The Brahmin Girl

THE BRAHMIN GIRL

Easton Maryland

MAY 2010

I eased back on the throttle, gently snuggled my nimble Chesapeake Bay deadrise up to the long wooden dock and turned off the inboard engine. In the still and sacred seconds of silence that followed, I stood at the wheel… motionless. I closed my eyes, expanded my lungs, and filled them with the sweet primordial scents of the marsh. A wide smile crept over my flushed face.

It had been a scorching, hot, breathless day out on the water. I was bone tired, dehydrated. I climbed up onto the dock, tied off the stern line and turned on the garden hose to wash away the massive amounts of blood which had been spilled over the aft deck, transom and gunwale. As I methodically waved the water nozzle from side to side, I paused, crimped the hose, leaned over and drank deeply of the cold spring water. I straightened up, and looked out towards the western horizon … now aglow with the luminous pastel paints of an early dusk sky. The sun was just beginning its slow ceremonial plunge into the glassy, shimmering surface of the Chesapeake Bay. And despite the horrific events of the last few hours, I was filled with an abiding sense of calm and peace. It was one of those rare cosmic moments when all of creation suddenly slips comfortably into its proper and preordained place in time…. and the way it was all meant to be.

In an instant, the spell was shattered by the irritating presence of someone who seemed out of place…. an unwelcome interloper into my safe nirvana. I looked over my left shoulder and saw him. Agent John Prichard was standing, solemn faced, at the far end of the dock… frowning…. staring…. waiting for me to tie up. He walked towards me slowly…. hands behind his back. I climbed down aboard the boat, casually tossed him my bow line and watched him loop it around the dock cleat. Then he smiled. He pointed to the blood on the boat transom. “What a mess you got there. Out fishing again? What’d you catch?”

I quickly jumped back up onto the dock and untangled the hose. “Nothing today… struck out.”

John laughed. “That’s not like you, partner. I’ve never known you to get skunked out there.”

“Nope. Not a single strike. Guess I’m slipping in my old age.”

“Really? No fish? Then whose blood might that be…. yours?”, he chortled.

I felt a rush of adrenaline surge up to my head, and sputtered out the first inane thought that came into my brain. “Oh… that? That’s just your typical leftover mess from ladling out fish guts from a chum pot. You’ve seen that before, John. Pretty common for bass fishing…. this time of year.”

John smiled. “Yes, indeed I have. Although for striped bass… I usually chum the water with clam bellies, not fish guts.”

Keep your wits about you, Lyle. He’s good.

“Yeah, I ran out of clam bait. Luckily, I ran into a school of bunker and snagged a few”, I answered with less than total conviction. “Didn’t do me much good though. It all turned out to be useless at tits on a bull.”

John was quiet as he continued to stare blankly down at the blood spread out on the aft deck. I hadn’t realized how far it had splattered. After an awkward silence, he looked up and said, “Lyle, let me get right to the point.”

I laughed and welcomed the change of direction. “Great idea. I was wondering why you drove all the way out here… again… from D.C. You were here just two short days ago, as I recall. I do still have a phone, you know.”

He stared at me in silence, just grinning.

I asked, “What’s so funny? Exactly why are you out here so soon after your marathon interview of me the other day?” I returned the smile, “The neighbors will talk, partner.”

“Yeah, well… this required a personal face to face visit.”

His smile vanished as suddenly as it had appeared…. replaced by a dark visage. I asked: “Why the frown? What’s up?”

“Well, to quote the great Zen philosopher, Forrest Gump... life is like a box of chocolates. Wouldn’t you agree with that mystical appraisal of life, Agent Beckwith?”

I studied his face for a long moment … trying to pick up the twisted trajectory of this conversation. “Except with you I never know what I’m going to get. So, move it along, and get to that point you just promised me, John, will ya’?”

“Well… as they say …. I have some good news… and I have some bad news.”

“Do I have first pick?”

“Sure…. what’s your pleasure?”

EASTON MARYLAND

FORTY-EIGHT HOURS EARLIER

I had spent a quiet day alone out on the Bay, fishing and ruminating on the situation at hand. And, as usual, serious thinking had dominated my day’s agenda. As I stepped off the boat, I glanced to my left, drawn towards the sound of a distant diesel engine. I noticed the glint of the sun’s dying rays reflecting off the roof of a car. It was about a quarter mile away…. moving quickly towards the shoreline and kicking up a long trail of red dust in its wake. When I heard the perforated muffler coughing in the distance, I knew that my brief, end-of-the-day interlude of peace had come crashing to another clanging, abrupt finale.

Seconds later, as I started up the grassy slope towards my family’s hundred-year-old white clapboard farmhouse, I saw a silver early model Humvee parked about fifty yards from the end of the driveway. It was set back in the shade of a stand of ancient loblolly pines, about a hundred and fifty yards from the dock. Two strangers in dark suits and sunglasses were standing at the driver’s and front passenger’s doors staring out towards the water and the marsh… and me. The taller of the two was shielding his eyes from the sun with his right hand. As he started to walk briskly down the slope towards me, he called out. “Hey brother, is that you?”

The gruff, twangy voice sounded vaguely familiar for a brief moment. But I reacted instinctively… loudly…. with unexpected annoyance. “Stand where you are, Mister.” I shouted. “Identify yourself now, please. Don’t take another step till I know who you are and what the hell you’re doing here.”

The man didn’t respond. He just kept striding quickly towards me. I shouted even louder. “That’s a half mile private driveway you just trespassed, Mister! Just who in the hell are you?” I reflexively went to my hip for my semi-automatic and remembered that I had spent almost the entire day out on the bay and had left it in the drawer next to the marine radio, down in the boat’s cabin.

In that one brief moment I felt both stupid and foolishly paranoid. A rush of adrenaline, trepidation and anger climbed up through my body as my mind thrust forward the image of my wife lying face down and spread eagled in a running pool of blood…. pouring out of the back of her head… spilling into the drive’s parched bed of crushed oyster shell.

It had been five weeks to the day since my wife Darcy had been fatally shot by an intruder in that same dusty spot in the driveway, on this same kind of hot humid day.

The tall man raised both his hands, slowed… but came even closer. “Whoa there, Lyle. It’s only me, buddy… John Pritchard. I’m sorry to drop in on you unexpectedly like this. Why the edgy greeting?”

I recognized him as soon as he took off his sunglasses. “John, what the hell are you doing out here?”

Pritchard laughed. “It’s nice to see you too.”

“Sorry, John… I didn’t expect….”

He stepped forward quickly and held me in a warm embrace. “I’m so sorry, Lyle. I was out of the country when I got the news about Darcy’s death. I would have been here for you at the funeral but I found out too late. I was with our legat in London for a week of meetings. I had just gotten back home to Alexandria. I called you a couple of times and left messages.”

I said, “I know. That’s all right, John. It’s been a confusing and stressful couple of weeks around here. I feel like the world…. and my life…. have gone off their axes. Most of the guys came out from WFO. You know, to shore me up as best they could. I had no idea at the time… just how much I needed that first wave of support.”

Pritchard turned to the younger man with him, the second blue suit, said. “Lyle Beckwith, say hello to Agent Brian Petrocelli from the Annapolis office.”

I smiled and extended my hand. “Agent Petrocelli, you couldn’t be sitting at the foot of a better, wiser teacher than this man. Observe, listen and learn.”

“Thank you, sir. I agree. I’ve heard a lot of great things about you too, sir.”

I frowned and shot a look at Pritchard. “Dare I ask? Exactly what have you been telling him about me?”

Pritchard answered. “As much as I can. This one has all the markings of a great agent, Lyle. He even kinda’ reminds me of you a little, at your age. Great intuitive skills.”

I turned and stared at John for a few long seconds. “So, what’s it been? Three years or so?”

“Yep. That’s about right. At the retired agents’ reunion in St. Augustine. How are you holding up, brother?”

John and I had first met as rookie FBI agents in my second field office assignment, and his first, in the Washington Field Office and had remained trusted, although somewhat remote, friends for nearly thirty-five years. But, at this particular moment, I didn’t want to see him… or anyone else for that matter. Not now.

“What brings you out here to paradise?” I asked, already knowing his answer.

“Yeah, well, in case you’ve already forgotten, I’m the guy the boss put in charge of the investigation of the cold-blooded murder of a talented FBI agent…. an agent who just happened to be your wife. He wants to know why you haven’t cooperated fully with our team, or even the local police.”

“I spoke with the local police”, I protested.

“True. But then why have you avoided an in-depth interview with me or any of the other agents on the team. How the hell can we follow up on any leads or ideas you may develop… if you don’t talk to us about them?”

“I have nothing helpful to say, John. Really. I’m stumped… just like you guys.”

“Not good enough, Lyle. Not from someone as astute as you. We can’t begin to confidently identify this guy if you won’t dive in with both feet and get directly engaged in the investigation. You’ve done this plenty of times before. You know better than anyone how this drill works. I don’t have to remind you that the longer we wait… the colder the trail gets.”

I was getting weary of the pointless chatter and asked: “What do you really want to know, John? Why are you really here?”

John grinned, then stared at me hard. “You haven’t changed a bit. You’re a tough ornery old bird, Lyle.” He paused and said, “Ok, I’ll tell you why I came out here to see you in person. I’m betting you know perfectly well who it is.”

“Who? The killer?”

“Don’t screw with me. I’m not fooling around.”

“No, I don’t know. And if I did know… don’t you think I’d tell you?”

“Yeah, well… maybe I’m not so sure.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

John froze and stared at me. He reached out and took a briefcase from Petrocelli and removed a stack of manila folders. “Let me get right to it. Our analysts have culled out about a dozen of your high-profile fugitive squad cases from the hundreds you handled over the years. Subjects you personally arrested and helped put away for long prison sentences. Guys with lots of personal reasons and the right predisposition to come after you…you know…. to settle scores. Our psych profilers have narrowed these down to a preferred list of four names.”

“And you expect me to do what with these files?”

“I.…we …want you to review them, read the 302’s, study the photos and give us your best gut instinctive guess as to whether Darcy’s killer is among them. Focus on these top four.”

My brain kicked into high gear. “And who might these elite four be?”

“Let’s sit down and spend some time going over each one, shall we?”

“Jesus. Just give me their names, John”, I said impatiently.

John paused. “All right, Lyle. Well, for starters… Milton Nieport…. the infamous American Express serial killer. Billy Reid …. the paid spy assassin. Napoleon Williams, the Black Liberation Army bomber. And the Brahmin Girl killer…. Jacques Dupree. Do you want to know what each one of these guys has in common?”

“Tell me.” I smiled inwardly… As if I don’t know.

“All four have been recently released from prison. Each has violated parole and has disappeared into thin air. We have no idea… yet…. where they are. There’s been no parole officer contacts with any of them. Weird, huh?”

“There could be a dozen legitimate reasons for that. There’s no such thing as weird when it comes to human behavior. Not in our line of work, John.”

“Yeah well, if we could at least locate them we could clear up the nasty coincidences and rule out one or more of them.”

The sound of these four names, and the images they induced, were like fingernails running down a blackboard. For a moment, the hair on the back of my neck sat up. I looked down at the dock decking, shuffled my feet…. thought for a long minute. Finally, I asked. “First of all, why Nieport?”

“Because he was an unusually cold, serial style killer. Plus, we got a big break from an informant who told us that Nieport actually bragged to a fellow inmate that the first thing he would do when he got out, was to find you and, quote, ‘blow off the back of your head’. The Parole Board never learned of that threat. We just found out. Do you remember his M.O.? He lined up his victims on their knees before neatly placing a nine-millimeter round into the backs of their skulls.”

When I didn’t respond, John asked. “Do you recall that the local police found two small shallow depressions in your driveway…. and matching crushed oyster shell fragments…. embedded on the surface of Darcy’s knees? That son of a bitch forced her to kneel.”

I cringed and closed my eyes. “Yes, I happened to notice that myself.”

John added. “That dick performed an execution…. not just a murder.”

In an instant, I re-envisioned that hectic scene at Miami International Airport that hot humid night many years ago. I had approached the stewardess as she opened the cabin door to begin her disembark protocol. I had shown her my FBI credentials in one hand and a photo of Nieport with the other. “Keep your voice down please. Is this man on board your flight?”

Her eyes widened. “Yes sir, in seat twenty… on the aisle I think.”

“Is he alone?” I had whispered.

She nodded in the affirmative. I had said. “Please go about your business as usual. When he walks past you onto the gangway just casually raise your right hand. Understood?”

“Yes sir. Is there going to be trouble? Is he dangerous?’”

“Not if you do as I say. As he passes the cabin door. I want you to hold up the flow of passengers behind him with your arm. Give me about a forty-foot cushion of space, and I’ll take it from there.”

When he stepped off the plane and onto the ramp, I recognized Nieport immediately. Swarthy, tall, overweight, sallow complexion…. Just like his photo. I swung up behind him and pressed my Smith and Wesson semi-automatic up to the back of his head. I violated at least a dozen rules of arrest protocol in doing so. But I had already decided to make a point and to make it poignantly. “FBI… asshole. Stretch your arms out from your side.” He complied meekly. “So how does that cool gun barrel feel, Milton? Any hint of déjà vu, yet?”

What I remember most about that incident was that, after I had grounded and cuffed the killer, with the help of a Dade County Deputy Sherriff, this big, burly macho man shrieked, whined and sobbed like a hysterical infant clamoring for his mother.

I was slapped back into the moment by the sound of John’s voice. “Do you want to know why we feel that he’s our man?”

“Sure. What’ve you got?”

“Well, in addition to everything else…. Darcy’s surgeon removed the bent slug of a nine-millimeter round which had travelled around the inside of her skull and lodged in her upper jaw. All of that suggests he executed her in the same exact way, and with the same kind of weapon he used on his victims during his Amex robberies.”

“Ok…. some of that makes a bit of sense… at least on paper. But what about Reid?”

John sighed and rolled his eyes. “We got ahold of a book manuscript Reid had written on consignment with a major publishing house… about his long profitable love affair with the KGB. In an earlier draft he wrote that his final Soviet assignment would not be considered completed till he “eliminated Agent Beckwith”. Those were his exact words.

“And Williams?” I asked.

John answered. “You sent Napoleon Williams to prison for conspiracy to bomb the capital, the pentagon…not to mention his involvement in the armored truck robberies where he personally shot and killed two Jersey police officers. This guy thought he was invincible until you and your team took him down. Taking revenge on you and your family would make perfect sense to him. He would never have gotten out on parole except for the recommendation of that asshole US Attorney who was more interested in building his own reputation by trading William’s testimony for indictments of the rest of those insurrectionist thugs.”

My thoughts drifted to the cold, gray, late afternoon in Washington D.C., sitting in the back seat of a Bureau car, my partner at the wheel. I had my .38 MP Special, in my raincoat pocket, aimed at the back of the front seat…. occupied by this scowling, angry, three-hundred-pound hulk of a man. I remember thinking at the time… a .38 caliber slug won’t even make a dent if he decides to pull out an Uzi and become a martyr for his Marxist nutjob friends. It was at that exact moment that I decided that it was time to jettison Hoover’s silly loyalty to tradition and trade the peashooter in my right hand for the equally traditional yet more pragmatic .45 semi-automatic.

John broke the reverie. “I notice you kept Dupree for last. I actually put him in the top four myself. Just an intuitive hunch.”

“A hunch? Based on what facts?” I asked.

John said, “Am I correct in stating that out of all your fugitive cases over the years, Dupree was the only suspect whom Darcy had actually met and interacted with before he was arrested and went to prison? Didn’t she break open the Brahmin Girl case up in Maine and help the local police nail him in 1985, twenty years after the girl’s murder?”

“That’s right” I said. “But why is he even on your list of likely suspects?” I stared at Pritchard and thought….as if I don’t know.

John sighed and answered. “Actually, he was my prime number one candidate… that is, until three days ago. He’s no longer at the top of our list. Probably shouldn’t be on the list at all.”

“Why not?”

“I did a little more research and recontacted the SAC in the Providence office. I found out Dupree was ticketed for running a stop sign there exactly five weeks ago…. in the late afternoon of April 7, this year….”

“The same date and time Darcy was murdered.” I interjected.

John said. “Bingo. It appears he has since moved out of his apartment and no one knows where he’s gone.”

“Have you ruled him out then?”

“Let’s just say I would think it highly unlikely he was personally involved in Darcy’s shooting.”

“But…?”

“But… I would like to locate him to be one hundred percent sure. Ironically, tomorrow is the return date for his traffic summons. We’ll have an agent there in court just in case he shows up.”

I quickly pondered this troubling news and said, “So, are you guys going to just stand here in this heat in your suits or are you coming inside for a cold drink?”

John answered. “We have a lot to talk about, Lyle. First impression. Do you have any instinctive ideas about whether Darcy’s killer in on this list?”

Again, I avoided the question. “First, there are some things we need to clear up before we discuss your final candidates. I presume you guys are coming inside now to conduct your so-called official interview of me?”

“Yes, we are”, he said as he smiled and stood quietly on the dock admiring and pointing his thumb at a fifteen -pound bass lying across the transom. “Nice fish.”

“Thanks.”

He turned back to me. “Lyle, to be blunt… the Director is really worried about you. He doesn’t think you’re taking this situation seriously enough.”

“Worried? Why? Because I’m not returning your phone calls? Look, I’m fine…. really”, I argued, … again, without much conviction.

“Knock it off. You’re not fine. It’s like you’ve climbed into a conch shell and dropped off the face of the earth. The Director says he’s personally left two lengthy messages for you too. Both unanswered.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, but I’m not in any kind of shape at the moment to talk about it. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all over. The whole, ugly, sordid mess. There’s nothing I or anyone else can do about it. There’s nothing you or the Director can do for me.”

Pritchard answered. “Bullshit. Where the hell is that coming from? I need to hear…. to understand, everything you’re thinking, Agent Beckwith. I don’t like it when you get quiet like this. It makes me real nervous.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

“Listen to me, my cocky, uncooperative friend. We have some good reasons to believe the killer had been planning this for a long time and may have actually been on your property scoping out the place. Somehow, he learned of Darcy’s unlisted home address. Any idea where he might have gotten that piece of personal information?”

When I didn’t answer, John raised his voice. “Did you hear what I said? He knew where you guys lived! Subjects are not supposed to know stuff like that for God’s sake!”

Ok…. so, you’ve probably already been told about the prison computer searches. But you don’t know yet about the love note and the pencil sketch of Darcy’s face. Both conspicuously left behind by the killer… neatly propped up on the dashboard of my Jeep. You could be just fishing, John... or are you?

I played along. “What exactly is your point, John?”

“This guy tracked you down, for chrissakes, Lyle. He’s likely already been here on your property. And worse… since the minute these four guys were released from four separate prisons, coincidentally all within six months of each other, each one of them has evaporated…. disappeared into the woodwork. Probably hiding, when there should be no reason to run. The Bureau and the local police… we’re all out there looking for each of them… as we speak.”

I feigned protest and tried to flush out how much he knew. “How exactly do you think this guy got our home address?!”

“We think there’s a possibility one of them hacked into Darcy’s university personnel records using a prison computer. So much for their highly touted cyber-security safeguards.”

I said, “Well then, if you’re worried about this guy coming back here for me, you better step up your game and find him before he finds me.”

John reached into his breast coat pocket and handed me four photos. “Just in case you run into them before we do, here’s some recent pictures of each of them. Look at that son of a bitch Nieport and especially Williams. Both of them…. grinning like Cheshire cats, for God’s sake. You need to study these and stay alert.”

They were the same exact pictures Agent Joe Wilson had just faxed me, on the sly, just a few hours earlier that morning. I smiled contentedly to myself. “Yeah, that’s them all right. Nieport has the same maniacal smile. Reid… well, he never smiles. Williams’ shaved head and asshole scowl is textbook. And Dupree…. he’s had this giant diastema between his front teeth his whole life. You could drive a truck through it. It’s hereditary, you know.”

“How in the hell would you know about that little physiological detail?” He studied my face and said, “Has someone else slipped you these pictures? Perhaps one of your many deep state Bureau sources?”

Again, I lied… a little too comfortably this time. I grinned at him. “No, John. I maintain no such sources. You seem to forget. I’m retired…. and have been for several years. It would be unethical for me to impose upon any of my many loyal friendships inside the Bureau.”

John frowned and smirked. “That’s right. Try to remember that, Agent Beckwith.”

“That’s former Agent Beckwith to you, John. Just a polite reminder.”

I focused on Dupree’s photo. “What I do remember very well is that facial anomaly. Even though we had no Bureau file on him, I actually had a physical face-to-face run-in with this guy over twenty-five years ago. That’s the kind of facial feature you don’t forget or conceal easily… not without surgery. I was kinda’ half expecting Dupree to show this ugly face again. You’re probably right though. It couldn’t be him. Unless he’s developed the art of bi-location. But he’s certainly capable of it. Just like all the others.”

“That tooth gap seems to have left a lasting impression on you, Lyle.”, he said, his voiced laced with a heavy dose of skepticism.

“What can I say? That’s why I got paid the big bucks by the Bureau. I laughed as I had a flashback image of a particular event at Quantico. “Do you remember that standard training simulation they used on us at the academy? You know, where that shave-head marine ran into our classroom and attacked our instructor…. and then ran out… all in a matter of five to six seconds? It was right after lunch on a hot day in August when half the guys were drifting off.”

John was getting visibly annoyed. “Yeah, I remember that little piece of late afternoon drama. Why? What the hell is your point?”

“My point? Well, I’m curious. How did you do in that mini test of your observation skills? How accurately did you recall and record that guy’s physical description?”

When Pritchard didn’t speak, I added, “In case you’re wondering, I was the only agent in my class of fifty men who nailed that description… spot on…. right down to his broken shirt button.” I laughed out loud. “It’s just a gift, I guess.”

John wagged his head. “Are you playing with me? What are you getting at?”

I again ignored his question. I said, instead: “John, what is it you really came all the way out here to tell me?”

John folded his arms and just looked at me. “I think you know the answer to that.”

I said, “Wait…. let me guess… you’re about to offer me some heavily armed security and round the clock surveillance of my house and property, right?”

John laughed. “Well… that wouldn’t be such a bad idea now, would it?”

“Yeah, it would. It’s a terrible idea.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because I have twenty, count ‘em, twenty acres of dense woods…. not to mention hundreds of acres of public marshland and bay water…. surrounding my house and dock. Do you want to see the survey?”

“And….?”

“So, where are you going to set up your perimeter? With how many men? Where are you going to conceal their vehicles? Are you going to set up a navy flotilla out there in the cove to block seaward access?”

“We’re all pros, Lyle. We’ll figure it out.”

“Perhaps. But in the meanwhile, your convoluted, overly complicated tactical defense team will keep our killer away from me like citronella on mosquitos.”

John answered; “Exactly. We don’t want anyone getting anywhere near you, for Christ’s sake.”

“No John! Can’t you see it?” I said quickly. “You’re missing the whole point. I don’t want to scare this mutt away. I want to bring him right up to my door. The wolf is not going to approach if the shepherd is running around the meadow ringing a cowbell, for God’s sake. Come on. That ain’t going to happen… not at least according to your plan.”

After a long period of silence, I added, “John, I know you’re only trying to protect me. And maybe you’re hoping you might get lucky, and grab this guy while your team is here. I appreciate your intention. I really do.”

John scowled and shook his head. “You always did end up doing things your own way, didn’t you? My way or the highway.”

“And did I ever let you or the director down?”

“No… goddamn it.”

“Look,” I said. “I know each of these men intimately. Nieport is a sick genius. He’s the most calculating, cold-hearted killer I’ve ever tracked down. Reid is plodding, undeterred….and a bit mad. Williams is also very clever in his own crude way. Do you know their backgrounds at all?”

John lowered his head. “Well, I… uh…. I’ve read most of the Nieport, Williams and Reid files. Our psych profilers place them at the top of our suspect list …. for good pathological reasons. But, regarding Dupree …. I… uh... I haven’t fully gone through his profile yet. His criminal file was handled by state and local police. There was no federal law broken on the Brahmin case so there’s no federal Bureau file on him. Even though you just happened to be in on the arrest.”

“That’s right. So, allow me to fill you in then. Dupree was born in Providence and raised in the north woods of Maine. He’s used to negotiating rough, unfriendly terrain. He’s a former cop, former Marine. And, just like Nieport, he’s a waterman, a skilled hunter, tracker. And…. just like Williams he’s a patient survivalist type…. and an expert in firearms. Sure, none of these guys is invincible, but they’re all very formidable in their own right. The minute the killer smells any sign of your team, he’ll simply bolt, hole up somewhere and wait for another opportunity…. maybe weeks or months from now.”

“We can wait him out for as long as is necessary.”

“John, listen to yourself. This is not a local swat team operation to neutralize a drugged-up shooter hunkered down in a tiny two-bedroom house. This is not a controlled situation. Each one of these guys is out there loose … on the run…. dodging their parole contacts. For reasons as yet unexplained and unconfirmed. That’s some odd coincidence, huh? And, besides…you can afford the luxury of waiting. I can’t. I’m really lousy at sitting around doing nothing.”

John laughed. “Yeah, I can personally attest to that. I’ve never seen anyone get into third gear faster than you, partner.”

I said, “It’s really simple as I see it. If any one of these guys killed Darcy …. well, then he and I have… to be a somewhat trite and dramatic…. a rendezvous with justice. And each other. You could say we’ve been destined for all time to meet and settle up. So, the sooner he and I face off… the better. He’s already stalled a whole month… and that’s even assuming he’s planning to come back.”

“Our analysts believe it highly probable he will come after you.”

“Let him come.”

John rolled his eyes. “Ok, John Wayne…. what the hell do you propose to do then?”

“I have a plan…I’m still finishing up the details.”

“What plan is that?”

“Tune in. I’ll call you later, after I’ve thought it completely through.”

I doubt I’ll even bother to tell you John…. you’ll reject it anyway, I mused to myself.

John said, “Meanwhile, I’ll compromise with you… but only if you agree to one small concession”.

“And what would that be?”

“I’ll back off the full security team idea… as you insist. But I want Agent Petrocelli to stay here with you for the next week or so. He’s an expert marksman and a very smart young man. Let me leave him here at the house for however long you need him. Just one man, Lyle! He can watch your back. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

I thought to myself…. Right about now I don’t need anyone to watch my back. What I need, John, is for you and the Bureau to get off my back.

I looked at Petrocelli and made an instant executive decision to accept John’s offer…. primarily, to keep it simple. But, secondly, to help me set up what I hoped would be an ironclad trap.

“Ok, John… agreed. Provided you both leave today right after you interview and debrief me… together… the same way you came here. I’m going to assume for the sake of this discussion that you’re correct about Darcy’s killer. I’m even willing to accept the possibility, however remote, that he’s looking at us right now. If so, he’ll see two suits come in together… and the same two guys go out together. You can come back and drop Brian off here at the dock tomorrow night by boat …after dark. Silent approach please. You know the drill.”

Pritchard looked at Petrocelli and grinned. “What did I tell you? He’s good.”

I looked at Petrocelli. “Do you play chess?” I asked quickly.

John smiled. “As a matter of fact, the word I hear from his SAC is that he’ll give you a pretty good run for your money. I’d love to see this young buck beat you at your own game. You could use a healthy dose of humility.”

I smiled. “We’ll see about that.” I mimicked John’s West Texas drawl and said, “O lord, it’s hard to be humble when you’re perfect in every way.”

“Jeez, you’re impossible.” John pointed up to the house. “OK, let’s go inside. We need to talk. I need to hear the whole story…. soup to nuts. I need to know what you’re thinking, and why, Lyle. No holds barred.”

“Ok, but remember…. you’re doing this over my objection. Understood?”, I answered.

John bowed and grandly gestured us with a wave toward the house. “Whatever you say. Lead on MacDuff.”

As I turned to walk away, Pritchard suddenly grabbed my sleeve and locked eyes with me. “Before we do this, Lyle. Answer me this one question first… just yes or no, please. I’m dying to know this.”

I grinned and said, “And what if my answer is a deal braker? So, what’s your question?”

“OK. Despite the unlikely possibility now that Dupree is our man…. did Darcy nevertheless ever say or write anything in her reports or do anything to create any hint that he would come back at her one day…. after he was released from prison?”

I instantly thought of my volatile confrontation with Dupree at the time of his arrest, but I didn’t need to lie about it. John had tried to ask the right question… but he did so in a pathetically inartful way. “Nope, she never wrote or said a word to me about him making any direct threat.”

But I sure as hell had threatened him at the time, John. A threat he would never forget.

I deftly changed direction and focus. I turned and jumped aboard the boat and grabbed my striped bass. “Be patient, John. All good things come to those who wait. I know you like grilled rockfish. But do you like blue crab?”

“Oh, Jesus, here we go. The famous Beckwith diversion…. in full operational mode. Come on, Brother. You know damn well you’re exploiting one of my tragic weaknesses. They’re in season now, right?”

“Yep.” I leaned over the edge of the dock, untied a cord line and hoisted a crab pot out of the water. There were at least six or seven large blue crabs… aggressively waving their powerful claws…. struggling to escape their wired prison. “Let’s repair to the house, gentlemen. I’ll cook up a mess of these delicious gifts from the bay in my world-famous shrimp-crab gumbo and grits. I’ll even make a stiff drink or two. And then…we’ll talk. I sure as hell could use a double Dewars right about now.”

A TABLE BY THE WATER, PLEASE

We climbed up the slope to the house. Pritchard and Petrocelli settled into a pair of wicker rockers on the porch, overlooking the bay through floor to ceiling panoramic windows. I slipped into the kitchen to initiate and overlook the gumbo. Over dinner, we sat at a large white rattan table and watched the dying pink and purple embers of a first-class Tidewater sunset. During an early lull in the conversation, I casually glanced to the left at my image in the antique glass French doors. In the glass I saw John that had noticed the reflection too.

This is not the man I ever expected to become in retirement, I thought, as I studied the hazy portrait of the sixty-one-year-old, white-bearded, sun weathered, sinewy shell of a man staring back at me. I had somehow managed to keep a full head of salt and pepper hair and a trim athletic body for a man my age, but my eyesight and hearing were both fading fast.

What the hell did you expect, you idiot, I thought. Way too many days squinting through the glare of sunlight bouncing in all directions off the ocean water….and way too many hours on the firing range with no ear plugs.

John broke the silence. “OK, are you ready to talk to me, Agent Beckwith?”

I took a deep breath. “Sure, where do you want me to start?”, I said.

“Let’s start with how you’re doing. How have you been holding up?”

I looked over at young Petrocelli who had just taken out a pad and pen and was beginning to take notes. I said, “Put the pad away, son. None of this will not be recorded in any form. Is that understood?”

Brian looked quickly and quizzically at Pritchard who simply nodded in the affirmative.

“It’s been precisely five weeks to the day. She was shot exactly in the same spot where you just parked your car. I’m sorry I lost it out there when you first started walking towards me, John. My mind at this moment is a serious mess. Flooded and overrun with all the wrong emotions…. confusion, shock, anger… major depression. Did you know that I can hear her breathing late at night in the dark? That I can almost reach out, touch her… that I can still feel the warmth of her body lying next to me?”

“I’m really sorry, Lyle. I completely understand. Look, I hate to discuss the details of her death like this, but I’ve got a job to do…you know I have to get into it… all of it. The Easton Police wrote it up as an unknown intruder…a possible bungled home invasion…. or robbery. Are you buying any of that?”

I just hunched my shoulders, wagged my head and said nothing.

“Nothing was stolen, right?”

“Right.”

“So, do you think that’s even remotely possible? Robbery as a motive?”

I paused. “I don’t know what the hell to think.”

“Come on Lyle. Think harder. Was anything missing from her body? Jewelry, purse…wallet? Was anything upended or askew in the house? Out of place? Drawers, cabinets, shelves?”

“No. Look, I’ve already been over this with the police.”

John shook his head.... then altered direction. “Where were you when it happened?”

“I’d been out on the water that morning for less than an hour. I turned around and came home. The tides were too slack and slow to lure the rockfish up from the bottom. You know how finicky and tide driven these elusive fish are. I said to myself I’m not wasting my time fishing out here today… not without some moving water. I know you understand that, right? So, I headed her back in.”

“Did you hear the sound of gunfire while you were out on the water? That kind of retort can carry long distances over the water, as you know.”

“No…. nothing.”

Pritchard asked. “Did anything unusual happen in the weeks and months leading up to her death? Any communications or threats to either of you? From maybe a former fugitive? A former student?”

“Nope. Nothing.”

“Did anything seem out of place in your daily routine….out of sorts in any way?”

I stared out the window out onto the bay. “I should have known better. From the very moment I opened my eyes that morning nothing seemed right. Even my dreams the night before had been fitful … disconcerting. I don’t believe in that astrology hocus pocus shit like Darcy did, but I had this weird feeling that none of the stars were even remotely lined up in the heavenly scheme of things.”

“That’s it… just a feeling?”

“Yep…. just a feeling. Sounds strange coming from an anal compulsive guy like me, huh? I felt that something was off kilter from the moment I leaned over and kissed her on the forehead as I was leaving. Her eyes were still closed. She just smiled and whispered, ‘Have fun, lovey.’”

“No worries, no concerns? No health or marriage problems?”

“Nope. I wasn’t worried about anything. Darcy was a month away from finally putting in her papers. I was already retired a couple of years and living la bella vita…. fishing almost every day. It was all sweet…. all good. Till that son of a bitch brought my life to a crashing halt.”

John paused and stared at me for a long moment, “I gotta tell you, Lyle…for some reason the Director seems to be convinced that you might know a lot more about her killer and what his plans are. A lot more than you’re saying.”

“Why are you beating around the bush?” I held up the four photos. “That’s not like you, John. Tell me. You guys think it was definitely one of these four men…. to the exclusion of anyone else on the face of the earth, don’t you? Is that it? Who would you put your money on?”

Pritchard asked. “It doesn’t matter what I think. What do you think, Lyle? You know these men well…. their history… the way they think. You’re the profile expert. You know what they’re capable of.”

I just shook my head. “I just don’t know.”

“Come on, Brother. What are your bloodhound instincts telling you?”

“Here’s what my so-called instincts are telling me. Every investigation I’ve ever worked had the same immutable ingredients. I always started with the basics and worked from there. My first rule…. collect as many pieces of the puzzle as possible, no matter how seemingly small or irrelevant.”

“Please, no lectures, professor. Just get to your point.”

“I will… in my own way…. in my own time. Don’t rush me.”

“Sorry…. go ahead”, John said.

“Look, I know you already understand all of this, John. I’m trying to emphasize something very basic, mostly for the benefit of your young friend here. Solid bits of hard evidence are like flakes of gold to a prospector. And a prosecutor. You have to swirl and rock that pan back and forth to deftly sift the sand, silt and gravel from the gold. It’s boring, tedious work, but it pays off in the end.”

I noticed John nervously tapping his foot. “And?”

I asked. “Tell me, John. Did the police or your crime scene guys find anything at all? Anything to place one of these guys in that driveway with Darcy? Or anywhere on my property?”

John remained silent. Finally said. “You know the answer to that.”

I continued, raising my voice a few decibels. “Anything at all? Latents?… footprints?... tire marks?... DNA?…. a note? … shell casings?... a candy wrapper…? Anything at all?”

Pritchard lowered his head and said, “No, nothing like that. But each one of these men had just gotten out on parole after serving lengthy sentences thanks to your efforts. And in the case of Dupree, as a direct result of Darcy’s reinvestigation of a very cold case. As we see it, each had plenty of motive… and a lot of years of incarceration to stew in his own juices and plan revenge…. on you or both of you.”

I answered. “I know all of that. But you need to find something tangible to carry me over the threshold. Some hard evidence… if you want to convince me one of your finalists did this. How can you be so sure it wasn’t some random, crazy, local meth head? Someone who saw Darcy shopping in town and seized an opportunity for some quick cash. Someone who followed her home… but panicked, killed her and ran?”

No…. there was no panic here. This man methodically murdered my wife.

John just glared at me. I could tell his mind was racing a mile a minute. “You know, the thought never occurred to me… not till this very moment. Some folks might suspect that you’re hoping that the killer follows up on his murder and comes after you…. one on one. That maybe you’re savoring the opportunity to have him all to yourself. Maybe to kill him and spare us the bother of a time-consuming prosecution and trial? And… if I didn’t know you better… I might be tempted to agree with that school of thought. But, of course, you wouldn’t be thinking like that? Right?”

I smiled inwardly. Be careful, Lyle, John knows you better than you know yourself, methinks.

I ignored the profound import of his words and led him away from his lazy suspicions. “Look, John…. I hate to disappoint the boss, or prevent you from doing your job. I know you can’t skulk back to him empty handed. So, I’ll give you what he wants. I’ll give you your complete 302 interview… right now… for as long as you need. I’ll tell you whatever I can… whatever I can remember. But only for your sake…. and for the sake of our friendship…. nothing more.”

“Thanks, Lyle. I appreciate it. Especially under these circumstances.”

I folded my arms across my chest, leaned back in the wicker rocker and started to speak of events and memories I knew I had no business revisiting. I knew my old friend wouldn’t allow me the perverse comfort of wallowing around in my own sad, private reverie. He would not give me the solitude that I craved at that moment. Not until he had gotten exactly what the Director had sent him out to get from me. … a power lead or two… some salient facts …. sufficient pieces of the puzzle…some flakes of gold…. to tie it all together.

I said, “I know what he wants. I understand. Come on, let’s get into this.”

But you’re wasting your time and effort, John. You’re pissing into the wind. This is not your run of the mill murder investigation. This would normally be yours… but not now. It belongs to me.

“So, where do you want me to start?”, I asked.

John sat up straight in his rocker and spoke with a clear resonant voice. “As always… at the beginning. And, that would be the only crime subject you and Darcy shared in common. Jacques Dupree. Let’s start with him and then work our way through the others.”

I took a long deep breath, leaned back in my chair and let my mind drift to probably the most wonderful period of my life. When, for the first time that I can ever remember, my shallow, frenetic, career driven existence took on real depth and meaning.

I looked away from Pritchard and out onto the rose and mauve reflections of the sky spilling over the surface of the bay. It looked like indigo ink spreading over clear water. I looked back at John. “Did I ever tell you how Darcy and I first met?”

Voice of Lyle Beckwith

Easton, Maryland

May 2010

THE INTERN

It was the fall of 1984. I was thirty-six years old and quickly scrambling up the Bureau’s crowded career ladder at Washington headquarters. I had been given some nice promotions and a couple letters of commendation along the way but what I’m most proud of is the fact that I was the youngest instructor ever assigned by the Bureau to the Academy in Quantico. I ended up teaching forensic psychology and crime scene analysis to agents, cops and sheriffs from all over the country. I really enjoyed that. Almost as much as tracking down fugitives. And I was pretty damn good at it ... if I may say so myself.

The Director had heard about a small team of professors at Northeastern University in Boston, who had been offering some very interesting advanced courses in their graduate criminal justice degree program. They convinced the Bureau to lend them my services to teach some of their brightest students. The Director had given me permission to take a short, paid leave and teach at the university level for a semester or two. It was a no brainer for me. I was single at the time, had no family to tie me down and relished the start of a new adventure. And, besides, I’ve always liked Bean Town…. if not the Red Sox.

And that’s how I first got involved in this amazing story. Which, unbeknownst to me at the time, had all been set in motion with the murder of an extraordinary young girl in the backwoods of Maine twenty years earlier…. on Thanksgiving Day in November of 1965.

I can still picture the antiquated Grecian style amphitheater classroom with its hundred-year-old dark stained wooden bench seats. That’s when and where I first laid eyes on her. Oh God, how I remember that sweet face. She was sitting up there in the nosebleed seats at the end of the top row. All by her lonesome. Her face was beautiful… Grace Kelly beautiful. Tall, Celtic blond hair, bright green eyes and legs that wouldn’t quit. I remember she was wearing a faded Baltimore Orioles hat. She was older than most of the other students, by about ten years, give or take. Very bright… articulate… analytical. She had all the skills and smarts and personality to be one hell of a forensic analyst and federal agent. I knew it… and, more importantly, she knew it. She skipped down the wooden stairs, took my hand in hers, smiled and introduced herself.

Her voice was so light and lilting… yet at the same time, all business. “Hello, Professor Beckwith”, she said, in her sweet Tidewater accent. “My name is Darcy Farrell. I’m really excited to be enrolled in your class. It’s a great honor and opportunity to learn from someone like yourself. I’m hoping that you’ll be the person who’ll teach me everything I need to know to become a great agent someday.”

I just stared and smiled at her for a long second, and said; “You know, I believe you may actually mean that, Miss Farrell.”

“Oh, indeed I do. Yours is the course I’ve been waiting for.”

“Well, I’ve heard some good reports about you too… and your academic record. The only advice I’ll offer you… while you focus in on this class… is to maintain your grade average where it is now. If you do that, there’ll be a prize at the end of the academic rainbow this year…. waiting for my best students in my combined courses. I’ll make the announcement near the end of the semester. I’m hoping to launch an experimental intern program. In a way that’s never been done before.”

Her eyes lit up. She smiled and said, “Oh, I can’t wait.”

The following April the dean followed through on my proposal and asked me to post the names of the ten most promising students in the program and arrange for summer intern positions at ten different sheriff and police departments throughout New England. I made all the arrangements, got all the consents and cooperation from the locals and made the individual assignments. I remember how liberating it was to be able to do all this without the smothering, over-the-shoulder meddling of university general counsel. How times have greatly changed.

I assigned Darcy to a small town in Maine. I knew both the local Franklin County Sheriff and the Police Chief in Carrabassett. They were both former students in one of my Quantico classes. The chief’s name was Tom Bradley. He had arranged to board Darcy with a nice local elderly couple, Joe and Harriet Lyscombe. He had told me of a really interesting cold case, a rare and yet unsolved twenty-year old homicide in Carrabassett. I instructed Darcy to spend the summer pouring through the file, studying all the evidence, re-interviewing the original witnesses, if possible, to see if she could breathe some life back into that dead-ended 1965 murder investigation. She loved the idea and was excited to sink her teeth into it. Her enthusiasm was infectious… almost childlike. Very uplifting to a professor like me…. someone already beginning to show signs of jading and cynicism.

I had to remind her often that I really didn’t expect any of my students to solve any of these cold cases. I was just using these old files, and some off the beaten path experiences in the back woods of Maine to give them a rare opportunity to see how small-town police departments operate on a day-to-day basis. It was a learning experience, to go through the routine steps needed in any basic crime investigation. It wasn’t a serious attempt to solve old crimes…. just an opportunity to learn the skills to solve new ones.

We called her The Brahmin Girl. She was a seventeen-year-old homicide victim…. brutally killed on her eighteenth birthday. Throughout the entire crime scene investigation and the post death interviews in Carrabassett, not one of the locals, not even Chief Bradley, ever knew her real name. She had been living a double life with fraudulent identification for the entire seven months she was up there. Her true identity remained a mystery for a long while, even after she was killed. In fact, even the exact cause of her death remained an unsolved puzzle right up to the appearance of my student, Darcy Farrell, in Carrabassett Maine, nearly twenty years later…. in May of 1985.

Mind you, this was all before the commercial availability of cellphones. So, I insisted that all my students call me, from a pay phone, if necessary, at the end of each day, even on weekends, to leave me a message confirming that they were alive and well. Darcy contacted me every night to report her progress on the case, which was very impressive. The problem was, it had become too impressive…. too fast.

But, before I get too far over my skis, I want to introduce you to the man who coined the phrase, the Brahmin Girl. The man in charge of her murder investigation…. Carrabassett Police Chief Tom Bradley. He knows her story, and, if he were with us today, could tell it better than anyone. I still have all his reports and logs…they can put all the flesh and sinew you need onto the bare bone. But what I remember most about Tom Bradley is his calming, resonant, Down East accented voice.

CARRABASSETT MAINE

November 1965

VOICE OF CHIEF TOM BRADLEY

It was a cold, gray misty morning when I got that surreal call from Isaiah Allerton. It was a few days after Thanksgiving in late November 1965. I was at my desk. My secretary Margie was standing at the door to my office. She lowered her voice, pointed to her hand clamped over the phone transmitter. “It’s that weird Allerton kid”, she said. “He’s barely making any sense. Just jabbering away about a black bear attack on that Libby girl. He sounds like he’s losing it, Chief.”

I stood and grabbed the phone. “What seems to be the problem, Isaiah.”, I said.

“Chief! You’ve got to come up here…. now. I found her in the woods. She’s de…. dead.” He sounded like he was hyperventilating…. choking…. coughing.

“Calm down, for God’s sake, Isaiah…. and tell me… who’s dead?”

“Oh my God! It’s Libby. She was killed by the biggest bla…. black bear I’ve ever seen. It doesn’t even look like her. But it’s her, all right. Oh, sweet Jesus. I should have stopped her from running away.” He cried out. “We had a fi…fight. Why did she have to run away from me?”

“Isaiah, where are you calling from? Your house?”

“Yes. Libby’s out there in woods. I found her at the bottom of a ravine. A bear was te…tearing her up …. eating her! Oh, Christ…. I saw it, with my own eyes, Chief.”

“How far away is she from the house? Is she near any of the trails?”

“About a ha…half mile from here. Up near the top of the ridge, behind my house.”

“Give me some markers son. Where exactly is she?”

“She’s off the main trail, to the west, near the small waterfall. I’ve got to get back to her right away, Chief. I can’t ta…talk to you now. She needs me.”

“Don’t hang up yet, son…. I need to ask you some…”.

Just then the line went dead. “Christ, I’ve got to get up there now.”, I said to myself out loud.

I yelled out into the bullpen for my Deputy. “Dupree, gather up your crime scene kit and come with me now. Is your 30.06 in your cruiser?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come on, let’s go. I know exactly where that waterfall is.”

As we ran out the front door of the police station I turned and called back to Margie. “Keep trying to reach him at his house. Get me on the radio and let me know if he picks up.”

Two minutes later, I was behind the wheel of Dupree’s cruiser, roaring up Route 27. Dupree was riding shotgun. I glanced over at him, noticed a tense, haggard look on his face and smiled. “What’s the matter Deputy? You’re not afraid of bears, are you?”

“No, sir. I’ve bagged my limit of them up here over the past few years.”

“Then, what’s the matter? You look troubled.”

“No, I’m fine. Just thinking about what we’ll find up there.” He paused and added: “Say, what did that weird Isaiah kid say exactly?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he say if he…. you know… examined the body at all?”

“No…. why do you ask?”

Dupree stared out the window. Finally said, “Just wondering…that’s all.”

After a minute of silence, I said, “Welcome home, by the way. How was your Thanksgiving ski vacation up at Katahdin?”

“Oh…. good. It was fun.”, he said, as he stared out the passenger window.

“I didn’t know you were a skier, Mister Dupree.”

“I’m not. It was a long, extended weekend with my buddies. A bachelor party.”

I laughed: “Ha…. I knew it. I thought you looked kinda’ pekid this morning. Green behind the gills. Overserved, were you?”

Dupree half-grinned. “Yeah, you might say that.”

I said, “I’ve been up there a few times myself. Beautiful. Where’d you stay?”

Dupree looked away for a moment and pursed his lips. “At a friend’s condo at the big resort.”

“Really? Do you know who owns that place? Our very own Chairman of the Board of Selectmen.”

Dupree squirmed in his seat and said,
“Yeah, I know…. Mister Paulos.”

“Do you know Charlie Paulos?”

“Yeah, I met him years ago when I was a patrol officer in Providence.”

After a long silence, I asked. “Your little vacation up there wasn’t arranged by Charlie was it? Was it on the arm? His arm?”

Dupree’s face reddened. “Yes sir, we were his guests for a few days. He actually stayed with us.”

I slowed the car and looked directly at Dupree. “I don’t know how you handled your professional affairs down in Providence. But up here in Carrabassett, we don’t accept gratuities from anyone, especially from duly elected officials. Are you understanding this? When were you going to volunteer this little piece of information, Deputy?”

He looked down at the floorboard and mumbled. “Sorry, Chief,..I didn’t…..

Just then the cruiser fishtailed and swung sharply to the right. I regained control and said, “We’ll continue this conversation later. Got it?”

The night before we had had a couple inches of snow which concealed a lot of black ice patches on the highway. I struggled to keep control of the car and almost lost it a few times, but reached the old logging road in under fifteen minutes. We travelled about a half mile then hiked in the rest of the way on foot. The trail was covered in wet snow and ice but Dupree and I quickly made it up that rocky hill and to the top of the ridge in about twenty minutes.

He was standing near the edge of a deep ravine about a hundred yards from the waterfall. Isaiah Allerton stood about six feet tall, lean muscular build, long black hair and a short dark beard. He looked befuddled, like a man drugged, as though in some kind of a trance. He was cradling a lever action rifle. I unfastened my gun holster and called out to him. “Isaiah, lay the gun on the ground slowly and then just point to where she is.”

When he didn’t respond, I shouted. “I’m not going to tell you again, son. Lay the gun on the ground. Now.”

Isaiah suddenly lifted the rifle to his shoulder, but then pointed it towards the bottom of a deep hollow to our left. I crouched, pulled my semiautomatic … just as Allerton started to bend towards the ground. Suddenly the floodgates crashed wide open as he doubled over, dropped the rifle, fell to his knees and started sobbing uncontrollably. “She’s dow… down there. Under all those lea… leaves. I should have followed her. I heard this rifle shot… right after she ra…. ran away.” He stared at me with a wild-eyed look of panic and desperation…. then took a deep breath and said slowly, “I called her landlady, Mrs. Olsen th…. this morning, Chief. She says she’s been missing for two whole days. Oh, God…why didn’t I go after her?”

Dupree scurried over to Allerton, took the rifle and said, “I’ll take that hatchet there at your waist, too, Isaiah.” Dupree pulled it out of its leather holster.

I looked into the ravine and saw the shape of a human body lying face up and partially covered with leaves and pine straw. She looked like an oversized rag doll covered in dried blood and forest floor debris. I’d been a cop then for over twenty years but I had never seen a grizzlier, stomach-turning scene like that one. Her chest and abdomen had been ripped open like a side of beef split down the middle by a butcher’s cleaver. Her scalp had been ripped away from her skull and parts of her nose and ears were torn off. I resisted the urge to puke and walked back up the slope. I stared into Allerton’s face as I quickly approached him.

When I began asking him a rapid-fire series of questions, he started to stammer and stutter so badly he was almost unintelligible. “Whoa, Isaiah, slow down. What time did you find her?”

“Ah…ah…about an hour and a half ago.” He responded.

“Where was the bear when you first saw it?”

“It was dig…. digging into her chest with his cl… claws.”

“What did you do?”

“I fi…fired a shot into the air. He stood up on both feet. He roa… roared at me and then ran away up over the ridge.”

“Listen to me carefully, son. How many shots did you fire from that rifle today?”

“Ju…. just that one, Chief.”

I stared quietly for a moment at Isaiah and asked. “When did you last see her alive?”

“She was…. she was… at my house two days ago. When she ran away from me.”

“Why did she run from you, Isaiah?”

“She was upset…crying. We had a little fi…fight.”

“About what?”

“I ca….ca…. can’t talk about it now.”

“What were you doing up here this morning? Why were you up here?”

He pointed to the ground behind him. “I was tracking a bu…. buck I saw early this morning. See there? There’s his prints right there in the snow.”

In fact, I noticed that the deer tracks led straight up from the trail to the ravine but then continued up the ridge line. I reached back at my waist and removed the cuffs from my belt. “Isaiah, until I can sort some things out here, I’m going to have to detain and cuff you. Don’t be upset. This is all normal police procedure. We need to have a long conversation, you and me….and maybe even with a lawyer.” I cuffed Isaiah and stood with him while Dupree taped off the scene, set up a few grids, did a quick search of the entire area and took no less than a hundred of the most gruesome corpse pictures I’d ever seen. We took so many shots because I knew that no one would otherwise believe what I was staring at. I forgot to take my portable radio with me so I left Dupree with Allerton and hiked back down to the car where I radioed Margie and relayed a message to the medical examiner Doc Brodsky.

When I got back up to the scene, I took Allerton aside. He started to stutter and stammer even more wildly as soon as I started to ask him some more questions.

“Isaiah, you say you and Libby had a fight. I want you to tell me what that fight was about.”

“I do…don’t want to talk about it Chief. It’s pri…pri…… private, between Libby and me.”

I grew annoyed…impatient. “Nope. Not any more, it isn’t, son. I’m formally placing you under arrest for questioning. You’ll spend the night at the station and we’ll come back up here and enforce a search warrant at your house tomorrow morning.”

“But I didn’t sh… shoot her, Chief.”

“And, so you say. Is there anyone staying at your house? And do you have any dogs or cats living there?”

“No…no….no one, Chief. Except for my songbirds.”

I covered Libby’s body with a plastic tarp from my knapsack, turned to my deputy and said, “Mister Dupree, I want you to escort Mister Allerton down to the cruiser, take him back to the office and put him in the lockup. Get on the radio and have Margie call Doc Brodsky. I want you to bring him back up here with a few strong men to carry the body down the trail. I’ll wait up here for you and Brodsky to get back.”

I found a relatively sunny spot on a rock ledge near the edge of the falls and sat down. I waited there almost a full hour before the coroner, Dupree and two of his EMS friends finally got back up there. I couldn’t go near her body. The nauseating, stifling stench of decomposition and death, even in the cooler weather, had already placed its ugly grip on what was, until now, a beautiful, intelligent, vibrant young woman.

I sat huddled, knees to my chest…. braced and back turned against the cold wind…. listening to the rustling remnant of dried dead leaves still clinging to their summer perches. I couldn’t help thinking of the day I first met her, and smiled. Local newspaper reporters who had later covered the story had repeatedly asked me “so, how did you first run into her?” My pat response was: “Well, it was more the other way ‘round, actually. It was she who first ran into me.”

AN AUSPICIOUS BEGINNING

I had just gassed up my patrol car at Mike Allen’s auto body shop that early morning in May when she pulled in directly behind me at the pump. I heard a loud crunching sound and turned to see an ugly twist of metal bumpers broken headlights and dented trunk. My mind immediately presented a bizarre image of an old, mangy, testosterone crazed bull mounting my prized young heifer. I’d felt violated… in a strange kind of way.

The young female driver jumped out, held her hand to her mouth and pleaded. “Oh, my God, Officer. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

“Well, you got that right Miss. Who are you? Let me see some identification please.” I had quickly demanded.

She just held out her hand, smiled, and said, “My parents, back home in Boston, call me Libby. I would be really pleased if you would do the same. Are you the Police Chief, sir?”

An odd reaction, I thought at the time.

“Yes, I am. Chief Bradley.”

“I just drove into town and stopped for gas. I was sort of planning to stay here for a while. Maybe for the summer, if that’s Ok.” She grinned, rolled her eyes and added, “If I can manage to stay out of jail.”

“Do you have a job lined up for the summer, Libby?”, I asked.

“Well, not exactly, sir. I’m a paint artist. You know, nature still life, portrait kind of painting. I’m not quite sure yet how long I’ll be staying here…. if at all.”

She continued to smother me with profuse apologies. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this. Totally my fault. Is there anything you need for me to do? I’m afraid I don’t have collision coverage but I insist on paying for the complete repair of your car.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, you’ll pay all right. If the Board of Selectmen have any say in it. And as far as staying out of jail is concerned, I wouldn’t worry about that. Certainly not over an incident like this. Unless of course there’s an open warrant for you in Boston, Libby.”

“Oh no, not me, Chief. I was raised to respect the law and men like you who enforce it.”

I pointed to my crumbled rear bumper and said, “Well, this isn’t exactly a crime scene. However, you’ve managed to hit a police cruiser on your very first day in Carrabassett. That’s one hell of an auspicious start to your visit. Quite the introduction, Miss Libby. And just to keep this all on the up and up… may I see that identification now please?”

“Why certainly, Chief. I’d be happy to”, she said, as she dug through her wallet.

Mike Allen, a tall, balding, weather-beaten man in his late 60’s walked over to the cruiser and said, “I’m getting kinda’ busy with the arrival of the summer crowd, Chief.” He pointed to the rear of the car. “If you and the Board want me to fix that, better get it in here real soon while I still have the time…. and my new mechanic can get it up on the lift.”

I said, “Thanks Mike. I’ll do that as soon as I can get my Deputy to give up his car for a few days.” I looked at the skinny, pimple faced, shaggy haired young man pumping gas. “Who’s the new kid?”

Mike smiled. “Oh, not to worry Chief. He’s not my mechanic. That’s the twenty-year old son of a real good friend of mine who’s renting a ski chalet just outside of town for the summer. I promised him I’d keep the boy busy for a while. Seems the kid has some behavioral and disciplinary problems he’s trying to work out …. according to his father.”

I answered. “Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around. Good luck. By the way, Mike, I want you working on the car, personally, not him or anyone else. OK?”

“Of course, Chief. I understand.”

I refocused on the pretty, little auburn-haired stranger who’d just banged up my car. Her Massachusetts driver’s license bore the name Elizabeth Morelli, a nineteen-year-old from Boston. I said, “Well, you heard the man, Libby. I’ll be getting the car fixed in a few weeks probably, and I’ll let you know how much you owe the Town Board.”

The girl’s smile and her bright green eyes lit up her face. “Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it right away. Do you mind if I pay you in cash, Chief?”

Another odd request, I thought. I returned the smile and said, “As long as it’s in the coin of the realm.”

She laughed. “They’re not gold backed, but they’re real U.S. dollars. I’ll let you know as soon as I find a rented room and get settled in. I already have a couple great leads right here in the heart of town.”

For the brief time that I knew her, I was consistently struck by her unrelentingly upbeat personality. She was so full of life and wonder…. with everything and everybody. Even the way she spoke… with that unique private boarding school accent. The timbre and confident sound of her voice, the quick smile, the firm handshake… and her pretty face…. were all impressive. The whole package… it all reminded me of a young Katherine Hepburn.

I remember there was a Boston Globe reporter who came up from Boston, about five months after Libby’s death, to interview me. He was doing an in-depth human-interest kind of story on the facts surrounding the killing. But what he really wanted to do was take a deep dive into the girls’ private life, to feature her personality profile, her hidden psyche. He had met her parents, an elderly wealthy couple from Boston and was really intent on telling their story too. Especially about how a young girl…. as pretty, smart and talented as she was, could end up being so alone and so hopelessly estranged from her parents. The reporter handed me a high school graduation photo her mother had given him. A bit younger and fresher faced… but the same pretty girl who plowed into the rear of my car. Except that, by then, standing at that pump, she had acquired some bright purple dyed highlights in her hair, a rose tattoo on the left side of her neck and dirty, ripped, faded jeans. A sign of the times, I reckoned.

I know all of the regulars…you know…the year-round folks, up here. I’ve also gotten to know most of the winter ski crowd and even the summer people too. One thing is for sure. She never did quite fit in to our rural laid-back Maine mold, if you know what I mean.

KEEP MOVING

After about an hour huddled on the cold rocky ledge with my knees wedged into my chest, I stood, stretched my legs and stomped my feet to try to keep warm. I walked back to the ravine and stared down at Libby’s cold, lifeless corpse laying there, framed and cordoned off by the yellow police barricade tape.

A tragic, sad, unjust end, I thought, especially for such a sweet girl who had savored every rich, tasteful moment of life.

Truth be told, she had struck me, in that moment of first impression in the gas station, as a simmering, wild flower child waiting to burst out of her up-tight, upper caste Boston background. But I was wrong. She turned out to be true to her classy roots in many ways. She was very self-disciplined, with a polite lady like set of social standards. Yet at the same time, she remained consistent and unwavering in her non-conformity. I found her to be one of those rare souls who looked the world directly in the eye, fearlessly spoke her mind and moved comfortably with the mind and purpose of a free spirit. An unusual young woman to say the least. In short, no one was really surprised that she ended up keeping company with someone like ‘weird Isaiah’ Allerton.

Just then, Dupree called up to me from a stand of pines along the trail below. His voice echoed in the still dense woods. “I have the Doc, Chief.”

“Hurry on up here. We’re running out of daylight,” I yelled below.

Harold Brodsky was panting and sucking wind like an asthma patient. He bent his small, stooped frame over at the waist to catch his breath. “Sorry it took so long to get up here, Tom. I’m not exactly in the greatest physical shape these days. I’m no kid anymore, you know.” He stared down into the ravine. “Oh, my God. There’s nothing left of her.”

“I know. It’s horrible. Just do the best you can, Doc. We have plenty of pictures.”

Brodsky bent over, dug into his bag and pulled out a pair of surgical gloves. “I don’t know where to begin,” he said, standing motionless over the body.

After about fifteen minutes, Doc Brodsky stood and said, “She’s been dead for a good while. Probably between twenty-four and forty-eight hours, I’d bet. I can’t really examine the body closely, not the way I’d like, until I get it back to the morgue, Chief. I’m sorry. Not much more I can do up here. You know, with it getting dark so early in the afternoon now. Did you get photos of the blood distribution pattern around the body, Chief?”

“Yeah, Doc. Dupree has them.”

I noticed a wild distant gaze in his darting eyes. He looked pale and gaunt. “What is it, Doc. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know exactly. You know, I’ve seen a lot of death. But this one…. this one has me greatly troubled and even a little frightened. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

“How do you mean?”

“The damage to her body is staggering…. other worldly. Most of her internal organs are either missing or shredded beyond recognition. This is not going to be easy, Chief.”

I sighed. “I know, Doc. Just do what you can”, I repeated.

I looked at Dupree and the EMS crew. “Ok gentlemen. Let’s get the body bagged and down to the main road as quickly as we can. We’re losing daylight fast.”

I said to Dupree, “I want you to run over to Judge Hoffmann first thing in the morning and pick up the search warrant for the Allerton house. I’ll call him tonight and get things started.”

“Yes, Chief. When do you want to search his place?”

“As soon as you get the warrant. We’ll bring Allerton up there with us and enforce it in his presence.”

“What do we do about notifying next of kin?” Dupree asked.

“I want you to call the Boston P.D. and ask them to go to the address listed on her driver’s license as soon as possible and notify the parents. I think her last name is Morelli. Was her wallet and ID on her body?”

Dupree held up a clear plastic bag. “Got it, Chief.”

“When we get back to town, get on over to the Olsen house. Search her rented room carefully and see what you can find.”

“Right, Chief.”

I took a deep breath and pointed to the trail. “OK, let’s get this show on the road.”

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

Early the next morning when I walked into the office, Dupree was just getting off the phone. He looked up at me. “Shit, we’ve got a problem”, he groaned.

“Let’s hear it.”

“That was Boston P.D. They visited Mrs. Morelli late last night. It seems our sweet little Libby is an imposter.”

“What do you mean?”

“Every piece of identification in her wallet and purse is fake. When they told Mrs. Morelli about her daughter’s death, she damned near passed out. Apparently, the mother ran upstairs crying… screaming hysterical. A few seconds later she bounced back down the stairs, a changed woman. It seems her daughter, Libby, or Elizabeth, was sound asleep in her bedroom, very much alive and well.”

“Oh, boy. Here we go,” I said. “Get over to the morgue later and remind Doc we need the girl’s fingerprints, her footprints and a complete dental chart. We’ll have to send them to the FBI lab and Boston PD. Hopefully we’ll get a match from their databases.”

I pictured the death scene and her body and tried to envision her pretty face.

Exactly who in the hell are you, Libby? And exactly where did you come from?

Dupree broke my reverie. “So, what do you want to call her? You know, for the record.” he asked.

I laughed. “I want to call her what her parents named her. As soon as we can figure out who they are exactly.”

Dupree answered. “That’s not what I mean. Is she officially a Jane Doe now? Is that her case name?”

For all the years I’d been a cop, I’d always hated to slap that faceless Jane Doe… that impersonal, lifeless moniker on anyone. Especially on a girl filled with so much vibrant life. I answered, “No. Absolutely not. She deserves some basic human dignity. She needs some kind of meaningful name, one fitting her unique personality.”

“I don’t follow”, said Dupree.

The thought came to me in an instant. “Until we know who she really is… the official name of her file will be The Brahmin Girl.”

“The Bra…. what?”

I laughed. “Go look it up, Mister Dupree. Learn what the word means. In its proper historical context. I’m naming her after her unique, upper caste Boston Brahmin accent. It fits her to a tee. Wouldn’t you agree Deputy?”

Dupree’s blank expression said it all. “Uhh…., yeah sure, Chief. Whatever you say.”

PRINCE OF HEARTS

Later that morning Dupree and I drove Allerton up to his place where we enforced the search warrant in his presence. As soon as we came through the front door, I noticed that the air was oppressively hot and still. Heat poured out of the large fieldstone fireplace in the living room. Mixed in with the distinct aroma of burnt, well-seasoned black cherrywood was the mangy smell of a menagerie. It reminded me of an unventilated pet store. I quickly looked around the rooms and stood gaping at the extraordinarily bizarre scene set out before me. Throughout the large kitchen, the living room, the back rooms, and even the bathroom, there were over a hundred live local and tropical songbirds. Canaries, golden finches, tanagers, parakeets…. even a few wild chickadees… in dozens of swaying wicker cages. A wild, chattering, cacophonous melee. I imagined a drunken midnight choir huddled and hunched along a telephone wire…. backs to the winter wind.

But what really sent the hair on my neck flying… was what I had next noticed about the birds, as I walked closer to the cages. Sitting alongside each raucous songbird…. on each of the wooden perches… were countless numbers of companions…. every one of them…. dead. In various frozen, yet natural poses. Each had been masterfully taxidermized. I walked back into the kitchen and then saw Allerton’s piece de resistance. It sent a chill up my spine. Along the entire wall above the stove was a long knotty pine shelf containing hundreds of tiny glass jars holding the tiny hearts of these dead birds, preserved in formaldehyde. It was a bizarre, unsettling sight …. more than a little unnerving… even for a seasoned cop like me.

It turns out that our young Isaiah was himself quite the skillful taxidermist. I asked him about it. “Isaiah, who taught you how to do this? And why do you keep the bird hearts preserved in formaldehyde?”

Isaiah gave me a puzzled look. He paused and said, “I learned how to do this from my dad. I don’t exactly know why I do it. Maybe it’s ‘cause I really love these little guys.” Isaiah picked up one of the jars and smiled. “Maybe it’s cause I’m trying to preserve their innocence? Who knows? I’m not really sure why I like doing this.”

I said, “Well, whatever the reason, you have a rare gift, Isaiah. These birds are very well done”.

Dupree suddenly interjected. “Yeah… but I gotta tell ya’, Isaiah…those hearts are more than a little spooky, if you ask me.” He poked his head with a forefinger and grinned demonically. “Really weird… kinda’ like you. I always figured you for the satanic cult type.”

Isaiah’s eyes widened as he stared at Dupree. His plaintive, guileless voice carried a slight hint of fear. He ignored Dupree and turned to face me. “Is this against the law, Chief? Please tell me if it is. Am I doing anything wrong? Something illegal?”

“No, Isaiah. At least not that I can tell at the moment. How long have you been doing this?”

“I’m not sure exactly. Since around the time my parents were killed in the car wreck, I guess.”

I knew Isaiah’s folks and did some quick mental math. “So, about three and a half years now?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s about right.”

I asked, “Where do you do your taxidermy work? Here in the house?”

Isaiah walked to a door at the rear of the kitchen and said, “Come with me. I’ll show you.”

Isaiah opened the door and flipped on a light switch. We walked down a short flight of rough wooden steps illuminated by a single incandescent light bulb suspended at the end of a long-braided string … hanging from a floor rafter. The unfinished basement had an earthen floor. Two long wooden tables were covered in taxidermy knives and scalpels, scissors, grooming tools, formaldehyde jugs, latex gloves and other equipment. Above the table were two long fluorescent bulb fixtures which buzzed continuously.

“This is very impressive, Isaiah. Just birds?”

“Yeah… mostly” he said.

I turned to Dupree and said, “Go out to the cruiser, get the camera and take pictures of the birds and cages upstairs and all this stuff down here.”

Dupree turned to leave. “Right, Chief.” As he walked past me, I thought I heard him mumble, “The kid’s fuckin’ nuts.”

I picked up one of the small glass containers and stared at the tiny bird heart. I asked, “Do you know, Isaiah, what the heart rate of a canary or even a chickadee is?”

He grinned and said, “Yes, I do. One thousand beats per minute.”

“That’s right, son. That’s why they’re always feeding…. constantly having to look for energy sources. Meanwhile, we earthbound folks plod along at seventy beats per minute.” I laughed, “Maybe what’s why we haven’t figured out yet how to fly on our own.”

Isaiah stared at me, smiled and said, “But we will… all of us… someday.”

I paused and asked, “You really believe that?”

He said: “Libby used to sing this song all the time. I remember her words… ‘when I die, halleluiah, by and by….”

The familiar spiritual verse resounded in my head. “Yeah...I’ll fly away… fly away”, I found myself singing, sotto voce.

Just then I remembered Doc Brodsky telling me at the crime scene that the girl’s heart and most of her liver appeared to be missing from the corpse.

“Say, Isaiah, when you scared off the bear, did you happen to notice if it had any part of her body in his mouth when he ran off?”

“The pupils of Isaiah’s eyes suddenly widened and he stammered badly. “Uh, yeah, I…. I ….. think I sa… saw something in his mouth.”

I held the glass jar back up to the buzzing light. “Was it shaped something like this? Except a lot bigger?”

Isaiah’s eyes now grew to the size of saucers. “You me…mean… like Libby’s heart?”

“Now take your time and think really hard, Isaiah. I want to know exactly what you saw.”

“Isaiah’s face suddenly reddened. “Uhhhh, ma…ma…maybe. I can’t really remember that.”

My deputy, Dupree, came back down the stairs and had heard my question and Isaiah’s answer. He grunted loudly. I looked over at him. He did a dramatic eye roll and made a quick circling motion with his middle finger alongside his right temple. “Bullshit” he whispered…… or at least so he had presumed.

After a few minutes, we returned to the kitchen where I changed up the flow of questions. “Isaiah, were you having an intimate relationship with Libby?”

“I don…don’t get what you mean, Chief.”

Dupree suddenly lunged forward like a bull in a china shop. He grinned, went face to face with Isaiah and said mockingly. “In other words, Isaiah…. what the Chief really wants to know is…. just between us guys of course… were you porking the girl?”

I jumped between Dupree and Allerton, pushed my deputy away and shot him a look that would have killed most properly mannered folks. “What the deputy is asking you, Isaiah, in his crude way, is whether you and Libby were having sexual relations.”

Allerton glanced quickly back toward his bedroom door, then at the floor. “I don…don’t… have to answer that question, Chief Bradley. Do I?”

I paused, then said. “Well, that’s technically true. You don’t have to answer anything. But it would sure help us in our investigation. And it might even go a long way towards helping yourself. You know, clearing yourself as a potential suspect. Provided you told us the truth. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Isaiah squinted down at his feet and remained close lipped. I asked again. “Look, Isaiah, sooner or later you’re going to have to answer that question. If you two were having sex, I’m not going to judge you. That’s not necessarily any of my business. But I need to have an answer. A truthful answer. Yes or no.”

