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CHAPTER 8
Dean returned to his desk and stood by it. He was anxious to get started. He lit another cigarette.
A rush of cold air swept in. Instead of Guthrie lumbering through the door, Paige McFadden strode in. Her long red hair flowed out from beneath her orange Syracuse University knit cap with a black pom-pom on top. Laura, always wary of the press, stood up, looked at Paige and then at Dean.
He frowned, shrugged, and sat down behind his desk. “Come on back, Paige.”
Paige winked at Laura and walked toward Dean. She was short, had always been so, and was pale with green eyes that reminded Dean of ripe Granny Smith apples. A year older than Dean, she had been a journalist since high school when she wrote for the Zion High School Gazette. In sixty-six, she had penned an editorial condemning the build up of U.S. troops in Vietnam. The school administration refused to allow her to publish the piece, resulting in a several-week controversy that finally saw the Beaconprint it, though the editor had made sure in a preamble that he printed it only to demonstrate the freedom of the press.
Paige stopped in front of the desk, leaned over, and said, “So, I hear Billy Nimitz’s body was found in the woods near the Pratt farm. Care to comment?”
“We did.”
“Did what? Find his body or commented?”
“Found a body.”
“That’s it? I can’t write a piece using just that.”
“What do you want?” He shrugged.
“Any details? Any information you can provide? I’m asking here.”
Dean put his elbows on the desk and leaned in close to Paige, looking only a little up at her. “I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation. We don’t have official word from the coroner yet as to the manner of death.”
“So we’re looking at suicide or homicide?”
Dean leaned back, the chair squeaking as he did so.
“I know it was a gunshot. So don’t bullshit me with accidental.”
“Why are you asking me when you already know?”
“Could be an accidental gun shot.”
She glared at him, but a friendly one.
“Will you call me when the coroner gives his report? You have my number.” She waited for Dean to say something, but when he did not, she continued, “It’s an awful long way to go for suicide. I mean, he hiked a good long ways.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Nice, Dean, nice. You know my number.” She thrust herself up from the desk and flew out as quickly as she had stormed in.
Guthrie stepped aside at the door to let her pass. He looked down at Dean.
Dean shook his head. “Let’s get lunch.”
* * *
They drove separately to Dean’s preferred pizza place near the high school, Brunetti’s. As they waited for the large pepperoni, mushroom, and black olive pie, Guthrie told him about his current case load of minor thefts, burglaries, and shoplifting. He had heard about the Nimitz boy.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Dean. “I was looking for the missing person’s report.”
“Ah, yes. That’s in my desk. I haven’t filed it yet. I was still going over some of the details.” He swept his hand over his balding head, the dark brown hair dotted with gray clinging over his ears. His mustache, however, was a dominating fixture on his face, its edges looping over the top lip and the sides arcing down toward the chin with a bit of a flare. He could stand to lose a few pounds, and Dean knew his fitness reports were marginal. “I was wanting to ask you—”
“Yeah?”
“Can I work this case with you?”
Dean cocked his head to the side. “It’s probably a suicide and not much of a case.” He did not need Paige, however, planting any seeds in his mind that Billy Nimitz did not shoot himself.
“Yeah, yeah.”
The waitress, dressed in a red-and-white checkered skirt with a white button-up top, slid the pizza onto the table and set two plates and sets of utensils down. “You boys okay?”
They nodded.
“But if it’s something else. That’s what I mean,” said Guthrie.
“If it’s something else, we’ll probably have the state troopers come in.”
Guthrie snorted as he slid a slice onto his plate and offered to do the same for Dean. “Your dad ain’t going to let that happen.”
Dean nodded. Guthrie was right. The old man hated any interference. He would prefer to blow a case all on his own than get help and do it right. He always cited the Marine adage that the Army loses the hill and the Marines take it back. But if this was a homicide, the Zion police had little experience in dealing with that. “Maybe. We’ll see. Not much point in talking about it now.”
