Archer Mayor - The surrogate thief

"Not me," she said now. "I was working out at home and saw your light on. Made me curious. We have something going?"

Joe smiled in the semi-darkness. Sam's huge single-room loft apartment, once a post-Civil War dance hall in one of Brattleboro's ancient building blocks, was directly across the street, the better-so claimed her friends-for her to respond to any call. They were only half kidding, and she only half took it in jest.

"Indirectly. It's an old case from the PD days," Joe explained. "Something I worked on when I was starting out. The gun just surfaced in the hostage negotiation Ron had a few nights ago."

Sam nodded. "That was a bummer. I called him right after at home. Wendy said he'd already gone to bed. I can never figure out how he stays in this business."

Joe considered that for a moment. "Maybe it's lucky for all of us he does."

She understood his meaning but couldn't resist putting her own self-deprecating spin on it, adding, "Yeah. We can't all be hard-asses, right? Did the gun supply a breakthrough?"

He made a face. "Not in so many words. Basically, it's just a new string to run down. There was one thing, though-the crime lab made a wild guess that, until it popped up last week, it's been safely tucked away."

He leaned forward and pushed the crime scene pictures toward Sam for her perusal. "I would love to find out where that little resting place is."

According to Ron Klesczewski, Linda Purvis denied knowing where her estranged husband had gotten the Blackhawk. In fact, since she'd hired a lawyer, she'd buttoned up entirely. That left Gunther to interview the rest of Matt's friends, family, and acquaintances, starting with his son, an army private in town for the week on bereavement leave.

He caught up to Christopher Purvis at a local funeral home, where he found him being sale-pitched by a dark-suited attendant. A small, slight man, Purvis was saddled with bad skin, poor eyesight, and an oddly shaped skull that only looked worse for its high-and-tight haircut. For those societal misfits that a uniform improved, visually if nothing else, this one was the exception. He stood in the home's viewing room, surrounded by coffins, his hat in his hand and his expression downcast, looking to Joe like a child freshly caught wearing his father's stolen clothes.

Joe started by saving him from what he could. He stepped before the attendant, whom he knew, and requested a moment's privacy.

They both watched the man glide off with professional smoothness.

"Thought you might need a break," Gunther said quietly as the door closed without a sound.

"What I want is a pine box," the young man said tiredly, removing his thick glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"You'll get it. These are good folks. They'll listen eventually."

"He was saying he didn't want me to think back a year from now and regret that maybe I didn't pay proper respect by getting a fancier casket."

"Are you paying for it?"

"Some of his buddies have chipped in for most of it." Up to now, Chris Purvis had been staring either at the floor or at the samples along the wall. Now he looked at Gunther for the first time, his eyes magnified behind their lenses. "I know what everyone's saying, but he was a good guy. He just never got a break. Pretty typical that people are there for him after it's too late."

"Still, if it's mostly their money, maybe they should have a say," Joe suggested. "It would help get you off the hook, too."

Purvis mulled that over, finally nodding. "Yeah. Maybe." He scowled slightly, as if embarrassed, and then said, "I'm sorry. Am I supposed to know you?"

Joe stuck out his hand. "No. Sorry. My name's Gunther. I work with the Vermont Bureau of Investigation."

Purvis stared at him. "And you came to see me here? Jesus." He didn't sound angry. It was more like amazement.

But Joe waved that off. "No, no. Don't misunderstand. This has nothing to do with what happened to your father. I was just told where to find you. But I can leave. I'm not here to add to your troubles."

Purvis barely shook his head, clearly nonplussed. "No. I mean, you're not bothering me. I just… Well, thanks for dealing with that guy, anyhow. Did you even know my dad?"

"No, but what I've heard matches what you said: a good guy always at the short end of the stick. I never can figure how that happens to some people." Gunther gestured to the waiting room outside. "Would you like to sit down for a bit?"

The young soldier moved with him to a row of chairs set up near a picture window overlooking the parking lot.

"Had you seen your dad much recently?" Gunther asked as they sat down next to each other, the only occupants in a skeletal array of empty wooden chairs. They were speaking softly, influenced by the somber tones of their environment.

"No, sir," Purvis answered. "This pretty much came out of the blue."

Gunther didn't suggest he not call him "sir." The perception of authority might be handy as the conversation progressed. "You mean the confrontation between him and Linda?"

"That bitch," Chris Purvis murmured, back to staring at the rug.

"They'd been at each other for a while?"

"Forever, seems like. I never understood what he saw in her. She treated him like shit from the day they met."

"Did it ever turn violent?"

He looked up. "From her it did. You bet. She was always slapping him and yelling at him. He never laid a hand on her."

"But he didn't like it."

Purvis flared with anger. "Well, no shit, he didn't like it. What the fuck do you think?"

Gunther narrowed his eyes. "Watch it."

The other man's face paled, and his chin trembled briefly. "Sorry, sir," he whispered, glancing away.

Gunther let a moment pass before easing him off the hook. "You have a right to be upset. You know anything about your dad's gun? The Ruger? That's what I'm trying to trace."

Chris Purvis was at a loss. "The only gun I ever saw was an old.30-06 he used to hunt with. I didn't even know he owned a pistol."

"Would you have known?"

"Probably. We got along, and I went through his stuff all the time for one reason or another. He didn't care. He didn't hide things." He snorted and added, "Didn't have much to hide and no place to hide it anyhow. You seen where he lived?"

Gunther couldn't say he had.

"A one-room rat hole. That bitch took him for all he owned. He couldn't afford anything else."

"So, he got the gun recently," Joe mused out loud. "Any ideas there?"

Purvis shrugged. "I don't know."

"Any friends who were into guns?"

He was incredulous. "This is Vermont. Everybody's into guns." He scratched his cheek reflectively. "He had a friend named Dick who talked a lot about them. I think he belonged to a gun club. Kept inviting my dad to the range so they could shoot together. He might know."

"Dick who?"

Chris looked up at the ceiling in concentration, sighing. "Oh, boy. I met him a few times. Italian name. 'Ch-' something. I'm sorry. I don't remember. But he worked with my dad at the lumber mill, doing the same thing-stacker, or some such shit. The bottom of the bottom of the heap, was what he used to call it. They were the guys who basically handle the stuff the loaders and forklifts and the rest don't mess with."

A small silence elapsed. Joe stood up. "You miss your dad." He said it as a statement.

Purvis leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Yeah. He had a lousy life and made all the wrong moves, but he was okay. He never hurt anybody."

Gunther patted him gently on the shoulder. "Talk to your dad's friends, Chris. They might be more help than you think. It's pretty clear you weren't the only one to think he was a decent man."

Purvis looked up at him, squinting slightly through his thick glasses. "Okay. I'm sorry I got mad earlier."