Suddenly he blurted out. “Yes, we were. I won’t lie, Chief. Not about anything, especially not about Libby.”

“Atta’ boy. So then, roughly how often? And over what period of time? Weeks? Months?”

Isaiah looked at the ceiling, closed his eyes and moved his hands together. He seemed to be silently and deftly counting on his fingers. “Twelve times. Since the end of summer, Chief.”

“Did Libby give her consent every time?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Did she ever try to resist you or say no to you?”

Isaiah’s voice betrayed a bitter, angry edge. “No. Never. She loved me; you know.”

“Was it always up here at the house?”

“Yes, mostly. But twice we did it down in that little grassy meadow… you know, the one next to the stream below the lake.”

I turned and walked back to the kitchen. I then recalled that when we had first entered the house, I had seen but ignored something that later turned out to be a rare, incredibly lucky break in the case. It was a brand-new cassette tape player sitting in full view on the big round pine kitchen table. The store receipt was lying next to it.

I turned and pointed towards the machine. “Is this recorder yours, Isaiah? Is it new?”

“Yes, sir. Libby asked me to buy it when we took a ride into Kingfield a few weeks ago.”

I looked at the receipt. “How did she pay for it… in cash?”

“Yes, sir. She paid for everything… her food, her paint supplies… even her rent to Mrs. Olson... all in cash.”

“Did you ever see her use a check or credit card?”

“No, sir… never.”

Unbeknownst to me at the moment, the tape recorder turned out to be an extraordinary and fortuitous piece of evidence. You even might say… a once in a cop’s lifetime opportunity to perhaps solve a big case quickly. Or at least that’s what I had thought and hoped for at the time. According to Allerton, it contained the voices of Libby, or whatever her real name was, and Isaiah, in multiple, separate and distinct conversations. I pointed to a chair and Isaiah sat down across from me at his kitchen table. I broached the subject. “Isaiah, tell me what’s on this cassette tape.”

“Libby and me talking. She started to tape our conversations a while back.”, he said.

“Really? About what?”, I asked.

“About us. You know, about love … and stuff.”

I glanced at Dupree who hunched his shoulders and rolled his eyes again. I asked, “When did she start recording your conversations?”

“A couple of weeks ago, before she ran away.” His voice cracked a bit. “Before she was killed.”

“Why did she make these recordings? Did she give you any reason?”

Isaiah was surprisingly blunt. “Play it and see for yourself.”

My good luck continued to play out. I leapt at the opportunity and asked the loaded question. “Isaiah Allerton, do I have your permission and authority to play this tape?”

“Sure, why not?”

No cop worth his salt was about to look such a gift horse in the mouth. And, so, I quickly hit the play button. The tape was queued up at the beginning. Libby’s familiar voice immediately rang out…. sweet, bright and clear. She said “Isaiah, thank you for letting me do this.”

Isaiah’s reply sounded hesitant, almost timid. “I’m confused, Libby. Tell me again. Please…. slow…. why are you recording us?”

Her response was as sharp and precise as a brass bell. “Because you need to have an accurate record of our love and what it means. You may need to remind yourself someday… in the distant future…. of our love for one another and all the wonderful things we have so much in common, Isaiah.”

Isaiah paused. Then said, “Like what?”

“Our mutual backgrounds, our lonely isolated lives, our hearts intertwined. Especially our love for God’s beautiful creation, our gentle and open way of looking at His gifts, and caring for them.”

“Yes, I know. That’s true.” Isaiah responded softly.

I heard Libby say. “You’re smiling, Isaiah. What do you want to say? Come on, this thing won’t bite.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever find someone who sees the world like me, Libby. I’d almost given up hope of ever finding someone like you.”

Libby said. “We’re kindred, linked spirits, you know… you and I. Both of us…. authentic Mayflower descendants…. can you imagine that? What are the odds? Both of us… orphans. You’ve lost your parents to a car accident. I’ve lost my parents to their deadly biases and closemindedness. They’re as good as dead to me.”

A few seconds of silence followed. Libby spoke, “Isaiah, I know we only met a few months ago… but I feel like I’ve known you all my life. You ask me why I’m doing this? Because I want to make a record of what true love looks and sounds like. The kind of love that can withstand and overcome any evil and hatred in this world.”

“Libby, what are you going to do with this tape?”, Isaiah asked.

“I’m going to write a short story for you, about us. But first I need to know everything there is to know about you. I want to explore the silent secrets of your mind and heart. I want you to understand the depths of my own lost spirit… to understand my own unique gifts… to know and feel what moves me to pour myself out on my canvases the way I do. Can you understand what I’m saying?”

Isaiah’s voice was soft and reflective. “Yes…. I think so. At first, I wasn’t sure. But I think this is a really good idea. I like it. We should have started to do this sooner.”

Libby spoke. “Isaiah, I’m really doing this more for you than myself. Someday, maybe soon, when I’m dead and gone, this tape will be a witness to our love. More importantly, it will be a witness, a living testament, to your innocence.”

I quickly leaned over the table and hit the stop button. “That word… innocence. What did she mean by that?”

“I have no idea, Chief. It was kinda’ weird in a way.”

“Indeed.” I said. I tucked it away for later rumination and hit the start button again. “Let’s continue, shall we?”

There was a brief pause on the tape, then Isaiah asked. “Libby, that painting you did of me. Can I have it?”

“Of course, silly. That’s my gift to you. One day after I’m gone you can look at it and remember that that’s the face of a sensitive, kind, intelligent young man who virtually no one else in this town really knows. A wonderful but lonely guy who no one has ever taken the trouble to understand…. except me.”

Isaiah said. “It’s beautiful. Do I really look like that to you? I’ve never seen a painting of anyone who looks so alive. I look like I’m actually breathing. I wish my parents were alive to see it.”

Libby’s response sounded soft and wistful. “And so do I. They may be gone. But you are very much alive, Isaiah. You just don’t realize it yet.” Her voice was followed by loud brief static.

I asked. “Is that the end of the first conversation, Isaiah?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is Libby referring to the portrait I saw hanging in your bedroom a few minutes ago? Is that the one she painted and gave you?”

“Yes, Chief. She gave me some others too. They’re all hanging here on the walls…. all over my house.”

I stood and walked back into Isaiah’s bedroom and stared at the portrait for a long while. I’m no art expert but I recall thinking at that moment that she had enormous talent. She had captured the smiling, natural good looks… the bright blue expressive eyes of what appeared, at least on canvas, to be an innocent and perhaps a bit overly naive young man. My first impression was that I was staring at the face and human dimension of a boy that neither I nor anyone in town had ever really bothered to look at before.

I walked back into the kitchen, pointed to the tape recorder and asked. “How many other conversations are on that tape?

“Just two more.”

“When was the second conversation recorded?”

“About a week after the first”, he said.

“May I?” I said, not looking up. I hit the play button again.

Libby’s sweet voice sounded rambling…. disjointed… a bit disoriented. “Isaiah, how close is the nearest house to your property?”

“Why do you want to know that?” responded Isaiah.

“Because late at night, the times when I’ve stayed up here, I’ve heard voices out there…. way back deep in the woods.”

“No, Libby, that’s just the sound of the wind swirling through the tops of the pines. Sometimes it sounds just like human voices. It does sound a little scary. But no one lives within at least a mile of here.”

“Is there a cemetery nearby?”

“Yeah, there’s an old Indian burial ground almost a mile away… down towards the highway.”

“Oh, that’s it then. Can we go see it sometime?”

“What do you mean? Why do you want to do that?”

“Because one of the voices I’ve heard at night says that he knows me and my ancestors. I’d like to see where he’s buried.”

After a long period of silence, Isaiah finally spoke. “You’re hearing a voice? Of a dead man? At night?”

“Yes, silly. Don’t you ever hear voices sometimes too?”

“No, I don’t.” There was another long pregnant pause. “How long have you been hearing these voices?”

Dupree quickly stood, shook his head and blurted, “Holy shit. They’re both certified crazy.”

“Shove a sock in it, Deputy…. now!”, I said, refocusing on the tape.

Libby giggled. “The voices have been there, like old friends, all my life. It’s not what you may think.” She laughed aloud, “You don’t need to worry about me … or them. I’m not crazy and they’re perfectly harmless, Isaiah. They’re the spirits of those who have died and are still trapped for a while in this dimension. Most of the spirits out there in the woods are Native Americans. Some of them have been here for hundreds of years …. our years.”

“That’s a long time to be trapped…. In any dimension. I hope I find my reward in the next life…. a lot sooner than that.”

“It’s not what you imagine. They don’t share the same qualities… or experience time the way we do, here in our earthly world. Time becomes irrelevant when we die. As we approach God, in death, we also approach His true nature and essence, which isn’t bound or burdened by the dimensions of time or space.”

“How do you know all this stuff? Did you learn it in school?”, asked Isaiah.

“I’ve always just kind of known it. I see and hear things most people can’t. Or rather, I experience things other people refuse to hear or see. Even as a little girl. My father would never discuss it with me. And my mother… well, she was just always confused and alarmed. So, I learned to keep quiet about it.”

“This voice you’re talking to…. who is it?”

“He says his name is Samoset. An Algonquin, I think. He says he wants to introduce me to my forebears, one particular white settler family who moved from the coast of Maine inland somewhere in this area. He says he passed into the next life in Bristol, near the ocean, a very long time ago.”

“Bristol, as in Bristol, Maine?”

“Yes, but it was way back in the sixteen-hundreds.”

“What else does he say?”

“He keeps saying that he knows me and that my ancestors are watching over everything I do. He says he was a friend of my great-great grandfather. If I ever get back to Boston, I’m going to do some research about the Native American tribes in this part of Maine.”

“Would you like to visit that cemetery with me? We can do it right now, if you want.” Isaiah said.

“Oh, yes, I’d really like that. Did you know there are even some white English settlers and a few slaves buried in that same cemetery?”, Libby said.

“But, how would you know that? You’ve never been here before this summer.”

Libby laughed. “Because I speak to some of them too.”

Isaiah said excitedly, “Come on, let’s go there right now.”

The voices ended and another period of static followed.

“Is that the end of that conversation?”

“Yes, Chief. There’s one more though.”

“Before we get to that…. what is the significance of that last exchange?”

“I don’t get what you mean.”

I looked over at Dupree who was still wagging his head at full throttle. I asked, “Let me be blunt, Isaiah. Was Libby a little… you know… off? Was she mentally imbalanced? Tell me, what do you really think….is it possible?”

“No. Definitely not. She saw and heard things, especially out there deep in the woods. The kinds of things that most folks can’t.” Isaiah’s gaze drifted away, out through the kitchen window…. as though carried to some other time and place. He smiled and said: “No, she wasn’t nuts, Chief. She just had special gifts. That’s all.”

“Did you ever take her to that Indian cemetery?”

“Yeah, that same day. It was almost a week ago.”

“Did you do that to…. you know… humor her?”

“Yeah, well, Chief…. for your information, she actually found a grave mound with the name Samoset carved into a slab of limestone. It was really faded… but that was the name on the marker … Samoset; date of death 1653. I think it was Libby who was humoring me. Not the other way around.”

I stared disbelievingly at Isaiah for a long moment. “Obviously she had been up there before…. prior to the day you took her…. right?”

“No way. She’d never seen it before. I asked her that same question. She would never lie to me.”

I snapped back, “Never lie? Except, of course, for the continuing lie she told all of us for the past six months about her identity.”

Isaiah answered, “I suppose you could look at her that way, Chief. It’s true, the name she gave me the first day I met her was Libby Browne Morelli. She said Morelli was the name of her adoptive parents. But her real given name is Libby…just like she said.”

I raised my voice. “Libby what?! Isaiah, she was carrying fraudulent identification in the name of Morelli. She lied to you, Isaiah. To all of us. We still don’t know who she really is.”

“That’s not important, Chief. Not to me anyway. I know who she is.”

I was not about to get sidetracked and distracted by this useless hypothetical debate. Instead, I asked, “Let’s get back to the last conversation, shall we?”

Isaiah gave me a knowing smile and pointed to the recorder. “Go right ahead. But before you do … I want to tell you something you aughta’ know.”

I cocked my head to the side and returned the smile. “Really? Like what?”

“Did you know there was a colonial marker next to Samoset’s grave had the name Browne? John Browne. The original Mayflower John Browne.”

I stared at Isaiah. “That’s quite a leap of faith. Isaiah. What’s your point?”

“You don’t see anything amazing…. or at the least serendipity, in that?”

“Should I?” I asked.

“A white man? Buried right next to an Indian burial mound?! Whose surname happens to be the same as her middle name?”

I shrugged and said, “So what? There’s a couple of other white men and women buried up there too. People who, you know, probably married or cohabited with Native Americans. White folks who were probably shunned and rejected by the rest of us properly civilized society down here in the valley. And as far as the name Browne is concerned… well, that’s like the name Smith, for crying out loud. A dime a dozen.”

We were wasting our time. In the classic unproductive collision of reason and happenstance. I hovered my finger over the recorder button and said, “Ok? May we proceed now? To the last conversation?”

“Sure, I guess.”

“Now, when exactly was this? When did the two of you have your last recorded conversation?”

Isaiah’s smile had faded and turned as quickly as it had appeared. His voice suddenly began to crack … erupting with pent up pathos. He let out a long, soft, primeval moan… then whispered: “The day she ran away. Two days before I found her dead in the woods.”

I side glanced at Dupree, and then back at Allerton. “I presume you’ve also listened to this last conversation before today?”

“Yes. Over and over again…. all on that same day. And I’ve heard it in my head almost every day since.”

“All what day, Isaiah?”

“The day she recorded this. The same day she cried and ran away.”

I reached over the table and hit the play button. There was a fifteen second period of rustling static, followed by Libby’s trembling voice. “Isaiah, I have something very important I need to tell you.”

“What’s wrong? You looked scared”, the pitch of his voice rising an octave.

Libby’s voice seemed to regain some momentary composure. “Listen to me carefully, my love. I have to go away for a while.”

“Where?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“But why? Did I do something wrong? Did I say something?”

“NO, Isaiah”, the girl yelled.

“What is it, then! Tell me…. what’s wrong?!”, he insisted.

Libby started to weep, then whispered. “I’m pregnant, my love.”

“But…but… that’s OK. You can live here with me. We can even get married, right? We can raise our baby here, you and me. Can’t we?”

“No, we can’t. “

“But why not? You love me, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course I do. You know that.”

Isaiah shouted. “I don’t understand. Why not? Tell me why not?!”

“Because the baby isn’t yours.”

“What? What do you mean? How…. can that be…. I…. I thought….”

“I plan to go home to my parents in Boston. I’ll beg them to take me back. I’m going to give birth to my daughter. I’ve decided to spare her life and give her up for adoption… if I can stay alive that long.”

Allerton’s voice boomed out of the speaker and across the room. “NO !!!.”, he screamed.

“Yes. I have no choice. She has to live.”

“Who is it!! Tell me. I’m gonna’ kill him.”

Libby’s voice grew weak… resigned. “Oh, God! I can’t tell you that, Isaiah.” Her voice momentarily buckled and cracked. “The man raped me, Isaiah. He said he would kill both of us if I told anyone what he did to me.”

“Did you do it with him…. like you do it with me?”

Libby cried, “Oh, Isaiah, I can’t do this. You don’t understand anything. Please let me go.”

Allerton pleaded. “Please, Libby, don’t leave. Stay here with me. Stop and think about this. We’ll figure out the right thing to do. Please.”

Her measured voice answered with a heightened level of calm and maturity that caught me off guard. “I’m out of time,” she said. “Time is not my friend. It’s my enemy now… an assassin of dreams. My dreams. Our dreams.”

The next sounds on the tape were those of Libby’s scurried footsteps running across the bare oak floor and then…. the slamming of a screen door. Allerton could be heard screaming something unintelligible, followed moments later by the sharp metallic sound of the chambering of a round in a lever action rifle. “Give me his name!” he roared from across the room.

Libby’s shouts echoed as though yelling from a distance somewhere beyond the door. Out near the treeline. She screamed, “I’ll give you anything… and everything. But I can’t give you that. I’ve given you my heart, my love. Take it, it’s yours. That’s all I have left to give you.”

The conversation ended abruptly with a roaring silence, broken only seconds later by Isaiah’s uncontrolled, pathetic sobs. A funereal hush fell over the room. I stared at the recorder for nearly a full minute while I tried to collect my thoughts. I went to turn the machine off. Isaiah jumped to his feet, thrust his hand towards me and said “Wait. That’s not the end, Chief.”

“What do you mean?”

The thought suddenly hit me. Is it really possible?

I asked. “Isaiah, is the sound of that rifle shot you mentioned out on the ridge caught on this tape?”

“Yes, sir. Keep playing it. You’ll hear it.”

I listened to the soft hissing of static for exactly four minutes and thirty-one seconds. Then a loud crack ricocheted through the hills and hollows… and boomed through the speaker. I looked at Dupree. “That’s clearly a high-powered rifle. A single shot. And pretty close.”

I looked at Allerton. “Did you fire that shot, Isaiah?”

“No sir. But I hear hunters up here firing their guns all the time. I thought it was one of them…. you know, what with it being deer season and all.”

I asked, finally. “That metal sound that we heard while you were arguing with Libby, was that you chambering your thirty aught six, Isaiah?”

“Yes sir.”

“Listen to me very carefully. Over the last three days did you fire that gun at anyone or anything other than that bear yesterday morning?”

“No sir…. I swear.”

“Where did she go?”

“I don’t know. She ran off into the woods, crying really hard.”

“Tell me the God’s honest truth now. Did you follow her?”

‘’No sir. I figured she would find her way back into town on her own. She always does.”

“Why didn’t you go after her?”

“I was really confused. I was afraid I might hurt her.”

“Hurt her?” Why? How?”

“I was so mad.”

Allerton looked down at the floor and clenched his fists. “Yeah. Really mad.”

“That rifle shot. Where exactly did it come from? Be specific.”

“It sounded like it was about a quarter mile from behind the back of the house… higher up in the pines.”

“What time of day was the shot fired?”

“Around mid… maybe towards late afternoon.”

I turned to Dupree. “Care to render an opinion, Mister Dupree?”

Dupree looked down at his feet… frowned and said: “No, Chief. I have no comment…. for the moment.”

“Really? How very uncharacteristic of you.”

I stood and quickly re-cuffed Allerton. I said, “You’re still in official custody for further questioning, son. Don’t say anything else till we get you back to the station and we can get you that lawyer we discussed.”

“But I didn’t shoot her, Chief Bradley.”

“We’ll see. We’ll let the coroner, Doc Brodsky, tell us whether you did or didn’t.”

I shifted into a full court press. I leaned into Isaiah. “Now, listen carefully to me, son. I want you to show me every firearm, every bladed object on this property… in this house, the garage, the barn in the back. I want to see all your knives, mauls, axes, hatchets, anything with an edge on it. Do you understand me?”

Isaiah stood abruptly. “Yes, Chief. Come with me. I’ll show you where everything is.”

This is not the demeanor of a guilty man, I quickly intuited.

Dupree and I spent the next several hours confiscating, marking, and bagging every sharp and dull bladed tool on the property. We seized every one of his guns. We tested for any sign of blood stains or recent attempts to clean or scrub floors, furniture, clothing. The lab did in fact find blood on some of the blades. But it was all non-human. I had forgotten that Isaiah was living alone off the grid and had become pretty skilled in hunting and fishing for wild game and even farming his own huge vegetable plot.

From the moment I had entered the house, I’d wondered about the temperature environment necessary for the survival of all those tropical birds. In fact, the house was almost too hot and I had noticed that Isaiah had a huge supply of split, seasoned firewood neatly stacked just outside the back door. The wood pile spread out almost half the length of the gravel driveway. At least twenty plus cords of wood, I figured.

I should point out that my investigation was conducted at a time which predated what turned out to be the bane of every seasoned law enforcement officer’s existence. The infamous Miranda case warnings… which required the reading of certain rights to a potential criminal suspect. Toward the end of my questioning, I thought of Allerton’s reputation in town. He bore, whether rightly or wrongly, an image of a lonely eccentric young man. One prone to occasional inappropriate, clumsy, naive statements. His reputation had developed over many years, unintentionally fed by his parents’ careless description of their boy’s many unusual eccentricities while he was growing up. Many in Carrabassett had long ago shaped an irrevocable, immutable opinion of him as a slow witted, absent-minded dreamer, somewhat of a rube. And even worse… in the eyes of respectable townsfolk… as someone without any redeeming social skills or value. And, yet…. at the same time, a physically strong, tough and brutally honest young man who very much resembled his hard-working, industrious father in both appearance and character. I knew his dad well. He was a very good man. And the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree… or at least I had so suspected.

In retrospect, I probably should have first offered Isaiah an opportunity to be represented by a lawyer… before I listened to the tape and interrogated him. But I admit it. I got lazy…impatient. I wanted some quick answers from the boy, not frustrating delays in my investigation. Ironically, what I ended up with, instead, was twenty years of delayed justice. And one very unsolved homicide case.

Isaiah didn’t give us any smoking gun kinds of admission. But he had said a lot of things up at the house, and later at the station, that seriously implicated him, at least circumstantially. The thing is though, for all his eccentricities and poor social skills I had no reason to believe that he had any violent proclivities. Except for his taped emotional reaction to Libby’s news about being pregnant, there was no sign or known history of angry outbursts, anger or cursing reported by anyone in town. Allerton usually came down from the lake about once a month to get a haircut or buy some provisions from the local grocer. He had very little contact with anyone in town. His life had become reclusive, and he clearly wanted it kept that way.

WHAT’S UP DOC?

About a week after the house search, I paid a visit to Doc Brodsky. I found him downstairs in the morgue…. still laboring, both physically and mentally, leaning over the mutilated body of the Brahmin Girl. I came up behind him and asked, hesitantly, “So, Doc, what say you? What can you give us?”

As he stood over the body, still lying prone on the long steel table, he looked almost as pale gray and haggard as Libby’s corpse. “Well, the big news is that I can’t find any evidence of gunshot or knife wounds. Or, you know, the usual blunt force contusions you would typically see in a typical homicide case. But there are plenty of signs of serious fatal injuries. Very deep cuts and slash marks to the scalp, chest and abdomen. Yet, I repeat, Chief… there is no clear, convincing evidence that any direct, human inflicted trauma was the proximate cause of her death.”

“Human inflicted? Come on, give it to me in laymen’s terms.”

“Her chest and upper abdomen were ripped wide open. The entire heart and most of the liver are missing. There are frayed edges to the skin and organs indicating a lot of gnawing, chewing type action…. claws and teeth. If Isaiah Allerton’s story is to be believed, this was an attack by a very large black bear. He says he actually saw the animal biting, eating the flesh and scavenging the body of the girl before he startled it and drove it away by firing a shot from his rifle.”

Brodsky suddenly became quiet and lowered his head. I said, “You look like you want to say more, Doc. What’s on your mind?”

“Well, among the many claw type slash marks, there are a few random wounds that look a lot like actual blade marks ... knife cuts. They’re barely perceptible… very hard to distinguish… but they’re there.”

I said, “I’ve never known a bear to carry a knife, Doc. So, give it to me in terms I and a jury can understand. Is this a bear killing? Or is it a criminal homicide?”

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but I truly don’t know. I can’t be one hundred percent sure if I’m looking at knife cuts, or idiopathic collateral damage from the claw gauges and gnawing by the bear… even looking under the scope. At least not at this point.”

“Jesus. So, in other words… you’re telling me the medical evidence is inconclusive? Are you saying the case is stuck in neutral? That’s the best we have here?”

“Yes, that’s it. In a nutshell”. After an awkward pause Doc continued. “And there’s something else you should know.”

I said, “Really? Lay it on me, Doc.”

“Were you aware that she was pregnant.? She was somewhere between six to eight weeks along.”

“Oh, that. Yes, we knew. But I didn’t want to say anything to you about it because I wanted you to independently confirm whether it was true.”

“Well, I’m confirming it now.”

“Did you preserve the fetal tissue?”

“Yes, of course.”

A few days later, under some pressure from Allerton’s newly retained lawyer, the prosecutor and I convinced the court there was no need to continue holding Allerton on bail. Meanwhile, Dupree was still obsessed with getting Allerton indicted for murder. His case theory seemed to be based entirely on our interview with him up at the house. His quick-on-the-draw, hip-fired answer to me was always the same. It never changed. He kept saying, “Well, junior thinks he was the only one banging her. Obviously, when he found out someone else was doing her, he lost it and killed her. It’s that simple. Who else does that leave as a suspect? What more do we need? He’s our guy, I’m telling ya. Trust me, Chief.”

I must admit that, at first, Allerton seemed to be the most logical choice for suspect of the year. But we had an unusual situation here with several other issues at play. Like Brodsky, for example. Not just the inconclusiveness of his autopsy. But something else even more troublesome. Doc, by that time, was already a little long in the tooth and the quality of his work seemed to be slipping a bit. He’d been our local coroner for many years but he had had virtually no experience with bear attacks, much less criminal homicide cases. He had worked many dozens of accidental homicides. But they were, almost all of them… you know, car wrecks… hunting accidents…. that kind of thing. He was a good doctor in his day. But maybe in a little over his head in this case.

Then there was the drinking problem, the occupational hazard of many docs who turn to post mortems as a fall back way to make a living. In truth, he had become a barely functioning alcoholic. He and his wife had some real pain and tragic sadness in their lives. The kind that can drive someone to drink too much, too often and too long. I had to pull off a minor miracle to keep that juicy gossip tidbit out of all the news reports. It’s no wonder his life had almost fallen apart. His only child… a beautiful sweet twenty nine year old daughter…… had killed herself with a drug overdose some years earlier. I don’t care who you are. A father can’t taste the joys of life or bounce back into its natural flows and rhythms after something like that happens to his only daughter.

Then, late one night, something really odd happened. About two weeks after giving me a draft copy of his autopsy report, Brodsky knocked on the front door of my home and asked to speak with me privately, away from the office. He sat down across from me in my den and just stared silently at me for a few long seconds.

“What’s the matter, Doc? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I have, Chief. And lately it’s been keeping me up most nights. I can’t sleep. I can’t think straight. Your Brahmin girl is haunting my dreams. I’ve kept her driver’s license picture suspended from the light frame over her body on the dissection table. You know, to keep me grounded and focused. I’ve been covering, concealing her once pretty face… her disfigured face now…. with a large towel. I can’t bear to look at her. Me, a trained medical examiner, for chrissakes, can’t bear to look at her terrible wounds.”

His voice seemed to drift off into another dimension. “Between just the two of us Tom, I’ve been having a lot of trouble keeping my mind focused on anything lately, much less this case. I wish I had never taken it on. I thought I would never say this… but I feel out of my league.”

“Why Doc? What’s really going on?”

He was deathly quiet for a half minute then said: “You know that I haven’t had but a few murder investigations in all the years I’ve been here. And I’ve had no real experience with bear attacks on humans.”

“Are you saying you want someone else…a doc with that kind of special experience to take over the post mortem?”

“No, no. I’ll finish it. I’ll sign the final report.”

“Then what is it? What else do you want from me?”

Doc’s eyes suddenly appeared to fill with tears. I noticed that his right hand began to tremble slightly. “I don’t know how to say it”, he said in a whisper.

“I’m serious Doc. If you’re not up to it I need to know that now, rather than later, if you don’t mind.”

Brodsky answered; “What I’m trying to say is. I’m starting to make stupid mistakes. More than usual. They’re nothing I can’t usually remedy. But I think this will have to be my last post mortem. I’ll be calling it quits after this murder investigation. I’m going to retire for good in a month or two… or however much longer you need me to hang in there with this case.”

“Mistakes? What kind of mistakes?”

Brodsky lowered his head and avoided eye contact with me. “After I closed up the body a few weeks ago, and after I submitted the autopsy report to you and the prosecutor, I remembered that I’s forgotten to examine the girl’s heart vessels. The heart was missing from the body so I hadn’t thought it necessary to do that. It was an amateurish mistake of the first order. I have no excuse for it.”

Doc looked away from me and whispered in a raspy, tired voice, “Except, of course, for the same old lame excuse that always seems to follow me around… like some mangy dog yapping at my heels. You already know all about the demons in my life. So…. you know…...”

“Yes, Doc, I do. But the more important question is, what did you do about this oversight? Did you make things right?”

“I did. Late last night I went alone over to the county morgue, got her back out of the refrigeration unit and took a closer… and much more sober… look at the body…. at the chest cavity.”

I tried to bolster his sagging self-confidence and calm my own anticipatory anxiety about what he was about to spring on me. “Well, better late than never, as they say. At least you got to it.” I paused then asked. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re going to have to prepare a supplemental report?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Shit…OK. So, let’s have it. What are you going to add?”

“The five major blood vessels to and from the heart were not torn away by the bear’s claws as I had originally presumed.”

“What? What the hell do you mean?”

“They were neatly cut… severed by a sharp object. Like a knife in the hand of someone who seemed to know very well what he was doing. I found the identical blade marks in a few other places along the chest and rib wall.”

“Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Wait till Dupree hears this. He’s going to camp out on the prosecutor’s front lawn screaming for Isaiah’s indictment now. He’ll be hyperventilating for Allerton’s hide by the time I get into the office tomorrow morning.”

My brain started swooning as I began to think of the unlimited possibilities. “Ok, that may complicate things more than just a little. I presume you took close up photos of the cuts and the heart vessels?”

“Yes, of course.”

“So, we now have human involvement in her death?”

“Yes, it would appear so.”

“And to confirm again…. you preserved the fetus for testing?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Ok, then. Let’s deal with that first. I’ll talk to Allerton’s attorney tomorrow and inquire about getting a blood sample from Isaiah for a paternity test. In the meanwhile, please tell me more about the cut marks.”

“Well, I went back and used a large magnifying glass to examine the edges of the wounds on the chest and abdomen. I’m convinced that almost all of them were consistently parallel, the natural product of the bear’s powerful claw gauges. However, I did find two or three smaller, less obvious marks which suggested finer cuts with some kind of sharp object, like a steel blade. You know, the kinds of cuts you would see in knife dissection, for example.”

“By the same hand and tool that severed the cardiac arteries?”

“Yes…. possibly.”

I added reflexively, “Like you might see with someone field dressing a deer kill?”

Brodsky added. “Yes. Precisely. And, by the way, to remove any doubt whatsoever about the exact specie of the body’s scavenger, the open wounds were literally filled with black bear hair follicles from the animal. I did some research and confirmed it.”

“So, the bear attack itself is not in any doubt in your report?”

“No, not at all. She was devoured by a bear… a very large bear.”

“Then, why the troubled look on your face?”

Doc scratched his chin. “It’s just that… well…. in all my years living in this part of Maine, I’ve never heard of black bears attacking humans. Not without serious provocation. Have you really known them to do that?”

“Well, I’ve been doing a little research on the subject myself. Contrary what you see in the movies, black bears are pretty timid when it comes to human contact. There are only a couple of reported cases of attacks on live people. However, there are a lot more reported cases of black bears scavenging on whatever kind of carrion meat they can find, whether deer, beaver, moose…. or even a dead human body. In fact, in recent years we’ve even heard of scavenger events involving coyotes, our latest western interlopers up here.”

“Mother nature… don’t ever argue with the lady.” Doc mumbled to himself.

“Yeah, one thing is forever certain. While we’re blithely going about our business, the immutable laws of predator and prey, and survival, are always the feature show going on up here in the great wild outdoors of Maine. We tend to forget that powerful dynamic sometimes.”

Brodsky nodded. “Amen.”

I asked Brodsky. “So, back to basics. What’s your best estimate of the date and time of death?”

“Best I can tell…. mid-afternoon on Thanksgiving Day. Based on your missing person’s report I figured she may have been lying in that ravine a good forty-eight hours before her body was found.”

I said “We’re well into late November. Just when black bears are gorging on as much carrion meat and berries as possible, getting ready for their long winter months of den hibernation.”

“On that subject Chief, there’s something else I thought you should be aware of. I don’t know its significance, if any.”

“What’s that?”

“Oddly enough, I picked up the very strong scent of fermented blueberries in her hair. I have no explanation.”

“That might have come from the bear’s mouth.”

Brodsky said. “Possibly, but it was odd. I didn’t smell it on any other part of her body… only in her hair.”

After a long silent pause, I finally broached the dreaded subject which had been smoldering in my brain for weeks. “Speaking of hibernation. I need to know something critical to my investigation.”

“What’s that?”, he asked.

“Was she conscious … alive or already dead…. when her chest was ripped open by that bear?”

“Well, based on all the widespread, splattered blood distribution patterns around the body I would have to say that if she was alive, she was just barely hanging on. There must have been some minimal level of blood pressure present but perhaps barely registering…. when that bear opened her chest.”

“Oh, my God.” I said,” Are you telling me she may have been conscious during the attack?”

“Please God, no. At least I don’t think so. I believe she was probably unconscious during most of the attack. If she did regain consciousness at all …. …. if she did ever become aware of what was going on…. she was already doomed. It would have been over by then, quickly. However, my educated guess is that by the time the bear got to her, she was either already dead or at death’s door.”

“Why do you think she may have been already unconscious?”

“Because there were no defensive scratch or bite marks on the girl’s arms or hands. She didn’t raise her arms to ward off the attack. That tells me she was probably comatose. Maybe from severe hypothermia. Remember, it was pretty damn cold those three nights up there in the woods. I remember on the hike up to the scene I noticed fresh snowfall and a few of the feeder streams were already beginning to freeze over.”

I straightened and looked Brodsky in the face. “So, then, we come to the moment of truth, the point of this whole exercise, Doc. The mother of all questions. The one you’re going to have to handle and defend confidently on the witness stand.”

“I know. Go ahead, ask it, Chief.”

“Who or what killed her?”

“I can’t say for sure.”

“Does that answer remain the same if we come up with the blade that severed her cardiac vessels? Can we then indict Allerton? Can we charge him?”

“Here’s the best I can give you … or a jury. Based on what I found, I would say that a bear attack was the primary cause of death. But I’m just not sure whether someone of her own specie administered the coup de grace... while in the process of removing her heart from her body.”

“If you say that on the stand, we’ll be laughed right out of the courtroom, Doc.”

“I know. But the truth is I couldn’t find enough clear evidence to tip the scale in any defined direction. Even assuming her heart vessels were cut by someone, it’s safe to say she was may have been already dead when that happened. You can’t be found guilty of murder if your victim is pre-deceased, right? But if she was holding on by a thin thread of life when someone took a knife to her heart. Well, that might technically make him at least an accomplice or accessory to murder…. I guess.”

I paused and said, “This is one for the record books, Doc.”

“If I was younger, I’d write a peer review article about it.”

“But what does your gut say? Is Dupree right about Allerton?”

“Once again…. I just can’t say. Not without more evidence. Which you don’t appear to have.”

I lowered my head and answered. “Correct. Well, subject to what the prosecutor says, that leaves us where we started. Nowhere. We’ll have to keep digging. If Isaiah had a direct hand in this, I’ll have to get him to crack somehow.”

After a quiet minute, Brodsky changed the subject. “What about the burial arrangements, Chief? I can’t hold the body forever. Have you found any next of kin yet? Do you even know her true identity?”

“No. On both counts. I want you to keep her on ice and hold off on any funeral arrangements until I can get an order from the judge to get Allerton’s blood sample ... to compare with the fetal tissue and blood.”

“Will you want a burial or cremation?”

“I don’t want to make that decision now. Not until we can properly identify her. I want her family, assuming she has one, making that decision. Shouldn’t be that long now.”

Doc answered. “I understand.”

“Ok, Howard… one last time…. is there anything else you need to tell me about the case?”

“Yes, there is Chief. One more thing that concerns me.”

I thought to myself: Oh boy, here comes another monkey wrench. “Tell me, Doc.”

“I didn’t think much of it at first and I wasn’t going to say anything about it. I didn’t think it was significant at the time. But I may have made another mistake while I was up there at the scene.”

My heart skipped a beat. “How so?”

“When I finished my field exam of the girl’s body, I took off my latex surgical gloves and laid them on the ground.”

“And?”

“That’s when I noticed that there was a third glove partially concealed under the pine straw, laying very close to the body. I just assumed that I had accidentally taken out three instead of two when I first got there. But when I got back to my office, I double checked the bag. All the other gloves were still in their original wrappers. As pairs, not single gloves. I forgot to mention that in my report, and I’ve since disposed of all three.”

I thought about what Doc had just told me for a full thirty seconds, then asked: “How the hell do you think that third glove got there? Was it even one of yours?”

“I don’t know, Chief. It was the same exact type of latex glove that I use in my work. But in retrospect, I don’t know if it was mine…. or someone else’s.”

My first thought went to Allerton or whoever it was who might have dissected the arteries away from the heart. “What are the chances we could have lifted a print from that third glove?”

“Nil. They’re lined with a corn starch powder which would make them easy to put on but would prevent the possibility of a decent print.”

“Shit”, was all I could think to say in reply.

I added: “Well, if the glove wouldn’t have told us much about the user, I guess it’s no harm, no foul. But it does tell us that perhaps someone was trying to cover up his pre or post death involvement with the body.”

Brodsky gave me a melancholy, contrite look. I read it immediately and said, “Look Doc, you’ve given us a lot of years of loyal service. If you want to retire, that’s your call. But if you do, I want you to know that I’m proud to have worked with you…whatever you decide.”

“Thanks, Chief. That means a lot to me. It truly does.”

HERE COMES THE JUDGE

The next morning, I ran into our local magistrate, Judge Harry Hoffmann. He was just leaving Alice’s diner. I told him I needed a court order to have Allerton’s blood for paternity testing. He agreed, but his wife and three kids were literally outside in the van waiting for dad to pay the bill and drive them all up to Sugarloaf for a Christmas skiing vacation.

Hoffmann said: “It’ll have to wait. Ask Ralph Peterson over at the D. A.’s office to draw up the papers. I’ll look them over as soon as I get back. There’s no emergency, right? Allerton’s not going anywhere.”

Here we go again, I thought. Another fly in the ointment… another annoying delay.

“Sure, thanks, Judge. Enjoy the trip.”, I answered with resignation.

But then something really strange happened. Late in the afternoon the following day I got a surprise visit at the station house from Allerton’s attorney, Reggie Saunders. All I can say is, either the man is a world class poker champion, trying to grandstand me with an enormously bold bluff, or, Isaiah Allerton convinced him that he was not the father of the baby….and Reggie was trying to blunt all potential suspicion away from his client. Well, it turns out he wasn’t bluffing at all. You see, it seems I forgot to ask Isaiah the most basic of questions…. whether he was using protection with Libby. According to Saunders, Libby insisted on it and Isaiah complied…. every time they had sex.

Saunders walked into my office, stood in front of my desk and got right to the point. “Chief, you needn’t bother to get an order from Judge Hoffman, who, by the way, won’t be around to sign it for at least another week. My client will voluntarily give you a blood sample which will prove he had nothing to do with her pregnancy. And more importantly, to establish a very plausible motive for the alleged rapist… or any other suspect you perhaps should be looking at…. to kill her.”

“Do you and your client have any particular suspects in mind, Reggie?”

“Not yet. I just assumed you would take the girl’s rape claim seriously and pursue the distinct possibility that the rapist is the father. And that the guy lives right under your nose here in Carrabassett.”

“Of course. Don’t worry, we’ll hold on to the fetal tissue for later testing if we come up with a suspect. And by the way, in the interest of full disclosure, you can tell your client that Doc Brodsky found no semen in the vaginal cavity or on the girl’s clothes.”

In retrospect I have to admit that I was duly impressed by Saunders’ bold blood sample offer. I told him, “Now that’s the way the legal system is supposed to work in the ideal world of jurisprudence, Reggie. After all, you and I are both officers of the same court. Sworn to the same cause of justice. Right?”

Saunders smiled. “Yes. At least that’s how it goes in theory…. in this one very limited instance.” He looked at his watch, straightened his tie and added. “Just let me know when you want me to make my client available. Call me…. we’ll work out all the details. We can do this at your convenience.”

That was it. Saunders had accomplished in two minutes what most lawyers take hours to explain. He had made his dramatic move and, suddenly, I was looking at a looming checkmate on the possible paternity involvement of Allerton. At that same moment Dupree swaggered into the office. “What did that son of a bitch want, Chief?”

“He wanted me to tell you that your ironclad case against Allerton has suddenly developed a major manifold crack. We won’t need that paternity test order after all. He just volunteered his client’s blood to me.”

I explained the situation. Dupree just stared at me blankly and said, “That doesn’t change a thing. Like my momma used to say. When someone hands you lemons, boy, go out and make some lemonade.”

“Yeah, well, you might have to add a little extra sweetener, Mister Dupree.”

Dupree just shook his head and said: “What’s the next step, Chief?”

“I want you to go over to see Doc Brodsky right now and ask him when I can expect to have his signed supplemental report. I need it yesterday. Any word yet from the FBI about the Brahmin Girl’s true identity?”

“Not yet. But I’m still working on it.”

.

“Did you give them the complete name Libby gave Isaiah? Libby Browne Morelli?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dupree got up and shuffled back out to his cruiser. I called out to Dupree at the door. As he turned to face me, I pointed to the epaulet of his uniform shirt. “Deputy, I don’t want to see your uniform shirts unlaundered and covered in lipstick any more. Clean up your act. Got it?”

“Roger that, Chief”. He smiled and said, “Aren’t you even slightly curious who she might be?”

“On your own time, please. The word of the day is professionalism, Deputy Dupree. Do you remember what that is?”

A FAILURE TO COMMUNICATE

Exactly one week later, Judge Hoffmann was back from Sugarloaf. He called me at home. “Tom, come in and see me in chambers tomorrow morning if you don’t mind. I have the application for the blood test order on my desk and I’d like to discuss that and a few other things with you. Come in around nine before the call of my calendar. I’ll tell my clerk to expect you.”

“Sure, Judge. See you then.”

The next morning, I was ushered quickly through a side door by his clerk into the Judge’s chambers and was told to be seated. I could hear the Judge taking a leak from behind his partially closed bathroom door. “Is that you Chief?”, he asked.

“Yes sir. It’s me.”

He opened the door, pulled his black robe on over his shoulders and asked. “Let me get right to it, Tom. I hear that Reggie Saunders has offered to give you his client’s blood sample. If so, why are you bothering me with this application? Isn’t this what we would call superfluous?”

“You mean…. as in unnecessary?”

Hoffmann laughed. “Oh, that’s right. I have to remind myself occasionally that you went to one of those inferior Ivy League colleges, didn’t you? I’d forgotten. We have a Phi Beta Kappa, over-achiever as our very own Police Chief… right here in river city.”

“You know, Judge, I do salt my conversations with the townsfolk with a ten-dollar word here and there. Keeps them on their toes and tuned up for their late-night scrabble games. And may I respectfully remind the court of the annual Ivy League rowing regatta of 1930? You do remember that prestigious event, don’t you? You know, when Princeton, that so-called inferior Ivy League college crew, of which I was an integral part, comfortably beat the oarlocks off your Yale boat. A shell that just happened to be captained by a much younger, and much fitter water jock senior named Hoffmann.”

Harry smiled broadly. “OK, Chief. Now that that’s settled…. once again…. let’s talk about the business at hand, shall we?”

I interrupted. “If I may, allow me to save the court some of its precious time. I was planning to withdraw that application as soon as I had the opportunity to work out the finer details with Mister Saunders. So, to address your immediate concern…. I would appreciate it if you would table that petition for just a few more days. I’m sure it will all become merely pedagogical by then. “

Hoffmann laughed. “Oh, you are good. Thanks, Tom, for coming in. Let me get out there and dispense some old-fashioned justice to the fine folks who pay my meager salary.” Hoffmann turned and said, “Oh, and there’s one more thing.”

“Yes sir?”

“Maine state law requires that the girl’s next of kin make funeral and burial decisions. If you’re unable to find any relatives because she can’t yet be identified, you may have to petition the court for a court appointed fiduciary trustee to make those plans. If no burial decisions are made within thirty days after death, the coroner or funeral director can dispose of the body in any way he sees fit. In the meanwhile, I can order her body cremated, for public health reasons. Her ashes can be kept for a deferred burial sometime later after we find her parents.”

“Thanks for the advice, Judge. I think I’ll have an answer soon on her identity. Meanwhile, I specifically do not want her body cremated. I want to hold onto it a while longer as a later source of evidence.”

“Sounds mysterious.”

“It’s not, Judge. Just complicated as hell.”

No sooner had I left the courthouse when I saw Doc Brodsky pulling into the parking lot. I waved and caught his eye. He looked a bit agitated. “Howdy, Doc. How’s things?”

“Just fine. I had a visit from Mister Dupree last night. I gave him my signed supplemental autopsy report for you to read. He told me there was no longer any need for the blood test and that I was free to cremate the body and organs.”

“What?! What in the bloody hell are you talking about?!”, I yelled out loud. You haven’t done that yet, have you, Doc?”

Brodsky looked frightened. “Well yes, as a matter of fact… I have…. late last night. I saw no reason to delay it. After all, the girl has been dead for almost thirty days.”

“For God’s sake, Doc, I never gave Dupree the green light to do that! I told him I wanted to accept the attorney’s offer to test Isaiah’s blood sample but only so that he could clear him of suspicion on the paternity issue only. But more importantly…. I wanted to preserve the fetal tissue in case we develop other paternity suspects down the road…. and especially the internal organs if we develop other hard evidence later. What in the hell is going on here?”

“I don’t know what to say, Chief. I’m sorry.”

“Jesus… I wanted to wait for the FBI to identify the girl so we could find her parents and let them make the decisions for a proper church service and burial. Good grief!”

“I apologize, Chief. But Dupree said there was no need to maintain any body tissue any longer. He said he had discussed it all with you.”

I spun around on my heels, jumped into the patrol car and sped back to the office. I was fuming. As I rounded the corner on two wheels onto Main, I raised Margie on the car radio. “Margie, has Dupree come into the office yet?”

“Yes sir. He was here. He came in briefly and went out on a domestic disturbance call a few minutes ago.”

“Call him and get his twenty. Tell him to stop what he’s doing. I want him back in my office immediately.”

Well, there goes the fetal tissue sample, up in smoke, literally. Now, we’ll never be able to find out who impregnated the girl. Damn it all to hell.

Dupree hurried into my office ten minutes later. He looked like a deer in the headlights and stammered, “But…but… you said you didn’t need the court order for the blood test.”

“For God’s sake, man. Did you hear the rest of what I said?! Just because I no longer need an order to get Allerton’s blood doesn’t mean I don’t want to have his blood and the fetal blood tested for paternity. And what the hell are you going to use as a fetal tissue sample now that it’s been destroyed…especially if you come up with rape suspects a month from now?”

“I’m really sorry Chief. I misunderstood what you wanted me to say to Doc Brodsky.”

“You know, Dupree, for someone who was so hot to indict Allerton you really hurt your cause by eliminating the possibility of a blood paternity test.”

“Yeah, well…. we don’t need it, Chief. We’ve got enough evidence to hang him for this murder.”

“What do you mean ‘we’ Kemosabe? Did you take the trouble to read the supplemental report Doc gave you before you went around my instructions? Before you unilaterally decided to authorize the destruction of the body and the organs?”

Dupree gave me a blank stare. “No, I haven’t read it yet.”

I picked it up off my desk and threw it at him. It bounced off his chest and onto the floor. “Doc’s not willing to state within a reasonable degree of medical certainty that there’s enough clear and convincing evidence to determine human causation in her death…. yet. The operative word being … yet… Deputy. Yet!

“That’s not because there wasn’t human involvement. There was. Some unknown human hand severed her heart arteries. Do you understand what the hell that kind of language means? We know the bear probably finished her off. But, because of your failure to listen and communicate we’ll likely never be able to prove who that knife wielding human was. And now we can’t prove who the father of the child was…. thanks to you. And worse, we can’t prove that Allerton or anyone else may have been that critical added contributing factor in her death.”

Dupree continued to look confused…. befuddled. “I still don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Clearly not! I’m saying no prosecutor worth his salt is going to touch this case with a ten- foot pole. Not now. There’s barely enough evidence to indict…. much less convict. By allowing the premature disposal of the body and fetus you have precluded any hope of us ever answering any of these unanswered questions. And that, my young inexperienced friend, is a hard fact of life in the world of any reasonably competent county prosecutor.”

Dupree’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what to say.”

I wasn’t finished with him. “And what is all this undisguised animus towards Allerton really about anyway? Yes, I admit, he said some pretty self-incriminating things. But didn’t you consider the very real possibility that this ‘idiot simpleton’, as you call him, is just a quiet, reserved, timid soul who was really in love with that girl? You heard the tone of his voice on that tape! Or weren’t you even listening?”

I stood and waved dramatically to an imaginary array of twelve of Carrabassett’s finest peers. “Tell me, members of the jury. You heard that taped conversation. Was that really the voice of a murderer… a ruthless cold-hearted killer?”

“I’m sorry. I think I understand now, Chief”, Dupree admitted… finally.

“Do you want to know where all of your screw ups leave us, Deputy Dupree?’

“Yes sir.”

“We have managed to sail off directly, without a tiller, into the epicenter of the perfect post-mortem storm. Let me count the ways for you: inconclusive medical evidence… no preserved organ or fetal tissue samples... no identity for the girl…. no relatives or next of kin to cry and mourn for her and make some burial decisions… no indictable murder or rape suspects… no murder weapon… no promising leads…… nothing…. nada…. zilch.”.

Dupree just hung his head in silence. I glared at him and said: “Nothing to say? I didn’t think so.”

A SECOND POST MORTUM

The truth is though, as I pondered it all, weeks later in the darkness of my den over a double scotch, I figured I’d been probably too hard on my young deputy. Most young cops make stupid mistakes from time to time. Fortunately, most of their errors are inconsequential and go unnoticed. They don’t usually carry major, adverse, case killing effects. And as far as Allerton the suspect was concerned, it’s true. Most of us cops operate on gut hunches every single day we strap on a gun and go to work.

Sure, I could have raised hell with the Selectmen, and Dupree’s political rabbi, and might have had him fired if I went to the mat on it. But, in reality, his gut instincts were usually pretty good…. most of the time. Despite his gruff personality, and his penchant for shooting from the lip, Dupree was a reasonably good cop in the total scheme of things in a small-town police department. Who knows? Maybe Allerton did accelerate or initiate or even finalize that girl’s death in some devious, bizarre unprovable way. Maybe he is guilty of murder… or manslaughter…. or criminally negligent homicide…. or something.

We may never know. No… actually … we will… never know. Damn it all to hell. This file is destined to forever occupy the cold case cabinet.

Exactly one week later, I got the long-awaited call from the FBI lab team in Washington. Libby finally had a name. A real, honest-to-God human identity. Libby was born and baptized Olivia Elinore Browne in Cambridge Massachusetts on November 25, 1947. Her parents were Helena and Goeffrey Browne, an elderly couple with no other children, both still living in Boston. For reasons which became obvious to me when I met them later, they never reported their daughter missing. The Boston Police Department were never formally made aware of her disappearance. Ironically, the FBI was on the verge of opening up a kidnap investigation based on an anonymous phone tip provided later to the FBI Boston Field Office. But the tip was never pursued.

I took care of the Boston end of the investigation myself. I’d decided that a personal visit with Libby’s parents was clearly in order. I’d parked in a no parking zone in front of their stately brownstone. Their man servant had ushered me into their vaulted walnut paneled study where I had a surreal meeting with them. Actually, it was Geoffrey who took charge of the conversation from the start, effectively silencing his meek and cowering wife.

When I started to provide the details of his daughter’s brief life and gruesome death in Carrabassett, Geoffrey waved his hand dismissively. “This is all so unnecessary, Chief Bradley”, he said contemptuously.

“Mister Browne” I asked incredulously, “Don’t you want to know what your daughter has been doing these last six months… while she’s been missing?”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. My daughter didn’t feel the need to communicate with us after she ran away. Nor do I see the need for you to trouble yourself recounting her comings and goings. What she did, how she lived or with whom is irrelevant. However she may have lived, whatever she may have done, she did so of her own free volition. It is she who has to pay the price for her conduct, not me.”

I was stunned, and protested, “But Mister Browne, don’t you at least want to take charge of the burial arrangements? Don’t you….”

He had cut me off sharply. “Those details are of no concern to us now. She made her choices long ago. The rest is irrelevant. The less we speak of it the better.”

I felt my face flush hot. After a long angry pause, I had said, “Excuse me folks, but this is your little girl we’re discussing. Aren’t you the slightest bit interested in knowing anything about her life… or her death? Did you know that she was an amazingly talented artist? That she was well liked and respected by a lot of people? Polite, respectful, kind?”

Mister Geoffrey Browne, Boston Brahmin, had just stared at me, chin aloft and eyes half closed. He’d finally responded. “Yes, but you’re forgetting a few more adjectives, Mister Bradley. High-spirited… contemptuous of authority… rebellious… pot smoking…. oh, and even more troublesome…. extremely careless and lax in her sacred duty to honor her family name.”

I instinctively spun away from Geoffrey and addressed his demur wife, sitting slumped forward, lost in the folds of a rich red leather chair in the corner of the room. “Mrs. Browne. I’m so sorry for your loss. Tell me, please. Would you like to have her cremated remains? Just give me the word and I’ll bring them to you myself.”

She looked up and started to speak, in a barely audible whisper, when her husband interrupted. “No, Chief Bradley. You may bury the ashes in Carrabassett, or whatever the name of your little town is.”

I wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily. I walked over to the pompous ass and stuck my nose in his face. “Sir, did you provide any monetary support to your daughter while she was living in Maine?”

Browne answered indignantly. “Of course not. We gave her nothing. As she aptly deserved.”

I turned to Mrs. Browne. “Ma’am, did Libby take anything of value from you before she left home?”

“Don’t answer that impertinent question, Helena”, her husband had abruptly demanded.

It was then that Mrs. Browne, for the first time, had raised her head out of her lap, had glared at her husband and said, “She didn’t have to. I gave her some of my jewels and some cash. The rest was up to her to get by somehow.” She’d stood and stared at her husband. “Geoffrey wanted to tell the police that Libby had stolen the diamonds. But the truth is, they were my gift to her.” Mrs. Browne suddenly burst into sobs and ran out of the room. She stopped at the door, turned and said in a strong, measured voice. “You say, Mister Bradley, that my daughter was very talented and sweet. She was much more than that. She was a savant, you know. One of a kind.”

I was momentarily dumbstruck and had finally said. “I don’t know how to respond. I don’t know what to say.”

Mister Browne had glared at me. “Well then, Mister Bradley, then perhaps I might suggest what it is you should say. Why not simply say … ‘I bid you a good day sir’? And leave. This meeting is concluded.” He quickly gestured to his man servant still standing at the study doors. “Roger, escort this man out to the street please.”

The whole bizarre event… all of it…. had hammered home to me how terribly lonely, frightened, unloved and out of place this young girl must have felt. I have three young daughters of my own. It was heart wrenching to hear her parents talk about their little girl like that. It was worse than sad…. it was enraging.”

Before I turned to leave, I picked up the package I had left on the saddle of the doorway to the study when I’d first entered. I pulled away the plastic wrap and held up a framed portrait of Howard and Elinor Browne. I wasn’t sure that the couple in the painting was them until that moment… now that I had met them and seen them in person. The likenesses were extraordinary. Libby had painted it from the depths of her memory only. On my way out I placed it atop his large oak roll top desk and said, “This was hanging over your daughter’s bed, Mister Geoffrey Browne. Do with it however the hell you see fit. I don’t give a damn what you think of it. Neither this beautiful painting nor you, sir, are of any concern to me now.”

SEQUELLAE OF AN UNSOLVED MURDER

To this day, folks still occasionally come up to me on the street and ask: “So, Chief. Did he really do it? Did Isaiah kill that girl?” I always answer them with that old, trusted police fall back line. Sure, I tell them, he was what we like to call a ‘person of interest’… perhaps even a prime suspect initially. All the typical red flag ingredients were there. He was alone when he allegedly discovered the body up in the pines just north of town…. about 48 hours after she had been reported missing by her landlady. He was the last person to see her alive. They had had a fight, or disagreement, over a very serious personal matter. He’d been very angry. He clearly had some sort of deep romantic interest in the girl, and she seemed to be in love with him as well. And, according to the statement by Allerton himself, they had had sexual relations at least a dozen times in the months leading up to her death. And, most critically, she was pregnant, not as she says, by Isaiah, but by a stranger…. an alleged rapist. Plenty of fodder for a vengeful, emotionally charged murder.

Looking back on the life and death of Libby Browne, I best remember one day in particular. It was about a week after she had first wandered off the interstate into town and into the rear of my cruiser. I saw her craning her neck as she was slowly driving down Main Street. I stopped my patrol car alongside her, rolled down the window and asked her if she perhaps needed directions. She just smiled and said “No, Officer Bradley. But thank you just the same.”

I thought I’d might as well take that opportunity to ask her what every other busybody in town was wondering. I asked. “So, Libby, are you planning to stay or move on? Where do you think you might be heading?”

She’d given me an odd, unforgettable…. almost prophetic answer. I remember her exact words. She’d said, “Oh, no, Chief. This beautiful little town is the end of the line for me. I plan to live out my life, and someday die, here. This is where I was meant to be. I love the look, the aura, the colors and tactile feel of this town. Perfect hues and perfect light. A bright, surreal realm of phantasmagoria.”

I had no idea what the word meant… but figured it out later when she started selling some of her paintings to the summer crowd down at the local antique shop. She was a very generous young woman who gifted several of her paintings to some of the older folks who didn’t have any extra money in the cookie jar for an original piece of portraiture. Her gift to me was a little different. It was a host of great, killer scrabble words. Words which I still cling to today.

I admit…. I knew next to nothing about art. But I knew that I liked hers…. a lot. Her work was not at all what one would call abstract. It was all very precise, brilliant… life like. I could swear, if I reached out and touched the canvas, that I would actually feel the coolness of the leaves, the swirling wet mists of the clouds and the warmth of the sunlight. I could almost smell the aromas of new mown grass and wild honeysuckle drifting off of the canvas of her still-life artwork. Almost all of the opinions which folks may have intuitively formed about her persona… arose solely from those paintings. Very little substance was gleaned from any direct conversations with her. Rather… it was the silent, vibrant splay of colors and shapes on her canvases that told her story and revealed a glimpse of her psyche…. far better than mere words.

That reporter from Boston had finally asked me to write something poignant about her…. to condense my impressions of her for a piece he was writing. This is what I’d written for him.

“Nothing else about her, certainly not her physical appearance, attracted much attention. She was small of stature, thin with auburn hair and ivory skin. She happily engaged everyone she met, whether prince, pauper or thief. In simple terms, she delighted people and, in turn, took delight in them. She smiled that pretty, demure, disarming, cocked-head smile of hers. It was almost as though she could read your mind before you were even aware that you were experiencing any particular thought. Of course, there was the ever-present small-town idle gossip brewed up by a few of the church ladies. Each taking her turn, pontificating and conjuring up her mysterious origins and proper place in the social order of things. You know, the usual denigrating scuttlebutt about the latest and strangest stranger in town. And yet, after a short while, she had even begun to win these over. But it was always on her terms, mind you, not theirs. In retrospect, I have to say, in fact, she managed to pull off her little identity hoax very effortlessly and adeptly. Especially for an inexperienced naive seventeen-year-old kid.”

He printed what I wrote, word for word. But without any attribution or reference to me or our interview. C’est la guerre, I thought. Reporters….

I thought often about what her mother Helena had said. I knew the dictionary definition of the word savant but I don’t think I had ever met one till I met Libby. I never doubted Mrs. Browne’s assessment of her daughter’s intellectual and psychic gifts. And, by the way… the so-called anonymous tip to the Boston FBI office about her disappearance and possible kidnapping… came from Helena. Probably in a frightened late-night call from a phone in their quiet darkened study, while Geoffrey was upstairs dreaming of his own lofty place in the world.

I finally arranged for her ashes to be buried up in the old Colonial Cemetery, just north of town. She was laid to rest… segregated and set apart from the townsfolk in the unkempt, forgotten corner. … in our local version of the Potters Field section. You know, with all the other historical undesirables who didn’t exactly fit into the self-inflated image of our prestigious, provincial little town. Folks like our Native American brothers and our Scarlet Letter sisters.

Disappointingly, no one took the initiative to order a burial stone for her. So, I did that on my own time and dime. I arranged for her to be buried next to her ghostly confident, Samoset. And only feet away from her Mayflower ancestor John Browne. Seemed the only decent, right thing to do.

For the next twenty years everyone in the valley went about their ordered lives. Libby’s name and her story were forgotten except for the occasional “say, do you remember that Brahmin Girl kid?” You know, the off-handed interruption from that beer sotted guy sitting next to you at the bar… in the one-dimensional world of Patriot football down at the White Horse Tavern.

About a year after she was buried, something happened that knocked me for a loop. I think of it often….to this day. One early spring morning, as I was driving past the old logging road that goes up to the cemetery, I spotted a late model Bentley about a hundred yards off the road…. high up the incline. You don’t often get to see that kind of car around here. I was curious and walked up the hill. There, leaning over the grave of Libby Browne was her mother…alone. As I approached, she turned and faced me. I could see tears spilling from behind her Foster Grants.

“Good morning Mrs. Browne” I said. “I didn’t expect to see you again… not after our meeting in Boston. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Yes, Chief…. please tell me…. who decided to bury her next to her Mayflower ancestor… was it you?

“Yes ma’am. Seemed the proper thing to do.” I weighed my words carefully but opted for bluntness. “Especially after that sad exchange with your husband.”

She took off her sunglasses, wiped her eyes, and said, “I apologize for Geoffrey…. it’s all so complicated.”

I asked, “Mrs. Browne why do I get the feeling you’re holding something back from me about your daughter? I’ve suspected as much from the moment I spoke with you and your husband in your study. Truth be told, I haven’t been able to get that exchange out of my mind for quite some time. I can’t help but think about my own three sweet daughters…. and how I would have handled that.”

Suddenly, she collapsed like a sack of flour to her knees. She began to sob… like a dam had burst open. I rushed to help her to her feet. “Mrs. Browne, talk to me…please.”

She cried aloud. “I knew what he was doing. At first, I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t prove anything. But I knew he was sneaking to her room at night. Whenever he did, Libby would crawl into a shell for days… her sweet smile would disappear. Oh God forgive me… what a terrible mother I am!”

I felt a sharp pain in the pit of my stomach. “Did Libby ever say anything to you about…. being abused?”

“Never. Not a word.”

“How long?”

“I think for about two years…starting when she was around fifteen.”

“Did you ever confront your husband?”

She stopped crying for a moment and said, “Not until after you came to see us in Boston. Till then… till I saw Libby’s beautiful portrait of us, I was a sniveling coward. I was deathly afraid of him, his power … his arrogant self-righteousness.”

“What can I do to help? Do you want to go to the Boston police?”

“No. There’s no point. My attorney says that without a living complainant to testify in court…. or a confession from Geoffrey, they could never get a conviction. Anyway, in Massachusetts a wife can’t testify against her husband anyway.”

She was right. Helena Browne paused, took a deep breath and put her sunglasses back on. “But I’m about to rectify that problem. I’m finally divorcing him. Part of the arrangement is that if I want to be free of him, I must agree not to tell Libby’s story. If I do, I could lose my settlement…. and alimony. But I don’t care. He can go to hell as far as I’m concerned.”

I swallowed hard and said, “I’m afraid your attorney is correct. But your words are safe with me. I’m sorry Mrs. Browne that you had to suffer through that nightmare. I’m even more upset that Libby had to live all that time with that secret thorn in her heart.”

She stared at me in silence for the longest moment, then said. “Chief, do you think there will ever be any justice for my little girl?”

I looked at Libby’s grave and didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I really do”, I said. “As long as I have anything to do with it.”

EASTON MARYLAND 2010

VOICE OF LYLE BECKWITH

I stood up, stretched my legs and poured myself a third scotch. I asked, “Would you like another, John? How about you, Brian?”

Pritchard and Brian both waved it off. “No thanks. I’m fine.” John said. “You know, I’d forgotten how captivating this story was.”

John stood and pointed to a book on the shelf over my head. “By the way, Lyle, now that I think on it, your published book on cold unsolved murder cases had a chapter devoted to the Brahmin Girl, right?”

“Yes. I gave you an autographed copy. Did you ever read it?”

“Of course. But, to be honest, you didn’t share a lot of this kind of detail till now.”

“Yeah, well, a lot of what I just told you was never meant for public consumption.”

I was fading fast. The long hot day on the water and my unrelenting depression were finally taking their toll. I felt like there was nothing else to say…. or do. The Brahmin case had died a slow strangulated death on the vine. There were no indictments, no credible suspects…. at least no one the prosecutor was ever willing to seriously pursue. Nothing. It remained just another unsolved cold case for all those years. Everyone in Carrabassett went on with their sheltered pre-ordained lives. Olivia Browne, the giant black bear and the wandering spirit of Samoset became nothing more than a passing footnote, the stuff of camp fire ghost stories for boy scouts camping up in those rocky hills on those cold autumn nights. And so, it remained. Until Darcy Farrell drove into town that bright, hot day in late May 1985.

I stumbled over to a small dresser at the far end of the bar, reached into the bottom drawer and pulled out a thick sheath of notes and yellow legal pads.

“I haven’t done this in twenty years,” I said to my guests.

I turned on a small upright lamp light on the now darkened porch. “These are Darcy’s notes and her daily intern logs from that summer. She’s the best teller of the tale. I was just directing fire from my lofty professor’s podium at Northeastern….and getting her daily phone summaries. She was up there doing all the heavy lifting. Sometimes we’d stay on the phone well past midnight. Even though I knew she had to be up at the crack of dawn, in time to meet Chief Bradley for breakfast early the next morning at the diner. She would even tell me what she and Chief Bradley had for breakfast.”

I found myself smiling and felt my eyes welling up at the same time. “I can’t tell you how happy I was to hear her sweet, excited voice every night. It was almost like I was tucking her into bed…. she, telling me a bedtime story. I’m not ashamed to say it. I was falling in love with her. As her professor I tried to keep her at arm’s length for the sake of propriety… but it was no use.”

I stopped talking and collected my thoughts. The scotch was beginning to loosen up my memory and my tongue. I had to be careful what I was saying now, especially in my current condition. John leaned forward, stared at me and asked:” What is it, Lyle? What’s wrong? Are you crying?”

I said, “Did you know that the Bureau sent a shrink out here to size me up? A damn shrink, for God’s sake! A fucking psychiatrist!”

John answered, “He wasn’t ‘sizing you up’, as you so bluntly put it. He was trying to help you to cope with your loss. That was the Director’s direct doing, you know. Don’t be so cynical… or ungrateful, Lyle. Trust the man, for cryin’ out loud. He’s a pro. He knows what he’s doing…. and how to help you out of this mess.”

I thought about John’s words for a long moment and said, “Yeah, I know. He warned me about what to expect. Still, this is all very new… very strange. You know me. I’m very self-sufficient. I don’t frighten easily… but this is starting to scare the shit out of me. I wake up in the middle of the night and reach out to touch her. I’m even hearing her voice out here on the porch where I sit in the dark late at night. Staring at the moon and the bay.”

“From what I’ve heard that’s not so terribly unusual.” John offered.

“It’s just that I can’t stop blaming myself…. thinking that if I hadn’t sent her up to Maine to take that internship that summer all those years ago, she would be sitting right here with me tonight, alive and well on this porch, sipping Dewar’s.”

I realized as soon as the words slipped past my lips that I had already said too much. John picked up on it immediately. “Hold on there, Brother. Why do you say that? Didn’t you just say you had no Idea if Dupree was involved in this?”

I let out a soft moan. “Just let me get through this, will you, John, for God’s sake? You’ll get your answers. Damn it. Just let me finish, will you?”

For the first time in twenty years, I gazed at her graceful, impeccable handwriting…. filling the lined yellow legal pad. I could immediately smell the faint residue of her perfume, L’eau du temps, even after all these years… embalmed, and continuing to breathe, in the margins of every page.

I began to scan her notes, and could hear her voice…..

.

CARRABASSETT, MAINE

May 1985

VOICE OF DARCY FARRELL

I got up there on May 25, 1985. It was a blistering hot day on which all temperature records were broken in the state of Maine. I remember it like it was yesterday. As I drove my Volkswagen Beetle down Main Street in Carrabassett I felt like I did my first day as a freshman in high school. I was excited, perspiring, nervous. I couldn’t wait to start this new adventure… deep into the forgotten world of forgotten crimes. I’d had this odd feeling for days that I was about to invade…. to defile… the tomb of some ancient pharaoh or prophet. That I had been commissioned to exhume and desecrate the body and quiet repose of an innocent eighteen-year-old girl. And, in the process, pry out of the ground the dark secrets that she took with her to her grave.

Driving all the way up from Boston, I fantasized about what erudite questions I would have asked the Brahmin Girl if and ever I could have actually met her face to face. I desperately wanted to give voice to this voiceless young woman who, twenty years ago, had died a horrifying death…. alone, frightened, lost in the deep backwoods of Maine. I needed to hear her speak to me, woman to woman. To tell me her story…. all of it. And I, in turn, needed to carry her voice to the upper, rarefied reaches of the criminal justice system. I was consumed with a soaring, ephemeral ideal. One to which I had decided, long ago, in a fit of naïve idealism, to dedicate my life.

I had decided I wanted to start my life’s work…. with her cause. I wanted to help her finally stand in the docket, to boldly point to her murderer and to scream at him with the top of her lungs: “J’accuse!!” I wanted to uncover his hidden face. To expose him and his motives to the folks who had forgotten all about her and her death. I needed to hear her either condemn or forgive him, and to know her reasons why. I longed to free her of the sad, heavy burdens she carried through the last lonely years of her aborted life, and help her to move on to the freedom and peace of eternity.

I’d almost driven past my exit when reality suddenly shattered my daydreams. I thought. Yikes! Calm down, girl. Where do you come up with such nonsensical thoughts and lofty ideas? You’re just a simple, naïve grad student with absolutely no experience in solving crimes. Get a grip, Darcy. Wake up and smell the coffee.

For the entire summer I was in Carrabassett, especially late at night in my lonely room, I would continue to indulge in these impracticable musings…. my private, deluded fantasies. I knew that the spell and excitement of this academic summer adventure, as it must, would finally be broken. I would be thrust back into my classes and the rough mundane realities of city life in Boston come September.

Professor Lyle Beckwith was my link with that reality. I was enrolled in his course in criminal forensics. As part of his summer intern program, I had promised him that I would call him at the end of every day to let him know that I was safe, alive and well. In truth, I was looking forward to that daily contact as much as I was excited about meeting Chief Tom Bradley…. whose somewhat mythical image in my head had become larger than life.

I stopped my car at what seemed like the only stop light in town and, suddenly, there it was, right in front of me. A two-story white clapboard colonial-era house which had been converted into the town clerk’s office and police station over a hundred years ago. And there he was, grinning at me as I pulled up in front of the station. The top law enforcement officer in this part of Franklin County for the past thirty years. He looked exactly as Lyle had described him to me. About six foot two, solidly built, a full head of light brown hair fringed at the edges with gray. And that quick broad smile. I had a good feeling about Tom Bradley, well before he ever walked over to my car’s open window and began to speak.

