“I hope so,” he said grumpily.
“This is good news, you know,” I told him.
He waved that aside and swiveled his chair to stare at a distant wall. “I know.”
“You disappointed with Brian?”
He waved the notion away. “A little… How long you been a cop?”
“Thirty years, plus.”
“Yeah,” he sighed. “Long time. Maybe Bratt’s a better place to spend that much time, but I’m starting to feel sucked dry. Did Davis tell you why we can’t hold on to most of our people for more than a couple of years?”
“I figured it was the money.”
He let out a short, humorless laugh. “That’s true enough, but I meant the size of the patrol. One square mile. They go around and around, night after night, passing each other in the streets, picking up the same people for the same complaints. There’s a lot of action, but the monotony gets to them—fast. Most of them live outside the village, so all they do is clock in at night, do their shift, and leave in the morning. They never get to see the other side—the Bellows Falls that Greg Davis and I live in during the day, with the retailers and professionals and the kids at school and all the normal things. To these young guys, this is a combat zone—a town of losers.”
“They don’t seem to be alone in that,” I said.
“I saw you reading that notice at the town hall,” he answered indirectly, “before we met with Eric Shippee—about the committee to revitalize the village.”
“Changing the name to Great Falls?” I said with a smile.
“I won’t deny it’s been tried before. And that particular idea is a little over the top. But this new group is serious. They’re not bitching about the lack of state or federal funds anymore. They’re doing it themselves—coming up with the money, the manpower, the ideas. They’re making real changes and they’re not working in a vacuum, either—there’s been a turnover in the high school leadership, a few rich people have gotten involved, even the various boards are showing some cooperation, although Shippee’s just paying it all lip service. It may fall flat, but for the first time there’s a real spirit growing.”
“So why’s that put you in the dumps?” I asked.
His gaze shifted to the sloped ceiling. “I’m not sure. Maybe all that enthusiasm is telling me I’m with the wrong outfit. I’m sick and tired of the morons we drag in here day in and day out. I want to be part of something hopeful. Maybe not in Bellows Falls—although that’s what I’d really like—but at least somewhere I can help things grow.”
He reminded me of how, when we’d met, I’d thought of his hands as belonging to a farmer.
I didn’t fault him for his mood, or even for how it had probably influenced his speaking prematurely to Shippee and looking ineffectual as a result. Actually, I was flattered that despite our brief acquaintance, he’d trusted me as a sounding board. He’d seen in me a kindred spirit, in years if not in attitude, and spoken as few cops do to anyone, much less a colleague.
That trust, along with what he’d said, softened my initial skepticism about the man and made me honor his privacy. Rather than pressing him further, therefore, I rose quietly, said, “I hope it works out for you—let me know if I can help,” and left him with his thoughts. I wasn’t sure he noticed me leave.
Downstairs I found Greg Davis filling out a form in the dispatch room. He glanced up as I entered. “Things looking better for Brian?”
“So far so good. You pick up anything?” I added as an afterthought.
“Only that you and Norm had it out in the street today.”
I made no comment, but it highlighted Latour’s comment about the size of the village. “Do you have an in-house name file on your regular problem cases? People you don’t share with NCIC and everybody else?”
“Sure. Over here.” He led me to a computer at the far end of the counter he’d been using. He typed a few entries, set up the screen, and stepped back. “Just enter who you’re after. If we got it, it should pop right up.”
Discreetly, he returned to his paperwork, no questions asked. I appreciated both the access and the courtesy, neither of which he’d been obliged to render. Internal files, departmental and personal, were not quite trade secrets, but they could be jealously guarded, especially from a man who was there to investigate one of their own.
I typed in “Morgan, Jasper,” and hit
Enter
. The reference instantly appeared.
“Huh,” I let out, surprised at being so instantly gratified.
“Get what you were after?” Davis asked from across the room.
“Yeah. Take a look.”
He came over and gazed at the screen. “Jasper Morgan. Looks like he and Norm Bouch were pretty buddy-buddy… ” He leaned forward and pressed
Scroll
. “At least until last year. No arrests, but whenever things got rowdy, Mr. Morgan was nearby. Who is he?”
