Bill Allard’s office was on the top floor of the Department of Public Safety, one flight above even the commissioner and the head of the state police.
That having been said, it was a mouse hole, with a view of an opposite wall, in a building resembling the insane asylum many wags said it had once been—all brick and steel and concrete-hard linoleum. In fact, the main stairwell’s empty middle space—with its sheer drop to the ground floor—was caged off from the stairs themselves, presumably to discourage any suicidal yearnings. This did make the wags more difficult to dispute.
Joe didn’t actually know the history of the building. The remnants of the euphemistically named State Hospital were just across the driveway, which operation had been thriving mere decades earlier, but that’s where his knowledge stopped.
What he did know was that his behavior had turned up the temperature under his boss’s seat, which was already wedged between the VBI field force Allard tried to nurture and protect, and the bureaucrats and politicians who constantly pestered him about the expense and value of the new unit.
“I’ve had a few balls in the air, Bill,” Joe explained disingenuously, after they’d exchanged greetings. “These cases don’t always come when you’re ready for them. But the squad’s on top of it, I’ve just compared notes with Hillstrom, and we’ve got a growing list of solid suspects.”
“What did Hillstrom say?” Allard asked, his demeanor studiously neutral.
Joe knew to expect that—the scientific stuff always got the attention. That’s why he’d started with Beverly before reporting here.
“The lab lifted a foreign blood sample from the body. If we find someone to match it, that’ll be a big help. Who’s been leaning on you, Bill?”
The question was a diversion. Allard was no different than everyone else, preferring his own woes over listening to the other guy’s.
Allard rubbed his eyes. He was sitting behind his desk with his feet propped up. “Oh, God, name it and he, she, or it’s been pounding on my door. It’s not all bad, though—we get a case like yours—all gory and sensational—and it’s suddenly hand wringing from everybody, wondering what they can do to help. But I need something to tell them, Joe.”
“Word on the street,” Joe told him, “is we shouldn’t even be running an investigation—it’s good riddance to bad rubbish.”
“What do you think?”
“My gut tells me we’ll be digging up some nasty stuff before we’re done, but that it’ll be restricted to a small circle. I’m seeing this as a revenge killing that’s over and done with, meaning you can tell the worriers that once we solve it, we’ll be set.”
Allard nodded glumly. “But it’s too early to leak anything?”
“Yeah, for the time being. Sorry.”
He sighed. “All right. It’s better than nothing. But for Christ’s sake, keep in touch, okay? I want to pick up the phone and find you on the other end. We got cell phones, pagers, damn near wires in our heads. I’m just asking you to keep ’em turned on.”
Joe rose and moved to the door, a whole two paces. “Got it, chief. I’ll make Kunkle my personal liaison to your office.”
Allard rolled his eyes. “Get out of here.”
But once he was headed unscathed down the hallway, Joe half regretted not having been entirely open with Bill, either about Lyn or the case. Both situations seemed so fluid as yet, like complex recipes only half worked out, so he was loath to overthink them. He already feared that he’d soon be facing a personal time management traffic jam; he didn’t want or need any additional complications, even from a friend and ally like Bill.
Sam’s second visit to Karen Putnam’s trailer was less spontaneous, following hours of interviews, computer time, and phone calls to identify the backgrounds and habits of at least most members of the Putnam household.
It wasn’t easy. Karen ran a loose operation, as her son had implied, to the point where Sam finally had to estimate that at least eight people called the trailer home, not six.
They were: Karen, of course, and her four children—daughter, Becky Kerr, and sons, Richard Vial, Nicholas King, and Ryan Hatch. Followed by Karen’s husband, Todd Putnam; a girlfriend of Ryan’s named Maura Scully; and lastly, a man seemingly unrelated to any of them named Dan Kravitz.
The common denominator, it turned out, and the way she’d figured this out, was that each of them appeared in the Spillman database, listing the trailer as a current home address.