“So, you must be that superstar criminology student I’ve been hearing so much about from my good buddy… Agent Lyle Beckwith.”

My smile was so wide it hurt my face. “Yes, sir. That would be me.”

“Welcome, Miss Farrell, to the thriving metropolis of Carrabassett, the place where even the local moose population wouldn’t be caught dead venturing out of their marsh mudholes in this god-awful heat.”

“And you must be the famous Chief Bradley.”

“Yes, ma’am…in the flesh. Have you checked in yet with your kind hosts up on Adams Street? Mr. and Mrs. Lyscombe are excited about having a boarder from Boston for the rest of the summer.”

“Yes sir. I’ve met them and have already moved my stuff into my room. I rushed over here. I can’t wait to get started.”

“Come on in, Darcy. Let me show you around.” Chief Bradley led me up the three, wide brick steps to the oversized double front doors and directly past the cramped bullpen area where Deputy Dupree sat quietly with his arms folded over his ample paunch. He was grinning and eyeing the new arrival like a bidder at a horse auction. He remained seated as I extended my hand. Bradley said, “Darcy, this is Deputy Jacques Dupree. He’ll be working with you and providing whatever files and information you may need for your work this summer.”

Dupree smiled and said, “Well, so this is the young aspiring G-man… I mean G-woman, we’ve heard so much about. Welcome to Carrabassett, Darcy.”

I immediately noticed that Dupree’s smile, if you could call it that, seemed forced and tight lipped…. not extending to his eyes. I also noticed a small tattoo of a red dragon on his right forearm. Bradley turned and walked towards a long row of gray file cabinets. “Dupree, why don’t you pull all of the reports and evidence on the Brahmin file so Darcy can start reading.”

Dupree grinned and replied. “That old dog?! That’s got hair and mold growin’ all over it, for God’s sake. We know who pulled that trigger, Chief, don’t we?”

Bradley started to respond but Dupree interrupted, “The prosecutor and that old geezer Doc Brodsky just didn’t have the smarts or the balls to indict that Allerton kid. We’ll never get him now. Why not give Darcy the unsolved murder of that O’Reilly woman down by the old mill? That old lady’s mysterious demise ain’t half as cold as that Brahmin girl.”

Bradley looked back at Darcy and grimaced. “We’ve talked about this Dupree. Just give her the materials and humor me on this one, OK?”

Dupree mumbled something unintelligible. Then said, “Well, it is, after all, your call.” He feigned a mock salute and added. “Roger that, boss.”

Bradley glared at his deputy for a brief second. “Don’t worry Mister Dupree, I’ll be retiring and getting out of your way sometime next year. These files will all be yours then.” Bradley smiled knowingly. “Assuming, of course, that you don’t screw things up…. and that you behave yourself… between now and then. And presuming that the Town Board of Selectmen somehow approves your bid as my heir apparent. As crazy as that may sound.”

I turned and looked quizzically at the Chief. “But I thought you didn’t find any sign of a gunshot wound?”

Dupree stood silently, looked at me, then laughed. “Oh… my trigger comment? That’s just a figure of speech, Miss Farrell. Although he might just as well have shot her. Same result. She’s dead… ‘cause of him.”

I realized immediately that I was witnessing the exact kind of dynamic and personality tension I’d often heard about from Professor Beckwith, so common in these close quartered, small town police departments. I remembered another warning Lyle had given me before I accepted this assignment. He had told me that, when caught in the middle of local politics and conflicting personalities, just walk the other way and stay focused on your mission.

Bradley turned, looked at me and grinned. “Well, are you ready to do some crime solving, grasshopper? You don’t mind me calling you grasshopper, do you?”

I laughed. “I’ve been called worse.”

Bradley wheeled and pointed his index finger at his stone-faced deputy. “Give her a few days to digest all the file material, the photos, coroner’s report …. all of it…. and then you’ll drive her out to the scene and maybe the Allerton place to take a look around. “

Tom looked me up and down and said, “Oh, and you’d better wear some sturdy boots, some long pants and a long-sleeved shirt. You might also want to get yourself some bug repellant or even some hat screening. The black flies are brutal up here this time of year, you know. And one more thing. Bring along a loud bell or whistle.”

“Excuse me? A whistle?”

“Yep… the bears up there in the hills are busy breeding right about now. They have much more pressing issues on their minds and won’t appreciate you interrupting their dating game, if you catch my drift.”

“Anything else I should be aware of, Chief?”, I asked.

“Yes. Try to blend in here as best you can. You’ll get more cooperation from the folks in this town, especially when it comes time for you to conduct follow-up interviews, if you make an effort to study and understand our small-town ways and speech patterns. I notice from your accent that you’re not from this neck of the woods. By the sound of it, I’d say you were raised in tidewater country in Eastern Virginia, right?”

“Wow. Pretty impressive”, I answered.

Bradley laughed. “Remember, all you have to do is relax the lower jaw and practice replacing the sound ‘er’ with ‘ah’. That way you won’t spook the locals too much.”

I smiled. “I’ll certainly do my best.”

Just then I happened to glance at Dupree who was in the process of rolling his eyes. I didn’t like it and, foolishly, I let him know it. I shot him a look and blurted out, “What is it about this kind of banter that seems to trouble you, Mister Dupree?” I couldn’t believe I had just directly confronted the man who was to be my sidekick and mentor for most of the summer. I knew instantly that I had committed an unforced rookie error. I needed this man’s cooperation, if not outright support, if I was to earn a decent grade for this project. I was off to a bad start and gritted my teeth. He didn’t respond.

As Bradley quickly escorted me out of the office he said. “Let’s go over to Alice’s Diner, I mean ‘Dinah’, for some lunch. I need to set up some ground rules and level out your runway for a smooth takeoff. Shall we?” Once out on the street, he added. “And I wouldn’t aggravate Mister Grouchy in there too much. He’s not the brightest, friendliest bulb in the pack but he knows his way around town and especially out in those woods. You’re gonna’ have to stroke him a little and get him to a point where he’s working with you…not against you. Do you follow me?”

“Yes sir, Chief. I won’t make that mistake again. I know I have a lot to learn. Not only about crime solving…. but managing difficult personalities.”

Bradley said, “You’ll be just fine, Darcy. If Dupree doesn’t give you what you want, you just let me know. I’m not sure why he’s given me so much trouble about reopening the Brahmin file. But I don’t mind telling you… it’s starting to wear thin ….and annoy the hell out of me.”

“I asked, “What do you think he wants?”

“It’s pretty simple, really. It’s no secret he’s been angling for my job for a long time now. From the first day he came to work for me…. about a half year before the girl was killed.”

I said, “The Brahmin girl. Who was she?”

“Her real name was… is… Olivia Browne. And, for the record, my name is Tom, not ‘sir’ or ‘chief’. Got it?”

“Yes sir… I mean, yes, Tom.”

JUST A FEW GROUNDRULES

Bradley and I sat in a small booth at the farthest and quietest corner of the diner, backs to the wall. A short, dark haired, young, pretty waitress came over to the table, winked and smiled. “Good mornin’ Chief. Shaping up to be a wicked scorchah out there today, huh?”

“Hi Sally. Yes, indeed. Say hello here to Darcy Farrell.”

I returned the smile, shook Sally’s hand but said nothing. Bradley got to his point quickly. “Let’s get ahead of the spinning rumor mill, Miss Sally. I’ll give you some limited facts. The kind that are suitable for public consumption. You know, a few scraps to appease the gossip hounds here in town. Mind you, there will be no more information forthcoming other than what I’m about to tell you. Understand?”

“Sally smiled and said, “Yes sir. I’m all ears, Chief.”

“Miss Farrell here will be doing some old-fashioned investigating for me and will be meeting and talking to a whole manner of folks on a whole different manner of topics. Darcy is interning for me this summer. She’s a criminology student at Northeastern in Boston. You’ll see her patrolling with me and Deputy Dupree on occasion, regarding routine, mundane department matters. I can assure you that the details of those matters will be boring and uneventful. And, besides, they’re nobody’s business but mine. So, if Darcy wants to share anything about her private life in Boston, or her life here, that’s strictly up to her. I don’t want any prying. Agreed?”

“Sally ran a pantomimed zipper across her lips and said, “No problem.”

“You’ll likely be seeing a lot of Darcy here in Alice’s for a while. She’s boarding with the Lyscombe family over on Adams Street. I’d consider it a personal favor if you would support her in any way you can. You know, helping her find her way around town….and acclimate to the mysterious, guarded ways of our fine little community.”

“It’ll be my pleasure, Chief. Ain’t many young women my age around here. I reckon there’s lots of things we could find to talk about, excluding the Police Department, of course”, she said quickly, as she poured out two steaming cups of black coffee. “So, do ya like to hunt or fish or hike?”

I smiled and just shrugged. When I didn’t answer right away, she said. “No? Well, if you’re not the outdoor type, maybe we can take in a movie or get over to one of the church rock band socials out on the big lawn. Just let me know what might suit your fancy. OK?” Sally laughed. “It sure ain’t Boston, Darcy, but it ain’t the last stop on the milk run neither.”

Sally took our lunch orders and retired to the kitchen. Bradley said. “So, let’s establish some ground rules and expectations, shall we?”

I countered quickly. “Good. I was hoping you’d tell me exactly what it is I’ll be doing. Will I be allowed to take the entire Brahmin Girl file back to my boarding house room?”

“I don’t see why not. Provided you keep your room locked while you’re not there. And, like I said before, your private time is your own but I would expect you to avoid any hint of summer romances with any of the local young men while you’re here. I don’t want to feed the gossip hounds. There’s plenty of them around here. Like Sally said, there aren’t too many young women in Carrabassett, especially gals as pretty as you… if you don’t mind me saying so. Not that you would be interested in any of these beer guzzling country boys. It’s just that I need for you to stay focused and avoid any fraternization… as we used to say in the Marines.”

I smiled. “That’s fine. I kind of have my eyes focused at the moment on someone else… one particular guy in Boston. Someone older and a bit wiser.”

Bradley grinned, looked down, stirred the cream in his coffee and said: “Anyone I might know?”

“Sorry. Not at liberty to say.”

“So, then, about your internship. Here’s what I expect from you. You’ll be basically on the honor system. I have no doubt, based on my conversations with Agent Beckwith, that you’ll dedicate yourself to this project and jump in with both feet….as best you can. “

“Yes, of course” I said.

“Although… I do intend to give you a taste of small-town police work in other more mundane matters. You won’t be on a regular schedule and will have to pace yourself. Dramatic cold cases, like the unsolved death of Olivia Browne, can become addictive when you start digging deep into them. It’s the kind of addiction which makes you lose track of time. I’ve got plenty for you to do. Like I said, I don’t want you to punch a clock but I want you to stay focused. And I expect you to be flexible with your time, within reason. Be ready to come in a little early…stay a little late some nights… depending on what’s going on. But…. I insist that you carve out some time for yourself… you know, to recharge your batteries. There’s nothing more pathetic and ineffective than a police officer who is out of fuel, dragging his butt around and running on yesterday’s fumes.”

I nodded and answered, “With all respect, Tom, I’m pretty level headed. Not at all the addictive type. For the record, I happen to be the oldest woman in my class. I was out in the world earning a living and supporting myself while most of the other girls were finishing up their college degrees on schedule…and on daddy’s dollar.”

“Good. Glad to hear that. Not to worry, Darcy. I believe I got a good read on your personality and work ethic from talking with Lyle. I trust his judgment. My gut tells me you’ve got all the right stuff for this job. But, it’s like anything else in life. The harder you work to solve a problem, and to prove you can perform under pressure, the more obsessive you tend to become about it. Especially if you start turning up tantalizing pieces of evidence. By that I mean, clues and leads that may have been missed by other police officers. It can be pretty heady stuff when you uncover things other seasoned officers may have overlooked. You need to stay grounded.” Bradley smirked and said, “Especially when looking over the shoulders of fellow officers. And more especially, those as notoriously effective and thorough…. and thin skinned sensitive…. as the Carrabassett Valley Police Department.”

I asked, “Speaking of which, may I ask you a personal question about Mister Dupree?”

“I’m one step ahead of you. And this must remain strictly confidential… between just the two of us.” Bradley leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “In the perfect world where a police chief can hire and fire people at will to fill his staff positions in the department, Dupree would probably not be where he is today…. for a lot of reasons which I don’t need to get into right now. As strange as it may seem to the outside world, the man clearly has a very protective rabbi in a position of power and influence in this county. Someone on the Board of Selectmen. Someday I may learn what that’s all about. But until then, I’m getting some pretty effective work out of him. He does everything I tell him to do. Good instincts too, but, you know, he’s no Sherlock Holmes. Not many cops are today. Sometimes he’s more like Inspector Clouseau.”

“Do you mind if I ask, if you know who that rabbi might be?”

“Boy, you don’t waste any time, do ya? Yes, I do.”

“What’s his name, if you don’t mind telling me?”

“No, I don’t mind. You’re going to meet each of the Selectmen at our next monthly meeting anyway. I’ll introduce you to all the mucky mucks in town. All of the back-room wheeler dealers. They’re an exciting bunch of guys. To answer your question, his rabbi’s name is Charles Poulos. He’s the chairman of the board.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s a bit mysterious. He’s originally from Providence. From what I understand, he comes from a wealthy family involved in an import export business.”

“What’s a guy in the import business doing here in Carrabassett?”

“He also happens to own and manage the biggest real estate company in the county. Business has been good over the past ten years. You know, sales of prime pieces of property for summer homes up by the lake or ski chalets for the winter crowd. But there’s something about him…. I don’t know...”

“I don’t know… what?” I boldly asked.

“Something about the guy sends my antennae up a notch. Just a hunch. One of these days when I have some free time, I’ll check him out. Meanwhile, whether he has a rabbi or not, Dupree is in a position to teach you more than a few things about standard police procedure.”

I said, “Well, I don’t expect perfection in anyone. I just want to learn as much as I can.”

“You can learn a lot from him. Just ignore some of his more boorish behavior, if you can.”

“Did I hear you say you’re leaving next year?”, I asked.

“Yep. I’m planning to retire in less than a year. I’m sure someone upstairs has promised him that he’ll step into the Chief spot. He’s been with me now for a little over twenty years. In fact, he came on the job only a few months before the Brahmin girl was killed. I had heard a few disturbing rumors about his conduct as a young cop over in Providence and then in Portland, but nothing I could ever document or confirm. He generally does his job well enough. The main complaint I’ve heard from some folks is that from time to time he can be a little surly and a bit off-color and inappropriate with some of the younger ladies in town.”

“Where is he from… you know, originally?”

“Providence. When I first interviewed him, I learned that he was adopted. By a middle-class blue-collar family up there. He told me in my initial interview that he had a twin brother who died in childbirth, along with their natural mother.”

“Is he married?”

“He was. A very nasty divorce according to what I’ve heard. No kids and no relatives here. I heard that his ex-wife was shot and killed by an intruder in her apartment in Providence a few years back.”

“Did the Providence police find the killer?”

“Nope. Another unsolved murder. Probably a burglary gone bad. She lived in a rough part of town; I hear.”

I asked, “What about my work on the Brahmin case? Do you think Dupree will help me, ignore me, try sidetrack me?”

“He’ll do whatever I tell him to do. But he may decide to cut it close to the vest. You know, the bare minimum and nothing more. He knows I can still make a lot of trouble for him with the powers that be if he doesn’t cooperate. So, if you need something or if you want him to follow-up with anything in particular, come to me right away, especially if he drags his feet. My suggestion to you…. if you don’t mind…. humor him, stroke his ego on occasion and learn from him. Despite what I’m telling you, he’s basically a pretty competent cop. That is, when he focuses on the job at hand.”

I said, “I’m not very good at stroking, but I guess getting along with tender egos… that’s all part of the job of being a good police officer.”

“Indeed, it is. With me, it’s a little different. I’m in a position of some influence and leverage. Like Nixon’s right-hand man Jeb McGruder used to say. ‘Once you’ve got them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow.’ You and he will work out fine. But enough about Dupree, let’s talk about Olivia Browne.”

I said, “I heard Mister Dupree say that the prime suspect was someone by the name of Allerton. I was wondering, if your deputy is still convinced that he’s the killer, what incentive would he have to help me reopen the investigation? And maybe prove him wrong?”

Bradley raised his eyebrows. “Good question. None, really. Which is why you should try to come up with substantive leads or items that may have been glossed over in 1965. Understand this. Dupree has always had an inflated opinion of himself and his abilities. He thinks he’s always right. A dangerous mindset for any fair-minded investigator. He’s good, but far from perfect.”

“What did you think at the time… about Allerton… as a suspect?”

“I must admit, he was a reasonable person of interest, but there wasn’t enough clear evidence to indict, much less convict him. Even if I were to agree with Dupree, nothing can take the place and discretion of the District Attorney or local prosecutor. He makes the final call, not the police. We just gather and present the evidence. And, as I’m sure Professor Beckwith has taught you, that’s exactly the way it’s supposed to work in our criminal justice system.”

The Chief leaned in closer and said, “Our coroner, Doc Brodsky, is ninety years old, retired and still living with his wife up on Route 27 just outside of town. I would expect that you might want to re-interview him at length. His findings were critical in the decision not to indict Allerton. You’ve heard that he found a two-month-old fetus in his post mortem?”

“Yes, and Dupree thought Allerton was the father?’

“Yep. In fact, so did I. That is, until his attorney offered up his blood sample for paternity testing…. voluntarily. The test was never done because the comparison fetal tissue was mistakenly destroyed.”

I asked, “But doesn’t that suggest a possible angry motive for Allerton to kill her? His girlfriend obviously having sex with someone else?”

Tom answered. “Yes, normally it would. But I heard Libby’s voice on a taped recording insisting that she was raped by an unidentified male. And I’ve always intuitively believed her claim. Make sure Dupree gives you that tape to listen to.”

“I didn’t know about that. I will”, I said.

“And there’s something else about this file you should pay attention to. Doc Brodsky was a chronic, but functioning, alcoholic. I managed to keep that piece of information, albeit relevant to the case, out of the news reports. Fortunately, Doc admitted to me, privately, that his first autopsy of the girl was short of the mark, so he took the liberty of following up with a more thorough and skillful second exam. Without telling me or the prosecutor.”

“Isn’t that unusual…doing a second autopsy without telling the prosecutor?”

“Yes. You’ll see why when you read through the entire file.”

“What about the pregnancy? Is it true she was carrying a baby girl?”

“Yep. Naturally, that kind of news created a gossip firestorm in town. Every young man in town was on the church ladies’ suspect list. Anyway, by the time the dust settled and we finally identified the Brahmin Girl, the case had suffered a relatively quick but tortuous death. Which is why you’re here in Carrabassett this summer. To see how innovatively you can think… in maybe resurrecting it.”

I had tried to conceal it, but the Chief had noticed that my eyes suddenly began to well up with tears. “What is it, Darcy?”, he whispered.

I quickly dabbed my tears with a paper napkin and said: “So then, this was a double homicide. The Brahmin girl died carrying her own sweet little girl.” I grew very quiet and looked away …distracted by a distant, remote memory. I regained a little composure. I thought for a moment and asked: “Whether she was raped or not, do you know if she was seeing someone else, maybe in secret?”

“Good question. We pursued that avenue but came up dry again. No one we interviewed had ever seen her with anyone other than Isaiah Allerton. She never went out at night and had no social life. At least none that we could tell. It was Dupree who was pushing the indictment of Isaiah Allerton, to the exclusion of all other possible suspects…of which there were none anyway at the time.”

The Chief continued. “Ironically, Dupree was the one who ruined the chance to compare Allerton’s blood type with the fetus by his stupid authorization to Brodsky to cremate the body.”

“But, why would he do that?”

“I’ve wondered about that myself. I chalked it up to the fact that my young deputy was, and still can be, very impulsive… not always disciplined in proper police procedures. He can be a rogue cowboy type at times. Maybe that’s something you might pursue also when the time comes.”

“I don’t follow”, I said.

“That would be something for you to consider when you finally get your shot at him. You know, when you interview him about his handling of the case.”

I grimaced. “Can you hold off on that till my internship is nearly done?”

“Discomfort, apprehension, even fear…. all part of the law enforcement package, grasshopper. Get used to it.”

Suddenly I thought about Olivia’s remains and changed the topic. “Where is she buried? Can I see the grave?”

“Just outside of town, in the Potter’s Field corner of the old Colonial Cemetery.”

“Did anyone place any kind of…?”

Bradley anticipated my question and cut me off. “Yes, absolutely. I ordered a simple gravestone. I had the mason inscribe it. It reads: The Brahmin Girl, Olivia Browne; November 25, 1947—November 25 1965. Some of the local church ladies objected but…. well, to hell with them all.”

“My God... she was killed on her eighteenth birthday?”

“Indeed, she was. Thanksgiving Day 1965. Alone in the wild woods of Maine. And yet, not totally forgotten it seems. You may be interested to know that some mystery person has been leaving a single white rose on her grave every year for the past twenty years on her birthday. I suspect that it’s Isaiah Allerton, but I’ve never asked him about that. That might be one of your questions for him when you go out to see him.

“You mean I can go up there and talk to him…. in person. …about the murder?”

Bradley smiled. “Yes, Ma’am. I would expect you to. That is, if he and his attorney agree to an interview. The statute of limitations for murder in Maine has long expired in this case. If Libby had been under sixteen years old it would still be open. But that’s not the case. So, I don’t see any reason for him to fear talking with you now. Who knows? He might have a bunch of interesting things to tell you. Leads that went uncovered. Things that Deputy Dupree didn’t consider important at the time…. or things Isaiah has since remembered.”

“I’m so excited”, I found myself muttering aloud.

“You’re starting with a clean slate, grasshopper. Use your imagination and best instincts. But please, don’t irritate or intimidate my deputy. Remember, you’re representing the Department in this town, and me personally, in everything you say and do here this summer.”

I rubbed my hands together and laughed. “Yippee io ki yay!”

The Chief’s eyes brightened and he chuckled. “Haven’t heard that expression since I was a boy.”

“It’s my default expression when I get excited,” I laughed. My dad used to sing it to me to get me to go to bed. It’s a line from Bing Crosby’s song…. ‘I’m an old cowhand….’”

“From the Rio Grande”, Tom sang on pitch. “Yep, I know it well.”

After a long silent, grinning pause, Bradley said. “Well, speaking of cowboys, I need to finish my lunch and get back to my Deputy. I want to be sure he gathers the entire file so you can get to work.”

LET THE GAMES BEGIN

The next morning I bounded up the steps into the station house and saw Dupree seated at his desk. He was inhaling a ham and egg sandwich. A glistening dollop of ketchup slid down his chin as he grinned, winked and spoke through his food. “Well, g’mornin’ there, Miss Farrell. Ready to go to work on this fine bright day?”

Well, there’s a major shift in attitude from yesterday. I wonder how long this friendliness will carry the day?

I walked quickly up to his desk and extended my hand. Dupree looked up and said, “What’s all this? Didn’t we already go through proper introductions yesterday?”

“Yes, we did. But you never stood or shook my hand. I’m sure it must have just been an oversight.”

Dupree smirked and said, “Yeah, well…. my ex-wife, God rest her sweet soul, used to say I must have been raised by wolves. As you probably noticed, social skills ain’t my strong suit. But, I’m sure a nice refined college lady from the big city could teach an unpolished hick like me a few of Miss Manner’s finer points. Right?”

Snarky…. I thought. But I was beginning to enjoy the exchange.

“It’s never too late to learn a few new tricks, Mister Dupree. There’s no statute of limitations on picking up a few social amenities, you know.”

Dupree grinned. “Nope. Too late. I think I might be past that point. Old habits die hard, Miss Farrell.”

I measured my next comment carefully. “And I’m sure I could learn a lot from you too.”

Dupree answered, “Speaking about dying hard……” as he pointed to a pile of dusty folders stacked high on a small desk pushed up against the wall in the corner of the bullpen. “But not half as hard as the way that Brahmin girl got herself killed.”

“Thank you for retrieving this material so quickly for me. I’ll get right on it.””

Dupree grinned a half smile. “Just following orders, Missy. I’ll tell you right now though… you can comb through all that stuff till the cows come home. But you ain’t never gonna come to any conclusion different from mine. Assuming you’re even half the star student of crime the Chief says you are. Anyway, I wish you good luck. You’ll likely be needing it.”

I bristled and felt my cheeks burning. “First of all, Mister Dupree, we’re not characters in a western movie. ‘Missy’, just won’t cut it. So, get rid of it right now, if you don’t mind. And secondly, why don’t we both just relax and see what, if anything, a second look at this girl’s file might turn up.”

Dupree glared at me with his jet-black eyes and said nothing.

I tried to break the tension. “Look, I don’t have the depth and years of experience you have in these matters, but I’m not an idiot either. Who knows, I might wind up agreeing entirely with your opinion about Allerton. For all I know he may be as guilty… and as lucky… as you say he is. He may have skated on a murder charge and walked away Scott free.”

“Yeah, that’s a fact. Plain and simple.”

I added, “I have no idea where any of this will lead. But I intend to do what I’ve been assigned to do by Professor Beckwith and Chief Bradley.” I looked briefly at the floor and then squarely up into Dupree’s face. “I was hoping, quite honestly, that you would teach me a few things... you know, while I review the file. Maybe we could contact some witnesses together.”

Dupree stood, stared wide eyed at me, strapped on his brand new semi-automatic Glock and just grinned like a circus clown. “You mean like a team? Like, oh…I don’t know… say, like Starsky and Hutch? Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson? Yeah, anything’s possible, I suppose, in your fantasy TV world of cops and robbers.” His tooth gapped grin faded just as suddenly as it had appeared. He glared again at me. His hardened expression and words conveyed their intended dose of menace. “Just don’t get the idea that you’re going to use this second look at my file, and your little college summer adventure, as an excuse to show me up or to challenge my reputation. Cause, if you’re even thinking about doing that, Miss Farrell, I won’t abide it. No ma’am. No way.”

I started to speak but stopped when Dupree abruptly bumped into my shoulder and rushed past me for the front door, towards his patrol car. “Excuse me, I got real work to do. I don’t have time for stupid academic games”, he mumbled, as he strode by.

Well, that went well.

I debated whether I should tell Bradley about this testy exchange. Or if I should try to work out this budding personality conflict myself. Either way, it needed to be fixed. In a hurry.

Later that night, as I hunched over the desk in my dark boarding house room, paging through the first of six thick manila folders, I began my hunt for the soul and hidden persona of Olivia Browne. And perhaps… even a fleeting glimpse of her killer. Stapled to the inside cover of the file jacket was a glossy photo of the face of a young woman who looked barely human. Olivia’s scalp had been shredded …. degloved from her skull. Her eyes were fixed open wide in death. Staring outward and upward as though pleading…. to anyone… for a final merciful blow to deliver her from this life. To spare her from the excruciating horrors inflicted by her executioner. Her nose and right ear were partially removed, their stumps covered in dried black blood. Right beneath that picture was another showing her opened chest and abdomen. The tangled web of flesh, clothing and dried blood made her body look alien… monstrous… even repulsive. I fought back a sudden wave of nausea, turned away for a second and said a quick silent prayer for this girl. My mind raced…. spinning with a barrage of unasked questions.

What did she ever do to deserve to die like this? Was she unconscious, please God, when the bear attacked her? And if so, how did she first come to lose consciousness? How long had she been alone in the woods? Had she been disabled by someone before the bear attack? Someone she knew?

I turned to the official crime scene report filed by Deputy Dupree. In it, he described her body position… on her back, facing upwards, partially covered by dead leaves, pine straw and wooden detritus.

Who covered her with all this stuff? Did the bear initially stash her away like a fresh kill…. a carrion corpse to feed upon later? Did someone incapacitate her and then try to conceal her body? Was she lost? Did she cover herself with the leaves and debris in a futile attempt to stay warm at night in the sub-freezing temperatures of late November…. when it had become too dark to travel up and down those rocky slopes? Did she pass out from hypothermia or hypotension?

I noticed in his report that Dupree had described in detail what Olivia was wearing. A torn pair of summer jeans, light weight boots, a woolen cap, a Tartan plaid flannel shirt and only a light outer nylon vest with no hood; and no gloves. Clearly, she wasn’t planning to spend the night out there. She was less than a mile from the Allerton house. I doublechecked my witness contact list and made sure Isaiah’s name was at the very top. Dupree’s tape-recorded office interview with Allerton, especially the circumstances around his discovery of the body, appeared to be very thorough. However, I thought that his notes as to Allerton’s whereabouts and activities for those prior forty-eight hours were sketchy and sparse at best. I needed to tighten up that crucial timeline.

I slowly studied each page and photo, took copious notes and then went back to something I had noticed in Brodsky’s initial autopsy report. He had written that, based on the significant blood flow and splatter patterns around the body, Olivia may have still been alive, though perhaps barely, when she was mauled, ripped open and finally killed. Brodsky noticed no defensive bite and claw marks on the arms and hands…. suggesting that she may have already been unconscious and thus not able to ward off the attack. The question which kept tugging at me was whether she was killed by the bear attack alone. Or whether there a human accomplice who set the stage…. forcing all events into forward motion. Perhaps towards an inevitable and planned rendezvous with the bear?

I read Dupree’s interview with her landlady Mrs. Olsen who established that Olivia had already been missing forty-eight hours by the time she was discovered by Isaiah Allerton. How did she come to be lying unconscious at the bottom of a deep ravine, partially covered in leaves, for all or part of that time? My mind swirled with the countless possibilities.

The questions kept pouring into my head. Had she been disorientated when she ran away from Allerton into the woods? Did she suffer from some sort of prior medical condition… diabetic, epileptic?

My head hurt trying to keep track of the maze of unanswered questions. I stretched, put aside the folder and looked once again at the supplemental autopsy report of Doctor Brodsky. I took out a yellow legal pad and I made a bold note to remind myself to ask him about each of these scenarios. I resolved then and there to not question him until and unless I was fully and intimately familiar with the entire file. I hoped that he would be sober enough and lucid enough to give me answers, especially after all these intervening years.

I stood, rubbed my shoulders, and looked at my watch. It was three o’clock in the morning. I had been at it for almost five hours. I collapsed face down on the bed and quickly fell into a deep sleep.

THE FIRST SHOT FIRED

My dreams were mixed with fitful, random images of a frighteningly grotesque, prehistoric bear…. and of gruesome death and decay. The bloody face of Olivia Browne, her eyes wide and panicked, kept staring back at me. Her mouth was frozen in an open, silent scream… pleading with me to find her killer. Constantly lurking in the background … weaving throughout my dream images…. hovering just behind and above the bear…. was the blurred face of a man holding a black rifle.

In that moment I heard the sharp crack of a gunshot. I woke and bolted upright, struggling to catch my breath. After a second or two of heart racing orientation to my new, unfamiliar surroundings, I noticed that the morning light was just beginning to filter into the room through Mrs. Lyscombe’s Irish lace curtains.

There was another loud, sharp sound at the door and I heard Mrs. Lyscombe call my name. “Miss Farrell, I’m sorry to disturb you. Could you come downstairs please? Chief Bradley is on the phone for you.”

I looked at my watch. Oh, my God. It was 6:15. I was supposed to meet the Chief for breakfast at the diner at 6:00 sharp.

I ran downstairs, picked up the phone and started to apologize. “Chief, I’m so sorry…. I…..”

The Chief interrupted me … his voice edged with sharp annoyance…. “Good morning, Darcy, this is Tom Bradley. We’re on country time up here, grasshopper. I’m going to give you a pass today because you were probably up half the night going over the Brahmin file. I understand that. But it’s time to get our collective butts in gear. Get cleaned up fast and meet me at Alice’s in fifteen minutes. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be right over.”

I ran back upstairs, cleaned my face, brushed my hair and teeth and ran back down the stairs rushing past Mrs. Lyscombe who was standing at the foot of the stairs holding a mug. “Whoa, darlin’. At least let me give you some hot coffee.”

I forced a smile, mumbled no thanks and rushed outside to the car. I looked like crap, no makeup, dressed in the same jeans and a white tie-died t-shirt I’d worn the day before. Worse, I was foggy as hell from the lack of solid sleep.

Jesus, yet another rookie mistake. I’m not going to last very long at this rate, I thought.

As I pushed open the diner door, I saw the Chief sitting in his usual booth along the back wall. He waved to me. His usual smile was conspicuously missing. “Come, sit down, we have things to talk about.”

I tried to appear relaxed, nonchalant and witty. “Good morning Chief. That won’t happen again, I promise.” I smiled and said: “I see you’re seated facing the front door. I thought that was just an urban legend about cops and mobsters.”

It worked. He broke out his quick grin. “Yep, I like to see exactly who’s coming and going at all times. It’s called being observant. The mystics used to call it, living in the moment. Great way to approach life, especially for a cop.”

Bradley tossed a menu on the table in front of me. “Let’s go. Eat up. We need to get on the road. The sun has been up almost two hours already.”

“Yeah, I’m awfully sorry about that.”

“I get it, Darcy. I knew you’d get enthralled with the Brahmin scene photos and the reports. I get it. But, remember what I said about pacing yourself and keeping your batteries fully charged. Lesson number one for the day. A tired cop is a careless cop. And a careless cop….is a… go ahead…. fill in the blank.”

“A dead cop.”

“Right you are, grasshopper.”

The Chief looked at my attire and said, “You’re not exactly dressed to take a hike in the woods.”

“I… I didn’t know….” I stammered.

“Well, so be it. The best lessons are those learned the hard way.”

We wolfed down our breakfast and Bradley said. “Ok, let’s hit the bricks. Or in this case, the trail. By the way, Dupree is out on the same domestic violence call he answered yesterday. He was supposed to drive you up to the mountain but I insisted he cool his heels today. You’re riding with me instead this morning.”

Ten minutes later we were speeding up Route 27 towards some of the most majestic and pristine mountain scenery this low country girl had ever seen. The Maine pine forests stretched for endless miles in all directions. Suddenly Bradley slowed and made a sharp right turn onto a narrow dirt road. There were no road signs or mailboxes in sight. “May I ask where we’re going?”, I asked.

“We’re going to the scene of the crime. There’s nothing of any significance left up there, but I wanted you to get a sense of what Olivia saw and experienced before she died.”

“I nervously asked. Are there bears up here?”

“Of course.” Tom laughed. This is their back yard, not ours. Did you bring your cowbell or whistle?”

“Oh my God, no. I forgot.”

“Reach under your seat and take out my air horn. Don’t use it unless I tell you to.”

We bumped and bounced along the road as the cruiser brushed up against the branch tips stretching across the road and arching upwards towards the limited supply of sunlight. Finally, after about a mile, Tom stopped the car. “Ok, hop out. This is where we have to hike in on foot. I’ll pop the trunk. Take a look inside. You’ll find bug repellant, gloves and a screened hat.”

Tom looked at my sneakers and frowned. You really should get into the habit of wearing some good old boots, even around town. Never know when you’ll need to come up here on a call.”

“Are there people actually living way out here in the woods?”

Bradley laughed. “Yes, indeed. More than you can imagine. They’re scattered throughout the area. In some cases, over a mile from any kind of paved or gravel road. “

“What do they do in a heavy snowstorm?”

Bradley looked amused. “They cozy up in front of a warm fireplace with a good book, an aged scotch and wait it out.”

As soon as I climbed out of the cruiser, the black flies descended on me in force. “Oh my God, you weren’t kidding.” I cried, as I started swinging and flailing my arms around like an old wooden windmill.

“Keep your eyes peeled for Mama Moose. She’s probably just had her calf, or two, and will be extremely protective…. even aggressive. Strap that air horn to your waist. And by the way, I have water bottles, granola bars and a couple of small knapsacks in there too. Help yourself.”

We started hiking up the narrow trail when Bradley stopped short. “I almost forgot. Have you ever had any firearms training?”

I smiled. “I grew up on a remote rural farm in Virginia, Chief. We were swimming in deer and geese. What do you think?”

“Ok, then.” He led me back to the trunk of the car, re-opened it and handed me a twelve-gauge shotgun. “This is against police department regulations but no one will know the difference out here. Check and make sure it’s loaded and the safety is on.”

He watched me carefully as I did exactly what he told me to do.

We climbed through the building heat and humidity in silence. Black-capped chickadees chattered and scurried alongside us…. up high among the oaks, ash and pine. Curious, they followed us up the entire trail. By the time we got up to the scene a half hour later, I was huffing and puffing, hardly able to speak. Bradley had barely broken a sweat and looked like he had just walked across the room.

“There it is, right over there”. Tom pointed down a steep rocky slope towards a deep ravine. “She was lying on her back. I remember it was deathly still…. quiet and dark in the shadows of these massive pines. There was some light snow on the ground. The only sounds came from the moving water of that stream and small waterfall over there.” He pointed skyward. “A bunch of scavengers were circling above us. They had roosted right up there in that old white pine…. still alive, I see. Crows… dozens of them…. gathered for a communal meal… hoping to enjoy the bear’s leftovers, I’m guessing.” Tom stared for a long moment up into that tree, and said.” Did you know that when a flock of these guys gather like that, they’re called a murder of crows?”

“I never heard that before”, I said.

“Yep. American G.I. survivors from both world wars have described them as a black carpet across the battlefield…. swarming over the bodies like giant locusts, cawing, pecking and gorging themselves on both the dead and even the unconscious wounded.”

A chill went down my back. I looked around quietly, then changed the subject. “If we were to continue on that trail, where would it take us?”

“It winds over there to the east and sort of dead ends less than a half mile from the rear of the Allerton property.”

“Were you part of that interview of Allerton, Chief…. that first night he was in jail?

“Nope, Deputy Dupree did it, in the office. We both interviewed him again the next day when we searched the house and grounds.”

“Did Dupree ask Allerton if he was familiar with these backwoods trails? I didn’t see that in his report.”

“I don’t think he needed to. Isaiah is very familiar with these woods. He knows them like the back of his hand. Allerton has spent a lot of years up here hunting deer and moose, in season. Still does. Sometimes he’d hunt rabbit, and some geese and duck up by the lake.”

“You say Allerton met you and Dupree up here at the scene after he called the police station, right?”

“Yep. He was standing right here waiting for us when Dupree and I hiked in.”

“Where did he make the call from, his house? A landline?”

“Yes.”

I paused, thought quietly and said, “So, he just happens to be out here, walking around in dense woods about seventy-five yards off this trail and he finds the body. Way down there at the bottom of that deep ravine. He manages to see it at that distance…. despite it being covered with pine straw and leaves?”

“Go ahead, make your point.”

“That would make him pretty observant, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Not unusual for someone with his hunting experience I would reckon”, he answered.

I asked, “Dupree’s report says Allerton was hunting whitetail deer, right?”

“Right.”

“You’re a hunter, would you look for deer in a deep ravine.”

“Depends. Sometimes they bed down for the night in small ravines, like that one. If you come up here early enough in the morning you can sometimes surprise them in these hollows. Keep going. You’re doing great.”

“Ok. You said Allerton had a hatchet at his waist when you saw him. Did he have the kinds of knives and butcher tools you would need to field dress a deer kill?”

“Great question, grasshopper. You’ve been doing your homework. I thought of that. But Isaiah said that since he wasn’t that far from his house, he planned to go back and get his field dressing tools, assuming he had gotten lucky. A plausible explanation to anyone who has hunted up here.”

“So, if he went back to the house to call you to report finding the body, why did he bring his rifle and hatchet with him when he came back here?”

Bradley smiled. “You can ask him that yourself when you see him. Well done. Keep it up.”

I asked. “The medical examiner said that the vessels to the heart looked like they had been neatly cut by a knife. But Allerton didn’t have a knife on him when you searched him out here, right?”

“Right.”

“I read that all of the knives at the house tested negative for human blood. Did you guys bring in a metal detector to check both the trail back to his house and the back of the property for a different knife?”

“This is a small department, Darcy. We don’t have those kinds of resources, time or manpower. The search area would be way too massive…. unmanageable.”

I paused and said, “May I sum up the pros and cons of the prosecution’s case, at that point…. from a layman’s point of view?

“Give it your best shot.”

“You’ve got a very violent homicide but the medical examiner wasn’t willing to get on the witness stand under oath and state definitively whether it was the bear’s claws or the human hand cutting her heart vessels that actually ended her life…. or both. Is that a fair analysis of where the Brahmin case ended up?”

“Yep. An excellent and pithy summary.”

I asked. “However, what if there exists some other evidence proving that those same human hands initially wounded or disabled Olivia, and thereafter possibly lured a wild bear to enter the picture? You know, to throw the police off the scent of an initial assault.”

He said, “OK, assuming those facts… what’s your question?”

“Well, that would change the whole complexion of the file. Would you agree?”

“Yes. But again, I considered all of that. We found nothing else at the scene or on her body to justify going down that apparently dry rabbit hole.”

“Chief, I saw a brief reference in the autopsy report stating that all the toxicological studies were also negative. No alcohol, drugs, barbiturates or the like in her blood or organs. And Allerton says that when she ran away from his house, albeit in a very agitated state, and into the woods, she was in command of her faculties and didn’t show any signs of confusion or illness. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“If she had accidentally slipped and fallen into that ravine and landed on one of those large rocks down there, there would have been some physical sign or mark from some kind of head, leg or spine injury, agreed?”

Bradley answered. “In fact, I asked the Doc to look closely at that very possibility. We both ruled that out early on. The Doc and I don’t believe she was disabled from a fall.”

“So, if she was down there because she had become disabled from an outside source, could it have been related to what Allerton told you up at the house? Could she have been….?””

The Chief finished my thought. “You mean about hearing the report of a high-powered rifle…. within minutes after she ran away into the woods?”

I asked. “Could she have covered that half mile on the trail in five minutes give or take?”

“Yes, I think so, especially if she was as hysterical as the audio tape suggests… and running. Mostly downgrade, I should add.” The Chief scratched his chin. “This case would be a no brainer if only we had found a slug somewhere in the body or some sign of a pass-through bullet exit wound anywhere.”

I said, “But the front half of her body was mauled open by a bear. That’s not exactly conducive to a proper and thorough post mortem, is it.”

Bradley smiled. “Complicated, isn’t it?”

“Are all your investigations as complex like this?”

Bradley laughed. “Nope. Most of the day-to-day police investigations we handle involve locals who are overserved at the local beer joints on Saturday night. Shooting out the lights in a local dive or roughing up their girlfriends. Stuff like that. Or out-of-state folks trespassing and hunting on posted property or hunting without a license. Or guys driving their pickups into bears, moose and deer… or a neighbor’s mailbox. Or a midnight theft at the local liquor or convenience store. You won’t learn about that dull, predictable side of law enforcement from your professors at Northeastern. I’m convinced no one should graduate with a degree in criminal justice today without course credits in small town human psychology and anthropology. Especially in the testosterone driven exploits of the average small town immature male.”

Bradley continued. “Nope. This case is one in a million. You’re very lucky. This is exactly what you should be sinking your analytical teeth into.”

“I am extremely lucky. I know that.”

Bradley paused. His smile had faded. “Darcy, I want you to go through the names of every person we interviewed on the Brahmin case… about twenty all told, I believe. Let me know who you’d like to re-contact and why, and we’ll discuss it. Meanwhile, focus on what you’re going to ask Allerton and Doc Brodsky. I know many folks think that the passage of time dulls the memory. But I’ve found that, often, a twenty-year hiatus will clear up and sharpen one’s recollection of things. Especially things like murder and death.”

I suddenly decided that the appropriate moment… the one I had been dreading, had finally arrived. I pulled the pin on my grenade, held my breath… finally asked, “May I add Dupree to my witness list?”

Tom shot me a quick, worried frown. His face and tone grew instantaneously somber. “Be very careful, young lady. That man is not to be trifled with. Not in matters of life and death.”

I said, “I’m sorry if I sound presumptuous or too aggressive, but may I ask you a loaded question.”

Tom squinted, cocked his head and said, “Sure, I don’t see why not.”

I weighed my words carefully. “I’m thinking that the last person any police chief would consider a possible suspect is his own trusted deputy. Nevertheless, did that thought ever cross your mind at all?”

Tom frowned and stared at me for a long moment. “I admit… I thought of it for a fleeting moment, but, thank God, I didn’t have to go there. He was two hundred miles away upstate at the time of her death…. Thanksgiving Day. On a ski trip to Kahtakin with two buddies and…I regret to say…as a lodge guest of own Chairman of the Board of Selectmen. He came home two days later… the day we discovered the body up here. She had already been dead 48 hours.”

“Chief, I’m sorry…. I didn’t mean to….”

Bradley raised his hand to cut me off. He paused, then said, “Stop, Darcy. The day a cop refuses to turn over every little dirty rock in the realm of possibilities… that’s the day you hand in your badge.”

Tom thought for a few more quiet seconds and added. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll let you talk to Dupree. But only provided that you go over your line of questioning with me first. You’d best remember that he handled most of this investigation himself, and, except for that cremation screwup, pretty adequately, I have to say. He won’t appreciate someone like you, a mere unseasoned, criminology student looking over his shoulder or second guessing his investigative style and tactical decisions. Tread very lightly. Got it?”

“Got it, Chief.”

Just then, Bradley wheeled around at the sound of a broken twig. A large mother moose and her calf had approached us from the top of a small ridge only a few yards above the ravine. She was grunting, breathing hard through flared nostrils and whipping her head up and down. Tom had earlier given me a quick lesson in signs of their aggressive behavior. Sure enough, she was clicking her teeth, her ears were laid back up on her head and the hair was raised on her hump. Tom whispered. “Time to get the hell out of here. Hand me that air horn.”

Two short blasts later, the mother and daughter had trotted away, having displayed some annoyance but, surprisingly…. especially to a greenhorn like me…. absolutely no fear.

“Why did she come so close to us if she’s in such a hyper-protective mode?”

“They have notoriously bad eyesight. She was downwind from us and probably smelled us first. They’re also very curious animals and have no qualms about approaching humans. They come down into the valley all the time and poke around people’s front yards and back yard garbage bins. Did you know that they outweigh us about ten to one? In many ways, they’re much more dangerous than your average black bear.”

Two hours later, when we walked into the station house. Dupree was seated at his desk typing up his domestic violence report. He looked up, grinned at me and said, “Well, well, here’s the hunter, home from the hill.”

I wanted to return the volley but Bradley beat me to it. “A classic literary line, Deputy. Have you ever even read Robert Louis Stevenson, Mister Dupree? Do you even know who he is?”

“Uh, yeah… sure. I didn’t attend Princeton like yourself Chief, but I’ve done my fair share of book reading… you know… all the classics.”

The Chief smiled and cleared his throat as I followed his glance towards the bottom drawer of Dupree’s desk, slightly protruding. I noticed the partially concealed cover of a Playboy magazine. I bit my lip and said nothing.

Dupree laughed and pointed to my sorry looking, sweat-soaked condition. “So how do you like the great Maine outdoors, Miss Farrell? I have to say. You wear it very well.”

I looked at my shirt and jeans and saw I was covered in burrs and thorns, reddened welts from insect bites and a fair amount of mud and pine straw. Dupree wouldn’t let up. “But you might want to attend to those blood sucking ticks and chiggers all over your arms and neck. Would you like me to get you some alcohol and tweezers, Miss Farrell?” he said, as he laughed aloud again.

I reflexively ran my hands along my face, scalp and neck and could feel them, partially protruding, but burrowed deep into my skin, just below the hair line, at the nape of my neck. I cringed but didn’t allow the scream which had built up in my throat to escape my mouth. I said simply, “Thank you, but no. I’ll manage. That’s very kind of you, Mister Dupree.”

He grinned. “Yep. Whatever you need. You just let me know.”

Bradley was quick with his response. “What she needs from you, Deputy, is for you to drive her up the mountain to spend some quality time the day after tomorrow with Isaiah Allerton.”

“Dupree frowned and threw up a knee jerk objection. “You’ll never get that past his attorney, Chief. Why would he or his client ever agree to talk to us again?”

“He already has. I cleared it with his lawyer yesterday. And besides, what has Allerton got to fear? According to him, he had nothing to do with the girl’s death. Plus, the statute’s run out. Remember?”

“But what could she possibly ask him that I already haven’t covered, Chief?”

“I’ll be going over the possible lines of inquiry with Darcy tomorrow. Don’t worry, Mister Dupree, she won’t be duplicating or negating your efforts. Besides, you’ll be with her for the entire interview. You can make sure she stays within the straight and narrow. Right?”

Dupree just stared silently at Bradley and me. If looks could kill, Carrabassett would have had another double homicide on its hands.

Just then, Maggie came into the office and said, “Chief. We just got another call from Annabelle’s mother, Mrs. Hoyer. The boyfriend is high on something and is holding her daughter in the back of his car at gunpoint.”

“Pistol or long gun?”

“Mister Hoyer’s old Army service revolver.”

Bradley looked at Dupree. “Didn’t you go out on that same domestic violence call early this morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did that kid threaten the girl with physical harm?”

“Well… she says he did. But I didn’t witness it though.”

“Was she willing to swear out a complaint against him?”

“I didn’t ask. The whole thing blew over by the time I got there.”

“Next time that happens, book the kid first and then help the family get a court order of protection. Now get out there, defuse the situation and bust his ass. Get a sworn complaint from both the mother and daughter this time.”

“Yes, Chief. I’m on it.”

“And take our new intern with you. Show her how it’s properly done, Deputy.”

Dupree protested. “But couldn’t that potentially be a little dangerous for her? What with her being underfoot and in the way of things, like… you know… loaded firearms? And what about the liability? What would the Town attorney have to say about it?”

Bradley said. “Mister Dupree, I admire your noble sense of civic responsibility. But you worry way too much about the finer points of the law. Focus on your overall mission, son. Get that gun away from that skinny little shit and bring him in here pronto.” Tom looked at me, smiled and said, “Stay in the cruiser until the Deputy brings the situation under control and makes the arrest. If it blows up and he needs backup, the twelve gauge is right there on his gun rack.” He paused and said slowly, “Relax, I’m kidding. But I did show you how to operate the car radio, grasshopper. Use it to call Margie, if you need to.” Tom furrowed his brow and wagged his head. “Why Dupree insists on displaying that gun like that, out in full view, I’ll never understand.”

Dupree mumbled something unintelligible, turned and moved quickly towards the front door. “Let’s go, Miss Farrell. Time for you to see how real police work gets done outside of your fairy tale classroom.”

Bradley grinned at me. “He’s got a valid point there. Go get ‘em, grasshopper. Observe and learn.”

Two hours later while Dupree was questioning the skinny little shit handcuffed to a metal office chair, Bradley walked into the bullpen and signaled for me to come into his office.

“Come in and close the door.” As I sat down Bradley asked: “So, tell me. How did Dupree’s arrest go today?”

“Pretty smoothly, I have to say. He calmed down the situation in just a few minutes. I was really impressed, especially with the way he dealt with the woman and her daughter. And I told him so. You know, he can be very disarming and pleasant when he makes the effort.”

“I know. He’s a walking paradox wrapped in a police uniform. But, I repeat, you can learn a lot from him. Keep your eyes and ears tuned and observe everything in the moment.”

“You sound like a new-age guru.”

“And speaking of disarming a jerk like that kid, let’s see what you can show me about your firearms skills at the range today. As long as you’re interning and getting an inside look at the day-to-day operations of a police department, you’d might as well experience the full range of police firearm options. That’s something else you won’t learn in the classroom. And it might come in handy when you go on to your FBI training in Quantico.”

“Why do you assume that’s what I want to do with my life? I might decide to apply to law school instead”, I said.

“Because, well…. based on what little time we’ve spent together and the word from Agent Beckwith, I suspect you and the Bureau would be a smooth, natural fit. You seem to have a penchant for this line of work.” He smiled and added. “So, let’s get over to the outdoor range this afternoon and see if my intuition about you is correct. Let’s see how well my gun toting Virginia farmgirl handles our little arsenal, shall we?”

I laughed and said: “Quite honestly, I didn’t expect that firing weapons would be part of my job description this summer.”

“You wouldn’t be getting this generous opportunity in a big city police department. Those guys live their lives cowering in the shadow of their overpaid liability lawyer wonks. I have a lot more flexibility. Besides, I already cleared it with Beckwith. And he agreed that it would be a great idea.”

Two hours later, the Chief spun the combination dial and swung the firearms vault open to an impressive array of weapons. “Why so much firepower, Chief?” I asked.

“Because not all of these belong to the department. Dupree and I, and even Margie, keep some of our own personal weapons secured here.” He picked up several guns and handed them to me. “This is your standard issue Smith and Wesson .38 caliber handgun. A 45 caliber Colt. A 44 magnum and a .357 long barrel magnum. Take your pick. Ammo is on the upper shelf.” He reached over to the rifles stacked neatly in a tight vertical row. “These are what you should learn to shoot first however, especially out in the woods. This is the World War ll vintage M1, a .30 caliber semi-automatic rifle equipped with a high-powered scope. This is a Springfield lever action 30.06 rifle. These last two are still the guns of choice up here.”

The Chief picked up a Bonnie and Clyde styled artifact weapon and chuckled. “This is my favorite, though. As a matter of fact, I got it as a gift from Agent Beckwith and the Bureau while I was taking his classes at Quantico. This is the notorious Thompson .45 caliber sub machinegun. It doesn’t have much recoil but it does tend to spray up and to the right of the target when set on fully automatic. Nothing better than this in a tight-quarters shoot out. Except, of course, for that old reliable twelve gauge out in my trunk. I have disarmed many a drunken fool by stepping out of the cruiser and simply pumping and chambering a shell. That sound alone does wonders to sober people up fast, if you catch my meaning.”

“Which ones belong to Dupree?”, I asked.

“That 9mm. Smith and Wesson semi-automatic and that Browning handgun. He keeps his own personal 30.06 in the cruiser at all times. I let him keep it there and use it on and off duty because he takes the car home with him and does a lot of hunting with it on his days off.”

“Was that rifle in his car the day Olivia was killed?”

The Chief froze and stared at me quizzically. “And why in the world would you ask me a question like that?”

“Just curious, that’s all.”

“Aimless curiosity can kill both you and your cat. Don’t go there, grasshopper. Not unless you happen to uncover something solid as a rock. Do you hear me? Are you trying to tell me that your woman’s intuition is calling out to you, like some kind of siren song? Like some kind of police muse?”

“I try not to rely on so-called women’s intuition, Chief. Not with something as important as this.”

“Good. Because, to use an apt analogy, it’s like shooting at an angry bear. Real hunters know that sometimes you only have time to get away one shot. If your first bullet doesn’t find the mark and kill him, he’ll come back at you in a rush and a rage. And devour you before you have time to fire a second.”

I dug in deeper. “A few more Dupree questions please, Chief.”

Bradley wagged his head. “Jeez. Go ahead.”

“Where did he keep his rifle at the time. In his car rack?”

“No. He kept it in the cruiser trunk in those days.”

“What were you guys driving in 1965?”

Bradley smiled. “I can’t wait to see where you’re going with this. The town board had just bought two new cars for the police department. Both were 1965 Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptors. Both had the big V-8 engines. And yes, we’re still driving them both today. They’re easy to maintain, super reliable and gutsy fast.”

I asked: “So, the cruiser Dupree is driving today is the same exact one he was driving in November 1965?”

“Yes, it is.” Bradley stared at me. “Ok, grasshopper. Let’s have it. Why do you want to know all of this?”

“Could I hold off giving you an answer till after I have a chance to gather and arrange my thoughts?”

The Chief grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Sure. I’m looking forward to your imaginative response. But I’m warning you. It’d better be really good.”

We drove about a mile out of town to an old deserted mining pit backed up with a tall sandy berm. I fired every weapon he had. And outperformed the Chief at one hundred yards with both the M1 and the 30.06 semi-automatic. I brought the targets back to the office and pinned them up on the large cork bulletin board just inside the front door. At the bottom of the paper silhouettes, I had circled my name and signature in red ink. I also added a big yellow smiley face.

“Wow, you’re really slipping, Chief”, Dupree said with more than a little glee in his voice.

“No. I’m not slipping, Mister Dupree. This young woman just flat out bested me at my own game. I’m telling you; she can shoot the balls off a moth.”

I basked in the warm glow of the Chief’s compliment, especially since proffered in the presence of the Deputy.

Bradley stared at the paper target, grinned and said, “Did you know, grasshopper, that the smiley face was invented by an insurance company exec in Worcester, Mass? I lived there while I was in High School. There’s not too much to smile about, weather wise, in that old mad hatter town. We used to describe the endless rainy mists as ‘woostering’. Come to think of it, the weather kind of woosters up here too in the winter. Which is probably why the forests are so green and lush in the summer in this part of the world.”

I went to bed that night exhausted, smiling and contented. My dad had taught his Virginia farmgirl daughter well. It was a good day. No unforced errors.

JUST A FEW POIGNANT QUESTIONS

A week later, I walked into Alice’s Diner at exactly six A.M. and saw the Chief at his usual command post. He waved me back to his table.

“Sit down, grasshopper. I know we were supposed to do this a few days ago, but I had some last-minute details to work out with Reggie Saunders first. Eat a good breakfast. You’re going to need some sustained blood sugar today. Get out your list of questions for Allerton and meet Dupree in the office at 7:30. He’s driving you up to interview Isaiah this morning. His lawyer Saunders will be there. Not exactly what I had hoped for but we can work around that. Just stick to the format and inquiry lines we discussed and you’ll be fine. I don’t expect a lot of trouble from Saunders. He’s agreed to be there basically to provide moral support for Allerton who is a bit nervous, I’m told. Reggie’s not being paid for this. It seems he and Isaiah’s dad were close fishing buddies back in the day and he’s doing this gig pro bono.”

I asked nervously, “But, Chief, I’m not a lawyer. How do I handle any legal objections if he raises any?”

“I already went over our areas of inquiry with him. He’s Ok with all of it. Just stick to the script.”

“I’ll try.”

Tom Bradley grinned. “You’re not scared, are you, grasshopper?”

“Who me”? I said, my voice slipping up into a much higher register.

“Also, I want you to bring Allerton’s tape recorder and the duplicate audio cassette with you in case you need to refer to his last conversation with Olivia. They’ve been locked in the evidence cabinet for all these years in a plastic bag. I replaced the batteries the other day and it still works like a charm. Just so you know, neither Allerton nor Saunders has ever asked us to return any of this stuff to them when the case was dropped. I suspect Isaiah thought re-listening to Olivia’s voice was too upsetting for him to want it back. I can’t say I blame him. That tape is charged with raw emotions. The duplicate tape is marked “DUPL”. Leave the original in the locker.”

“Yes, Chief.”

“You’ve read the transcript of the taped conversations, correct?”

“Yes, I have.”

I would, of course, always follow the Chief’s orders. But to be brutally honest, I was scared to death to meet Allerton and his attorney. I had deluded myself into thinking that the Allerton interview would be inconsequential…. a de facto waste of time. I’d half expected Isaiah Allerton would be true to his simple-minded reputation and provide nothing but monosyllabic, non-sequitur type answers to my questions. I went up there anyway…. to face Allerton and Saunders…. along with the semi-hostile Dupree, who was eager to stand over my shoulder like a third-grade teacher ready to scold an errant, unruly child. I thought of what my father used to say to me before each of my college swim meets. “Lower expectations lead to sweeter victories…provided you play hard and never quit.” No problem there. My nervous expectations were as low as they go.

Dupree drove up the long dirt road towards the well-maintained two-hundred-year-old clapboard sided farmhouse. There was a sharp chill in the air that sunny morning and the temperature seemed much lower up there than it was down in the valley. Saunders was outside standing in the driveway waiting for us. The sweet smell of burning pine and cedar wood hovered low over the house in the still air.

Minutes later we were all gathered around the small, cluttered kitchen table. The cacophonous, raucous sounds of the singing canaries and finches… and the heat pouring into the room from the living room fireplace created an immediate aura and atmosphere of tension and claustrophobia…. long before a single word was ever spoken. I felt like I couldn’t catch my breath. I wanted to dive out the front door and run into the cool woods. My anxiety was mounting fast… until I pictured Olivia running out that same door in a hysterical panic. I reminded myself why I was there. And what I needed to do. And then, I was fine.

I put my notes face down on the table and looked at him, full face on. “Isaiah…. may I call you Isaiah?”

Allerton glanced nervously at Saunders, who gave his client a reassuring nod, and answered. “Sure… I guess so?”

I shook his hand. “Isaiah, my name is Darcy Farrell, I’m, a criminology student working for Chief Bradley for the summer. Has Mister Saunders explained to you why I’m speaking with you?”

“Yes, he did. I know who you are. Everyone in town knows who you are, Miss Farrell. And why you’re here.”

I glanced at Dupree who winked and smiled at me. I looked away, tried to force swallow the lump from the back of my throat…. and begin the interview. “Isaiah, before I ask you a few questions about Olivia’s death, I’d like you to listen to the audio cassette of your last conversation with her a day or two before Thanksgiving in 1965.” I put the tape in the player and said, “May I?”

Saunders reacted immediately. “Hold on, Miss Farrell. This wasn’t part of my arrangement with Tom Bradley. Why do you need to play the tape? I thought we were going to work from the printed transcript.”

I was suddenly swamped by the realization that I was entirely on my own, without the Chief. I was a flying Wallenda without a net. I took a deep breath and said, “Counselor, I’m just trying to speed things along, by helping to refresh Isaiah’s twenty-year old memory of his last encounter with Libby. I mean, it’s not like he hasn’t heard it many times before today, albeit probably quite some time ago. You don’t want him to fall into the age-old perjury trap with a prior inconsistent statement, do you?”

Saunders smiled broadly. “Well, well, Miss Farrell, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve had some significant legal training, especially regarding the classic exceptions to the hearsay rule.” After a fifteen second pause and a whispered huddle with his client, he continued. “Ok, you can play the tape for him but you will not be recording any of your questions or his answers. Agreed?”

“Agreed. May I continue?”

Saunders spoke quickly. “Oh, and one more point… which I presume you’ve already discussed with the Chief.”’

“What’s that?”

“You, Miss Farrell, are here this summer working in a graduate school criminology master’s program to revisit the Brahmin file, as a cold case project. Correct?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“So, it will be you, and you alone, asking the questions? Right?”

I shot a glance at Mister Dupree who just hunched his shoulders, grinned and looked at Saunders. He said, “Isaiah here and I have already talked about everything there is to talk about, counselor. Twenty years ago.” He patted Allerton on the back. “Isn’t that right Isaiah?”

Dupree looked directly at me but spoke for the benefit of Saunders. “To answer your concern, Mister Saunders, I doubt we’ll be covering any new ground today. This is strictly an academic exercise, it appears.”

I bristled and said, “That’s correct, Mister Saunders. What the Chief told you is right. I’ll be the only one asking questions.”

“Great. Let’s get going then. I’ve got to be in probate court later this afternoon.”

I turned on the tape player on and cycled through, without interruption, all three conversations, including the delayed sound of the gun shot. “Isaiah, you told Deputy Dupree you thought that shot sounded like it had been fired from a thirty ought six rifle, right?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You can distinguish a thirty ought six load and its firing from, let’s say, a .22 caliber or shotgun… is that right?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I can.”

“There had been a few deer hunters in this general area that day and the day before. You had heard them shooting, correct?”

“Yes, I did.”

“What time of day was that?”

“Early morning…both days.”

“How many years have you been deer hunting?”

“All my life. My Dad helped me get my first buck at age eleven.”

“Do you hunt up here with deer stands?”

“Yes ma’am, whenever I can.”

“What part of the day is the best time to be positioned at a deer stand …the best time to encounter a deer?”

“Anytime between sunrise and about eleven… maybe eleven thirty in the morning at the latest.”

“I believe you told Mister Dupree that you heard that single gunshot just after Libby ran off into the woods crying. That was a little after three in the afternoon, around three-fifteen or three thirty, correct”

“Yes.”

“And that was on Thanksgiving Day, right?”

“Yes. Libby and I cooked an early turkey dinner up here at the house.”

“That was a cold gray overcast day and it was already starting to get dark?”

“Yes Ma’am. It was getting late in the day.”

“Have you and your dad ever hunted in the late afternoon?”

“Not for whitetail deer.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just not a very good time of day to hunt. At least for white tail. Morning is best.”

I looked over at Dupree who was busy doodling on a legal pad with a felt pen. I glanced down at the yellow page and noticed several large circles filled with crosshairs… just like a gunsight on a scope. At the bottom of the page, I could see a very skillfully done profile sketch of my face. It was very unnerving and disconcerting. I paused, and took a deep breath. After collecting my thoughts, I continued. “Isaiah do you ever hunt deer with a mounted scope?”

“Not usually. My Dad and I always liked to give them a sporting chance. You know, to even the playing field a little.”

I asked, “Did you use a scope for any kind of hunting on any of your guns in 1965?”

“No Ma’am…didn’t even own one in those days.”

“Are you a good shot, Isaiah?”

“Well, pretty good, I guess. I made the finals of the Junior Olympic air rifle championship in my sophomore year in high school.”

“Did you go on to compete in NCAA events in college?”

Allerton put his head down and said, “No, I dropped out of college when my parents were killed.”

“I’m sorry. So, let’s get to the day you discovered the body. What if anything drew your attention away from the trail and towards the ravine where you found Libby?”

“I was tracking a buck I had seen earlier that morning, in the snow. When I heard movement in the brush coming from that ravine, I climbed the short ridge, looked down and saw the bear digging his claws into Libby’s body. His snout was covered in blood and he was grunting real loud.”

“That rifle shot you took. Where did you place it?”

“I shot into the air over the ridge.”

“Why not aim at the bear?”, I asked.

Isaiah seemed annoyed. “Because he was over her body. I didn’t want to risk hitting Libby.”

“When you fired that shot from your rifle, did the bear run away?

“Not exactly. He stood up on his hind legs and growled at me. It was a very big male…. biggest I’ve ever seen.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Was there any part of Libby’s body still in his mouth?”

“The Chief asked me that already.”

“I know. But I’m asking again. It’s been twenty years. Is your memory of that about the same or a little sharper now that you’ve had time to think about it?”

Isaiah fidgeted with a pencil. “There might have been something in his mouth. I’m just…. not sure.”

“Could you tell if the chest cavity had been torn open at that point?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Just then Dupree stood up, stretched and walked over to my chair. He leaned over and whispered in my ear. “That’s bullshit. He’s lying.”

I ignored the comment and returned to my planned questions. “Isaiah, we know you were carrying a hatchet. Were you also carrying a knife?”

“No, I wasn’t. If you’re asking me if I had my field dressing kit with me. No, I left that at home.”

“After the bear ran away, did you approach the body I presume?”

“Yes.”

“How close to it did you get?”

“Pretty close. About a couple feet.”

“Did you smell anything unusual.?”

“Well, yes, I smelled some body decomposition. You know… the kind of odor you get with a deer or moose that’s been lying dead in the woods for a while.”

“Anything else?”

Isaiah looked nervously at the deputy. “Yes, but I forgot to tell Deputy Dupree about it at the time.”

Dupree frowned and leaned forward in his chair, as Isaiah continued. “Something smelled rotten… really nasty. Something different from the smell of a dead carcass.”

“Like what, Isaiah?”

“Like the smell of old garbage. Like dead fish. You know, like the smell you get a few days after you’ve cooked fish.”

“Any idea why the body smelled like that?”

“No Ma’am. I figured Doc Brodsky would figure that out later.”

“Why didn’t you tell Mister Dupree or Chief Bradley about the smell?”

“I don’t know. It didn’t seem important then. Besides, no one ever asked me that.”

“Isaiah, have you ever hunted black bear?”

“Nope. I only hunt what I can properly dress, carry out and eat. I don’t like the taste of bear meat anyway. Too gamey. They taste like the animals they scavenge, you know, like dead beaver, possum …fish. Venison and moose meat taste much better because they only eat vegetation.”

“Isaiah, the Chief showed you a list of hunters who had valid hunting licenses and who we believe may have been within a couple of miles of your property on the day Libby ran into the woods. Do you remember him showing you the names on that list?”

“Yes, I remember.”

I handed him the list Bradley had prepared from the clerk’s licensing office records twenty years ago. “Tell me, do you now recognize any of those names? Did you know any of these men?”

Isaiah scanned the list of about a dozen names of local and out of state hunters. “Nope. I still don’t recognize any of the names.”

“How did Libby get up to the house on that day?”

“She usually drove to the head of trail that leads straight up to my house. I figured she hiked the rest of the way. Her car didn’t have four-wheel drive and had an extremely low undercarriage. You need something like what I drive, to get up and down that road.”

During the forty-eight hours she was missing did you have the opportunity to go to the trail head?”

“Yep, I passed by there almost every day.”

“During those forty-eight hours, did you ever see her car in the place where she usually left it when she came up here to visit you?”

“No. I never saw it again.”

“Isaiah were you aware that her car was found abandoned and damaged six months later in a ditch off to the side of another trail about two miles away from here?”

“No. I had no idea.”

“Deputy Dupree never told you that?”

“No. He didn’t. Never.”

“Did Mister Dupree ever ask you where Libby left her car the day she disappeared?”

Isaiah glanced at Dupree, lowered his head and said in almost a whisper. “No, he never asked me that.”

“How often did she hike into the woods alone or go up to the lake to paint.”

“Almost every day, as long as there was decent weather.”

“Where did she paint that portrait of you?”

“Right here at the house. Out there on the porch. Took about a week to finish it.”

At that point Saunders insisted that we take a ten-minute break. I used the bathroom in the house. Dupree relieved himself about twenty yards past the tree line in the back of the house.

When we reconvened, I said. “Ok, Let’s change gears. I want to ask you about Libby’s rape claim.”

Isaiah’s face flushed and he reflexively clenched his fist. “It wasn’t a claim. It really happened.”

“You’ve told the Chief and Mister Dupree that you had no idea who this man who attacked her might have been. Am I correct?”

“She refused to tell me. I don’t know who it was…. but she did.”

“But she’s not here to tell us. Did you get the impression that she knew her attacker well? That she knew his identity and his name?”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure she knew.”

“Did you ever see her, while she was living in Carrabassett, with any of the local men? Any other guy?”

“No. She spent almost all her time either painting up by the lake or with me here at the house. She didn’t date anyone but me.”

“Let me ask you about her paintings. This morning when I walked into your living room, I saw an oil still life painting of a large beautiful tree. It looks like a beech tree. Did she paint that too?”

“Yes, that old beauty is over a hundred years old. It’s still up near the top of the ridge. She and I used to go up there a lot.”

“That heart and the initials carved into the trunk, in that painting…. are they real? Do they really exist?”

“Oh, yes ma’am. They sure do.”

“Whose are they?”

“Those are our initials. Me and Libby.”

“But she painted the initials L.B. and I.A. Did you ask her what the B stood for?”

“Yes, she said it was for her middle name. Browne…a family name.”

“Isaiah, didn’t you ever ask her for her last name? Her real surname?”

“Yes, at first she said it was Morelli, but later on she’d always just say that it’s character that creates a person’s identity, not letters.”

“But weren’t you curious to know her last name?”

“She told me that she had been adopted by a family in Boston named Morelli and that one of her parents was a Mayflower descendant. Just like me.”

