Chapter 12

Nora and I had little to discuss regarding my viability as a suspect in the alleged assassination attempt. In fact, I was what might be known as a convenient suspect, the supposedly innocent bystander who met just enough of the means, motive, and opportunity criteria to call attention to him- or herself. This poor sap was quickly discovered by police, though, unaware of the sign taped to his back, but instead of “KICK ME” his sign read “ARREST ME.”

However, in a more critical evaluation, I was a bit too convenient in opportunity but a bit less convenient in other aspects, such as means and motive. Even the opportunity aspect began to limp unless someone could explain the additional four and a half miles, for a total of seven-and-a-half miles, I would have had to cover between oh-six forty-five, when I left the house on foot, and oh-seven twenty-five, when I appeared -- showered, dressed for work, and breathing normally -- to witnesses at the bakery. On foot, and allowing only five minutes to shower and change, that would have had me running a four-point-six-six minute mile, which was only about a half minute off the world record pace for the roughly comparable ten thousand meter race.

I wish.

Or maybe I don’t wish.

The only reason I jog is for the exercise. I don’t even time myself, other than to make sure I leave early enough so that I can be in my office by oh-seven thirty. I have no more desire to become a runner than I do a vegan. Brr. The idea of either sends an unpleasant chill down my spine. What’s worse, I know that I’d end up telling people all about it, and soon enough have a reputation for boring stories, like Tate and his fishing tales. Brr. There it goes again.

So, no, unless I had an accomplice who picked me up and drove me the additional couple-three miles out to The Neck and back to the Center, the timing assumed an athleticism that I have never possessed. In college, my two required phys-ed credits were for bowling and life-saving. Only the latter involved any sort of time-keeping, and that was simply for pacing first aid skills such as chest compression or rescue breathing.

If a casual observer were to make an unbiased analysis of my possible involvement in the Durkees’ misadventure, I would only appear a convenient suspect if the observer stood way back and then covered one eye and squinted with the other.

Nora concluded, “It’s much more likely that you’d be seen standing in the middle of a frame, and that the Durkees made this whole thing up.” We were in my office with the door closed, to preserve lawyer-client confidentiality.

Her comment struck me and I thought, Why not?, and I said to her, “Funny you should mention that.”

“Huh? Mention what?”

“About the Durkees making things up.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

So I explained to her our theory of the crime, and the process we went through to reach it.

After I finished, she just sat there looking at me with an uncertain expression. “Seriously?,” she said.

I shrugged. “Seriously. We applied basic logic theories and pretty much came up with the likeliest scenario. The final test was in determining if anything else were more likely, by applying Occam’s Razor.”

“Surely other explanations are possible.”

“There are, but they require additional assumptions. In other words, other explanations would be more complex and require additional people or events that are more difficult to justify. I mean, you could say space aliens killed Evelyn, but then you’d have a lot more explaining to do.”

“But it’s not evidence of anything.”

“No, it’s not. It’s a theory of the crime and a justified rationale for that theory.” I looked at my watch. “Ready for lunch? Remember, it’s Taco Tuesday.”

As she gathered her things, she said, “I can’t decide whether you should bring this to Sergeant Poitier’s attention or not.”

“Our loyalties in the election would make anything we said sound like sour grapes. It would be even more awkward now, after they all but accused me of trying to kill John.”

“But if there’s any truth to what you say, then those people have gone totally off the rails.”

“I’ve been trying to think of another way to get the information to him without prejudicing it. But, without an explanation of how it was developed, it’s just another guess.”

We encountered Poitier and his sidekick, who was introduced to us as Corporal Rick Mellon. Mellon looked to be in his early thirties, was taller than the stocky Poitier, and had a friendly demeanor. They had just joined the line for ordering lunch. Greta, Chet, and Lindsey were already at our usual table and, when they saw us, they stood and, while Chet pushed a second table over, Greta and Lindsey rearranged the chairs.

Sotto-voce, Nora warned me, “Stay away from saying anything having to do with this supposed shooting or any of your movements this morning. This may seem like a social occasion, but Poitier is a cop all the time.”

“But he never read me my rights. Could they use anything I say?”

