SATURDAY, AUGUST 19, PRESENT DAY
The chief of police of Millers Kill had experience with hostile fire. There had been the war, of course, and that infantryman in Panama who had snapped and started sniping passersby on base. Those had been places he had expected trouble, though, not the colonial-cute meeting room of the Millers Kill Free Library. His small Adirondack town wasn’t without its dangers—just a few years back, a couple gang members had decided he’d look better with a few bullet holes in him. That had been bad. Scary bad.
But nothing had prepared him for the League of Concerned Voters, Washington County Chapter.
“Chief Van Alstyne, in the comprehensive accounting from the town’s aldermen,” the elderly man said, shaking a fistful of papers, “we can see that dissolving our police department and relying on the state police instead will save taxpayers eight hundred thousand a year. That’s a hundred dollars a year for every man, woman, and child in the three towns! What do you offer to me and my wife that’s worth paying an extra two hundred dollars a year for?”
The twenty-odd senior citizens crammed into the high-ceilinged room nodded along with the tirade. Russ briefly considered offering them a hundred sixty bucks each for their votes and then crawling back home to get some more sleep. Eight o’clock in the morning was too damn early to field questions from a bunch of Tea Party types.
“Having law enforcement in Millers Kill, patrolling here and Fort Henry and Cossayuharie, is a lot like having insurance, Mr. Bain.” Russ tightened his jaw against a yawn. Since she was nursing, his wife took most of the night duty with their four-month-old, but even at her most quiet he woke when she did, and, more often than not, wound up changing at least one diaper in the wee hours. “We’re there for you when things go wrong.”
“Yeah?” Another geezer stood up. “Only time I ever seen your cops was getting ticketed for driving my farm vehicle on the road.”
“You’re out of order, Teddy. Hank has the floor.” This morning’s moderator was Michael Penrod, the library director. Supposedly, he was chairing the meeting because the library was hosting a series of public events around the upcoming vote. The real reason, Russ suspected, was that the Concerned Voters were so ornery, they couldn’t agree on a leader. Too many generals and not enough soldiers.
“Thank you, Mr. Penrod.” Hank Bain glared at the interloping questioner before redirecting his ire at Russ. “Are you saying the state police won’t be here once a crime’s been committed? Or that they can’t handle an investigation better’n you can? Or at least as good?”
“I have no doubt the state police can handle any investigation. We already use their crime lab technicians. But your police department”—he had to remember to keep framing it like that. Your police department was one of his talking points—“is here for a lot more than solving crimes. Think of our community as a car. You don’t wait until the oil’s turned to sludge and the engine throws a rod to get it checked out. You take it to the mechanic for regular tune-ups. You get the tires rotated and the liquids topped off.” Even the ferociously frowning men in the audience nodded. Russ’s deputy chief, Lyle MacAuley, had come up with the car analogy. So far, so good.
“Your police force is the mechanic. We stop petty vandalism before it becomes ugly damage that lowers the property values. We stop the local small-time dealer before his business becomes profitable enough to attract the big guys. We stop speeders before they cause accidents. And yes, when a crime’s been committed, we’re right there. I can’t say we’re better than the state police, but I can guarantee we care more. Because this is our town, too, where we live and shop and bring up our kids.” Next time, he thought in a flush of inspiration, he’d bring the baby along. There would definitely be a next time. Russ planned on addressing every voters’ group, book club, civic organization, and congregation in Millers Kill between now and the vote in November.
Before Penrod could recognize one of the many hands waving in the air, Russ’s phone vibrated. He checked the text display. MKPD: 10-80. He wasn’t sure if he was annoyed or relieved by the interruption. “I’m sorry, everyone, but duty calls.”
Someone in the group muttered, “Cheap theater.”
“Thanks, Chief Van Alstyne.” Michael Penrod raised his voice. “If anyone wants to help themselves to coffee or banana bread, go right ahead, and we can continue the discussion in a minute.” He gestured toward the entrance, and Russ followed. Since the library had been built in 1909 and was largely unchanged since Russ was a boy, he figured Penrod wasn’t worried about him getting lost. The director paused by the front desk. “I just wanted to let you know the entire library is behind you, Chief.”
Russ raised his brows. “I thought you were the entire library, Michael.”
“There are the volunteers and the friends’ organization, thankfully. We’ll do what we can.” Penrod sighed. “If the board of aldermen is willing to put the police department on the chopping block, God knows what could be next. Taxpayers complain about libraries all the time.”
Russ shook his hand. “I appreciate the support.” The little bell on the door tinged as he exited, just as it had when he had been a kid.
The long walkway through the immaculate front lawn gave him time to call his dispatcher. She answered on the first ring. “What took you so long?”
Russ glanced at his watch. It had been all of five minutes since she’d texted him, but Harlene had her own standards for police conduct. “I was listening to a message of support. We need all of those we can get, these days. What’s up?”
“We’ve had a nine-one-one call.” Harlene’s voice sounded oddly subdued. “Reporting a body in the middle of McEachron Hill Road in Cossayuharie. A young woman. Wearing a party dress.”
His lungs seemed to seize up. He swallowed. “It can’t be the same.”
“Oh, no?”
“For God’s sake, Harlene, it’s been…” He couldn’t calculate how long. More than half his lifetime. “Who’s on the scene?”
“Knox.”
“Okay. I’m headed over. Let her know.”
“Lyle’s on the way as well. Do you want me to—” She hesitated. Harlene never hesitated. “Pull the old files?”
“Yes. Maybe.” Russ pinched the bridge of his nose. “No. We need to go in clean, not making assumptions based on—”
“But if it is—”
“No.” He was definitive. “It’s not. At least not until proven otherwise to my satisfaction.”
Her deference was exaggerated. “You’re the chief.”
“At least for now.” He hung up the call.