“That’s all you knew about her background?”

“Yes. That’s all I needed to know. She said I would get to know her completely by focusing on her life and her love for me. Not by some name typed by a clerk on a birth certificate.”

With that, Dupree rolled his eyes and mumbled something under his breath. It sounded something very much resembling: “Jesus, what a pair of space cadets.”

Saunders turned and hissed. “Knock it off, Dupree…. right now.”

Dupree winked, grinned and said, “Certainly, counselor. Whatever you say.”

I immediately turned and smiled at Dupree. I paused, then asked Isaiah. “Where was that painting of the tree being kept on the day Deputy Dupree enforced the search warrant of this house? On the day he and Chief Bradley played this tape in your presence?”

He pointed. “Right where it is now. Up on that wall by the front window.”

“In full and open view?”

“Yep.”

“Later, in the second interview in the police station, did Mister Dupree ask you about the initials in that painting? Did he ever ask you where that tree was?”

“Nope. He never said a word about it.”

“If I come back up here tomorrow, could you show me where that tree is?”

“Sure, it’s an easy hike. Only about a quarter mile from here. Just off the trail.”

I quickly scanned my notes. “One last question Isaiah, why were you carrying a hatchet at your waist on the day you found the body?”

“I had planned to go up to that tree later that morning.”

“Why? To do what, exactly?”

Allerton looked sheepishly at Saunders and said, “I don’t want to answer that question. I had my reasons.”

Saunders interjected. “Isaiah, you’ve done pretty well here today. If you don’t want to answer that one, you don’t have to.” He looked at me, smiled and said, “Well done counselor. Any other questions?”

“No, thank you, Mister Saunders. I appreciate your cooperation. Thank you, Isaiah, we’re done for today. I’ll see you tomorrow, if that’s ok with your attorney, to look at that beautiful beech tree.”

Saunders replied, “When you do go up there, Miss Farrell, examine the tree as you like. But there’ll no more questions of my client, please.”

“Of course.”

As I left the house and walked to my car, I knew exactly why Isaiah was bringing a hatchet to that tree. I hoped to get photographic proof of my theory the next day.

SET MY SOUL FREE

The next morning as I walked into Alice’s, Sally smiled and handed me a note. The Chief was out on an early morning call. Someone had broken into the poor box at Our Lady of Mercy church overnight. Bradley was interviewing the Pastor Father Arthur Kane and had left a message with Sally for me, to join him at the rectory.

The old white-haired priest opened the rectory’s front door just as I was beginning to knock. He greeted me with a bright warm smile and a deep southern accent. “Come in, my dear. The Chief and I are in the kitchen having some breakfast. Why don’t ya’ll sit down with us and eat something?”

That something smelled really good. “Thank you, Father. Don’t mind if I do.”

Bradley was seated at a large oak table, eating fried eggs, a thick slice of ham and grits. I laughed and asked. “Are those grits I see on your plate Mister Bradley? That’s something my mother made for us every morning on our Virginia farm.”

Father Kane pointed to a chair at the end of the table. “Sit down right here young lady, and watch this South Carolina low country boy show this Yankee fella how it’s done. How do you want your eggs?”

I looked at the Chief’s plate. “I’ll have exactly what the Chief is having, thank you.”

Bradley wiped his chin and offered. “Well grasshopper, it seems the good padre here has an interesting lead for you on the Brahmin case.”

I smiled and said, “Really? What does someone breaking into a church poor box have to do with a twenty-year-old killing? And, by the way, any idea who burglarized the church?”

“The break-in has absolutely nothing to do with the Brahmin case”, grinned Bradley. “The idiot who broke open that box in the church last night seems to have dropped his wallet and identification before he left with the money. I know the guy. A bit down on his luck. I’ll take care of it. But that’s not why I wanted you to talk with Father this morning. I’ll let him explain it to you.”

The old priest seemed to measure his words very cautiously… with precision. He spoke slowly. “Well, I had a conversation late yesterday with a young woman who has lived here in Carrabassett all her life. Her mother died very recently and she was unburdening herself of a promise, sort of a vow, she had made to her mom years ago. She told me something in the confessional which she has agreed to share directly with the Chief. But only with him, not through me. But suffice it to say, it has something to do with what she personally witnessed twenty years ago regarding Olivia Browne. You understand I can’t tell you any of the details myself. I’m bound by the priest-penitent seal of confidentiality and asked her to repeat everything directly to you. That’s all I can tell you for the moment.”

The Chief’s face bore the widest teeth filled grin I’ve ever seen. “So, grasshopper…. the second rule of police work is, you never know when or where leads can fall into your lap. This may turn out to be nothing…. or…who knows?”

I asked quickly. “How old is the woman, Father?”

“Twenty-nine.”

Bradley said. “That would mean she would have been nine years old at the time of Libby’s death. Old enough to establish competency. You know…. the legal ability to distinguish truth from falsehood. And therefore, the right and qualifications to testify under oath in our courts. Just in the event she was ever called by the prosecution.”

“When may I speak with her?”, I asked.

The Chief handed me a piece of scrap paper with the woman’s contact information. “Whenever you like. But make it sooner rather than later. We’re not going to get out over our skis till we hear what she has to say. Got it?”

“Understood.”

As we left the rectory, the Chief took me aside and said, “Go see this woman as soon as you can and…. whatever you do… don’t bring Dupree with you. I don’t want a repeat of his antics at your Allerton interview. You can handle this one on your own… and report back to me right away. Oh, and by the way, have you been checking in with Lyle Beckwith every day by phone?”

“Yes. My landlady lets me use her home phone downstairs every night in her den before I go to bed.”

“Good. Keep it up. That’s very important. He insisted that I stay on top of you about that.”

Later that day when I got back to my room, I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out at the paper Tom had given me. On it, he had printed the name… Veritas von Bronk, 58 Grand Union Street.

Well, Veritas... Here’s hoping you can live up to your wonderful name.

THE BREAK

The next morning, I knocked on the front door of a modest two-story colonial house. The front yard was ablaze with color …. pink Dogwood in bloom, lilac and bright orange tiger lilies. A very pretty woman, who looked about my age, answered the door. “Hi there. Are you that criminology student from Boston? The one helping out Chief Bradley for the summer?”

“Yes, Miss von Bronk. That’s me. Darcy Farrell’s my name. News travels really fast in this town.”

“It’s a small town, Darcy. Please call me Veritas. Or Vera as most folks do around here. I suppose you’ve talked to Father Kane?”

“Yes. The Chief and I both did. Am I correct in saying that you’re willing to tell me what you told him privately? Something about witnessing an event that may be related to the death of Olivia Browne?”

Vera quickly looked up and down the street. She took my arm and led me through the doorway. “Please come inside.”

Vera ushered me into a small den at the rear of the house. Next to the food stained and worn upholstered recliner was an ashtray stand with a single rosewood pipe. I asked, “Do you live here with anyone, Vera?”

She looked down at the pipe and said, “No. My parents are both gone. My Dad died of lung cancer five years ago.” She picked up and fingered the pipe. She looked at me and said, “I just can’t seem to get rid of some of his things. My Mom passed a few months ago. No…. I live alone now. I’m not married. I have no other family….no siblings or related blood kin in town.”

“Vera…. Father Kane tells me you’re anxious to tell us something. Let me start by asking you this. If what you witnessed twenty years ago was important enough to see a priest about, why did you wait this long to come forward?”

Vera’s eyes suddenly began to tear up. “My mother made me promise not to tell anyone about what she and I saw.”

“But you’re willing to tell us now, correct?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Why?”

“I have to finish what I started out to do. My conscience has been killing me, especially since Mom died.”

“Why don’t you tell me in your own words exactly what it is you remember seeing?”

Vera sat down in her father’s recliner and began to speak. “One night before she was killed, my mom and I saw her… the Brahmin girl… Olivia Browne. She was crying, trying to climb out of the back seat of a police car. I was only nine years old at the time but I remember how scared I was for her. She jumped out of the back of the car screaming hysterically. This happened about two or three months after I first noticed her in town.”

My heart began to race. “Was the car one of ours? Carrabassett Police Department?”

“It was white with black lettering, like the Chief’s. But I couldn’t see the logo …. I couldn’t make out the letters or numbers on the side. It was night time, very dark and there was no streetlight in the back of that big parking lot.”

“Was there a cop inside that cruiser?”

“I don’t know. I heard a man’s voice yelling really loud… fighting with her, but I never saw his face. My mother dragged me away to our car really fast.”

“Where and exactly when did this happen?”

“It was a little after nine o’clock at night. In that big rear parking lot behind the drug store. It had just closed up for the night. My Mom drove us there to fill a prescription. We were walking back to our car when I heard Olivia scream.”

“Can you give me a date? Can you associate this incident with anything going on at the time? A birthday? Any special sporting events? A holiday?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

“What time of year? Was it cold or warm that evening in the parking lot?”

“Definitely cool.”

“Were there leaves on the trees?” I looked out into the rear yard. “Were any of your favorite flowers in bloom?”

“Yes, now that you mention it, I remember that my mom’s white asters were in bloom, back in our rock garden, in the rear yard.”

“Good … late summer, I think.”

“What else did you notice?”

Vera’s eyes again wandered to the window, fixed with a blank stare as though reliving the moment. “It was really dark back there behind the store. But I saw the rear door of the cruiser swing open…. very sudden like. Olivia flew out of the cruiser and started to run. She was stumbling and tripping trying to get away. I remember she was crying and pulling up her underwear while she was trying to run. They were down around her knees.”

“Did either Libby or the cop, or whoever was in that car, see you?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Did your mom also see and hear what you saw and heard?”

“Yes, she told me that she did.”

“But she never reported it?”

“No. She made me promise to say nothing to anyone.” Vera started to cry softly. “She made me swear with my hand on the family bible… right here in this room.”

“Why would she do something like that?”

“I think she knew who was in that car with Libby and was scared to death of him.”

“So, why exactly are you coming forward now. To what end? What are you hoping to accomplish?”

Vera suddenly stood, lowered her voice and said, “My swearing an oath to God… basically to protect that man… it was morally wrong. It was a sin in the eyes of God. Now that my mom’s recently gone to her reward, I feel like I’ve kept that promise long enough… in fact, far too long. When I heard that you were working on the Brahmin case after all these years, I knew I had to go to Father Kane… and especially you. I don’t know how any of this will end up, but I had to clear my conscience by making right what I did wrong twenty years ago.”

“Do you have any idea, any suspicion at all, as to who that man was, Vera?”

“No. And I don’t want to know.”

“Why not?”

“Because for all I know, the man who killed Olivia Browne was the same man in that cruiser. A killer who may still be living in this town.”

“Did you ever have an opportunity to speak with Olivia? About anything…. while she was living here in Carrabassett?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact… I did.”

I was momentarily surprised. “You did? You were nine years old at the time, correct?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Did you ever tell Libby what you saw that night?”

“No. I kept my promise to my mom … right up until now.”

“So, when did you and Olivia have this conversation?”

“About a month after I saw her run from that car.”

“Tell me about it, please.”

“I was never alone with her and we never discussed the event. Actually, it was my mother who spoke with her… always in my presence. I said very little.”

Just then, Vera took my hand and said, “Come with me please.” She led me to her bedroom, stood at the door and silently pointed to the far wall. There, awash in the bright morning light filtering through the curtains was the most stunning color filled portrait of a young girl I had ever seen.

I gasped. “Is that you as a nine-year old?”

“Yes. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Did your mother know about this?”

“Yes, of course. My Mom and Libby had several conversations… but only about this portrait. I think my mom felt guilty about not going to the Chief. And, at the same time, she didn’t want to hurt her feelings or turn down the opportunity when Olivia offered to paint my portrait.”

After a long, awkward silence. Vera said. “My mother and Olivia met three or four times while she was doing the portrait but I never heard either of them ever mention the incident. The last words I ever heard my mom say to her were: ‘Olivia, if you ever need my help for anything, I beg you to call me’.”

“How did you interpret that?”

“I had a strong suspicion that Olivia was aware that my mom knew that she had been attacked in that cruiser.”

“Did your mom pay her for the painting?”

“Olivia didn’t want to charge her. But, yes, she told me she gave her one hundred dollars. That was a lot of money back then, money that we really couldn’t afford at the time.”

I asked finally. “The man’s voice that you heard. Did it sound old, young, distinctive, accented in any way?”

“I really can’t say for sure. I didn’t make out the words, only the tone of the voice. I kind of remember it sounding a bit on the younger side…. and definitely angry… what I would call ugly angry.” She looked down, and away from me. “And very scary.”

“What else do you remember?” I asked.

“The whole incident was over in seconds. It all happened while my mom was dragging me away towards the front of the lot, back to our car.”

I looked searchingly into Vera’s face and said, “I have to ask you this question. Be perfectly honest with me. Did the voice sound like it could have been the Chief’s?”

“Definitely not. I know his voice.”

“Deputy Dupree’s?”

“That I really can’t say for sure. I’ve never heard him speak that much. But I don’t think so.”

I handed her one of the Chief’s business cards and said, “Vera if you think of anything else, please call us right away.”

As I got up to leave, a saw that a knotted brow had framed Vera’s face. She said, “Do you think you’ll find the killer? Do you think he’s still here… one of us folks… here in Carrabassett?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got a lot more work to do. The fact is, the odds against solving any cold case…. and this one is really cold… are very long.”

An hour later I sat in the Chief’s office waiting for him to respond to my briefing. He just stared at me in silence. Finally, he spoke. “Well, that’s certainly an interesting and surprising development, grasshopper. Do you believe her story?”

“You mean do I think she was lying or exaggerating? No, I don’t. And yes, woman’s intuition is at play here…. and I’m going with it. She’s telling the truth for sure.”

Bradley finally voiced what he was quietly thinking. His face was stern and knowing. “Go ahead, ask me the question.”

“What question?”

“Don’t be coy with me, damn it. Ask me the question any good cop would ask under these circumstances.”

My brain formed the right words but, in an instant, looking at Tom’s face, I chickened out. Instead, I asked, “Assuming Vera saw one of our two town cruisers that night, who else besides you and Dupree had access or permission to use either one of them that summer?”

Bradley raised his voice. “That should have been your third question, not your first. I’ll answer the proper question, the one you absolutely should have asked me first… but didn’t. I’m not letting you off the hook. Ask me the damn question. Now.”

I lowered my head, avoided his eyes and asked, meekly. “Chief was that you in that cruiser?”

He spoke quickly. “See? That wasn’t so tough, was it? And…. no… that wasn’t me in that car. You already know who the other obvious choice might have been, and I’ll figure a way to deal with him later. But there’s a third possibility. And, by the way, whenever you ask that kind of question…. never look away. Study the eyes, the lips, the forehead, the hands and shoulders… feet shuffling…. every God-damned bit of body language. Got it?”

“Yes, Chief. Who is the other possible choice?”

“Do you remember me telling you that Olivia ran her car into the rear of my cruiser on her first day in town?’

“Yes, I recall that.”

“Well, I’ll have to pull my vehicle service records, but I recollect that my car was out of commission for about three or four days late that summer for that rear bumper and trunk repair. I delayed getting it fixed for too long. It was in the custody of Mike Allen, my mechanic. He had a young man working for him around that time, on a temporary basis. The son of his good friend. Either one of them could have taken the car out, on the remote chance that it needed a test drive. That kind of repair wouldn’t normally need a road test. However, based on the time of day of the incident and my long-term familiarity with Mike’s solid character, I would tend to rule him out right away. That leaves that kid. I can still picture him. I’d have to say that he fit the profile of a good suspect. He looked like every young future felon I’d ever met. And God only knows where the hell he is right now. Probably in jail somewhere.”

“So now what?”, I asked.

“Now? Well, you go out and talk with Mike Allen. He’s retired and getting on in years but he’s still sharp as a tack. He sold the car repair business and gas station but I know he’s always kept good records. Ask him to check for that kid’s name and last known address. Also, check if he has any record as to when exactly that repair was made. Get the exact dates. We’re going to do this methodically … and by the book, grasshopper. Especially if you’re even considering…. as I suspect you are… getting ready to fire your silver bullet at that raging bear we discussed. Now… give me your fourth, and probably your most loaded question….”

“OK…. I give up,” I said.

Bradley said. “The answer to your other unasked question is… yes, Dupree had been working for me only about four or five months at the time. And, yes, the Town Board of Selectmen had made sure that he had his own individual cruiser…. for both official and private personal use at that time. All part of his employment contract.”

Tom grew quiet for a long moment then said, “I wish Vera had given us a tighter time frame for that incident. Go back to her and see if you can trigger her memory a little better. Maybe by using school and church calendars, summer sports league schedules, birthday parties as a reference point. Got it?”

“Got it.”

The next morning at six AM sharp, as the Chief and I were having breakfast at Alice’s, an older, balding man strode into the diner, spied us in the back and made a spritely beeline to Tom. “Well good morning, Chief. Word on the street is you’re looking for me.”

Tom stood and took his hand. “I was… till this moment, Mike.”

“Well, look no further. Here I am. As they say…. the mountain has come to Mohamed.”

Bradley laughed. “As who says? No one around here says things like that, Mike”.

“You know…. you’re not the only literate man here in Carrabassett, Tommy Bradley.”

Tom smiled. “Mike Allen, say hello to my bright assistant Darcy Farrell. She was just getting ready to drive out to see you at home. Thanks for saving the taxpayers the cost of fuel.”

“Pleased to be of service, Chief.” Mike thrust his hand towards me. “Well, howdy there, Miss Farrell. It appears they’re making cops a lot younger these days.”

I smiled. “Oh, I’m not a cop, Mister Allen, just a graduate student in Boston, interning with the Chief.”

The Chief pulled over a chair and said, “Sit down, Mike, and have a cup of coffee on me.”

“I thought we civilians were supposed to be the ones buying coffee for you guys.”

Tom nodded at me. “Go ahead Darcy. You’d might as well capitalize on the opportunity. You’re making it look real easy, grasshopper”, he grinned.

I jumped right into the water with both feet. “Mister Allen, would you still happen to have your gas station business records from 1965?”

“You mean the year that girl was killed up there in the woods?”

“Boy, you have some memory… and some information pipeline, sir. Yes, the Olivia Browne homicide.”

“I figured that’s what this was all about. What would you like to know?”

“That young man who was working for you that summer, can you dig out his name for me?”

“Don’t have to.” He pointed to his head. “It’s right here. That pimple faced kid’s name was Charlie Glover. I tried to help him and his dad out but he disappeared suddenly after just a couple months on the job. I’m pretty sure he left with some cash from my register too. It was plain to see from the moment he pumped his first gallon of gas… that he was up to no good. I figured he’d wind up in big trouble someday.”

I was suddenly beginning to experience the much-touted thrill of closing in on an elusive suspect. The kind of adrenaline high many self-acclaimed detectives write about in their dime store, cops and robbers’ novels.

“Trouble? You mean with the law? Do you know if he’s in jail somewhere?”, I asked.

“Nope. The kid is dead, Miss Farrell. Killed in Portland a few years back. Shot by an off-duty cop while robbing a gas station. An ironic swan song for the little jerk, huh? I heard about it a few months ago from a member of his family.”

My spirits, which had soared high as a kite only moments before, had suddenly crashed to the ground. I looked over at Tom. “That’s too bad…. I guess,” I said.

Bradley shrugged his shoulders. “C’est la guerre”, he said.

I stared at the Chief and said, “You know, I just read about a new test involving genetic DNA. If you had been able to preserve Olivia’s fetus back then we might still have been able to compare the baby’s DNA with that of Mister Glover. Assuming someone had saved something like his hairbrush…. or the like.”

Bradley said, “Police all around the country have been waiting for this kind of testing breakthrough for a long time. In fact, I predicted this twenty years ago. I said then that once the fetal tissue was destroyed, we would probably never know who the father of Olivia’s child, and perhaps her killer, was.”

Mike Allen scratched his head. “Did that no-count kid fool around with that Brahmin Girl?”

“Well, based on what you just told us, we’ll never know.” Bradley answered.

“So, now what do I do?” I asked.

Tom shrugged. “You pick up your dashed hopes. You brush them off and keep on keeping on.”

ARCHIVES

Later that day I stopped at the public library and introduced myself to the chief clerk Mrs. Cavanaugh, a short stout woman with thick reading glasses and the classic librarian silver bun bunched atop her head. She shook my hand firmly and gave me a warm greeting. “Well, Darcy, I was wondering when I would finally get a chance to meet you. What can I get for you?”

I asked, “I’d like to know if you have a local newspaper here in Carrabassett.”

She laughed aloud. “Oh… you mean way out here in the sticks?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cavanaugh…. I didn’t mean to imply…”

She smiled and said, “Oh, that’s alright, dear. Yes, indeed. It’s called The Original Irregular. Kinda’ irregular sounding, isn’t it? The big difference is that… unlike your Boston Globe, we don’t put opinion or town gossip on the news pages.”

I smiled to myself. “That’s the name of the paper?” I asked.

“Yep…. would you like to see this week’s copy?”

“Actually, I was hoping you’d have archives of the paper from the year 1965.”

“Oh, that’s right …you’re working on the Brahmin Girl murder.” She smiled knowingly.

Wow, it’s a good thing I’ve been well behaved since I’ve been up here. There’s no such thing as a secret in this town.

Minutes later I was scanning the social and gossip pages of the Original Irregular for the month of November 1965. Only ten minutes into my search I found what I was looking for. There on page 20 of the town’s event calendar was a story and photo of none other than Charles Paulos… reporting that on November 24, the day before Thanksgiving, he had received a citizen of the year award from the local Chamber of Commerce at a local Elks dinner given in his honor.

I made a photo copy of the page and shoved it in my pocket.

BETTER LATE THAN NEVER

For some reason, the prospect of interviewing Doc Brodsky frightened the hell out of me…. even more than my experience with Attorney Saunders. By all accounts, he was a sweet, gentle, mind mannered old man. But the thought of questioning this beloved physician about his mistakes…. and…. there was no way to get around it…. his drinking problem…. kept me up the entire night before my interview with him.

Mrs. Brodsky opened the door with a sweet, bright smile that lit up her craggy- lined face. Her bright blue eyes beckoned, “Come in, Miss Farrell. The Chief has told us all about you. How exciting it must be for you… to be doing real police work for the entire summer. You must be thrilled.”

“Thank you, Ma’am. Yes. It’s a great opportunity. And an honor to finally meet you and your husband.”

As she escorted me down the long hall to the small den at the rear of the house, Sarah Brodsky said. “Try to keep your voice up, dear. Harold has become a little hard of hearing. Especially in his left ear. As I’m sure the Chief has told you …he suffers from a little dementia too, but you happened to catch him on a good day. He’s pretty alert, and anxious to meet you.”

I walked into a small sunlit room. A diminutive, frail looking, white-haired man was sitting, eyes closed, in a recliner. A book was opened and propped up against his chest. Despite the warm weather, his lap was covered in a thick colorful afghan. He looked up, removed his wire rimmed glasses, smiled and spoke in a surprisingly strong voice. “Please come in and sit here next to me, Miss Farrell. I’ve been expecting you. Tom Bradley says you have some questions for me about the Brahmin girl. Oh, I keep forgetting… excuse me… she does have a name… Olivia Browne.”

In spite of his gaunt, fragile appearance, I was impressed immediately with the brightness and clarity of his large brown eyes and the resonant timbre of his voice. I studied him for a long moment then said, “It’s a real pleasure, Doctor, I’ve heard and read so much about you.”

Doctor Brodsky laughed. “Oh, so you’ve read about me? You mean on those wanted posters down at the post office?”

I smiled and answered. “No, excuse me. I meant to say I’ve read your detailed autopsy reports in the file.”

His smile faded. “Oh, those. Not my best work, I’m afraid.”

I pulled my notes out of my briefcase, looked at my first few questions but then put them face down on the coffee table in front of me…. pushing them away.

Come on, Darcy. You know this stuff cold… inside and out. Time to walk the wire without a net. Enough of the small talk. Jump in and get it done.

I stepped out of the bright moment and plunged right into the clouded past. “If I may get right to it, Doctor…. did you know Olivia before her death? Had you ever actually spoken to her?”

“Oh, yes, indeed. Can’t say that I really knew her. I suspect no one really knew her. That is, except for the Allerton boy. But yes, I did talk with her on one occasion.”

“Really? When was that?”

“About a week before she was killed.”

“Please tell me about it.”

“Well, it was a little strange. The conversation, that is.”

“How so?”

“I was walking out of my office late one night when she suddenly approached me. It was out near the street, in the dark. I was startled, till I could see who it was. I could tell she’d been crying. I asked her what was wrong. There was clear tension and a hint of worry in her voice. She said, ‘Could I ask you a question Doctor… in confidence?’ I stared at her for a minute, then said. ‘Why don’t we do this proper like and talk tomorrow morning in my office?’ She said, ‘Please, just one question. I’ll only take a moment of your time.’ I didn’t know exactly how to react.”

“What did you do?”

“Well, I agreed. I normally wouldn’t discuss what I anticipated to be a medical question with a non-patient in that setting… but she acted like she was in some kind of trouble. And sure enough, she was.”

At that moment Doc Brodsky looked at his wife who was still standing at the door and gently asked, “Do you mind dear? Darcy and I will need some privacy.”

She said, “Of course, I understand completely, Harold. I’ll get you both some iced tea.” She left the room, closing the door.

“What kind of trouble?”, I asked quickly.

“She said she thought she might be pregnant and that she needed some advice.”

“Did she say what kind of advice?”

“Well, naturally I just assumed she wanted the name of a doctor who would perform an abortion, which was still illegal in Maine except for therapeutic reasons in 1965.”

“Is that really what she wanted?”

“No… not at all. To my surprise she wanted to know if there was some kind of charitable group or government agency somewhere in the state of Maine who would help her arrange for the birth and adoption of her baby.”

“Did you give her that information?”

“Of course. I had done it several times before. I knew some people, a couple of local pastors who would help her have the child and put it up for adoption.”

“I don’t suppose she told you how she became pregnant or who the father was, did she?”

“No. She didn’t. And I didn’t ask.”

“Did you ever tell the Chief or Dupree about Olivia’s nighttime visit?”

“Of course not. She spoke to me on the condition of confidentiality, which I honored.” He lowered his head and said, “As it turns out, my keeping the lid on this didn’t adversely affect the homicide investigation.”

I momentarily bristled and asked, “That’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it, Doctor?”

Brodsky sat straight up in his recliner and appeared annoyed. After a long period of uncomfortable silence, he looked hard at me and said slowly: “No, my dear. It’s not a matter of opinion. It’s a matter of conscience and medical ethics. I had no choice but to keep that confidence.”

I immediately regretted my comment. “Sorry, Doctor. You’re right.” I said sheepishly.

Doc lowered his voice and continued. “Speaking of conscience and ethics, I need to get something off my chest. I was hoping Tom would be here with you today, Darcy. I need to confess something that’s been slowly tearing and eating at me for the past twenty years. It concerns the Brahmin girl.”

I started to stammer nervously and glanced over at the door to the den. “Wouldn’t you rather… uh… speak…. directly to Chief Bradley, Doctor?”

“I’m ninety-three years old, my dear. Every minute of time I may have left in this life is a precious luxury I can no longer afford to waste. I need to settle up, to make things right. Time is not, has never been, on my side .”

“I don’t understand.”

“My wife didn’t tell you this, but I have only weeks, maybe a couple months left before cancer blows the final whistle on me. I’ve lived a long productive life. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished… in spite of that big ugly monkey on my back. But there’s something else in my past …. of which I am even more greatly ashamed.”

My heart skipped a beat. I instantly debated whether to allow Doc to open this looming can of worms in front of a novice like me.

I thought, I need to hold this off till I can get the Chief to deal with what Doc is about to tell me. I’m not ready… or emotionally equipped for this. Jesus, this is so uncomfortable.

I hesitated and tried again, “Please let me call the Chief and ask him to come over here and join us.”

Doc’s face suddenly grew very pale. He asked. “Young lady, do you intend to go into law enforcement when you get your graduate degree?”

“Yes sir, I do.”

“Well then... don’t run away from this moment… don’t be afraid of what I’m about to tell you. If I can muster the courage to deal with it … so can you. As would any good investigator. The Chief can always talk to me later if he likes, when I can apologize to him privately, face to face. If you’re handling the Brahmin case, Darcy, then you need to hear this. All of it.”

I averted eye contact… finally said. “Please go on.”

Doc’s eyes started to well up as he continued. “I’m sure you’ve heard the controversy about my decision to cremate the girl’s body and organs?”

“Yes, of course. A misunderstanding on the part of the Deputy, right?”

Doc lowered his head and let out an almost imperceptible moan. “No... there was no misunderstanding, Miss Farrell. Dupree threatened to hurt me if I didn’t immediately dispose of the body.”

I found myself emitting an audible gasp and said, “Threatened? How?”

Brodsky continued, “He said that if I didn’t cremate the body and the fetus he would go to the Board of Selectmen and tell them that, because of my chronic drinking problem, I had made serious errors in judgment and demonstrated gross incompetence in at least a dozen criminal cases. He actually threw the stack of folders on my desk and rattled off the names of the defendants…. and the victims. I recognized most of the names immediately. He was threatening to wreak havoc not only with my career and my practice but the justice system itself… even the victims of the crimes in which I helped get convictions.”

“But is any of that true? The incompetence charge?”

“Yes, I’m sorry to say. All of it was alcohol related. I’d made a few serious mistakes along the way. Probably not in that many cases in total… but enough for him to make real trouble for myself.”

“How else did he threaten you?”

“There was more. He had personally pulled me over on three or four occasions when I was driving impaired… none of which he ever reported to the Chief. Looking back on it all, I’m convinced he’d tailed me for months, waiting for multiple opportunities to build a case against me regarding my drinking problem. I didn’t disappoint him. He had me over a barrel. He was, in effect, blackmailing me.”

“But couldn’t you have fought him? He was on the job only a few months at the time. The Chief would have backed you up. Don’t you think?”

“Maybe. But Dupree had me by the proverbial short hair. He had done his homework well. Truth is, I needed the job. My wife was very sick at the time and I desperately needed the money. No one was going to hire an out of work coroner with a chronic alcohol problem. No one was going to help me re-establish my own medical practice in this or any other town. Not at age seventy-two. Not to mention the trouble I could expect from the State Medical Society and my medical liability carrier.”

I answered, “But even if you hadn’t cremated the fetal tissue and the rest of the body, Chief Bradley had no other murder suspects at the time … or anyone in mind for a possible paternity testing. So, no harm, no foul… right?”

“No, Darcy. It’s not that simple. There’s more. There was one other thing I did which was inexcusable.”

I dreaded asking. “What could be so inexcusable?”

I noticed Doc’s hands suddenly begin to tremble. He raised them to his face, covered his eyes and said, “I’d told Tom that I thought I noticed the odor of rotted fish all over the girl’s clothing.”

I suddenly remembered what Allerton had told me in my interview with him. “The same exact fish smell Isaiah Allerton had talked about?”, I rambled out loud.

“I never reported to Tom that I’d actually tested the residue on the clothes. That I’d found microscopic particles of fish scales, skin and flesh all over the girl’s hair, jacket and jeans. Dupree had specifically mentioned the clothes as part of his threat. He’d told me to be sure to burn the clothing also and never discuss the issue with anyone again. He warned me to forget about all of it…. and to keep it all out of my autopsy report.”

Suddenly the thought flashed across my brain like a bright streak of lightening. It triggered something I had researched in the town library about hunting black bear in the woods of Maine. I asked excitedly, “Are you saying someone covered her body with bear bait…you know, the kind hunters use as a scent lure?”

“You’re a quick study, Miss Farrell. I’m duly impressed. That’s precisely what I had also assumed. But I had suppressed that information in my reports to the Chief for fear of losing my job.”

After a pause of a few long moments, Doc exhaled a long, low moan. His face had turned ashen. “There I’ve said it. I can go to my grave with a hell of a lot more peace in my soul than I’ve enjoyed at any time over the past twenty years.”

“Oh, my God”, I said. “Dupree bear-baited her body? He’s involved in her death?”

“I don’t know that for sure. If he’s not complicit in the girl’s murder then he probably knows who is. There’s no doubt about it. Someone covered her in bear bait. I can only guess who that person may be. But I think whoever did that…. had a direct hand in the killing of Olivia Browne. He knew exactly what he was doing. It was very clever, actually.”

I hypothesized out loud: “And the obvious implication is that someone either killed her first outright, or disabled her to the point that she had become an enticing, unconscious attraction… a piece of fresh carrion…. for a scavenging bear. Excuse the pun, but it sounds like the goal was to throw the Chief’s investigation off the scent trail. Is that what you’re thinking?”

Doc smiled faintly. “You’re going to be a good investigator, Darcy…. well on your way I’d say. But let’s be honest here. It was I who was complicit in throwing Tom off the proper trail. I ruined any hope of pursuing that line of inquiry by fudging … falsifying… my autopsy report. And by doing that, I think I destroyed any real possibility of ever finding her killer.”

“This is not over,” I said, instinctively.

Doc Brodsky suddenly took my hand and squeezed it with surprising strength. He pulled me towards him. “That’s right. Go get him, Darcy.” he said. “But, please, for God’s sake… don’t do it alone.”

As I left Doc’s house, Dupree was waiting for me near the street, leaning up against his cruiser. “Learn anything interesting, Miss Farrell?”

“Yes, actually. More than you care to know.” I was steamed and it showed.

His dark eyes were concealed behind a pair of dark gray shooters… but I could feel him glaring at me. “A piece of free advice, Missy. Doc is very old, senile, alcoholic and, oh yeah…. on his last legs…. poor guy. I would hate to see you chasing down phantom leads provided by someone as unreliable and confused as him. Are you registering what I’m saying?”

“Loud and clear.” I barked, in reply.

He smiled. “Good girl. So how is your summer adventure going so far? Having fun yet, I hope?”

I wanted to scream. Wanted to shout that he was next on my interview target list but I held my tongue. At least until I could brief Tom on my session with Doc Brodsky. “Duly noted, Mister Dupree. I want to thank you.”

“Really? For what?”

“For letting me get to know exactly who….and what…. you really are. It’s been very educational. You’ve taught me lessons I could never have learned in a stuffy classroom.”

Dupree just grinned and said, “Happy to be of service…. grasshopper. See ya’ back at the barn.” He turned and climbed back into his cruiser.

When I walked into the station, Margie handed me a note. The Chief had driven to Farmington on official police business and would see me as soon as he got back later that night. Meanwhile I decided to follow up with Allerton on that old American beech tree with the carved heart and initials. I wanted to take a close look at it to satisfy my hunch as to why Isaiah was carrying a hatchet the day he found Olivia’s body.

THE HEART OF THE MATTER

It was late. Already three in the afternoon… but it was warm and sunny enough for a hike in the woods. This time I was ready. I had good rugged mountain boots, a long-sleeved shirt, bug spray and a cowbell hanging from a lanyard around my neck. But foolishly, I took no water or trail food with me. Yet one more rookie mistake… as it turns out.

When I got up to Isaiah’s house, I knocked at the door, searched the grounds, but there was no sign of him anywhere. I remembered what he said about the tree location and the directions he gave me when he called back the day after the interview. He’d told me to stick to the main trail… walk in the opposite direction of the waterfall. Proceed for about a half mile until I came to a pile of large boulders about thirty yards off to the right. I had hoped to have Isaiah with me as a guide, but I knew I could find it.

What the hell. There’s no reason why I can’t do this on my own, I thought.

I picked up the main trail behind Isaiah’s property and, this time, I made a right instead of a left, heading east. After a couple hundred yards of steep rocky incline, the ground leveled off and the climb became much easier. Sure enough, just as he had described, I spotted the formation of boulders rising about forty feet off the ground. And there, behind them, stood one of the most stately, magnificent trees I had ever seen. It soared nearly eighty feet tall, reaching up almost to the top of the forest canopy. Its slender leaves and slick, smooth gray trunk bark were unique and stood out from among the countless other tree species with their rough, shedding, wrinkled skins. A classic beech tree. Nature’s perfect, pristine blackboard, I thought… perfect for carving a lasting memorial to young love.

As I slowly circled the base of the tree, I came upon it, on the side facing away from the trail. Obviously, this had been intended by the lovers to be unseen… hidden from the prying eyes of a passing hiker or hunter. A secret point of rendezvous.

It stood at shoulder height. A well-proportioned heart with the precision carved initials L.B. And just beneath them… the letters I.A. It was a lovely sight, were it not for the despoliation of its symmetrical beauty …by dozens of deep, ragged hack marks slicing through it. This, clearly, was the product of pent-up rage inflicted by an angry lover… wielding a sharp bladed object. Twenty years had somehow failed to mitigate the high drama and import of the event. I could almost hear the thumps. Isaiah slamming his hatchet blade into the tender bark, in his frenzied loss. Mother nature had done little to heal the insult to this magnificent tree.

And so, my hunch proved correct. I regretted not having had my camera with me.

As I stood there studying the tree, I thought, Allerton did what any young man in his situation might have done under the circumstances. His pristine love affair had been defiled by the rape of an unknown monster and he needed to vent his anger…to destroy this painful reminder of it all.

As I stared at the pale lonely heart, I thought of the tiny bird hearts preserved in formaldehyde along Isaiah’s kitchen shelf. Suddenly, another image, another sharp, pointed edge of intuition rose and poked at me from the depths of my brain.

Is it even remotely possible? I thought.

Again, I circled the base of the tree quickly… looking for some sign, some indication that the ground had ever been disturbed. My thoughts seemed to take shape on their own. They carried me away… racing under their own power and volition.

Don’t be a fool, Darcy. It’s been a full, long twenty years of water erosion, heat and freezing cold. And the endless, grinding cycle of the ground heaving up and down from the freezing and thawing of ice and snow.

After twenty minutes, as I was about to abandon my momentary fantasy, I saw it. Lying, large as life, wedged and grounded between two large tap roots near the surface. A glint of the sun bouncing off a foreign object caught my eye in the late, low afternoon sun. A metal lid! I grabbed a sharp stick, poked at the ground, broke it, grabbed another. I kept probing and digging till the object was half exposed to the light of day. I could see it clearly now. A large glass mason jar with a rusted metal screw cap. I pried the rest of the glass container from the stingy jaws of the rocky soil… held it up to the sunlight… and just stared at it, in disbelief.

There it was. The murky, brown, amorphous shape of a human heart immersed in a glass jar filled with fluid. I leaned in for a closer look…. all four of its anatomical lifelines had been neatly severed.

THE FINAL ACT OF ATONEMENT

Tom Bradley and I huddled over the cold, gray autopsy table where Doc Brodsky gently emptied the contents of the mason jar onto a stainless-steel tray. Doc’s breathing was heavy and labored, his face pale and sallow. It was midnight. He had insisted on immediately examining what I had found in the woods. He had said, when the Chief wrapped him in a warm blanket and drove him to the morgue, that it would be his final contribution towards justice and “his final act of atonement”.

“No question. A female human heart.”, Doc proclaimed.

“Female?” I asked.

“Yes, typically about two thirds the size of an adult male heart.”

“Why hasn’t it decomposed after all these years?” I asked.

Doc carefully spilled out some of the liquid into the tray. “Because of this. A little deteriorated, but the unmistakable smell of formaldehyde.”

I shot a side glance at the Chief, who simple smiled and gave me a quick thumbs up signal.

Brodsky took a slender metal probe and began to pick along the edges of the cut vessels. “No question about it…. even after all these years … a well-defined cut in each artery.”

Doc continued to probe the heart chambers. “Oh, my God.”

“Bradley leaned in closer. “What…what is it, Doc?”

Doc picked up a pair of tweezers … lifted a small metal object out of an upper heart chamber and dropped it with a loud clang into the metal tray. He was having trouble breathing. “I have to sit.”

Tom pushed a chair over to him and eased him into it. “Is that what I think it is, Doc?”

“Well, I’m no ballistic expert, but that’s definitely a slug, a bullet. Likely from a high-powered rifle.”

We all stood there in utter silence until Tom finally broke the spell. “Who’s the best firearm forensic expert we have in the area, Doc.?”

“That would be Joe McAleer over in Fairfield. None better.”

I quickly asked. “But Doc, there were no entrance or exit bullet wounds, right?”

“This bullet never exited the body. It was probably fired from a long distance, lost velocity and got lodged in the heart chamber. A freak shot. She died almost instantaneously.”

“But what about an entrance wound?”

“The outer chest wall was completely obliterated by the bear trying to get at the internal organs. That would have destroyed any sign of a bullet entry site.”

Tom finally spoke. “Well, grasshopper. This is as fine a piece of detective work as I think I’ve ever seen. That hunch about the tree was a stroke of genius.”

Brodsky looked up at Tom and said, “Thank God. This confirms that the girl was unconscious by the time the bear and Isaiah found her. The wide blood splatter marks probably came from the force of the bullet ripping into the body. It looks like the bear, picking up the scent of decomposed salmon, came along and opened her chest…”

The Chief finished Doc’s thought, “And Allerton took advantage of the exposed heart and just removed it. As weird as it sounds, it kinda’ makes sense. He simply took it. Assuming he’s not the one who fired the shot, he may be innocent of felony murder, but he sure as hell violated a string of state regulations regarding the improper handling of a dead human body.”

Tom looked at me and said, “I’ll get another warrant for Allerton’s thirty-aught six tomorrow. You can go up there with me to take it for forensic testing.”

I looked at Tom quickly, then said, “What about the other rifle, Chief?”

Tom stared at the jar for a very long moment. “I know, I know. I’ll get his gun tomorrow and put him on desk duty till forensics can test his too. You stay out of his way. He’s not going to be a happy camper. To be honest, I’m not thrilled about the way this day is shaping up either. No police chief wants to see evidence incriminating a fellow officer, no matter who he is.”

I asked briskly, “Why don’t you just arrest him now and get it over with?”

For the first time since I had met Tom Bradley, he became furious and yelled at me…. loudly. His words laced with raw anger. “Damn it, Darcy. Not without ballistics results. There’s a protocol to be followed here. I have to do it by the book. I keep telling you that. For God’s sake, stop shooting from the hip and think it out.”

“Sorry, Chief. But are you still going to let me question him?”, I pushed.

“Absolutely not! I’ll do that myself first thing in the morning. Don’t say a word to him. I have to confiscate his rifle first.”

I got bolder in my questions. “Are you going to ask for backup from the Chief in Kingfield?”

“No, I am not. I want you to take the day off tomorrow. I don’t want to see you at the station house at all. Got it?”

“But, Chief….”

“Got it?!!”

“Yes, sir.”

REKONING DAY

Early the next morning, I drove over to Alice’s and sat alone at the Chief’s table. As I waited for my breakfast, I noticed a tall distinguished looking middle-aged man in designer jeans, well-tailored blue blazer and expensive, designer sun glasses. He approached my table and stood there silently for a full half minute before he spoke. He smiled and said in a deep, smooth, cultured voice. “Good morning, Miss Farrell. You may recall we met very briefly at the last town board meeting. We were introduced by Chief Bradley. My name is….”

“Charles Poulos. Yes, sir, I recall. Nice to see you again.”

“I was wondering if I could have a word, Miss Farrell.” He pulled up a chair, “May I join you?”

Before I could say anything, he was sitting right next to me in the Chief’s chair.

“I understand from the Chief that you’re working on the Brahmin Girl case in a summer intern cold case project. That must be exciting. How is it going so far? Any success in solving that old mystery?”

I studied his face for a few seconds and asked. “Were you living here in Carrabassett at the time?”

“Yes, I remember it well. The talk of the town for months. I first heard about it a few days after Thanksgiving that year. I had been up at my resort upstate for a few days of skiing.”

I said, “So I’ve heard. With Deputy Dupree, right?”

Poulos laughed. “Yes. The Chief was none too happy about my having him as my guest that week. In retrospect, he was probably right. I shouldn’t have created that wrong kind of appearance. I should have kept our law enforcement folks at arm’s length… if you know what I mean. But, after all, it’s a small friendly town and we’re all pulling at the same oar, right?”

“I understand you knew the Deputy in another life?”, I asked.

He studied my face for a few moments with a quizzical frown. “Indeed. I met him when he was a rookie cop years ago in Providence. He did a favor for my son on a minor traffic violation.” Poulos took off his sunglasses stared at me with bulging eyes and said, “I like to repay my debts… every one of them… small or large. A sound philosophy, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, I do. Tell me Mister Poulos, which particular debt were you repaying with your kind offer of a fully paid ski vacation at such a fine resort?”

Poulos pursed his lips, tightened his eyes and mouth for a split second. “Well, I don’t want to disturb your breakfast Darcy, so I’ll be running along. If there’s anything I can do for you while you’re up here this summer, please feel free.” He smiled, stood and stepped towards the door.

“Well, sir, there is one thing you can do for me, in fact.”

He stopped, turned back and looked at me. “Name it”, he said.

“Tell me please, were you and Dupree up at that lodge together for the entire four days before Thanksgiving?”

I thought I saw a twitch in the corner of his mouth as he answered. “Yes, Miss Farrell. He was with me the whole time that week. In fact, we got home together late in the evening, sometime after dark, on Thanksgiving Day. I had to get home to my family. My wife and I usually just go out to dinner alone instead of having a family get together. Most of my family is still in Providence. As I recall, he was anxious to sleep it off and recover.” Paulos chucked softly. “It was a bachelor party that went on a little too long.”

As Poulos walked out the front door, a rush of blood surged through my head. Gotcha, you slippery pig. I’ve got to find the Chief…. now.

As Sally poured me a hot cup of coffee, her boss, Hank Stevens ran out of the kitchen, leaned over my table, lowered his voice and said, “Miss Farrell, the Chief is on the phone in the back. He says it’s urgent. He needs to talk to you… now.”

I ran to the wall phone in the kitchen and grabbed the receiver. Before I could say anything, I heard the Chief’s frantic voice. “Darcy, get over to Father Kane’s rectory right now. He’s expecting you. And stay there till I come for you.”

“What’s going on?” I asked fearfully.

“Dupree ran into the office early this morning looking for you. He wanted Margie to tell him if you had come in yet. And if not, what time she expected to see you. Then he asked Margie to confirm your street address. I don’t like the sound of any of that. Also, he opened the gun vault and took out his Browning and his second hunting rifle, the one with the scope. Then he rushed out the door.”

“What? What else did he say?”

“Margie ran out to try to stop him. When she approached him, he was leaning into his opened trunk. She tried to grab his arm. He pushed her to the ground, jumped behind the wheel then pulled away.”

I heard a distinct hint of fear in Tom’s voice. “Darcy, listen to me carefully. Margie saw a leaking jug of bear bait in the corner of his opened trunk. She could actually smell it. Plus, there were latex surgical gloves scattered on the floor of the trunk. Darcy, get over to the Padre now. Stay there and have him lock all his doors. He’s waiting for you.”

I could barely think. “Yes sir.”

While the Chief was on the phone, I heard Margie screaming in the background. “He’s lost it! Gone over the edge. He’s going to kill someone.”

I heard the Chief turn away from the phone and ask Margie. “Did you notice if he had his shotgun in the car rack?”

“Yes, Chief, it was there.” Margie started to cry, “He threatened to kill me. Tell Darcy to hide and get out of sight.”

“Did you hear that, Darcy?”

I took a deep breath. “Yes sir. I’m on my way.”

.

I got into my car and headed for the church rectory about a half mile away. At the corner, in the periphery of my right eye I saw a police cruiser pull up along-side me at the light. It was Dupree. He rolled down the window and said, “Pull over Miss Farrell, we need to talk.”

“Have you reported in yet?”, I blurted out, trying to stall him.

“Nope. It’s such a beautiful day. I thought I’d call in sick, take the rest of the day off. Think I’ll go out and do a little bear hunting. Why don’t you do the same and join me? Come on. What do you say? It’ll be fun.”

His words sent a cold chill down my spine. All I could think to say was. “But it’s not bear season.”

“That’s Ok. The game warden and me are buddies. He ain’t gonna ticket me or the little star student from Boston.”

“The Chief is expecting you…. in the office, Dupree.”

“Screw the Chief”, he snarled. “You know, Missy. I noticed the other day that you have an expired inspection sticker. That’s not very law abiding of you now, is it?” He raised his voice menacingly. “Pull over now, goddammit… or I’ll place you under arrest.”

I froze.

He put on his emergency lights and siren. And yelled. “Now, Farrell.”

The traffic light turned green. I felt a surge of adrenaline-charged anxiety rush through my body. I panicked and pushed the gas pedal to the floor. I tried to make a quick right turn to head back towards the police station but he wedged his cruiser between me and the corner, striking my right rear quarter panel and blocking my car. I looked around the street for someone…anyone… who might help. But, at that hour most of the townsfolk were still home getting ready for work. I raced to the next corner and made a sharp right turn on two wheels.

I can’t go to the rectory now. It’s too late. I have no choice. I’ve got to try to outmaneuver and avoid him on these small streets…. and maybe do it long enough for the Chief to find me. Please God, let one of these nosy neighbors call in.

I prayed that Tom would hear the siren from the station or wherever he was.

Just then, Dupree shut off the emergency lights and siren. His cruiser was speeding so close behind me that I couldn’t see the hood of his car in my rear-view mirror. It was then that I made another critical amateur mistake. I hadn’t been paying attention to where I was. I found myself on the main road headed north, out of town, moving at sixty-five miles per hour up towards the hills. I knew I couldn’t outrun his cruiser…. and I couldn’t turn around easily on the narrow two-lane highway.

I made a snap decision to pull off the highway onto one of the dirt roads, to get as far away as I could and maybe leave my car in a narrow, wooded section of the trail blocking his car from following me. After a few minutes of racing and weaving I made a right onto the first dirt trail I could find and didn’t stop till the tree branches were practically removing the paint off the sides of my car. I grabbed my keys, jumped out and ran into the thickest area of the woods, climbing straight uphill, negotiating rocks, tree stumps and slippery moss…. scraping knuckles…. shins …. hand over fist. After a minute, I turned. He wasn’t anywhere within sight or sound. I craned my neck and searched the silent stillness of the forest below, listening for a telltale sign… that he was on the move upward. Suddenly a voice rang out from below and echoed through the towering pines.

“You know, for a smart little city girl from a fancy big university, you’re pretty goddamned stupid, Missy. You know that? Huh?”

I positioned myself behind a tree and waited quietly for him to make his move before I would dare resume climbing.

He yelled. “I can wait you out all day. You don’t stand a chance up there. What are you going to do once it gets dark, and you run out of room, little girl? Roll up into a ball and cry?”

I looked out from behind a tree trunk when suddenly the sound of a rifle shot reverberated through the trees. A branch from a white pine exploded about a foot above my head raining needles down over my head and shoulders.

His menacing voice roared up the slope. “Peekaboo…. I seeeee you!!. Did you forget that I have a scope on my rifle, little girl?”

I turned and scrambled another fifty yards up the steep rocky incline behind a tree, and slid down behind a rocky outcropping.

He shouted, “Tell me something, Missy. Did you really think I was going to let you solve this case….and then walk away to live and talk about it?”

I couldn’t catch my breath. I felt the world crushing down against my chest. For the next half hour, I scrambled up that slope hand over fist. As I stopped to catch my breath behind a tree trunk, I assumed the frightened, frozen pose of a deer being stalked by a skilled hunter… nostrils flared, ears cocked, eyes wide, every sense magnified tenfold. Every time I heard him move through the underbrush, I climbed even higher… till, suddenly the horrible reality hit me squarely in the face. I was out of cover. I had reached a flat, exposed, treeless, plateaued ridge. There was nowhere left to climb or hide.

“It won’t be long now”, he shouted, his voice getting closer.

He was right. I had to think outside of the box… now. As I rushed towards another rock formation I slipped on a growth of moss and tumbled into a deep ravine. My ankle began to throb almost immediately. I tried to stand but it would not support my weight. I knew I had run out of options. Despite the enormous risk, I laid down and wildly scooped all the forest debris I could grab with my arms. I frenetically covered my body and head with dozens of armfuls of pine straw and cool, wet decaying leaves. My heart raced… and I prayed as I have never done before.

Barely two minutes later, I heard the snapping twigs. The sounds of his boots were heavy, plodding, methodical. He called out again, now only yards away from my position. He stopped and spoke in a sing song, grammar school taunt. “Come out, come out, wherever you are, Missy. Where arrree you? Time to come out and face the music. Ready or not…. here I come.”

My heart pounded in my chest. I was afraid that my hyperventilation, the sound of my quick shallow, panicked breathing, would give me away.

He shouted again. “I have a surprise for you. I’m not going to shoot you in the chest like I did the Brahmin Girl. I’m going to shoot you in the knees. Then I’m going to gag you. And then, for the piece de resistance…. well… use your imagination.”

He laughed. “C’est fini, ma Cherie. Tu es mort. Ha…. did you know my parents were both French Canuck? I speak fluent French. Does that surprise you, smart ass college girl?”

He was getting much closer…. I could hear him breathing hard.

“Oh yeah… and then I’m going to throw some fish chum, made fresh just this morning from the finest land locked salmon in the state of Maine… all over your trembling pathetic little body. And then we’ll wait for ole’ Papa bear to come a knockin’ at our kitchen door. Boy, is he going to be happy with the menu tonight. Sounds like fun, huh? He might even leave a big tip with a big pile of scat!”

Through a tiny opening among the soggy maple leaves covering my face I could see him standing at the top of the ridge. He held a plastic jug in his left hand and was looking down right at me, grinning like a madman. I gave up my position and moved, assuming he’d already seen me. I closed my eyes and prayed aloud.

“Our Father, Who art in heaven….”

“Shut the hell up! Knock that off!” he screamed.

Dupree suddenly lowered his voice. “You know, you really should have listened to the Chief when he warned you against coming up here without a good pair of boots. He was right, you know. Those little white sneakers are going to end up getting you killed, Missy.”

Oh, God, I don’t want to die like this. Please Jesus, not like this.

He picked up a rock and flung it at me, hitting me in the head. “Stand up!!”, he screamed.

I slowly got to my feet. I don’t know how I mustered the guts to say it…. but I did. “What a brave manly guy you are, Dupree. The sick killer of innocent women. If you had any guts at all you would give me your sidearm so I could have a fighting chance. A level playing field. Either way, whatever you decide…. whatever way this plays out, the Chief will bust your sorry ass.”

Dupree shouted. “There’s nothing he can do to me. The statute of limitations on the Brahmin girl has run out. I can’t be convicted of her murder.”

“That’s the least of your worries, Dupree. You’ll go to jail for my murder, and threatening the lives of a half dozen people, not to mention conspiracy to obstruct a criminal investigation. Your hopes of being the next Police Chief are dead. Bradley will have you for lunch. You’ll never step into his job now.”

“You mean that old worn-out excuse for a cop? He won’t get me. Not alive anyhow. I’ve run out the string and he knows it. I’ve got nowhere left to go, nowhere to hide, thanks to your goddamned little summer project…. bitch.”

Desperate, I opted for provocation. “Yeah, well, why don’t you toss this bitch your Browning, Deputy. Give me a thirty-minute head start and let’s see if you’re man enough to duel it out with me…. here in your own back yard. It’ll be you with your high-powered scoped rifle against me with a little old .9mm and a seven-shot clip. What’s the matter? Afraid of the odds, you worthless pussy?”

“Nice try,” he hissed through clenched teeth. He opened the jug, took out a spoon ladle and threw the fishy, slimy mix straight into my face and hair. Then another at my chest… and another at my legs. The smell was nauseating.

“You’re not a man. You’re a coward, Dupree.”, I screamed.

He propped his rifle up against a tree and climbed down into the ravine where he punched me in the face with a closed fist, knocking me to the ground. Then he grabbed a kerosene-soaked rag out of his back pocket and tied it up over and around my mouth. I flailed… tried to pull away. He clutched my throat with both hands and started to squeeze. I was about to black out when I lunged for his Browning and managed to pull it out of the holster. As I tried to slide the rack and chamber a round, he grabbed it and twisted the gun out of my hand. I heard my finger snap…. broken. It sent a shock wave of burning pain up my right arm.

“What a sorry, stupid little amateur you are” he said mockingly. He grabbed the Browning, scurried back up the bank, lifted the rifle and pointed it towards my lower leg. “Too bad, Miss Farrell, you might have made a decent cop…. someday.” He held the stock tight to his cheek, released the safety and placed his finger on the trigger. A deafening single shot rang out. It sounded like an explosion bouncing through the recesses of my brain. I flinched… looked down… expecting to see my lower leg blown apart.

Instead, Dupree, in an instant, dropped the gun, groaned in pain and grabbed his shattered right hip. He had collapsed to the pine straw like a hundred-pound sack of flour.

I spun my head around looking for the shooter but saw nothing. I called out “Chief, is that you? Are you up here?”

I heard a faint voice coming from deep in the pines below me. Then a shout: “Darcy, let me hear your voice…. call to me.” It was the Chief. I could hear him now but couldn’t see him …. too far away. Suddenly a man dressed in camo had just stepped out from the deep underbrush about seventy yards away. “My God, it’s Isaiah” I said out loud. Allerton was standing under a white pine aiming his rifle directly at Dupree. He yelled. “Mister Dupree… make a move and give me the perfect excuse to finish you off! Please.”

I hobbled up the side of the ravine and grabbed the Browning from his holster, and immediately chambered a round. I put it to Dupree’s head and said, “Don’t move.”

Five minutes later I saw two men with long guns climbing up the steep slope towards us. Tom’s familiar voice boomed through the dense forest. “Dupree, get up on your knees and raise both your arms in the air high above your head.”

“I don’t think he’s in any shape to do that, Chief.” I pointed to Isaiah and said, “Isaiah just destroyed his right hip. He’ll be lucky if we can stop that bleeding.”

Then I saw him. The man climbing quickly behind the Chief was dressed in a Boston Red Sox hat, a flak vest and was carrying a scoped rifle. “Lyle!”, I cried. It was Professor Beckwith. He ran up the slope and retrieved Dupree’s rifle on the ground.

“My God, I thought you were dead, Darcy.” He suddenly reached out and held me close. “Someone in town reported you and Dupree driving north like madmen on Route 27. We had no idea which trail you might have turned off onto. The Chief thought you might have come up a trail you and he were both familiar with. His hunch was right. We ran into your car and the cruiser about a half hour ago.

The Chief stood next to Lyle and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Lyle knew something was wrong, when you didn’t check in with him last night.”

Lyle said, “I drove up here early this morning…. wide open on the thruway with my lights flashing all the way. Fortunately, I had my carbine, vest and ammo in my car. I had no idea what to expect… until I walked into the station house and got an update from Margie.”

“I thought I was going to die.” I said, as I started to cry.

Later, as our guys were strapping Dupree to the stretcher, I asked Lyle. “What’s going to happen to him?”

“Now? This mutt will be indicted on multiple felony charges and is likely going away for a very long time. Perhaps not for the cold-blooded murder of Olivia Browne but hopefully for the attempted murder and assault of my best student.”

Tom looked at me and said, “I’m sorry Darcy. I’m kicking myself for throwing you so hard and unprepared into this hornet’s nest. Agent Beckwith promised me as we drove up here, that if we could get you out of these woods alive, he would order you to take the entire rest of the summer off and go home with him now to Boston. The fall semester starts in just three weeks. As far as I’m concerned, your job here is done…. way ahead of schedule.”

A sudden wave of calm and quiet contentment blanketed me. “Thanks, but no. I want to finish out my commitment to you, Chief. Besides, you’ll be a man down in department staff. You could probably use a little help until you can get someone, a real cop, to fill Dupree’s position.”

Lyle thrust his finger in the air and said: “Oh…. I almost totally forgot. Regarding Dupree’s protected status for all these years. You know that name you ask me to check on…. Paulos? Turns out the Chief’s hunch about him is spot on. He and another twelve mob types from Boston and Providence were just named by a federal grand jury in a sealed indictment. They’ll all be charged with running a huge racketeering and drug ring across New England. As a matter of fact, based on the results of wiretaps of Paulos over the past year, the FBI thinks your friend Dupree may have had been involved in his own wife’s murder in Providence. Paulos and Dupree seem to have been feeding from the same pig trough for a long time now. Dupree was protecting his drug operation while Paulos was grooming him for the next Chief’s spot. No wonder they were motivated to protect each other. The shark and the remora.”

Tom smiled at me and said, “You’ll have quite the summer story for your friends in Boston this September, grasshopper.”

THE DUST FINALLY SETTLES

Instead of returning right away to Boston, I stayed on and worked for the Chief until the start of classes…. finalizing my reports on the Brahmin file… being debriefed extensively by the local prosecutor, Eric Riddell. The day I left Carrabassett Valley I’d sat in my VW in front of the police office for a long time, quietly crying. Tom had walked out to the car, smiled and said, “Come take a little ride with me, grasshopper. There’s something you should see before you leave us.”

We’d driven north about twenty minutes and came to an old rutted path that led up a gradual incline. After a five-minute walk through a massive stand of red maples we came to a small clearing in the woods. He pointed to a randomly placed collection of ancient grave mounds overtaken by weeds and saplings. “This is our earliest record of a few Native Americans who once roamed and hunted these woods and valleys. Some of these graves go back to pre-colonial times.”

He led me to a polished granite stone marker which stood out from the dozens of faded crumbling stone and wooden monuments. Some had fallen flat to the ground. Others lay at cambered angles as though looking upwards towards the sky …. and heavens. “Here she is. Olivia Browne. This was the best I could do for her.”

“A wonderful gift”, I said.

“And right next to her, at her side, is the revered Samoset, trusted friend and confident of the Mayflower colonists. The official historical version is that he died in 1653 over in Bristol, on the coast. The story goes that his white friends arranged to haul his body the hundred miles or so up here.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know for sure. The legend says that he wanted to be buried here in this valley, the place where he was born and raised…. where his squaw and children still lived. Not far from where we stand right now.”

“Is he the one mentioned on the taped conversation of Olivia and Isaiah?”

“Yes. And according to the rest of the legend… when they transported his decomposed and dried up corpse here from Bristol, it seems that one of his legs bounced off the wagon onto the road… unnoticed. Lost in transit.”

The Chief laughed. “Old Samoset has apparently been roaming these woods looking for his missing leg all these hundreds of years.”

“Was it you who arranged to have Olivia’s ashes buried next to him?”, I asked.

“Actually, this was the only empty plot left in this section. I had no idea she would end up here…literally right next to the chief. Some coincidence, huh?”

In a moment of silence, I looked around, took a deep breath and drank deeply of the sights, smells, sounds and feel of this magical forest. A red tail hawk looped and circled effortlessly far overhead. It suddenly rocketed over a hundred feet to the earth, about fifty yards from where we stood… pinning a rabbit with its talons to the ground and covering it with his wings. He spun his head around and eyed us cautiously. As we watched him prepare to have his lunch I wondered about the timelessness of the cycle of life and death playing out before us in full view.

I said:” Chief, do you believe any of that stuff Olivia told Isaiah about ghost spirits… you know, communicating with the dead, and all that?”

Tom looked skyward and said, “All I can say is…I can’t disprove any of it. Since we’ve never entered that world… how would we know what it’s like?”

“Do you really think she had those gifts?”

The Chief watched the hawk apply the coup de gras as he thrust his beak into the back of the rabbit’s neck…. then said. “I don’t know. But if she did, it was probably as natural and second nature to her as what you’re seeing here right now. That bird doesn’t complicate his life by thinking of why and how he’s doing what he’s doing. He’s doing instinctively what God intended him to do. Surviving.”

Three months later, back at Northeastern, I got a call early one morning from Tom Bradley. “It’s all over, Darcy. Dupree’s attorney worked out a deal with Riddell. In return for testimony against Paulos and the Providence mob, they dropped all the federal racketeering and drug related charges and the attempted murder charge against you. Dupree pled guilty last week to the assault charge….and more importantly, to the murder of his wife in Providence a few years back. It seems he slipped up big time and held onto the gun he used in her killing. We got positive results from the ballistics testing.”

“Good. I’m glad. What about Libby? I know the statute of limitations has run out on her case.”

“True, but we scored a major coup. One of the plea conditions we insisted upon was that he make a full allocution… a formal admission of all the gory details in the Brahmin murder…. most of which you uncovered… all of which were placed indelibly, for all the world to see, on the record. He’s going to serve hard time. A minimum of twenty-five years and a maximum of thirty-five years in state prison.”

I asked. “How old is he, Chief?”

“Dupree is forty-three, about to turn forty-four. If he really behaves himself, and if word of his former police status doesn’t get him killed in prison, he could theoretically get out on parole when he’s sixty-eight.”

“Young enough to still create a lot of mischief”, I offered.

“Yes, but at least you won’t have to trek all the way up here to testify. And, best of all, you’re through with him forever. He’ll be too old to do you any real harm by then… assuming he survives that long in prison…. being a former cop and all. I’ll bet the farm you’ll never see or hear from him again.”

“You know, if anyone deserves the death penalty, it’s him”, I said.

“I know. But we haven’t had an execution in the state of Maine since 1885, exactly one hundred years ago this month, as a matter of fact. Why? Because of some incompetent, lazy town officer botched up a public execution by improperly tying the hangman’s noose. As the story goes, one prisoner suffered a slow, suffocating death. So, as a result, no one can be hanged ever again. A bunch of old wusses…. our legislators. Nothing’s changed in that hundred years. But the good news is Dupree is done. And a really tough cold case is solved…thanks to you.”

As Tom spoke, his words had sparked a nagging, unsettling memory of something that had happened quickly…. almost unnoticed by anyone… except me and Lyle. Even Tom didn’t see much of it. As they had carried Dupree on the litter past me, he had propped himself up on one elbow and had looked at me. With a smile, he said…: “This is not over, Missy. I’ll be seeing you again.”

Then Dupree added, “And next time… I’ll be seeing a lot more of you than what you’ve been parading around for me to see. You know, you should really get Mrs. Lyscombe to put up some decent bathroom curtains. A girl built like you…. well …. you know…. you can never be too careful.”

Lyle had heard the last remark and had rushed up to the stretcher, had grabbed Dupree by the collar, jerked his head upward to within inches of his clenched fist. He had screamed: “You come anywhere near her again, you pathetic sack of shit, and I’ll kill you in ways that will make your sick bear caper look like a Sunday picnic. I’ll spread your blood like wind on the water.”

I remember Tom Bradley had rushed forward and wedged himself between the two men and had forcefully spun Lyle away by the arm. He’d pulled him aside and said in a hushed voice. “Not in front of my men, Lyle. I don’t want anything like that outburst to derail this prosecution.”

Lyle had immediately extended his now unclenched fist above his head. “You’re absolutely right, Chief. I’m sorry.”

Before he hung up the phone, Tom Bradley paused and said with palpable warmth, “That was excellent police work, grasshopper. I’m so proud to have worked with you. Without you, Dupree would probably have been our next Chief. And this sweet little town…. much the worse for it. Now he’s out of our lives forever, thank God.”

We’ll see, I thought… as a sudden unexplained wave of trepidation and fear flooded over me.

After a long silent interlude, each waiting for the other to be the first to break down and say goodbye, I hugged Tom and bid him a heartfelt farewell. We corresponded intermittently for a few years. You know… Christmas cards…that kind of thing. Except for Doc Brodsky’s funeral, I never saw Tom Bradley alive again. That’s the way life goes, I suppose. I don’t know whether it’s all part of some grand design, but people like Tom Bradley seem to rush onto life’s stage for a brief, welcomed cameo… and then disappear into the wings forever. Never to be seen or even noticed again. And that was ok for him…. and me… in the grand scheme of things.

Yet, that’s not the way I thought of the Brahmin Girl. Somehow in my gut, I knew she wasn’t finished with me. Not yet.

I thought to myself …. I wish I had the ability… the psychic ken…. to communicate with her in some way. With all her gifts, and her unique perspective of the cosmos, I’m sure she still has something to say…. and to offer the rest of us mortals.

EASTON MARYLAND

MAY 2010

VOICE OF LYLE BECKWITH

END OF THE INTERVIEW

“So, John, that’s the story. Darcy and I were married a year later, in August 1986. She went on to graduate from the Academy a year after that and became one of the best investigative agents I’d ever seen. She worked mostly counter intelligence.”

I waved my hand around the room and said: “I inherited this little piece of paradise about twenty years ago from my folks. Darcy and I had both started enjoying my retirement together…. when she was shot and killed……out there in my driveway.”

John said. “If you don’t mind, I have just a few more questions about that morning.”

“There’s not much more to tell... really.”

“Just fill in a few blanks, please. I hate to do this, but tell me exactly what you saw when you stepped off your boat that day.”

“I saw something laying in the driveway. At first, I thought it was a delivery of some packages or something like that. As I got closer, I saw Darcy lying there face down. She had been shot twice…. once in the back of the head and once in the lower part of her back. I checked her right away. She was unconscious. But breathing. I almost panicked, ran into the house and called 911. While I waited for the ambulance, I grabbed my semi- automatic and ran around looking for signs…anything…. anyone. That cocky son of a bitch even took the time to pick up his own shell casings. Can you believe that? I’ve seen that before…you know… in contract killings.”

“Again, nothing was taken from her. Right?”

“No…absolutely nothing.”

“Did you notice anything else? Footprints?”

“I didn’t see any tire marks or footprints in the driveway or on the lawn so I assumed he came in from the main road on foot along that narrow path through the trees behind the house. There’s plenty of woods and marsh grass on the property for someone to approach the house under cover. It wouldn’t be difficult. The Sheriff and I checked the woods and the path later but found nothing…. absolutely nothing.”

“Your driveway is crushed oyster shell, right?”

“Yeah…I’d have seen a recent tire mark, I would think.”

Pritchard asked. “How long was she in the coma?”

“Ten days and eleven hours”, I answered.

“Did she ever regain consciousness?”

“For about sixty seconds…. a few days after her brain surgery to remove the bullet and stop the bleeding.”

“It was a .9-millimeter slug, correct?”

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. “Yes…a goddamned hollow point.”

John leaned in closer to me and said, “Did she ever say anything for those sixty seconds? You were there when she opened her eyes, right?”

“You mean did she ever identify her killer?”

“Did she?”

I looked down at my feet, and half lied. “No, John. She was never able to speak. I would have told you guys that, if she had.” I paused and lied slowly for emphasis… “I don’t know who did this.”

Don’t say anything, Lyle. Not yet….

There was a lot that remained unsaid, but I wasn’t ready. The unvarnished truth was that…. exactly one week after the shooting, I had gotten a return call from Agent Joe Wilson, in the Boston field office. He’d told me that Dupree had been released on parole exactly one month prior. I had specifically asked Joe to check on his status. Joe’s call came on the morning of Darcy’s funeral. He said that the parole board was impressed with Dupree’s record of good conduct and his born again claim to have found Jesus in the contemplative quietude of his cell. After her death I had remembered … too late…what Dupree had said the day we carried him off that mountain. I’d originally wanted to keep close tabs on him…. just in case. Darcy had never said a word about him for all those intervening years. If she had in fact ever thought or worried about him, she never let on to me. And I didn’t want to upset her, so I never spoke about him either. But…. after the funeral, the guilt and self-doubt weighed on me like an anvil… preventing a decent night’s sleep ever since.

