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Roscoe, NY
“Pete,” I said, “it’s like closing the barn door after the horse is out.” I had called him in for a little chat about finding the Meth lab that the mayor had “discussed” with me, and now Pete Richards stood quietly waiting for my next pearls of wisdom. “Since Billy Stillwater is officially dead, we can probably assume that the location of his Meth lab has become a moot point. But, just on the odd chance that someone else has assumed the controls, I want you to be especially mindful of being on the lookout for where it might be.”
“Sure thing, Matt,” said Pete. “But you and I both know that we’ll probably never find the damned thing until some hunter stumbles across it while chasin’ down a deer he nicked with an arrow.”
“You’re probably right, Pete. But, it doesn’t matter how we find it, or even who finds it. What’s important is that I keep my word to Harold.”
“Gotcha.”
If nothing else, Pete was succinct.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Nah. Keep me posted, okay?”
“Will do.”
As Pete left the office, I thought how different things were here, as opposed to the city, with paid informants just waiting to tell you anything you wanted to know—if the price was right.
* * * *
I received the coroner’s report a few days later, and while it noted the blow to the head, it listed the official cause of Billy Stillwater’s death as “asphyxiation, caused by the effects of a poisonous substance.” To my surprise, the toxin cited was not Methamphetamine; it was strychnine. Strychnine? I was totally perplexed. I figured for sure that our boy had overdosed. But strychnine, well, that just came completely out of left field—and it elevated matters to a new level. After all, this was Roscoe, not the set of some daytime soap opera. We weren’t used to this type of activity. This wasn’t a case of suicide or stupidity; this was cold-blooded murder—but why? If this wasn’t a drug deal gone south, then why had someone wanted a piece of crap like Billy Stillwater dead? Maybe it was another dealer wanting to cut in on Billy’s action. Or a parent, whose teenaged son or daughter was hooked on “product?” Billy surely wouldn’t be missed, that much was certain.
Initially, something else bothered me; I had wondered about the vomit all over the front of Billy’s shirt. But now, as I continued reading the findings of the report, it all became perfectly clear.
...the likely cause of death was from lactic acidosis, brought on by the ingestion of strychnine. This would account for the vomiting, preceded no doubt by nearly continuous convulsions. Death most likely resulted from suffocation caused by paralysis of the neural pathways that control breathing, or perhaps even from sheer exhaustion from the convulsions themselves.
Not a pleasant way to leave the planet, I thought. Stillwater was—excuse me, formerly was—a drug dealer. He had also been a user, a fact known to everyone in the area; dead at thirty-five, he had the appearance of someone twice his age.
Whoever had “shared” the toxic highball with Billy hadn’t counted on the fact that unless one died in a hospital, there would almost certainly be an autopsy, in which case the actual cause of death would point to the strychnine. Perhaps the killer hoped that whoever found the body would assume that Billy hit his head on a rock, staggered back to his truck and died—end of story. Case closed. Or maybe, quite simply, they just didn’t care, as evidenced by their ultimate choice of the true “weapon.”
I picked up the evidence bag containing the victim’s wallet. Thumbing through its contents, I extracted the frayed Twin Islands business card with the name Donna and the phone number scrawled across the back. I ought to have a chat with Donna—if I could find her. However, like most male hangouts, places like Twin Islands didn’t open until at least lunchtime—especially on a weekday—so I decided to first seek out Wayne Sabolewski, the most visible of the town’s drug addicts. I seriously doubted that he was my number one suspect in the murder case, but the details of his well-known symbiotic relationship with the deceased might at least yield a starting point in the investigation. Besides, I was way past overdue in my obligation to grill him about the laundromat burglary. I definitely liked him for that one.
Because of the rain, I figured I’d most likely to find the teenager skulking around the protected doorways of the small knot of retail shops concentrated in the three or four-block area that made up the heart of Roscoe. I was right. The Jeep’s windshield wipers glided across the glass in a slow, hypnotic, one-two beat, fending off the steady drizzle as I crept up Main Street, made a left onto Old Route 17, and started toward Maynard Street, just past Maple. It was just after I slapped the signal lever to indicate a left turn that I spotted him. The kid was squeezed inside the doorway of an abandoned Chinese restaurant. He was barely protected from the rain by a tattered awning hanging at an awkward slant below a faded neon sign that read: Mai Moon Take Out. You knew things were bad when a town couldn’t support an oriental take-out joint—although, in fairness to Roscoe, the food hadn’t been that great to begin with. So, when the downturn in the economy hit, it just made the inevitable closing a fait accompli.