“That limitation only applies if they’ve taken you into custody. Until then, you’re free to put your own foot in your mouth.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

“Sense has nothing to do with it. We’re talking about the US criminal justice system. It is what it is.”

I chuckled. “My Mom used to say that.”

“Say what?”

“‘It is what it is.’ When I was a kid, I thought it made no sense at all when she’d say it by way of explaining or justifying something. Later, I realized it had roughly the same meaning as when the Declaration of Independence says, ‘We hold these truths to be self evident.’ In other words, That’s how things are; get over it.”

“Gary,” Nora said, “you think too much.”

I said, “‘Such men are dangerous.”

“What? Now what are you talking about?”

“The line from Shakespeare, in Julius Caesar. Caesar says to Antony: ‘Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; he thinks too much: such men are dangerous.’”

She chuckled. “You do look hungry, but not too lean.”

“It’s Taco Tuesday. It is what it is.”

Later, after we were crunching through the tacos, Poitier said to Lindsey, “Chief Schoenfeld tells me you went on a butterfly hunt, Detective, and bagged a theoretical murder suspect in the Evelyn Durkee case.” Dale Schoenfeld was the Leaufroide Chief of Police, Lindsey’s boss.

Lindsey had been caught with her head at the typical skewed, taco-eating angle, which she quickly abandoned, turning her head fully vertical. “Uh, you spoke to the Chief?”

“A courtesy call. Let him know what I was up to. He mentioned your approach to chaos theory as a means of solving murders. He said you’ve done it before.”

Whether she was giving credit where she felt it was due or simply handing off a hot potato, she replied, “Not my approach. It’s Gary’s. It seems to work, but it wasn’t my idea.”

“But Chief Schoenfeld said you used it last year to figure out that Brandon Pollard was behind the killings up at Coldwater Junction and at the County Center.”

“Again, that was Gary. I participated, but he got that ball rolling. In the end, there were maybe ten or a dozen of us that participated.”

Poitier cast his gaze my way.

“I got the idea from Chet,” I said, by way of disclaimer.

Chet said, “What happened was that, one day I mentioned chaos theory to Gary in a conversation on some other topic. He was familiar with the notion of the Butterfly Effect. Then, at some later time, we were trying to figure out who might be attempting to frame him, and, as we discussed various theories--”

“It was the guns,” I interjected. “In answering my question about the owner of the murder weapon, Sheriff Plummer said your investigation, Sergeant, had discovered the source of the weapons, but nothing beyond the original gun dealer, until the guns turned up in Coldwater County about a half-century later. That circumstance reminded me of chaos theory, and how it might be applied. Our advantage was that we knew the people involved in more intimate, that is to say, more detailed ways than the OCI, because we’d lived and worked with them for years.”

Chet said, “Gary’s innovation was involving so many people in the uh, exercise. Having so many different perspectives was invaluable, along with the different bits of knowledge each brought. He had us using brain-storming techniques, coupled with organized evaluation protocols, to slowly sift the wheat from the chaff. When the simplest solution made the most sense, we were pretty confident we knew what happened.”

Chet said, “That’s when the Sheriff got word to the OCI.”

Poitier, having finished his tacos, was looking speculatively from one to the other of us. “So why haven’t you gotten the word to me on this one?”

Greta said, “Because of the apparent bias that is involved. We felt we lacked credibility.”

Poitier sat up straighter in his chair and continued his scrutiny of us. Finally, he shook his head and said, “Nick couldn’t have done it. Other people saw him at Fossil Creek besides just his own companions.”

Lindsey said, “We don’t think Nick killed Evelyn.”

“It’s the same with John Durkee; he has a good alibi,” Poitier insisted.

Lindsey shook her head, “We agree, it was neither John nor Nick, though we believe that they were probably accessories after the fact. In the final analysis, we concluded that Evelyn was killed by Wanda Durkee.”

Poitier’s face seemed to narrow a bit, as he continued to look at Lindsey for a long moment. Then he appeared to relax and he turned to Trooper Mellon, who was seated next to him. “Well, Rick, maybe you were right.” He looked back around the table. “On the way over this morning, Rick said we ought to look at Missus Durkee.” The district state police “barracks” were in Plattsburg, on the other side of the Embargo Range.