John continued his rote drill. “Was she ever able to speak any words at all?”

“No.” I said truthfully.

What I didn’t tell Pritchard was that, for those sixty seconds, Darcy was in fact able to communicate with me, briefly, through a series of eye blinks which I had asked her to do.

“Tell me more about those moments… when she temporarily woke up.”

“I’ll never forget what happened that day. I sat at the edge of her bed for all of those ten days, talking to her, playing music for her… in the hopes that she’d hear it and respond somehow. One late afternoon I played a song she loved… one of her favorites, an old classic ballad called ‘Always’. She suddenly opened her beautiful eyes, smiled at me and…. waved with her non-paralyzed left hand.”

“That must have given you some joy… to see her smile like that.”

“For that brief moment I thought she was going to recover. That somehow the brain injury was transient…. not fatal. My heart soared like an eagle. The funny thing was that her smile wasn’t a smile of joy or contentment. It was her classic smile of heightened cynicism and disgust. As if saying… ‘Do you believe this shit is happening to us?’. I rushed out the door of the hospital room and called for the nurse. I yelled, “Call the doctor. She’s waking up!”

“What happened then?”, asked John.

“The brain surgeon just happened to be making rounds on the floor. By the time she came in, Darcy had slipped back into the coma. When I told her about the smile and the wave, she looked hard at me and said, ‘Are you sure she did that, Mister Beckwith? Sometimes we imagine seeing and hearing things our hearts desperately want to see and hear under these kinds of circumstances.’”

I was annoyed. “I know what I saw, damn it… it wasn’t just wishful imagination.”

The Doctor said. “Mister Beckwith, your wife has had a massive irreparable brain bleed with equally massive brain cell destruction. She’s sustained far too much damage to become cognitive in any way. I know you’ve been waiting for days for some sort of recognition so you can say goodbye to her. But what you just described would defy all medical reasoning.”

I raised my voice, pleadingly, “I’m not imagining what I just saw, Doctor.”

She took my hand and held it softly. “All I can tell you is, if that happened as you say it did, you are one very lucky man. You’ve gotten that one in a million chance to say goodbye to her. A chance very few people in these circumstances ever experience. I’d say you’ve already gotten your special gift from God. Savor it. Don’t be greedy.”

John said. “You know, she probably was right, Lyle. You’re very lucky that you had that moment alone with her. It really was a rare gift.”

What I didn’t tell John was that right after the doctor left the room, Darcy had opened her eyes once again…. very briefly…one last time. I had used those last few precious seconds of consciousness to ask her the few critical questions that were screaming in my brain for answers.

I took a deep breath, lowered my head. “I need a minute or two to myself, John”, I said.

“Of course.”

For the next two minutes I closed my eyes, slipped into a brief reverie and silently relived those last moments with her. I never shared them with anyone and I wasn’t going to start now. I’d spoken to her, seizing the moment. I can still hear my own voice. “Darcy. You’ve been shot. The doctor says you can’t speak. Your eyes are open and looking at me. Use them to talk to me”, I pleaded. I asked her. “Did you see who shot you? Did you see his face? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

She widened her eyes and blinked twice… slowly.

I had trouble getting the words out of my mouth. “But do you know who it was?”

Darcy blinked once, very slowly… purposefully.

“How do you know? Did he speak to you?”

One long blink again.

“You recognized his voice?”

Another long solitary blink.

“Was there anyone else with him?”

Two long blinks.

“Did you see if he had a car?”

Two more long blinks.

“Did he say he’s coming for me?”

One long blink… with eyes that had now filled with tears.

Then, just as suddenly as she had opened them, she closed her eyes. I knew what was happening and I yelled through my own tears. “Please look at me again.” She half opened her eyes. I squeezed her hand three times…. I Love You.

Darcy squeezed my hands faintly…. three times… before she closed her eyes forever.

Suddenly, I was aware once more of John’s soft voice. “Lyle, did she ever wake up again?”

“No. She came off life support and died twenty-four hours later.”

John stared at me for what seemed to be minutes.

“So, you never could actually communicate with her?”

“No” I answered tersely…. and falsely.

“And you don’t have to ask me, John. The answer is still a firm NO. I don’t know who killed my wife. It could have been anyone.”

Sorry for the lies, my old friend. It wasn’t just anyone. She knew her killer’s voice. That told me all I needed to know. You’ll know too… but only when and if I decide it’s time for you to know.

John pressed the issue one last time. “If you were a betting man, Agent Beckwith…. would you put your money on Dupree?”

I said, “Why would I put my money on a horse who can’t get out of the starting gate? On someone you can prove was in Providence on the day of her murder.”

“Humor me, Lyle. If Dupree didn’t have that alibi, would you consider him a likely suspect?”

“I’m not a betting man. And I don’t deal in hypotheticals. Why don’t you go out and find him and ask him yourself where he was?”

“I know that you called Joe Wilson in Boston and got the parole and release status of Dupree not too long ago. Is that right?”

“That’s right. That was long before you told me about his traffic ticket. I also asked him to get the same exact information for Nieport and Reid, and several others I’d already been thinking about. And to be clear…Joe Wilson is an old friend. He’s done nothing wrong. I just wanted to know if these guys had already been let out of prison.”

“You never could let anyone else step up and take charge of an investigation, could you Lyle? You always had to be the one in complete control.”

“John, let’s stop beating around the bush and cut out the bullshit…. shall we? Are you close to picking up Dupree or the others? Or not? Do you have any clue where any of them are?”

John put his head down and said in a near whisper. “No, not yet. All four have fallen off the face of the earth. The trail is as cold as a witch’s tit. We last had Dupree placed in Providence. Nieport in L.A…. no idea about Reid or Williams yet. The Agency guys think Reid in Havana… that makes sense. Nothing since then. But there’s no need to worry, we’ll pick up the scent soon enough. We’ll find them all.”

I grinned. “Do I look worried?”

John said. “No, but you should be. As far as Dupree is concerned, I’m told he’s a weird unpredictable kind of killer, partner. We know for sure he also murdered his ex-wife in Providence. Don’t underestimate him. He may have set this whole thig up as a ruse. We won’t know for sure until we grab him. And don’t you go running off alone on this. Don’t you go rogue on us, Agent Beckwith.” He shoved his fat index finger into my chest and raised his voice. “Do y’all hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying, Lyle Beckwith?

I understand everything. Even if you don’t, John.

I don’t like answering rhetorical questions. So, instead, I tried to break the momentum. I stood, tottered on my feet momentarily… but recovered quickly from my scotch induced light-headedness. I said: “Thanks for the condolence call, John. It was great to see you again. Been too long. Give my regards to the boss.”

John looked confused. “What? Are you kicking us out?”

“Look…. I’m really exhausted. I need to turn in… if you don’t mind. Let’s finish catching up some other time, shall we?”

After an awkward pause Pritchard said: “Sure, I understand. I know I shouldn’t have to say this, but if you have any delayed ideas or sudden inspiration about their possible whereabouts…. or…. if this guy’s crazy enough to contact you….”

I yawned. “Yeah… I know. You’ll be the first to hear from me.”

John stood and gave me a long bear hug. “If you need anything… I mean anything at all… please just call me.”

“The only thing I need right now is a solid night’s sleep”, I said.

As Pritchard and Petrocelli stood to leave, I added, “Don’t forget to drop off Brian… as we discussed earlier… day after tomorrow, after dark, down at the end of my dock.”

“Roger that,” John answered.

When both agents had left, I slid Darcy’s notes back into the drawer. Protruding from between the faded pages of her yellow legal pad was a small white paper note with black, ominous looking writing…. all in crude block letters. The note Dupree had boldly taken the time to write… and the balls to leave propped up on my Jeep’s dashboard…. after calmly murdering my wife. I held it up to the light and studied his sophomoric, wavering style. It read, simply: ‘DON’T BOTHER TO LOOK FOR ME BECKWITH…. I’LL FIND YOU.’ The note looked like it had been written, not with a standard leaded pencil, but a heavy graphite art supply pencil.

Tucked under the note, he had left a stunningly exquisite pencil sketch of Darcy’s face. The shadings, the proportions, and the skill of the person who produced this drawing, were extraordinary. He had captured the delicate features of her beautiful face, eyes closed, emotionless…as though sleeping peacefully. Or… perhaps he intended to portray her as already dead …. in a state of repose. Either way he got my full attention.

Where the hell did you learn to draw and sketch like that, you crude insensitive bastard? So, you told my wife you’re coming for me? Really? You’re a dead man, Dupree. Come and get me. I’m right here… waiting.

From the very moment I had first read his note threat, I’d felt little else except the instantaneous white-hot anger and the rage that it provoked in me. I couldn’t stop thinking how much I had I savored the opportunity of picking up his rough, unpolished gauntlet and throwing it back in his face. I vowed right then and there that I’d be ready for him, at any cost. And when that time came, I knew I would be ready. Or, at least… that was what I had thought.

EASTON MARYLAND

UNIVERSITY OF MARYLAND HOPSPITAL

Five Weeks Earlier

The Voice of Darcy Farrell

I was dying from massive brain injury. My body, my internal organs were shutting down, for good. I knew it…. instinctively. I was trapped in the walled-up, pitch black world of an irreversible pain-free coma. And yet, somehow, I was fully aware of every object that existed outside my body. Of everything that was going on around me. All my physical senses were deadened. And yet somehow, I saw everything and heard every sound in real time. My mind even recognized smells, the aromas of the flowers… as though someone had thrust them directly under my nose. I should have been scared… and at first, I was. But I felt no fear at all.

I remember as he surprised me and ordered me to my knees that his voice was instantaneously familiar. After I felt the first bullet enter my lower back, my legs went numb. I was knocked to the ground face down. “Nice to see you again, Missy” he had said slowly. “I’ll take care of your husband later.”

In the next second I felt a hot white flash of light rip through my head. Since then, I’ve felt no physical pain … just a flood of raw emotions. I see and hear everything in the room… not with my eyes and ears…. but with my mind. The rough, careless handling of my body during the changes of bedding, gowns and catheters by the nurse…. an angry woman who carelessly thought she wasn’t being observed. The tearful visits by my friends and family. The beautiful music played for me by my sweet husband. The priest from my parish praying over me and giving me Last Rites. I can’t remember ever lapsing into what I would normally consider true sleep.

I’d become a prisoner in my own motionless, silenced body. For those first few days I was screaming to be heard, fighting to move my limbs, my mouth… to speak. The only things I could animate were my thoughts. Since then, I am resigned to death. Lyle had been with me at my bedside for over ten days and nights. I’d heard every one of his words, his sobs, his prayers. Oh, how I wanted to be able to get up, to hold him close and console him. I wanted, nearing the end, to be dragged out of my stupor. To either live and breathe on my own… in this world again. Or… to be given permission to leave it. To finally… die in peace.

On my last night on life support he lay on a cot improvised by the nurses, next to my hospital bed, holding my hand throughout the night. Early in the morning my nurse came in, examined me and told Lyle that she thought I wouldn’t leave for at least another twelve hours. I knew my breathing was labored. It was filled with ominous rattles and rales but she had said that my heart was strong “as a bull” with little sign of giving up. She told Lyle to go home. “Get some sleep, some food, a shower and come back later”, she’d said. She had held his hand, said, “Don’t worry. I’ll call you if something changes.”

About one hour later, when the room was still, quiet and dark, they came for me. All of them together…. bathed in a warm glowing light. My angels, my departed parents, the Chief. And hovering over all of them was a beautiful young woman with a radiant smile. I knew who she was immediately. She asked: “Are you ready to go home, Darcy? He’s waiting for you”. In my mind’s eye I could already see Him clearly … awash in a brilliant, shining light, arms outstretched, as though ready to embrace me. I yearned to go, but I pleaded with Him to wait till Lyle got back to my bedside.

I had heard the shrill, continuous flat line alert signal from the heart monitor. It was then that I had seen the luminous smiling face of the Brahmin Girl, my friend Libby Browne, and had heard her say. “Don’t be afraid, he’s coming.”

Lyle rushed into the room twenty minutes later. I heard the nurse say to him: “She turned suddenly about a half hour ago. I’m so sorry, Mister Beckwith. I didn’t think she would go that fast. Her heart was very strong but her breathing suddenly became really labored. She’s been gone for almost a half hour now.”

Lyle came to the bed, kissed me on the lips and gave my right hand three quick squeezes. “I love you.” he said.

I opened my eyes, smiled, lifted my hand off the bed and squeezed his, one last time … to say goodbye. I saw him smile and heard him say. “She’s still here. She’s alive! Did you see that?”

I heard the nurse say. “Oh, my God. Yes, I did. And I don’t believe my own eyes.” She ran out of the room calling to the doctor on rounds.

Then I heard Olivia’s sweet voice: “Lyle will be fine. Thank you, Darcy…. for being my voice… for sounding my trumpet call of justice”. Lyle released my hand … then Libby took it and said, “Come, let’s go home.”

EASTON MARYLAND

ONE WEEK LATER

The Voice of Lyle Beckwith

The day of the funeral was a clouded blur of ancient solemn hymns, incense, prayers and tears. Darcy had always wished, even from the time that we had first dated, that one day, long into the future, her casket be escorted down the aisle of the church with a New Orleans Dixieland band playing the foot-tapping dirge, “Just a Closer Walk With Thee”. By the time we marched rhythmically out through the opened wide front doors, the band had stepped up the tempo…. with an upbeat, swinging exit out into the sunny street. Just the way she would have wanted it. Darcy’s sister Margaret had given the eulogy. Sweet and lovely… and simple. Right on the mark.

I had sat there with my brothers and their families, alert to every extraneous detail, except the service itself. I strained and craned my neck to study the faces of the hundreds of people, mostly friends, relatives and fellow agents who had come to give me some solace. But I was busy looking for the outlier. The face that didn’t belong there. The face of a man I had last seen on a litter being carried down a rocky hill over twenty-five years earlier. I needed to know what he looked like today. Was he more than likely thinner? Perhaps balding? Bearded? I needed to get to work on that right away.

The County Police Chief and the seasoned agents assigned to my case by the director had each asked me to think about tips and ideas…. all the pro-forma, intuitive suggestions. I was polite but curt in my answers. At one point I had almost pulled Dupree’s sloppy note and pencil sketch out of my pocket and handed them to the lead FBI investigator who had come over from D.C. the day of the funeral. But I had decided, at the last second, to keep it all close to the vest. I shoved them back down deep into my suit pocket….to save for a rainy day. The day I might need to go hunting … alone.

Later that same day, I got Joe Wilson from the Boston office on the phone. “Howdy Joe, how’s everything in Beantown?”

“Not bad, Lyle. How are you holding up?”

“I’m doing a little better, thanks. Listen Joe, I need another big favor and, as usual, I need it on the sly.”

“I’ll do my best. What do you want?”

“I want you to use your influence to go back and take a closer look at Dupree’s prison and parole board records. I need to have a recent photo of him. I want to know whether he got any new tattoos in prison. That kind of thing. I need to know who and what he used for a forwarding address, a contact person and phone number. I want to know exactly who his visitors were, if any. And, finally… and this is really important… if he had any bank accounts still in his name… and, if so, where and how much?”

Wilson lowered his voice. “Lyle, do you really want to put all your eggs in one basket?”

“You mean focusing on Dupree and not the others?”

Joe answered, “Yep. You could be dead wrong… literally.”

“My gut has rarely failed me. I’m going to stay with what’s tried and true.”

One more question Lyle. “May I correctly presume that the director doesn’t know you’re digging for this information with old friends and Bureau sources?”

“You presume correctly. I’ve given them most of what I know… but not everything. I need to be sure that this is all done thoroughly…. by the proverbial book. Another set of eyes on this is always good, but I don’t want the boss to think that I’m second guessing him or the team. These guys are friends of mine. Do you know what I mean?”

There was a long pause. “Yeah… I get it. Give me two or three days. And from now on, call me on my cell, not here at the field office. Do you still have that number?”

“Yep. Thanks Joe.”

“Oh…. and Lyle?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t do anything stupid or careless. I mean it. Keep your head down. I’ll be in touch.”

That afternoon I went to a large electronics store in town and bought an elaborate motion detector alert system, cameras, monitors, sensors…the works. I had the whole system installed in under three hours in five critical locations on the house, patio, dock, driveway and guest house. As I was calculating the range of the sensors and walking along the edge of the woods along the margin of the big lawn, I noticed a small but thick red object partially concealed by Darcy’s English Ivy. A pencil. I picked it up on the business end with the edge of my fingertips. It was an artist’s heavy-duty graphite pencil. At the upper end of the wooden shaft were deeply indented teeth marks.

Well, well, it seems our boy has a nervous habit of chewing things besides his fingernails.

I held it at eye level and took a closer look. Hello! What do we have here? And there it is folks… bold as brass! That infamous gap… that huge diastema, between his upper central incisors! Gotcha, Deputy!

I searched for another hour in the woods well beyond the place where I found the pencil. It was becoming pretty clear that he had come up to the house on foot, away from the long driveway… along a very narrow path through the trees. There were roughly twenty heavily wooded acres between the back of the house and the main road. I’ll check them out later, I thought. I walked the quarter mile length of the path back up to the road. Nothing. No recent tire marks or footprints…. for at least a hundred yards, on either shoulder of the road… nothing.

I walked out to the end of the dock and slowly boarded my boat. Everything… rods, net, foul weather gear, buckets… all seemed to be in place… undisturbed. My navigation charts and fishing lures were exactly in their right places. As I turned to leave … about to step up onto the gunwale, something in the water caught my eye. It lay on the sandy bottom, just off the starboard transom. There, in barely three feet of clear water, was a red colored object… something definitely not part of the natural environment. I leaned over with my net and fished it out. It was a piece of chewed gum. I don’t chew gum.

But apparently you do, Deputy.

I picked it up out of the net with fishing pliers and wrapped it in a piece of paper towel.

Jesus. That son of a bitch has been aboard and poking around my own private Chesapeake Bay boat! What an arrogant dick!

My mind kicked into overdrive. I had the same odd, electrified feeling I used to get when I knew in my bones that I was getting close to my fugitive prey. I could almost smell his raunchy body odor and his stale iron breath. I looked back at the large lawn. It swept down to the water from the house which was perched among the pines…. on high ground. I walked back to the head of the dock and looked at the few feet of soft wet tidal bottom that separated it from the wooden planks and steps. There were no signs of footprints…neither human nor animal.

But then, I reasoned, the twice daily tide changes would have blurred and softened them into featureless mud.

I was beginning to feel the ominous depth of the challenge.

This might be the right moment to sharpen my ballistic skills.

I went to my gun safe and took out my AR-15 semi-automatic, my carbine and my 9mm. PPK. For the next two hours I fired over a hundred rounds at targets set up on an improvised range down by the marsh. My firearm skills were never, and would not be, the problem. It was avoiding a surprise and surreptitious visit at a moment when I was least ready and not fully alert for one.

I searched the edge of the woods. For all I know, he could be watching me right now, through those trees, I thought. He’ll come for me at night, for sure. I need to be positioned in a way where I’ll be concealed, yet be able to see his movements with my infrared glasses.

An idea quickly formed in my head. I went down to the edge of the dock and disassembled an old duck blind that I hadn’t used for a few seasons. I carried it up in sections to a place deep within the wooded area a few yards from the path that led from the main road. I put it back together and concealed it perfectly with underbrush.

He’ll never expect to encounter me this far away from the security perimeter of the house, especially when he sees where I’ve mounted the motion sensors and cameras.

Two hours later, sitting in the hot sun on the transom of my boat… binoculars hanging around my neck… and a cold beer in hand… I thought about Darcy and what she would have wanted me to do in this situation. I looked up at the cloudless sky and asked her the obvious question.

Who the hell am I kidding, love? You would want me to call Pritchard and tell him about the note and sketch left in my car... right? Don’t do this alone, you would plead with me.

I pictured her frown and could hear her soft words. But then, she was always the dull pragmatist…the first to offer caution. And the one whose safety, in the end, I couldn’t give her in return.

I’m so sorry, my love.

I spent a long time sitting silently in the warm, late afternoon sun. I closed my eyes and allowed my olfactory senses to take reign of the moment. Darcy was more attuned than I to the tidal-driven surges of life on the bay. She would always tug at my sleeve, in wonderful quiet moments like this. She would smile and tell me with her eyes to slow down. To embrace, to savor the depth and wonder of the whole experience …. the silent, plodding grandeur of the bay. She would ask me not just to watch, but to see with what she called my ‘inner eye’. To see everything around me in one great panoramic sweep of the mind…. the vast prairies of salt grasses that surrounded us... the subtle smells, sights and sounds of this giant estuarial laboratory. “Drink it in… all of it while you can” … she would beg me…. while smiling and inhaling deeply. “Before it’s all gone…before we’re gone.”

The moon tide was slack and out of steam. … waiting for the next shift to take over. The boat bottom was gently bobbing and chafing against the grey sediment and sandy, grassy bed. While all around me the black muddy marsh bottom was swarming with frenetic motion. It reminded me of an old Charlie Chaplin silent film speeded up for its effect. …. with wave after wave of crustaceans and fish larvae scurrying and darting aimlessly across the mud flats in their ritualized, opportunistic, inter-tidal feeding frenzy. A snowy white egret strode within a few feet of me, drawn to the same movement running rampant at her feet. Knees locked. Slender neck craned. Step, stop. Step, stop. Poised for the lightening thrust of her bright bill into the clear water.

I looked out onto the bay’s placid surface. A dozen serpents … dark water moccasins were whipping their way, with long powerful strokes through the water, directly towards me. Seeking shaded cover from the heat of the blazing mid-day sun…. receding into the cooler shadows and protection of the spartina… their heads barely breaking the surface as their long undulating bodies trailed deeper behind.

For one brief moment on the cosmic time continuum, I surrendered to her elusive wisdom. I embraced Darcy’s intuit knowledge of who and what I am. And more importantly, what I needed to be… and what I needed to do …. to survive…. without her. I allowed myself that rare pleasure, that joy of experiencing everything that existed around me in one, unique, fleeting… nonreplicable moment. The smells of creosote from the dock pilings, blending with the wild white honeysuckle blossoms, the decomposing marine life, the musty bay bottom … the sundried eel grasses. All of it filled the entire cup of my senses to the brim. For one brief frozen moment in time…. I was aware that I was, despite what I had incorrectly assumed…. still… very much alive.

And so, it goes. Then I thought of her. Nothing else… no one else… just her.

BACK TO WORK

At that exact moment my cellphone shattered the dream and buzzed me back into faux reality. I looked at the caller ID.

Excellent…. tell me everything I need to know, Joe Wilson. No detail is too trivial. Give me something I can work with.

I sat up, shielded my eyes from the sun and answered the call. “That was really fast, Joe” I said.

“Yeah, I got lucky…. in a hurry. Here’s what I have. I’m sending you over his photo right now. It was taken for the parole board file just six months ago. You were right. He’s lost some weight over the years. Down from two twenty to one ninety-five. The word is he’s super fit and sculpted. He’s been hanging out in the gym for most of that time. He’s a remarkable specimen for a sixty-eight-year-old ex-con. And, more importantly… he’s super clever. He’s never painted himself with any additional ink that we know of. Only that tiny red dragon tattoo on his forearm… from his life in the Corps.

Smart…. one less means of a firm identification.

“What about his face?”, I asked

“When he was released his head and face were totally shaven. That was about two months ago. I don’t know what color his scalp or facial hair would be, when and if it comes back in. Probably a little or a lot grayer, I’m guessing.”

Joe started to speak again… but abruptly stopped. After a lengthy pause I said. “That’s alright, Joe.... you can tell me everything. What is it?”

“There are a couple more things you really should know. A source inside the prison tells me that Dupree, over his last six months in jail, had used the library computer to search both your name and Darcy’s. Unfortunately, the search review log includes a link to your town web site…. Easton, Maryland. I have no idea how he could have come up with that piece of info…. but I don’t like it worth a damn. He even came up with a link to the University of Maryland. Isn’t that where Darcy was teaching as an adjunct professor when she was killed?”

My heart sank. “Damn it all to hell.”

“I don’t know where he could have come up with those leads, Lyle.”

“Yeah, I think I do, Joe. He must have called on his old mob connections in Boston and Providence to fill in those blanks. Darcy wrote in her notes that Dupree was suspected of being involved in some extensive racketeering and drug related activity while he was a young cop in Providence and Maine. Those mob guys know as much about us agents these days as we know about them. Obviously, he was in their hip pocket and they exchanged favors.”

The frightening import of what I had just said suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks.

Oh, Lord Jesus. Why wasn’t I ready for this nightmare? Why didn’t I think this through? Darcy… I’m so sorry, I said to myself again.

Wilson added: “Oh, and there’s one more thing… almost forgot. The word I’m getting here is that your buddy Pritchard has recently learned, probably within the last few days, everything I’ve just told you. He also has a copy of the same photo I’m sending you now. I’m guessing he has his team hot on the case now… actively looking for him too. The Bureau psych profilers in WFO have a list of likely suspects. All guys you put away. Dupree is on that list.”

“What about Dupree’s financial situation?” I asked.

“Got it. He has old bank accounts in both Providence and Carrabassett. Both still open but with no activity in many years. However, there is one particular account in his name. It was opened up only six months ago in Baltimore. It has about twenty-four hundred dollars in it. He’s the only signatory.”

Shit.

“Thanks, Joe, you’re a good friend.”

Joe answered, “Not so much of a good friend that I’d be willing to be fired or censored if the shit hits the fan on this, Lyle. You get that, right?”

“I understand, buddy. If it does, your name will never be mentioned. Not by me. I’d like the same assurance from you.”

“You got it.”

After a long awkward pause, I said: “Don’t worry about me, Joe. I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize your career or our friendship.”

“I know that. But don’t you go and jeopardize your own well-being either.”

“Sure, thanks, Joe.”

“Hey, I‘m serious. You should think twice about trying to take on this guy and bring him down all by yourself. That could be very dangerous…. on a lot of different levels.”

I answered, “In the final analysis, all risks in life are calculated….and even more important…. calculable. This one is no different.”

“If you say so. Good hunting…I mean… good luck, Lyle. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

I stood, ended the call and looked up at the clouds scuttling past the marsh in a brisk northeast wind.

Sorry, love. I know you’re worried about me. But the way I see it, this guy has already taken my life… the day he took yours. The God’s truth is …. I’m already a dead man. I’d rather he kill me today, than live another day without you. I’m going to jump all over this chance to take him down…. personally. I’m going to keep my promise to him.

The thing is though… I know Prichard’s team is very good…. reliably professional. But he tends to be too cautious and heavy handed at the same time. He over plans. Over thinks. He would rather send in an entire SWAT team to disarm one old homeless drunk holed up with a gun, than wait for him to make his move. No…. he’s not the right guy for this job. He would screw it up somehow. I can do this just as well, if not better, than he.

I looked up at the house and pictured Darcy’s beautiful smiling face, …. I thought: So, my love, if you have any strong objection to what I’m about to do…. speak now or forever hold your peace.

I waited the appropriate time for a direct response… in total silence. I then lowered my head and smiled to myself. No objection? OK, then… let the games begin.

JUST LIKE THE OLD DAYS

I jumped in my Jeep and drove into Easton. I had a hunch…. a long shot, I admit…. but… what the hell. I had nothing else penciled in on my calendar.

I walked into the only art supply store in town. Just as it was closing. The place was empty except for a young blond female clerk in her twenties. I showed her my FBI credentials and said, “Good afternoon, Miss. I was wondering…. Just how would you gauge your powers of observation?”

“Excuse me? Have we met before?” she answered with a wry smile.

“Not till this moment. Neither my wife nor I know the first thing about art. I wouldn’t know a brush from an easel. And I’ve never been in your fine establishment before now.”

“Are you looking for something, or someone, in particular?” she asked.

I laughed. “Yep, you might say that.”

“So, how can I help you, sir?”

I took out the red graphite pencil from my pocket and showed it to her. “Do you sell these?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Graphite pencils. They’re used for artist sketches. You know, for rough outlines of figures and shapes.”

“How many of your customers come in here for this kind of pencil?”

“About a half dozen or so.”

“Regulars?”

“Yes, I know most of the artists in town.”

“Is there another art supply business in town?”

“Well, yes, there is another much smaller supplier… but he’s affiliated with the local hardware store around the corner. We’re the best known and the best stocked in town.”

“Do you recall if a non-regular customer, a stranger, came in here within the last five or six weeks and bought this pencil?”

The young woman looked at me, grinned and asked. “Is he on the FBI’s most wanted list?”

I returned the smile and answered, “Is who on our most wanted list?”

She looked around the store and lowered her voice. “I don’t have any idea who he was. I can only tell you what he was. “

“Ok then…. what exactly was he?”

“It was about one or two months ago. He was nasty and really surly. That’s what he was. He got really angry when I told him these pencils came in a packet of a half dozen rather than being sold individually. He slammed the money on the counter, glared at me, mumbled something obscene and rushed outside.”

“Please describe him for me.”

“About six foot tall, very well built. He was… I would say… powerful looking. I remember he had very dark eyes and had a short gray haircut. Clean shaven, I believe. Oh……and he was chewing Big Red gum.”

“Really? How do you know that?”

“Because that’s all my dad ever chewed. It has a distinct cinnamon smell. I kinda’ like it. But didn’t care much for that man though.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about his teeth?”

“No. He never smiled and didn’t say much. He seemed really pissed off and in a big hurry.”

“Did you notice where he went when he left the store? Did he have a car?”

“I didn’t notice. He walked in …and walked out. He was by himself.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Some kind of hooded sweatshirt, gray I think…and dark workpants. No hat, no sunglasses.”

Bold, cocky piece of shit, I thought. You can’t wait to mix it up with me, can you, Dupree? And you don’t care who knows about it, do you?

“Did you notice any tattoos on his arms?”

“Funny you should ask me that. His sweatshirt was long sleeved but at one point when he pulled out his wallet, I thought I saw some red ink on his right forearm. Couldn’t tell what it was. A red bird maybe?”

I laughed. “The red dragon…. how did you happen to notice something like that?”

She smiled. “Because I’ve been thinking about getting one myself. Over my dad’s ‘dead body’, of course. And I’ve been checking out everything I can, on everyone I meet, men and women, for one that I really like. I don’t care for dragons though.”

I looked up at the ceiling over the counter. “Do you have any security cameras in the store?”

“No sir…should I?”

I checked my watch. “That’s ok, you’ve been very helpful”, I said. As I walked out of the store, I turned and added “and, by the way, extremely observant too. Well done, indeed. Thank you, Miss.”

I drove home and sat on my enclosed rear porch for the next two hours…. just thinking.

Maybe Joe Wilson is right. It might be a lot easier to nail this guy if I had Bureau help. But Dupree would figure that out…he would see immediately that others were camped out here on the property. All of them involved in his potential capture. He would know that we could make life difficult for him... skewering his odds. No. That won’t do. He has to know, or at least believe, that I’m alone…with no backup…. no support.

My thoughts ran to the most common piece of trapping equipment in this part of the world. The simple rectangular Chesapeake crab trap…with a funneled, narrowed opening for the female sook to enter in search of her mate…her jimmy. Once inside, her disorientation and her frustration to find a way out would lead her eventually to her culinary doom. And straight onto my dinner plate as a delicious well-seasoned crab cake.

Aggressively searching for Dupree would be useless in my situation. Rather, I needed to wait and guide Dupree into my own customized, narrow, funneled trap. Into a time and environment of my own choosing. I’ll lead him directly to me… on my terms. Not in the woods… not in the house… not in the marsh… almost all of which he probably already knows are under camera surveillance. But in the place where I feel most at home… my boat. The long dock, carved out of the dense marsh grasses, was like a long runway funnel…open, unimpeded… direct ….and narrow.

BAITING THE TRAP

The next twenty-four hours were tediously uneventful. On the second night I was alone aboard my boat. The security monitors in the house were unattended. The full moon was peeking her head up over the eastern horizon…. brilliant in her gauzelike luminescence. She casted her long train of silver light along the smooth surface of the water, coming to rest on the shining black hull of my prized possession … the Windhover. I was crouched low in the forward cabin kneeling on the companionway steps, scanning the night vision glasses back and forth over the entire bay side of the property…and especially over the tall, dense salt grasses which flanked and arched over the edges of the dock. A barn owl hooted in the distance. A lone cicada called out to his silent mate, breaking up the silence.

Over my left shoulder, I cocked my ear towards a low engine hum approaching from the western reaches of the bay. A few seconds later I saw it in the moonlight. A small white skiff crept into the quiet shelter of the cove without causing so much as a cat’s paw or ripple on the water.

He’s good… a real Chesapeake waterman…. this one. I’ll have to thank John for honoring my ‘No Wake Zone’ sign.

Suddenly the engine sound died and I heard a whisper carry across the water. “Mister Beckwith, are you there?”

I stepped out onto the deck and saw him …on his knees …. kneeling on the bow of a sleek, low-profile vessel. The boat glided soundlessly up to my starboard gunwale. A young man dressed entirely in black waved and tossed me a line. I caught it and threw a loop around a cleat. Effortlessly, he stepped onto my boat, without a word spoken. In less than five seconds the mystery boat and its pilot had slid away, back off into the distant darkness.

The young man smiled, extended his hand and said quietly. “We meet again, sir. Agent Brian Petrocelli…. reporting as promised for duty, Mister Beckwith.”

I took his black duffle bag, led him below into the cabin and closed the companionway hatch. We sat in the dark and talked for about ten minutes. “First, the name is Lyle, Brian. Only my students call me Mister. Understood?”

“Yes sir…. I mean Lyle.”

“And secondly, this thing we’re engaged in, and your presence here, at this particular time… as welcome as it would otherwise be under other more normal circumstances …. is being played out under strict protest. My protest. Do you understand that?”

“Agent Pritchard explained everything to me. Yes, I understand.”

“Ok, a few basic ground rules then, Brian. The duration and the conditions of your stay here are entirely within my sole control and discretion. It could be five hours or five days. There will be no countermanding my wishes in this regard by you or Agent Pritchard. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Next…. I presume you’ve been told that your role here is basically that of a glorified bodyguard….to keep an eye on me, to protect me against an undefined threat by a recently released convict.”

“Yes, that’s my understanding.”

“Have you been briefed on Deputy Dupree’s background and his connection to my wife?”

“Yes, I have. Are you convinced it’s him rather than the other top suspects?”

“Let’s just say the Vegas odds on Dupree have improved. At least as I now see it.”

“OK, now what?”

“The plan is coming together. Don’t worry. We’ll get him.”

I took another scan of the property through the hatch opening with the infra-red glasses. “I will also insist that you keep out of sight and out of my way as much as humanly possible…preferably remaining inside the house for as long as you’re my guest here. This guy might have me under surveillance, even now as we speak. So, let’s get you inside and into your quarters. You’ll have your own bedroom and bathroom on the upper floor. Do you have night vision equipment, radios, firearms… and the like?”

“Right here in my satchel.”

“Excellent…. any questions, Brian?”

“Yes…. just one, sir.”

“Shoot.”

“I don’t understand why you would refuse the Bureau’s security team. They’re really good. They could protect you against anything or anyone.”

“Not the point, son. I’ll explain this to you only once. What I don’t want is to create an artificial shield around me…. one which, by definition, would be transient. What I want is for this asshole to think bold…to come after me hard…even here on my own property. I want him to think that my guard is down…. that I’m as easy a mark as my unsuspecting wife was. I promise you this… by tomorrow morning you and I will be ready. I’m guessing… or at least hoping he’ll tip toe right into my trap… where I can confront him on my own terms.”

“I’ll help you in any way I can, sir. It will be my honor to do so.”

This kid reminds me so much of myself as a rookie agent, I thought…. as I smiled inwardly.

I answered, “Thank you. And let’s clear something else up right now, Brian. I have the absolute constitutional right to refuse the Bureau’s advice or help in this situation….in case you were wondering. I’m no longer in their employ…or subject to their directives, rules or protocols. I’m retired…a free agent… so to speak. And, much to Agent Pritchard’s chagrin, too much of a free spirit.”

“Actually, I was kind of wondering about that. Thanks for explaining your perspective. It’s not exactly what Agent Pritchard has in mind though.”

“I know. He’ll get over it. Anything else?”

“Yes. If I may say so…. you sound like you really know this guy. I hear you were part of his arrest a long time ago.”

“Indeed, I was. I’ve seen lots of mutts with his criminal, psychological profile…. a dime a dozen. But don’t get me wrong. He’s very clever and intuitive, which is never to be confused with raw innate intelligence. He’s a well-trained survivalist type, deeply motivated to kill me. He’s very likely the same person who has already killed my wife. He’s completed half his mission and knows a lot about what he has left to do…. and how to get it done.”

“He sounds a little unhinged to me…. kind of a loose cannon.”

“He is that…. and much more. He’s dangerous for sure. But I know more than he does. I’m betting he’ll make a mistake…. fatal, I hope. I may be wrong. But if I am, and he somehow manages to kill me…. well, John Pritchard will tell you the rest of the story, in the post mortem.

“You sound really fatalistic about all of this,” Brian said.

I paused for a brief moment and said, “My future means very little to me. My life was turned on its head forever just a few weeks ago. You’re a little young yet to wrap your head around that fully.”

“May I ask…what’s his motivation? Please clear that up for me. Why is he coming after you?”

“Because my wife and I had the audacity to put him behind bars for twenty-five long years.”

“Revenge? Retaliation? That simple?”

“No, not just that. His barbaric murder of a sweet young girl in Maine forty-five years ago was exposed and avenged by someone who was at the very top of his contempt list…. a smart, principled, young, inexperienced student. A non-police amateur….and worst of all … a woman. His misogynist, conceited, insecure psyche just can’t abide that. He had no choice, as he sees it. He’s been driven to teach my wife and her agent husband a lesson that we and the Bureau would not soon forget. What he doesn’t yet realize is that, even after these many years... it’s he who’ll will be on the receiving end of some life lessons.”

When Petrocelli didn’t respond. I paused. “I know I may sound cocky. And maybe I am… to some extent. But he’s made this very personal. And I’m fine with that.”

I changed the subject. “John says you’re an excellent marksman. Is that right?”

“I guess you might say that.”

“What was your firearms ranking… in your Quantico class?”, I asked.

“Number three, sir, in a class of forty-eight.”

“Good.” I grabbed his bag and stepped up onto the deck. “Be extra quiet. Walk softly and follow me, Brian. Oh, and by the way… I was number one in my NAC. And yet, as you will learn, shooting skill always takes a back seat to luck, wit and opportunity.”

Brian and I sat out on the back porch in the dark till midnight. “So, before I turn the protection of my life and safety over to a stranger, why don’t you tell me who you are. Where were you raised… and by whom? Tell me what’s really important in the life of Agent Brian Petrocelli…. you know, the personal stuff.” I yawned and added, “Give me the condensed version if you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all. I grew up in Huntington Long Island in a big blue-collar Italian/Irish family. I’m a practicing Catholic, registered Independent, but I definitely lean Libertarian in my politics. My wife and I are recently married and are now living in Annapolis, Maryland, about forty miles from here by car …or a lot shorter as the crow flies…. or as the boat sails, in this case. My dad and two brothers are all New York City cops. My two sisters are still in school. My mom is a nurse. I have a bachelor’s degree from Fordham in philosophy and a law degree from Columbia. Anything else?”

I laughed out loud. “I’m guessing there weren’t too many job openings for philosophers when you graduated. Is that why you went to law school?”

“The truth is …I’ve always wanted to be an FBI agent from the time I was a kid. Sort of a dream of mine.”

After a long silent pause, I said, “Yeah Brian, me too. Next to Darcy Farrell, that’s all I ever wanted in my life.”

I stood up and turned on a small desk lamp so I could look at and study his face in the light. “You know what the letters FBI represent, I presume?”

“Of course. Fidelity, Bravery and Integrity.”

“Which of the three is your strong suit. The most important to you…if any?”

Petrocelli didn’t hesitate. “I would have to say Fidelity. Anyone can muster up some bravery when he has to, you know, when the heat is turned on. Integrity… well, that’s something that is unique…. entirely private and personal to every individual.”

I stared at him for several seconds and smiled. “Very well said… Mister Petrocelli.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I frowned and asked. “As a board-certified philosopher, surely you recall the last words ever spoken by Socrates before he keeled over and dropped dead?”

Brian smiled and answered. “Why do I get the feeling this is not going to be historically accurate?”

“The old man looked around at his followers and his antagonists, put down his cup and said, “What the fuck?! I just drank what?!”

Brian sounded a crisp chortle. “Never heard that one before. Pretty funny.”

“Those are pretty much the exact words I want to hear on Dupree’s dying lips. ‘What the fuck just happened?’”

A long furrow crept over Brian’s brow. “I need to ask you a really personal question…. Lyle…. Sir.”

“I think I know what it is. But go ahead.”

“Is it your intention, if and when you ever come up against this guy… assuming he’s stupid enough to come after you on your own home court... to kill the man?”

“We’ll see what happens,” was my short reply.

Petrocelli drew a deep breath and said slowly, “If I may be so bold…. that doesn’t answer my question… that doesn’t square with Bureau policy in apprehending subjects.”

“Trust me, Brian. I never have, except once in my life, violated Bureau protocol. I’m not about to start now.”

“Yeah, but……”

“There are no buts. I will defend myself with lethal force if it comes to it. And, by the way, I expect you would do the same. Am I correct in that presumption?”

“Well, Christ…. of course. But I’m not going to gun down a man without justifiable cause.”

“Good answer. How many times have you fired your weapon in the line of duty, Agent Petrocelli?”

“I’ve drawn it only once but never fired at a suspect. I had a warrant for this guy who I watched climb onto his Harley, laugh then give me the finger. He actually taunted me and shouted, ’so, shoot, FBI!’ I really wanted to, but I let him speed away. There were too many folks standing around. I did shoot and kill an attack dog… a, German Shepherd, once in a pre-dawn raid in a joint drug operation with DEA. Had no choice. What about you? Ever fire your gun?”

“Once…. I got caught in the heat of a really messy shootout … when I was about your age. It was all over in seconds. Let’s just say that when the fugitive surprised, shot and killed a DEA agent buddy of mine…. I made sure he wouldn’t hurt anyone else.”

After another minute of silence, I said. “Look, this little talk may all be academic. The only constant in our line of work is that nothing is consistent or predictable.”

“But you seem to be sure that he’s coming for you here, right?”

I answered. “There’s no doubt in my mind about that. As I see it, Dupree is a man not just consumed with anger and hatred. He’s consumed with the original sin of mankind. Dating back to the Garden of Eden. He has an obsession with proving he’s smarter than anyone else. He has to prove he can outwit me.”

“So, what makes you so sure you can win this face off?”

“Because it is my experience that a man blinded by pride and hate will almost always make one too many mistakes. One upon which I will capitalize.”

Petrocelli stared blankly off into the distance. I could read his mind. “Listen, son, if you don’t feel right being a part of this, just say the word and I’ll have Pritchard pull you off the detail….no questions asked. I’ll just tell him I didn’t care for your personality or your company.”

Brian spoke quickly. “That won’t be necessary. It will be my honor to stay here as long as you need me.” He smiled and added, “Besides he’ll never believe that my personality could ever present an issue with anyone.”

I like this kid.

“Ok, let’s give this a shot, shall we?”

THE BEST LAID PLANS OF MICE AND MEN

I led Brian up to the third-floor bedroom, a tidy guest room with front and side window views of the dense woods, the guest house, the driveway and some of the marshland. In it, I had set up an ADT security monitoring system hooked up to the web browser on my PC, with multiple displays of the five camera angles positioned around the property. I had installed floor doorstop alarms at every door entrance to the house, garage, guest house and work shed….and motion sensors at the first-floor windows.

Brian gave me a puzzled look. “You want me to monitor this screen and display? That’s it? What about you? Where do you intend to camp out, while I’m cooped up in this cell?”

I picked up the cue and said, “Not to worry, Brian. You are of enormous value to me just by checking and controlling this new elaborate security system as much as you can. No, I don’t expect you to be locked in here all the time.”

“Am I free to move around?”

“Of course, but only in the dark and with a sharp ear for the monitor. I’ve made a calculated decision. Since I know he’s already been aboard my boat… but not likely here in the house or garage, I’m betting he’ll try that again. I’ll wait for him there on the boat. If he decides to avoid wading through the muck and nighttime swarms of mosquitos in the marsh, the only clear alternative approach is via the long wooden dock. It’s exactly one hundred twenty feet long. I have a strong hunch that he already knows my daily habits. I’m sure he knows that I’m addicted to fishing those waters out there. He’ll know that I often take that boat out twice a day. Once just after sunrise and again an hour or two before dusk.

“Do you think it’s a good idea for us to be physically separated?”

“At night? Yes, I do. We’ll communicate through your wireless radio every hour… religiously. During daylight hours I don’t think he’ll venture out of those woods or marsh, or wherever the hell he’ll be hiding. We’ll figure out some reasonable kind of sleep schedule… probably between midnight and three is better…. alternating between the two of us, of course. This may take more than a couple of days, so I’ve stocked the frig downstairs with a lot of food and drink. No beer please. No music….and no talking…even to yourself. Total silence except when we huddle or use the remote radios. If one of us fails to rendezvous every hour, we’ll presume that the other might be in trouble and needs help. Understood? In that event…three clicks to inquire about status… one click, to confirm all is well.”

“What if your hunch is wrong? What if he gets past the security cameras alarms and breaks into the house somewhere… instead of going to the boat?”

“Well, then…if you see him first … don’t hesitate to shoot him… you can ask questions later. Because, trust me, he won’t hesitate to shoot you. By the way, remember… as long as he’s anywhere inside this house, he’s totally fair game. Outside the house is a slightly more nuanced story…. notwithstanding the chicken shit, anti-stand-and-defend politicians and prosecutors in this state.” I smiled. “In that case, just drag his body in here… over the threshold.”

“Understood.”

“And if he should manage to get the drop on you, or corner you, two clicks on the radio is your distress signal. Incidentally, how are your martial arts skills?”

“Well, I’m pretty quick with my hands, but I much prefer the speed and velocity of a 9 mm. round.”

“Good answer. The bottom line, Brian, is that we can plan all this out till the cows come home. However, as my favorite poet Bobby Burns once said…. those plans…gang aft agley.”

Petrocelli smiled. “I happen to know the poem well.”

“In other words, in the final analysis, the only thing you can count on is personal discipline…. tempered with flexibility. Without that we’re not going to nail this guy.”

Brian stared at me in silence. I asked, “Any more questions?”

“Yes…one. I have to report at least once a day to Pritchard. Do you have a problem with that?”

“None whatsoever. Tell him everything that’s going on here. I’d prefer you make those calls around mid-afternoon. OK?”

“Yes, sir.”

I stifled a sudden urge to yawn and said, “So why don’t you make yourself comfortable here. Fresh towels are in the bathroom and the shades are drawn in there. I’m going to grab a sleeping bag, one more cup of coffee downstairs and crawl into the forward cabin of my boat with my shotgun and my PPK. My guess is that he won’t make his move till he’s absolutely ready. May not even be tonight. Or tomorrow night. Patience is the word of the day.”

“Ok, Lyle… every hour…three clicks…. right?”, Brian answered, with a hint of trepidation in his voice.

“Yep. I’m sure you noticed coming out here on the bay tonight, that the moon is nearly full and the sky is clear. It’s brighter than Luna Park at night out here in the summer. He’ll likely either wait a few nights or till we have full cloud cover.”

“Luna Park?”

“Look it up. A famous amusement park. It’s not far from where you grew up.”

The moon had already risen in all her splendor. She lit up the cove and everything in it with a soft midday glow.

Damn. He won’t make his move tonight.

I settled down into the dark cabin… laid the pump shotgun on the navigation table… picked up my night-vision glasses…. signaled to Brian on the radio… three clicks. He answered with one click. Then I closed the hatch for the night leaving a few inches open at the top. Check, check, and check.

And now… we wait...

WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?

As I lay half asleep wrapped in my blanket, I felt a heavy thump… something seemed to slap sharply against the hull of the boat. In one wild erratic cluster of heartbeats the companionway hatch was shattered by the steel toed boot of an intruder…sending splintered teak fragments all over my head. The muzzle of a shotgun blasted red and orange through the still darkness of the cabin. My chest was torn open. Blood flew everywhere, running into… blinding my eyes.

I gasped, struggling to breathe… holding my hands out to defend myself. I wiped the blood from my eyes and focused.

Jesus. Wake up, Lyle …. for chrissakes… you’re having a nightmare!

In the eerie quiet that followed, the only sound I could hear was my heart pounding in my chest… the blood throbbing and pulsating in my head. I slid the hatch open a few more inches and looked up at a dark sky. The blanket of stars I saw earlier was gone. The moon was obscured by low dark clouds scuttling fast over the marsh, riding the same brisk northeast wind.

Suddenly the blood curdling scream of a screech owl shattered the stillness. I jumped again and grabbed the radio. Three clicks. I had last gotten a one click response from Brian at four am. The moon was still bathing the dock with light then and I must have gotten careless…. over-confident.

Nothing. No response.

Shit…. Brian must be asleep or …in trouble.

I looked at my watch. Four-forty AM. The sun will start spilling some light in the east in around thirty-five minutes.

I peered out into the pitch black. Man, whoever said the darkest hour is just before dawn wasn’t kidding.

“I hate to do this” I said out loud. I clicked twice on the radio. Again… total silence.

This is not good. Should I assume he’s in trouble and stay here in place? Should I stick to the plan? Or should I rush the house and see what the hell has happened to Petrocelli? This kid has become my responsibility now.

In one mercurial, impulsive moment, I slammed the hatch open, grabbed the shotgun and jumped up onto the deck. Suddenly I saw some subtle movement out of the corner of my eye. Out there in the tall grass…. off to my immediate right.

I shot a glance into the spartina and could barely make out the outlined image of a man, perfectly disguised in the greens and browns of a complete camo outfit. He was pointing a scoped black semi-automatic rifle right at my chest. I heard a rough gravelly voice say. “Stand where you are, Beckwith. Lay the gun down on the deck …real slow….and raise your hands above your head.”

As my eyes adapted to the darkness, I saw his head. It was Dupree, his face and hands smeared in mud. The only brightness… coming from the whites of his eyes and his teeth.

My mind raced with possibilities… one worse than the other. Well, your plan worked, you idiot. He’s come to you just like you wanted. He’s entered the trap. But you blew your cover and now you’re the one trapped. Goddamned idiot!

My thoughts went to Petrocelli as I heard Dupree say. “Wondering about your friend up at the house, Lyle?”

“And who might that be?”

Dupree growled, “Don’t fuck with me, man. He’s no use to you now. It’s just you and me…mano a mano.”

“What did you do to him?”

Dupree laughed. “Actually nothing. He’s upstairs in his room nodding off in front of your stupid monitor. He doesn’t even know I’m here with you… on your pretty little Chesapeake deadrise. All of your surveillance cameras have been disabled. They’re no good to you now. He’s looking at a blank screen.”

I said nothing, my mind trying to slow down my thinking.

He added, “Oh, and by the way, this is a very nice, sturdy little fishing rig, Beckwith… my compliments.”

Is he lying to me about Petrocelli? Was all of that a bluff?

“How do I know you haven’t killed him?”, I said.

“I’m going to prove to you that your young agent friend is safe and sound. Would you like to talk to him? Would you like to hear his voice?”

“How do you propose I do that?”

“Easy. We’re going to go below… you and me. You’re going to break your stupid little code of silence and actually call him and speak to him on that remote radio of yours.”

“Why would I do that? For what purpose?”

Dupree flashed a wide grin, exposing the gapped front teeth, “You’ll see, soon enough.”

Dupree suddenly stepped forward, quickly swung his left leg over gunwale and climbed up onto the deck. The boat rocked under his weight. His military style boots tracked thick black mud onto the boat.

Dupree waved his rifle towards me and said, “Move away from that gun, Beckwith. If you don’t do exactly what I say from this point on, I’ll kill you where you stand. And then I’ll march up to the house and butcher your buddy. If you follow my orders, I’ll spare his young life. Those are my terms. Take them or leave them.”

“How the hell do you expect to get away with any of this, Dupree?”

“I already have. I’m halfway there. The rest of my plan for you is so simple… a beauty to behold. You and me are going to do a little fishing this morning. I hear the rockfish down here are almost as big as our land locked Maine salmon. Is that true?”

Dupree waved me over to the transom with the barrel of his rifle. “Sit down here and don’t twitch a muscle.”

He picked up my shotgun and flung it out into deeper water off the port stern. “Where’s the other gun…. below?”

I didn’t answer.

“Tell me where that other fucking gun is or I go up to the house and blow that kid’s brains out. Now!”

I stepped below into the cabin with the muzzle of his rifle pressing into the back of my skull. I pointed to the drawer under the navigation table. “In there.”

Dupree retrieved it in seconds and shoved it into his waistband. “A PPK…. nice, Beckwith…you have some class. Unlike that slut you called your wife.” He grinned and raised the gun to his shoulder.

White heat flashed through my brain. My thoughts went to our final exchange on that rocky mountainside so many years ago. “How’s the hip, Deputy? I notice you’re still walking with a limp. I bet it’s real painful in cold damp weather.”

Dupree reflexively grabbed his right hip, and said, “A lucky shot by that imbecile, Allerton. I should have eliminated him and your wife when I had the chance.”

“You’re the lucky one, Dupree. My shot would have been a lot more definitive…. much better placed.”

He glared at me. “Shut the fuck up... I can take you out now with one well-placed shot or work up your body one round at a time…. over a long period of time…. ankle… knee… hip. Would you prefer that? It’s your call…. Professor.”

He spotted the radio, pointed to it and said, “Speaking of calls, get junior on the two-way now.”

“And say what?”

“Tell him you’re tired of waiting for me to make my move and that you’ve decided to go out with the sun this morning for a quiet day of fishing. Tell him to take the rest of the day off…. go into town … repair the broken security cameras…whatever. Just tell him to relax and get lost… you won’t need him for the rest of the day.”

“What makes you think he’ll believe that line of shit? Doesn’t make sense.”

“Make him believe it, Professor. I know all of the little telltale signs for distress and danger on police radio calls… so, no games. I mean it. If you slip up, I’ll kill you now.”

I picked up the radio and held down the transmit button.

“Brian, It’s Lyle. Come in please.”

I repeated the message three times… no response.

I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I haven’t been able to raise him for a while now.”

Dupree shoved the gun in my ribs and snarled. “Then call him on your goddamned cell phone. Do it now. And put him on speaker.”

I considered lying about having it with me… but yielded to my instinct for survival. I took out my phone and dialed the number I had entered earlier that evening for my new contact Brian Petrocelli.

He picked up on the first ring. “Why are you calling me on the phone? And why aren’t you responding to my clicks?”, he answered hurriedly.

“Brian, did you double check the radio batteries earlier today?”

After a long pause, he mumbled, “Uh…….no I didn’t. Sorry, no excuse.”

“Well, never mind about that now. It was a quiet night here. The sun will be up in a few minutes and I’ve decided to change the game plan. I’m taking the day off to do a little fishing down the coast for some striped bass. I’d ask you to join me but I need you to stay here and keep your eye on the place. Why don’t you go into town with my Jeep later and see if you can replace whatever cameras that might not be working... and get some fresh batteries for the radios.”

Brian was quick on the rebound. “Hold on, how did you know about that? The cameras only just went out here about three o’clock this morning. I’ve been trying to reach you since then.”

“Yeah…. I uh…noticed yesterday before you got here that a couple of them were acting up…. the signals were very poor. I should have told you.”

Brian sensed something. I could tell. His voice crackled through the receiver, “Is everything all right, sir? Do you need anything?”

“No… thanks. I just need a little sleep…. and a few fish for our dinner. I should be back after the turn of the ebb tide…around mid-afternoon. Hold the fort down… you’re in charge. Do you understand?”

“Aye, sir. Roger that.” Came the hesitant response.

I hung up the phone and Dupree said. “What does that mean? You’re in charge?”

“Just a figure of speech…it just means you’re on your own.”

THE LAST SAIL

Dupree looked at the eastern horizon and then his watch. “Come on, let’s get moving. I want to be out there by sunrise. Start the engine now.”

My four-cylinder diesel engine sputtered to life in a wispy blue cloud. With Dupree hovering over me like a hawk’s wings covering its kill, I warmed up the engine and tended to the lines and bumpers.

Two minutes later I eased the throttle forward into gear and slid away from the dock. I headed the boat out of the mouth of the cove into the bay. The sun was coming up in a cloudless pink sky over the stern. I looked at the tree tops on shore. “It’s going to be a breezy one today” I said aimlessly.

When Dupree didn’t respond, I asked. “Where exactly are we going?”

“Keep your damn mouth shut. When you get past the inlet, steer a course of 180 degrees…. hug the marsh line as close as you can. But not too close. I don’t want us running aground,” Dupree calmly ordered.

“I usually go right out into deeper water. I don’t know the bottom that well along the edge of the cut to the south.” I protested. “The Bay is two hundred miles long… I’m not familiar with all of it.”

“Shut up. Just do what I tell you. You have a new captain aboard.”

There was a light chop driven by a northerly breeze … pushing us along quickly on a due south course. I finally broke the silence over the monotonous hum of the engine running at about 2000 rpm. “So how exactly do you plan to dispose of my body?”

Dupree laughed. “Don’t worry, professor. I’ve got everything under control. You’re going to have an unfortunate boating accident, Beckwith. An accidental drowning.”

“Everyone knows I’m a strong swimmer. Is that the best you can come up with?” I baited him. “Not very clever.”

Dupree grinned. “But then again, some folks might even think you committed suicide. You know…. what with you losing your beautiful wife so tragically…. and you being so depressed lately. We’ll just keep ‘em guessing, Professor. More fun that way.”

I probed for an opening. “You haven’t thought this through, Dupree.”

“Oh yeah? What the hell does that mean?”

“You’re going to abandon the boat and then what… set it adrift? How do you plan to get off the bay once you’re done with me?”

Dupree’s laugh bellowed through the cabin. “I don’t usually discuss my plans in detail with any of my subjects. But, in this case, since you’re such a big shot FBI authority, I’ll share them with you. You know… from one professional to another. After the deed is done, I’m meeting up with someone down near Smith Island.”

“Smith Island? That at least fifty miles from Easton. Everyone who knows me knows I don’t fish that far south.”

“I know, Professor. In about an hour you’re going to call your young agent friend on the cell and tell him you’ve traveled farther out on the bay than usual and not to expect you back before late afternoon.”

“And then what?”

“Then… after I dispose of your body…. which, by the way, will be found with your leg tangled up in your anchor chain... I’ll transfer onto another boat and be off and running before your friend begins to realize you’re overdue at home.”

“And the guy on this other boat…. is he the one who dropped you off onto my property last night?”

Dupree smirked. “That’s right.”

“And you took the long path down to the water through the woods?”

“Yep. And I saw that lame excuse for a duck blind. You must be kidding. Were you actually hoping to conceal yourself in that thing? You’re pathetic, Beckwith.”

I ignored his question and said, “I’ve got to ask you this, Dupree. How the hell did you convince anyone with a sound mind to help you in this? He must be a certified idiot. And how can you trust your friend not to turn you in later when the pressure on him ramps up?”

“Because he’s not just a friend…. he’s blood… not water”, he answered heatedly and reflexively.

“A brother? You don’t have any brothers.”

Dupree’s voice suddenly grew agitated. “That’s none of your fucking business who he is. You’ll never get to meet him anyway.”

For the next sixty minutes, as we motored south without exchanging a word, I scanned the horizon looking for any sign of a conservation officer out on patrol…. or any one of my fishing buddies. I saw a cluster of bay men out scraping for blue claw and a couple of private boats fishing. Dupree ordered me to keep my distance…. no closer than a quarter mile. Each time I eased the wheel off course and angled towards them, he poked my ribs with the barrel of the gun and said nothing. He didn’t have to.

I pointed to a couple of the crab boats. “You know, Dupree, some of these guys you’re carefully avoiding know me and my rig very well.”

“Good. So much the better when the police and the coast guard start piecing together your terrible bad luck. You know, later on, when they do the post-mortem.”

Suddenly a clear voice boomed over my Marine VHF radio. “Hey Lyle….is that you? Where you headed in such a hurry? This is Mike … aboard the Angela Marie. Come on back…”

I instinctively reached for the microphone. Dupree lunged at me and punched it out of my hand. He had momentarily taken his hand off the trigger guard.

It’s now or never, Lyle. Make your move, for chrissakes. Now.

I swung my arm hard out to my left, grabbed the barrel of the AR 15 and pushed it over to the portside, bending back Dupree’s wrist. The gun fell to the floor.

“You’re a fucking dead man, Beckwith”, he screamed.

I jumped away from the console, reached over to the starboard bulkhead and grabbed my six-inch serrated fishing knife… all in one long simultaneous move.

Dupree pulled my PPK from his waist band and fumbled with it for a moment. “You forgot about this, asshole.”

My brain ran through rapid fire scenarios…watching Dupree flick off the safety and drawing back the hammer… it was all happening in slow motion. Oh God, did I chamber a round last night before I put the gun in the drawer. Shit…this is it. I have to move.

Dupree saw the knife in my hand and didn’t have time to rack the slide. In an instant he leveled the gun at my chest and pulled the trigger. No muzzle flash, no smoky blast…. nothing.

Thank you, Jesus… no round in the chamber.

I jumped straight at Dupree and in one continuous motion thrust my knife deep into his upper belly. I twisted it and pulled it across his gut, left to right… in the traditional seppuku style.

He groaned, dropped the gun, and collapsed to his knees like a wet sack of flour. But, in the next instant he bolted to his feet and scampered up the steps out onto the deck where he collapsed again. He lay on his back staring into oblivion. The blood was like nothing I had ever seen. Pulsating and flowing from his sliced open abdomen. I quickly envisioned a distant memory…. when my father had slaughtered the family hog, in front of us kids. I grabbed a dirty towel on the deck and pressed it up against the wound. “Press this as hard as you can, Deputy”, I said.

I bent over, grabbed my PPK, chambered a round and held it to Dupree’s head. He lay on his back… staring into the sun…. clutching his stomach…. as he slowly opened his eyes.

He spoke in a hoarse whisper. “I have to hand it to you Beckwith. I didn’t expect that at all.”

During the entire confrontation, the boat had continued to run on for about a mile, well beyond the view of my buddy aboard the Angela Marie.

OK, now what? Do I try to save this guy and get him to a hospital? Do I contact the Coast Guard? Should I do anything at all?

In that moment, my mind went into overdrive. Shifting from one violent image to another. I don’t know why…but I thought once again of that mountainside confrontation between me and Dupree. I remembered the way he had begun to put his slow execution plan for Darcy into motion. I thought of the way he had bear-baited Libby Browne’s body. I saw my wife’s body lying face down in the crushed oyster shell …her life’s blood pouring out of her…. sucked into the parched ground.

I stared at the man who had destroyed so many lives…including my own. He was moaning, slipping in and out of consciousness.

Slow it down…think, man. Collect your thoughts, Lyle. You’re only going to have one shot at this. Make it count.

I jumped below, slid the throttle into neutral and picked up the microphone. The boat momentarily rose in the water, slowing quickly. I started to raise the Angela Marie on the VHF… but the words froze in my throat. I took my thumb off the transmit button and scanned the horizon.

Don’t’ make that call, Lyle. He’s dying for sure. Nothing, no doctor, can save him now. Not even you. Especially not you.

I knew I had shoved that knife in his gut, deep…. up to the hilt. I knew I had severed, or at least nicked, a major artery. I leaned over Dupree and said, “Can you hear me, Deputy?”

His breathing was raspy…. labored. His gravel voice was joined by an eerie grin. “Yeah, I hear you. I think you may have killed me, Professor. I’ve gutted enough animals in my time… to know when I’m as good as dead.”

Remembering my evidence class in law school, I tried to squeeze out what trial lawyers call a dying declaration. “Why don’t you clear your conscience now before it’s too late? Tell me that you shot and killed my wife, Dupree. Say the words.”

Gaseous, foamy blood gurgled from his mouth as he chuckled softly. “I guess you might say I had a hand in it.”

I was stunned. My heart still racing. “Jesus… why did you go to all this trouble? You could have killed me early this morning at the dock. You could have avoided this whole charade.”

When he didn’t answer, I added. “Tell me, dammit…. did you kill her?”

“You can’t prove I killed her. Sorry, Beckwith… but I was in Providence at the time. I was nowhere near your property. You can’t connect me to her death…. any more than they could have tied me into yours.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”, I asked.

Dupree seemed to have suddenly recovered some strength and energy. His voice seemed to surge with newfound vitality. He lifted his head and looked squarely into my face. “They have no proof I killed your wife. They’ve got nothing. I wanted to go two for two with you today…. until you fucked it all up.”

I wanted to place a round in his head right then and there. To end his obnoxious rambling. “You’re not making any sense, Dupree. Shut your mouth and save your energy and breath.”

“Do you want to know my rock-solid alibi for today, Beckwith? I’m not even here. No, sir. At this moment, I’m across the Bay in Baltimore.”

Suddenly the thought crashed squarely in my face. I remembered something Chief Bradley and Darcy had footnoted in one of their reports to me more than twenty-five years ago. I grabbed him by his collar and jerked his head forward. “Who the hell are you meeting down at Smith Island?”

He groaned again. “Fuck you, Beckwith.”

A blinding white heat flashed through my brain. “Tell me… you piece of shit. Did you have an accomplice when you killed her? Did you hire someone?”

Dupree’s ashen face simply broke into a bloody grin. And he said nothing. He had pushed me over the line… past the point of no return.

“Ok, Dupree… we’re done here. How are you doing?”

“Actually, I feel a little better than I did a few minutes ago.” He closed his eyes for a brief moment then added. “But I feel kinda’ numb and really cold.”

“Yeah, that’s the euphoria, the mental confusion and the hypothermia all coming together from severe loss of blood.”

Dupree suddenly grew agitated. His first real sign of desperation and panic. He momentarily grew quiet then suddenly blurted out. “Don’t let me die…. not now… not like this. Please, help me, Beckwith.”

“It’s a little late for that. You’re going to bleed out by the time I get you help. There’s nothing I can do for you now.”

“Sure, there is, man.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Get on that radio… call for help. Turn this boat around and get me to a hospital… or the Coast Guard. Do something, Beckwith. Don’t let me bleed out like a pig.”

I stared at the dying, pleading man. “Come on, get up on your feet.”

“What?! I can’t!!”

“Sure, you can.” I leaned over and dragged the dead weight of his body by his shoulders to the edge of the transom. “I’ll help you. Sit up here on the transom and get some fresh air.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

He couldn’t move on his own. I lifted and pulled him under his shoulders, with all the strength I could muster. I got him into a slightly bent, but upright sitting position on the gunwale, his back to the water.

“What the hell are you doing, Beckwith?” he yelled, still clutching his stomach.

“You know, Dupree, the thought just occurred to me that that we both have our unique areas of expertise. Except that we use them in different ways… towards different goals.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Well… you’re a north-woods, mountain kind of guy. You know….an expert on bear baiting and all that hunting stuff. I’m just a low country boy who knows how to bait for any kind of fish or sea critter.”

A panicked look of awareness suddenly came over Dupree’s face as he followed my gaze out towards the water about fifty yards off the starboard bow. There, swirling through the low chop was a giant school of bait fish… bunkers…. leaping and diving…exploding from the surface of the water…. in a mad frenzy to avoid the voracious predators circling and marauding them below. A few minutes earlier I had spotted their familiar gray dorsal fins. I knew these guys. The aggressive bull shark was a native to the Chesapeake. I had seen them occasionally in the upper reaches of the Bay as far north as the Patuxent River. They reached three to four hundred pounds and were documented in an unusual number of human attacks in recent years.

Dupree just gave me a blank stare. Suddenly, he glanced over his shoulder and saw them… at least a dozen jaw-gaping Bull sharks slashing through the water… just yards away from the boat.

“No!! No no….” he screamed.

“So, what’s your expert opinion, Dupree? Do you think bears’ jaws are as powerful as shark jaws…… their teeth as sharp as shark teeth?”

“No! Please ...” he cried.

I reached into the fish well and pulled out a thawed bucket of bloody, bunker chum. “Do you know what this is, Deputy?”

His frantic wide-eyed look answered the question… without need for words.

I said, “It’s really no different than bear bait… except it’s more useful in a marine environment… if you catch my drift.”

I grabbed a ladle, scooped out a measure of ground up chum and flung it into his face. “What do you think, Dupree? Does this remind you of anything or anyone in particular?”

I continued to bait him…. literally and figuratively. “Up until a few minutes ago you had a choice. To cooperate with me, to tell me who your accomplice was. I even gave you a chance to clear your filthy conscience, assuming you have one left hiding somewhere inside you. And assuming you have any belief in an afterlife. And the best part… I offered you the golden opportunity to die quietly…. peacefully…. gradually losing consciousness.”

I pointed to the water and spoke slowly. “Instead of in the middle of that deadly monstrous chaos.”

“No! Don’t do it.” he muttered in a reflexive note of panic.

“Do you remember my promise to you, Dupree? To scatter your blood like wind on the water.”

He looked confused at first. But then his eyes exploded in his raw panicked recall. He was reliving that mountainside incident…. unlocked and spilling out of his memory.

I held up the chum ladle and pointed it at him. “You might say that I’m just bringing things full circle, Deputy. If you live by the sword… you die by the sword. Once again, are you catching my drift here?””

“Please… just tell me… what do you want?! I’ll say whatever you want me to say”, he screamed, blood spurting from his mouth.

“Right now, the only thing I want you to do is to picture the face of Libby Browne… her bait scented body lying in that ravine, with your rifle bullet lodged in her heart. Remember her?”

“Is that what this is all about!” he yelled, as he grabbed his gut. “That little Brahmin bitch?”

In a flash of blind, impulsive rage, I lunged forward and reached out with both arms fully extended, elbows locked, to shove him over the gunwale. But before I could reach him and put my hands on him, I saw his eyes roll up back into this head. He slumped backwards… heels thrown up into the air … overboard. His arms flailed wildly as he hit the water. I watched in awed silence as if being played out in slow motion. He didn’t utter a sound as his body was pulled and jerked beneath the surface. And then, suddenly, he rose up out of the water in his wild dance of death… his eyes opened wide with fear… his mouth gasping for air.

It was over in less than a minute. I watched in wonder as his body was ripped apart, dismembered and consigned to the depths of the Chesapeake. The aqua green water turned bright red as his lingering remains swirled and mixed with the carcasses and blood of countless thousands of bunker fish.

I had been out on the Bay for nearly three fear filled hours. I spent the next four hours sitting at the helm, wandering slowly and aimlessly through the backwater coves and estuaries…. avoiding all other craft…. trying to clear my head. I plotted the sequelae… the unavoidable aftermath…. the myriad of questions that would come rushing at me from Petrocelli… Pritchard…. the Director.

Use this time to get your story straight, Lyle. You’ve got to get this perfect.