I made a quick U-turn and pulled the Jeep to a stop in front of the vacant building. Almost immediately, the Sabolewski kid started moving.
“Hey, Wayne,” I called. “Hold on. I just want to talk to you for a minute.”
“I didn’t do anything,” he whined. Dressed in tattered jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, he was hopping around like a Mexican jumping bean, shuffling from one sneakered foot to the other.
“I’m sure you didn’t. But, I still want to talk to you.” I turned off the engine, and got out. Wayne continued walking slowly back toward Stewart Street. “Look, don’t make me have to catch you. Just stop right there and relax. I just want to ask you a couple of questions.”
Whether it was the tone of my voice or that he didn’t want to get any wetter than he already was, it didn’t matter; he stopped walking. He ducked inside the doorway of a second-hand, clothing shop with no name to its credit, and I quickly closed the space between us and joined him there. He was shivering, partially because he was damp, but more likely because he needed a fix. He was also scared. I figured I’d go for broke. But I had to be careful; as with any suspect, I couldn’t afford to ask him any questions that might tend to incriminate him. For that I’d have to read him his Miranda rights, and then he’d probably dummy up until the state had provided him with a lawyer.
“So, Wayne,” I began. “How’re things between you and Billy Stillwater?”
“Whattaya mean?”
“Just what I said. When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Why?”
“I just wondered, that’s all.” I was looking for any sign that he might know something—anything.
Wayne shrugged his shoulders. He might have appeared lost, but he certainly didn’t appear guilty. I tried another tack.
“How about the laundromat?” I asked. “Been by there lately?”
Immediately, the youth’s face darkened, and a deep furrow creased his forehead. “I didn’t do it!”
The kid probably wasn’t a murderer, but he was an idiot.
“Do what?” I asked. “Did something happen at the laundromat? What didn’t you do, Wayne?”
“Oh, come on, you can’t prove I robbed that place.”
Bingo, one for two!
“How’d you know it had been robbed? I didn’t say anything about a robbery. What did you do with the money? Did you score off Billy?”
Silence.
“Look, I’m pretty sure you broke into the laundry. But, if you own up to it, my best guess is you’ll probably only get six months probation. But, if you know anything at all about what happened to Billy and you don’t tell me, well, I don’t think I can help you. So, you’d better go ahead and tell me now, before it’s too late.”
“What happened to Billy?” Wayne’s eyes were open wide, and he appeared genuinely dumbfounded. His response certainly wasn’t the one I had anticipated.
“Why don’t you tell me? When did you see him last?”
Wayne scratched his head, making an obvious effort to remember. He didn’t appear to be having any luck.
“A week ago?” I asked. “Two weeks ago? How about Tuesday?” I threw the last one out there just to see if I’d get a response. It worked.
“Okay, okay, I saw him on Tuesday,” sighed Wayne. “But, what happened to him?” he asked. “Is he okay?”
I figured there was no point in playing games. “He’s dead,” I replied. “Someone found him in his truck.” His reaction was one of genuine shock.
“But that’s impossible. I saw him Tuesday, after I—”
“After you robbed the Grime Be Gone?”
“N...n...no. No,” he stammered. “I swear. He was alive when I left him.”
“And what time was that?”
“Around ten, maybe ten-thirty.”
“Okay, so where were you between, say, eleven that night and three in the morning?”
“I was at the Roscoe Diner,” sighed Wayne. “Ask the Greek. He’ll tell you. I had a cheeseburger and a Coke. It’s the truth, I swear it.”
The “Greek,” was George Popadopolous, the owner of the storied eatery. If George said Wayne was there, you could take it to the bank. I’d check to be certain, but I tended to believe the kid. Wayne started to say something, then thought better of it. He was stupid, but not that stupid.
“Okay, I’ll tell you what, Wayne. Why don’t we take a ride? We’ll just go on over to headquarters and talk about this a little more.”