Lester actually discovered this in a moment of pure frustration, as he and Ron were helping Sam out. Ron had already lost time consulting tax rolls, welfare lists, voting records, Department of Corrections, and the like, gathering little, when Les simply typed in the trailer’s physical location and hit Search. The results stunned them all.
Not that every family member had a criminal record. Spillman’s strength was that it gave room to almost everyone who’d caught the legal system’s eye. If a patrol officer pulled a car over and wrote up the driver for an offense, he was urged to enter the names, dates of birth, and addresses of everybody else aboard, as well. Spillman was an equal opportunity recorder.
On the other hand, a good many of the Putnam clan had done more than simply ride in the wrong car, the worst of them being the nominal leader of the pack, Todd Putnam. He’d just been released from prison after being charged for assault and battery, destruction of private property, being drunk and disorderly, DUI, and resisting arrest—all from a single explosion at a local bar, albeit not the first. Thirty-six years old, Todd had spent half his life incarcerated for not controlling himself, and was, to Sam’s thinking, an outstanding exemplar of Karen’s poor taste in men.
This research wasn’t just to identify who was who; it was also designed to get a handle on each person’s habits, or at least reveal where the adults worked. None of the investigators wanted to haul people into the municipal building for formal conversations at this early stage. The trick was to meet with each of them quietly, casually, and preferably privately. Knowing where they might be and when was helpful.
That’s why Sam was pulling to a stop at the trailer when she was pretty sure Karen was alone—barring, of course, young Richard, of whose whereabouts she had no clue.
The thought made her pause outside her car, crouch briefly beside the trailer, and gently tap against the crisscrossed slats skirting its foundation.
“Richard?” she asked gently. “You there?”
But there was no response.
Karen’s worn-out minivan, however, was parked near the flimsy aluminum stairs leading up to the narrow front door. Sam took in a small breath, straightened her back slightly, and knocked.
The response was less explosive than she’d anticipated. With the resignation of a true veteran, Karen Putnam opened the door, gave Sam a weary look, and said, “I figured you’d be back.”
“I was wondering if we could talk.”
Putnam stayed where she stood, her hand holding the spring-loaded door open. “Like I got a choice?”
Sam took a chance. “Sure you do, Karen. This is a favor I’m asking. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I upset you yesterday. Richard’s a nice kid; we just naturally started talking.”
Karen made a sour face. “He’s okay. A little weird, if you ask me—living under the trailer.”
Sam smiled. “He’s made it nice under there, though. Pretty cozy.”
“Yeah—if you’re a dog.”
There was a pause between them.
“So,” Sam tried again. “Can we talk?”
Karen hesitated, finally sighed, and stepped back. “Yeah. What the fuck.”
The home Sam entered reminded her of a storeroom with every available surface piled with clothing, boxes, toys, miscellaneous junk, and—finally—a few recognizable items like a TV set, a toaster oven, a phone, and the like. Some of it was precariously perched, the rest packed in as snugly as a lost sock between two pillows. The air smelled of dirty clothes, cat litter, decaying food, and mildew.
“Sit,” Karen ordered, gesturing vaguely to a bench seat mounted under the window along the trailer’s narrow end.
Sam looked despairingly at the offer. The carpeted floor was filthy, the walls grimy, and the bench already occupied by two bedraggled kittens in a nest of clothes. Sam had no idea what microbial swamp she was sitting in as she gently shooed the cats away, shifted the pile, and gingerly settled down.
“Thanks.”
“Wanna drink?”
“No. I’m good.”
Karen chose a kitchen chair with a partially ripped plastic cushion. “This is about Wayne, right?”
Sam accepted the offer to dive right in. “How well did you know him?”
Karen lit a cigarette. “What do you think?”
“You were lovers.”
She laughed harshly. “Jesus. La-di-dah. I’ll guarantee you we weren’t that. We were a fast fuck—a way to scratch an itch.”
“Your husband know about him?”
“Todd?” she asked, as if it were a trick question. “No way, and I’m a dead woman if you tell him.”
“Could Wayne be a dead man because Todd found out on his own?”
