Borderlines (7 page)

“She’s not the unburned victim.” “Thank God,” Mrs. Wingate whispered.

Her husband pocketed the photograph. “Can we see the other…

victim?” “No. That’s all off-limits until the powers that be arrive to investigate.” “When will that be?” “Several hours, I would guess. They come from far and wide.” He looked concerned. “You make it sound like an army. “Sometimes is, depending on what you got. Usually it’s just the State troopers-there’s one here already that I’ve seen-but in cases like this an arson investigator, the medical examiner; sometimes the State’s Attorney and the State Police Bureau of Criminal Investigation get involved if they suspect something.” “Do you think it was arson?” I looked at him for a couple of seconds. He seemed so removed, if his mind was being overworked, concentrating on other things. “I don’t know. I guess time will tell.” The State trooper I’d seen stringing a brightly colored plastic bond labelled “Police Line-Do Not Cross” around the house came walking up to us. He was thin and carried himself stiffly, as if on parade.

This was helped somewhat by his green and gold uniform, which somehow looks more official than most state-trooper getups, especially the green ribbed commando sweater with the matching elbow and shoulder pads.

He nodded quickly at me and Laura, before addressing the couple before us. “Are you Mr. and Mrs. Wingate?” “Yes, we are,” Wingate answered.

“My name is Corporal Wirt. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Of course.” Wirt glanced at us again and gestured down the street, away from the fire trucks. “Let’s step over there.” They all three moved away.

“I wonder what that’s all about,” Laura murmured.

“Cousin Brucie had a fight with one of the unfortunate people in that building.” “He did?” Her eyes were bright with interest. In the midst of all this destruction, the air thick with unanswered questions, only Laura seemed fresh, youthful, and enthusiastic, yet somehow fragile. It was a beguiling combination. Her face had a way of completely altering itself as she shifted from one emotion to another, the way gusts of wind disturb a still body of water.

“He thought his daughter was staying there, so he went in last night and got himself thrown out the window for his pains. small group of us trooped down to cart him away. I would imagine Corporal Wirt finds all that of some interest.” “If anything interests him. He walks around like he’s got all the answers. Rumor has it he was banished up here because he stepped on some toes. We all call him Corporal Jerk.”

“Where’s he work out of?” “Island Pond. He makes no secret about hating this place. I think it’s silly they posted him here. The guy the State Police had here before was wonderful-knew everybody’s name, used to come by when he was off duty and shoot the breeze. He made the State Police look good, you know? Of course, that was before the Island Pond thing.

Wirt was transferred here right after that..

The “Island Pond thing” rang more than one bell for me. Island Pond, a town about twelve miles north of Gannet on i-14, was host to a Christian sect called the Northeast Kingdom Community Church. Some years back, over one hundred State troopers and social workers invaded the town, armed with a warrant, and rounded up some two hundred and twenty members of the church, including one hundred and twelve children.

The charge was child abuse. It was alleged that adult members beat their children to discipline them. But before anything could be made of the case, a judge declared the raid unconstitutional and ordered everyone returned to their homes. That left a lot of egg on a lot of official faces. To this day, if you wanted to see a Vermont State official start looking for the exit door, all you had to say was “Island Pond.” No doubt, all of that was going through Corporal Wirt’s head, too.

Laura tugged at my sleeve and pointed up Atlantic Boulevard at a man walking in our general direction. He was dressed in the quilt uniform of the cult, although the way he walked made it look more like a business suit, and his full beard was trimmed and neat. He carried himself with an air of studied authority and ease.

“Who’s that?” “The Elephant Edward Sarris. The leader of the Natural Order.” Her tone, I was sure, would have jacked his ego up several pegs.

Whether influenced by his notoriety or fame, she was clearly impressed.

It was the kind of reaction that doubtless stood him in good stead.

As he walked down the street, I noticed for the first time some signs of life from the houses around us. Faces appeared in windows, a few doors opened, a couple of bearded men stepped out on porches to watch. They were all clearly members of the Order. It was only then I remembered not having seen a single Natural Order bystander at the fire-just as I hadn’t at the fight between Wingate and Fox. Now, with their leader in evidence, his followers were being drawn out, perhaps as much by curiosity as by allegiance.

