Open Season (31 page)

“Initially it was a semen sample found on the victim. The hump was identified later. Do you happen to be friends with this Steven Cioffi?”

The doctor smiled thinly. “I’m not friends with many of my patients. If I were, Mr. Cioffi would not be among them.”

I sensed that had been a factor in Duquesne’s decision to cooperate. The nurse appeared at the door with the file. The doctor took it from her and nodded her away.

“Not one of your favorite people?”

He opened the file and began leafing through it slowly. “No. He’s not a nasty man, mind you; he’s just totally lacking in… I don’t know what you’d call it… Charm, maybe.”

“Charm?”

“Well, you know. He’s not particularly bright or well spoken. He seems dull and single-minded. He has absolutely no sense of humor or curiosity. He’s just kind of blah… You know the type?”

Looking at Duquesne, I decided to duck the subject of type. “Does he have the makings of a killer, in your personal view?”

“We all do. It is interesting that you think he may have been involved in a murder just as the Cushing’s was manifesting itself, however.”

“Why?”

“Well, it gives him an extra edge in that department. Heavy doses of prednisone can make one moody, depressed, sometimes even delirious.”

“And you think that may have happened with Cioffi?”

“He was more prone to it than others I’ve treated—it may be some reflection of sociological background. Of course, that isn’t my field.”

“What’s a man capable of when he has Cushing’s? I mean, is he as strong as usual? Can he run around the block?”

“Under normal conditions, I’d say no. His inclination is to rest. There is some muscular weakness associated with the syndrome. In Cioffi’s case it was not debilitating. If his adrenaline were pumping high enough, he’d have normal strength. However, I don’t see him running around the block, as you say, under normal conditions. He’s kind of a tubby, flabby man.”

“How is he now?”

“Fine—for the moment. The asthma is under control. His looks are back to normal.”

“What’s ‘for the moment’ mean?”

“He’s developed aseptic necrosis in the right hip—it’s a degeneration of the femoral head. Prednisone does that sometimes.”

“So he limps?”

“Now he limps. He uses a cane. Later, in two or three years, he’ll be in a wheelchair.”

“Jesus. Isn’t that a high price to pay for asthma?”

“It’s a trade-off. His asthma wasn’t just a little wheezing. It was about to kill him.”

“But he can get around now.”

“Oh, yes. He could even run around your proverbial block, again if he were adequately stimulated. Of course, it wouldn’t improve his hip any.”

“Do you have an address on him?”

Duquesne closed the folder and passed it across his desk to me. “I suppose most of this is yours now anyway. You’ll find everything you need—or at least everything I know—in there.”

“How about blood samples? Do you have any of those?”

“Several. I take them and urine samples periodically for monitoring purposes.”

“Do you have any that date back to when he had Cushing’s?”

“Yes. They’re at the hospital—in the deep freeze.”

“If you could call the hospital as soon as I leave and tell them to release those samples to us, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

He frowned. “Am I obligated to do that?”

I opened his warrant and showed him the paragraph that dealt with the specific and dated materials in question.

He sighed and muttered, “All right.”

I thanked him and stood up. “There is something else I ought to tell you, doctor. We aren’t the only ones looking for Cioffi.” Duquesne just stared at me. “Have you been aware of what the newspaper’s been calling ‘the man in the mask,’ or Ski Mask?”

“Certainly. I’d have to live in a cocoon not to.”

“Well, he’s the other one interested in Cioffi, although he only knows him as a mysterious hunchback right now.”

“Why tell me?”

“He’s a very motivated, dangerous man. He’s also very resourceful. If he does happen to discover your connection to all this, he’ll come knocking at your door, one way or the other. It’s happened before.”

Duquesne was very still. When he spoke, the neutrality had tilted toward the hostile. “Then you’ve just exposed me to a certain amount of danger, is that right? As you did with that prostitute?”

“Not necessarily. If he does contact you, just tell him everything he wants to know. That should be the end of it.”

“Are you going to give me some protection in the meantime?”

“He may not even get in touch.”

“If that were true, you wouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Giving you protection might cause more harm than good. If Ski Mask senses an obstacle, he’s usually pretty good at removing it.”

