He shook his head. “Not really. He’d have a temper tantrum every once in a while. Things wouldn’t go his way and he’d blow up. He was particular that way—calling the shots—and people learned to either get along or get out of the way. He was good enough at the job that quality was never the problem. It was more of a style thing, so I never messed with it, and it never got out of hand.”
“Rumors are most of his income is from dealing drugs.”
Cochran waved a mitt-sized hand tiredly. “Oh hell, I heard that, too. There might be something to it, but it could be pure bullshit. Bellows Falls catches a lot of that kind of talk. If you believed it all, that town would be like one of those South American cartels. Fact is, for the most part, welfare people don’t just sit around cashing government checks and drinking beer. They got to make more than the government hands out, and they got to get it under the counter. Other people see one of them getting a car or a new washing machine or whatever, and right away it’s ‘They must be dealing dope.’ I get sick of hearing it. Sure, some of ’em might be doing a little of that. I might, too, in their place, to put food on the table.”
I didn’t comment, but I knew he was right. There was a large underground economy in Vermont, and only a small portion of it involved illegal substances. Of course, on the flip side, marijuana was second only to corn as the state’s biggest cash crop. “You ever see Norm socially?”
“I don’t see much of anybody socially—ask my wife. I work, I come home, catch a little TV and a few hours sleep, and I go back to work. That’s about it. Besides, from what I hear, I couldn’t keep up with Norm anyhow. He gets around.”
There was a long contemplative pause I didn’t interrupt, sensing Cochran might have more to offer. A minute later, he said, “I’d say ’bout the only problem I ever had with Norm was that he was always talking it up with everybody and anybody, especially the kids.”
“Kids?” I asked, struck once again at children being linked to Norm Bouch.
“Yeah. Kids love Norm—teenagers. Maybe he gives ’em stuff their folks would kill him for—I don’t know. I never had any trouble that way. My two always walked straight, but Bellows Falls does have its fair share who don’t—I’ll give it that. Anyhow, so many of ’em started hanging around, it got to be a problem. One of ’em almost got killed three, four years ago—ran in front of a dozer and slipped. Come to think of it, he was from Brattleboro. Still, I told Norm he had to keep ’em away after that. I didn’t need a lawsuit on top of everything else.”
“Do you remember that kid’s name?” I asked.
“Oh, sure. I made him sign a waiver at the bottom of the accident report. I wanted my butt covered on that one, I guess ’cause I didn’t like him much. His name was Jasper Morgan.”
GAIL LOOKED UP FROM THE
pot she was stirring as I entered the kitchen from the back door. “How was Bellows Falls? You didn’t have dinner yet, did you?”
I crossed over and kissed her. “Weird and nope.”
“Good. It’s spaghetti. You want to make a salad?”
Salad was one of the things she’d discovered I actually could prepare that didn’t entail opening cans or boxes. My philosophy was that meals shouldn’t take longer to make than they take to eat. Gail was a lacto vegetarian who loved to build from scratch. Food wasn’t something we talked much about.
“How weird is ‘weird’?” she asked, breaking out a skillet from the cabinet at her knee.
“I don’t know… The whole town’s suffering from an identity crisis—can’t decide if it’s an unsalvageable dump, stuck in the past and dependent on government handouts, or if it’s balanced on the edge of a comeback, depending on just the right gimmick. I heard everything from drowning the place with flowers, so it looks like a Swiss village, to renaming it Great Falls. From what I saw, it’ll take a lot more than that.”
“How ’bout the case? Did you get it wrapped up?”
“Not even close.” I began cutting up vegetables and tossing them into a bowl. “I haven’t even talked to the principal players yet.”
“It was sexual harassment, right? Isn’t that what you told me on the phone?”
“Supposedly. I’ve since found out the harasser and the harassee were probably having an affair, and that the woman’s husband, who’s pressing the charges, may be dealing drugs. I doubt this is going to be something they’ll be able to pat on the butt and see the last of.”
“It still doesn’t sound too bad—maybe an unprofessional conduct ruling against the officer, and a little bad publicity. Do you smell something else going on?”