I opened the rear door to the Jeep, and motioned him to get in. The mayor had done the right thing and had a wire grille installed between the driver’s compartment and the rear passenger compartment, along with automatic door locks that could only be opened by the driver. Wayne started to get in, but then hesitated.
“Look, kid, I just want to make one thing clear: you’re not under arrest or anything like that. I only want to ask you a few more questions. See if we can’t get to the bottom of this, okay?” A look of panic spread across his face. “Relax, Wayne. You can leave anytime you want. I promise.”
The teenager got into the back seat, and I closed the door. As I pulled the Jeep away from the curb, the boy started to cry. He was no hardened criminal, just a lost and confused youth, strung out on Meth. I really hoped he’d be sent someplace where he could get help. I promised myself to do whatever I could to make that a reality.
* * * *
When we got to headquarters, Nancy buzzed us in, and I took Wayne back to the holding cell. I deliberately left the door wide open, so he’d know that I meant what I had said about his being free to leave. He sat down on the cot, with his back against the wall, and closed his eyes. He appeared on the edge of exhaustion.
“Would you like a soda?” I asked.
Wayne shrugged his shoulders and nodded.
“Okay. I’ll be right back.”
When I returned, Wayne was sitting quietly in the holding cell, his head in his hands. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. He never knew his father; his mother left him with his grandmother when he was only six years old, and the two never saw nor heard from her again. By the time he was sixteen, he had dropped out of school and spent his days wandering back and forth between Roscoe and Walton, getting himself hooked on Meth somewhere along the line. His grandmother passed away when Wayne was eighteen, and the state had auctioned off the house for taxes, changing his status from occasionally homeless to officially so.
I sat down next to Wayne on the metal cot that occupied the majority of space in the small containment unit, and handed the kid the can of soda. He gulped it down without hesitation.
“Look. Wayne. I’d like to help you. Maybe get you off the Meth. Would you like that?” He looked up at me like a lost puppy, his soul showing through his eyes. He nodded his head. “Good. But, I’ll need you to admit to breaking into the Grime Be Gone, okay? And, I’ll have to arrest you—just so we can get you into rehab.”
He nodded again.
“That way I can get the judge to release you on what’s called a personal recognizance bond. We’ll get you transferred over to the rehab center in Monticello, and after you get yourself clean we’ll see about maybe finding you a job and a place to live. Okay?”
He nodded in agreement.
“And, of course, you’ll have to pay Don back for the money you stole and the damage you did breaking into his place. If you can do all that, the judge will dismiss the charges, and it’ll be like it never happened. What do you say, deal?”
He nodded his head again, but a bit more enthusiastically this time. What other choice did he have, I thought. If he didn’t plead guilty, I really couldn’t charge him (but, he didn’t know that). If I let him go, he might get by for a while, but it was only a matter of time before his body would turn up somewhere, just like Billy’s—and I think he knew that.
“I’ll be back in a minute with some paper and a pen. You can write down how it all happened. Then, we’ll get things moving with the judge and social services.”
It might have been my overactive imagination, but I could swear I saw a sigh of relief exit the poor kid’s body. At least something good had come out of the day. I walked up front to Nancy’s office, being careful to cough as I entered. “I need some paper and a pen, please, Nancy.”
“Beat a confession out of him, did you?” asked Nancy with a wry smile on her face. She knew better, but still enjoyed busting my chops.
“Yeah,” I replied with a smile. “I beat him to a pulp. You better get back there, later on, with a washcloth—clean up the bloody mess.”
Nancy handed me a pad of yellow, legal paper and a ballpoint pen. “Here you go, Adolf,” she said with a laugh.
“Thanks, Frau Cooper,” I replied in my best imitation of a German Gestapo officer’s accent.
* * * *
Wayne seemed to be in a better mood when I returned to the holding cell to give him the pen and paper. He sat quietly, as he worked on his statement. I watched him for a few minutes, and then left him alone with his thoughts. I truly hoped this would be the beginning of a new life for him.
“Listen, Wayne, I’m going to have to lock this cell while I take care of some business.” An anxious look spread across the youth’s face. “Don’t worry. I should be back in about two hours, and you can either take off then (I knew I was going out on a limb, but what the hell) or you can stay the night—in the cell, of course. You can think about it while I’m gone. I’ll tell Miss Cooper to check on you every once in a while.”
