Archer Mayor: The Marble Mask

He escorted us four feet to his door and shook us both by the hand. “It looks like a good case to start with-custom-made for what we can offer. Maybe the governor wasn’t so crazy after all.”

Sammie merely smiled politely, no doubt wondering what she’d done to her career.

I felt no such constraints. “Well, if he was, we’ll probably all be out of a job soon enough.”

To most people-especially those “from away”-Stowe, Vermont, means downhill skiing. Which, sadly but understandably, counts for a great deal, since Vermont itself has been reduced to skiing, maple sugar, fall foliage, quaint villages, black-and-white cows, taciturn people who make for lousy waiters, and, just maybe, the eccentric top competitor in the luxury ice cream market.

Not surprisingly, the town didn’t start as a ski resort. The mountain that has made it such isn’t even named Stowe, but Mount Mansfield, and the village can follow its roots back to when skiing was unheard of and lumber its primary cash source. But it is tourist-dependent now, to the point where most of its money actually comes in during the summer months, and many of its key decision-makers are originally from out of state, referred to by disgruntled, dispossessed locals as “flatlanders.”

It has become a place gently at odds with itself, where wealth conflicts with poverty, residents with tourists, native-born with newcomer, tradition with the trendy. Even the population has extremes. Resting at 3,500 during the off-season, and swelling to 25,000 within the right couple of days, it supports seventy-two businesses selling liquor and the highest concentration of motels and hotels in the state. Among Vermonters, Stowe has been dubbed a “gold” town-its residents painted as financially above the norm, regardless of their origins or the actual size of their bank accounts. To be “from Stowe” is to be regarded differently, perhaps distrustfully, as if the person being scrutinized might be capable of some immediate capitalist sleight of hand that would play to the observer’s disadvantage.

As with all such perceptions, of course, the truth is far more complicated. In the huge mountain looming on the edge of town-the tallest in the state-Stowe had found an asset that could offer it some economic stability through the years. It made concessions to the outsiders and their money, watched how these visitors expressed their needs and desires, and slowly transformed itself from a ski slope’s service-oriented road stop to a year-round commercial enterprise, hosting antique car rallies, dog and horse shows, and a broad selection of hiking, biking, tennis, golf, and other outdoor activities. The fortunes of the company owning the actual ski resort have wobbled now and then, to the point where of old the town might have become alarmed, but the breadth of business diversity has reached such an extent by now that the once vital umbilical cord, though still important, isn’t what it used to be. Stowe as a whole has become a corporation, and the mountain business, like the parent of an ambitious, precocious family, has had to concede to being one of the crowd.

The police force for such a place faces a challenge, largely because of the population swings. The Stowe PD is in the unusual position of having more part-time officers, at seventeen, than its full-time staff of thirteen, just to handle the seasonal discrepancies. And they are a hard-working crew. On a per-officer, per-complaints-handled, per-day basis, the Stowe cops outwork the hundred-member police force in nearby Burlington, although the Burlington crew would correctly contend that their population contains a rougher mix of humanity. The Stowe PD also works high profile, conducting frequent vehicle stops, dropping in on bars and nightclubs unannounced and unasked, and generally making itself seen, patrolling the streets in a small fleet of sport utility vehicles.

This visible police presence has been largely because of Frank Auerbach, whose philosophy was that the more cops the bad guys see, the less appealing Stowe will appear for easy pickings. And there certainly were bad guys-every year, drug dealers, thieves, con artists, and sexual predators came to town like camp followers trailing an advancing army. As a result, Auerbach’s force was trained to ask for more than just a driver’s license and registration at a vehicle stop. His officers could be downright chatty, wanting to know where you were headed and staying, what your plans were while in the area, what you did for a living, and what place you called home. The grumblers complained of harassment. Auerbach countered that if you kept your nose clean, you never had to have such a conversation. And he played no favorites, barring one exception. Selectmen, millionaires, and bums were all handled the same, but his “guys” as he called them-regardless of gender-he pampered as much as he could. He bought them the best shoes he could find, the best vehicles, guns, armored vests, and anything else he could think of, all from money forfeited from convicted drug dealers. The upside to the area’s expensive taste in narcotics was that the Stowe PD could reasonably join federally backed drug task forces, from the DEA on down, and thus benefit from the federal rules of booty sharing. To judge from the PD’s equipment, business had been good.

All this I researched before heading out to visit Frank Auerbach for the first time, alone and unofficially, hoping to smooth whatever rough water might have been created by the ham-handed way our services had been offered. Happily, I already knew the door was at least half open. Bill Allard had been right-Auerbach had phoned to accept the offer of VBI assistance before Sam and I had left VSP headquarters-apparently stimulated by Hillstrom’s findings. But I had no idea if Auerbach had felt pressured to do so or had merely yielded to need and curiosity. Knowing the truth, I thought, would be crucial to our getting along, so I’d done some fast homework, leaving Sammie to call the team together and write up a quick report.

The police department is located on the west side of Route 100, just below the northernmost-and larger-of Stowe’s two villages. It is a modest building, one-and-a-half stories, red brick, and set deeply enough into a hollow by the side of the road that by the time you notice the fire and rescue station next door, you’ve already passed it by.

I pulled into the parking lot, hemmed in by stained, craggy walls of piled-up snow, and got out of my car, enjoying the cold on my face after the steady blast from the heater.

I’d passed the PD’s driveway once already on this trip-after arranging for lodging at a local motel-to explore the village’s small, busy, appealingly plain heart farther on, hoping to put into some perspective all the information I’d just acquired.

It had been a worthwhile detour. Along the twelve-mile drive north of Interstate 89, I’d been struck by a growing commercial momentum on both sides of Route 100. The gas stations, tourist shops, motels, and restaurants had become increasingly serried, creating the visual equivalent of an encroaching critical mass. The village itself was the natural apogee of all this, teeming with a blur of multihued cars and people. But despite the activity and some of the tacky architecture leading up to it, the unpretentious town of a hundred years earlier showed through, clapboarded, useful, and blandly functional. As background to the colorful Spandex and insulated ski clothes, stalwart behind the endless stream of high-end SUVs, the buildings held their own against most modern influences, content to look as they had for decades.

And crouching to the west, white-capped and gleaming against a shimmering blue sky, was the stimulus for it all. Mount Mansfield hovered like a multipeaked Olympus, majestic, daunting, both maternal and threatening, its sheer bulk endowing it with indefinable deeper meaning.