“Teenage doper from our neck of the woods. You must’ve gotten a BOL on him about a month ago. Brained one of our officers, stole his gun, and vanished into thin air.”
Davis’s face broke into a grin. “Oh shit. I remember that. Pierre Lavoie. I was going to bust his chops next time I saw him.”
“You’ll have to stand in line. So you don’t know Morgan personally?”
He studied the screen again. “The only officer still here who dealt with him is Emily Doyle—twice, according to this. She’s on tonight, if you want to talk with her.”
· · ·
Emily Doyle was short, square, and muscular, with close-cropped dark hair and a nervous tension reminiscent of a hungry dog. She sat on the edge of her chair in the upstairs officers’ room, feet planted apart, elbows on her knees, her hands holding a pen like a weapon. Her eyes were fixed on my every movement.
“This about Brian?” she demanded. “ ’Cause we know what you’re trying to do. I won’t help you with that, no matter what the rules say.”
I met her gaze. “You won’t help me clear him?”
She smiled bitterly. “Right—clear him. That’s not your job. You’re the cop’s cop, and a cop busts people.”
“How old are you?”
She looked mildly offended, which was fair, given my tone of voice. “Twenty-one.”
“Then you’ve got plenty of time to do your homework. Something like seventy-five percent of all internal investigations result in the officer concerned being cleared, not the other way around.”
“You’d tell me anything to get what you’re after. And even if it was true, then it means most of what they accuse us of is bullshit. But we’re cops, so of course we’re guilty. Not like some scumbag with a knife in his hand—we
have
to presume
he’s
innocent.”
It wasn’t an argument I wanted to have, so I dropped it there, but my heart was a little heavier for her knee-jerk jingoism—all too common in law enforcement.
“I’m not here to ask you about Brian,” I said instead. “I’m also running an investigation back home on a teenager named Jasper Morgan. His name came up in relation to Norm Bouch. I saw from the files that you know him, or at least met him. He’s about twenty now, from Brattleboro, skinny, medium height, brown hair, bad complexion.”
She was already nodding. “Yeah, yeah. A real knothead. Big-mouth bad guy who was always standing behind somebody else when he sounded off.”
“Did you get any feel for how he and Bouch were connected?”
“He was just another of Norm’s rug rats.”
I resisted pointing out she had one year on Jasper Morgan. “How’s that work? What’s the attraction?”
“With Norm? He makes himself cool—a grown-up who talks their language. He doesn’t lecture them, doesn’t tell them what to do, gives them stuff to buy them off—you know, like things for their cars or a ghetto blaster… CDs—shit like that. And dope, too, of course, although we’ve never caught him at it.”
“Latour thinks the kids might be runners.”
Emily Doyle rolled her eyes at the mention of her chief. “Easy for him to say. We don’t have any proof, and he won’t let us hunt for any.”
“Is he right, though?”
Her cheeks colored. “Probably,” she admitted.
“You have any sense of how Norm’s organized, then?”
I knew before I asked that I’d hit a stone wall. Doyle wasn’t the bonehead she appeared—her posturing was mostly self-protective. But she had a lot to learn about the goals of her job and how to achieve them. Catching bad guys was an occasional activity—getting to know what made them tick and stopping others from becoming like them were more important aspects of what we did. For all the vitality in her eyes, she hadn’t taught herself to see much yet. “I guess they’re bought and paid for,” she guessed. “So they do what he tells them to.”
· · ·
Sammie Martens wasn’t at her apartment this time. I found her still at the office, processing paperwork. As energized as Emily Doyle, Martens had developed into a smart, thoughtful student of human behavior. She also worked herself like a slave, candidly admitting that as a woman she had little choice, a tough point to argue since her drive had made her my second-in-command.
“Making progress?” I asked vaguely, settling into a plastic chair next to her open-ended cubicle. There were four such alcoves in the detective squad room, constructed of chin-high, sound-absorbent panels. During slow periods these were moved around regularly—feeble attempts to enliven a dull routine.
“Barely,” she sighed, sitting back and stretching. “I’m trying to put some old case files into order—mostly yours, I might add.