The afternoon turned out to be brutally hot. The wind shifted out of the south-southwest… a dramatic one hundred eighty -degree turnaround from the cool morning wind. I removed my shirt and pants, rinsed out the soaked blood over the side of the boat in the bay water, and laid them out to dry quickly on the bulkhead, in the hot midday sun. I retrieved my knife and Dupree’s AR 15 from the cabin and tossed them both out into deep water. I wiped down the cabin floor with a towel, and tossed it into the water. Finally, I cleaned off my PPK and returned it to my chart drawer.

I went through the checklist. Ok, now it’s time to face what’s waiting for me at the dock.

I don’t know why but, suddenly, an image of Lady Liberty popped into my head.

I thought. Finally, after all these years, I get to place my heavy thumb on her tender scales of justice. And damnation…. if this doesn’t feel really good! Despite the blindfold, I knew the Lady saw everything I did out here today. And yet, she managed to look away… seemed to smile and said nothing.

NOW WHAT?

I didn’t anticipate agent Pritchard waiting for me at the dock. After tying up, he stared at me and the bloodied deck for a full minute before I finally answered his question. “Ok, give me the good news first”, I said.

“The good news is that we’ve located Dupree. We’ve got him, Lyle…. or I should say, we had him. He was arrested three o’clock this morning… on a driving while impaired charge by the Maryland State Police in Baltimore. Unfortunately, he made cash bail a few hours ago, before the Bureau learned of his arrest. There should have been an FBI hold on him. But the troopers were in the middle of a shift change, coming off a busy night and didn’t check on it till he was let out of the system. But we have an excellent description and photo of him and his pickup truck. They’ve got an APB out on him now. It’s just a matter of time before we pick him up.”

This ought to be interesting, I thought. “So, what’s the bad news, then?”

“The bad news is that unfortunately your wife’s real killer is still on the loose. And, as we originally thought, it doesn’t appear to be Dupree after all.”

I furthered the charade. “Really? How do you know that?”, I asked.

“Because, when Dupree was arrested last night in Baltimore, they found something very interesting in the glove box of his truck. It was that unanswered traffic ticket, the one I learned about a few days ago. The one citing him for running a stop sign in Providence, on the exact date and pretty much the same time of day that Darcy was killed. Dupree was in Providence Rhode Island. About four hundred miles from here on the day of Darcy’s murder.”

“Really? Well, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you too, John.”, I answered.

John cocked his head to the side. “What’s that?”

I explained, “The Providence traffic law violator wasn’t Dupree. The guy they stopped in Providence and the guy they just arrested outside Baltimore last night. … they’re probably the same guy. But… it wasn’t Dupree.”

John’s voice grew irritated. “What the hell are you saying?”

I said, “The Maryland troopers picked up the wrong man.”

“How the hell do you know that, Lyle? Is this another one of your crazy hunches?”

“No. It’s a lot better than that.”

“Lyle. Listen to yourself. The drunk driver in Baltimore was carrying Dupree’s identification, license, registration. The troopers compared him with a prior arrest mug shot. He looks identical. He fits Dupree’s description perfectly…. weight, coloring, hair. Everything except his height…. which is off by an inch. That could be a simple clerical error.”

“Do you have the State Police booking photo of this guy?”

“No, not yet, but I’m sure I can get it by tomorrow morning. Why do you ask?”, said Pritchard.

“When you get it, see if he has a huge gap between his upper front teeth. I’ll bet you a dollar that he doesn’t. I’ll bet you another dollar that his fingerprints don’t match up with Jacques Dupree either.”

Pritchard raised his voice. “What the hell? How exactly would you know all this, Lyle?”

I smiled, “It all came roaring back to me this afternoon while I was drifting out there on the bay. Right now, I want you to take a walk with me, back up to the house. I’m going to pull out Darcy’s twenty-five-year-old reports. We’re going to read a post arrest report by Chief Bradley… you and me together … a footnote that will knock your socks off.”

“What is it?”

“Darcy learned that Dupree has an identical twin brother. He’s known today as Giancarlo Cicilline…. who, we were told, allegedly died at birth, along with their mother. Except, that as it turns out… Giancarlo didn’t die at all. He was adopted almost immediately, under very secretive circumstances, by someone who later became a capo in the Patriarca crime family in Providence. Our suspect, the other twin, Jacques Dupree, was adopted at about the same time by an entirely different family. Neither adopting family was related or known to the other. The brothers never learned about each other’s existence until many years later. By then, Dupree was a teenager whose own adoptive mother passed away suddenly. We don’t know the particulars yet, but, very soon afterwards, he went to live with his mob connected twin Giancarlo…. without ever changing his name.”

“Holy shit. Then, where the hell does that leave us?”

“Exactly where we started. Out in the middle of nowhere.” I answered.

John breathed a soft sigh. “Jesus. Dupree was using his brother to create an almost perfect alibi. He turned his own brother into an accomplice to murder.”

“Yeah, how about that?”, I said.

“So now we’re looking for two killers instead of one?”

Not exactly, John. But I’ve solved at least half of our problem, my friend. I said quietly to myself. “Yep, afraid so. Two killers on the loose”, I said.

John asked, “I’ll take your word for all of this. I don’t need to read Darcy’s report right now. But would you copy and send me all your Brahmin reports and notes please?”

“Will do.”

Pritchard looked around and said, “Where is Agent Petrocelli? I noticed your Jeep is not in the driveway. Is he out running an errand for you?”

“Yep. He’s picking up some supplies and security cameras in town.”

John said. “Good. I have a hunch you’re going to need them more than ever now. At least till we can locate both these guys. Listen, Lyle… I have to go. I’ll be in touch very soon. I’ve got to get back to the office right away. Tell Brian to stay here a few more days. You’re going to need him. Especially now. His job isn’t done yet.”

“Nope. He’s done.”

“But he…”

“He’s done here, John. He’s a great kid, a good agent. But I don’t need or want him here anymore.”

“But this is not over.” John said.

Yeah, well. As far as I’m concerned, it is for me, I thought.

“Funny…. those were Dupree’s last exact words to my wife twenty-five years ago”, I said.

John turned and said, “I have no choice but to presume that this guy, Cicilline, will remain a problem for us…. and for you.”

“I don’t think so”, I said.

“Why the hell not? Are you kidding me?”

I answered. “Do you really think Cicilline can mount the motivation to finish what his brother started? To get involved in yet another murder…of me? That’s the million-dollar question at this moment. And I’m betting that he can’t…. and won’t take the trouble to do that.” I turned away, looked out towards the bay and smiled smugly. “As a matter of fact, I’ll bet the farm that when you do finally catch Cicillene, he’ll say that he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of his brother Dupree. Hell, I’m betting he’ll never see him again.”

Especially now that he’s wasted a whole day not being able to find his brother down there at the Smith Island rendezvous point… or anywhere else. Nope, Dupree is part of the marine environment now. No. I’m thinking Cicilline is done with this conspiracy. At least until I can figure a way to deal with him some other time.

“Yeah well, let’s hope you’re right. But I think you’re making a mistake. In any event, I’ve gotta go. Call me later, Lyle.”

Twenty minutes after Prichard left, Petrocelli pulled into the driveway. I was still hosing down the boat deck. He walked out onto the dock and asked. “Was that my supervisor’s car that just passed me in the opposite direction out there on the road?”

“Yep. He just left a little while ago. He told me to tell you your job here is finished. He said the State Troopers grabbed Dupree in Baltimore this morning. He’ll fill you in on the rest of the details. Why don’t you grab your things and I’ll drive you back to Annapolis?”

Brian frowned, looked puzzled. I said, “What’s bothering you, Petrocelli?”

“If I may say so, that was really weird … the way you left things hanging early this morning on the radio. Never getting back to me on the radio or phone...”

I cut him off. “Weird? I took the day off to do some fishing. What’s so weird about that?”

Brian was watching me spray down the transom. “Is that blood?”

“Yeah, leftover chum.”

“What did you do…. spill a whole bucket of it all over the deck… and all over those seat cushions?”

“Yep. But It’ll wash out. It’s only blood.”

Brian’s eyes suddenly grew wide as he stared at me. “Whoa. Did you happen to run into Dupree anytime last night?”

Jeez…. here we go.

“Why would you ask me a question like that? I told you he was arrested in Baltimore early this morning. He’s good but he hasn’t mastered the art of bi-location.”

“I swear I heard some definite signs of stress in your voice over the radio last night.”

I was becoming annoyed and glared at him. “Any other questions, super sleuth?”

“Yes. As long as you’re inviting me into your little mystery here. What were you doing out on the bay for over eight hours?”

“What is this now…. a formal 302 crime interview? I told you I was fishing.”

Petrocelli suddenly stepped aboard, went straight to the fish well and opened the lid. He raised his voice. “Where are the fish you caught?”, he demanded.

“Ok…let’s have it…what’s on your mind, son? Let’s hear it.”

He pointed to the cabin. “Permission to go below, Captain?”

“What?”

“May I look around? I’ve always wanted to own boat like this.”

What are you up to my young friend?

“Without any lights aboard the boat last night, I didn’t get a chance to survey this pretty little craft”, Brian added.

Against my better instincts and better judgment, I just rolled my eyes, pointed to the cabin hatch and said, “Permission granted.”

He scurried below quickly. A minute later he stuck his head through the hatchway, climbed back onto the dock and said “Agent Beckwith, where is that big beautiful scrimshaw handled fishing knife? The serrated blade you had laying right next to the depth finder. It was very dark but it caught my eye in the moonlight. I saw it clearly. My dad had one just like it.”

What the hell is going on here? Am I about to be outwitted by a rookie agent? On my own boat? In my own backyard?

“Anything else seem odd or out of place to you Mister Petrocelli?”

“Yes, as long as you ask. I did something late last night that could get me fired. But I want you to hear it.”

What the hell is this kid up to? I mused. “Go on,” I said.

“While you were out here on the boat late last night, I went through your wife’s legal pad notes… the ones you pulled out of that cabinet drawer during the interview. And I found something very intriguing. I saw what I’m assuming was the killer’s note threat to you and his pencil sketch of your wife’s face. Very unnerving stuff. No wonder you wanted to settle things up with him privately… on your own terms. But I’m sure Agent Pritchard and the Director would have liked to have known about those important pieces of evidence… those little flakes of gold…. a few weeks ago. Don’t you?”

I was momentarily stunned. “What the hell are you telling me?! You invaded my privacy?” I asked through clenched jaw.

“Technically yes, but I made a judgment call in the moment. And, truth be told, I’d do it again if I had the opportunity. I remember seeing you fumbling with something sticking out of the pages while you reading from them. You shoved them back into the pad quickly. I watched your face. Your expression was off… guarded. You were definitely hiding something. Sorry… I was just doing my job.”

I just stared at Brian in silence. After a few more uncomfortable seconds I cooled off a bit and added. “Well…. you’ve come this far. Go ahead. Finish your thought.”

He asked his questions calmly and in rapid fire succession. “What did you do out here? You killed someone on this boat early this morning, didn’t you? It was Dupree, right? You knew it was Dupree all along, didn’t you?”

“Yes, yes…. and yes. Any other questions?”

“Ok. That stop sign traffic ticket wasn’t issued to Dupree in Providence, was it?”

I continued to stare at this young, bright, inquisitive agent and realized I’d been bested by a twenty-eight-year-old mirror image of myself. I said, “So, here’s the more important question. Do any of my answers matter to you at this point?”

Petrocelli’s cocky bravado suddenly seem to collapse under its own weight. He raised his hand and looked away. “It’s none of my business. This is between you and my boss…. Pritchard.”

“No sir, my young friend, you’re dead wrong. It is definitely your business now. Let me ask you another question, Agent Petrocelli. Being a firearms expert, I would imagine the Director has wisely assigned you to the fugitive squad. Correct?”

“Yes sir.”

“How many arrests have you made in your first two years on the job?”

“Exactly twenty-four, sir.”

“All felonies?”

“Yes, sir, except one.”

“Have you followed their prosecutions by the US Attorney’s Office? You’ve probably testified about your arrests in a few of the trials, right?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Did any of the bad guys get off? Were any of them acquitted or had their charges dropped by the U.S. Attorney?”

“What are you getting at, sir?”

“Looking back on some of them…. the more heinous… the nastier cases. Did you, in the deepest and quietist moments of contemplation and self-reflection, ever experience the temptation to press your thumb down on the scales of justice? Were you ever moved to alter those unjust outcomes? You know, for the greater good of society… for the sake of the victims… and all the rest of that noble stuff?”

A look of calm and understanding had crept over the “by the book”, square jawed expression on Brian’s face. He said, “Yes, as a matter of fact, there are a couple of cases I’d like to have back…. to relive… and do over. If I could, I’d go back and tighten things up a bit…. where maybe I could have worked a little harder, dug a little deeper.”

“An occupational hazard.” I said, with a sigh. “I know I could have done some things differently here. I might even have been able to protect my wife from this animal. If I had paid closer attention to some things I overlooked. If I had lived more fully in the moment.”

Petrocelli stared into my face. “You’re blaming yourself for your wife’s death?”

I tried to avoid the question. “Do you want to know if Deputy Jacques Dupree killed my wife?” Brian looked directly into my face and said nothing.

“Yes, he did” I said. He did it alone…. by himself. He did however have one insignificant and not very competent after-the-fact accomplice. Someone to help him avoid capture for my own murder…. which I, of course, skillfully avoided.”

“You’re dodging me,” he said, “Answer my question, Agent Beckwith.”

“Do I blame myself? Every single morning when I open my eyes. Yes, of course I do.”

Petrocelli just stared at me and wagged his head slowly from side to side. I could see his mind running at open throttle. I read his thoughts and asked: “Now… let’s continue. What’s the next logical question.”

Brian gave me a knowing look. “Ok, if you insist. That wasn’t Dupree who was arrested in Baltimore last night, was it?”

“You’re good, Brian. Next and last question please.”

“Did you plan it or did it just happen? Did you kill him… or did you execute him?”

“I’ll let you decide that.”

“Meaning what?”

“Just that. One of the things I’ve learned over the years is that, in the heat of battle, when fear and panic grab us by the throat and adrenaline surges through our brains… we’re all gifted with almost superhuman strength and the indomitable will to survive and defend ourselves. It’s hardwired into our DNA. All natural… and very real.” I looked him in the eye and added, “I did exactly what I needed to do to survive and protect myself. Nothing more, nothing less. He made the decision whether he should live or die. Not me. And, in the end, he made it all very easy for me.”

I paused for a long moment and said, “Does that adequately answer your question, Agent Petrocelli?”

“Yes sir, I believe it does.”

“So, then, it appears the ball is in your court. It’s your call” I said.

“What? What the hell does that mean?”

“Don’t be coy with me. What you decide to do next at this point will determine what happens to me. It’s a decision that I suspect will best reflect the state of your conscience.”

Petrocelli’s expression was calm… flintlike. He simply said. “My conscience is just fine, thank you.” He grinned and added…. almost offhandedly: “Can I give you a hand scrubbing down those cushions?”

I drew a long deep breath, exhaled in a long audible sigh, and began to throttle back my mounting anxiety. “Thank you. Yes, I’d appreciate having your help…. cleaning up my ugly mess.”

After a long silence, he asked, “So, what will you do now?”

Without hesitation I said. “I’m going to continue to suffer the exquisite pain of living without her. I’m still going to reach out for her on cool, dark nights while lying in bed alone.” I closed my eyes, took a deep brreath and added “What will I do? I’ll breathe in… and breathe out… every moment… of every day.”

“That’s it? Just an aimless rote existence? Life with no expectations, no surprises?”

I grinned and marveled at such young, rare intuitive wisdom. “No, on the contrary…. I’m going to come down here to my boat every morning at sunrise. I’m going to inhale the rich salty marsh air. Just like I’ve been doing for years. Except, as of today, I’m going to add something new to my routine. A new dimension to my vision …. through what she used to call dormant eyes of wonder. I’m not just going to look at it all. I’m going to actually take it in, pick it up and experience it… all of it… with every last one of my senses. Everything little thing that may have rolled in with the overnight tide.”

I studied his face. He's getting this. He knows exactly what I’m talking about, I thought. A serene look of understanding enveloped Brian’s face. “You know, sir. I think…. that you…” He looked away. Out towards the water.

“That’s ok, Brian,” I said. “What do you want to say? No holds barred. Not at this late date.”

He spoke slowly. “I think that battle raging inside you, if I may say so, is with yourself. Not your wife’s killer. And I think it’s been going on for a very long time.” He shuffled his feet and averted eye contact with me.

“It’s all right, Brian. Go on”, I said.

Brian smiled. “Darcy sounds like she was… is… an amazing woman. You’re an incredible lucky man. She shared a lot of her unique wisdom with you. I think you have to keep tapping into that. Every day.”

I looked up at the blue cloudless sky and suddenly pictured the bright faces of Darcy …. and her friend Libby Browne. I paused and said: “And whatever may be carried in atop that morning tide …. I’ll ….”

Brian split the momentary awkward silence, “You’ll what?”, he pressed. “What will you do with it?”

“I’ll hold it up to the light … and try to make sense of it,” I said. “To see what it all means. You know, to find its proper place and role in the puzzle of the cosmos.” I laughed. “That shouldn’t be too difficult to do … should it?”

Yeah, I think I can handle that. At least for the moment. At least till I see her again.

-30-

John paused. “All right, Lyle. Well, for starters… Milton Nieport…. the infamous American Express serial killer. Billy Reid …. the paid spy assassin. Napoleon Williams, the Black Liberation Army bomber. And the Brahmin Girl killer…. Jacques Dupree. Do you want to know what each one of these guys has in common?”

“Tell me.” I smiled inwardly… As if I don’t know.

“All four have been recently released from prison. Each has violated parole and has disappeared into thin air. We have no idea… yet…. where they are. There’s been no parole officer contacts with any of them. Weird, huh?”

“There could be a dozen legitimate reasons for that. There’s no such thing as weird when it comes to human behavior. Not in our line of work, John.”

“Yeah well, if we could at least locate them we could clear up the nasty coincidences and rule out one or more of them.”

The sound of these four names, and the images they induced, were like fingernails running down a blackboard. For a moment, the hair on the back of my neck sat up. I looked down at the dock decking, shuffled my feet…. thought for a long minute. Finally, I asked. “First of all, why Nieport?”

“Because he was an unusually cold, serial style killer. Plus, we got a big break from an informant who told us that Nieport actually bragged to a fellow inmate that the first thing he would do when he got out, was to find you and, quote, ‘blow off the back of your head’. The Parole Board never learned of that threat. We just found out. Do you remember his M.O.? He lined up his victims on their knees before neatly placing a nine-millimeter round into the backs of their skulls.”

When I didn’t respond, John asked. “Do you recall that the local police found two small shallow depressions in your driveway…. and matching crushed oyster shell fragments…. embedded on the surface of Darcy’s knees? That son of a bitch forced her to kneel.”

I cringed and closed my eyes. “Yes, I happened to notice that myself.”

John added. “That dick performed an execution…. not just a murder.”

In an instant, I re-envisioned that hectic scene at Miami International Airport that hot humid night many years ago. I had approached the stewardess as she opened the cabin door to begin her disembark protocol. I had shown her my FBI credentials in one hand and a photo of Nieport with the other. “Keep your voice down please. Is this man on board your flight?”

Her eyes widened. “Yes sir, in seat twenty… on the aisle I think.”

“Is he alone?” I had whispered.

She nodded in the affirmative. I had said. “Please go about your business as usual. When he walks past you onto the gangway just casually raise your right hand. Understood?”

“Yes sir. Is there going to be trouble? Is he dangerous?’”

“Not if you do as I say. As he passes the cabin door. I want you to hold up the flow of passengers behind him with your arm. Give me about a forty-foot cushion of space, and I’ll take it from there.”

When he stepped off the plane and onto the ramp, I recognized Nieport immediately. Swarthy, tall, overweight, sallow complexion…. Just like his photo. I swung up behind him and pressed my Smith and Wesson semi-automatic up to the back of his head. I violated at least a dozen rules of arrest protocol in doing so. But I had already decided to make a point and to make it poignantly. “FBI… asshole. Stretch your arms out from your side.” He complied meekly. “So how does that cool gun barrel feel, Milton? Any hint of déjà vu, yet?”

What I remember most about that incident was that, after I had grounded and cuffed the killer, with the help of a Dade County Deputy Sherriff, this big, burly macho man shrieked, whined and sobbed like a hysterical infant clamoring for his mother.

I was slapped back into the moment by the sound of John’s voice. “Do you want to know why we feel that he’s our man?”

“Sure. What’ve you got?”

“Well, in addition to everything else…. Darcy’s surgeon removed the bent slug of a nine-millimeter round which had travelled around the inside of her skull and lodged in her upper jaw. All of that suggests he executed her in the same exact way, and with the same kind of weapon he used on his victims during his Amex robberies.”

“Ok…. some of that makes a bit of sense… at least on paper. But what about Reid?”

John sighed and rolled his eyes. “We got ahold of a book manuscript Reid had written on consignment with a major publishing house… about his long profitable love affair with the KGB. In an earlier draft he wrote that his final Soviet assignment would not be considered completed till he “eliminated Agent Beckwith”. Those were his exact words.

“And Williams?” I asked.

John answered. “You sent Napoleon Williams to prison for conspiracy to bomb the capital, the pentagon…not to mention his involvement in the armored truck robberies where he personally shot and killed two Jersey police officers. This guy thought he was invincible until you and your team took him down. Taking revenge on you and your family would make perfect sense to him. He would never have gotten out on parole except for the recommendation of that asshole US Attorney who was more interested in building his own reputation by trading William’s testimony for indictments of the rest of those insurrectionist thugs.”

My thoughts drifted to the cold, gray, late afternoon in Washington D.C., sitting in the back seat of a Bureau car, my partner at the wheel. I had my .38 MP Special, in my raincoat pocket, aimed at the back of the front seat…. occupied by this scowling, angry, three-hundred-pound hulk of a man. I remember thinking at the time… a .38 caliber slug won’t even make a dent if he decides to pull out an Uzi and become a martyr for his Marxist nutjob friends. It was at that exact moment that I decided that it was time to jettison Hoover’s silly loyalty to tradition and trade the peashooter in my right hand for the equally traditional yet more pragmatic .45 semi-automatic.

John broke the reverie. “I notice you kept Dupree for last. I actually put him in the top four myself. Just an intuitive hunch.”

“A hunch? Based on what facts?” I asked.

John said, “Am I correct in stating that out of all your fugitive cases over the years, Dupree was the only suspect whom Darcy had actually met and interacted with before he was arrested and went to prison? Didn’t she break open the Brahmin Girl case up in Maine and help the local police nail him in 1985, twenty years after the girl’s murder?”

“That’s right” I said. “But why is he even on your list of likely suspects?” I stared at Pritchard and thought….as if I don’t know.

John sighed and answered. “Actually, he was my prime number one candidate… that is, until three days ago. He’s no longer at the top of our list. Probably shouldn’t be on the list at all.”

“Why not?”

“I did a little more research and recontacted the SAC in the Providence office. I found out Dupree was ticketed for running a stop sign there exactly five weeks ago…. in the late afternoon of April 7, this year….”

“The same date and time Darcy was murdered.” I interjected.

John said. “Bingo. It appears he has since moved out of his apartment and no one knows where he’s gone.”

“Have you ruled him out then?”

“Let’s just say I would think it highly unlikely he was personally involved in Darcy’s shooting.”

“But…?”

“But… I would like to locate him to be one hundred percent sure. Ironically, tomorrow is the return date for his traffic summons. We’ll have an agent there in court just in case he shows up.”

I quickly pondered this troubling news and said, “So, are you guys going to just stand here in this heat in your suits or are you coming inside for a cold drink?”

John answered. “We have a lot to talk about, Lyle. First impression. Do you have any instinctive ideas about whether Darcy’s killer in on this list?”

Again, I avoided the question. “First, there are some things we need to clear up before we discuss your final candidates. I presume you guys are coming inside now to conduct your so-called official interview of me?”

“Yes, we are”, he said as he smiled and stood quietly on the dock admiring and pointing his thumb at a fifteen -pound bass lying across the transom. “Nice fish.”

“Thanks.”

He turned back to me. “Lyle, to be blunt… the Director is really worried about you. He doesn’t think you’re taking this situation seriously enough.”

“Worried? Why? Because I’m not returning your phone calls? Look, I’m fine…. really”, I argued, … again, without much conviction.

“Knock it off. You’re not fine. It’s like you’ve climbed into a conch shell and dropped off the face of the earth. The Director says he’s personally left two lengthy messages for you too. Both unanswered.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, but I’m not in any kind of shape at the moment to talk about it. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all over. The whole, ugly, sordid mess. There’s nothing I or anyone else can do about it. There’s nothing you or the Director can do for me.”

Pritchard answered. “Bullshit. Where the hell is that coming from? I need to hear…. to understand, everything you’re thinking, Agent Beckwith. I don’t like it when you get quiet like this. It makes me real nervous.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

“Listen to me, my cocky, uncooperative friend. We have some good reasons to believe the killer had been planning this for a long time and may have actually been on your property scoping out the place. Somehow, he learned of Darcy’s unlisted home address. Any idea where he might have gotten that piece of personal information?”

When I didn’t answer, John raised his voice. “Did you hear what I said? He knew where you guys lived! Subjects are not supposed to know stuff like that for God’s sake!”

Ok…. so, you’ve probably already been told about the prison computer searches. But you don’t know yet about the love note and the pencil sketch of Darcy’s face. Both conspicuously left behind by the killer… neatly propped up on the dashboard of my Jeep. You could be just fishing, John... or are you?

I played along. “What exactly is your point, John?”

“This guy tracked you down, for chrissakes, Lyle. He’s likely already been here on your property. And worse… since the minute these four guys were released from four separate prisons, coincidentally all within six months of each other, each one of them has evaporated…. disappeared into the woodwork. Probably hiding, when there should be no reason to run. The Bureau and the local police… we’re all out there looking for each of them… as we speak.”

I feigned protest and tried to flush out how much he knew. “How exactly do you think this guy got our home address?!”

“We think there’s a possibility one of them hacked into Darcy’s university personnel records using a prison computer. So much for their highly touted cyber-security safeguards.”

I said, “Well then, if you’re worried about this guy coming back here for me, you better step up your game and find him before he finds me.”

John reached into his breast coat pocket and handed me four photos. “Just in case you run into them before we do, here’s some recent pictures of each of them. Look at that son of a bitch Nieport and especially Williams. Both of them…. grinning like Cheshire cats, for God’s sake. You need to study these and stay alert.”

They were the same exact pictures Agent Joe Wilson had just faxed me, on the sly, just a few hours earlier that morning. I smiled contentedly to myself. “Yeah, that’s them all right. Nieport has the same maniacal smile. Reid… well, he never smiles. Williams’ shaved head and asshole scowl is textbook. And Dupree…. he’s had this giant diastema between his front teeth his whole life. You could drive a truck through it. It’s hereditary, you know.”

“How in the hell would you know about that little physiological detail?” He studied my face and said, “Has someone else slipped you these pictures? Perhaps one of your many deep state Bureau sources?”

Again, I lied… a little too comfortably this time. I grinned at him. “No, John. I maintain no such sources. You seem to forget. I’m retired…. and have been for several years. It would be unethical for me to impose upon any of my many loyal friendships inside the Bureau.”

John frowned and smirked. “That’s right. Try to remember that, Agent Beckwith.”

“That’s former Agent Beckwith to you, John. Just a polite reminder.”

I focused on Dupree’s photo. “What I do remember very well is that facial anomaly. Even though we had no Bureau file on him, I actually had a physical face-to-face run-in with this guy over twenty-five years ago. That’s the kind of facial feature you don’t forget or conceal easily… not without surgery. I was kinda’ half expecting Dupree to show this ugly face again. You’re probably right though. It couldn’t be him. Unless he’s developed the art of bi-location. But he’s certainly capable of it. Just like all the others.”

“That tooth gap seems to have left a lasting impression on you, Lyle.”, he said, his voiced laced with a heavy dose of skepticism.

“What can I say? That’s why I got paid the big bucks by the Bureau. I laughed as I had a flashback image of a particular event at Quantico. “Do you remember that standard training simulation they used on us at the academy? You know, where that shave-head marine ran into our classroom and attacked our instructor…. and then ran out… all in a matter of five to six seconds? It was right after lunch on a hot day in August when half the guys were drifting off.”

John was getting visibly annoyed. “Yeah, I remember that little piece of late afternoon drama. Why? What the hell is your point?”

“My point? Well, I’m curious. How did you do in that mini test of your observation skills? How accurately did you recall and record that guy’s physical description?”

When Pritchard didn’t speak, I added, “In case you’re wondering, I was the only agent in my class of fifty men who nailed that description… spot on…. right down to his broken shirt button.” I laughed out loud. “It’s just a gift, I guess.”

John wagged his head. “Are you playing with me? What are you getting at?”

I again ignored his question. I said, instead: “John, what is it you really came all the way out here to tell me?”

John folded his arms and just looked at me. “I think you know the answer to that.”

I said, “Wait…. let me guess… you’re about to offer me some heavily armed security and round the clock surveillance of my house and property, right?”

John laughed. “Well… that wouldn’t be such a bad idea now, would it?”

“Yeah, it would. It’s a terrible idea.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because I have twenty, count ‘em, twenty acres of dense woods…. not to mention hundreds of acres of public marshland and bay water…. surrounding my house and dock. Do you want to see the survey?”

“And….?”

“So, where are you going to set up your perimeter? With how many men? Where are you going to conceal their vehicles? Are you going to set up a navy flotilla out there in the cove to block seaward access?”

“We’re all pros, Lyle. We’ll figure it out.”

“Perhaps. But in the meanwhile, your convoluted, overly complicated tactical defense team will keep our killer away from me like citronella on mosquitos.”

John answered; “Exactly. We don’t want anyone getting anywhere near you, for Christ’s sake.”

“No John! Can’t you see it?” I said quickly. “You’re missing the whole point. I don’t want to scare this mutt away. I want to bring him right up to my door. The wolf is not going to approach if the shepherd is running around the meadow ringing a cowbell, for God’s sake. Come on. That ain’t going to happen… not at least according to your plan.”

After a long period of silence, I added, “John, I know you’re only trying to protect me. And maybe you’re hoping you might get lucky, and grab this guy while your team is here. I appreciate your intention. I really do.”

John scowled and shook his head. “You always did end up doing things your own way, didn’t you? My way or the highway.”

“And did I ever let you or the director down?”

“No… goddamn it.”

“Look,” I said. “I know each of these men intimately. Nieport is a sick genius. He’s the most calculating, cold-hearted killer I’ve ever tracked down. Reid is plodding, undeterred….and a bit mad. Williams is also very clever in his own crude way. Do you know their backgrounds at all?”

John lowered his head. “Well, I… uh…. I’ve read most of the Nieport, Williams and Reid files. Our psych profilers place them at the top of our suspect list …. for good pathological reasons. But, regarding Dupree …. I… uh... I haven’t fully gone through his profile yet. His criminal file was handled by state and local police. There was no federal law broken on the Brahmin case so there’s no federal Bureau file on him. Even though you just happened to be in on the arrest.”

“That’s right. So, allow me to fill you in then. Dupree was born in Providence and raised in the north woods of Maine. He’s used to negotiating rough, unfriendly terrain. He’s a former cop, former Marine. And, just like Nieport, he’s a waterman, a skilled hunter, tracker. And…. just like Williams he’s a patient survivalist type…. and an expert in firearms. Sure, none of these guys is invincible, but they’re all very formidable in their own right. The minute the killer smells any sign of your team, he’ll simply bolt, hole up somewhere and wait for another opportunity…. maybe weeks or months from now.”

“We can wait him out for as long as is necessary.”

“John, listen to yourself. This is not a local swat team operation to neutralize a drugged-up shooter hunkered down in a tiny two-bedroom house. This is not a controlled situation. Each one of these guys is out there loose … on the run…. dodging their parole contacts. For reasons as yet unexplained and unconfirmed. That’s some odd coincidence, huh? And, besides…you can afford the luxury of waiting. I can’t. I’m really lousy at sitting around doing nothing.”

John laughed. “Yeah, I can personally attest to that. I’ve never seen anyone get into third gear faster than you, partner.”

I said, “It’s really simple as I see it. If any one of these guys killed Darcy …. well, then he and I have… to be a somewhat trite and dramatic…. a rendezvous with justice. And each other. You could say we’ve been destined for all time to meet and settle up. So, the sooner he and I face off… the better. He’s already stalled a whole month… and that’s even assuming he’s planning to come back.”

“Our analysts believe it highly probable he will come after you.”

“Let him come.”

John rolled his eyes. “Ok, John Wayne…. what the hell do you propose to do then?”

“I have a plan…I’m still finishing up the details.”

“What plan is that?”

“Tune in. I’ll call you later, after I’ve thought it completely through.”

I doubt I’ll even bother to tell you John…. you’ll reject it anyway, I mused to myself.

John said, “Meanwhile, I’ll compromise with you… but only if you agree to one small concession”.

“And what would that be?”

“I’ll back off the full security team idea… as you insist. But I want Agent Petrocelli to stay here with you for the next week or so. He’s an expert marksman and a very smart young man. Let me leave him here at the house for however long you need him. Just one man, Lyle! He can watch your back. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

I thought to myself…. Right about now I don’t need anyone to watch my back. What I need, John, is for you and the Bureau to get off my back.

I looked at Petrocelli and made an instant executive decision to accept John’s offer…. primarily, to keep it simple. But, secondly, to help me set up what I hoped would be an ironclad trap.

“Ok, John… agreed. Provided you both leave today right after you interview and debrief me… together… the same way you came here. I’m going to assume for the sake of this discussion that you’re correct about Darcy’s killer. I’m even willing to accept the possibility, however remote, that he’s looking at us right now. If so, he’ll see two suits come in together… and the same two guys go out together. You can come back and drop Brian off here at the dock tomorrow night by boat …after dark. Silent approach please. You know the drill.”

Pritchard looked at Petrocelli and grinned. “What did I tell you? He’s good.”

I looked at Petrocelli. “Do you play chess?” I asked quickly.

John smiled. “As a matter of fact, the word I hear from his SAC is that he’ll give you a pretty good run for your money. I’d love to see this young buck beat you at your own game. You could use a healthy dose of humility.”

I smiled. “We’ll see about that.” I mimicked John’s West Texas drawl and said, “O lord, it’s hard to be humble when you’re perfect in every way.”

“Jeez, you’re impossible.” John pointed up to the house. “OK, let’s go inside. We need to talk. I need to hear the whole story…. soup to nuts. I need to know what you’re thinking, and why, Lyle. No holds barred.”

“Ok, but remember…. you’re doing this over my objection. Understood?”, I answered.

John bowed and grandly gestured us with a wave toward the house. “Whatever you say. Lead on MacDuff.”

As I turned to walk away, Pritchard suddenly grabbed my sleeve and locked eyes with me. “Before we do this, Lyle. Answer me this one question first… just yes or no, please. I’m dying to know this.”

I grinned and said, “And what if my answer is a deal braker? So, what’s your question?”

“OK. Despite the unlikely possibility now that Dupree is our man…. did Darcy nevertheless ever say or write anything in her reports or do anything to create any hint that he would come back at her one day…. after he was released from prison?”

I instantly thought of my volatile confrontation with Dupree at the time of his arrest, but I didn’t need to lie about it. John had tried to ask the right question… but he did so in a pathetically inartful way. “Nope, she never wrote or said a word to me about him making any direct threat.”

But I sure as hell had threatened him at the time, John. A threat he would never forget.

I deftly changed direction and focus. I turned and jumped aboard the boat and grabbed my striped bass. “Be patient, John. All good things come to those who wait. I know you like grilled rockfish. But do you like blue crab?”

“Oh, Jesus, here we go. The famous Beckwith diversion…. in full operational mode. Come on, Brother. You know damn well you’re exploiting one of my tragic weaknesses. They’re in season now, right?”

“Yep.” I leaned over the edge of the dock, untied a cord line and hoisted a crab pot out of the water. There were at least six or seven large blue crabs… aggressively waving their powerful claws…. struggling to escape their wired prison. “Let’s repair to the house, gentlemen. I’ll cook up a mess of these delicious gifts from the bay in my world-famous shrimp-crab gumbo and grits. I’ll even make a stiff drink or two. And then…we’ll talk. I sure as hell could use a double Dewars right about now.”

A TABLE BY THE WATER, PLEASE

We climbed up the slope to the house. Pritchard and Petrocelli settled into a pair of wicker rockers on the porch, overlooking the bay through floor to ceiling panoramic windows. I slipped into the kitchen to initiate and overlook the gumbo. Over dinner, we sat at a large white rattan table and watched the dying pink and purple embers of a first-class Tidewater sunset. During an early lull in the conversation, I casually glanced to the left at my image in the antique glass French doors. In the glass I saw John that had noticed the reflection too.

This is not the man I ever expected to become in retirement, I thought, as I studied the hazy portrait of the sixty-one-year-old, white-bearded, sun weathered, sinewy shell of a man staring back at me. I had somehow managed to keep a full head of salt and pepper hair and a trim athletic body for a man my age, but my eyesight and hearing were both fading fast.

What the hell did you expect, you idiot, I thought. Way too many days squinting through the glare of sunlight bouncing in all directions off the ocean water….and way too many hours on the firing range with no ear plugs.

John broke the silence. “OK, are you ready to talk to me, Agent Beckwith?”

I took a deep breath. “Sure, where do you want me to start?”, I said.

“Let’s start with how you’re doing. How have you been holding up?”

I looked over at young Petrocelli who had just taken out a pad and pen and was beginning to take notes. I said, “Put the pad away, son. None of this will not be recorded in any form. Is that understood?”

Brian looked quickly and quizzically at Pritchard who simply nodded in the affirmative.

“It’s been precisely five weeks to the day. She was shot exactly in the same spot where you just parked your car. I’m sorry I lost it out there when you first started walking towards me, John. My mind at this moment is a serious mess. Flooded and overrun with all the wrong emotions…. confusion, shock, anger… major depression. Did you know that I can hear her breathing late at night in the dark? That I can almost reach out, touch her… that I can still feel the warmth of her body lying next to me?”

“I’m really sorry, Lyle. I completely understand. Look, I hate to discuss the details of her death like this, but I’ve got a job to do…you know I have to get into it… all of it. The Easton Police wrote it up as an unknown intruder…a possible bungled home invasion…. or robbery. Are you buying any of that?”

I just hunched my shoulders, wagged my head and said nothing.

“Nothing was stolen, right?”

“Right.”

“So, do you think that’s even remotely possible? Robbery as a motive?”

I paused. “I don’t know what the hell to think.”

“Come on Lyle. Think harder. Was anything missing from her body? Jewelry, purse…wallet? Was anything upended or askew in the house? Out of place? Drawers, cabinets, shelves?”

“No. Look, I’ve already been over this with the police.”

John shook his head.... then altered direction. “Where were you when it happened?”

“I’d been out on the water that morning for less than an hour. I turned around and came home. The tides were too slack and slow to lure the rockfish up from the bottom. You know how finicky and tide driven these elusive fish are. I said to myself I’m not wasting my time fishing out here today… not without some moving water. I know you understand that, right? So, I headed her back in.”

“Did you hear the sound of gunfire while you were out on the water? That kind of retort can carry long distances over the water, as you know.”

“No…. nothing.”

Pritchard asked. “Did anything unusual happen in the weeks and months leading up to her death? Any communications or threats to either of you? From maybe a former fugitive? A former student?”

“Nope. Nothing.”

“Did anything seem out of place in your daily routine….out of sorts in any way?”

I stared out the window out onto the bay. “I should have known better. From the very moment I opened my eyes that morning nothing seemed right. Even my dreams the night before had been fitful … disconcerting. I don’t believe in that astrology hocus pocus shit like Darcy did, but I had this weird feeling that none of the stars were even remotely lined up in the heavenly scheme of things.”

“That’s it… just a feeling?”

“Yep…. just a feeling. Sounds strange coming from an anal compulsive guy like me, huh? I felt that something was off kilter from the moment I leaned over and kissed her on the forehead as I was leaving. Her eyes were still closed. She just smiled and whispered, ‘Have fun, lovey.’”

“No worries, no concerns? No health or marriage problems?”

“Nope. I wasn’t worried about anything. Darcy was a month away from finally putting in her papers. I was already retired a couple of years and living la bella vita…. fishing almost every day. It was all sweet…. all good. Till that son of a bitch brought my life to a crashing halt.”

John paused and stared at me for a long moment, “I gotta tell you, Lyle…for some reason the Director seems to be convinced that you might know a lot more about her killer and what his plans are. A lot more than you’re saying.”

“Why are you beating around the bush?” I held up the four photos. “That’s not like you, John. Tell me. You guys think it was definitely one of these four men…. to the exclusion of anyone else on the face of the earth, don’t you? Is that it? Who would you put your money on?”

Pritchard asked. “It doesn’t matter what I think. What do you think, Lyle? You know these men well…. their history… the way they think. You’re the profile expert. You know what they’re capable of.”

I just shook my head. “I just don’t know.”

“Come on, Brother. What are your bloodhound instincts telling you?”

“Here’s what my so-called instincts are telling me. Every investigation I’ve ever worked had the same immutable ingredients. I always started with the basics and worked from there. My first rule…. collect as many pieces of the puzzle as possible, no matter how seemingly small or irrelevant.”

“Please, no lectures, professor. Just get to your point.”

“I will… in my own way…. in my own time. Don’t rush me.”

“Sorry…. go ahead”, John said.

“Look, I know you already understand all of this, John. I’m trying to emphasize something very basic, mostly for the benefit of your young friend here. Solid bits of hard evidence are like flakes of gold to a prospector. And a prosecutor. You have to swirl and rock that pan back and forth to deftly sift the sand, silt and gravel from the gold. It’s boring, tedious work, but it pays off in the end.”

I noticed John nervously tapping his foot. “And?”

I asked. “Tell me, John. Did the police or your crime scene guys find anything at all? Anything to place one of these guys in that driveway with Darcy? Or anywhere on my property?”

John remained silent. Finally said. “You know the answer to that.”

I continued, raising my voice a few decibels. “Anything at all? Latents?… footprints?... tire marks?... DNA?…. a note? … shell casings?... a candy wrapper…? Anything at all?”

Pritchard lowered his head and said, “No, nothing like that. But each one of these men had just gotten out on parole after serving lengthy sentences thanks to your efforts. And in the case of Dupree, as a direct result of Darcy’s reinvestigation of a very cold case. As we see it, each had plenty of motive… and a lot of years of incarceration to stew in his own juices and plan revenge…. on you or both of you.”

I answered. “I know all of that. But you need to find something tangible to carry me over the threshold. Some hard evidence… if you want to convince me one of your finalists did this. How can you be so sure it wasn’t some random, crazy, local meth head? Someone who saw Darcy shopping in town and seized an opportunity for some quick cash. Someone who followed her home… but panicked, killed her and ran?”

No…. there was no panic here. This man methodically murdered my wife.

John just glared at me. I could tell his mind was racing a mile a minute. “You know, the thought never occurred to me… not till this very moment. Some folks might suspect that you’re hoping that the killer follows up on his murder and comes after you…. one on one. That maybe you’re savoring the opportunity to have him all to yourself. Maybe to kill him and spare us the bother of a time-consuming prosecution and trial? And… if I didn’t know you better… I might be tempted to agree with that school of thought. But, of course, you wouldn’t be thinking like that? Right?”

I smiled inwardly. Be careful, Lyle, John knows you better than you know yourself, methinks.

I ignored the profound import of his words and led him away from his lazy suspicions. “Look, John…. I hate to disappoint the boss, or prevent you from doing your job. I know you can’t skulk back to him empty handed. So, I’ll give you what he wants. I’ll give you your complete 302 interview… right now… for as long as you need. I’ll tell you whatever I can… whatever I can remember. But only for your sake…. and for the sake of our friendship…. nothing more.”

“Thanks, Lyle. I appreciate it. Especially under these circumstances.”

I folded my arms across my chest, leaned back in the wicker rocker and started to speak of events and memories I knew I had no business revisiting. I knew my old friend wouldn’t allow me the perverse comfort of wallowing around in my own sad, private reverie. He would not give me the solitude that I craved at that moment. Not until he had gotten exactly what the Director had sent him out to get from me. … a power lead or two… some salient facts …. sufficient pieces of the puzzle…some flakes of gold…. to tie it all together.

I said, “I know what he wants. I understand. Come on, let’s get into this.”

But you’re wasting your time and effort, John. You’re pissing into the wind. This is not your run of the mill murder investigation. This would normally be yours… but not now. It belongs to me.

“So, where do you want me to start?”, I asked.

John sat up straight in his rocker and spoke with a clear resonant voice. “As always… at the beginning. And, that would be the only crime subject you and Darcy shared in common. Jacques Dupree. Let’s start with him and then work our way through the others.”

I took a long deep breath, leaned back in my chair and let my mind drift to probably the most wonderful period of my life. When, for the first time that I can ever remember, my shallow, frenetic, career driven existence took on real depth and meaning.

I looked away from Pritchard and out onto the rose and mauve reflections of the sky spilling over the surface of the bay. It looked like indigo ink spreading over clear water. I looked back at John. “Did I ever tell you how Darcy and I first met?”

Voice of Lyle Beckwith

Easton, Maryland

May 2010

THE INTERN

It was the fall of 1984. I was thirty-six years old and quickly scrambling up the Bureau’s crowded career ladder at Washington headquarters. I had been given some nice promotions and a couple letters of commendation along the way but what I’m most proud of is the fact that I was the youngest instructor ever assigned by the Bureau to the Academy in Quantico. I ended up teaching forensic psychology and crime scene analysis to agents, cops and sheriffs from all over the country. I really enjoyed that. Almost as much as tracking down fugitives. And I was pretty damn good at it ... if I may say so myself.

The Director had heard about a small team of professors at Northeastern University in Boston, who had been offering some very interesting advanced courses in their graduate criminal justice degree program. They convinced the Bureau to lend them my services to teach some of their brightest students. The Director had given me permission to take a short, paid leave and teach at the university level for a semester or two. It was a no brainer for me. I was single at the time, had no family to tie me down and relished the start of a new adventure. And, besides, I’ve always liked Bean Town…. if not the Red Sox.

And that’s how I first got involved in this amazing story. Which, unbeknownst to me at the time, had all been set in motion with the murder of an extraordinary young girl in the backwoods of Maine twenty years earlier…. on Thanksgiving Day in November of 1965.

I can still picture the antiquated Grecian style amphitheater classroom with its hundred-year-old dark stained wooden bench seats. That’s when and where I first laid eyes on her. Oh God, how I remember that sweet face. She was sitting up there in the nosebleed seats at the end of the top row. All by her lonesome. Her face was beautiful… Grace Kelly beautiful. Tall, Celtic blond hair, bright green eyes and legs that wouldn’t quit. I remember she was wearing a faded Baltimore Orioles hat. She was older than most of the other students, by about ten years, give or take. Very bright… articulate… analytical. She had all the skills and smarts and personality to be one hell of a forensic analyst and federal agent. I knew it… and, more importantly, she knew it. She skipped down the wooden stairs, took my hand in hers, smiled and introduced herself.

Her voice was so light and lilting… yet at the same time, all business. “Hello, Professor Beckwith”, she said, in her sweet Tidewater accent. “My name is Darcy Farrell. I’m really excited to be enrolled in your class. It’s a great honor and opportunity to learn from someone like yourself. I’m hoping that you’ll be the person who’ll teach me everything I need to know to become a great agent someday.”

I just stared and smiled at her for a long second, and said; “You know, I believe you may actually mean that, Miss Farrell.”

“Oh, indeed I do. Yours is the course I’ve been waiting for.”

“Well, I’ve heard some good reports about you too… and your academic record. The only advice I’ll offer you… while you focus in on this class… is to maintain your grade average where it is now. If you do that, there’ll be a prize at the end of the academic rainbow this year…. waiting for my best students in my combined courses. I’ll make the announcement near the end of the semester. I’m hoping to launch an experimental intern program. In a way that’s never been done before.”

Her eyes lit up. She smiled and said, “Oh, I can’t wait.”

The following April the dean followed through on my proposal and asked me to post the names of the ten most promising students in the program and arrange for summer intern positions at ten different sheriff and police departments throughout New England. I made all the arrangements, got all the consents and cooperation from the locals and made the individual assignments. I remember how liberating it was to be able to do all this without the smothering, over-the-shoulder meddling of university general counsel. How times have greatly changed.

I assigned Darcy to a small town in Maine. I knew both the local Franklin County Sheriff and the Police Chief in Carrabassett. They were both former students in one of my Quantico classes. The chief’s name was Tom Bradley. He had arranged to board Darcy with a nice local elderly couple, Joe and Harriet Lyscombe. He had told me of a really interesting cold case, a rare and yet unsolved twenty-year old homicide in Carrabassett. I instructed Darcy to spend the summer pouring through the file, studying all the evidence, re-interviewing the original witnesses, if possible, to see if she could breathe some life back into that dead-ended 1965 murder investigation. She loved the idea and was excited to sink her teeth into it. Her enthusiasm was infectious… almost childlike. Very uplifting to a professor like me…. someone already beginning to show signs of jading and cynicism.

I had to remind her often that I really didn’t expect any of my students to solve any of these cold cases. I was just using these old files, and some off the beaten path experiences in the back woods of Maine to give them a rare opportunity to see how small-town police departments operate on a day-to-day basis. It was a learning experience, to go through the routine steps needed in any basic crime investigation. It wasn’t a serious attempt to solve old crimes…. just an opportunity to learn the skills to solve new ones.

We called her The Brahmin Girl. She was a seventeen-year-old homicide victim…. brutally killed on her eighteenth birthday. Throughout the entire crime scene investigation and the post death interviews in Carrabassett, not one of the locals, not even Chief Bradley, ever knew her real name. She had been living a double life with fraudulent identification for the entire seven months she was up there. Her true identity remained a mystery for a long while, even after she was killed. In fact, even the exact cause of her death remained an unsolved puzzle right up to the appearance of my student, Darcy Farrell, in Carrabassett Maine, nearly twenty years later…. in May of 1985.

Mind you, this was all before the commercial availability of cellphones. So, I insisted that all my students call me, from a pay phone, if necessary, at the end of each day, even on weekends, to leave me a message confirming that they were alive and well. Darcy contacted me every night to report her progress on the case, which was very impressive. The problem was, it had become too impressive…. too fast.

But, before I get too far over my skis, I want to introduce you to the man who coined the phrase, the Brahmin Girl. The man in charge of her murder investigation…. Carrabassett Police Chief Tom Bradley. He knows her story, and, if he were with us today, could tell it better than anyone. I still have all his reports and logs…they can put all the flesh and sinew you need onto the bare bone. But what I remember most about Tom Bradley is his calming, resonant, Down East accented voice.

CARRABASSETT MAINE

November 1965

VOICE OF CHIEF TOM BRADLEY

It was a cold, gray misty morning when I got that surreal call from Isaiah Allerton. It was a few days after Thanksgiving in late November 1965. I was at my desk. My secretary Margie was standing at the door to my office. She lowered her voice, pointed to her hand clamped over the phone transmitter. “It’s that weird Allerton kid”, she said. “He’s barely making any sense. Just jabbering away about a black bear attack on that Libby girl. He sounds like he’s losing it, Chief.”

I stood and grabbed the phone. “What seems to be the problem, Isaiah.”, I said.

“Chief! You’ve got to come up here…. now. I found her in the woods. She’s de…. dead.” He sounded like he was hyperventilating…. choking…. coughing.

“Calm down, for God’s sake, Isaiah…. and tell me… who’s dead?”

“Oh my God! It’s Libby. She was killed by the biggest bla…. black bear I’ve ever seen. It doesn’t even look like her. But it’s her, all right. Oh, sweet Jesus. I should have stopped her from running away.” He cried out. “We had a fi…fight. Why did she have to run away from me?”

“Isaiah, where are you calling from? Your house?”

“Yes. Libby’s out there in woods. I found her at the bottom of a ravine. A bear was te…tearing her up …. eating her! Oh, Christ…. I saw it, with my own eyes, Chief.”

“How far away is she from the house? Is she near any of the trails?”

“About a ha…half mile from here. Up near the top of the ridge, behind my house.”

“Give me some markers son. Where exactly is she?”

“She’s off the main trail, to the west, near the small waterfall. I’ve got to get back to her right away, Chief. I can’t ta…talk to you now. She needs me.”

“Don’t hang up yet, son…. I need to ask you some…”.

Just then the line went dead. “Christ, I’ve got to get up there now.”, I said to myself out loud.

I yelled out into the bullpen for my Deputy. “Dupree, gather up your crime scene kit and come with me now. Is your 30.06 in your cruiser?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come on, let’s go. I know exactly where that waterfall is.”

As we ran out the front door of the police station I turned and called back to Margie. “Keep trying to reach him at his house. Get me on the radio and let me know if he picks up.”

Two minutes later, I was behind the wheel of Dupree’s cruiser, roaring up Route 27. Dupree was riding shotgun. I glanced over at him, noticed a tense, haggard look on his face and smiled. “What’s the matter Deputy? You’re not afraid of bears, are you?”

“No, sir. I’ve bagged my limit of them up here over the past few years.”

“Then, what’s the matter? You look troubled.”

“No, I’m fine. Just thinking about what we’ll find up there.” He paused and added: “Say, what did that weird Isaiah kid say exactly?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he say if he…. you know… examined the body at all?”

“No…. why do you ask?”

Dupree stared out the window. Finally said, “Just wondering…that’s all.”

After a minute of silence, I said, “Welcome home, by the way. How was your Thanksgiving ski vacation up at Katahdin?”

“Oh…. good. It was fun.”, he said, as he stared out the passenger window.

“I didn’t know you were a skier, Mister Dupree.”

“I’m not. It was a long, extended weekend with my buddies. A bachelor party.”

I laughed: “Ha…. I knew it. I thought you looked kinda’ pekid this morning. Green behind the gills. Overserved, were you?”

Dupree half-grinned. “Yeah, you might say that.”

I said, “I’ve been up there a few times myself. Beautiful. Where’d you stay?”

Dupree looked away for a moment and pursed his lips. “At a friend’s condo at the big resort.”

“Really? Do you know who owns that place? Our very own Chairman of the Board of Selectmen.”

Dupree squirmed in his seat and said,
“Yeah, I know…. Mister Paulos.”

“Do you know Charlie Paulos?”

“Yeah, I met him years ago when I was a patrol officer in Providence.”

After a long silence, I asked. “Your little vacation up there wasn’t arranged by Charlie was it? Was it on the arm? His arm?”

Dupree’s face reddened. “Yes sir, we were his guests for a few days. He actually stayed with us.”

I slowed the car and looked directly at Dupree. “I don’t know how you handled your professional affairs down in Providence. But up here in Carrabassett, we don’t accept gratuities from anyone, especially from duly elected officials. Are you understanding this? When were you going to volunteer this little piece of information, Deputy?”

He looked down at the floorboard and mumbled. “Sorry, Chief,..I didn’t…..

Just then the cruiser fishtailed and swung sharply to the right. I regained control and said, “We’ll continue this conversation later. Got it?”

The night before we had had a couple inches of snow which concealed a lot of black ice patches on the highway. I struggled to keep control of the car and almost lost it a few times, but reached the old logging road in under fifteen minutes. We travelled about a half mile then hiked in the rest of the way on foot. The trail was covered in wet snow and ice but Dupree and I quickly made it up that rocky hill and to the top of the ridge in about twenty minutes.

He was standing near the edge of a deep ravine about a hundred yards from the waterfall. Isaiah Allerton stood about six feet tall, lean muscular build, long black hair and a short dark beard. He looked befuddled, like a man drugged, as though in some kind of a trance. He was cradling a lever action rifle. I unfastened my gun holster and called out to him. “Isaiah, lay the gun on the ground slowly and then just point to where she is.”

When he didn’t respond, I shouted. “I’m not going to tell you again, son. Lay the gun on the ground. Now.”

Isaiah suddenly lifted the rifle to his shoulder, but then pointed it towards the bottom of a deep hollow to our left. I crouched, pulled my semiautomatic … just as Allerton started to bend towards the ground. Suddenly the floodgates crashed wide open as he doubled over, dropped the rifle, fell to his knees and started sobbing uncontrollably. “She’s dow… down there. Under all those lea… leaves. I should have followed her. I heard this rifle shot… right after she ra…. ran away.” He stared at me with a wild-eyed look of panic and desperation…. then took a deep breath and said slowly, “I called her landlady, Mrs. Olsen th…. this morning, Chief. She says she’s been missing for two whole days. Oh, God…why didn’t I go after her?”

Dupree scurried over to Allerton, took the rifle and said, “I’ll take that hatchet there at your waist, too, Isaiah.” Dupree pulled it out of its leather holster.

I looked into the ravine and saw the shape of a human body lying face up and partially covered with leaves and pine straw. She looked like an oversized rag doll covered in dried blood and forest floor debris. I’d been a cop then for over twenty years but I had never seen a grizzlier, stomach-turning scene like that one. Her chest and abdomen had been ripped open like a side of beef split down the middle by a butcher’s cleaver. Her scalp had been ripped away from her skull and parts of her nose and ears were torn off. I resisted the urge to puke and walked back up the slope. I stared into Allerton’s face as I quickly approached him.

When I began asking him a rapid-fire series of questions, he started to stammer and stutter so badly he was almost unintelligible. “Whoa, Isaiah, slow down. What time did you find her?”

“Ah…ah…about an hour and a half ago.” He responded.

“Where was the bear when you first saw it?”

“It was dig…. digging into her chest with his cl… claws.”

“What did you do?”

“I fi…fired a shot into the air. He stood up on both feet. He roa… roared at me and then ran away up over the ridge.”

“Listen to me carefully, son. How many shots did you fire from that rifle today?”

“Ju…. just that one, Chief.”

I stared quietly for a moment at Isaiah and asked. “When did you last see her alive?”

“She was…. she was… at my house two days ago. When she ran away from me.”

“Why did she run from you, Isaiah?”

“She was upset…crying. We had a little fi…fight.”

“About what?”

“I ca….ca…. can’t talk about it now.”

“What were you doing up here this morning? Why were you up here?”

He pointed to the ground behind him. “I was tracking a bu…. buck I saw early this morning. See there? There’s his prints right there in the snow.”

In fact, I noticed that the deer tracks led straight up from the trail to the ravine but then continued up the ridge line. I reached back at my waist and removed the cuffs from my belt. “Isaiah, until I can sort some things out here, I’m going to have to detain and cuff you. Don’t be upset. This is all normal police procedure. We need to have a long conversation, you and me….and maybe even with a lawyer.” I cuffed Isaiah and stood with him while Dupree taped off the scene, set up a few grids, did a quick search of the entire area and took no less than a hundred of the most gruesome corpse pictures I’d ever seen. We took so many shots because I knew that no one would otherwise believe what I was staring at. I forgot to take my portable radio with me so I left Dupree with Allerton and hiked back down to the car where I radioed Margie and relayed a message to the medical examiner Doc Brodsky.

When I got back up to the scene, I took Allerton aside. He started to stutter and stammer even more wildly as soon as I started to ask him some more questions.

“Isaiah, you say you and Libby had a fight. I want you to tell me what that fight was about.”

“I do…don’t want to talk about it Chief. It’s pri…pri…… private, between Libby and me.”

I grew annoyed…impatient. “Nope. Not any more, it isn’t, son. I’m formally placing you under arrest for questioning. You’ll spend the night at the station and we’ll come back up here and enforce a search warrant at your house tomorrow morning.”

“But I didn’t sh… shoot her, Chief.”

“And, so you say. Is there anyone staying at your house? And do you have any dogs or cats living there?”

“No…no….no one, Chief. Except for my songbirds.”

I covered Libby’s body with a plastic tarp from my knapsack, turned to my deputy and said, “Mister Dupree, I want you to escort Mister Allerton down to the cruiser, take him back to the office and put him in the lockup. Get on the radio and have Margie call Doc Brodsky. I want you to bring him back up here with a few strong men to carry the body down the trail. I’ll wait up here for you and Brodsky to get back.”

I found a relatively sunny spot on a rock ledge near the edge of the falls and sat down. I waited there almost a full hour before the coroner, Dupree and two of his EMS friends finally got back up there. I couldn’t go near her body. The nauseating, stifling stench of decomposition and death, even in the cooler weather, had already placed its ugly grip on what was, until now, a beautiful, intelligent, vibrant young woman.

I sat huddled, knees to my chest…. braced and back turned against the cold wind…. listening to the rustling remnant of dried dead leaves still clinging to their summer perches. I couldn’t help thinking of the day I first met her, and smiled. Local newspaper reporters who had later covered the story had repeatedly asked me “so, how did you first run into her?” My pat response was: “Well, it was more the other way ‘round, actually. It was she who first ran into me.”

AN AUSPICIOUS BEGINNING

I had just gassed up my patrol car at Mike Allen’s auto body shop that early morning in May when she pulled in directly behind me at the pump. I heard a loud crunching sound and turned to see an ugly twist of metal bumpers broken headlights and dented trunk. My mind immediately presented a bizarre image of an old, mangy, testosterone crazed bull mounting my prized young heifer. I’d felt violated… in a strange kind of way.

The young female driver jumped out, held her hand to her mouth and pleaded. “Oh, my God, Officer. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

“Well, you got that right Miss. Who are you? Let me see some identification please.” I had quickly demanded.

She just held out her hand, smiled, and said, “My parents, back home in Boston, call me Libby. I would be really pleased if you would do the same. Are you the Police Chief, sir?”

An odd reaction, I thought at the time.

“Yes, I am. Chief Bradley.”

“I just drove into town and stopped for gas. I was sort of planning to stay here for a while. Maybe for the summer, if that’s Ok.” She grinned, rolled her eyes and added, “If I can manage to stay out of jail.”

“Do you have a job lined up for the summer, Libby?”, I asked.

“Well, not exactly, sir. I’m a paint artist. You know, nature still life, portrait kind of painting. I’m not quite sure yet how long I’ll be staying here…. if at all.”

She continued to smother me with profuse apologies. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this. Totally my fault. Is there anything you need for me to do? I’m afraid I don’t have collision coverage but I insist on paying for the complete repair of your car.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, you’ll pay all right. If the Board of Selectmen have any say in it. And as far as staying out of jail is concerned, I wouldn’t worry about that. Certainly not over an incident like this. Unless of course there’s an open warrant for you in Boston, Libby.”

“Oh no, not me, Chief. I was raised to respect the law and men like you who enforce it.”

I pointed to my crumbled rear bumper and said, “Well, this isn’t exactly a crime scene. However, you’ve managed to hit a police cruiser on your very first day in Carrabassett. That’s one hell of an auspicious start to your visit. Quite the introduction, Miss Libby. And just to keep this all on the up and up… may I see that identification now please?”

“Why certainly, Chief. I’d be happy to”, she said, as she dug through her wallet.

Mike Allen, a tall, balding, weather-beaten man in his late 60’s walked over to the cruiser and said, “I’m getting kinda’ busy with the arrival of the summer crowd, Chief.” He pointed to the rear of the car. “If you and the Board want me to fix that, better get it in here real soon while I still have the time…. and my new mechanic can get it up on the lift.”

I said, “Thanks Mike. I’ll do that as soon as I can get my Deputy to give up his car for a few days.” I looked at the skinny, pimple faced, shaggy haired young man pumping gas. “Who’s the new kid?”

Mike smiled. “Oh, not to worry Chief. He’s not my mechanic. That’s the twenty-year old son of a real good friend of mine who’s renting a ski chalet just outside of town for the summer. I promised him I’d keep the boy busy for a while. Seems the kid has some behavioral and disciplinary problems he’s trying to work out …. according to his father.”

I answered. “Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around. Good luck. By the way, Mike, I want you working on the car, personally, not him or anyone else. OK?”

“Of course, Chief. I understand.”

I refocused on the pretty, little auburn-haired stranger who’d just banged up my car. Her Massachusetts driver’s license bore the name Elizabeth Morelli, a nineteen-year-old from Boston. I said, “Well, you heard the man, Libby. I’ll be getting the car fixed in a few weeks probably, and I’ll let you know how much you owe the Town Board.”

The girl’s smile and her bright green eyes lit up her face. “Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it right away. Do you mind if I pay you in cash, Chief?”

Another odd request, I thought. I returned the smile and said, “As long as it’s in the coin of the realm.”

She laughed. “They’re not gold backed, but they’re real U.S. dollars. I’ll let you know as soon as I find a rented room and get settled in. I already have a couple great leads right here in the heart of town.”

For the brief time that I knew her, I was consistently struck by her unrelentingly upbeat personality. She was so full of life and wonder…. with everything and everybody. Even the way she spoke… with that unique private boarding school accent. The timbre and confident sound of her voice, the quick smile, the firm handshake… and her pretty face…. were all impressive. The whole package… it all reminded me of a young Katherine Hepburn.

I remember there was a Boston Globe reporter who came up from Boston, about five months after Libby’s death, to interview me. He was doing an in-depth human-interest kind of story on the facts surrounding the killing. But what he really wanted to do was take a deep dive into the girls’ private life, to feature her personality profile, her hidden psyche. He had met her parents, an elderly wealthy couple from Boston and was really intent on telling their story too. Especially about how a young girl…. as pretty, smart and talented as she was, could end up being so alone and so hopelessly estranged from her parents. The reporter handed me a high school graduation photo her mother had given him. A bit younger and fresher faced… but the same pretty girl who plowed into the rear of my car. Except that, by then, standing at that pump, she had acquired some bright purple dyed highlights in her hair, a rose tattoo on the left side of her neck and dirty, ripped, faded jeans. A sign of the times, I reckoned.

I know all of the regulars…you know…the year-round folks, up here. I’ve also gotten to know most of the winter ski crowd and even the summer people too. One thing is for sure. She never did quite fit in to our rural laid-back Maine mold, if you know what I mean.

KEEP MOVING

After about an hour huddled on the cold rocky ledge with my knees wedged into my chest, I stood, stretched my legs and stomped my feet to try to keep warm. I walked back to the ravine and stared down at Libby’s cold, lifeless corpse laying there, framed and cordoned off by the yellow police barricade tape.

A tragic, sad, unjust end, I thought, especially for such a sweet girl who had savored every rich, tasteful moment of life.

Truth be told, she had struck me, in that moment of first impression in the gas station, as a simmering, wild flower child waiting to burst out of her up-tight, upper caste Boston background. But I was wrong. She turned out to be true to her classy roots in many ways. She was very self-disciplined, with a polite lady like set of social standards. Yet at the same time, she remained consistent and unwavering in her non-conformity. I found her to be one of those rare souls who looked the world directly in the eye, fearlessly spoke her mind and moved comfortably with the mind and purpose of a free spirit. An unusual young woman to say the least. In short, no one was really surprised that she ended up keeping company with someone like ‘weird Isaiah’ Allerton.

Just then, Dupree called up to me from a stand of pines along the trail below. His voice echoed in the still dense woods. “I have the Doc, Chief.”

“Hurry on up here. We’re running out of daylight,” I yelled below.

Harold Brodsky was panting and sucking wind like an asthma patient. He bent his small, stooped frame over at the waist to catch his breath. “Sorry it took so long to get up here, Tom. I’m not exactly in the greatest physical shape these days. I’m no kid anymore, you know.” He stared down into the ravine. “Oh, my God. There’s nothing left of her.”

“I know. It’s horrible. Just do the best you can, Doc. We have plenty of pictures.”

Brodsky bent over, dug into his bag and pulled out a pair of surgical gloves. “I don’t know where to begin,” he said, standing motionless over the body.

After about fifteen minutes, Doc Brodsky stood and said, “She’s been dead for a good while. Probably between twenty-four and forty-eight hours, I’d bet. I can’t really examine the body closely, not the way I’d like, until I get it back to the morgue, Chief. I’m sorry. Not much more I can do up here. You know, with it getting dark so early in the afternoon now. Did you get photos of the blood distribution pattern around the body, Chief?”

“Yeah, Doc. Dupree has them.”

I noticed a wild distant gaze in his darting eyes. He looked pale and gaunt. “What is it, Doc. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know exactly. You know, I’ve seen a lot of death. But this one…. this one has me greatly troubled and even a little frightened. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

“How do you mean?”

“The damage to her body is staggering…. other worldly. Most of her internal organs are either missing or shredded beyond recognition. This is not going to be easy, Chief.”

I sighed. “I know, Doc. Just do what you can”, I repeated.

I looked at Dupree and the EMS crew. “Ok gentlemen. Let’s get the body bagged and down to the main road as quickly as we can. We’re losing daylight fast.”

I said to Dupree, “I want you to run over to Judge Hoffmann first thing in the morning and pick up the search warrant for the Allerton house. I’ll call him tonight and get things started.”

“Yes, Chief. When do you want to search his place?”

“As soon as you get the warrant. We’ll bring Allerton up there with us and enforce it in his presence.”

“What do we do about notifying next of kin?” Dupree asked.

“I want you to call the Boston P.D. and ask them to go to the address listed on her driver’s license as soon as possible and notify the parents. I think her last name is Morelli. Was her wallet and ID on her body?”

Dupree held up a clear plastic bag. “Got it, Chief.”

“When we get back to town, get on over to the Olsen house. Search her rented room carefully and see what you can find.”

“Right, Chief.”

I took a deep breath and pointed to the trail. “OK, let’s get this show on the road.”

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

Early the next morning when I walked into the office, Dupree was just getting off the phone. He looked up at me. “Shit, we’ve got a problem”, he groaned.

“Let’s hear it.”

“That was Boston P.D. They visited Mrs. Morelli late last night. It seems our sweet little Libby is an imposter.”

“What do you mean?”

“Every piece of identification in her wallet and purse is fake. When they told Mrs. Morelli about her daughter’s death, she damned near passed out. Apparently, the mother ran upstairs crying… screaming hysterical. A few seconds later she bounced back down the stairs, a changed woman. It seems her daughter, Libby, or Elizabeth, was sound asleep in her bedroom, very much alive and well.”

“Oh, boy. Here we go,” I said. “Get over to the morgue later and remind Doc we need the girl’s fingerprints, her footprints and a complete dental chart. We’ll have to send them to the FBI lab and Boston PD. Hopefully we’ll get a match from their databases.”

I pictured the death scene and her body and tried to envision her pretty face.

Exactly who in the hell are you, Libby? And exactly where did you come from?

Dupree broke my reverie. “So, what do you want to call her? You know, for the record.” he asked.

I laughed. “I want to call her what her parents named her. As soon as we can figure out who they are exactly.”

Dupree answered. “That’s not what I mean. Is she officially a Jane Doe now? Is that her case name?”

For all the years I’d been a cop, I’d always hated to slap that faceless Jane Doe… that impersonal, lifeless moniker on anyone. Especially on a girl filled with so much vibrant life. I answered, “No. Absolutely not. She deserves some basic human dignity. She needs some kind of meaningful name, one fitting her unique personality.”

“I don’t follow”, said Dupree.

The thought came to me in an instant. “Until we know who she really is… the official name of her file will be The Brahmin Girl.”

“The Bra…. what?”

I laughed. “Go look it up, Mister Dupree. Learn what the word means. In its proper historical context. I’m naming her after her unique, upper caste Boston Brahmin accent. It fits her to a tee. Wouldn’t you agree Deputy?”