I smiled at her mild tone, thinking back to earlier days, when we lived apart and Gail was a Realtor and a selectman here in Brattleboro. Then, she’d been very much the citizen advocate, distrustful of the legal system, and often taking the underdog’s side in debates with me. Now, her sympathies had broadened and become less doctrinaire. I would have been more pleased if a violent rape hadn’t been the catalyst behind this transition. But she had adapted well, and I was happy with the end result and with her obvious satisfaction with her new life.
“I do as of an hour ago,” I said in answer to her question. “You know that kid we chased through the bowels of the Retreat a few weeks ago? Jasper Morgan?”
“I remember the chase. I don’t know anything about him.”
“We’ve known him from when he was in his mid-teens. His parents used to beat the hell out of one another, and he tried running a protection racket at the high school, with predictable results. Later, he dabbled in anything that could make him an illegal buck, always without getting caught. We heard he’d moved on to bigger things—getting people to do his dirty work for him—when he suddenly disappeared for no apparent reason. Anyhow, I just found out he used to hang out with Norman Bouch, the complainant’s husband in this case.”
“Was Jasper ever found?”
“Nope—nor was Pierre’s gun. It may be pure coincidence, but it keeps gnawing at me—like I’m supposed to be hearing something I can’t quite make out.”
Gail was by now cooking up a steamy mess in her skillet, throwing in handfuls of ingredients and stimulating a pungent aroma. “It’s a small state, Joe. People bump into each other all the time, especially if they’re in the same business.”
“I know. I just keep wondering why Jasper ran from us, and why he ducked underground in the first place, changing his name and conning his way into the Retreat.”
“I didn’t know he’d done that.” She drained the water from the pot and dumped the spaghetti into the skillet, mixing the contents together.
“Yeah. Turns out years before, when he lived in Massachusetts… ” I paused. “Damn, that’s another coincidence. I need to find out if he and Bouch knew each other before coming to Vermont. Anyway, when he first sought out help for his addiction problem, he used a false identity, so his medical records were always under a different name from the one on file with NCIC. Clever for a kid.”
“Who was also clever enough to want help,” Gail commented, dishing the meal onto two plates.
“Or being instructed by someone else,” I said, still driven by the possibility of Bouch’s early involvement. “When he wanted to disappear here, he approached a local therapist and asked to be recommended to the Retreat, which is the standard route of admission. Having conned the first guy, he pulled the same gag on the Retreat examiners. After that, he only had to make sure his supposed cure took a nice long time to kick in.”
We settled around the tile-topped island in the center of the kitchen and began eating. “I’m surprised they were all so easily duped,” Gail said. “You sure Jasper didn’t have some legitimate motivation? Maybe you had nothing to do with it. Maybe he wanted to kick his habit and the business both.”
It was all hypothetical, of course, and it had nothing to do with a misdemeanor charge filed against a cop in Bellows Falls—at least so far—but the wheels were beginning to turn in my head. What had started as a favor from one chief to another might suddenly be becoming more interesting—and more relevant to my own department.
· · ·
Sammie Martens lived on Main Street in Brattleboro, in an apartment near the Municipal Building. I’d never been there before, but I had heard the ribbing she received because of it. Where most officers sought some distance from the department, and a semblance of normalcy in a home with a lawn and an above-ground pool, Sammie had opted for the ultimate short commute. In exchange, she’d been accused of sleeping in her SRT battle gear, and having a zip-line running from her building to the office so she could slide over traffic to cut down her response time. This was usually answered with an extended middle finger.
There was no elevator, at least none I could find in the building’s gloomy lobby, so I took the broad wooden steps to the top.
Sammie was waiting for me, gazing over the railing, smiling at my gradual pace. “You ought to try hopping up with your feet together.”
I didn’t doubt for a moment that was one of her own regular habits. “That must make your neighbors happy.”
She ushered me into her apartment, which turned out to be a single enormous, high-ceilinged room, stretching from the Main Street side to a row of windows overlooking the Connecticut River on the other. One of the short walls was covered with full-length mirrors. Placed throughout the vast space, like rest stops along a marathon, were weight machines, stray pieces of furniture, a small kitchenette, and a gathering spot for several rugged looking bicycles. In all, it looked like a cross between a sports equipment warehouse and a teenager’s crash pad. There wasn’t a zip-line in sight.
“Cozy,” I muttered.
