Archer Mayor - The Marble Mask

My mind flashed to Willy Kunkle and I kept my mouth shut. The chief gathered together the fanned-out contents of a folder from his desk. “It’s too late to go up Mansfield today, but we could make it tomorrow morning, if that’s not moving too fast.”

We returned to the reception/dispatch area. “No. Everyone’ll be based at the Commodore Inn, just down the street, ’cept maybe Shanklin and Spraiger, who live close enough to commute. I thought that’d be best till we figured out what’s ahead. What time you want to meet?”

“Let’s say oh-seven-hundred hours at the fire and rescue building next door. Give us time to run through a few things before heading out.” He handed me the folder. “That’s what we got so far, by the way-scene photos, initial findings, and Hillstrom’s report. A little bedside reading.”

We shook hands, and I headed back into the cold.

From the outside, the Commodore Inn’s most striking aspect is an enormous sloping roof-vast, broad, and gently angled-projecting far out in front of the building’s entrance to form a deep carport. In the winter, it is all the more impressive for the thick mantle of snow coating it like icing, making the hotel vaguely resemble a long, low cave sliced into an otherwise frozen landscape. The inn gets its name from a three-acre pond out back, which in the summer plays host to weekly model-boat regattas, a selling point played up by an assortment of life rings, buoys, netting, and other sailing paraphernalia that hangs from the walls and ceiling of the bar and dining room out back.

I didn’t head that way, however, choosing instead a long hallway to the left off the lobby and a room about halfway down its length. As arranged earlier, waiting for me there were the first vital signs of the Vermont Bureau of Investigation-Sammie Martens, Willy Kunkle, Paul Spraiger, and Tom Shanklin-gathered around the room like card players expecting the banker.

I removed my coat and draped it over a chair, crossing the room to shake hands with both Shanklin and Spraiger. “I just left the Stowe PD,” I explained to all of them. “Chief Auerbach was very receptive and spoke well of Tom and Paul, which I hope is a good sign. I take it you’ve all introduced yourselves to each other?”

Everyone either nodded or didn’t disagree. It was my experience from working with other special units that conviviality comes slowly, delayed by a professional caution that sometimes borders on suspicion. Cops are a clannish bunch, dependent on one another for understanding, support, and sometimes their lives. It is a strong, long-lasting bond, of necessity forgiving of quirky personalities, but it takes time to form, since its foundation is trust, rather than simple compatibility. I noticed that Willy had parked himself in a far corner behind a small round table, removed and unapproachable. Sammie, despite her professional and personal ties to him, was perched on the low dresser across the room, next to the silent TV set. She knew the unspoken rules, knew Willy’s prickly ways, and knew to protect herself from them in a meeting with new acquaintances.

Shanklin and Spraiger were the unknowns. The first-short-haired, square-jawed, and military in bearing-seemed the most uncomfortable, as if fearing we’d be asking him to pass some rite of initiation. Spraiger was more unusual. Sitting comfortably in a chair with his legs crossed, he exuded an aura of utter stillness, bringing to mind either a shrink or a sage.

“This is obviously not how VBI was designed to come out of the gates,” I continued, “with Willy and Tom serving under their own colors. But starting as a mixed bag is kind of fitting. For the most part, we exist to integrate with other departments, so now we’re a polyglot ourselves.”

“And with zero credibility,” Willy added in a low growl from his core.

Every head in the room turned toward him.

“No problem there,” I answered, pretending he’d voiced a pertinent comment. “We have to start somewhere and our role is real enough. Auerbach’s so hard up for manpower, he’d like our help in a detailed search of the mountain site at oh-seven-hundred hours tomorrow morning, along with their hazardous terrain team. It’ll be a good way to get to know these folks and might get us some more information. I take it everyone’s read the report Sammie prepared on the case so far?”

“What’s the theory on the missing feet and arm?” Paul Spraiger asked quietly.

“Right now, we’re thinking they broke off, maybe when the body was dropped from an aircraft.”

“Implying a possible Canadian departure point that might be a red herring,” Tom Shanklin suggested, touching on what Auerbach and I had discussed.

“Possibly,” I agreed.

“Is there anything so far linking Jean Deschamps to Stowe, or even the U.S.?” he asked.

“His dead body,” Willy said glumly.

Again, there was a slight lull in the conversation, which I quickly filled, wishing Willy would stop acting like Oscar the Grouch. “Sad but true. Possession in this case is ten -tenths of the law-unless we can prove Deschamps was killed in Canada, he’s ours.”

“So, we’re going to have to work both sides of the border,” Spraiger suggested.

“That’s how it looks now,” I said. “The Sherbrooke police, the Mounties, and the Sûreté du Québec have been contacted for any information, but if Hillstrom’s right about the time of death, I don’t see them breaking into a big sweat over this.”

“Depending on who Deschamps was,” Sammie corrected.

“Right-which I hope we’ll learn tomorrow.”

“So what’s the plan?” Shanklin asked.

“That’s up to Auerbach,” I answered. “My guess is we’ll be looking into Deschamps’s history, trying to find out if and when he last entered the U.S. legally, interviewing old-timers here and in Canada to see if we can pick up a trail, checking airfields and all air traffic control radars for any mysterious, late-night flights, talking to the Stowe mountain folks to try to pin down when the body might’ve been put in place, and anything else you can think of. Unless we get some eighty-year-old pilot who shows up at the door and says, ‘Book me, Danno,’ I think we’ll be here for a while. This trail may be about as cold as it can get.”

“Great,” Willy muttered. “And while we run around looking like nobody can live without us, whoever planted this stiff will make it crystal clear why he did it. Seems to me it’d be smarter to just sit tight and see what happens.”

Spraiger, the French-speaker with the thoughtful air, considered Willy’s point carefully. “Unless the body wasn’t put there for us. Someone else could hear a message through the media coverage that we wouldn’t recognize, such as, ‘I did this once. I can do it again’ or, ‘I’m on your tail.’”

To his credit, Willy recognized the potential wisdom of this and so lapsed into silence.

I stood up from the edge of the bed and checked my watch. “Okay, let’s leave it there for now. It’s still early-use the evening to explore the town, get something to eat, maybe get better acquainted. Tom and Paul, I know you both have families and’ll be commuting, but if you want to hang out a couple of hours, feel free. It might be our last downtime for a while. I’ll be here reading the case file in case anyone wants to talk.

“Willy?” I asked as the rest of them headed for the door.

He’d stayed put, still wedged in his corner, looking at me with a sardonic smile. “Yeah, I know-gotta stay after class.”

I waited until the others had left before taking Sammie’s place on the low dresser, facing him across the room.

“What’s the lecture gonna be?” he asked. “Good attitude making for good teamwork?”