Archer Mayor - Chat

Joe Gunther had become a student of hard knocks. As he approached the homestead, he was under no delusions that life would suddenly surprise him by cooperating.

The farm was less than it had once been. In fact, it wasn't a farm at all anymore. Much of its land had been sold off to neighbors to retire debts and establish a nest egg. But the core remained, and certainly its appearance was unchanged. All his life, Joe had learned to come up the winding drive and trust that his heart would beat easier. Even now, despite its inhabitants being in the hospital, the place still lent him hopefulness by simply standing strong.

Ostensibly, Joe was here to feed the cat, turn off the lights, check the doors, and do whatever else hadn't been considered by two people thinking they'd be out for a couple of hours. In fact, he discovered that this housekeeping applied more to himself. He took his time wandering through the rooms, absorbing the scents and scenery that had populated his upbringing, and tried to position his thinking to accept whatever might be coming. He didn't want to be pessimistic, but he did want to be prepared.

He stood, finally, in the living room, his mother's center of operations. There was a docking station of tables and a desk laden with reading material, a phone, a recently added only-the-basics computer, all facing a large, empty-eyed TV set. Only her wheelchair was missing to make it complete, and it looked barren as a result. He used the opportunity to remember to check on the wheelchair's welfare in the back of the ruined car. When Mom woke up, she'd be clamoring to get back here and tend to her piled-up projects.

Gail had arrived at the hospital about an hour earlier, carrying two briefcases and clutching a cell phone as if it were a lifeline. She and Joe had hugged awkwardly before she moved directly to his mother's bedside to gently stroke the old lady's hair and murmur her greetings. Joe had left shortly thereafter.

He sighed, shook his head, and went back outside into the falling snow. Visiting the farm had been useful emotionally, but his instincts told him it was time to get busy. It rarely paid to linger and ponder overmuch.

Outside the door, under shelter of the roof's overhang, he pulled out his phone, taking advantage of the farm's exposure to the New Hampshire hills across the river, and their cell towers. He dialed a number in Burlington, in Vermont's far northwest corner.

"Office of the chief medical examiner. This is Suzanne."

"Hi, Suzanne. It's Joe Gunther. I was wondering what you might have found out about that John Doe we shipped you-the damp, bald one."

Suzanne laughed. "For that, you want the chief. You really got to her this time."

In part, Joe was glad to hear that. He and Beverly Hillstrom went back a long way and had developed, he believed, a possibly unique relationship, cemented last year when, after he'd broken up with Gail and Beverly had been left by her husband, they spent a single night together. In theory, a terrifically bad idea. In fact, the best thing that could have happened to either of them. It had cemented the trust they shared, and had granted each a brief respite in which to reassess their lives. In Beverly's case, she'd been able to reconcile with her husband; in Joe's, the night with her had allowed him to better distance himself from Gail's departure.

They had never referred to that encounter since, but the nominal formality that had existed before had been replaced by something much warmer and more valued.

"Joe," she said when she came on the line. "You usually let me put them in the cooler before you chase me down with questions."

"I'm sorry, Beverly. I've got nothing with this guy. I hope it's all right."

"Of course," she said. "I just finished up. But keep your fingers crossed for good tox results, because I didn't find a thing-aside from a run-of-the-mill drowning, of course."

"Nothing?"

"Not a scratch or a bruise. And his organs are in the same condition. I wouldn't call him a health nut. He clearly didn't make a point of exercising, and his personal hygiene could have stood improvement. But all his parts and pieces were working fine."

Joe thought back to the man's clothing, which had seemed unremarkable to him. "You think he was a bum?"

Hillstrom's response was immediate. "More like he was heading down the social ladder. He struck me as a man who lives alone and doesn't get out much, or lives with someone who doesn't care that he only bathes occasionally. For what it's worth, and based on a theory I would never share with anyone else, I think he was pure middle class. And from the style of his clothes and their present condition, I'd guess his fall from grace dates back less than a year."

"What theory?" Joe asked, intrigued, remembering only now a frayed pant cuff and the worn heels of the man's shoes.

"Toenails," she said flatly, adding, "which I will deny if you quote me."

"You guess their social class from their nails?" he asked, taken by surprise.

"Something like eight times out of ten, I'm right," she told him. "It's hardly rocket science, but the worse the toenails are, the worse is the decedent's economic situation. This clearly only becomes useful when a person's other outward indicators are conflicting, as with a bum dressed in a fine suit. Which," she added, "is a little of what you've got here-a man on the skids, but whose toenails reflect a regular, if nonprofessional, attention to personal appearance. Do with it what you will."

He laughed, shaking his head at the phone. "You don't have much to worry about there. I won't touch that with tongs. I appreciate it, though. And I will wait for the tox."

"Speaking of which," she said, "we did do the standard alcohol test on him-the prelim. He'd had maybe a couple of beers, that's all."

"Anything distinctive in his stomach?"

"No, I'm sorry. He ate too long prior to death."

Joe stared sightlessly at the mesmerizing blur of snowflakes falling before him, lost momentarily in thought. Beverly knew him well enough to let half a minute go by.

"Okay," he finally said. "I can't thank you enough."

"You already did," she said, and hung up.

He punched in Sammie Martens's number.

"Anything new?" he asked after she answered.

She knew he was in business mode, and kept to it for the moment. "Zilch. I expanded and double-checked the VSP canvass of the area, went over where we found the body with everything from a metal detector to a thermal imager, and ran the guy's prints through AFIS, which admittedly only rules out major crimes-and only those that've made it into the database. Still, he's not there. I'm now working on the theory that he was dropped from a plane, wearing a parachute, and that we should be out hunting for a used-parachute thief. How're you faring?"

"Nothing. I just called the ME. Waste of a dime. Isn't a mark on him, inside or out. If your jumping-from-an-airplane idea is right, he didn't even die of a heart attack. She called it a run-of-the-mill drowning."

"But the tox is still pending," she stated.

"Right," he agreed. "It's the only straw we have left." After a pause he added, "Well, maybe not entirely. Circulate his picture to all the motels in a ten-mile radius. He might not have been a local."

"Got it," she said, and then asked, "How's the family?"

"Leo's a wreck but awake. Mom looks fine but won't wake up."

Sam was clearly nonplussed. "Wow. That sounds bad."

Joe pursed his lips. "Could be," he admitted.

"What're you going to do?"

He hesitated. "About what?"

"You going to stay up there to be with them?"

That, of course, was at the heart of what was gnawing at him. "What's it sound like if I say I'd rather be down there with you guys?"

"Like you think they're in good hands and that you're already getting stir crazy."