too cold, no wind at all-a perfect winter evening. A soft and elegant coat of pure white was draped over everything horizontal, including the tops of all the outermost tree branches. The snow glistened in my headlights as if salted with flakes of mica.

No lights were on at Kunkle’s, which was unusual for a night owl like him, but the surprising explanation was parked in his driveway. Nose-to-nose with his own beaten-up Ford was another car, also covered with snow, making the house look like any other average young couple’s.

The car was Sammie’s.

I drove by without stopping. My conversation could wait, and if this sign was any evidence, it might turn out to be easier than I’d thought.