He came toward us, his expression neutral, his hand held out in greeting. “Lieutenant Gunther, I’m glad to meet you. I’m Edward Sarris, leader of the Natural Order.” I shook his hand. I noticed that while he spoke, his eyes widened slightly, giving him a slightly startled look. It occurred to me he was probably trying to appear earnest, although his knowledge of my name tilted the scales more toward contrivance. That, however, may well have been my own cynical view. He did cut an impressive figure tall, slender, with large dark eyes that looked straight at his target. He combined an uncanny mixture of intensity and calm in those eyes, which I imagined had done their fair share of persuading people.

“I wanted to thank you personally for your extraordinary act of valor in trying to save my people. There are many who wouldn’t have risked so much for their own children, much less for total strangers.

I can understand why you -are so widely respected.” It was a perfect little speech, well-modulated, nicely phrased, astoundingly out of place. It wasn’t phony or hyped-up, not like a used car dealer’s pitch. But it didn’t sound like human speech, either; it was too grammatical, as if I’d just been praised by the head of the English Department.

I nodded, momentarily at a loss for words. “Please extend my thanks and compliments to all your colleagues.” “Is Julie Wingate one of the bodies?” I asked him. He was unfazed at my abruptness. “No. She left the building just as her father arrived and created that unfortunate altercation last night.” “How do you know that?” “It is standard practice in our society. This is not the first time parents or other outsiders have attempted to take the law unto themselves.” “Where is she now?” “Safe.” The finality of the word made the speaker’s intention clear. He looked around, apparently without purpose, and saw Rennie standing at the coffee and doughnuts table. “Excuse me,” he said, and began to walk off, presumably to dump as much praise over Rennie’s head as he had mine.

I raised my arm and motioned him back. “If you’re sure Julie Wingate isn’t in that building, I think her parents would like to know.”

I motioned over to where Wirt was just finishing with the Wingates.

Sarris smiled carefully. “Of course-an excellent suggestion.

Thank you, Lieutenant.” He nodded at Buster, who had appeared from around the side of the truck. “Nice job, Chief. We all appreciate your effort.” “No problem,” Buster muttered.

I watched as Sarris strode off, self-confident and almost buoyant.

“Not easily depressed, is he?” Rennie walked up, now cradling three doughnuts and a cup. His mouth was full. “Man’s an asshole.” Buster’s brow furrowed at Rennie’s approach. “I better check on how the cleanup’s going.” He left us and Rennie swallowed before smiling bitterly. “Your uncle thinks I tried to kill you.” “I thought you were trying to commit suicide.” “Guess I fucked up all around, huh?” Laura, still sitting nearby, laughed. Rennie took a sip of coffee and then looked at me more carefully. “Did he ask you what Dick said to me?”

“About the attic getting ready to blow?” “Yeah.” “Yup. Told him I didn’t hear it. But,” I added, “I also told him you decided to search the other room, instead of getting out.” “Over your objections?” “No, just that you decided and I followed.” He nodded. “Good. I told him I couldn’t hear what Dick was saying.” He smiled again. “It’s driving him crazy.” He laughed then and began to walk away. I stopped him with a question. “What made the hose go flat?” He rubbed his cheek with the back of his hand. “They told me the portable pump froze. Didn’t have any oil in it.” He shrugged and filled his mouth with another huge bite, talking at the same time. “By the way, thanks for saving my butt.” “Least I could do for someone who tried to kill me.” He let out a grunt and continued on his way. Laura was looking at me with increasing concern. “What did happen in there?” I smiled at her. “It’s like Rennie said.” She shook her head in frustration. “You guys…” She stood up suddenly and waved. I followed her look and saw a pickup with a young man at the wheel pulled off of South Street. He waved back from the driver’s window.

“Gotta go. See you later.” I watched her run to the truck, her hair bouncing. She looked good in jeans, and I felt an unreasonable pang at her leaving. I also felt an odd sensation at her running toward another man, even though, presumably, he was her husband.

