The Second Mouse - Archer Mayor [3]
Ironically and unsurprisingly, most of Joe’s VBI—he was, in fact, its number two man, the field force commander—was made up of ex-BCI members. Nevertheless, a residual sense of loss and resentment lingered, if less among old-timers like Doug, who in his heart was actually grateful for the diminution of responsibility, if not the loss of prestige. Retirement was looming for him, and he was just as happy to go home on time every night, free of the drudgery and bureaucratic scrutiny that accompanied high profile cases.
“I’m sorry, Doug,” Joe apologized. “Dumb on my part. Not to worry. I’m relaxed either way. I knew you were tight on manpower, heard the call on the radio, and happened to be driving nearby. Consider me backup. But it’s totally up to you, including throwing me out. No bones from me.”
Doug took the statement at face value, as he’d learned he could from this man. Joe Gunther was a law enforcement legend in Vermont. A one-time Brattleboro cop, he’d cracked more big cases than any five other people combined, all without becoming an egomaniac. If anything, he was the opposite, ducking the limelight, quick to give credit to others, a major team player.
In fact, the only criticism Doug had ever heard about Gunther was that he was a bit of a Boy Scout. Not self-righteous in any way, but not one to kid around or carouse or hang out with other cops socially. A loner. And a bulldog with a case.
Nice guy, though. Doug therefore hadn’t really been bent out of shape—more just in need of clarification.
“No, no,” he assured him. “Don’t get me wrong. I was just wondering. You people don’t usually show up until later, is all.” He waved a hand at the messy desk and dresser and offered appeasingly, “Why don’t we just go through all this stuff while we wait for the ME, and see what we find? Could be there’s a smoking gun.”
There wasn’t. They pawed through every document and belonging they could find. After the ME came and had the body shipped to Burlington for autopsy, they expanded their search to the whole house, including the upstairs, which they found totally empty, as if the place were actually a movie set where only certain scenes were to be filmed.
They found no signs of violence, of disturbance, or of anything amiss. Just the home of a single woman who’d been found unexpectedly dead in her bedroom.
And they didn’t find the cat. Despite all the open windows, every screen was tightly in place.
They did manage, however, to expand on Doug’s limited biography of the dead woman. As so often in his career, Joe had been gratified and impressed by how much there was to learn from a person’s possessions and surroundings. Especially one like this, who turned out to be quite a pack rat.
Michelle Fisher, born to an alcoholic, unwed mother and a father she’d never met, in Fall River, Massachusetts, forty-three years earlier, had once been married to an abusive man, with whom she’d had two children, a son and a daughter. The first of these had died of an overdose five years ago. The second had dealt with Mom by severing all ties and moving to California.
That had merely been Michelle’s “productive” marriage—the only one resulting in offspring. She’d also been married to three other men, although not to the one who’d predeceased her earlier in the year. Tax forms, legal documents, medical records, financial statements, reams of correspondence, and no fewer than three volumes of old, no longer maintained diaries all told of a life of turmoil, rootlessness, and long stretches of unemployment, depression, and alcoholism.
They learned of a woman who loved hard and completely, who gave her heart unhesitatingly and without thought, who was the best friend you’d ever have and clearly not much of a friend to herself. She loved kids, animals, men, and beer. She liked the wind in her face, shouting to