Karen wasn’t fazed by the suggestion. “Todd’s not a killer.”
“That’s not what you just said.”
Karen watched her through the smoke. “I know what I said, and you know goddamn well what I mean.”
“Still,” Sam pressed her. “Todd is a violent man. Things can start as a fight and go wrong by accident.”
But the other woman was already shaking her head. “He didn’t kill him. He didn’t even know him, for Christ’s sake.”
“Prison’s the biggest rumor mill there is,” Sam told her. “People coming and going all the time; everybody knowing everybody else. They gossip in there like a bunch of old grandmothers.”
Karen’s expression betrayed her growing boredom. “I told you, if Todd found out, he would’ve hammered me, not Wayne. Sure as shit, even if he had done Wayne, I would’ve heard about it, along with the whole neighborhood and every cop in town. Todd is not a man to keep things buttoned up.”
Sam knew the type. “When did you last see Wayne?”
Karen laughed again. “It sure wasn’t after Todd got out.”
“When was that?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“And where did you used to get together?”
“Depended. Sometimes it was my van, or his car. He had a friend’s apartment we used a couple of times, until the friend walked in on us once. He tried to take me to his place once, but I wouldn’t even go in, it was so gross.”
“How did you meet the first time?”
Karen took a long, final pull on her cigarette and stubbed it out in an overflowing ashtray. “Wayne and me? At a bar. I was lonely. We got loaded. You know how it goes.”
Sadly, that was true. Before Sam and Willy became a couple, she, too, had spent a good many nights at bars far outside Brattleboro, looking for companionship, and usually making the wrong choices.
“How long ago was that?”
Karen looked thoughtful. “Todd went up for a couple of years . . . I guess maybe half that. A year, a little less.”
“You get to know him well—I mean socially? His family life, where he came from, any kids? Things like that?”
She became irritated. “You don’t get it, do you? We fucked.” She dragged out the last word. “That means not a lot of chitchat. I didn’t know and I didn’t care. Same for him.”
“But he came over here,” Sam countered.
That stopped her. Karen studied her for a couple of seconds. “Goddamn Ricky,” she then said. “He told you that, right?”
“Not actually,” Sam said, hoping to cover for him. “I took a shot and you just confirmed it.”
Karen dug around in her pack for another cigarette. “Yeah, he came over a couple of times. I didn’t invite him, and I wasn’t happy about it.”
“You basically just told me one son met him. Did the other kids, too?”
The answer was made mid-inhalation. “Maybe a couple. What do I know?”
“Just curious. But it makes me wonder if you didn’t squeeze in one last fast one with Wayne, even after Todd got out.”
“Why do you care? I told you I didn’t kill him. I didn’t have a reason to.”
“Maybe someone else did. Do you know of any other girlfriends?”
“Didn’t want to know.”
Sam decided to leave it at that for the moment, pending additional research. “Okay,” she said. “That works for me.”
She made her voice more upbeat and conversational. “How many people live here? It’s got to be tight.”
“The kids, me and Todd, a few others.”
Sam already knew of Dan Kravitz and Maura Scully. “Who? I didn’t realize you had guests.”
Karen waved her cigarette in the air vaguely. “They’re not guests. It’s a guy and his daughter—Dan Kravitz and Sally.”
Sam nodded, as if completely up to speed. In fact, Willy had told her he actually knew Dan, but there’d never been mention of any daughter. “Oh, yeah. We’ve bumped into them. How old’s Sally now?”
“Fourteen.”
Sam shook her head in amazement. “God. Where do you put ’em all?”
“Here and there. Some of them double up.”
“Sally and Becky?” Sam asked, mentioning Karen’s daughter for the first time.
Karen puckered her mouth. “Becky? No way. She’s way too stuck up for that. We put Sally in with Nicky. They seem to like it,” she added with a dirty laugh.
“I bet,” Sam went along, knowing Nicholas was thirteen. “That work for Dan, too?”
“He’s got nothing to complain about.”
Sam covered her surprise with a knowing smile. “Damn. You’re good, girl. How often do you get it on with him?”