“Just a word man. Just tell me you’ll include me. I want something other than—than—than shoplifting. You’ve done this in the big city, where it counts. I’d love to be a part. I mean, I’m not sure I’ll feel like a detective otherwise.”
Dean shook some red pepper flakes on his slice, bit into it, and said through chewing, “Okay.”
* * *
Back at the station, Dean pulled the folder from Guthrie’s desk drawer, carried it back to his own desk, and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee before sitting down to read the thin sheaf of papers bound by a single paperclip. The top item was a photo of Billy Nimitz. He held a good size rainbow trout—twelve inches perhaps—at chest level with a broad smile plastered across his face. He still wore waders, a hat with a number of lures at the top. Behind him, the stream where he caught it and the forest.
Guthrie’s narrative was no more and no less informative than Archie Nimitz’s account. Guthrie had asked the right questions, probed for the right details. He, however, had only done a cursory search of Billy’s bedroom.
Guthrie had separate reports for his interviews with the girlfriend, Sarah Esposito, and each of his friends: Corey Bender, Josh Frasco, and Alex Smith.
Sarah was twenty-seven and lived on Madison Street in an apartment. She worked the day shift at Adamson’s, that historic, long-lived manufacturer of tables, cabinets, curios, and other furniture. Outside the mayor, Tommy Adamson, the fifth family owner of the business, was the most powerful figure in Zion. Sarah saw Billy the day before his disappearance, New Year’s Day. The notes indicated he gave his girlfriend a gift, but no note on what that gift was. No note on what they talked about or did.
Corey and Josh had been with Billy at the Shambles the night of his disappearance. They had a few drinks, ate fries and mushrooms, and that was it. Alex Smith said he and Billy had not seen each other for a week and could not remember the details of their last meeting.
No leads. No indications of where Billy had gone off to or that he was going anywhere. Dean lit a cigarette. No point in digging in more if this was a suicide. Billy’s last moments would be his own. His reasons his alone.
He picked up the phone and called Doc Cotton. The phone picked up on the fourth ring. Tess Gibbons, Cotton’s secretary, answered. “Doctor Miles Cotton, Family Practitioner and Coroner’s office. How may I assist you?”
“Hey Tess, this is Dean down at the station.”
“Hello and good afternoon. I bet you’re calling about that poor Nimitz kid, right?”
“I am. I am.”
“Well, the doctor hasn’t gotten to him yet. But he will later today. Should I have him call you?”
“Yeah, please do. Probably best to call me at home this evening.”
“I’ll make sure he does.”
“Thank you.”
“Bye now.”
Dean typed up a report regarding his interview with Nimitz’s parents and finding the cash and book. He pulled it out of the typewriter, signed it, dated it, and slipped it into the folder, which he then filed in the records room.
At 2:49 p.m., a call came in about a break-in at a home on Elm Street. Dean and Zach, who had reported mid-day for the transition shift as the chief liked to call it, drove to the home and interviewed the victim and her neighbors. The thief had broken a window at the back of the house, unlocked it by reaching in, opened the window and then absconded with an heirloom pocket watch and jewelry of varied value, leaving the back door wide open to the cold. By the time they wrapped up at the scene, with little hope of solving the case, it was early evening.
Dean’s ex-wife, Cindy, would be en route to her family home, the Pratt farm, from NYC to drop their daughter off. The last week of winter break. He stopped off at the Shambles to grab a burger and fries. He recognized Alex Smith at the bar. He had a beer and a shot glass in front of him. With his long, straight hair and small circular glasses, he tried to imitate John Lennon of the Let It Be cover. When Dean sat a few stools down from Alex, he gave him a cold stare and sucked hard on his cigarette. He crushed it out, waved at the bartender to get his attention, and held up an empty glass of beer.
Dean ate his burger and most of his fries watching the TV sitting up on the shelf above bottles of whiskey, vodka, and gin. The weather report was for cold days ahead, a prolonged winter. He left enough cash on the bar to cover his meal and a tip and walked out. He thought he heard Alex mumble as he did so, “Pig,” but he was not sure. If so, he had been called worse.
