Borderlines (20 page)

“He was found clutching his testicles with one hand.” I remembered from this morning that one arm was pinned under his body. “You think he was kicked?” “It’s just speculation, but it would be an excellent way to render him defenseless, and it’s consistent with his wounds. Also, it increases the odds that anyone could have killed him, even an adolescent.” Spinney languidly cracked a knuckle. We were sitting on 
the steps of the Rocky River Inn, waiting for Crofter Smith to arrive with the warrant. We shared a view of the low, tired houses opposite and the ratty, brown grass field behind them. There were two withered trees out front, their limbs bare, skinny, and gray, already in despair before winter’s first snowfall. The watery sun still hadn’t made much of a dent on the cold.

“What did you make of the envelope in the trash?” “1,r “Interesting. Wish we could match the handwriting.” “Think it might be Julie’s?” He looked at me sharply. “Yeah, it’s possible.” “The M.E.

said a woman might have killed Wingate.” Spinney mulled that over for a moment. “Of course, the letter ‘t have to come from anyone they knew.

It could’ve been from one: one of her friends, Sarris, an informer of some kind. Who ws? In any case, Ellie’s not cooperating.

She won’t show us anyg with handwriting on it, and we don’t have enough for a warrant. we’re stuck.” “They haven’t tested it for prints yet, have they?” “No, they’ll do that back in Waterbury-better control. Why?”

“I was wondering if you could ask them to save a bit near the glue p.

If whoever sealed it used their tongue, there might still be some va on the paper that isn’t polluted by the glue-you know, some rlap. Maybe they could get a blood type.” Spinney pushed out his lower lip and nodded. “Excellent. You ‘t mind if I tell them it was my idea?” “Go for it. They dig up anything else?” “Nothing obvious. They gotta cook up their chemical stews and what comes up, but I doubt they’ll find much, except for the elope. You know the Wingates are-or were-up to their asses in I mean, we’re not talking innocent mugging here.” He laughed and ok his head. “You know, standing there in their bedroom, watching lab crew at work, I was half-tempted to interview the walls, just to what I’d get.” I glanced over at him. My liking for Spinney grew the more I got now him. Somehow, over years of service in what could be a pretty eling business, he’d managed to keep a poetic flicker alive in the k of his brain, something that allowed him to stay out of the ruts, eep his mind open to any suggestion. I gave the State Police high ks for putting him on a special platform from which he could work Iy; most other outfits would have labeled him a flake and buried him he typing pool.

We were still sitting there in comfortable silence when I saw ter, presumably coming from the garage. I rose to greet him and oduced him to Spinney.

Buster looked worried. “Rumor has it Rennie’s tied into this ehow.”

Spinney nodded, mostly to himself. “Ah, the reliable beat of the gle drums.” “Maybe,” I answered. “We did find something.” %132 “Wha’t?” I looked at Spinney but he merely shrugged. Smith would have had a fit-cops are not supposed to volunteer their findings. “Did Rennie mention losing a lighter within the last ten months or so?” “Is that what you found?” I nodded.

Buster shook his head. “Not that I remember. You talk to Nadine yet?”

“No; we’re about to we’re waiting for a warrant now.” “Nadine’s a friend. Would you mind if I came along? She might like some comfort with you people tearing the place apart.” I ignored the bitter tone in his voice and cast an inquiring look at Spinney.

“She’s in a wheelchair; might be nice if he could hold her hand.”

Spinney nodded down the road. “We can ask the boss himself.” Smith was approaching in his car. As he drew abreast of us, he rolled down his window and waved the warrant at us like a flag.

“Think he’s surrendering?” Spinney asked hopefully, as he rose to climb down the steps.

I forwarded Buster’s request to Smith. Smith looked at Buster with those expressionless brown eyes. “Just have him stay out of the way.” I was surprised. I’d fully expected Smith to reject the idea out of hand.

I was having a hard time pinning the man down, and beginning to think that Spinney’s constant putdowns were throwing me off. I didn’t like Smith much, any more than I had Wirt. But Wirt was a malcontent, while I suspected Smith, despite his instinctive prejudice against me, had a pretty good analytical mind. In fact, I wondered if his dislike of me wasn’t restricted to the office I held, and that it was utterly impersonal.