Karen brushed it off. “Now and then.”
“Even with Todd back?”
Karen chuckled, rolling her eyes. “Oh, yeah, right. Let’s say that Dan’s on his own for a while.”
Sam returned to an earlier theme, holding up her fingers to count. “So, wow. That’s you and Todd, Dan and Sally, the four kids. Eight of you, all in here? Even with Richard camping in the basement, that is something else, especially with Becky not cooperating.”
Karen’s face darkened. “It’s nine, and it’s not like we have a choice, is it? You make ends meet—that’s something you fucking cops never get, always harassing us for pissant shit.”
Sam held up both hands. “Not me. I grew up like this. That’s why I’m asking. This is like home-sweet-home. You do what you gotta do, right?”
“Fucking right.”
“But who’s the ninth? I miss a kid?”
“That’s Maura,” Karen said dismissively. “Maura Scully. Ryan’s girlfriend. She’s kinda one of the family, ever since her own threw her out.”
“You’re kidding? What’s the story there?”
Karen looked disgusted. “It was Maura’s stepdad. I don’t know the details. Her mom went along with it, though. Worthless piece of trash—do that to your own flesh and blood.”
It was a revealing comment. Sam knew too well that women like Karen, for all their faults and self-indulgences, could be fierce when defending their children against threat, even if such protectiveness was wanting day-to-day. It also implied that Karen knew nothing of Wayne’s involvement with Becky.
“So, is Becky a bit of a handful?” Sam asked.
As if on cue, Karen’s relaxed manner slipped away. “What’s it your business?”
Sam raised her eyebrows. “You said it yourself—her sleeping alone, being kind of aloof.”
Karen studied her cigarette after taking another pull. “She’s a good kid. Just sensitive. Needs more peace and quiet than most.”
“Where is she now?”
“In back.”
This time, Sam’s surprise got the better of her. “She’s here? Now?”
“No, no. I just thought we were alone, and it’s a beautiful day. I noticed Richard was out and about somewhere.”
Karen appeared to settle down a notch. “Yeah, well. You never know with him. He likes pokin’ around. Becky keeps more to herself.”
“Kids can be that way, sometimes,” Sam agreed diplomatically. “Especially if they’ve had a rough time.”
It was another chance for Karen to flare up, but instead she merely grunted. “No shit.”
“That’s too bad,” Sam said softly, her curiosity sharpened. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
Karen tossed her head back. “Well, you know what they say, life is shit and then you die.”
Sam pushed at the boundary a little, hoping to get lucky. “Sounds like life is shit for Becky, all right.”
Unfortunately, she would never know Karen’s reaction, for as the latter opened her mouth to speak, a loud, explosive rattling shook the thin walls as a motorcycle with earsplitting pipes pulled into the dooryard.
Karen segued into a broad smile instead, and slid off her chair to open the screen door.
Sighing with disappointment, Sam stood up and waited.
Karen called out as the obnoxious clatter abruptly died, “Ryan. You get that prescription like I asked?”
A querulous male voice shot back. “What do you think? Whose the car belong to?”
“A cop.”
“Fuck,” came the response. Sam readied herself to leave, recognizing the inevitable.
There were a couple of additional sounds from outside, before a scowling, muscle-bound teenager in a white T-shirt appeared, a dirty canvas bag in one hand and a drugstore sack in the other.
This he thrust at his mother, muttering, “You owe me ten bucks.” Then he glared at Sam and demanded, “What do you want?”
“Just having a conversation with your mother.”
He looked like he’d just caught a whiff of something noxious. “Don’t let the door slap you on the ass,” he said, turning left and heading for the back of the trailer.
Karen smiled. “Like father, like son.”
Sam nodded, having no doubts about that. She approached the door and her hostess. “I better head out, Karen. I really appreciate the time. Like him or not, Wayne was murdered, so we got to go through the motions. Walk me out?”
Karen looked torn, but didn’t say no.