She smiled, obviously pleased. “Used to be a ballet school. I love it here.” She steered me over to a pair of mismatched chairs, choosing a stool for herself. “Want some coffee?”
I sat in an armchair. “I’m all coffeed out. I got to go back to Bellows Falls tomorrow on this internal, but I wanted to fly something by you first. Have we heard anything new on Jasper Morgan?”
“Not a word.”
“Did we ever dig deep into his background—have anyone check out his Massachusetts days?”
“We backtracked to when he first used the phony ID on the therapists, but we did that by phone. Nobody actually went down there.”
“Where was
there
, exactly?”
“Lawrence, I think.”
The same town Anne Murphy thought Bouch had come from.
“Good. Do me a favor, then. Tomorrow, look a little harder into that, and keep an eye peeled for the name Norman Bouch. See if Jasper and Bouch ever crossed paths. Do a triangulation search if nothing pops up. Check out Bouch’s known associates and relatives in Lawrence, and see if any of them show up in Jasper’s background—maybe they had a mutual acquaintance.”
“Who’s Norman Bouch?” she asked.
“The main complainant on the case I’m working in Bellows Falls. But he’s also supposed to be freelancing as a drug dealer. And I found a witness who saw him and Jasper together a few years ago. Maybe Jasper’s sudden rise and fall had something to do with Bouch.”
“Maybe all kinds of things,” Sammie said softly, her skepticism reminding me of Gail’s.
“True, but I don’t like leaving a coincidence like this hanging.”
Sammie didn’t look pleased. “If Bouch is the complainant, that makes him the injured party, right?”
“Supposedly.”
“Won’t it look a little funny, you doing a quote-unquote impartial internal, while you’re having the complainant investigated by another agency?”
She was right, which I only found irritating. “Maybe we could try being discreet for once.”
Not one to be cowed, Sammie merely stared at me and raised an eyebrow.
· · ·
I wasn’t in the right frame of mind entering my interview with the Bouches. Sammie’s comment of the night before still rankled, as did the sudden reappearance of Jasper Morgan, and biased me against both Norm and Jan Bouch. By forgoing the protocol that an internal investigator should stick with the stated facts and interview the complainants and witnesses first and foremost, I’d made a mess of my own objectivity. Sammie would have disqualified herself from the Bellows Falls case. I was too stubborn for that, which irritated me even more.
Norm Bouch appeared on the other side of his screen door after I knocked, his mouth smiling and his eyes watchful. “You the guy who called?”
“That’s right. Lieutenant Joe Gunther.”
His eyes were those of an intelligent man—focused and analytical—but the rest of his face spoke only of the menace I’d seen reflected in the small boy’s face who’d had his ball deflated. My instinctive dislike of Norman Bouch was probably triggered by the same characteristic that made other people turn toward him—his self-assurance was as palpable as the shirt on his back. But my guess was it was the cruelty I’d seen in action that fueled it—and that was a motivator I’d never been able to tolerate.
He pushed the door open but didn’t invite me in. “You with the PD?”
“Not this one. I work in Brattleboro. I’ve been asked to look into the allegations against Officer Padget to avoid any possible conflicts of interest.”
Seemingly relieved by this, the smile widened, and Bouch stepped aside. “Come in. You know Padget?”
“We’ve never met, no. Is Mrs. Bouch around?”
“Yeah, sure. Follow me.”
He led me through a series of rooms in total tumult—clothes and toys on the floor, cheap furniture pushed helter-skelter, bare sheetrock walls with holes in them. There was an odor throughout of cat litter, stale sweat, and old food. I had been in more homes like this than I could possibly count.
We headed toward a crescendo of young screaming voices and finally entered a kitchen where a woman was standing surrounded by five children, all clamoring for a box of doughnuts she was holding above her head. The kitchen table was strewn with dirty dishes, spilled milk, and scattered clots of soft, indistinguishable food. The remains of breakfast cereal crunched underfoot.
“For Christ’s sake,” Norm muttered. Wading into the fray, he snatched the box from his wife’s hands, walked to the back door, and threw it out into the yard. The kids vanished in a stampede, leaving silence and wreckage behind. Jan Bouch stayed rooted in place, her hand still held high, as if baffled by what had happened.