We drove in separate cars out to Rennie’s place, north of town, past the cutoff leading to Dulac’s ravine. It was a nondescript, twostory house, patched together like Buster’s, but lacking the neatness. Everything about it looked worn, in need of repair or paint.

The rusted metal roof had countless black daubs of tar across its surface, the marks of a losing battle against leaks; part of the foundation had rotted away, making the house list slightly, as if it were about to slip back into the earth that had supported it too many years. Aiding this desolate, familiar picture was a yard littered with a wide variety of rusting metal hulks truck frames, gaping auto bodies, the remains of a tractor, what looked like a harrow-intermingled with old tires, washing machines, bales of rotted wire, and piles of mysterious debris. The only area clear of clutter was a long ramp that ran straight out from the front door to %133 ere a vehicle could be parked. There was, however, no vehicle beside rs and three state cruisers. The four of us assembled with four troopers at the foot of the p. “Anyone seen Wilson?” Smith asked.

One of the troopers nodded. “I saw him getting out of his pickup Lyndonville and heading for a bar about a half hour ago.” “He never came by here,” another added. “Okay. Let’s go.” Spinney, standing next to me, muttered, “Charge!” as we all foled Smith up the ramp to the front door like ducklings behind their there.

The door was opened by a heavyset woman in a wheelchair. Her ice was as high and soft as a young girl’s. “Yes?” Smith brandished his warrant.

“I am Detective Sergeant Crofter with of the Vermont State Police. I have a warrant allowing me to rch this house for any shoes whose tread may match those we’ve llected at the scene of a recent crime.” Christ, I thought.

Buster stepped out from the mob in front of the woman. “Hi, dine. The police found Rennie’s lighter at the scene of a murder. ey gotta check it out.” “A murder?” She spoke the word as if it were foreign. The look her eyes reminded me of a small child’s when confronted with its rst imaginable fear. I was glad Buster had come along. He stepped around her and pulled the chair away from the door, the others could enter.

Her hands lay motionless in her lap. Smith the warrant on top of them and directed his men to spread throughthe building.

Buster moved Nadine across the living room to a large window erlooking the yard, and positioned her so she could see out. It was entle, thoughtful gesture, designed to help her turn her back to the aos overtaking her house. I thought it all the more considerate when oticed the house was as neat and tidy inside as it was tumultuous tside. Like a tidy, conscientious model prisoner, she’d maintained trol over that part of her world she could reach-until now. That, however, brought to mind a further point. I remembered even before Nadine’s accident, their house had reflected this odd trast. In other couples, I would have taken it as a sign of conflict, a difference of styles so sharp that it could only split the marriage. not with Nadine and Rennie; with them it had been a badge of cessful compromise, reflecting a decades’-old ability to walk a cenI line. The apparent disparity had been a curious symbol of enduring %134 affection, as when, I suddenly recalled, he always took off his boots a’ soon as he entered the house through the kitchen door. Buster sat facing her on a small table underneath the window, one of his hands around hers. I half-perched on the sill.

“You remember Joey, don’t you?” Buster asked her. She gave me a wisp of a smile and nodded. “Buster, I don’ understand.” “It may not be anything, Nadine. Some guy from out of town waG killed, and Rennie’s lighter was found with him.” I finished what Buster didn’t know. “We talked to Rennie, and h

said he hasn’t seen that lighter for six months. Do you remember what happened to it?” “No… Who was murdered?” Her voice was so soft, it was hard to hear, especially with the clomping of feet in the rooms around us “Nobody you know,” said Buster. “The father of one of the kid’ in the Order.” “Bruce Wingate,”

I said, watching her face for a reaction. Theri was none. “Did Rennie know him?” she asked. Buster squeezed her hand.

“No-barely.” He was trying to shield her with a tenderness exceeding his usual soft touch with people in distress. I wondered what it was I didn’t know about their friendship. I hadn’t known Nadine when we were all growing up; she was from another town, and I’d only met her briefly during the few times I’d visited over the past thirty years or so. I’d heard about her accident-falling down a flight of stairs or something.

It had happened almost ten years ago.

I decided to let him take care of the sensitivities while I asked the questions, although his look showed me he wished I’d turn to dust on the spot. “A few nights ago, Rennie helped us rescue a guy who got in a fight with some people from the Natural Order.” “Yes. I remember.”