“That sounds more like your area than mine, Lieutenant. Perhaps I can be more persuasive: let’s say that if any harm does come to me while I’m unprotected, my lawsuit against your department will stand a far greater chance of success.”

He smiled. I smiled. I showed myself out. It occurred to me that for all her street smarts, Susan Lucey could learn a thing or two from an operator like that.

It turned out Dr. Duquesne wasn’t the only one not living in a cocoon. Town Manager Tom Wilson was waiting for me in the hallway back at the Municipal Building.

“Give me an update, Gunther.”

“I’d prefer to let Chief Brandt do that.”

“I don’t care what you prefer. Tell me what’s going on—right now.”

“We’re digging, and it’s getting easier and easier. We should have something before long.”

Wilson stabbed my chest with his finger. “Don’t give me that crap. You guys are not the CIA. You work for me and the board, and you are accountable for everything you do. Early on, I let you play coy because we were all trying to duck the publicity. That, in case you haven’t read today’s newspaper, or heard the radio, or seen Channel 31, is no longer a consideration.”

“I know. We’re famous.”

“Don’t be cute. I’ve been fencing with the press from Rutland and Keene for a couple of days already. Now I’ve had calls from the wire services and two of the three networks. A Boston TV station has a news crew due here this afternoon, for Christ’s sake. We’ve got to do better than ‘We’re digging and it’s getting easier.’ They’ll eat us alive. Even worse, they’ll start digging on their own. I can’t believe you want that.”

“All right, but I’m still not going to say anything without Brandt. He should be back any second.” I crossed over to Maxine’s window. “Any word from Tony?”

“He’s heading back. He just called in.”

I turned to Wilson. “Why don’t you wait in his office? I’ll be right there.”

He grumbled, but he went. I took a left into the squad room and poked my head into Billy Manierre’s office. “I need someone to run a blood sample to a forensic pathologist in West Haven, Connecticut. Can you help me out?”

“Whose blood?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s the same guy who sexually molested Pam Stark or Kimberly Harris or whatever you want to call her.”

“Yeah, I can get someone. Give me names and addresses.”

I quickly scrawled out what he wanted on a sheet of paper and then made a fast track to my office—still clutching Duquesne’s file—to draw up requests for two search warrants: one for Cioffi’s office, one for his home. I was halfway through when my phone buzzed.

“Joe?” It was Brandt. “What are you doing right now?”

“Preparing warrants for a guy named Steven Cioffi. He’s the guy with the hump.”

“All right. Go to it. Don’t bother to come powwow with Wilson and me. We’ll sort that out. It’ll probably mean some kind of press conference later today, so don’t skip town.”

“Right.” I hung up and finished typing, praying I would find a judge available across the street at the courthouse.

I did—in the men’s room. He wasn’t terrifically pleased about it—probably something about his dignity—but he signed on the dotted line against the tile wall. I returned to Brandt’s office and brought him up to date.

When I finished, he stood up, pocketed his pipe and smiled. “Well, maybe this press conference won’t be such a bad idea after all.”

CIOFFI WORKED AT LEATHERTON, INC.
, a manufacturer of industrial parts whose name I’d always thought was better suited to a luggage-making firm. In fact, this one modest factory was one of several subsidiaries of Thomas Leatherton & Company of Toronto, Canada, which was their version of Westinghouse—a big deal, in other words.

The building reflected the stature. Covering half an industrial park recently built south of town near the interstate, it was the region’s latest statement in modern architecture, which may not have been saying much. Still, it was an eye-catcher, made of dark glass and earth-toned brick, and it did exude a sense of capitalist power and well-being.

We arrived in two squad cards. Kunkle and I were in one, Capullo and Woll in the other. I had the two patrolmen cover the front and back entrances, just in case our fat and flabby erstwhile hunchback decided to limp off into the sunset.

As it turned out, he’d already done so. From the receptionist downstairs to his secretary on the top floor, we got the same message: “I’m afraid Mr. Cioffi’s not in right now.”

His secretary was an attractive young bottle-blonde with too much eye shadow. I pointed to the closed door behind her. “Is that his?”

She looked at it doubtfully. “Yes, it is.”

I laid the court order on her desk and walked around her to the door.