Dupree’s blank expression said it all. “Uhh…., yeah sure, Chief. Whatever you say.”

PRINCE OF HEARTS

Later that morning Dupree and I drove Allerton up to his place where we enforced the search warrant in his presence. As soon as we came through the front door, I noticed that the air was oppressively hot and still. Heat poured out of the large fieldstone fireplace in the living room. Mixed in with the distinct aroma of burnt, well-seasoned black cherrywood was the mangy smell of a menagerie. It reminded me of an unventilated pet store. I quickly looked around the rooms and stood gaping at the extraordinarily bizarre scene set out before me. Throughout the large kitchen, the living room, the back rooms, and even the bathroom, there were over a hundred live local and tropical songbirds. Canaries, golden finches, tanagers, parakeets…. even a few wild chickadees… in dozens of swaying wicker cages. A wild, chattering, cacophonous melee. I imagined a drunken midnight choir huddled and hunched along a telephone wire…. backs to the winter wind.

But what really sent the hair on my neck flying… was what I had next noticed about the birds, as I walked closer to the cages. Sitting alongside each raucous songbird…. on each of the wooden perches… were countless numbers of companions…. every one of them…. dead. In various frozen, yet natural poses. Each had been masterfully taxidermized. I walked back into the kitchen and then saw Allerton’s piece de resistance. It sent a chill up my spine. Along the entire wall above the stove was a long knotty pine shelf containing hundreds of tiny glass jars holding the tiny hearts of these dead birds, preserved in formaldehyde. It was a bizarre, unsettling sight …. more than a little unnerving… even for a seasoned cop like me.

It turns out that our young Isaiah was himself quite the skillful taxidermist. I asked him about it. “Isaiah, who taught you how to do this? And why do you keep the bird hearts preserved in formaldehyde?”

Isaiah gave me a puzzled look. He paused and said, “I learned how to do this from my dad. I don’t exactly know why I do it. Maybe it’s ‘cause I really love these little guys.” Isaiah picked up one of the jars and smiled. “Maybe it’s cause I’m trying to preserve their innocence? Who knows? I’m not really sure why I like doing this.”

I said, “Well, whatever the reason, you have a rare gift, Isaiah. These birds are very well done”.

Dupree suddenly interjected. “Yeah… but I gotta tell ya’, Isaiah…those hearts are more than a little spooky, if you ask me.” He poked his head with a forefinger and grinned demonically. “Really weird… kinda’ like you. I always figured you for the satanic cult type.”

Isaiah’s eyes widened as he stared at Dupree. His plaintive, guileless voice carried a slight hint of fear. He ignored Dupree and turned to face me. “Is this against the law, Chief? Please tell me if it is. Am I doing anything wrong? Something illegal?”

“No, Isaiah. At least not that I can tell at the moment. How long have you been doing this?”

“I’m not sure exactly. Since around the time my parents were killed in the car wreck, I guess.”

I knew Isaiah’s folks and did some quick mental math. “So, about three and a half years now?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s about right.”

I asked, “Where do you do your taxidermy work? Here in the house?”

Isaiah walked to a door at the rear of the kitchen and said, “Come with me. I’ll show you.”

Isaiah opened the door and flipped on a light switch. We walked down a short flight of rough wooden steps illuminated by a single incandescent light bulb suspended at the end of a long-braided string … hanging from a floor rafter. The unfinished basement had an earthen floor. Two long wooden tables were covered in taxidermy knives and scalpels, scissors, grooming tools, formaldehyde jugs, latex gloves and other equipment. Above the table were two long fluorescent bulb fixtures which buzzed continuously.

“This is very impressive, Isaiah. Just birds?”

“Yeah… mostly” he said.

I turned to Dupree and said, “Go out to the cruiser, get the camera and take pictures of the birds and cages upstairs and all this stuff down here.”

Dupree turned to leave. “Right, Chief.” As he walked past me, I thought I heard him mumble, “The kid’s fuckin’ nuts.”

I picked up one of the small glass containers and stared at the tiny bird heart. I asked, “Do you know, Isaiah, what the heart rate of a canary or even a chickadee is?”

He grinned and said, “Yes, I do. One thousand beats per minute.”

“That’s right, son. That’s why they’re always feeding…. constantly having to look for energy sources. Meanwhile, we earthbound folks plod along at seventy beats per minute.” I laughed, “Maybe what’s why we haven’t figured out yet how to fly on our own.”

Isaiah stared at me, smiled and said, “But we will… all of us… someday.”

I paused and asked, “You really believe that?”

He said: “Libby used to sing this song all the time. I remember her words… ‘when I die, halleluiah, by and by….”

The familiar spiritual verse resounded in my head. “Yeah...I’ll fly away… fly away”, I found myself singing, sotto voce.

Just then I remembered Doc Brodsky telling me at the crime scene that the girl’s heart and most of her liver appeared to be missing from the corpse.

“Say, Isaiah, when you scared off the bear, did you happen to notice if it had any part of her body in his mouth when he ran off?”

“The pupils of Isaiah’s eyes suddenly widened and he stammered badly. “Uh, yeah, I…. I ….. think I sa… saw something in his mouth.”

I held the glass jar back up to the buzzing light. “Was it shaped something like this? Except a lot bigger?”

Isaiah’s eyes now grew to the size of saucers. “You me…mean… like Libby’s heart?”

“Now take your time and think really hard, Isaiah. I want to know exactly what you saw.”

“Isaiah’s face suddenly reddened. “Uhhhh, ma…ma…maybe. I can’t really remember that.”

My deputy, Dupree, came back down the stairs and had heard my question and Isaiah’s answer. He grunted loudly. I looked over at him. He did a dramatic eye roll and made a quick circling motion with his middle finger alongside his right temple. “Bullshit” he whispered…… or at least so he had presumed.

After a few minutes, we returned to the kitchen where I changed up the flow of questions. “Isaiah, were you having an intimate relationship with Libby?”

“I don…don’t get what you mean, Chief.”

Dupree suddenly lunged forward like a bull in a china shop. He grinned, went face to face with Isaiah and said mockingly. “In other words, Isaiah…. what the Chief really wants to know is…. just between us guys of course… were you porking the girl?”

I jumped between Dupree and Allerton, pushed my deputy away and shot him a look that would have killed most properly mannered folks. “What the deputy is asking you, Isaiah, in his crude way, is whether you and Libby were having sexual relations.”

Allerton glanced quickly back toward his bedroom door, then at the floor. “I don…don’t… have to answer that question, Chief Bradley. Do I?”

I paused, then said. “Well, that’s technically true. You don’t have to answer anything. But it would sure help us in our investigation. And it might even go a long way towards helping yourself. You know, clearing yourself as a potential suspect. Provided you told us the truth. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Isaiah squinted down at his feet and remained close lipped. I asked again. “Look, Isaiah, sooner or later you’re going to have to answer that question. If you two were having sex, I’m not going to judge you. That’s not necessarily any of my business. But I need to have an answer. A truthful answer. Yes or no.”

Suddenly he blurted out. “Yes, we were. I won’t lie, Chief. Not about anything, especially not about Libby.”

“Atta’ boy. So then, roughly how often? And over what period of time? Weeks? Months?”

Isaiah looked at the ceiling, closed his eyes and moved his hands together. He seemed to be silently and deftly counting on his fingers. “Twelve times. Since the end of summer, Chief.”

“Did Libby give her consent every time?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Did she ever try to resist you or say no to you?”

Isaiah’s voice betrayed a bitter, angry edge. “No. Never. She loved me; you know.”

“Was it always up here at the house?”

“Yes, mostly. But twice we did it down in that little grassy meadow… you know, the one next to the stream below the lake.”

I turned and walked back to the kitchen. I then recalled that when we had first entered the house, I had seen but ignored something that later turned out to be a rare, incredibly lucky break in the case. It was a brand-new cassette tape player sitting in full view on the big round pine kitchen table. The store receipt was lying next to it.

I turned and pointed towards the machine. “Is this recorder yours, Isaiah? Is it new?”

“Yes, sir. Libby asked me to buy it when we took a ride into Kingfield a few weeks ago.”

I looked at the receipt. “How did she pay for it… in cash?”

“Yes, sir. She paid for everything… her food, her paint supplies… even her rent to Mrs. Olson... all in cash.”

“Did you ever see her use a check or credit card?”

“No, sir… never.”

Unbeknownst to me at the moment, the tape recorder turned out to be an extraordinary and fortuitous piece of evidence. You even might say… a once in a cop’s lifetime opportunity to perhaps solve a big case quickly. Or at least that’s what I had thought and hoped for at the time. According to Allerton, it contained the voices of Libby, or whatever her real name was, and Isaiah, in multiple, separate and distinct conversations. I pointed to a chair and Isaiah sat down across from me at his kitchen table. I broached the subject. “Isaiah, tell me what’s on this cassette tape.”

“Libby and me talking. She started to tape our conversations a while back.”, he said.

“Really? About what?”, I asked.

“About us. You know, about love … and stuff.”

I glanced at Dupree who hunched his shoulders and rolled his eyes again. I asked, “When did she start recording your conversations?”

“A couple of weeks ago, before she ran away.” His voice cracked a bit. “Before she was killed.”

“Why did she make these recordings? Did she give you any reason?”

Isaiah was surprisingly blunt. “Play it and see for yourself.”

My good luck continued to play out. I leapt at the opportunity and asked the loaded question. “Isaiah Allerton, do I have your permission and authority to play this tape?”

“Sure, why not?”

No cop worth his salt was about to look such a gift horse in the mouth. And, so, I quickly hit the play button. The tape was queued up at the beginning. Libby’s familiar voice immediately rang out…. sweet, bright and clear. She said “Isaiah, thank you for letting me do this.”

Isaiah’s reply sounded hesitant, almost timid. “I’m confused, Libby. Tell me again. Please…. slow…. why are you recording us?”

Her response was as sharp and precise as a brass bell. “Because you need to have an accurate record of our love and what it means. You may need to remind yourself someday… in the distant future…. of our love for one another and all the wonderful things we have so much in common, Isaiah.”

Isaiah paused. Then said, “Like what?”

“Our mutual backgrounds, our lonely isolated lives, our hearts intertwined. Especially our love for God’s beautiful creation, our gentle and open way of looking at His gifts, and caring for them.”

“Yes, I know. That’s true.” Isaiah responded softly.

I heard Libby say. “You’re smiling, Isaiah. What do you want to say? Come on, this thing won’t bite.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever find someone who sees the world like me, Libby. I’d almost given up hope of ever finding someone like you.”

Libby said. “We’re kindred, linked spirits, you know… you and I. Both of us…. authentic Mayflower descendants…. can you imagine that? What are the odds? Both of us… orphans. You’ve lost your parents to a car accident. I’ve lost my parents to their deadly biases and closemindedness. They’re as good as dead to me.”

A few seconds of silence followed. Libby spoke, “Isaiah, I know we only met a few months ago… but I feel like I’ve known you all my life. You ask me why I’m doing this? Because I want to make a record of what true love looks and sounds like. The kind of love that can withstand and overcome any evil and hatred in this world.”

“Libby, what are you going to do with this tape?”, Isaiah asked.

“I’m going to write a short story for you, about us. But first I need to know everything there is to know about you. I want to explore the silent secrets of your mind and heart. I want you to understand the depths of my own lost spirit… to understand my own unique gifts… to know and feel what moves me to pour myself out on my canvases the way I do. Can you understand what I’m saying?”

Isaiah’s voice was soft and reflective. “Yes…. I think so. At first, I wasn’t sure. But I think this is a really good idea. I like it. We should have started to do this sooner.”

Libby spoke. “Isaiah, I’m really doing this more for you than myself. Someday, maybe soon, when I’m dead and gone, this tape will be a witness to our love. More importantly, it will be a witness, a living testament, to your innocence.”

I quickly leaned over the table and hit the stop button. “That word… innocence. What did she mean by that?”

“I have no idea, Chief. It was kinda’ weird in a way.”

“Indeed.” I said. I tucked it away for later rumination and hit the start button again. “Let’s continue, shall we?”

There was a brief pause on the tape, then Isaiah asked. “Libby, that painting you did of me. Can I have it?”

“Of course, silly. That’s my gift to you. One day after I’m gone you can look at it and remember that that’s the face of a sensitive, kind, intelligent young man who virtually no one else in this town really knows. A wonderful but lonely guy who no one has ever taken the trouble to understand…. except me.”

Isaiah said. “It’s beautiful. Do I really look like that to you? I’ve never seen a painting of anyone who looks so alive. I look like I’m actually breathing. I wish my parents were alive to see it.”

Libby’s response sounded soft and wistful. “And so do I. They may be gone. But you are very much alive, Isaiah. You just don’t realize it yet.” Her voice was followed by loud brief static.

I asked. “Is that the end of the first conversation, Isaiah?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is Libby referring to the portrait I saw hanging in your bedroom a few minutes ago? Is that the one she painted and gave you?”

“Yes, Chief. She gave me some others too. They’re all hanging here on the walls…. all over my house.”

I stood and walked back into Isaiah’s bedroom and stared at the portrait for a long while. I’m no art expert but I recall thinking at that moment that she had enormous talent. She had captured the smiling, natural good looks… the bright blue expressive eyes of what appeared, at least on canvas, to be an innocent and perhaps a bit overly naive young man. My first impression was that I was staring at the face and human dimension of a boy that neither I nor anyone in town had ever really bothered to look at before.

I walked back into the kitchen, pointed to the tape recorder and asked. “How many other conversations are on that tape?

“Just two more.”

“When was the second conversation recorded?”

“About a week after the first”, he said.

“May I?” I said, not looking up. I hit the play button again.

Libby’s sweet voice sounded rambling…. disjointed… a bit disoriented. “Isaiah, how close is the nearest house to your property?”

“Why do you want to know that?” responded Isaiah.

“Because late at night, the times when I’ve stayed up here, I’ve heard voices out there…. way back deep in the woods.”

“No, Libby, that’s just the sound of the wind swirling through the tops of the pines. Sometimes it sounds just like human voices. It does sound a little scary. But no one lives within at least a mile of here.”

“Is there a cemetery nearby?”

“Yeah, there’s an old Indian burial ground almost a mile away… down towards the highway.”

“Oh, that’s it then. Can we go see it sometime?”

“What do you mean? Why do you want to do that?”

“Because one of the voices I’ve heard at night says that he knows me and my ancestors. I’d like to see where he’s buried.”

After a long period of silence, Isaiah finally spoke. “You’re hearing a voice? Of a dead man? At night?”

“Yes, silly. Don’t you ever hear voices sometimes too?”

“No, I don’t.” There was another long pregnant pause. “How long have you been hearing these voices?”

Dupree quickly stood, shook his head and blurted, “Holy shit. They’re both certified crazy.”

“Shove a sock in it, Deputy…. now!”, I said, refocusing on the tape.

Libby giggled. “The voices have been there, like old friends, all my life. It’s not what you may think.” She laughed aloud, “You don’t need to worry about me … or them. I’m not crazy and they’re perfectly harmless, Isaiah. They’re the spirits of those who have died and are still trapped for a while in this dimension. Most of the spirits out there in the woods are Native Americans. Some of them have been here for hundreds of years …. our years.”

“That’s a long time to be trapped…. In any dimension. I hope I find my reward in the next life…. a lot sooner than that.”

“It’s not what you imagine. They don’t share the same qualities… or experience time the way we do, here in our earthly world. Time becomes irrelevant when we die. As we approach God, in death, we also approach His true nature and essence, which isn’t bound or burdened by the dimensions of time or space.”

“How do you know all this stuff? Did you learn it in school?”, asked Isaiah.

“I’ve always just kind of known it. I see and hear things most people can’t. Or rather, I experience things other people refuse to hear or see. Even as a little girl. My father would never discuss it with me. And my mother… well, she was just always confused and alarmed. So, I learned to keep quiet about it.”

“This voice you’re talking to…. who is it?”

“He says his name is Samoset. An Algonquin, I think. He says he wants to introduce me to my forebears, one particular white settler family who moved from the coast of Maine inland somewhere in this area. He says he passed into the next life in Bristol, near the ocean, a very long time ago.”

“Bristol, as in Bristol, Maine?”

“Yes, but it was way back in the sixteen-hundreds.”

“What else does he say?”

“He keeps saying that he knows me and that my ancestors are watching over everything I do. He says he was a friend of my great-great grandfather. If I ever get back to Boston, I’m going to do some research about the Native American tribes in this part of Maine.”

“Would you like to visit that cemetery with me? We can do it right now, if you want.” Isaiah said.

“Oh, yes, I’d really like that. Did you know there are even some white English settlers and a few slaves buried in that same cemetery?”, Libby said.

“But, how would you know that? You’ve never been here before this summer.”

Libby laughed. “Because I speak to some of them too.”

Isaiah said excitedly, “Come on, let’s go there right now.”

The voices ended and another period of static followed.

“Is that the end of that conversation?”

“Yes, Chief. There’s one more though.”

“Before we get to that…. what is the significance of that last exchange?”

“I don’t get what you mean.”

I looked over at Dupree who was still wagging his head at full throttle. I asked, “Let me be blunt, Isaiah. Was Libby a little… you know… off? Was she mentally imbalanced? Tell me, what do you really think….is it possible?”

“No. Definitely not. She saw and heard things, especially out there deep in the woods. The kinds of things that most folks can’t.” Isaiah’s gaze drifted away, out through the kitchen window…. as though carried to some other time and place. He smiled and said: “No, she wasn’t nuts, Chief. She just had special gifts. That’s all.”

“Did you ever take her to that Indian cemetery?”

“Yeah, that same day. It was almost a week ago.”

“Did you do that to…. you know… humor her?”

“Yeah, well, Chief…. for your information, she actually found a grave mound with the name Samoset carved into a slab of limestone. It was really faded… but that was the name on the marker … Samoset; date of death 1653. I think it was Libby who was humoring me. Not the other way around.”

I stared disbelievingly at Isaiah for a long moment. “Obviously she had been up there before…. prior to the day you took her…. right?”

“No way. She’d never seen it before. I asked her that same question. She would never lie to me.”

I snapped back, “Never lie? Except, of course, for the continuing lie she told all of us for the past six months about her identity.”

Isaiah answered, “I suppose you could look at her that way, Chief. It’s true, the name she gave me the first day I met her was Libby Browne Morelli. She said Morelli was the name of her adoptive parents. But her real given name is Libby…just like she said.”

I raised my voice. “Libby what?! Isaiah, she was carrying fraudulent identification in the name of Morelli. She lied to you, Isaiah. To all of us. We still don’t know who she really is.”

“That’s not important, Chief. Not to me anyway. I know who she is.”

I was not about to get sidetracked and distracted by this useless hypothetical debate. Instead, I asked, “Let’s get back to the last conversation, shall we?”

Isaiah gave me a knowing smile and pointed to the recorder. “Go right ahead. But before you do … I want to tell you something you aughta’ know.”

I cocked my head to the side and returned the smile. “Really? Like what?”

“Did you know there was a colonial marker next to Samoset’s grave had the name Browne? John Browne. The original Mayflower John Browne.”

I stared at Isaiah. “That’s quite a leap of faith. Isaiah. What’s your point?”

“You don’t see anything amazing…. or at the least serendipity, in that?”

“Should I?” I asked.

“A white man? Buried right next to an Indian burial mound?! Whose surname happens to be the same as her middle name?”

I shrugged and said, “So what? There’s a couple of other white men and women buried up there too. People who, you know, probably married or cohabited with Native Americans. White folks who were probably shunned and rejected by the rest of us properly civilized society down here in the valley. And as far as the name Browne is concerned… well, that’s like the name Smith, for crying out loud. A dime a dozen.”

We were wasting our time. In the classic unproductive collision of reason and happenstance. I hovered my finger over the recorder button and said, “Ok? May we proceed now? To the last conversation?”

“Sure, I guess.”

“Now, when exactly was this? When did the two of you have your last recorded conversation?”

Isaiah’s smile had faded and turned as quickly as it had appeared. His voice suddenly began to crack … erupting with pent up pathos. He let out a long, soft, primeval moan… then whispered: “The day she ran away. Two days before I found her dead in the woods.”

I side glanced at Dupree, and then back at Allerton. “I presume you’ve also listened to this last conversation before today?”

“Yes. Over and over again…. all on that same day. And I’ve heard it in my head almost every day since.”

“All what day, Isaiah?”

“The day she recorded this. The same day she cried and ran away.”

I reached over the table and hit the play button. There was a fifteen second period of rustling static, followed by Libby’s trembling voice. “Isaiah, I have something very important I need to tell you.”

“What’s wrong? You looked scared”, the pitch of his voice rising an octave.

Libby’s voice seemed to regain some momentary composure. “Listen to me carefully, my love. I have to go away for a while.”

“Where?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“But why? Did I do something wrong? Did I say something?”

“NO, Isaiah”, the girl yelled.

“What is it, then! Tell me…. what’s wrong?!”, he insisted.

Libby started to weep, then whispered. “I’m pregnant, my love.”

“But…but… that’s OK. You can live here with me. We can even get married, right? We can raise our baby here, you and me. Can’t we?”

“No, we can’t. “

“But why not? You love me, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course I do. You know that.”

Isaiah shouted. “I don’t understand. Why not? Tell me why not?!”

“Because the baby isn’t yours.”

“What? What do you mean? How…. can that be…. I…. I thought….”

“I plan to go home to my parents in Boston. I’ll beg them to take me back. I’m going to give birth to my daughter. I’ve decided to spare her life and give her up for adoption… if I can stay alive that long.”

Allerton’s voice boomed out of the speaker and across the room. “NO !!!.”, he screamed.

“Yes. I have no choice. She has to live.”

“Who is it!! Tell me. I’m gonna’ kill him.”

Libby’s voice grew weak… resigned. “Oh, God! I can’t tell you that, Isaiah.” Her voice momentarily buckled and cracked. “The man raped me, Isaiah. He said he would kill both of us if I told anyone what he did to me.”

“Did you do it with him…. like you do it with me?”

Libby cried, “Oh, Isaiah, I can’t do this. You don’t understand anything. Please let me go.”

Allerton pleaded. “Please, Libby, don’t leave. Stay here with me. Stop and think about this. We’ll figure out the right thing to do. Please.”

Her measured voice answered with a heightened level of calm and maturity that caught me off guard. “I’m out of time,” she said. “Time is not my friend. It’s my enemy now… an assassin of dreams. My dreams. Our dreams.”

The next sounds on the tape were those of Libby’s scurried footsteps running across the bare oak floor and then…. the slamming of a screen door. Allerton could be heard screaming something unintelligible, followed moments later by the sharp metallic sound of the chambering of a round in a lever action rifle. “Give me his name!” he roared from across the room.

Libby’s shouts echoed as though yelling from a distance somewhere beyond the door. Out near the treeline. She screamed, “I’ll give you anything… and everything. But I can’t give you that. I’ve given you my heart, my love. Take it, it’s yours. That’s all I have left to give you.”

The conversation ended abruptly with a roaring silence, broken only seconds later by Isaiah’s uncontrolled, pathetic sobs. A funereal hush fell over the room. I stared at the recorder for nearly a full minute while I tried to collect my thoughts. I went to turn the machine off. Isaiah jumped to his feet, thrust his hand towards me and said “Wait. That’s not the end, Chief.”

“What do you mean?”

The thought suddenly hit me. Is it really possible?

I asked. “Isaiah, is the sound of that rifle shot you mentioned out on the ridge caught on this tape?”

“Yes, sir. Keep playing it. You’ll hear it.”

I listened to the soft hissing of static for exactly four minutes and thirty-one seconds. Then a loud crack ricocheted through the hills and hollows… and boomed through the speaker. I looked at Dupree. “That’s clearly a high-powered rifle. A single shot. And pretty close.”

I looked at Allerton. “Did you fire that shot, Isaiah?”

“No sir. But I hear hunters up here firing their guns all the time. I thought it was one of them…. you know, what with it being deer season and all.”

I asked, finally. “That metal sound that we heard while you were arguing with Libby, was that you chambering your thirty aught six, Isaiah?”

“Yes sir.”

“Listen to me very carefully. Over the last three days did you fire that gun at anyone or anything other than that bear yesterday morning?”

“No sir…. I swear.”

“Where did she go?”

“I don’t know. She ran off into the woods, crying really hard.”

“Tell me the God’s honest truth now. Did you follow her?”

‘’No sir. I figured she would find her way back into town on her own. She always does.”

“Why didn’t you go after her?”

“I was really confused. I was afraid I might hurt her.”

“Hurt her?” Why? How?”

“I was so mad.”

Allerton looked down at the floor and clenched his fists. “Yeah. Really mad.”

“That rifle shot. Where exactly did it come from? Be specific.”

“It sounded like it was about a quarter mile from behind the back of the house… higher up in the pines.”

“What time of day was the shot fired?”

“Around mid… maybe towards late afternoon.”

I turned to Dupree. “Care to render an opinion, Mister Dupree?”

Dupree looked down at his feet… frowned and said: “No, Chief. I have no comment…. for the moment.”

“Really? How very uncharacteristic of you.”

I stood and quickly re-cuffed Allerton. I said, “You’re still in official custody for further questioning, son. Don’t say anything else till we get you back to the station and we can get you that lawyer we discussed.”

“But I didn’t shoot her, Chief Bradley.”

“We’ll see. We’ll let the coroner, Doc Brodsky, tell us whether you did or didn’t.”

I shifted into a full court press. I leaned into Isaiah. “Now, listen carefully to me, son. I want you to show me every firearm, every bladed object on this property… in this house, the garage, the barn in the back. I want to see all your knives, mauls, axes, hatchets, anything with an edge on it. Do you understand me?”

Isaiah stood abruptly. “Yes, Chief. Come with me. I’ll show you where everything is.”

This is not the demeanor of a guilty man, I quickly intuited.

Dupree and I spent the next several hours confiscating, marking, and bagging every sharp and dull bladed tool on the property. We seized every one of his guns. We tested for any sign of blood stains or recent attempts to clean or scrub floors, furniture, clothing. The lab did in fact find blood on some of the blades. But it was all non-human. I had forgotten that Isaiah was living alone off the grid and had become pretty skilled in hunting and fishing for wild game and even farming his own huge vegetable plot.

From the moment I had entered the house, I’d wondered about the temperature environment necessary for the survival of all those tropical birds. In fact, the house was almost too hot and I had noticed that Isaiah had a huge supply of split, seasoned firewood neatly stacked just outside the back door. The wood pile spread out almost half the length of the gravel driveway. At least twenty plus cords of wood, I figured.

I should point out that my investigation was conducted at a time which predated what turned out to be the bane of every seasoned law enforcement officer’s existence. The infamous Miranda case warnings… which required the reading of certain rights to a potential criminal suspect. Toward the end of my questioning, I thought of Allerton’s reputation in town. He bore, whether rightly or wrongly, an image of a lonely eccentric young man. One prone to occasional inappropriate, clumsy, naive statements. His reputation had developed over many years, unintentionally fed by his parents’ careless description of their boy’s many unusual eccentricities while he was growing up. Many in Carrabassett had long ago shaped an irrevocable, immutable opinion of him as a slow witted, absent-minded dreamer, somewhat of a rube. And even worse… in the eyes of respectable townsfolk… as someone without any redeeming social skills or value. And, yet…. at the same time, a physically strong, tough and brutally honest young man who very much resembled his hard-working, industrious father in both appearance and character. I knew his dad well. He was a very good man. And the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree… or at least I had so suspected.

In retrospect, I probably should have first offered Isaiah an opportunity to be represented by a lawyer… before I listened to the tape and interrogated him. But I admit it. I got lazy…impatient. I wanted some quick answers from the boy, not frustrating delays in my investigation. Ironically, what I ended up with, instead, was twenty years of delayed justice. And one very unsolved homicide case.

Isaiah didn’t give us any smoking gun kinds of admission. But he had said a lot of things up at the house, and later at the station, that seriously implicated him, at least circumstantially. The thing is though, for all his eccentricities and poor social skills I had no reason to believe that he had any violent proclivities. Except for his taped emotional reaction to Libby’s news about being pregnant, there was no sign or known history of angry outbursts, anger or cursing reported by anyone in town. Allerton usually came down from the lake about once a month to get a haircut or buy some provisions from the local grocer. He had very little contact with anyone in town. His life had become reclusive, and he clearly wanted it kept that way.

WHAT’S UP DOC?

About a week after the house search, I paid a visit to Doc Brodsky. I found him downstairs in the morgue…. still laboring, both physically and mentally, leaning over the mutilated body of the Brahmin Girl. I came up behind him and asked, hesitantly, “So, Doc, what say you? What can you give us?”

As he stood over the body, still lying prone on the long steel table, he looked almost as pale gray and haggard as Libby’s corpse. “Well, the big news is that I can’t find any evidence of gunshot or knife wounds. Or, you know, the usual blunt force contusions you would typically see in a typical homicide case. But there are plenty of signs of serious fatal injuries. Very deep cuts and slash marks to the scalp, chest and abdomen. Yet, I repeat, Chief… there is no clear, convincing evidence that any direct, human inflicted trauma was the proximate cause of her death.”

“Human inflicted? Come on, give it to me in laymen’s terms.”

“Her chest and upper abdomen were ripped wide open. The entire heart and most of the liver are missing. There are frayed edges to the skin and organs indicating a lot of gnawing, chewing type action…. claws and teeth. If Isaiah Allerton’s story is to be believed, this was an attack by a very large black bear. He says he actually saw the animal biting, eating the flesh and scavenging the body of the girl before he startled it and drove it away by firing a shot from his rifle.”

Brodsky suddenly became quiet and lowered his head. I said, “You look like you want to say more, Doc. What’s on your mind?”

“Well, among the many claw type slash marks, there are a few random wounds that look a lot like actual blade marks ... knife cuts. They’re barely perceptible… very hard to distinguish… but they’re there.”

I said, “I’ve never known a bear to carry a knife, Doc. So, give it to me in terms I and a jury can understand. Is this a bear killing? Or is it a criminal homicide?”

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but I truly don’t know. I can’t be one hundred percent sure if I’m looking at knife cuts, or idiopathic collateral damage from the claw gauges and gnawing by the bear… even looking under the scope. At least not at this point.”

“Jesus. So, in other words… you’re telling me the medical evidence is inconclusive? Are you saying the case is stuck in neutral? That’s the best we have here?”

“Yes, that’s it. In a nutshell”. After an awkward pause Doc continued. “And there’s something else you should know.”

I said, “Really? Lay it on me, Doc.”

“Were you aware that she was pregnant.? She was somewhere between six to eight weeks along.”

“Oh, that. Yes, we knew. But I didn’t want to say anything to you about it because I wanted you to independently confirm whether it was true.”

“Well, I’m confirming it now.”

“Did you preserve the fetal tissue?”

“Yes, of course.”

A few days later, under some pressure from Allerton’s newly retained lawyer, the prosecutor and I convinced the court there was no need to continue holding Allerton on bail. Meanwhile, Dupree was still obsessed with getting Allerton indicted for murder. His case theory seemed to be based entirely on our interview with him up at the house. His quick-on-the-draw, hip-fired answer to me was always the same. It never changed. He kept saying, “Well, junior thinks he was the only one banging her. Obviously, when he found out someone else was doing her, he lost it and killed her. It’s that simple. Who else does that leave as a suspect? What more do we need? He’s our guy, I’m telling ya. Trust me, Chief.”

I must admit that, at first, Allerton seemed to be the most logical choice for suspect of the year. But we had an unusual situation here with several other issues at play. Like Brodsky, for example. Not just the inconclusiveness of his autopsy. But something else even more troublesome. Doc, by that time, was already a little long in the tooth and the quality of his work seemed to be slipping a bit. He’d been our local coroner for many years but he had had virtually no experience with bear attacks, much less criminal homicide cases. He had worked many dozens of accidental homicides. But they were, almost all of them… you know, car wrecks… hunting accidents…. that kind of thing. He was a good doctor in his day. But maybe in a little over his head in this case.

Then there was the drinking problem, the occupational hazard of many docs who turn to post mortems as a fall back way to make a living. In truth, he had become a barely functioning alcoholic. He and his wife had some real pain and tragic sadness in their lives. The kind that can drive someone to drink too much, too often and too long. I had to pull off a minor miracle to keep that juicy gossip tidbit out of all the news reports. It’s no wonder his life had almost fallen apart. His only child… a beautiful sweet twenty nine year old daughter…… had killed herself with a drug overdose some years earlier. I don’t care who you are. A father can’t taste the joys of life or bounce back into its natural flows and rhythms after something like that happens to his only daughter.

Then, late one night, something really odd happened. About two weeks after giving me a draft copy of his autopsy report, Brodsky knocked on the front door of my home and asked to speak with me privately, away from the office. He sat down across from me in my den and just stared silently at me for a few long seconds.

“What’s the matter, Doc? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I have, Chief. And lately it’s been keeping me up most nights. I can’t sleep. I can’t think straight. Your Brahmin girl is haunting my dreams. I’ve kept her driver’s license picture suspended from the light frame over her body on the dissection table. You know, to keep me grounded and focused. I’ve been covering, concealing her once pretty face… her disfigured face now…. with a large towel. I can’t bear to look at her. Me, a trained medical examiner, for chrissakes, can’t bear to look at her terrible wounds.”

His voice seemed to drift off into another dimension. “Between just the two of us Tom, I’ve been having a lot of trouble keeping my mind focused on anything lately, much less this case. I wish I had never taken it on. I thought I would never say this… but I feel out of my league.”

“Why Doc? What’s really going on?”

He was deathly quiet for a half minute then said: “You know that I haven’t had but a few murder investigations in all the years I’ve been here. And I’ve had no real experience with bear attacks on humans.”

“Are you saying you want someone else…a doc with that kind of special experience to take over the post mortem?”

“No, no. I’ll finish it. I’ll sign the final report.”

“Then what is it? What else do you want from me?”

Doc’s eyes suddenly appeared to fill with tears. I noticed that his right hand began to tremble slightly. “I don’t know how to say it”, he said in a whisper.

“I’m serious Doc. If you’re not up to it I need to know that now, rather than later, if you don’t mind.”

Brodsky answered; “What I’m trying to say is. I’m starting to make stupid mistakes. More than usual. They’re nothing I can’t usually remedy. But I think this will have to be my last post mortem. I’ll be calling it quits after this murder investigation. I’m going to retire for good in a month or two… or however much longer you need me to hang in there with this case.”

“Mistakes? What kind of mistakes?”

Brodsky lowered his head and avoided eye contact with me. “After I closed up the body a few weeks ago, and after I submitted the autopsy report to you and the prosecutor, I remembered that I’s forgotten to examine the girl’s heart vessels. The heart was missing from the body so I hadn’t thought it necessary to do that. It was an amateurish mistake of the first order. I have no excuse for it.”

Doc looked away from me and whispered in a raspy, tired voice, “Except, of course, for the same old lame excuse that always seems to follow me around… like some mangy dog yapping at my heels. You already know all about the demons in my life. So…. you know…...”

“Yes, Doc, I do. But the more important question is, what did you do about this oversight? Did you make things right?”

“I did. Late last night I went alone over to the county morgue, got her back out of the refrigeration unit and took a closer… and much more sober… look at the body…. at the chest cavity.”

I tried to bolster his sagging self-confidence and calm my own anticipatory anxiety about what he was about to spring on me. “Well, better late than never, as they say. At least you got to it.” I paused then asked. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re going to have to prepare a supplemental report?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Shit…OK. So, let’s have it. What are you going to add?”

“The five major blood vessels to and from the heart were not torn away by the bear’s claws as I had originally presumed.”

“What? What the hell do you mean?”

“They were neatly cut… severed by a sharp object. Like a knife in the hand of someone who seemed to know very well what he was doing. I found the identical blade marks in a few other places along the chest and rib wall.”

“Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Wait till Dupree hears this. He’s going to camp out on the prosecutor’s front lawn screaming for Isaiah’s indictment now. He’ll be hyperventilating for Allerton’s hide by the time I get into the office tomorrow morning.”

My brain started swooning as I began to think of the unlimited possibilities. “Ok, that may complicate things more than just a little. I presume you took close up photos of the cuts and the heart vessels?”

“Yes, of course.”

“So, we now have human involvement in her death?”

“Yes, it would appear so.”

“And to confirm again…. you preserved the fetus for testing?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Ok, then. Let’s deal with that first. I’ll talk to Allerton’s attorney tomorrow and inquire about getting a blood sample from Isaiah for a paternity test. In the meanwhile, please tell me more about the cut marks.”

“Well, I went back and used a large magnifying glass to examine the edges of the wounds on the chest and abdomen. I’m convinced that almost all of them were consistently parallel, the natural product of the bear’s powerful claw gauges. However, I did find two or three smaller, less obvious marks which suggested finer cuts with some kind of sharp object, like a steel blade. You know, the kinds of cuts you would see in knife dissection, for example.”

“By the same hand and tool that severed the cardiac arteries?”

“Yes…. possibly.”

I added reflexively, “Like you might see with someone field dressing a deer kill?”

Brodsky added. “Yes. Precisely. And, by the way, to remove any doubt whatsoever about the exact specie of the body’s scavenger, the open wounds were literally filled with black bear hair follicles from the animal. I did some research and confirmed it.”

“So, the bear attack itself is not in any doubt in your report?”

“No, not at all. She was devoured by a bear… a very large bear.”

“Then, why the troubled look on your face?”

Doc scratched his chin. “It’s just that… well…. in all my years living in this part of Maine, I’ve never heard of black bears attacking humans. Not without serious provocation. Have you really known them to do that?”

“Well, I’ve been doing a little research on the subject myself. Contrary what you see in the movies, black bears are pretty timid when it comes to human contact. There are only a couple of reported cases of attacks on live people. However, there are a lot more reported cases of black bears scavenging on whatever kind of carrion meat they can find, whether deer, beaver, moose…. or even a dead human body. In fact, in recent years we’ve even heard of scavenger events involving coyotes, our latest western interlopers up here.”

“Mother nature… don’t ever argue with the lady.” Doc mumbled to himself.

“Yeah, one thing is forever certain. While we’re blithely going about our business, the immutable laws of predator and prey, and survival, are always the feature show going on up here in the great wild outdoors of Maine. We tend to forget that powerful dynamic sometimes.”

Brodsky nodded. “Amen.”

I asked Brodsky. “So, back to basics. What’s your best estimate of the date and time of death?”

“Best I can tell…. mid-afternoon on Thanksgiving Day. Based on your missing person’s report I figured she may have been lying in that ravine a good forty-eight hours before her body was found.”

I said “We’re well into late November. Just when black bears are gorging on as much carrion meat and berries as possible, getting ready for their long winter months of den hibernation.”

“On that subject Chief, there’s something else I thought you should be aware of. I don’t know its significance, if any.”

“What’s that?”

“Oddly enough, I picked up the very strong scent of fermented blueberries in her hair. I have no explanation.”

“That might have come from the bear’s mouth.”

Brodsky said. “Possibly, but it was odd. I didn’t smell it on any other part of her body… only in her hair.”

After a long silent pause, I finally broached the dreaded subject which had been smoldering in my brain for weeks. “Speaking of hibernation. I need to know something critical to my investigation.”

“What’s that?”, he asked.

“Was she conscious … alive or already dead…. when her chest was ripped open by that bear?”

“Well, based on all the widespread, splattered blood distribution patterns around the body I would have to say that if she was alive, she was just barely hanging on. There must have been some minimal level of blood pressure present but perhaps barely registering…. when that bear opened her chest.”

“Oh, my God.” I said,” Are you telling me she may have been conscious during the attack?”

“Please God, no. At least I don’t think so. I believe she was probably unconscious during most of the attack. If she did regain consciousness at all …. …. if she did ever become aware of what was going on…. she was already doomed. It would have been over by then, quickly. However, my educated guess is that by the time the bear got to her, she was either already dead or at death’s door.”

“Why do you think she may have been already unconscious?”

“Because there were no defensive scratch or bite marks on the girl’s arms or hands. She didn’t raise her arms to ward off the attack. That tells me she was probably comatose. Maybe from severe hypothermia. Remember, it was pretty damn cold those three nights up there in the woods. I remember on the hike up to the scene I noticed fresh snowfall and a few of the feeder streams were already beginning to freeze over.”

I straightened and looked Brodsky in the face. “So, then, we come to the moment of truth, the point of this whole exercise, Doc. The mother of all questions. The one you’re going to have to handle and defend confidently on the witness stand.”

“I know. Go ahead, ask it, Chief.”

“Who or what killed her?”

“I can’t say for sure.”

“Does that answer remain the same if we come up with the blade that severed her cardiac vessels? Can we then indict Allerton? Can we charge him?”

“Here’s the best I can give you … or a jury. Based on what I found, I would say that a bear attack was the primary cause of death. But I’m just not sure whether someone of her own specie administered the coup de grace... while in the process of removing her heart from her body.”

“If you say that on the stand, we’ll be laughed right out of the courtroom, Doc.”

“I know. But the truth is I couldn’t find enough clear evidence to tip the scale in any defined direction. Even assuming her heart vessels were cut by someone, it’s safe to say she was may have been already dead when that happened. You can’t be found guilty of murder if your victim is pre-deceased, right? But if she was holding on by a thin thread of life when someone took a knife to her heart. Well, that might technically make him at least an accomplice or accessory to murder…. I guess.”

I paused and said, “This is one for the record books, Doc.”

“If I was younger, I’d write a peer review article about it.”

“But what does your gut say? Is Dupree right about Allerton?”

“Once again…. I just can’t say. Not without more evidence. Which you don’t appear to have.”

I lowered my head and answered. “Correct. Well, subject to what the prosecutor says, that leaves us where we started. Nowhere. We’ll have to keep digging. If Isaiah had a direct hand in this, I’ll have to get him to crack somehow.”

After a quiet minute, Brodsky changed the subject. “What about the burial arrangements, Chief? I can’t hold the body forever. Have you found any next of kin yet? Do you even know her true identity?”

“No. On both counts. I want you to keep her on ice and hold off on any funeral arrangements until I can get an order from the judge to get Allerton’s blood sample ... to compare with the fetal tissue and blood.”

“Will you want a burial or cremation?”

“I don’t want to make that decision now. Not until we can properly identify her. I want her family, assuming she has one, making that decision. Shouldn’t be that long now.”

Doc answered. “I understand.”

“Ok, Howard… one last time…. is there anything else you need to tell me about the case?”

“Yes, there is Chief. One more thing that concerns me.”

I thought to myself: Oh boy, here comes another monkey wrench. “Tell me, Doc.”

“I didn’t think much of it at first and I wasn’t going to say anything about it. I didn’t think it was significant at the time. But I may have made another mistake while I was up there at the scene.”

My heart skipped a beat. “How so?”

“When I finished my field exam of the girl’s body, I took off my latex surgical gloves and laid them on the ground.”

“And?”

“That’s when I noticed that there was a third glove partially concealed under the pine straw, laying very close to the body. I just assumed that I had accidentally taken out three instead of two when I first got there. But when I got back to my office, I double checked the bag. All the other gloves were still in their original wrappers. As pairs, not single gloves. I forgot to mention that in my report, and I’ve since disposed of all three.”

I thought about what Doc had just told me for a full thirty seconds, then asked: “How the hell do you think that third glove got there? Was it even one of yours?”

“I don’t know, Chief. It was the same exact type of latex glove that I use in my work. But in retrospect, I don’t know if it was mine…. or someone else’s.”

My first thought went to Allerton or whoever it was who might have dissected the arteries away from the heart. “What are the chances we could have lifted a print from that third glove?”

“Nil. They’re lined with a corn starch powder which would make them easy to put on but would prevent the possibility of a decent print.”

“Shit”, was all I could think to say in reply.

I added: “Well, if the glove wouldn’t have told us much about the user, I guess it’s no harm, no foul. But it does tell us that perhaps someone was trying to cover up his pre or post death involvement with the body.”

Brodsky gave me a melancholy, contrite look. I read it immediately and said, “Look Doc, you’ve given us a lot of years of loyal service. If you want to retire, that’s your call. But if you do, I want you to know that I’m proud to have worked with you…whatever you decide.”

“Thanks, Chief. That means a lot to me. It truly does.”

HERE COMES THE JUDGE

The next morning, I ran into our local magistrate, Judge Harry Hoffmann. He was just leaving Alice’s diner. I told him I needed a court order to have Allerton’s blood for paternity testing. He agreed, but his wife and three kids were literally outside in the van waiting for dad to pay the bill and drive them all up to Sugarloaf for a Christmas skiing vacation.

Hoffmann said: “It’ll have to wait. Ask Ralph Peterson over at the D. A.’s office to draw up the papers. I’ll look them over as soon as I get back. There’s no emergency, right? Allerton’s not going anywhere.”

Here we go again, I thought. Another fly in the ointment… another annoying delay.

“Sure, thanks, Judge. Enjoy the trip.”, I answered with resignation.

But then something really strange happened. Late in the afternoon the following day I got a surprise visit at the station house from Allerton’s attorney, Reggie Saunders. All I can say is, either the man is a world class poker champion, trying to grandstand me with an enormously bold bluff, or, Isaiah Allerton convinced him that he was not the father of the baby….and Reggie was trying to blunt all potential suspicion away from his client. Well, it turns out he wasn’t bluffing at all. You see, it seems I forgot to ask Isaiah the most basic of questions…. whether he was using protection with Libby. According to Saunders, Libby insisted on it and Isaiah complied…. every time they had sex.

Saunders walked into my office, stood in front of my desk and got right to the point. “Chief, you needn’t bother to get an order from Judge Hoffman, who, by the way, won’t be around to sign it for at least another week. My client will voluntarily give you a blood sample which will prove he had nothing to do with her pregnancy. And more importantly, to establish a very plausible motive for the alleged rapist… or any other suspect you perhaps should be looking at…. to kill her.”

“Do you and your client have any particular suspects in mind, Reggie?”

“Not yet. I just assumed you would take the girl’s rape claim seriously and pursue the distinct possibility that the rapist is the father. And that the guy lives right under your nose here in Carrabassett.”

“Of course. Don’t worry, we’ll hold on to the fetal tissue for later testing if we come up with a suspect. And by the way, in the interest of full disclosure, you can tell your client that Doc Brodsky found no semen in the vaginal cavity or on the girl’s clothes.”

In retrospect I have to admit that I was duly impressed by Saunders’ bold blood sample offer. I told him, “Now that’s the way the legal system is supposed to work in the ideal world of jurisprudence, Reggie. After all, you and I are both officers of the same court. Sworn to the same cause of justice. Right?”

Saunders smiled. “Yes. At least that’s how it goes in theory…. in this one very limited instance.” He looked at his watch, straightened his tie and added. “Just let me know when you want me to make my client available. Call me…. we’ll work out all the details. We can do this at your convenience.”

That was it. Saunders had accomplished in two minutes what most lawyers take hours to explain. He had made his dramatic move and, suddenly, I was looking at a looming checkmate on the possible paternity involvement of Allerton. At that same moment Dupree swaggered into the office. “What did that son of a bitch want, Chief?”

“He wanted me to tell you that your ironclad case against Allerton has suddenly developed a major manifold crack. We won’t need that paternity test order after all. He just volunteered his client’s blood to me.”

I explained the situation. Dupree just stared at me blankly and said, “That doesn’t change a thing. Like my momma used to say. When someone hands you lemons, boy, go out and make some lemonade.”

“Yeah, well, you might have to add a little extra sweetener, Mister Dupree.”

Dupree just shook his head and said: “What’s the next step, Chief?”

“I want you to go over to see Doc Brodsky right now and ask him when I can expect to have his signed supplemental report. I need it yesterday. Any word yet from the FBI about the Brahmin Girl’s true identity?”

“Not yet. But I’m still working on it.”

.

“Did you give them the complete name Libby gave Isaiah? Libby Browne Morelli?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dupree got up and shuffled back out to his cruiser. I called out to Dupree at the door. As he turned to face me, I pointed to the epaulet of his uniform shirt. “Deputy, I don’t want to see your uniform shirts unlaundered and covered in lipstick any more. Clean up your act. Got it?”

“Roger that, Chief”. He smiled and said, “Aren’t you even slightly curious who she might be?”

“On your own time, please. The word of the day is professionalism, Deputy Dupree. Do you remember what that is?”

A FAILURE TO COMMUNICATE

Exactly one week later, Judge Hoffmann was back from Sugarloaf. He called me at home. “Tom, come in and see me in chambers tomorrow morning if you don’t mind. I have the application for the blood test order on my desk and I’d like to discuss that and a few other things with you. Come in around nine before the call of my calendar. I’ll tell my clerk to expect you.”

“Sure, Judge. See you then.”

The next morning, I was ushered quickly through a side door by his clerk into the Judge’s chambers and was told to be seated. I could hear the Judge taking a leak from behind his partially closed bathroom door. “Is that you Chief?”, he asked.

“Yes sir. It’s me.”

He opened the door, pulled his black robe on over his shoulders and asked. “Let me get right to it, Tom. I hear that Reggie Saunders has offered to give you his client’s blood sample. If so, why are you bothering me with this application? Isn’t this what we would call superfluous?”

“You mean…. as in unnecessary?”

Hoffmann laughed. “Oh, that’s right. I have to remind myself occasionally that you went to one of those inferior Ivy League colleges, didn’t you? I’d forgotten. We have a Phi Beta Kappa, over-achiever as our very own Police Chief… right here in river city.”

“You know, Judge, I do salt my conversations with the townsfolk with a ten-dollar word here and there. Keeps them on their toes and tuned up for their late-night scrabble games. And may I respectfully remind the court of the annual Ivy League rowing regatta of 1930? You do remember that prestigious event, don’t you? You know, when Princeton, that so-called inferior Ivy League college crew, of which I was an integral part, comfortably beat the oarlocks off your Yale boat. A shell that just happened to be captained by a much younger, and much fitter water jock senior named Hoffmann.”

Harry smiled broadly. “OK, Chief. Now that that’s settled…. once again…. let’s talk about the business at hand, shall we?”

I interrupted. “If I may, allow me to save the court some of its precious time. I was planning to withdraw that application as soon as I had the opportunity to work out the finer details with Mister Saunders. So, to address your immediate concern…. I would appreciate it if you would table that petition for just a few more days. I’m sure it will all become merely pedagogical by then. “

Hoffmann laughed. “Oh, you are good. Thanks, Tom, for coming in. Let me get out there and dispense some old-fashioned justice to the fine folks who pay my meager salary.” Hoffmann turned and said, “Oh, and there’s one more thing.”

“Yes sir?”

“Maine state law requires that the girl’s next of kin make funeral and burial decisions. If you’re unable to find any relatives because she can’t yet be identified, you may have to petition the court for a court appointed fiduciary trustee to make those plans. If no burial decisions are made within thirty days after death, the coroner or funeral director can dispose of the body in any way he sees fit. In the meanwhile, I can order her body cremated, for public health reasons. Her ashes can be kept for a deferred burial sometime later after we find her parents.”

“Thanks for the advice, Judge. I think I’ll have an answer soon on her identity. Meanwhile, I specifically do not want her body cremated. I want to hold onto it a while longer as a later source of evidence.”

“Sounds mysterious.”

“It’s not, Judge. Just complicated as hell.”

No sooner had I left the courthouse when I saw Doc Brodsky pulling into the parking lot. I waved and caught his eye. He looked a bit agitated. “Howdy, Doc. How’s things?”

“Just fine. I had a visit from Mister Dupree last night. I gave him my signed supplemental autopsy report for you to read. He told me there was no longer any need for the blood test and that I was free to cremate the body and organs.”

“What?! What in the bloody hell are you talking about?!”, I yelled out loud. You haven’t done that yet, have you, Doc?”

Brodsky looked frightened. “Well yes, as a matter of fact… I have…. late last night. I saw no reason to delay it. After all, the girl has been dead for almost thirty days.”

“For God’s sake, Doc, I never gave Dupree the green light to do that! I told him I wanted to accept the attorney’s offer to test Isaiah’s blood sample but only so that he could clear him of suspicion on the paternity issue only. But more importantly…. I wanted to preserve the fetal tissue in case we develop other paternity suspects down the road…. and especially the internal organs if we develop other hard evidence later. What in the hell is going on here?”

“I don’t know what to say, Chief. I’m sorry.”

“Jesus… I wanted to wait for the FBI to identify the girl so we could find her parents and let them make the decisions for a proper church service and burial. Good grief!”

“I apologize, Chief. But Dupree said there was no need to maintain any body tissue any longer. He said he had discussed it all with you.”

I spun around on my heels, jumped into the patrol car and sped back to the office. I was fuming. As I rounded the corner on two wheels onto Main, I raised Margie on the car radio. “Margie, has Dupree come into the office yet?”

“Yes sir. He was here. He came in briefly and went out on a domestic disturbance call a few minutes ago.”

“Call him and get his twenty. Tell him to stop what he’s doing. I want him back in my office immediately.”

Well, there goes the fetal tissue sample, up in smoke, literally. Now, we’ll never be able to find out who impregnated the girl. Damn it all to hell.

Dupree hurried into my office ten minutes later. He looked like a deer in the headlights and stammered, “But…but… you said you didn’t need the court order for the blood test.”

“For God’s sake, man. Did you hear the rest of what I said?! Just because I no longer need an order to get Allerton’s blood doesn’t mean I don’t want to have his blood and the fetal blood tested for paternity. And what the hell are you going to use as a fetal tissue sample now that it’s been destroyed…especially if you come up with rape suspects a month from now?”

“I’m really sorry Chief. I misunderstood what you wanted me to say to Doc Brodsky.”

“You know, Dupree, for someone who was so hot to indict Allerton you really hurt your cause by eliminating the possibility of a blood paternity test.”

“Yeah, well…. we don’t need it, Chief. We’ve got enough evidence to hang him for this murder.”

“What do you mean ‘we’ Kemosabe? Did you take the trouble to read the supplemental report Doc gave you before you went around my instructions? Before you unilaterally decided to authorize the destruction of the body and the organs?”

Dupree gave me a blank stare. “No, I haven’t read it yet.”

I picked it up off my desk and threw it at him. It bounced off his chest and onto the floor. “Doc’s not willing to state within a reasonable degree of medical certainty that there’s enough clear and convincing evidence to determine human causation in her death…. yet. The operative word being … yet… Deputy. Yet!

“That’s not because there wasn’t human involvement. There was. Some unknown human hand severed her heart arteries. Do you understand what the hell that kind of language means? We know the bear probably finished her off. But, because of your failure to listen and communicate we’ll likely never be able to prove who that knife wielding human was. And now we can’t prove who the father of the child was…. thanks to you. And worse, we can’t prove that Allerton or anyone else may have been that critical added contributing factor in her death.”

Dupree continued to look confused…. befuddled. “I still don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Clearly not! I’m saying no prosecutor worth his salt is going to touch this case with a ten- foot pole. Not now. There’s barely enough evidence to indict…. much less convict. By allowing the premature disposal of the body and fetus you have precluded any hope of us ever answering any of these unanswered questions. And that, my young inexperienced friend, is a hard fact of life in the world of any reasonably competent county prosecutor.”

Dupree’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what to say.”

I wasn’t finished with him. “And what is all this undisguised animus towards Allerton really about anyway? Yes, I admit, he said some pretty self-incriminating things. But didn’t you consider the very real possibility that this ‘idiot simpleton’, as you call him, is just a quiet, reserved, timid soul who was really in love with that girl? You heard the tone of his voice on that tape! Or weren’t you even listening?”

I stood and waved dramatically to an imaginary array of twelve of Carrabassett’s finest peers. “Tell me, members of the jury. You heard that taped conversation. Was that really the voice of a murderer… a ruthless cold-hearted killer?”

“I’m sorry. I think I understand now, Chief”, Dupree admitted… finally.

“Do you want to know where all of your screw ups leave us, Deputy Dupree?’

“Yes sir.”

“We have managed to sail off directly, without a tiller, into the epicenter of the perfect post-mortem storm. Let me count the ways for you: inconclusive medical evidence… no preserved organ or fetal tissue samples... no identity for the girl…. no relatives or next of kin to cry and mourn for her and make some burial decisions… no indictable murder or rape suspects… no murder weapon… no promising leads…… nothing…. nada…. zilch.”.

Dupree just hung his head in silence. I glared at him and said: “Nothing to say? I didn’t think so.”

A SECOND POST MORTUM

The truth is though, as I pondered it all, weeks later in the darkness of my den over a double scotch, I figured I’d been probably too hard on my young deputy. Most young cops make stupid mistakes from time to time. Fortunately, most of their errors are inconsequential and go unnoticed. They don’t usually carry major, adverse, case killing effects. And as far as Allerton the suspect was concerned, it’s true. Most of us cops operate on gut hunches every single day we strap on a gun and go to work.

Sure, I could have raised hell with the Selectmen, and Dupree’s political rabbi, and might have had him fired if I went to the mat on it. But, in reality, his gut instincts were usually pretty good…. most of the time. Despite his gruff personality, and his penchant for shooting from the lip, Dupree was a reasonably good cop in the total scheme of things in a small-town police department. Who knows? Maybe Allerton did accelerate or initiate or even finalize that girl’s death in some devious, bizarre unprovable way. Maybe he is guilty of murder… or manslaughter…. or criminally negligent homicide…. or something.

We may never know. No… actually … we will… never know. Damn it all to hell. This file is destined to forever occupy the cold case cabinet.

Exactly one week later, I got the long-awaited call from the FBI lab team in Washington. Libby finally had a name. A real, honest-to-God human identity. Libby was born and baptized Olivia Elinore Browne in Cambridge Massachusetts on November 25, 1947. Her parents were Helena and Goeffrey Browne, an elderly couple with no other children, both still living in Boston. For reasons which became obvious to me when I met them later, they never reported their daughter missing. The Boston Police Department were never formally made aware of her disappearance. Ironically, the FBI was on the verge of opening up a kidnap investigation based on an anonymous phone tip provided later to the FBI Boston Field Office. But the tip was never pursued.

I took care of the Boston end of the investigation myself. I’d decided that a personal visit with Libby’s parents was clearly in order. I’d parked in a no parking zone in front of their stately brownstone. Their man servant had ushered me into their vaulted walnut paneled study where I had a surreal meeting with them. Actually, it was Geoffrey who took charge of the conversation from the start, effectively silencing his meek and cowering wife.

When I started to provide the details of his daughter’s brief life and gruesome death in Carrabassett, Geoffrey waved his hand dismissively. “This is all so unnecessary, Chief Bradley”, he said contemptuously.

“Mister Browne” I asked incredulously, “Don’t you want to know what your daughter has been doing these last six months… while she’s been missing?”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. My daughter didn’t feel the need to communicate with us after she ran away. Nor do I see the need for you to trouble yourself recounting her comings and goings. What she did, how she lived or with whom is irrelevant. However she may have lived, whatever she may have done, she did so of her own free volition. It is she who has to pay the price for her conduct, not me.”

I was stunned, and protested, “But Mister Browne, don’t you at least want to take charge of the burial arrangements? Don’t you….”

He had cut me off sharply. “Those details are of no concern to us now. She made her choices long ago. The rest is irrelevant. The less we speak of it the better.”

I felt my face flush hot. After a long angry pause, I had said, “Excuse me folks, but this is your little girl we’re discussing. Aren’t you the slightest bit interested in knowing anything about her life… or her death? Did you know that she was an amazingly talented artist? That she was well liked and respected by a lot of people? Polite, respectful, kind?”

Mister Geoffrey Browne, Boston Brahmin, had just stared at me, chin aloft and eyes half closed. He’d finally responded. “Yes, but you’re forgetting a few more adjectives, Mister Bradley. High-spirited… contemptuous of authority… rebellious… pot smoking…. oh, and even more troublesome…. extremely careless and lax in her sacred duty to honor her family name.”

I instinctively spun away from Geoffrey and addressed his demur wife, sitting slumped forward, lost in the folds of a rich red leather chair in the corner of the room. “Mrs. Browne. I’m so sorry for your loss. Tell me, please. Would you like to have her cremated remains? Just give me the word and I’ll bring them to you myself.”

She looked up and started to speak, in a barely audible whisper, when her husband interrupted. “No, Chief Bradley. You may bury the ashes in Carrabassett, or whatever the name of your little town is.”

I wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily. I walked over to the pompous ass and stuck my nose in his face. “Sir, did you provide any monetary support to your daughter while she was living in Maine?”

Browne answered indignantly. “Of course not. We gave her nothing. As she aptly deserved.”

I turned to Mrs. Browne. “Ma’am, did Libby take anything of value from you before she left home?”

“Don’t answer that impertinent question, Helena”, her husband had abruptly demanded.

It was then that Mrs. Browne, for the first time, had raised her head out of her lap, had glared at her husband and said, “She didn’t have to. I gave her some of my jewels and some cash. The rest was up to her to get by somehow.” She’d stood and stared at her husband. “Geoffrey wanted to tell the police that Libby had stolen the diamonds. But the truth is, they were my gift to her.” Mrs. Browne suddenly burst into sobs and ran out of the room. She stopped at the door, turned and said in a strong, measured voice. “You say, Mister Bradley, that my daughter was very talented and sweet. She was much more than that. She was a savant, you know. One of a kind.”

I was momentarily dumbstruck and had finally said. “I don’t know how to respond. I don’t know what to say.”

Mister Browne had glared at me. “Well then, Mister Bradley, then perhaps I might suggest what it is you should say. Why not simply say … ‘I bid you a good day sir’? And leave. This meeting is concluded.” He quickly gestured to his man servant still standing at the study doors. “Roger, escort this man out to the street please.”

The whole bizarre event… all of it…. had hammered home to me how terribly lonely, frightened, unloved and out of place this young girl must have felt. I have three young daughters of my own. It was heart wrenching to hear her parents talk about their little girl like that. It was worse than sad…. it was enraging.”

Before I turned to leave, I picked up the package I had left on the saddle of the doorway to the study when I’d first entered. I pulled away the plastic wrap and held up a framed portrait of Howard and Elinor Browne. I wasn’t sure that the couple in the painting was them until that moment… now that I had met them and seen them in person. The likenesses were extraordinary. Libby had painted it from the depths of her memory only. On my way out I placed it atop his large oak roll top desk and said, “This was hanging over your daughter’s bed, Mister Geoffrey Browne. Do with it however the hell you see fit. I don’t give a damn what you think of it. Neither this beautiful painting nor you, sir, are of any concern to me now.”

SEQUELLAE OF AN UNSOLVED MURDER

To this day, folks still occasionally come up to me on the street and ask: “So, Chief. Did he really do it? Did Isaiah kill that girl?” I always answer them with that old, trusted police fall back line. Sure, I tell them, he was what we like to call a ‘person of interest’… perhaps even a prime suspect initially. All the typical red flag ingredients were there. He was alone when he allegedly discovered the body up in the pines just north of town…. about 48 hours after she had been reported missing by her landlady. He was the last person to see her alive. They had had a fight, or disagreement, over a very serious personal matter. He’d been very angry. He clearly had some sort of deep romantic interest in the girl, and she seemed to be in love with him as well. And, according to the statement by Allerton himself, they had had sexual relations at least a dozen times in the months leading up to her death. And, most critically, she was pregnant, not as she says, by Isaiah, but by a stranger…. an alleged rapist. Plenty of fodder for a vengeful, emotionally charged murder.

Looking back on the life and death of Libby Browne, I best remember one day in particular. It was about a week after she had first wandered off the interstate into town and into the rear of my cruiser. I saw her craning her neck as she was slowly driving down Main Street. I stopped my patrol car alongside her, rolled down the window and asked her if she perhaps needed directions. She just smiled and said “No, Officer Bradley. But thank you just the same.”

I thought I’d might as well take that opportunity to ask her what every other busybody in town was wondering. I asked. “So, Libby, are you planning to stay or move on? Where do you think you might be heading?”

She’d given me an odd, unforgettable…. almost prophetic answer. I remember her exact words. She’d said, “Oh, no, Chief. This beautiful little town is the end of the line for me. I plan to live out my life, and someday die, here. This is where I was meant to be. I love the look, the aura, the colors and tactile feel of this town. Perfect hues and perfect light. A bright, surreal realm of phantasmagoria.”

I had no idea what the word meant… but figured it out later when she started selling some of her paintings to the summer crowd down at the local antique shop. She was a very generous young woman who gifted several of her paintings to some of the older folks who didn’t have any extra money in the cookie jar for an original piece of portraiture. Her gift to me was a little different. It was a host of great, killer scrabble words. Words which I still cling to today.

I admit…. I knew next to nothing about art. But I knew that I liked hers…. a lot. Her work was not at all what one would call abstract. It was all very precise, brilliant… life like. I could swear, if I reached out and touched the canvas, that I would actually feel the coolness of the leaves, the swirling wet mists of the clouds and the warmth of the sunlight. I could almost smell the aromas of new mown grass and wild honeysuckle drifting off of the canvas of her still-life artwork. Almost all of the opinions which folks may have intuitively formed about her persona… arose solely from those paintings. Very little substance was gleaned from any direct conversations with her. Rather… it was the silent, vibrant splay of colors and shapes on her canvases that told her story and revealed a glimpse of her psyche…. far better than mere words.

That reporter from Boston had finally asked me to write something poignant about her…. to condense my impressions of her for a piece he was writing. This is what I’d written for him.

“Nothing else about her, certainly not her physical appearance, attracted much attention. She was small of stature, thin with auburn hair and ivory skin. She happily engaged everyone she met, whether prince, pauper or thief. In simple terms, she delighted people and, in turn, took delight in them. She smiled that pretty, demure, disarming, cocked-head smile of hers. It was almost as though she could read your mind before you were even aware that you were experiencing any particular thought. Of course, there was the ever-present small-town idle gossip brewed up by a few of the church ladies. Each taking her turn, pontificating and conjuring up her mysterious origins and proper place in the social order of things. You know, the usual denigrating scuttlebutt about the latest and strangest stranger in town. And yet, after a short while, she had even begun to win these over. But it was always on her terms, mind you, not theirs. In retrospect, I have to say, in fact, she managed to pull off her little identity hoax very effortlessly and adeptly. Especially for an inexperienced naive seventeen-year-old kid.”

He printed what I wrote, word for word. But without any attribution or reference to me or our interview. C’est la guerre, I thought. Reporters….

I thought often about what her mother Helena had said. I knew the dictionary definition of the word savant but I don’t think I had ever met one till I met Libby. I never doubted Mrs. Browne’s assessment of her daughter’s intellectual and psychic gifts. And, by the way… the so-called anonymous tip to the Boston FBI office about her disappearance and possible kidnapping… came from Helena. Probably in a frightened late-night call from a phone in their quiet darkened study, while Geoffrey was upstairs dreaming of his own lofty place in the world.

I finally arranged for her ashes to be buried up in the old Colonial Cemetery, just north of town. She was laid to rest… segregated and set apart from the townsfolk in the unkempt, forgotten corner. … in our local version of the Potters Field section. You know, with all the other historical undesirables who didn’t exactly fit into the self-inflated image of our prestigious, provincial little town. Folks like our Native American brothers and our Scarlet Letter sisters.

Disappointingly, no one took the initiative to order a burial stone for her. So, I did that on my own time and dime. I arranged for her to be buried next to her ghostly confident, Samoset. And only feet away from her Mayflower ancestor John Browne. Seemed the only decent, right thing to do.

For the next twenty years everyone in the valley went about their ordered lives. Libby’s name and her story were forgotten except for the occasional “say, do you remember that Brahmin Girl kid?” You know, the off-handed interruption from that beer sotted guy sitting next to you at the bar… in the one-dimensional world of Patriot football down at the White Horse Tavern.

About a year after she was buried, something happened that knocked me for a loop. I think of it often….to this day. One early spring morning, as I was driving past the old logging road that goes up to the cemetery, I spotted a late model Bentley about a hundred yards off the road…. high up the incline. You don’t often get to see that kind of car around here. I was curious and walked up the hill. There, leaning over the grave of Libby Browne was her mother…alone. As I approached, she turned and faced me. I could see tears spilling from behind her Foster Grants.

“Good morning Mrs. Browne” I said. “I didn’t expect to see you again… not after our meeting in Boston. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Yes, Chief…. please tell me…. who decided to bury her next to her Mayflower ancestor… was it you?

“Yes ma’am. Seemed the proper thing to do.” I weighed my words carefully but opted for bluntness. “Especially after that sad exchange with your husband.”

She took off her sunglasses, wiped her eyes, and said, “I apologize for Geoffrey…. it’s all so complicated.”

I asked, “Mrs. Browne why do I get the feeling you’re holding something back from me about your daughter? I’ve suspected as much from the moment I spoke with you and your husband in your study. Truth be told, I haven’t been able to get that exchange out of my mind for quite some time. I can’t help but think about my own three sweet daughters…. and how I would have handled that.”

Suddenly, she collapsed like a sack of flour to her knees. She began to sob… like a dam had burst open. I rushed to help her to her feet. “Mrs. Browne, talk to me…please.”

She cried aloud. “I knew what he was doing. At first, I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t prove anything. But I knew he was sneaking to her room at night. Whenever he did, Libby would crawl into a shell for days… her sweet smile would disappear. Oh God forgive me… what a terrible mother I am!”

I felt a sharp pain in the pit of my stomach. “Did Libby ever say anything to you about…. being abused?”

“Never. Not a word.”

“How long?”

“I think for about two years…starting when she was around fifteen.”

“Did you ever confront your husband?”

She stopped crying for a moment and said, “Not until after you came to see us in Boston. Till then… till I saw Libby’s beautiful portrait of us, I was a sniveling coward. I was deathly afraid of him, his power … his arrogant self-righteousness.”

“What can I do to help? Do you want to go to the Boston police?”

“No. There’s no point. My attorney says that without a living complainant to testify in court…. or a confession from Geoffrey, they could never get a conviction. Anyway, in Massachusetts a wife can’t testify against her husband anyway.”

She was right. Helena Browne paused, took a deep breath and put her sunglasses back on. “But I’m about to rectify that problem. I’m finally divorcing him. Part of the arrangement is that if I want to be free of him, I must agree not to tell Libby’s story. If I do, I could lose my settlement…. and alimony. But I don’t care. He can go to hell as far as I’m concerned.”

I swallowed hard and said, “I’m afraid your attorney is correct. But your words are safe with me. I’m sorry Mrs. Browne that you had to suffer through that nightmare. I’m even more upset that Libby had to live all that time with that secret thorn in her heart.”

She stared at me in silence for the longest moment, then said. “Chief, do you think there will ever be any justice for my little girl?”

I looked at Libby’s grave and didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I really do”, I said. “As long as I have anything to do with it.”

EASTON MARYLAND 2010

VOICE OF LYLE BECKWITH

I stood up, stretched my legs and poured myself a third scotch. I asked, “Would you like another, John? How about you, Brian?”

Pritchard and Brian both waved it off. “No thanks. I’m fine.” John said. “You know, I’d forgotten how captivating this story was.”

John stood and pointed to a book on the shelf over my head. “By the way, Lyle, now that I think on it, your published book on cold unsolved murder cases had a chapter devoted to the Brahmin Girl, right?”

