idea in itself, it also conformed with the state’s ongoing effort to join the 911 emergency response system, something Vermont had avoided until it had become virtually the sole holdout in the entire country. One of the nation’s least populated states, Vermont was also chronically broke, two factors that had put 911 on the back burner for too long.
I let myself in using a key, walked through the quiet Patrol Room, and crossed over to the chief’s corner office next door. It was before seven in the morning, my people were just beginning to show up, Patrol was closing out the shift, hunched over their keyboards, and Chief Tony Brandt was already at work, sitting at an enormous, rough-hewn, cubbyhole-equipped pine desk he’d built himself.
All was as usual.
Brandt was an unorthodox mixture of the old and the new. A lifelong cop, a New Englander born to small-town habits, he had nevertheless evolved into a modern administrator/politician. He ran the department from his oversized desk, from lunches with Brattleboro’s movers and shakers, from meetings in offices of people who saw government as children see playgrounds. He cajoled and threw hardballs when necessary and draped a protective mantle over the department and all its employees. The rank and file sold him short for this sometimes, saying he’d lost his touch for the street, but he got them new equipment when other town departments were left wanting, and he was receptive to suggestions when he thought they had merit. No longer a good ol’ boy, perhaps, he’d become a damn good boss instead.
He had also once been an inveterate pipe smoker, something both his doctor and new town regs had finally curtailed. Still, I’d gotten used to forever seeing him through an aromatic haze, and—his health notwithstanding—I begrudged the new appearance of his office nowadays, with its crystal-clear atmosphere.
He peered up at me as I entered, the early morning sun glinting off his gold-rimmed glasses. “How was Burlington?”
I waggled my hand back and forth equivocally. “So-so. The guy might be a Russian, he might have been killed one to three days ago—or three years ago and then put in a deep freeze—and he probably had a meal the same day he died.”
Tony stared at me for a moment. “That’s it?”
“Basically. He might’ve had the clap once, too. The Russian part comes from some Cyrillic letters he’s got tattooed on his toes. That and he had bad dental work.”
Tony stared thoughtfully at his desktop. I remained silent. “You having a briefing about this soon?” he finally asked.
I checked my watch. “Fifteen minutes.”
“If it’s all right, I’d like to sit in.”
· · ·
There were six of us around the table: Tony, Ron, J.P., myself, and the two remaining members of my crew—Sammie Martens, my second-in-command, and Willy Kunkle.
I began by passing out a sheaf of papers. “These are copies of the ME’s preliminary report, which basically says what we saw yesterday is what we got. The addendum about the tattooed toes is mine. I asked Hillstrom to keep that part of the autopsy under wraps, just in case. One additional tidbit: the dead man was apparently once treated with tetracycline. Hillstrom’s Russian expert said that access to that stuff over there is pretty much a black-market deal, which implies this guy had those kinds of connections. Ron, you handled the inquiries from here. What’s the status so far?”
Ron Klesczewski paused, fingering his notepad. Despite his years on the squad—even being my second for a couple of them—he remained a curiously tentative soul, much given to self-doubt. His strength, just as J.P.’s was forensics, had always been document searches and paper flow. And although I’d seen him stand unflinching in a firefight, he’d always struck me as being too nice a guy to be a cop.
“It’s a little early yet,” he now answered. “But as soon as you called me with the Russian angle from the ME’s
I let myself in using a key, walked through the quiet Patrol Room, and crossed over to the chief’s corner office next door. It was before seven in the morning, my people were just beginning to show up, Patrol was closing out the shift, hunched over their keyboards, and Chief Tony Brandt was already at work, sitting at an enormous, rough-hewn, cubbyhole-equipped pine desk he’d built himself.
All was as usual.
Brandt was an unorthodox mixture of the old and the new. A lifelong cop, a New Englander born to small-town habits, he had nevertheless evolved into a modern administrator/politician. He ran the department from his oversized desk, from lunches with Brattleboro’s movers and shakers, from meetings in offices of people who saw government as children see playgrounds. He cajoled and threw hardballs when necessary and draped a protective mantle over the department and all its employees. The rank and file sold him short for this sometimes, saying he’d lost his touch for the street, but he got them new equipment when other town departments were left wanting, and he was receptive to suggestions when he thought they had merit. No longer a good ol’ boy, perhaps, he’d become a damn good boss instead.
He had also once been an inveterate pipe smoker, something both his doctor and new town regs had finally curtailed. Still, I’d gotten used to forever seeing him through an aromatic haze, and—his health notwithstanding—I begrudged the new appearance of his office nowadays, with its crystal-clear atmosphere.
He peered up at me as I entered, the early morning sun glinting off his gold-rimmed glasses. “How was Burlington?”
I waggled my hand back and forth equivocally. “So-so. The guy might be a Russian, he might have been killed one to three days ago—or three years ago and then put in a deep freeze—and he probably had a meal the same day he died.”
Tony stared at me for a moment. “That’s it?”
“Basically. He might’ve had the clap once, too. The Russian part comes from some Cyrillic letters he’s got tattooed on his toes. That and he had bad dental work.”
Tony stared thoughtfully at his desktop. I remained silent. “You having a briefing about this soon?” he finally asked.
I checked my watch. “Fifteen minutes.”
“If it’s all right, I’d like to sit in.”
· · ·
There were six of us around the table: Tony, Ron, J.P., myself, and the two remaining members of my crew—Sammie Martens, my second-in-command, and Willy Kunkle.
I began by passing out a sheaf of papers. “These are copies of the ME’s preliminary report, which basically says what we saw yesterday is what we got. The addendum about the tattooed toes is mine. I asked Hillstrom to keep that part of the autopsy under wraps, just in case. One additional tidbit: the dead man was apparently once treated with tetracycline. Hillstrom’s Russian expert said that access to that stuff over there is pretty much a black-market deal, which implies this guy had those kinds of connections. Ron, you handled the inquiries from here. What’s the status so far?”
Ron Klesczewski paused, fingering his notepad. Despite his years on the squad—even being my second for a couple of them—he remained a curiously tentative soul, much given to self-doubt. His strength, just as J.P.’s was forensics, had always been document searches and paper flow. And although I’d seen him stand unflinching in a firefight, he’d always struck me as being too nice a guy to be a cop.
“It’s a little early yet,” he now answered. “But as soon as you called me with the Russian angle from the ME’s
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