Read Online Open Season by Archer Mayor - Free Book Online
Authors: Archer Mayor
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Mystery, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Police Procedurals, Brattleboro (Vt.) --Fiction., Police --Vermont --Brattleboro --Fiction., Gunther, Joe (Fictitious character) --Fiction.
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sorry,” and I could tell from her voice that she was. “I meant tomorrow. I have homework to do tonight. But I do want to give you a squeeze.”
“You got a date.” I hung up the phone and sat there for a while, my feet on my father’s old rolltop desk. If ever there was loneliness, this is when it hit. Sexually, our arrangement was perfection—once we’d built up a hunger, we could always take care of it. But times of friendly noninvolvement, of watching television in one room while she read peacefully in the other, didn’t happen. Those belonged with memories of Ellen. Of course, that hadn’t been perfection either, any more than this was, but the rationalization didn’t comfort. It truly was a world in which every up side had a down.
I got up and turned on the television, filling the darkened room with a shimmering fluorescence. A cop show. Perfect. I went over to the window and looked down at the street. The Plymouth was parked near the corner.
6
MURPHY MET ME at the door when I walked into the Municipal Building at 7:00 the next morning. “You got that jury list on you?”
“It’s in my office.” I poked my head into Maxine’s cubbyhole. She waved and handed me a sheet from the dailies box—a record of the night’s activities.
I came to a dead stop in the middle of the corridor. “Is this what’s on your mind?” I pointed at the lead item: the sexual assault on one Wendy Stiller.
“Is she on it?”
I smiled at his downcast expression. “Afraid so, Frank.”
“Shit. Let’s go to my office.” He led the way, ushered me in, and closed the door. “You may have a bit of a problem.”
“Why?”
“Kunkle was on call last night, so Capullo brought him in on this.”
“And?”
“Kunkle quote-unquote headed the Harris investigation. He got a citation, a letter of commendation and a bonus from the town manager. Considering his personality, he’s not going to be thrilled with this jury thing. He’s going to think you’re out to get him.”
“I’m not the one going after the jury.”
“I know that, for Christ’s sake. But you’re going to want to talk to this girl, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So what are you going to tell Kunkle? And don’t give me what you gave DeFlorio yesterday. He pestered the hell out of me trying to find out why I supposedly told you to interview Wodinsky.”
“Wodiska.”
“Whatever. Give me a break this time, will you?”
“Jesus, Frank, even a paranoid like Kunkle ought—”
He held up both hands to stop me. “You know that. I know that. I’m the den mother here, all right? I’m trying to keep everybody happy. Just tiptoe a little. Kunkle’s screwier than ever right now—home problems—and I don’t want to hear him complaining that you’ve got doubts about his handling of the Harris case.”
I gave up. “Okay. Mum’s the word.”
“Thank you. Now I’ve arranged for you to have first crack at her this morning, but Kunkle won’t be far behind.”
“I thought he had his little chat last night.”
“She had to be sedated. He didn’t get much out of her—nothing really, so get in and get out, and keep me up to date. She’s at Memorial Hospital, room three-twelve.”
· · ·
Memorial was a typical small-city hospital. A little threadbare, a few patches, not staffed by the best or the brightest, but it made up in heart what it lacked in glitzy technology. Ellen had died there, admittedly a long time ago, but if caring alone could have cured cancer, she would have pulled through.
I found Wendy Stiller sitting in a green plastic chair by the window in a four-bed room. She was the only occupant. She was dressed in a long pink terry robe and had her feet tucked under her. Her blond hair hung in a tangled mess about her shoulders. Her face was pale and hollow-looking. It occurred to me that this was the third victimized woman I’d approached in just twenty-four hours. I wondered if that meant anything.
“Hi.”
She
“You got a date.” I hung up the phone and sat there for a while, my feet on my father’s old rolltop desk. If ever there was loneliness, this is when it hit. Sexually, our arrangement was perfection—once we’d built up a hunger, we could always take care of it. But times of friendly noninvolvement, of watching television in one room while she read peacefully in the other, didn’t happen. Those belonged with memories of Ellen. Of course, that hadn’t been perfection either, any more than this was, but the rationalization didn’t comfort. It truly was a world in which every up side had a down.
I got up and turned on the television, filling the darkened room with a shimmering fluorescence. A cop show. Perfect. I went over to the window and looked down at the street. The Plymouth was parked near the corner.
6
MURPHY MET ME at the door when I walked into the Municipal Building at 7:00 the next morning. “You got that jury list on you?”
“It’s in my office.” I poked my head into Maxine’s cubbyhole. She waved and handed me a sheet from the dailies box—a record of the night’s activities.
I came to a dead stop in the middle of the corridor. “Is this what’s on your mind?” I pointed at the lead item: the sexual assault on one Wendy Stiller.
“Is she on it?”
I smiled at his downcast expression. “Afraid so, Frank.”
“Shit. Let’s go to my office.” He led the way, ushered me in, and closed the door. “You may have a bit of a problem.”
“Why?”
“Kunkle was on call last night, so Capullo brought him in on this.”
“And?”
“Kunkle quote-unquote headed the Harris investigation. He got a citation, a letter of commendation and a bonus from the town manager. Considering his personality, he’s not going to be thrilled with this jury thing. He’s going to think you’re out to get him.”
“I’m not the one going after the jury.”
“I know that, for Christ’s sake. But you’re going to want to talk to this girl, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So what are you going to tell Kunkle? And don’t give me what you gave DeFlorio yesterday. He pestered the hell out of me trying to find out why I supposedly told you to interview Wodinsky.”
“Wodiska.”
“Whatever. Give me a break this time, will you?”
“Jesus, Frank, even a paranoid like Kunkle ought—”
He held up both hands to stop me. “You know that. I know that. I’m the den mother here, all right? I’m trying to keep everybody happy. Just tiptoe a little. Kunkle’s screwier than ever right now—home problems—and I don’t want to hear him complaining that you’ve got doubts about his handling of the Harris case.”
I gave up. “Okay. Mum’s the word.”
“Thank you. Now I’ve arranged for you to have first crack at her this morning, but Kunkle won’t be far behind.”
“I thought he had his little chat last night.”
“She had to be sedated. He didn’t get much out of her—nothing really, so get in and get out, and keep me up to date. She’s at Memorial Hospital, room three-twelve.”
· · ·
Memorial was a typical small-city hospital. A little threadbare, a few patches, not staffed by the best or the brightest, but it made up in heart what it lacked in glitzy technology. Ellen had died there, admittedly a long time ago, but if caring alone could have cured cancer, she would have pulled through.
I found Wendy Stiller sitting in a green plastic chair by the window in a four-bed room. She was the only occupant. She was dressed in a long pink terry robe and had her feet tucked under her. Her blond hair hung in a tangled mess about her shoulders. Her face was pale and hollow-looking. It occurred to me that this was the third victimized woman I’d approached in just twenty-four hours. I wondered if that meant anything.
“Hi.”
She
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