“Stop. I mean, hold on a second. What is this?” She held up the warrant.

Kunkle answered for me in modulated officialese. “That’s a court order allowing us to enter this office and remove specific documents related to the case we have building against Mr. Cioffi.”

Her eyes widened. “Against Mr. Cioffi? What for?”

“Read the warrant.” She looked from us to the paper in her hand. “I think maybe I should get somebody.”

“That’s fine. We’ll be in here.” I opened the door and went inside.

What we entered was the archetypal coveted corner office. Two walls of windows, a rug soft enough to swallow our shoes, a mahogany desk, a leather sofa and two armchairs custom-made for an English men’s club. Lining the other two walls was a built-in bookcase stuffed with stereo equipment, fancy artifacts, and elegantly placed collections of leather-bound books. It did not fit the mental image I’d painted of Cioffi from his doctor’s description.

Kunkle looked around and whistled. “Jesus, if I worked here, I’d never go home.”

I pulled the walkie-talkie from my belt and called Dispatch. “Tell Brandt to secure Cioffi’s residence. He’s not at his office. If Brandt wants the court order covering the house, I’ve got it.”

“Ten-four.”

I took down several of Cioffi’s fancy books and opened them. None showed any signs of overuse. In fact, the same could have been said for the entire office.

I went over to the desk. Except for the usual executive knickknacks, it was bare. I pulled at the drawer directly in front of the chair; it was unlocked. Inside, I found a book marked “Appointments.” I checked today’s date. Nothing was scheduled.

“May I help you?”

The voice belonged to a thin, wispy-haired man, soon to be bald, probably in his mid thirties. He was dressed in a dark pinstripe suit that fit him very well. Cioffi’s secretary hovered behind him.

Kunkle took an instant dislike to him. Maybe it was the suit. “I doubt it. Who are you?”

“My name’s Arthur Pelegrino. I’m the head of Public Relations.”

Kunkle obviously was not in a handshaking mood and I was too far away. Pelegrino seemed ill at ease forgoing the formality; his hands fidgeted in front of his belt buckle. “Could you tell me what this is all about?”

I took pity on the man, crossed over, and shook his hand. “I’m Lieutenant Gunther. We have a warrant for certain documents in this room. I would also like to ask some questions of Mr. Cioffi’s secretary, if I may.”

Pelegrino smiled nervously and stepped aside, exposing the secretary fully.

“Alone would be best, actually.”

The PR man bit his upper lip and nodded. “I think I better get someone from the legal department.” He squeezed by the secretary and disappeared.

“What’s your name?” I asked her.

“Mona.”

“You originally from the area?”

“Dummerston.”

“Been working here long?”

“A couple of years. I got the job straight out of college. I went to UVM.”

“Did Cioffi hire you, or did you just end up working for him?”

“I was assigned to him.”

“Do you like him?”

“He’s okay, I guess.”

“How would you characterize him?”

“What?”

“Is he friendly or abrupt, supportive or uncaring, easy going or tense, things like that.”

“Gee, I’ve never thought about that. I don’t really have much to do with him, really.”

“Does he work you hard?”

Her face lit up at that. “Gosh no. My boyfriend says I have the cushiest job in the world. I guess he’s right. I mostly just sit out there. I used to read a little, but they said it didn’t look good.”

“What exactly does Cioffi do?”

“He’s Vice-President of Industrial Relations.” Kunkle broke in. “What the hell does that mean?” She smiled and shrugged. “I’m not really sure. He travels a lot. I think it has something to do with conventions.”

“He goes to a lot of conventions?”

“I think so.”

“Don’t you make the travel arrangements for him?”

“No. He does all that. I answer the phone and write letters sometimes. I don’t see him a whole lot.”

There was some noise from outside, and Pelegrino reappeared with a short, fat man, also bald and also dressed in a dark suit. They looked like a cartoon together. Pelegrino introduced his companion as Mr. Kleeman, who, from his self-inflated manner, was obviously from the legal department.

Kleeman was not a hand-shaker. He grabbed the warrant from Mona and read it from front to back. He finally folded the warrant and put it in his pocket. “Have you gone through anything yet?”

“No,” I lied.