Mellon scoffed. “What I said was, ‘Hell, maybe it was the wife,’” he explained. “It’s not like I had a theory of the crime or something.”

“So, what is your theory of the crime?” This time, Poitier was looking at me.

I took a breath and slowly let it out. “Actually, our theory has variations, each of which is just as plausible and led us to the same conclusion. I believe that because the several variations all led to the same conclusion, that conclusion is all the more likely.

“But here’s the basic outline:

“First, Evelyn Durkee approached the world in a seductive manner. This is a part of a personality syndrome that both Greta and I recognized. It’s one particular coping mechanism for people who feel inadequate in other parts of their persona as well as when facing demanding social interactions. It brings to mind the metaphor, when all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail. So, when all you feel you have is your own sex appeal, you use that for all purposes.

“Second, Evelyn approached both men and women in the same seductive manner.

“Third, Evelyn had a history of sexual liaisons. With seductiveness as her major stock-in-trade, it was an approach that could easily lead to unintended consequences. She was an attractive woman and people she encountered would not have recognized her behavior for what it was: simply a way to get along in the world. Instead, others would have responded in kind and situations could easily escalate.

“Fourth, John and Wanda Durkee were Evelyn’s primary social support system in Coldwater County, even more than Evelyn’s mother. They would have been subject to frequent encounters with her seductive approach. John, and likely Wanda, we surmise, eventually succumbed, entering into physical intimacies with Evelyn.

“Fifth, Evelyn became pregnant by John. Wanda found out; maybe Evelyn told her. Likely John knew as well, as we found a box from a pregnancy test in his patrol vehicle.

“Sixth, In a fit of jealousy and anger, Wanda killed Evelyn, in or near Evelyn’s car, likely attacking her without intending real harm.

“Seventh, Wanda, not realizing Evelyn was dying or already dead, drove her to Fossil Creek to ask John for help. John brought in Nick, and they devised the removal of the evidence of the pregnancy and the body’s disposal, and burning out her car in Kingston.

“Eighth, Nick convinces John that becoming sheriff will help protect Wanda, though Nick’s real purpose is to use John’s election as a means to establish his own power base back home, overcoming the very same law enforcement agency he feels pushed him out of the county.

“And ninth, we have this morning.” Nora kicked me, under the table, but I had not intended to say more about that morning anyway.

I shrugged. “That’s it, in a nutshell.”

Chet asked me, “When did the car come into it?”

“I realized it fit as I was talking. That’s why it was so thoroughly burnt out.” I glanced at Chet, Lindsey, and Greta, then I added, “It also strikes me that maybe Evelyn had dressed up for her meeting with Wanda. Maybe they planned a romantic picnic or something. Is that plausible?”

Lindsey said, “You’re right, it does fit, especially with how Evelyn was dressed and how her car had been burned out so thoroughly.”

Greta shrugged and said, “Works for me.”

Chet shrugged indifferent agreement, saying “It slots in with the theory.”

Nora asked, “Is that how you do it? Somebody suggests something and you agree or disagree?”

“Not really. What I just added was sort of a wild card. Usually what we’re doing is looking at some particular aspect and making suggestions that have the fewest complications.”

“Oh, like my space aliens theory would have required lots more explaining.”

“Partly, but let me give you an example.

“Working from known facts, the first thing we asked ourselves was, where was Evelyn going that morning? Everyone seemed to assume she was going to the brat roast at the park in Leaufroide because that’s what she told her mother. But then Lindsey noted that Evelyn had turned away from the direction of Leaufroide when she left Limekiln. So we decided there were too many complications trying to explain how she intended to get to the brat roast: she was overdressed, she left too early, and she went the wrong direction. So we scrapped the whole brat roast scenario and asked where might she be going under those circumstances that required us to provide fewer suppositions.

“We considered where she might go by traveling into the mountains by that route, what were her choices by going that way? Then we weighed one against the other, applying Occam’s Razor.”

Poitier asked, “So, where was she going?”

“We don’t know, but it’s likely she went to meet Wanda at a car-pool parking area at the intersection of County Road twenty-five and State Route thirty-nine.”