“Well, that was Bruce Wingate. He’d followed his daughter to one of the Order houses, and was determined to go in and get her. Later he picked a fight with Rennie and ended up punching him. Did Rennie tell you any of that?” She dropped her eyes, as if admitting to a crime herself.

“Yes-he was pretty angry.” “What did he say or do?” “He slammed a few doors and talked about it a bit, but you have to understand Rennie.” She reached out and touched my arm. “He wasn’t angry at… What did you say his name was?” “Bruce Wingate.” %135 “He was angry about more than just that. The slap was only a gger, sort of. He’s had fights before; they don’t mean as much as u’d think.

They’re just a way for him to blow off steam.” “What else was he mad at?” She shook her head sadly. “Oh, everything in a way: the flatlands, the economy, how the town’s falling apart. If anything, he was ore frustrated with Greta than with Mr. Wingate. He kept saying e’s gotten obsessed about the Order, that she’s letting it ruin her life, d that she’s bringing everybody down with her.” “He took her problem that personally?” “They’re old, old friends.” Buster shifted his weight. I could tell he was becoming angry with e. “You don’t have to answer these questions, Nadine. You’ve got thing to do with all this.” She looked over her shoulder at the sound of a loud bang. A ooper across the room had dropped a picture off the shelf he was ecking.

Buster stood up. “Hey, do you mind? This ain’t your house.” The trooper looked genuinely embarrassed. “I’m sorry. It zpped.” He carefully replaced it on the shelf a small framed photoaph of a grinning young man in mountain-climbing gear, with a coil rope slung over his shoulder.

I brought it back over to her. “It’s fine no breakage.” “Thank you.”

Nadine placed it on a small table next to her. hat’s my favorite picture of my brother-.” She pulled at Buster’s nd. “Sit down, Buster.

I don’t mind all this. Maybe I can help ennie.” I smiled at her.

“Thanks. When did you see Rennie last night?” She looked down at her lap and shook her head. “I never did. I ink I heard him very late, but I don’t know. Wednesday nights he ways plays cards with Pete Chaney.” I wondered why Rennie hadn’t told me that earlier. It was a stom-made alibi, for at least part of the evening. “Where does he ay?” “Pete lives in East Burke. He runs a small market there, out of the nt of his house. They play at his place. They’ve been doing it for ars.” “And that’s where he was?” “I think so.” “He didn’t come to bed when he got home?” “Well, we don’t… I mean, when he comes in late, he usually eps in the spare room. He doesn’t like to wake me.” “And that’s what he did last night? Slept in the spare room?” %136 “I think so. I didn’t see him this morning, either. I usually don’t.

He gets up early… Always been an early riser, even before this.” She tapped the arm of the wheelchair.

“How about after work? He said he left work around six-thirty and got home about seven to change. Did you see him then?” Again, she looked elsewhere and sighed. “No. I wish I had. I’m not being very helpful, am I?” “Were you in the house?” “Oh, yes. I was in the bedroom. At seven, I would have been watching television and knitting, like always, but it makes a lot of noise.” “The television?” “The knitting machine,”

Buster growled. The “you jerk” went unheard, if not unnoticed.

“You didn’t have dinner together?” I asked. “Oh, no. But that’s not unusual-Rennie eats out a lot.” She shook her head suddenly. “This is coming out all wrong, Joe. It makes it sound like we never see each other, or care for each other. We do, but differently from other people. That was true even before this blasted thing.” She thumped the chair’s arm. “People are always looking at it, thinking they know everything.” I wondered how many times that was true of other couples whose lives centered around a wheelchair. “Joe.” I looked up. Spinney was standing near a back hallway. He motioned to me.

“Sorry, Nadine. I’ll be right back.” “Don’t hurry,” Buster muttered.

“What’s up?” I asked Spinney in the hallway. “Follow me.” He led the way down the hallway through the kitchen, to a small mudroom beyond. A narrow, cluttered, stalesmelling bedroom lay off to one side by the back door. It was as incongruous with the rest of the house’s interior as spilled garbage on a clean floor, and obviously Rennie’s home away from home. The room’s location made it clear why Nadine hadn’t heard Rennie come home, if he had come home. Smith and several troopers were also in the room.