* * * *
I stopped by Nancy’s office on the way out and apprised her of the situation with Wayne. “Would you mind calling Frank Merritt over at social services? Tell him I’ve got a kid who needs to get into rehab, and he should be coming over there in a day or two, just as soon as I can get him before the magistrate.”
“Are you going to arrest him?”
“I’m afraid I have to. But, I’m going to try to get Judge Holscher to release him on a personal recognizance bond with the stipulation that he makes restitution and completes rehab. He’s writing his statement now. Just tell Frank that I need him to coordinate things with the rehab center, and if he has any questions he can call me.”
“Sure thing, Matt.” She picked up the phone, and then set it back into its cradle. “Oh, by the way, I was watching the weather channel this morning—”
“And?”
“And it looks like we could get a break in the weather tomorrow. I thought you might want to know—seeing as how you’ve been cooped up so long with all this rain.”
Nancy knew me like a book. She was well aware that I hadn’t wet a line since last fall and would dearly love to spend a little time on the water fishing.
“We’ll see what it looks like in the morning. Maybe I can sneak out for an hour or so before office hours. If I’m not there when you get here,” I laughed, “Start without me.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“In the meantime, I should be back in a couple of hours. I’m headed to Downsville to interview that gal over at Twin Islands.”
Nancy grimaced in mock disgust at the mention of the risqué bar. “Well, be careful what you touch there—and for God’s sake, be sure to wash your hands.”
“Yes, ma’am. I promise.”
* * * *
I took my time driving to Downsville. The rain became fog at the higher elevations along the section of Route 206 known as Cat Hollow Road and then changed back into a steady drizzle when the road emptied into the town of Downsville at its lower end, where it met up with Route 30.
While “on the job” in New York City, I’d had my fill of sleazy bars that served watered-down drinks, and offered diseased hookers masquerading as exotic dancers, so I wasn’t in a hurry to be in another one; not that the place I was headed to was even close to being on a par with those in the city. But sleaze was sleaze, no matter where you found it.
It was just past one in the afternoon when I slipped the Jeep into the potholed parking lot at the rear of the two-story, yellow stucco building that housed the bar. I deliberately chose not to park in front, because I didn’t want to spook any would-be informants, especially Donna, whose name had been hastily scrawled on the back of the business card I carried in my pocket.
The steady beat of the bass track from a song playing on the juke box inside reverberated through the cheap front door, which was nothing more than two sheets of plywood nailed to either side of a frame made of two-by-fours, with a hole drilled into it to support a five-dollar lockset. There was no need for anything more substantial since the bar’s owner, who lived upstairs, emptied the cash drawer of the register on an hourly basis. I imagined that the security arrangements for the apartment above were far more substantial, and no doubt included a firearm or two. However, that information was not what I was seeking.
I had opted not to wear my uniform, and, dressed the way I was in jeans, button-down cotton shirt, and a windbreaker, my appearance was that of any tourist looking, perhaps, to use the bathroom—which was exactly where I headed. The old prostate had reached a point in its never-ending quest to overpower my bladder as to be a constant source of annoyance. Its size not only necessitated more frequent visits to the John, but also at the same time prevented me from emptying the dysfunctional vessel of its contents. It was a veritable “Catch-22.”
The music from the jukebox was so loud that I could feel my diaphragm resonating to the sound waves of the bass track; and it actually hurt. No wonder people drank so much in these places. The bar was a horseshoe affair that wrapped around an island supporting rows of liquor bottles and a rusty, old NCR cash register. Atop the island was a pole attached to the ceiling, and temporarily attached to the pole was a youngish girl, probably no older than twenty, who gyrated mindlessly to the beat of the music. Her outfit (if you could call it that) consisted of a red string-bikini bottom, and two red pasties attached to her ample breasts. She was about five-feet, three-inches tall, with dark hair worn loose to her shoulders, and she had a rhinestone stud punched through the left nostril of her pert nose; not my taste, to be sure, but apparently just what the customers desired. Even money said her name was Donna.
It turned out I was right.