“You don’t have an idea where she was going?” Poitier insisted.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “What matters is that she was intercepted, probably by mutual agreement, by Wanda.”

“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?” Poitier persisted.

“For our purposes, it simply doesn’t matter, since it apparently didn’t happen. Answering that question would just add unnecessary complications to the theory.”

“Then what does it prove?”

“It doesn’t prove anything. It’s simply the most likely theory of the crime, produced by a group of, I believe, intelligent individuals familiar with both the people and their circumstances. Looked at another way, while other explanations are possible, they are simply less likely and could only be justified by imagining even more contributing circumstances.”

I shrugged. “As someone once pointed out to me, Occam’s Razor is a tool, not a guarantee.”

“And what do you expect me to do with it?” Poitier had begun to sound defensive.

“I don’t know about the others, but, personally, I have no expectations. You asked about a butterfly hunt. I told you about it. I had other opportunities to mention it to you but I hadn’t, because, as I said, I felt the circumstances made the information seem biased. I still think that. To be honest, I can’t be strictly sure that it is unbiased. I’d like to think so, but the logical outcome would affect me and my friends, and I’m only human.”

Chet said, “He’s being accurate, Sergeant. We agreed over a week ago that it wouldn’t do for us to bring this to you as we all had personal interests in the outcome of the sheriff’s race. We felt it would be arrogant on our part to bring you a theory from a such a questionable source. Even so, we stand by our conclusions.”

He sighed. “You’re right: I did ask. I’m sorry if I got a little testy.

“This case has been especially aggravating. I keep feeling that the answer is staring me in the face, but I just can’t see it. Then you go and deliver this theory all neatly wrapped and tied up with a bow.” He shook his head and then scrubbed at his face with his palms, then looked morosely at me. “But even if it’s a hundred percent accurate, it still isn’t something I can take to the prosecutor. And you’re also right about it being suspect, coming from the opposition camp, as it were.” He was shaking his head again, looking down at the table.

The dining room had mostly cleared out. Denny had come over and picked up our dishes.

I said, “I’m not a cop. And, as Tate has pointed out to me, I’m an interviewer, not an interrogator. But I see two weak links in the chain: John and Wanda. I don’t think Wanda wanted to kill Evelyn.” I looked at the others. “Try this on for size: Wanda and Evelyn had become physically and, at least on Wanda’s part, emotionally intimate. It was a new experience for Wanda, being with a woman, and she had to have been feeling both excited and vulnerable, afraid of all it might mean in her life. Then Evelyn tells her about John’s baby. Her world is blown away. The two people she loves the most have betrayed her with one another. She strikes or pushes Evelyn, and Evelyn falls down and hits her head, maybe on the car’s door frame. Evelyn dies, bleeding in the car.

“Wanda puts Evelyn in Evelyn’s car, then gets behind the--”

“Wait,” Poitier cut in. “Where did this murder take place?”

Lindsey said, “In the gravel lot at Carbon.”

“Where’s Carbon?”

“It’s a ghost town in the Blackstones,” Mellon said, “where Coldwater County Road twenty-five tees with State Route thirty-nine, about six or eight miles northeast of Coldwater Junction. There’s a big graveled clearing at the corner, the gravel’s mostly cinders and clinkers from the old coke oven. It’s a car pool parking lot for logging crews headed into the woods.”

Poitier turned to Lindsey. “How do you know that’s where she was killed?”

“Evelyn was headed that direction. We know she encountered someone with a personal interest, we think that was Wanda, and Carbon’s the first place Evelyn would come to where meeting someone would be likely.”

“And it’s a meeting place away from prying eyes,” Emily noted.

Poitier turned to Mellon. “Any chance we looked at the area as part of the investigation?”

“I seriously doubt it.”

Poitier shook his head. “I know it’s been more than six weeks, but let’s swing by there on the way back to the barracks.” Then he turned back to me. “I interrupted what you were saying about weak links.”

“I was justifying why I thought John and Wanda were the weak links and might be more vulnerable to pressure to turn state’s evidence. To make it short, I think both of them got caught up in this, Wanda in a moment of passion and John in concern for his wife. I think they were manipulated by Nick to hide the crime.”

Greta said, “We really need Tate and Louise for that evaluation. They know them better.”