“I hear you’re a police officer.” I turned around, surprised at the sudden intrusion. It was Wirt, in full official splendor. “That’s right. Joe Gunther, out of Brattleboro.” We shook hands, although primarily because my hand was flapping in the breeze before Wirt reluctantly grabbed hold of it. “I was told you and Wilson were the first two in there. What did you see?” I resisted stating the obvious-like “a fire”-which would have forced him to step outside the Joe Friday imitation.

“One incinerated body at the foot of the stairs, wrapped around the remains of the wood stove, and four more upstairs, apparently dead from smoke inhalation. There were no puddles of flaming gasoline on the floor, but the four people upstairs were behind a locked door, with the key on the outside, on the floor.” He looked up from the notepad he was carrying. “What kind of key was it?” I knew what he was after.

“Old-fashioned, key operated from the other side. It wasn’t a dead bolt.” “And there wasn’t a key on the other side as well.” “Nope, not in the door.” “But there might have been one in the room?” “That’s possible, but I don’t think it’s likely. I’ve never seen a lock key with more than one key. In fact, usually the one key’s been lost years ago and people use a hook and eye to lock the door.” He was scribbling feverishly by now. “Any idea what caused the fire?” I was beginning to tire of this. Also, I didn’t see much to gain by humoring him further.

I knew damned well all this would stop dead in his little black book.

With the locked-door problem, he was going to have to bring in BCI-the Bureau of Criminal Investigation. None of them would ask him his opinion on the case, and everyone would ask roughly the same questions of me and everyone involved a dozen ore more times over the coming week.

A street cop worth his salt could be an invaluable source and a good friend to cultivate; a disliked man. Wirt was best suited to directing traffic and nurturing his resentment.

I got up and stretched. The ice that had covered me earlier had melted in the morning sun, leaving me damp and weighted down. I began to peel off the cumbersome and very dirty bunker coat as I answered his last question. My own body odor, finally released, damn ear made my eyes water. “Probably the wood stove. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll hit the hay.” I hung the coat on the truck’s tail gate and walked away. “‘Night.” “I have more questions.” The tone was supposed to freeze me in my tracks. “Don’t doubt it for a second. I’ll be around.” I didn’t need to turn round to see him glaring. The heat from his eyes on the back of my head was enough. The truth was, I had some questions of my own. As a rule, accidental fires have a way of explaining themselves, especially where dead bodies are involved. People either die in their beds, oblivious to what killed them, or they’re found along the way toward some hoped-for exit. When they appear behind a locked door, with the key on the outside, I have to wonder just how “accidental” the fire might have been.

I didn’t make a clean getaway. As I walked down South Street toward I-14, a red Mercedes pulled in, heading my way. The license plate was marked “QUNCY.” I moved out of its way and bent down to the driver’s window as it stopped alongside me. “I thought you drove a blue car.” Dr. Beverly Hillstrom, Chief Medical Examiner for the State of Vermont, smiled up at me. “I did. I traded it in. Big mistake. You should stick to the larger Mercedeses; these little ones just aren’t the same.

I laughed at that. “I’m lucky to be stuck to a rebuilt Toyota.

How are you?” She patted the back of my hand, which was resting on her door.

“In tip-top shape. What on earth are you doing here? You look terrible, by the way.” She wrinkled her nose. “And you smell awful.”

“Thank you. I’m staying with my uncle. I used to come up here regularly when I was a boy.” “And play fireman?” “How’d you guess?” “You should see your face in the mirror. You look like a chimney sweep. And your ear looks medium rare.” She gave me an appraising look. “It’s hard to imagine Joe Gunther on vacation.” “I’m supposed to be working with the local SA on a small job around here. If you came from Burlington, you made awfully good time.” “The local M.E.’s out of town and I was in Barton anyway. My husband and I are looking for property in the Kingdom. Pure serendipity. Who’s the SA-Potter?” “Very good.

She laughed. “Not really. I was told he’d meet me here.” There was a small pause. “So, what have we got here?” “I don’t know. I figure if I stay around long enough, maybe you’ll tell me.” I let her park and opened her door for her. As she swung her legs I saw she was wearing a dress and high heels elegant garb for an gant woman. “Lord.