Sam stepped off the stairs and walked to the outside corner of the trailer, five feet from her car, where they were mostly out of sight from both the trailer’s windows and the closest neighbor. She didn’t want to be interrupted again and figured this was now or never.
“I’ve got one last favor,” she said. “Something you see on TV a lot.”
“What?” Karen was cautious.
“Well, part of what we do is rule people out—that’s why all the questions. We start with everyone who might’ve had it in for the dead guy, and then we take them off the list, one by one.”
“So?”
“I was just wondering if you’d like to have your name taken off the list for sure.”
“You haven’t already done that?” she protested. “I keep telling you I didn’t kill him.”
“I know,” Sam agreed, “but I never got to ask what you were doing the night he died.”
“I was here,” Karen answered, her mood darkening once more. “I got half the family that’ll swear to it.”
“Cool.” Sam rummaged in her bag and extracted a small tubular case. “Then here’s the favor. If you’ll give me a quick DNA sample—just a swab from inside your cheek—I’ll run it by what the crime lab collected, and that’ll be that.”
Sam pulled a long-handled cotton swab from its sterile container and held it up, her eyebrows raised questioningly. “Takes three seconds and is totally painless.”
Karen hesitated. “I don’t know . . .”
“It’ll sure cut down on our bugging you all the time,” Sam suggested.
Karen finally yielded. “What the hell.”
Without further comment, Sam had her open her mouth, quickly swabbed inside both her cheeks, and returned the sample to her bag.
“That’s it,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”
Karen was running her tongue around inside her mouth. “Well, I don’t. That fucking dirtbag deserved what he got. You should’ve nailed him for some of the shit he pulled, instead of hassling all of us because someone had the sense to finally kill him.”
“What kind of shit?” Sam was caught by the sudden bitterness, and immediately thought of Becky.
Karen pressed her lips together briefly. “He was a bad man. There wasn’t nuthin’ he wouldn’t fuck around with.”
Eager for more, Sam still hesitated before asking, “Look, I know we already covered this, but if that’s true, then why did you sleep with him?”
“Some of us get what we can,” Karen told her resentfully. “I’m not looking for Mr. Right. That’s all bullshit. I take what I’m handed, and I took Wayne a few times. My guy’s in jail; I just wanted a little comfort now and then, you know? It’s not like I was lookin’ to marry the man.”
Sam shrugged, faking nonchalance, wondering about what seemed hidden just out of sight. “I got it. Just so long as he doesn’t bring his shit inside the family, right?”
“He didn’t,” Karen said reactively. “I saw to that. I mean, yeah, he came here a couple of times, but not because I invited him . . .”
The door banged open behind them and Ryan appeared on the top step, glowering.
“God damn it, Ma, give it a rest. She’s a cop. Every fucking word she says is to fuck you up. Don’t you know that? Get your ass in here, for Christ’s sake.”
He glared at Sam. “And you get the fuck off our property. What’re you doin’ here anyway?”
Sam stared at him levelly, hiding her disappointment. “I’ll tell you if you come down. We’ll need to talk anyhow.”
He glowered. “I don’t got to talk to you.”
“Not now, you don’t, but you will soon.”
“About what?”
Karen had been watching them like a spectator at a tennis game. Now she contributed, “It’s Wayne Castine. He was murdered.”
Ryan looked disgusted. “Who cares? The guy was a pervert. I hope they tortured him first.”
“Where were you Monday night, Ryan?”
“None of your business, cop,” he spat at her, and then ducked back inside, yelling, “Ma, get in here. No kidding.”
Karen smiled awkwardly. “I better go.” She then volunteered, “And Ryan was here Monday night.”
Sam nodded, defeated for the time being. “Okay. Take care of yourself. Call me anytime, for any reason, deal?”
All fire gone, Karen lifted her hand halfway and wiggled a couple of fingers in farewell. “Okay. Thanks.”
Sam got in behind the wheel of her car, knowing for a fact that she’d be back. There was a lot going on inside that trailer. The problem was going to be puzzling through who knew what—and what they’d done as a result.