I asked her, “But do you think I’m off base?”

She shrugged, “What you said makes sense.”

I looked at Chet. He said, “Yeah, probably, depending on the Plummers having a say.”

Lindsey hooked a thumb toward Chet. “What he said.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, it’s weak, I’ll admit. I just wanted to give the Sergeant some hope, because it looked like he was about to burst into tears.”

The others tried to hide their smiles, but Mellon, apparently caught off guard by my irreverent comment, blurted out what could only be described as a loud guffaw, before quickly stifling it.

Nora said, “Nice, Gary. Maybe next you could poke the scary police sergeant with a sharp stick.”

“You know,” Emily said, “she could even have hit her head and still been conscious, then bled out in her brain. That’s apparently what happened to that actress, uh, what’s her name? Her sister is an actress, too.”

“Lynn Redgrave?” I guessed. We were at supper and I knew who she was talking about, but I couldn’t help myself. Thanks, Mom.

“No, no, not Redgrave. She was Liam Neeson’s wife.”

I said, “Lynn Redgrave wasn’t married to Liam Neeson.”

“No, I meant the other actress.”

“Vanessa Redgrave? I don’t think she’s dead. She wasn’t married to Neeson, either.”

Emily gave me a warning look. “I know you’re messing with me. You’ve got five seconds to come up with the right name.”

“Oh, you mean Natasha Richardson.”

“Jerk.”

“What was your point, Em?” Greta asked.

“It’s the reason the medicos don’t want you to sleep right after a head injury. You can be bleeding into your cranium and have no symptoms, though it’s often first manifest by a loss of consciousness.”

“You think that’s what happened to Evelyn?”

“It’s a possibility,” Em said. “Maybe Wanda and Evelyn were going up to Fossil Creek Reservoir for the day, to be with the brothers. Evelyn mentions her pregnancy to Wanda, possibly thinking John has already told her. Wanda loses it, pushes Evelyn, and she falls backward and hits her head. They have some sort of reconciliation, then get in Evelyn’s car and head north. Later, Evelyn says she’s sleepy and Wanda takes the wheel while Evelyn naps, but she’s dead when they arrive at Fossil Creek. Maybe the head wound had bled onto the upholstery, too. Whatever the sequence, Nick convinces them to go into cover-up mode.”

I said, “I like that scenario. I was having a hard time seeing Wanda as a killer.”

Emily said, “I don’t know her that well, but this is as plausible as anything else.”

Greta agreed, “Yeah, I only know her from those couple cook-outs at the Plummers, but she seemed pleasant enough, not the vindictive type.”

“I don’t think Tate would have kept her on in the office if she weren’t an okay person,” I said. But then I added, “Though this is still an awful mess, for everybody.” I kept wondering if there was something I could do.

Greta said, “Gary, you’ve got that look. Just forget it.”

“What look?”

“Like you’re trying to think of a way to jump in and save everyone. That never works. Just forget it.”

“Sometimes it works.”

“Name a time.”

“How ‘bout when I shot Brandon?”

“That was pure dumb luck, you moron. Your plan was to get the rattler cranked up. How did that turn out?”

“Well, partially. I got Brandon interested in getting the rattler cranked up.”

“That wasn’t your plan, that was the pure dumb luck part. And I’m not forgetting that, because of your big plan, we never did find out why Brandon and Nguyen were out in the woods, either.”

(Monday, July 13)

WEDNESDAY, JULY 15

We invited Tate, Louise, Chet, and Lindsey over to supper. I prepared a chicken recipe that I called East Shore Braised Chicken, based on a recipe that I’d encountered on a trip through Maryland and Virginia’s Eastern Shore. It consisted of briefly shallow-frying some lightly-battered chicken pieces, then braising them in milk. It made for some juicy chicken and some delicious, creamy gravy. It was accompanied by mashed potatoes, of course, and yellow wax beans.

We brought the others up-to-date on our recent refinements to the theory of the crime.

“Now that’s starting to make sense,” Tate said. “I was having a heckuva time seeing Wanda as an intentional killer, or even as someone given to battery.”

Louise said, “I could see it happening exactly that way. This has got to be tearing them up.”