Boring
.”
“What’d you find out about Morgan?”
Her face brightened slightly. “He was a bad boy in Lawrence, but since he was a juvie, I couldn’t get particulars. That also made digging into known associates a little tough—through channels, that is.”
I smiled at her coyness. “Meaning outside of channels was slightly more productive.”
“Right,” she answered with a laugh. “I have an old Army buddy who works at the PD down there. He did a little digging for me and came up with Amy Sorvino—Jasper’s foster mother until she was found cheating on her husband with Norman Bouch, who was named in the divorce papers soon after.”
I shook my head, “Hold it. I thought Jasper lived with his parents.”
“He did after they moved up here, but Massachusetts split them up a couple of times when things got rough at home. Anyhow, Amy Sorvino’s at least one connection between Bouch and Jasper.”
“I don’t want to be dense here, but why would a woman’s illicit lover and her foster child necessarily know each other?”
I could tell from her smile that Sammie had set me up. “Because they all shared the same bed.”
She laughed at the look on my face. “That’s why the shit really hit the fan. Amy had turned Norm and little Jasper into a tag team. Guess the state goofed in their choice of foster mothers.”
I thought of the little ball player of that morning, and how I’d wondered how he and his siblings were faring in the Bouch household. I was getting a dose of bad news about child rearing in this case, and, given how Norm surrounded himself with teenage admirers, I didn’t doubt I’d see more.
“With all these wonderful adults in control,” Sammie added, reading my expression, “makes you wonder how anyone makes it past puberty.”
Good point, I thought, but said instead, “I’d like to have a chat with Amy Sorvino.”
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING I PULLED
into the Lawrence, Massachusetts, Police Department’s parking lot, and picked up a short, compact man with a thick head of hair and a bushy mustache.
He slid into my car’s passenger seat and stuck out a small, muscular hand. “Phil Marchese.”
“Joe Gunther. Thanks for riding shotgun on such short notice. Sammie says she’s sorry she couldn’t make it.”
“Good kid,” Marchese said. “Made half the guys in the unit look like wimps. Take a right out of the parking lot.”
Marchese was the old Army friend who had revealed Amy Sorvino as the link between Jasper Morgan and Norman Bouch. Protocol has it that whenever a police officer goes outside his bailiwick on business, he contacts the receiving PD out of courtesy and safety. It was a reflection of Sammie’s connection to this man that he’d volunteered to escort me personally rather than giving the job to some rookie. Sammie had told me that despite his youth, Marchese was in good position for a captaincy.
He guided me to a neighborhood of cookie-cutter wooden buildings, roughly World War Two vintage. Not quite down and out, it was teetering on the edge, utterly dependent on Lawrence’s rallying against hard times. This was a working-class section of town, and without work it would quickly lose the thin respectability it clung to.
We stopped in front of a house largely indistinguishable from its neighbors. “What’s her situation?” I asked my host.
“Single, living alone. After the shit hit the fan with Bouch, she and her husband both picked out lawyers and began circling each other. That’d been going on a few months when hubby suddenly kicked the bucket. Stupid bastard still hadn’t changed his will, so she got the inheritance, along with two life insurance payoffs, one personal, one from his job. Neither one was huge, but together they set her up pretty good, even after she settled with the state for the statutory rape of Jasper Morgan. Last five years or so, she’s been a party girl, more or less, I guess looking for Mr. Right.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Suspicion of prostitution. We got a file on her. Never caught her at it. I don’t think she’s a pro, to be honest—just an amazingly horny girl on the prowl who takes favors from men.”
Seeing that her car was in the driveway, we went up to the front door and knocked. The response was slow and noisy, punctuated by something heavy falling to the ground. Marchese looked at me and shrugged, and we both moved to opposite sides of the door, just in case something or someone came flying out.
There was nothing so dramatic, however. The door opened a crack and a bleary-eyed, blurry-faced woman peered out, squinting into the morning sun. “Who’re you? What d’ya want?”
Marchese showed his badge. “Police, ma’am. Are you Amy Sorvino?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. We’d just like to ask you some questions.”
“Do it later. I’m sleeping.”