Tate added, “I think you’re right. I’ve watched John, at some of the events we’ve both attended. There’s an off-note to the way he’s talking to people. It sounds really artificial, or at least it does to me. Folks that don’t know him may not see it, but to me it just doesn’t sound like his heart’s in it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louise remarked, “now that you mention it, John comes off with a false note. But Nick is so talkative and constantly glad-handing people that it distracts them from John’s lukewarm presentation. In fact, I overheard one woman say to her husband that it was more like Nick was the one running for office.”

“What’s the story on the debate?” I asked.

Louise said, “I talked to Ernie Myers, the speech teacher and debate team coach over at the high school.” She meant Leaufroide Senior High School, which served the entire county.

“He said that debates were more effective earlier in a campaign rather than later, according to research he’s read. Early in a campaign, a debate helps the public get a clearer picture of the candidates’ positions. Later in the election process, opinions have solidified and debates show little effect in changing anyone’s mind, even if one of the candidates clearly bested the other.

“He suggested Tuesday evening, August fourth. He’s going to write up a suggested format and ground rules based on a model from Kingston University’s Center for Political Discourse.”

“Will he be the moderator?” Emily asked.

“No,” Louise said. “He told me it’s better to have a moderator from outside the involved political jurisdiction, what he called, ‘someone with no skin in the game.’ He suggested Betty Temple, the debate coach from over at Lincoln County High School in Sandford.” Sandford was the next sizable town east -- actually southeast -- on I-88, in adjoining Lincoln County. It was about fifty-five miles, on the on the other side of the Embargo Mountains.

I said, “Has John agreed?”

“Ernie emailed the proposal this morning. As far as we know, John hasn’t responded yet.”

(Wednesday, July 15)

THURSDAY, JULY 16

We had reserved the commission meeting room for thirteen-thirty for our general staff meeting. As it was normally set up, the room could seat sixty-four and there were forty-eight of us, forty-nine including me, so we didn’t quite fill the room.

I got there at thirteen-twelve and Chet came in a minute later.

He said, “If it would be okay with the staff, Pat Alcivar and I would like to attend.”

That made me uneasy. “I’m not sure. I’d wanted everyone to feel free to bring up anything at all. Personally, I wouldn’t mind; it’s some of the staff I’d be concerned with.”

“Do you really think so?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. I think about the nurses, for instance. They come from a fairly hierarchical profession, and may not feel free to speak their minds in front of authority figures.”

“But you plan to be there, right?”

“Well, yeah, but I’m pretty sure no one sees me as an authority figure; god knows, I work hard enough at mocking that image.”

He smiled and shook his head. “You can forget that delusion. Authority comes with the job title, there’s no shaking it. They may think you’re a clown, but you’re still the boss clown.”

“Great, thanks for the vote of confidence. Is that the sort of leadership that caused the Navy to keep you on boats out on the ocean and away from the country itself?”

“Huh,” he grunted, looking off as he pondered the question. “Maybe that was it, because,” and he looked at me, “here I am, only a couple years out of the Navy, and I already control a homeland county.” Then he looked at me with narrowed brows and said, “Be afraid. Be very afraid.” (Yeah, from Cronenberg’s The Fly. But did you know that it was funnyman Mel Brooks, who was one of the producers of The Fly, who came up with that line? Go figure.)

I said, “That does it. The Center’s cutting loose from this loony bin.”

Chet smiled. “Why don’t you just ask them if we can attend your meeting? If you still think it’s not a good idea, then we won’t come.”

“So we can talk about it without you there?”

“Of course. You can call me with your decision.”

“Okay. Cool.”

As it turned out, no one much cared. One of the nurses said, “Will we be able to ask them questions, too?”

“I’ll make it a condition of their attendance.”

And so the meeting proceeded with Chet and Commissioner Alcivar in attendance. I also had Margaret Deveaux on call. She said she’d make herself available at any time between 14:00 and 16:15. I had reason to call her almost right away.

The team managers joined me at the commissioners table in front. I tried to cover the basics in my introduction.

First, I said,

We have two questions to answer for ourselves. Do we stay with the County or do we leave? Second, if we leave, do we operate our own agency or hook up with Developing Abilities?