“Yes. I gave you an autographed copy. Did you ever read it?”

“Of course. But, to be honest, you didn’t share a lot of this kind of detail till now.”

“Yeah, well, a lot of what I just told you was never meant for public consumption.”

I was fading fast. The long hot day on the water and my unrelenting depression were finally taking their toll. I felt like there was nothing else to say…. or do. The Brahmin case had died a slow strangulated death on the vine. There were no indictments, no credible suspects…. at least no one the prosecutor was ever willing to seriously pursue. Nothing. It remained just another unsolved cold case for all those years. Everyone in Carrabassett went on with their sheltered pre-ordained lives. Olivia Browne, the giant black bear and the wandering spirit of Samoset became nothing more than a passing footnote, the stuff of camp fire ghost stories for boy scouts camping up in those rocky hills on those cold autumn nights. And so, it remained. Until Darcy Farrell drove into town that bright, hot day in late May 1985.

I stumbled over to a small dresser at the far end of the bar, reached into the bottom drawer and pulled out a thick sheath of notes and yellow legal pads.

“I haven’t done this in twenty years,” I said to my guests.

I turned on a small upright lamp light on the now darkened porch. “These are Darcy’s notes and her daily intern logs from that summer. She’s the best teller of the tale. I was just directing fire from my lofty professor’s podium at Northeastern….and getting her daily phone summaries. She was up there doing all the heavy lifting. Sometimes we’d stay on the phone well past midnight. Even though I knew she had to be up at the crack of dawn, in time to meet Chief Bradley for breakfast early the next morning at the diner. She would even tell me what she and Chief Bradley had for breakfast.”

I found myself smiling and felt my eyes welling up at the same time. “I can’t tell you how happy I was to hear her sweet, excited voice every night. It was almost like I was tucking her into bed…. she, telling me a bedtime story. I’m not ashamed to say it. I was falling in love with her. As her professor I tried to keep her at arm’s length for the sake of propriety… but it was no use.”

I stopped talking and collected my thoughts. The scotch was beginning to loosen up my memory and my tongue. I had to be careful what I was saying now, especially in my current condition. John leaned forward, stared at me and asked:” What is it, Lyle? What’s wrong? Are you crying?”

I said, “Did you know that the Bureau sent a shrink out here to size me up? A damn shrink, for God’s sake! A fucking psychiatrist!”

John answered, “He wasn’t ‘sizing you up’, as you so bluntly put it. He was trying to help you to cope with your loss. That was the Director’s direct doing, you know. Don’t be so cynical… or ungrateful, Lyle. Trust the man, for cryin’ out loud. He’s a pro. He knows what he’s doing…. and how to help you out of this mess.”

I thought about John’s words for a long moment and said, “Yeah, I know. He warned me about what to expect. Still, this is all very new… very strange. You know me. I’m very self-sufficient. I don’t frighten easily… but this is starting to scare the shit out of me. I wake up in the middle of the night and reach out to touch her. I’m even hearing her voice out here on the porch where I sit in the dark late at night. Staring at the moon and the bay.”

“From what I’ve heard that’s not so terribly unusual.” John offered.

“It’s just that I can’t stop blaming myself…. thinking that if I hadn’t sent her up to Maine to take that internship that summer all those years ago, she would be sitting right here with me tonight, alive and well on this porch, sipping Dewar’s.”

I realized as soon as the words slipped past my lips that I had already said too much. John picked up on it immediately. “Hold on there, Brother. Why do you say that? Didn’t you just say you had no Idea if Dupree was involved in this?”

I let out a soft moan. “Just let me get through this, will you, John, for God’s sake? You’ll get your answers. Damn it. Just let me finish, will you?”

For the first time in twenty years, I gazed at her graceful, impeccable handwriting…. filling the lined yellow legal pad. I could immediately smell the faint residue of her perfume, L’eau du temps, even after all these years… embalmed, and continuing to breathe, in the margins of every page.

I began to scan her notes, and could hear her voice…..

.

CARRABASSETT, MAINE

May 1985

VOICE OF DARCY FARRELL

I got up there on May 25, 1985. It was a blistering hot day on which all temperature records were broken in the state of Maine. I remember it like it was yesterday. As I drove my Volkswagen Beetle down Main Street in Carrabassett I felt like I did my first day as a freshman in high school. I was excited, perspiring, nervous. I couldn’t wait to start this new adventure… deep into the forgotten world of forgotten crimes. I’d had this odd feeling for days that I was about to invade…. to defile… the tomb of some ancient pharaoh or prophet. That I had been commissioned to exhume and desecrate the body and quiet repose of an innocent eighteen-year-old girl. And, in the process, pry out of the ground the dark secrets that she took with her to her grave.

Driving all the way up from Boston, I fantasized about what erudite questions I would have asked the Brahmin Girl if and ever I could have actually met her face to face. I desperately wanted to give voice to this voiceless young woman who, twenty years ago, had died a horrifying death…. alone, frightened, lost in the deep backwoods of Maine. I needed to hear her speak to me, woman to woman. To tell me her story…. all of it. And I, in turn, needed to carry her voice to the upper, rarefied reaches of the criminal justice system. I was consumed with a soaring, ephemeral ideal. One to which I had decided, long ago, in a fit of naïve idealism, to dedicate my life.

I had decided I wanted to start my life’s work…. with her cause. I wanted to help her finally stand in the docket, to boldly point to her murderer and to scream at him with the top of her lungs: “J’accuse!!” I wanted to uncover his hidden face. To expose him and his motives to the folks who had forgotten all about her and her death. I needed to hear her either condemn or forgive him, and to know her reasons why. I longed to free her of the sad, heavy burdens she carried through the last lonely years of her aborted life, and help her to move on to the freedom and peace of eternity.

I’d almost driven past my exit when reality suddenly shattered my daydreams. I thought. Yikes! Calm down, girl. Where do you come up with such nonsensical thoughts and lofty ideas? You’re just a simple, naïve grad student with absolutely no experience in solving crimes. Get a grip, Darcy. Wake up and smell the coffee.

For the entire summer I was in Carrabassett, especially late at night in my lonely room, I would continue to indulge in these impracticable musings…. my private, deluded fantasies. I knew that the spell and excitement of this academic summer adventure, as it must, would finally be broken. I would be thrust back into my classes and the rough mundane realities of city life in Boston come September.

Professor Lyle Beckwith was my link with that reality. I was enrolled in his course in criminal forensics. As part of his summer intern program, I had promised him that I would call him at the end of every day to let him know that I was safe, alive and well. In truth, I was looking forward to that daily contact as much as I was excited about meeting Chief Tom Bradley…. whose somewhat mythical image in my head had become larger than life.

I stopped my car at what seemed like the only stop light in town and, suddenly, there it was, right in front of me. A two-story white clapboard colonial-era house which had been converted into the town clerk’s office and police station over a hundred years ago. And there he was, grinning at me as I pulled up in front of the station. The top law enforcement officer in this part of Franklin County for the past thirty years. He looked exactly as Lyle had described him to me. About six foot two, solidly built, a full head of light brown hair fringed at the edges with gray. And that quick broad smile. I had a good feeling about Tom Bradley, well before he ever walked over to my car’s open window and began to speak.

“So, you must be that superstar criminology student I’ve been hearing so much about from my good buddy… Agent Lyle Beckwith.”

My smile was so wide it hurt my face. “Yes, sir. That would be me.”

“Welcome, Miss Farrell, to the thriving metropolis of Carrabassett, the place where even the local moose population wouldn’t be caught dead venturing out of their marsh mudholes in this god-awful heat.”

“And you must be the famous Chief Bradley.”

“Yes, ma’am…in the flesh. Have you checked in yet with your kind hosts up on Adams Street? Mr. and Mrs. Lyscombe are excited about having a boarder from Boston for the rest of the summer.”

“Yes sir. I’ve met them and have already moved my stuff into my room. I rushed over here. I can’t wait to get started.”

“Come on in, Darcy. Let me show you around.” Chief Bradley led me up the three, wide brick steps to the oversized double front doors and directly past the cramped bullpen area where Deputy Dupree sat quietly with his arms folded over his ample paunch. He was grinning and eyeing the new arrival like a bidder at a horse auction. He remained seated as I extended my hand. Bradley said, “Darcy, this is Deputy Jacques Dupree. He’ll be working with you and providing whatever files and information you may need for your work this summer.”

Dupree smiled and said, “Well, so this is the young aspiring G-man… I mean G-woman, we’ve heard so much about. Welcome to Carrabassett, Darcy.”

I immediately noticed that Dupree’s smile, if you could call it that, seemed forced and tight lipped…. not extending to his eyes. I also noticed a small tattoo of a red dragon on his right forearm. Bradley turned and walked towards a long row of gray file cabinets. “Dupree, why don’t you pull all of the reports and evidence on the Brahmin file so Darcy can start reading.”

Dupree grinned and replied. “That old dog?! That’s got hair and mold growin’ all over it, for God’s sake. We know who pulled that trigger, Chief, don’t we?”

Bradley started to respond but Dupree interrupted, “The prosecutor and that old geezer Doc Brodsky just didn’t have the smarts or the balls to indict that Allerton kid. We’ll never get him now. Why not give Darcy the unsolved murder of that O’Reilly woman down by the old mill? That old lady’s mysterious demise ain’t half as cold as that Brahmin girl.”

Bradley looked back at Darcy and grimaced. “We’ve talked about this Dupree. Just give her the materials and humor me on this one, OK?”

Dupree mumbled something unintelligible. Then said, “Well, it is, after all, your call.” He feigned a mock salute and added. “Roger that, boss.”

Bradley glared at his deputy for a brief second. “Don’t worry Mister Dupree, I’ll be retiring and getting out of your way sometime next year. These files will all be yours then.” Bradley smiled knowingly. “Assuming, of course, that you don’t screw things up…. and that you behave yourself… between now and then. And presuming that the Town Board of Selectmen somehow approves your bid as my heir apparent. As crazy as that may sound.”

I turned and looked quizzically at the Chief. “But I thought you didn’t find any sign of a gunshot wound?”

Dupree stood silently, looked at me, then laughed. “Oh… my trigger comment? That’s just a figure of speech, Miss Farrell. Although he might just as well have shot her. Same result. She’s dead… ‘cause of him.”

I realized immediately that I was witnessing the exact kind of dynamic and personality tension I’d often heard about from Professor Beckwith, so common in these close quartered, small town police departments. I remembered another warning Lyle had given me before I accepted this assignment. He had told me that, when caught in the middle of local politics and conflicting personalities, just walk the other way and stay focused on your mission.

Bradley turned, looked at me and grinned. “Well, are you ready to do some crime solving, grasshopper? You don’t mind me calling you grasshopper, do you?”

I laughed. “I’ve been called worse.”

Bradley wheeled and pointed his index finger at his stone-faced deputy. “Give her a few days to digest all the file material, the photos, coroner’s report …. all of it…. and then you’ll drive her out to the scene and maybe the Allerton place to take a look around. “

Tom looked me up and down and said, “Oh, and you’d better wear some sturdy boots, some long pants and a long-sleeved shirt. You might also want to get yourself some bug repellant or even some hat screening. The black flies are brutal up here this time of year, you know. And one more thing. Bring along a loud bell or whistle.”

“Excuse me? A whistle?”

“Yep… the bears up there in the hills are busy breeding right about now. They have much more pressing issues on their minds and won’t appreciate you interrupting their dating game, if you catch my drift.”

“Anything else I should be aware of, Chief?”, I asked.

“Yes. Try to blend in here as best you can. You’ll get more cooperation from the folks in this town, especially when it comes time for you to conduct follow-up interviews, if you make an effort to study and understand our small-town ways and speech patterns. I notice from your accent that you’re not from this neck of the woods. By the sound of it, I’d say you were raised in tidewater country in Eastern Virginia, right?”

“Wow. Pretty impressive”, I answered.

Bradley laughed. “Remember, all you have to do is relax the lower jaw and practice replacing the sound ‘er’ with ‘ah’. That way you won’t spook the locals too much.”

I smiled. “I’ll certainly do my best.”

Just then I happened to glance at Dupree who was in the process of rolling his eyes. I didn’t like it and, foolishly, I let him know it. I shot him a look and blurted out, “What is it about this kind of banter that seems to trouble you, Mister Dupree?” I couldn’t believe I had just directly confronted the man who was to be my sidekick and mentor for most of the summer. I knew instantly that I had committed an unforced rookie error. I needed this man’s cooperation, if not outright support, if I was to earn a decent grade for this project. I was off to a bad start and gritted my teeth. He didn’t respond.

As Bradley quickly escorted me out of the office he said. “Let’s go over to Alice’s Diner, I mean ‘Dinah’, for some lunch. I need to set up some ground rules and level out your runway for a smooth takeoff. Shall we?” Once out on the street, he added. “And I wouldn’t aggravate Mister Grouchy in there too much. He’s not the brightest, friendliest bulb in the pack but he knows his way around town and especially out in those woods. You’re gonna’ have to stroke him a little and get him to a point where he’s working with you…not against you. Do you follow me?”

“Yes sir, Chief. I won’t make that mistake again. I know I have a lot to learn. Not only about crime solving…. but managing difficult personalities.”

Bradley said, “You’ll be just fine, Darcy. If Dupree doesn’t give you what you want, you just let me know. I’m not sure why he’s given me so much trouble about reopening the Brahmin file. But I don’t mind telling you… it’s starting to wear thin ….and annoy the hell out of me.”

“I asked, “What do you think he wants?”

“It’s pretty simple, really. It’s no secret he’s been angling for my job for a long time now. From the first day he came to work for me…. about a half year before the girl was killed.”

I said, “The Brahmin girl. Who was she?”

“Her real name was… is… Olivia Browne. And, for the record, my name is Tom, not ‘sir’ or ‘chief’. Got it?”

“Yes sir… I mean, yes, Tom.”

JUST A FEW GROUNDRULES

Bradley and I sat in a small booth at the farthest and quietest corner of the diner, backs to the wall. A short, dark haired, young, pretty waitress came over to the table, winked and smiled. “Good mornin’ Chief. Shaping up to be a wicked scorchah out there today, huh?”

“Hi Sally. Yes, indeed. Say hello here to Darcy Farrell.”

I returned the smile, shook Sally’s hand but said nothing. Bradley got to his point quickly. “Let’s get ahead of the spinning rumor mill, Miss Sally. I’ll give you some limited facts. The kind that are suitable for public consumption. You know, a few scraps to appease the gossip hounds here in town. Mind you, there will be no more information forthcoming other than what I’m about to tell you. Understand?”

“Sally smiled and said, “Yes sir. I’m all ears, Chief.”

“Miss Farrell here will be doing some old-fashioned investigating for me and will be meeting and talking to a whole manner of folks on a whole different manner of topics. Darcy is interning for me this summer. She’s a criminology student at Northeastern in Boston. You’ll see her patrolling with me and Deputy Dupree on occasion, regarding routine, mundane department matters. I can assure you that the details of those matters will be boring and uneventful. And, besides, they’re nobody’s business but mine. So, if Darcy wants to share anything about her private life in Boston, or her life here, that’s strictly up to her. I don’t want any prying. Agreed?”

“Sally ran a pantomimed zipper across her lips and said, “No problem.”

“You’ll likely be seeing a lot of Darcy here in Alice’s for a while. She’s boarding with the Lyscombe family over on Adams Street. I’d consider it a personal favor if you would support her in any way you can. You know, helping her find her way around town….and acclimate to the mysterious, guarded ways of our fine little community.”

“It’ll be my pleasure, Chief. Ain’t many young women my age around here. I reckon there’s lots of things we could find to talk about, excluding the Police Department, of course”, she said quickly, as she poured out two steaming cups of black coffee. “So, do ya like to hunt or fish or hike?”

I smiled and just shrugged. When I didn’t answer right away, she said. “No? Well, if you’re not the outdoor type, maybe we can take in a movie or get over to one of the church rock band socials out on the big lawn. Just let me know what might suit your fancy. OK?” Sally laughed. “It sure ain’t Boston, Darcy, but it ain’t the last stop on the milk run neither.”

Sally took our lunch orders and retired to the kitchen. Bradley said. “So, let’s establish some ground rules and expectations, shall we?”

I countered quickly. “Good. I was hoping you’d tell me exactly what it is I’ll be doing. Will I be allowed to take the entire Brahmin Girl file back to my boarding house room?”

“I don’t see why not. Provided you keep your room locked while you’re not there. And, like I said before, your private time is your own but I would expect you to avoid any hint of summer romances with any of the local young men while you’re here. I don’t want to feed the gossip hounds. There’s plenty of them around here. Like Sally said, there aren’t too many young women in Carrabassett, especially gals as pretty as you… if you don’t mind me saying so. Not that you would be interested in any of these beer guzzling country boys. It’s just that I need for you to stay focused and avoid any fraternization… as we used to say in the Marines.”

I smiled. “That’s fine. I kind of have my eyes focused at the moment on someone else… one particular guy in Boston. Someone older and a bit wiser.”

Bradley grinned, looked down, stirred the cream in his coffee and said: “Anyone I might know?”

“Sorry. Not at liberty to say.”

“So, then, about your internship. Here’s what I expect from you. You’ll be basically on the honor system. I have no doubt, based on my conversations with Agent Beckwith, that you’ll dedicate yourself to this project and jump in with both feet….as best you can. “

“Yes, of course” I said.

“Although… I do intend to give you a taste of small-town police work in other more mundane matters. You won’t be on a regular schedule and will have to pace yourself. Dramatic cold cases, like the unsolved death of Olivia Browne, can become addictive when you start digging deep into them. It’s the kind of addiction which makes you lose track of time. I’ve got plenty for you to do. Like I said, I don’t want you to punch a clock but I want you to stay focused. And I expect you to be flexible with your time, within reason. Be ready to come in a little early…stay a little late some nights… depending on what’s going on. But…. I insist that you carve out some time for yourself… you know, to recharge your batteries. There’s nothing more pathetic and ineffective than a police officer who is out of fuel, dragging his butt around and running on yesterday’s fumes.”

I nodded and answered, “With all respect, Tom, I’m pretty level headed. Not at all the addictive type. For the record, I happen to be the oldest woman in my class. I was out in the world earning a living and supporting myself while most of the other girls were finishing up their college degrees on schedule…and on daddy’s dollar.”

“Good. Glad to hear that. Not to worry, Darcy. I believe I got a good read on your personality and work ethic from talking with Lyle. I trust his judgment. My gut tells me you’ve got all the right stuff for this job. But, it’s like anything else in life. The harder you work to solve a problem, and to prove you can perform under pressure, the more obsessive you tend to become about it. Especially if you start turning up tantalizing pieces of evidence. By that I mean, clues and leads that may have been missed by other police officers. It can be pretty heady stuff when you uncover things other seasoned officers may have overlooked. You need to stay grounded.” Bradley smirked and said, “Especially when looking over the shoulders of fellow officers. And more especially, those as notoriously effective and thorough…. and thin skinned sensitive…. as the Carrabassett Valley Police Department.”

I asked, “Speaking of which, may I ask you a personal question about Mister Dupree?”

“I’m one step ahead of you. And this must remain strictly confidential… between just the two of us.” Bradley leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “In the perfect world where a police chief can hire and fire people at will to fill his staff positions in the department, Dupree would probably not be where he is today…. for a lot of reasons which I don’t need to get into right now. As strange as it may seem to the outside world, the man clearly has a very protective rabbi in a position of power and influence in this county. Someone on the Board of Selectmen. Someday I may learn what that’s all about. But until then, I’m getting some pretty effective work out of him. He does everything I tell him to do. Good instincts too, but, you know, he’s no Sherlock Holmes. Not many cops are today. Sometimes he’s more like Inspector Clouseau.”

“Do you mind if I ask, if you know who that rabbi might be?”

“Boy, you don’t waste any time, do ya? Yes, I do.”

“What’s his name, if you don’t mind telling me?”

“No, I don’t mind. You’re going to meet each of the Selectmen at our next monthly meeting anyway. I’ll introduce you to all the mucky mucks in town. All of the back-room wheeler dealers. They’re an exciting bunch of guys. To answer your question, his rabbi’s name is Charles Poulos. He’s the chairman of the board.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s a bit mysterious. He’s originally from Providence. From what I understand, he comes from a wealthy family involved in an import export business.”

“What’s a guy in the import business doing here in Carrabassett?”

“He also happens to own and manage the biggest real estate company in the county. Business has been good over the past ten years. You know, sales of prime pieces of property for summer homes up by the lake or ski chalets for the winter crowd. But there’s something about him…. I don’t know...”

“I don’t know… what?” I boldly asked.

“Something about the guy sends my antennae up a notch. Just a hunch. One of these days when I have some free time, I’ll check him out. Meanwhile, whether he has a rabbi or not, Dupree is in a position to teach you more than a few things about standard police procedure.”

I said, “Well, I don’t expect perfection in anyone. I just want to learn as much as I can.”

“You can learn a lot from him. Just ignore some of his more boorish behavior, if you can.”

“Did I hear you say you’re leaving next year?”, I asked.

“Yep. I’m planning to retire in less than a year. I’m sure someone upstairs has promised him that he’ll step into the Chief spot. He’s been with me now for a little over twenty years. In fact, he came on the job only a few months before the Brahmin girl was killed. I had heard a few disturbing rumors about his conduct as a young cop over in Providence and then in Portland, but nothing I could ever document or confirm. He generally does his job well enough. The main complaint I’ve heard from some folks is that from time to time he can be a little surly and a bit off-color and inappropriate with some of the younger ladies in town.”

“Where is he from… you know, originally?”

“Providence. When I first interviewed him, I learned that he was adopted. By a middle-class blue-collar family up there. He told me in my initial interview that he had a twin brother who died in childbirth, along with their natural mother.”

“Is he married?”

“He was. A very nasty divorce according to what I’ve heard. No kids and no relatives here. I heard that his ex-wife was shot and killed by an intruder in her apartment in Providence a few years back.”

“Did the Providence police find the killer?”

“Nope. Another unsolved murder. Probably a burglary gone bad. She lived in a rough part of town; I hear.”

I asked, “What about my work on the Brahmin case? Do you think Dupree will help me, ignore me, try sidetrack me?”

“He’ll do whatever I tell him to do. But he may decide to cut it close to the vest. You know, the bare minimum and nothing more. He knows I can still make a lot of trouble for him with the powers that be if he doesn’t cooperate. So, if you need something or if you want him to follow-up with anything in particular, come to me right away, especially if he drags his feet. My suggestion to you…. if you don’t mind…. humor him, stroke his ego on occasion and learn from him. Despite what I’m telling you, he’s basically a pretty competent cop. That is, when he focuses on the job at hand.”

I said, “I’m not very good at stroking, but I guess getting along with tender egos… that’s all part of the job of being a good police officer.”

“Indeed, it is. With me, it’s a little different. I’m in a position of some influence and leverage. Like Nixon’s right-hand man Jeb McGruder used to say. ‘Once you’ve got them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow.’ You and he will work out fine. But enough about Dupree, let’s talk about Olivia Browne.”

I said, “I heard Mister Dupree say that the prime suspect was someone by the name of Allerton. I was wondering, if your deputy is still convinced that he’s the killer, what incentive would he have to help me reopen the investigation? And maybe prove him wrong?”

Bradley raised his eyebrows. “Good question. None, really. Which is why you should try to come up with substantive leads or items that may have been glossed over in 1965. Understand this. Dupree has always had an inflated opinion of himself and his abilities. He thinks he’s always right. A dangerous mindset for any fair-minded investigator. He’s good, but far from perfect.”

“What did you think at the time… about Allerton… as a suspect?”

“I must admit, he was a reasonable person of interest, but there wasn’t enough clear evidence to indict, much less convict him. Even if I were to agree with Dupree, nothing can take the place and discretion of the District Attorney or local prosecutor. He makes the final call, not the police. We just gather and present the evidence. And, as I’m sure Professor Beckwith has taught you, that’s exactly the way it’s supposed to work in our criminal justice system.”

The Chief leaned in closer and said, “Our coroner, Doc Brodsky, is ninety years old, retired and still living with his wife up on Route 27 just outside of town. I would expect that you might want to re-interview him at length. His findings were critical in the decision not to indict Allerton. You’ve heard that he found a two-month-old fetus in his post mortem?”

“Yes, and Dupree thought Allerton was the father?’

“Yep. In fact, so did I. That is, until his attorney offered up his blood sample for paternity testing…. voluntarily. The test was never done because the comparison fetal tissue was mistakenly destroyed.”

I asked, “But doesn’t that suggest a possible angry motive for Allerton to kill her? His girlfriend obviously having sex with someone else?”

Tom answered. “Yes, normally it would. But I heard Libby’s voice on a taped recording insisting that she was raped by an unidentified male. And I’ve always intuitively believed her claim. Make sure Dupree gives you that tape to listen to.”

“I didn’t know about that. I will”, I said.

“And there’s something else about this file you should pay attention to. Doc Brodsky was a chronic, but functioning, alcoholic. I managed to keep that piece of information, albeit relevant to the case, out of the news reports. Fortunately, Doc admitted to me, privately, that his first autopsy of the girl was short of the mark, so he took the liberty of following up with a more thorough and skillful second exam. Without telling me or the prosecutor.”

“Isn’t that unusual…doing a second autopsy without telling the prosecutor?”

“Yes. You’ll see why when you read through the entire file.”

“What about the pregnancy? Is it true she was carrying a baby girl?”

“Yep. Naturally, that kind of news created a gossip firestorm in town. Every young man in town was on the church ladies’ suspect list. Anyway, by the time the dust settled and we finally identified the Brahmin Girl, the case had suffered a relatively quick but tortuous death. Which is why you’re here in Carrabassett this summer. To see how innovatively you can think… in maybe resurrecting it.”

I had tried to conceal it, but the Chief had noticed that my eyes suddenly began to well up with tears. “What is it, Darcy?”, he whispered.

I quickly dabbed my tears with a paper napkin and said: “So then, this was a double homicide. The Brahmin girl died carrying her own sweet little girl.” I grew very quiet and looked away …distracted by a distant, remote memory. I regained a little composure. I thought for a moment and asked: “Whether she was raped or not, do you know if she was seeing someone else, maybe in secret?”

“Good question. We pursued that avenue but came up dry again. No one we interviewed had ever seen her with anyone other than Isaiah Allerton. She never went out at night and had no social life. At least none that we could tell. It was Dupree who was pushing the indictment of Isaiah Allerton, to the exclusion of all other possible suspects…of which there were none anyway at the time.”

The Chief continued. “Ironically, Dupree was the one who ruined the chance to compare Allerton’s blood type with the fetus by his stupid authorization to Brodsky to cremate the body.”

“But, why would he do that?”

“I’ve wondered about that myself. I chalked it up to the fact that my young deputy was, and still can be, very impulsive… not always disciplined in proper police procedures. He can be a rogue cowboy type at times. Maybe that’s something you might pursue also when the time comes.”

“I don’t follow”, I said.

“That would be something for you to consider when you finally get your shot at him. You know, when you interview him about his handling of the case.”

I grimaced. “Can you hold off on that till my internship is nearly done?”

“Discomfort, apprehension, even fear…. all part of the law enforcement package, grasshopper. Get used to it.”

Suddenly I thought about Olivia’s remains and changed the topic. “Where is she buried? Can I see the grave?”

“Just outside of town, in the Potter’s Field corner of the old Colonial Cemetery.”

“Did anyone place any kind of…?”

Bradley anticipated my question and cut me off. “Yes, absolutely. I ordered a simple gravestone. I had the mason inscribe it. It reads: The Brahmin Girl, Olivia Browne; November 25, 1947—November 25 1965. Some of the local church ladies objected but…. well, to hell with them all.”

“My God... she was killed on her eighteenth birthday?”

“Indeed, she was. Thanksgiving Day 1965. Alone in the wild woods of Maine. And yet, not totally forgotten it seems. You may be interested to know that some mystery person has been leaving a single white rose on her grave every year for the past twenty years on her birthday. I suspect that it’s Isaiah Allerton, but I’ve never asked him about that. That might be one of your questions for him when you go out to see him.

“You mean I can go up there and talk to him…. in person. …about the murder?”

Bradley smiled. “Yes, Ma’am. I would expect you to. That is, if he and his attorney agree to an interview. The statute of limitations for murder in Maine has long expired in this case. If Libby had been under sixteen years old it would still be open. But that’s not the case. So, I don’t see any reason for him to fear talking with you now. Who knows? He might have a bunch of interesting things to tell you. Leads that went uncovered. Things that Deputy Dupree didn’t consider important at the time…. or things Isaiah has since remembered.”

“I’m so excited”, I found myself muttering aloud.

“You’re starting with a clean slate, grasshopper. Use your imagination and best instincts. But please, don’t irritate or intimidate my deputy. Remember, you’re representing the Department in this town, and me personally, in everything you say and do here this summer.”

I rubbed my hands together and laughed. “Yippee io ki yay!”

The Chief’s eyes brightened and he chuckled. “Haven’t heard that expression since I was a boy.”

“It’s my default expression when I get excited,” I laughed. My dad used to sing it to me to get me to go to bed. It’s a line from Bing Crosby’s song…. ‘I’m an old cowhand….’”

“From the Rio Grande”, Tom sang on pitch. “Yep, I know it well.”

After a long silent, grinning pause, Bradley said. “Well, speaking of cowboys, I need to finish my lunch and get back to my Deputy. I want to be sure he gathers the entire file so you can get to work.”

LET THE GAMES BEGIN

The next morning I bounded up the steps into the station house and saw Dupree seated at his desk. He was inhaling a ham and egg sandwich. A glistening dollop of ketchup slid down his chin as he grinned, winked and spoke through his food. “Well, g’mornin’ there, Miss Farrell. Ready to go to work on this fine bright day?”

Well, there’s a major shift in attitude from yesterday. I wonder how long this friendliness will carry the day?

I walked quickly up to his desk and extended my hand. Dupree looked up and said, “What’s all this? Didn’t we already go through proper introductions yesterday?”

“Yes, we did. But you never stood or shook my hand. I’m sure it must have just been an oversight.”

Dupree smirked and said, “Yeah, well…. my ex-wife, God rest her sweet soul, used to say I must have been raised by wolves. As you probably noticed, social skills ain’t my strong suit. But, I’m sure a nice refined college lady from the big city could teach an unpolished hick like me a few of Miss Manner’s finer points. Right?”

Snarky…. I thought. But I was beginning to enjoy the exchange.

“It’s never too late to learn a few new tricks, Mister Dupree. There’s no statute of limitations on picking up a few social amenities, you know.”

Dupree grinned. “Nope. Too late. I think I might be past that point. Old habits die hard, Miss Farrell.”

I measured my next comment carefully. “And I’m sure I could learn a lot from you too.”

Dupree answered, “Speaking about dying hard……” as he pointed to a pile of dusty folders stacked high on a small desk pushed up against the wall in the corner of the bullpen. “But not half as hard as the way that Brahmin girl got herself killed.”

“Thank you for retrieving this material so quickly for me. I’ll get right on it.””

Dupree grinned a half smile. “Just following orders, Missy. I’ll tell you right now though… you can comb through all that stuff till the cows come home. But you ain’t never gonna come to any conclusion different from mine. Assuming you’re even half the star student of crime the Chief says you are. Anyway, I wish you good luck. You’ll likely be needing it.”

I bristled and felt my cheeks burning. “First of all, Mister Dupree, we’re not characters in a western movie. ‘Missy’, just won’t cut it. So, get rid of it right now, if you don’t mind. And secondly, why don’t we both just relax and see what, if anything, a second look at this girl’s file might turn up.”

Dupree glared at me with his jet-black eyes and said nothing.

I tried to break the tension. “Look, I don’t have the depth and years of experience you have in these matters, but I’m not an idiot either. Who knows, I might wind up agreeing entirely with your opinion about Allerton. For all I know he may be as guilty… and as lucky… as you say he is. He may have skated on a murder charge and walked away Scott free.”

“Yeah, that’s a fact. Plain and simple.”

I added, “I have no idea where any of this will lead. But I intend to do what I’ve been assigned to do by Professor Beckwith and Chief Bradley.” I looked briefly at the floor and then squarely up into Dupree’s face. “I was hoping, quite honestly, that you would teach me a few things... you know, while I review the file. Maybe we could contact some witnesses together.”

Dupree stood, stared wide eyed at me, strapped on his brand new semi-automatic Glock and just grinned like a circus clown. “You mean like a team? Like, oh…I don’t know… say, like Starsky and Hutch? Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson? Yeah, anything’s possible, I suppose, in your fantasy TV world of cops and robbers.” His tooth gapped grin faded just as suddenly as it had appeared. He glared again at me. His hardened expression and words conveyed their intended dose of menace. “Just don’t get the idea that you’re going to use this second look at my file, and your little college summer adventure, as an excuse to show me up or to challenge my reputation. Cause, if you’re even thinking about doing that, Miss Farrell, I won’t abide it. No ma’am. No way.”

I started to speak but stopped when Dupree abruptly bumped into my shoulder and rushed past me for the front door, towards his patrol car. “Excuse me, I got real work to do. I don’t have time for stupid academic games”, he mumbled, as he strode by.

Well, that went well.

I debated whether I should tell Bradley about this testy exchange. Or if I should try to work out this budding personality conflict myself. Either way, it needed to be fixed. In a hurry.

Later that night, as I hunched over the desk in my dark boarding house room, paging through the first of six thick manila folders, I began my hunt for the soul and hidden persona of Olivia Browne. And perhaps… even a fleeting glimpse of her killer. Stapled to the inside cover of the file jacket was a glossy photo of the face of a young woman who looked barely human. Olivia’s scalp had been shredded …. degloved from her skull. Her eyes were fixed open wide in death. Staring outward and upward as though pleading…. to anyone… for a final merciful blow to deliver her from this life. To spare her from the excruciating horrors inflicted by her executioner. Her nose and right ear were partially removed, their stumps covered in dried black blood. Right beneath that picture was another showing her opened chest and abdomen. The tangled web of flesh, clothing and dried blood made her body look alien… monstrous… even repulsive. I fought back a sudden wave of nausea, turned away for a second and said a quick silent prayer for this girl. My mind raced…. spinning with a barrage of unasked questions.

What did she ever do to deserve to die like this? Was she unconscious, please God, when the bear attacked her? And if so, how did she first come to lose consciousness? How long had she been alone in the woods? Had she been disabled by someone before the bear attack? Someone she knew?

I turned to the official crime scene report filed by Deputy Dupree. In it, he described her body position… on her back, facing upwards, partially covered by dead leaves, pine straw and wooden detritus.

Who covered her with all this stuff? Did the bear initially stash her away like a fresh kill…. a carrion corpse to feed upon later? Did someone incapacitate her and then try to conceal her body? Was she lost? Did she cover herself with the leaves and debris in a futile attempt to stay warm at night in the sub-freezing temperatures of late November…. when it had become too dark to travel up and down those rocky slopes? Did she pass out from hypothermia or hypotension?

I noticed in his report that Dupree had described in detail what Olivia was wearing. A torn pair of summer jeans, light weight boots, a woolen cap, a Tartan plaid flannel shirt and only a light outer nylon vest with no hood; and no gloves. Clearly, she wasn’t planning to spend the night out there. She was less than a mile from the Allerton house. I doublechecked my witness contact list and made sure Isaiah’s name was at the very top. Dupree’s tape-recorded office interview with Allerton, especially the circumstances around his discovery of the body, appeared to be very thorough. However, I thought that his notes as to Allerton’s whereabouts and activities for those prior forty-eight hours were sketchy and sparse at best. I needed to tighten up that crucial timeline.

I slowly studied each page and photo, took copious notes and then went back to something I had noticed in Brodsky’s initial autopsy report. He had written that, based on the significant blood flow and splatter patterns around the body, Olivia may have still been alive, though perhaps barely, when she was mauled, ripped open and finally killed. Brodsky noticed no defensive bite and claw marks on the arms and hands…. suggesting that she may have already been unconscious and thus not able to ward off the attack. The question which kept tugging at me was whether she was killed by the bear attack alone. Or whether there a human accomplice who set the stage…. forcing all events into forward motion. Perhaps towards an inevitable and planned rendezvous with the bear?

I read Dupree’s interview with her landlady Mrs. Olsen who established that Olivia had already been missing forty-eight hours by the time she was discovered by Isaiah Allerton. How did she come to be lying unconscious at the bottom of a deep ravine, partially covered in leaves, for all or part of that time? My mind swirled with the countless possibilities.

The questions kept pouring into my head. Had she been disorientated when she ran away from Allerton into the woods? Did she suffer from some sort of prior medical condition… diabetic, epileptic?

My head hurt trying to keep track of the maze of unanswered questions. I stretched, put aside the folder and looked once again at the supplemental autopsy report of Doctor Brodsky. I took out a yellow legal pad and I made a bold note to remind myself to ask him about each of these scenarios. I resolved then and there to not question him until and unless I was fully and intimately familiar with the entire file. I hoped that he would be sober enough and lucid enough to give me answers, especially after all these intervening years.

I stood, rubbed my shoulders, and looked at my watch. It was three o’clock in the morning. I had been at it for almost five hours. I collapsed face down on the bed and quickly fell into a deep sleep.

THE FIRST SHOT FIRED

My dreams were mixed with fitful, random images of a frighteningly grotesque, prehistoric bear…. and of gruesome death and decay. The bloody face of Olivia Browne, her eyes wide and panicked, kept staring back at me. Her mouth was frozen in an open, silent scream… pleading with me to find her killer. Constantly lurking in the background … weaving throughout my dream images…. hovering just behind and above the bear…. was the blurred face of a man holding a black rifle.

In that moment I heard the sharp crack of a gunshot. I woke and bolted upright, struggling to catch my breath. After a second or two of heart racing orientation to my new, unfamiliar surroundings, I noticed that the morning light was just beginning to filter into the room through Mrs. Lyscombe’s Irish lace curtains.

There was another loud, sharp sound at the door and I heard Mrs. Lyscombe call my name. “Miss Farrell, I’m sorry to disturb you. Could you come downstairs please? Chief Bradley is on the phone for you.”

I looked at my watch. Oh, my God. It was 6:15. I was supposed to meet the Chief for breakfast at the diner at 6:00 sharp.

I ran downstairs, picked up the phone and started to apologize. “Chief, I’m so sorry…. I…..”

The Chief interrupted me … his voice edged with sharp annoyance…. “Good morning, Darcy, this is Tom Bradley. We’re on country time up here, grasshopper. I’m going to give you a pass today because you were probably up half the night going over the Brahmin file. I understand that. But it’s time to get our collective butts in gear. Get cleaned up fast and meet me at Alice’s in fifteen minutes. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be right over.”

I ran back upstairs, cleaned my face, brushed my hair and teeth and ran back down the stairs rushing past Mrs. Lyscombe who was standing at the foot of the stairs holding a mug. “Whoa, darlin’. At least let me give you some hot coffee.”

I forced a smile, mumbled no thanks and rushed outside to the car. I looked like crap, no makeup, dressed in the same jeans and a white tie-died t-shirt I’d worn the day before. Worse, I was foggy as hell from the lack of solid sleep.

Jesus, yet another rookie mistake. I’m not going to last very long at this rate, I thought.

As I pushed open the diner door, I saw the Chief sitting in his usual booth along the back wall. He waved to me. His usual smile was conspicuously missing. “Come, sit down, we have things to talk about.”

I tried to appear relaxed, nonchalant and witty. “Good morning Chief. That won’t happen again, I promise.” I smiled and said: “I see you’re seated facing the front door. I thought that was just an urban legend about cops and mobsters.”

It worked. He broke out his quick grin. “Yep, I like to see exactly who’s coming and going at all times. It’s called being observant. The mystics used to call it, living in the moment. Great way to approach life, especially for a cop.”

Bradley tossed a menu on the table in front of me. “Let’s go. Eat up. We need to get on the road. The sun has been up almost two hours already.”

“Yeah, I’m awfully sorry about that.”

“I get it, Darcy. I knew you’d get enthralled with the Brahmin scene photos and the reports. I get it. But, remember what I said about pacing yourself and keeping your batteries fully charged. Lesson number one for the day. A tired cop is a careless cop. And a careless cop….is a… go ahead…. fill in the blank.”

“A dead cop.”

“Right you are, grasshopper.”

The Chief looked at my attire and said, “You’re not exactly dressed to take a hike in the woods.”

“I… I didn’t know….” I stammered.

“Well, so be it. The best lessons are those learned the hard way.”

We wolfed down our breakfast and Bradley said. “Ok, let’s hit the bricks. Or in this case, the trail. By the way, Dupree is out on the same domestic violence call he answered yesterday. He was supposed to drive you up to the mountain but I insisted he cool his heels today. You’re riding with me instead this morning.”

Ten minutes later we were speeding up Route 27 towards some of the most majestic and pristine mountain scenery this low country girl had ever seen. The Maine pine forests stretched for endless miles in all directions. Suddenly Bradley slowed and made a sharp right turn onto a narrow dirt road. There were no road signs or mailboxes in sight. “May I ask where we’re going?”, I asked.

“We’re going to the scene of the crime. There’s nothing of any significance left up there, but I wanted you to get a sense of what Olivia saw and experienced before she died.”

“I nervously asked. Are there bears up here?”

“Of course.” Tom laughed. This is their back yard, not ours. Did you bring your cowbell or whistle?”

“Oh my God, no. I forgot.”

“Reach under your seat and take out my air horn. Don’t use it unless I tell you to.”

We bumped and bounced along the road as the cruiser brushed up against the branch tips stretching across the road and arching upwards towards the limited supply of sunlight. Finally, after about a mile, Tom stopped the car. “Ok, hop out. This is where we have to hike in on foot. I’ll pop the trunk. Take a look inside. You’ll find bug repellant, gloves and a screened hat.”

Tom looked at my sneakers and frowned. You really should get into the habit of wearing some good old boots, even around town. Never know when you’ll need to come up here on a call.”

“Are there people actually living way out here in the woods?”

Bradley laughed. “Yes, indeed. More than you can imagine. They’re scattered throughout the area. In some cases, over a mile from any kind of paved or gravel road. “

“What do they do in a heavy snowstorm?”

Bradley looked amused. “They cozy up in front of a warm fireplace with a good book, an aged scotch and wait it out.”

As soon as I climbed out of the cruiser, the black flies descended on me in force. “Oh my God, you weren’t kidding.” I cried, as I started swinging and flailing my arms around like an old wooden windmill.

“Keep your eyes peeled for Mama Moose. She’s probably just had her calf, or two, and will be extremely protective…. even aggressive. Strap that air horn to your waist. And by the way, I have water bottles, granola bars and a couple of small knapsacks in there too. Help yourself.”

We started hiking up the narrow trail when Bradley stopped short. “I almost forgot. Have you ever had any firearms training?”

I smiled. “I grew up on a remote rural farm in Virginia, Chief. We were swimming in deer and geese. What do you think?”

“Ok, then.” He led me back to the trunk of the car, re-opened it and handed me a twelve-gauge shotgun. “This is against police department regulations but no one will know the difference out here. Check and make sure it’s loaded and the safety is on.”

He watched me carefully as I did exactly what he told me to do.

We climbed through the building heat and humidity in silence. Black-capped chickadees chattered and scurried alongside us…. up high among the oaks, ash and pine. Curious, they followed us up the entire trail. By the time we got up to the scene a half hour later, I was huffing and puffing, hardly able to speak. Bradley had barely broken a sweat and looked like he had just walked across the room.

“There it is, right over there”. Tom pointed down a steep rocky slope towards a deep ravine. “She was lying on her back. I remember it was deathly still…. quiet and dark in the shadows of these massive pines. There was some light snow on the ground. The only sounds came from the moving water of that stream and small waterfall over there.” He pointed skyward. “A bunch of scavengers were circling above us. They had roosted right up there in that old white pine…. still alive, I see. Crows… dozens of them…. gathered for a communal meal… hoping to enjoy the bear’s leftovers, I’m guessing.” Tom stared for a long moment up into that tree, and said.” Did you know that when a flock of these guys gather like that, they’re called a murder of crows?”

“I never heard that before”, I said.

“Yep. American G.I. survivors from both world wars have described them as a black carpet across the battlefield…. swarming over the bodies like giant locusts, cawing, pecking and gorging themselves on both the dead and even the unconscious wounded.”

A chill went down my back. I looked around quietly, then changed the subject. “If we were to continue on that trail, where would it take us?”

“It winds over there to the east and sort of dead ends less than a half mile from the rear of the Allerton property.”

“Were you part of that interview of Allerton, Chief…. that first night he was in jail?

“Nope, Deputy Dupree did it, in the office. We both interviewed him again the next day when we searched the house and grounds.”

“Did Dupree ask Allerton if he was familiar with these backwoods trails? I didn’t see that in his report.”

“I don’t think he needed to. Isaiah is very familiar with these woods. He knows them like the back of his hand. Allerton has spent a lot of years up here hunting deer and moose, in season. Still does. Sometimes he’d hunt rabbit, and some geese and duck up by the lake.”

“You say Allerton met you and Dupree up here at the scene after he called the police station, right?”

“Yep. He was standing right here waiting for us when Dupree and I hiked in.”

“Where did he make the call from, his house? A landline?”

“Yes.”

I paused, thought quietly and said, “So, he just happens to be out here, walking around in dense woods about seventy-five yards off this trail and he finds the body. Way down there at the bottom of that deep ravine. He manages to see it at that distance…. despite it being covered with pine straw and leaves?”

“Go ahead, make your point.”

“That would make him pretty observant, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Not unusual for someone with his hunting experience I would reckon”, he answered.

I asked, “Dupree’s report says Allerton was hunting whitetail deer, right?”

“Right.”

“You’re a hunter, would you look for deer in a deep ravine.”

“Depends. Sometimes they bed down for the night in small ravines, like that one. If you come up here early enough in the morning you can sometimes surprise them in these hollows. Keep going. You’re doing great.”

“Ok. You said Allerton had a hatchet at his waist when you saw him. Did he have the kinds of knives and butcher tools you would need to field dress a deer kill?”

“Great question, grasshopper. You’ve been doing your homework. I thought of that. But Isaiah said that since he wasn’t that far from his house, he planned to go back and get his field dressing tools, assuming he had gotten lucky. A plausible explanation to anyone who has hunted up here.”

“So, if he went back to the house to call you to report finding the body, why did he bring his rifle and hatchet with him when he came back here?”

Bradley smiled. “You can ask him that yourself when you see him. Well done. Keep it up.”

I asked. “The medical examiner said that the vessels to the heart looked like they had been neatly cut by a knife. But Allerton didn’t have a knife on him when you searched him out here, right?”

“Right.”

“I read that all of the knives at the house tested negative for human blood. Did you guys bring in a metal detector to check both the trail back to his house and the back of the property for a different knife?”

“This is a small department, Darcy. We don’t have those kinds of resources, time or manpower. The search area would be way too massive…. unmanageable.”

I paused and said, “May I sum up the pros and cons of the prosecution’s case, at that point…. from a layman’s point of view?

“Give it your best shot.”

“You’ve got a very violent homicide but the medical examiner wasn’t willing to get on the witness stand under oath and state definitively whether it was the bear’s claws or the human hand cutting her heart vessels that actually ended her life…. or both. Is that a fair analysis of where the Brahmin case ended up?”

“Yep. An excellent and pithy summary.”

I asked. “However, what if there exists some other evidence proving that those same human hands initially wounded or disabled Olivia, and thereafter possibly lured a wild bear to enter the picture? You know, to throw the police off the scent of an initial assault.”

He said, “OK, assuming those facts… what’s your question?”

“Well, that would change the whole complexion of the file. Would you agree?”

“Yes. But again, I considered all of that. We found nothing else at the scene or on her body to justify going down that apparently dry rabbit hole.”

“Chief, I saw a brief reference in the autopsy report stating that all the toxicological studies were also negative. No alcohol, drugs, barbiturates or the like in her blood or organs. And Allerton says that when she ran away from his house, albeit in a very agitated state, and into the woods, she was in command of her faculties and didn’t show any signs of confusion or illness. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“If she had accidentally slipped and fallen into that ravine and landed on one of those large rocks down there, there would have been some physical sign or mark from some kind of head, leg or spine injury, agreed?”

Bradley answered. “In fact, I asked the Doc to look closely at that very possibility. We both ruled that out early on. The Doc and I don’t believe she was disabled from a fall.”

“So, if she was down there because she had become disabled from an outside source, could it have been related to what Allerton told you up at the house? Could she have been….?””

The Chief finished my thought. “You mean about hearing the report of a high-powered rifle…. within minutes after she ran away into the woods?”

I asked. “Could she have covered that half mile on the trail in five minutes give or take?”

“Yes, I think so, especially if she was as hysterical as the audio tape suggests… and running. Mostly downgrade, I should add.” The Chief scratched his chin. “This case would be a no brainer if only we had found a slug somewhere in the body or some sign of a pass-through bullet exit wound anywhere.”

I said, “But the front half of her body was mauled open by a bear. That’s not exactly conducive to a proper and thorough post mortem, is it.”

Bradley smiled. “Complicated, isn’t it?”

“Are all your investigations as complex like this?”

Bradley laughed. “Nope. Most of the day-to-day police investigations we handle involve locals who are overserved at the local beer joints on Saturday night. Shooting out the lights in a local dive or roughing up their girlfriends. Stuff like that. Or out-of-state folks trespassing and hunting on posted property or hunting without a license. Or guys driving their pickups into bears, moose and deer… or a neighbor’s mailbox. Or a midnight theft at the local liquor or convenience store. You won’t learn about that dull, predictable side of law enforcement from your professors at Northeastern. I’m convinced no one should graduate with a degree in criminal justice today without course credits in small town human psychology and anthropology. Especially in the testosterone driven exploits of the average small town immature male.”

Bradley continued. “Nope. This case is one in a million. You’re very lucky. This is exactly what you should be sinking your analytical teeth into.”

“I am extremely lucky. I know that.”

Bradley paused. His smile had faded. “Darcy, I want you to go through the names of every person we interviewed on the Brahmin case… about twenty all told, I believe. Let me know who you’d like to re-contact and why, and we’ll discuss it. Meanwhile, focus on what you’re going to ask Allerton and Doc Brodsky. I know many folks think that the passage of time dulls the memory. But I’ve found that, often, a twenty-year hiatus will clear up and sharpen one’s recollection of things. Especially things like murder and death.”

I suddenly decided that the appropriate moment… the one I had been dreading, had finally arrived. I pulled the pin on my grenade, held my breath… finally asked, “May I add Dupree to my witness list?”

Tom shot me a quick, worried frown. His face and tone grew instantaneously somber. “Be very careful, young lady. That man is not to be trifled with. Not in matters of life and death.”

I said, “I’m sorry if I sound presumptuous or too aggressive, but may I ask you a loaded question.”

Tom squinted, cocked his head and said, “Sure, I don’t see why not.”

I weighed my words carefully. “I’m thinking that the last person any police chief would consider a possible suspect is his own trusted deputy. Nevertheless, did that thought ever cross your mind at all?”

Tom frowned and stared at me for a long moment. “I admit… I thought of it for a fleeting moment, but, thank God, I didn’t have to go there. He was two hundred miles away upstate at the time of her death…. Thanksgiving Day. On a ski trip to Kahtakin with two buddies and…I regret to say…as a lodge guest of own Chairman of the Board of Selectmen. He came home two days later… the day we discovered the body up here. She had already been dead 48 hours.”

“Chief, I’m sorry…. I didn’t mean to….”

Bradley raised his hand to cut me off. He paused, then said, “Stop, Darcy. The day a cop refuses to turn over every little dirty rock in the realm of possibilities… that’s the day you hand in your badge.”

Tom thought for a few more quiet seconds and added. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll let you talk to Dupree. But only provided that you go over your line of questioning with me first. You’d best remember that he handled most of this investigation himself, and, except for that cremation screwup, pretty adequately, I have to say. He won’t appreciate someone like you, a mere unseasoned, criminology student looking over his shoulder or second guessing his investigative style and tactical decisions. Tread very lightly. Got it?”

“Got it, Chief.”

Just then, Bradley wheeled around at the sound of a broken twig. A large mother moose and her calf had approached us from the top of a small ridge only a few yards above the ravine. She was grunting, breathing hard through flared nostrils and whipping her head up and down. Tom had earlier given me a quick lesson in signs of their aggressive behavior. Sure enough, she was clicking her teeth, her ears were laid back up on her head and the hair was raised on her hump. Tom whispered. “Time to get the hell out of here. Hand me that air horn.”

Two short blasts later, the mother and daughter had trotted away, having displayed some annoyance but, surprisingly…. especially to a greenhorn like me…. absolutely no fear.

“Why did she come so close to us if she’s in such a hyper-protective mode?”

“They have notoriously bad eyesight. She was downwind from us and probably smelled us first. They’re also very curious animals and have no qualms about approaching humans. They come down into the valley all the time and poke around people’s front yards and back yard garbage bins. Did you know that they outweigh us about ten to one? In many ways, they’re much more dangerous than your average black bear.”

Two hours later, when we walked into the station house. Dupree was seated at his desk typing up his domestic violence report. He looked up, grinned at me and said, “Well, well, here’s the hunter, home from the hill.”

I wanted to return the volley but Bradley beat me to it. “A classic literary line, Deputy. Have you ever even read Robert Louis Stevenson, Mister Dupree? Do you even know who he is?”

“Uh, yeah… sure. I didn’t attend Princeton like yourself Chief, but I’ve done my fair share of book reading… you know… all the classics.”

The Chief smiled and cleared his throat as I followed his glance towards the bottom drawer of Dupree’s desk, slightly protruding. I noticed the partially concealed cover of a Playboy magazine. I bit my lip and said nothing.

Dupree laughed and pointed to my sorry looking, sweat-soaked condition. “So how do you like the great Maine outdoors, Miss Farrell? I have to say. You wear it very well.”

I looked at my shirt and jeans and saw I was covered in burrs and thorns, reddened welts from insect bites and a fair amount of mud and pine straw. Dupree wouldn’t let up. “But you might want to attend to those blood sucking ticks and chiggers all over your arms and neck. Would you like me to get you some alcohol and tweezers, Miss Farrell?” he said, as he laughed aloud again.

I reflexively ran my hands along my face, scalp and neck and could feel them, partially protruding, but burrowed deep into my skin, just below the hair line, at the nape of my neck. I cringed but didn’t allow the scream which had built up in my throat to escape my mouth. I said simply, “Thank you, but no. I’ll manage. That’s very kind of you, Mister Dupree.”

He grinned. “Yep. Whatever you need. You just let me know.”

Bradley was quick with his response. “What she needs from you, Deputy, is for you to drive her up the mountain to spend some quality time the day after tomorrow with Isaiah Allerton.”

“Dupree frowned and threw up a knee jerk objection. “You’ll never get that past his attorney, Chief. Why would he or his client ever agree to talk to us again?”

“He already has. I cleared it with his lawyer yesterday. And besides, what has Allerton got to fear? According to him, he had nothing to do with the girl’s death. Plus, the statute’s run out. Remember?”

“But what could she possibly ask him that I already haven’t covered, Chief?”

“I’ll be going over the possible lines of inquiry with Darcy tomorrow. Don’t worry, Mister Dupree, she won’t be duplicating or negating your efforts. Besides, you’ll be with her for the entire interview. You can make sure she stays within the straight and narrow. Right?”

Dupree just stared silently at Bradley and me. If looks could kill, Carrabassett would have had another double homicide on its hands.

Just then, Maggie came into the office and said, “Chief. We just got another call from Annabelle’s mother, Mrs. Hoyer. The boyfriend is high on something and is holding her daughter in the back of his car at gunpoint.”

“Pistol or long gun?”

“Mister Hoyer’s old Army service revolver.”

Bradley looked at Dupree. “Didn’t you go out on that same domestic violence call early this morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did that kid threaten the girl with physical harm?”

“Well… she says he did. But I didn’t witness it though.”

“Was she willing to swear out a complaint against him?”

“I didn’t ask. The whole thing blew over by the time I got there.”

“Next time that happens, book the kid first and then help the family get a court order of protection. Now get out there, defuse the situation and bust his ass. Get a sworn complaint from both the mother and daughter this time.”

“Yes, Chief. I’m on it.”

“And take our new intern with you. Show her how it’s properly done, Deputy.”

Dupree protested. “But couldn’t that potentially be a little dangerous for her? What with her being underfoot and in the way of things, like… you know… loaded firearms? And what about the liability? What would the Town attorney have to say about it?”

Bradley said. “Mister Dupree, I admire your noble sense of civic responsibility. But you worry way too much about the finer points of the law. Focus on your overall mission, son. Get that gun away from that skinny little shit and bring him in here pronto.” Tom looked at me, smiled and said, “Stay in the cruiser until the Deputy brings the situation under control and makes the arrest. If it blows up and he needs backup, the twelve gauge is right there on his gun rack.” He paused and said slowly, “Relax, I’m kidding. But I did show you how to operate the car radio, grasshopper. Use it to call Margie, if you need to.” Tom furrowed his brow and wagged his head. “Why Dupree insists on displaying that gun like that, out in full view, I’ll never understand.”

Dupree mumbled something unintelligible, turned and moved quickly towards the front door. “Let’s go, Miss Farrell. Time for you to see how real police work gets done outside of your fairy tale classroom.”

Bradley grinned at me. “He’s got a valid point there. Go get ‘em, grasshopper. Observe and learn.”

Two hours later while Dupree was questioning the skinny little shit handcuffed to a metal office chair, Bradley walked into the bullpen and signaled for me to come into his office.

“Come in and close the door.” As I sat down Bradley asked: “So, tell me. How did Dupree’s arrest go today?”

“Pretty smoothly, I have to say. He calmed down the situation in just a few minutes. I was really impressed, especially with the way he dealt with the woman and her daughter. And I told him so. You know, he can be very disarming and pleasant when he makes the effort.”

“I know. He’s a walking paradox wrapped in a police uniform. But, I repeat, you can learn a lot from him. Keep your eyes and ears tuned and observe everything in the moment.”

“You sound like a new-age guru.”

“And speaking of disarming a jerk like that kid, let’s see what you can show me about your firearms skills at the range today. As long as you’re interning and getting an inside look at the day-to-day operations of a police department, you’d might as well experience the full range of police firearm options. That’s something else you won’t learn in the classroom. And it might come in handy when you go on to your FBI training in Quantico.”

“Why do you assume that’s what I want to do with my life? I might decide to apply to law school instead”, I said.

“Because, well…. based on what little time we’ve spent together and the word from Agent Beckwith, I suspect you and the Bureau would be a smooth, natural fit. You seem to have a penchant for this line of work.” He smiled and added. “So, let’s get over to the outdoor range this afternoon and see if my intuition about you is correct. Let’s see how well my gun toting Virginia farmgirl handles our little arsenal, shall we?”

I laughed and said: “Quite honestly, I didn’t expect that firing weapons would be part of my job description this summer.”

“You wouldn’t be getting this generous opportunity in a big city police department. Those guys live their lives cowering in the shadow of their overpaid liability lawyer wonks. I have a lot more flexibility. Besides, I already cleared it with Beckwith. And he agreed that it would be a great idea.”

Two hours later, the Chief spun the combination dial and swung the firearms vault open to an impressive array of weapons. “Why so much firepower, Chief?” I asked.

“Because not all of these belong to the department. Dupree and I, and even Margie, keep some of our own personal weapons secured here.” He picked up several guns and handed them to me. “This is your standard issue Smith and Wesson .38 caliber handgun. A 45 caliber Colt. A 44 magnum and a .357 long barrel magnum. Take your pick. Ammo is on the upper shelf.” He reached over to the rifles stacked neatly in a tight vertical row. “These are what you should learn to shoot first however, especially out in the woods. This is the World War ll vintage M1, a .30 caliber semi-automatic rifle equipped with a high-powered scope. This is a Springfield lever action 30.06 rifle. These last two are still the guns of choice up here.”

The Chief picked up a Bonnie and Clyde styled artifact weapon and chuckled. “This is my favorite, though. As a matter of fact, I got it as a gift from Agent Beckwith and the Bureau while I was taking his classes at Quantico. This is the notorious Thompson .45 caliber sub machinegun. It doesn’t have much recoil but it does tend to spray up and to the right of the target when set on fully automatic. Nothing better than this in a tight-quarters shoot out. Except, of course, for that old reliable twelve gauge out in my trunk. I have disarmed many a drunken fool by stepping out of the cruiser and simply pumping and chambering a shell. That sound alone does wonders to sober people up fast, if you catch my meaning.”

“Which ones belong to Dupree?”, I asked.

“That 9mm. Smith and Wesson semi-automatic and that Browning handgun. He keeps his own personal 30.06 in the cruiser at all times. I let him keep it there and use it on and off duty because he takes the car home with him and does a lot of hunting with it on his days off.”

“Was that rifle in his car the day Olivia was killed?”

The Chief froze and stared at me quizzically. “And why in the world would you ask me a question like that?”

“Just curious, that’s all.”

“Aimless curiosity can kill both you and your cat. Don’t go there, grasshopper. Not unless you happen to uncover something solid as a rock. Do you hear me? Are you trying to tell me that your woman’s intuition is calling out to you, like some kind of siren song? Like some kind of police muse?”

“I try not to rely on so-called women’s intuition, Chief. Not with something as important as this.”

“Good. Because, to use an apt analogy, it’s like shooting at an angry bear. Real hunters know that sometimes you only have time to get away one shot. If your first bullet doesn’t find the mark and kill him, he’ll come back at you in a rush and a rage. And devour you before you have time to fire a second.”

I dug in deeper. “A few more Dupree questions please, Chief.”

Bradley wagged his head. “Jeez. Go ahead.”

“Where did he keep his rifle at the time. In his car rack?”

“No. He kept it in the cruiser trunk in those days.”

“What were you guys driving in 1965?”

Bradley smiled. “I can’t wait to see where you’re going with this. The town board had just bought two new cars for the police department. Both were 1965 Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptors. Both had the big V-8 engines. And yes, we’re still driving them both today. They’re easy to maintain, super reliable and gutsy fast.”

I asked: “So, the cruiser Dupree is driving today is the same exact one he was driving in November 1965?”

“Yes, it is.” Bradley stared at me. “Ok, grasshopper. Let’s have it. Why do you want to know all of this?”

“Could I hold off giving you an answer till after I have a chance to gather and arrange my thoughts?”

The Chief grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Sure. I’m looking forward to your imaginative response. But I’m warning you. It’d better be really good.”

We drove about a mile out of town to an old deserted mining pit backed up with a tall sandy berm. I fired every weapon he had. And outperformed the Chief at one hundred yards with both the M1 and the 30.06 semi-automatic. I brought the targets back to the office and pinned them up on the large cork bulletin board just inside the front door. At the bottom of the paper silhouettes, I had circled my name and signature in red ink. I also added a big yellow smiley face.

“Wow, you’re really slipping, Chief”, Dupree said with more than a little glee in his voice.

“No. I’m not slipping, Mister Dupree. This young woman just flat out bested me at my own game. I’m telling you; she can shoot the balls off a moth.”

I basked in the warm glow of the Chief’s compliment, especially since proffered in the presence of the Deputy.

Bradley stared at the paper target, grinned and said, “Did you know, grasshopper, that the smiley face was invented by an insurance company exec in Worcester, Mass? I lived there while I was in High School. There’s not too much to smile about, weather wise, in that old mad hatter town. We used to describe the endless rainy mists as ‘woostering’. Come to think of it, the weather kind of woosters up here too in the winter. Which is probably why the forests are so green and lush in the summer in this part of the world.”

I went to bed that night exhausted, smiling and contented. My dad had taught his Virginia farmgirl daughter well. It was a good day. No unforced errors.

JUST A FEW POIGNANT QUESTIONS

A week later, I walked into Alice’s Diner at exactly six A.M. and saw the Chief at his usual command post. He waved me back to his table.

“Sit down, grasshopper. I know we were supposed to do this a few days ago, but I had some last-minute details to work out with Reggie Saunders first. Eat a good breakfast. You’re going to need some sustained blood sugar today. Get out your list of questions for Allerton and meet Dupree in the office at 7:30. He’s driving you up to interview Isaiah this morning. His lawyer Saunders will be there. Not exactly what I had hoped for but we can work around that. Just stick to the format and inquiry lines we discussed and you’ll be fine. I don’t expect a lot of trouble from Saunders. He’s agreed to be there basically to provide moral support for Allerton who is a bit nervous, I’m told. Reggie’s not being paid for this. It seems he and Isaiah’s dad were close fishing buddies back in the day and he’s doing this gig pro bono.”

I asked nervously, “But, Chief, I’m not a lawyer. How do I handle any legal objections if he raises any?”

“I already went over our areas of inquiry with him. He’s Ok with all of it. Just stick to the script.”

“I’ll try.”

Tom Bradley grinned. “You’re not scared, are you, grasshopper?”

“Who me”? I said, my voice slipping up into a much higher register.

“Also, I want you to bring Allerton’s tape recorder and the duplicate audio cassette with you in case you need to refer to his last conversation with Olivia. They’ve been locked in the evidence cabinet for all these years in a plastic bag. I replaced the batteries the other day and it still works like a charm. Just so you know, neither Allerton nor Saunders has ever asked us to return any of this stuff to them when the case was dropped. I suspect Isaiah thought re-listening to Olivia’s voice was too upsetting for him to want it back. I can’t say I blame him. That tape is charged with raw emotions. The duplicate tape is marked “DUPL”. Leave the original in the locker.”

“Yes, Chief.”

“You’ve read the transcript of the taped conversations, correct?”

“Yes, I have.”

I would, of course, always follow the Chief’s orders. But to be brutally honest, I was scared to death to meet Allerton and his attorney. I had deluded myself into thinking that the Allerton interview would be inconsequential…. a de facto waste of time. I’d half expected Isaiah Allerton would be true to his simple-minded reputation and provide nothing but monosyllabic, non-sequitur type answers to my questions. I went up there anyway…. to face Allerton and Saunders…. along with the semi-hostile Dupree, who was eager to stand over my shoulder like a third-grade teacher ready to scold an errant, unruly child. I thought of what my father used to say to me before each of my college swim meets. “Lower expectations lead to sweeter victories…provided you play hard and never quit.” No problem there. My nervous expectations were as low as they go.

Dupree drove up the long dirt road towards the well-maintained two-hundred-year-old clapboard sided farmhouse. There was a sharp chill in the air that sunny morning and the temperature seemed much lower up there than it was down in the valley. Saunders was outside standing in the driveway waiting for us. The sweet smell of burning pine and cedar wood hovered low over the house in the still air.

Minutes later we were all gathered around the small, cluttered kitchen table. The cacophonous, raucous sounds of the singing canaries and finches… and the heat pouring into the room from the living room fireplace created an immediate aura and atmosphere of tension and claustrophobia…. long before a single word was ever spoken. I felt like I couldn’t catch my breath. I wanted to dive out the front door and run into the cool woods. My anxiety was mounting fast… until I pictured Olivia running out that same door in a hysterical panic. I reminded myself why I was there. And what I needed to do. And then, I was fine.

I put my notes face down on the table and looked at him, full face on. “Isaiah…. may I call you Isaiah?”

Allerton glanced nervously at Saunders, who gave his client a reassuring nod, and answered. “Sure… I guess so?”

I shook his hand. “Isaiah, my name is Darcy Farrell, I’m, a criminology student working for Chief Bradley for the summer. Has Mister Saunders explained to you why I’m speaking with you?”

“Yes, he did. I know who you are. Everyone in town knows who you are, Miss Farrell. And why you’re here.”

I glanced at Dupree who winked and smiled at me. I looked away, tried to force swallow the lump from the back of my throat…. and begin the interview. “Isaiah, before I ask you a few questions about Olivia’s death, I’d like you to listen to the audio cassette of your last conversation with her a day or two before Thanksgiving in 1965.” I put the tape in the player and said, “May I?”

Saunders reacted immediately. “Hold on, Miss Farrell. This wasn’t part of my arrangement with Tom Bradley. Why do you need to play the tape? I thought we were going to work from the printed transcript.”

I was suddenly swamped by the realization that I was entirely on my own, without the Chief. I was a flying Wallenda without a net. I took a deep breath and said, “Counselor, I’m just trying to speed things along, by helping to refresh Isaiah’s twenty-year old memory of his last encounter with Libby. I mean, it’s not like he hasn’t heard it many times before today, albeit probably quite some time ago. You don’t want him to fall into the age-old perjury trap with a prior inconsistent statement, do you?”

Saunders smiled broadly. “Well, well, Miss Farrell, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve had some significant legal training, especially regarding the classic exceptions to the hearsay rule.” After a fifteen second pause and a whispered huddle with his client, he continued. “Ok, you can play the tape for him but you will not be recording any of your questions or his answers. Agreed?”

“Agreed. May I continue?”

Saunders spoke quickly. “Oh, and one more point… which I presume you’ve already discussed with the Chief.”’

“What’s that?”

“You, Miss Farrell, are here this summer working in a graduate school criminology master’s program to revisit the Brahmin file, as a cold case project. Correct?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“So, it will be you, and you alone, asking the questions? Right?”

I shot a glance at Mister Dupree who just hunched his shoulders, grinned and looked at Saunders. He said, “Isaiah here and I have already talked about everything there is to talk about, counselor. Twenty years ago.” He patted Allerton on the back. “Isn’t that right Isaiah?”

Dupree looked directly at me but spoke for the benefit of Saunders. “To answer your concern, Mister Saunders, I doubt we’ll be covering any new ground today. This is strictly an academic exercise, it appears.”

I bristled and said, “That’s correct, Mister Saunders. What the Chief told you is right. I’ll be the only one asking questions.”

“Great. Let’s get going then. I’ve got to be in probate court later this afternoon.”

I turned on the tape player on and cycled through, without interruption, all three conversations, including the delayed sound of the gun shot. “Isaiah, you told Deputy Dupree you thought that shot sounded like it had been fired from a thirty ought six rifle, right?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You can distinguish a thirty ought six load and its firing from, let’s say, a .22 caliber or shotgun… is that right?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I can.”

“There had been a few deer hunters in this general area that day and the day before. You had heard them shooting, correct?”

“Yes, I did.”

“What time of day was that?”

“Early morning…both days.”

“How many years have you been deer hunting?”

“All my life. My Dad helped me get my first buck at age eleven.”

“Do you hunt up here with deer stands?”

“Yes ma’am, whenever I can.”

“What part of the day is the best time to be positioned at a deer stand …the best time to encounter a deer?”

“Anytime between sunrise and about eleven… maybe eleven thirty in the morning at the latest.”

“I believe you told Mister Dupree that you heard that single gunshot just after Libby ran off into the woods crying. That was a little after three in the afternoon, around three-fifteen or three thirty, correct”

“Yes.”

“And that was on Thanksgiving Day, right?”

“Yes. Libby and I cooked an early turkey dinner up here at the house.”

“That was a cold gray overcast day and it was already starting to get dark?”

“Yes Ma’am. It was getting late in the day.”

“Have you and your dad ever hunted in the late afternoon?”

“Not for whitetail deer.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just not a very good time of day to hunt. At least for white tail. Morning is best.”

I looked over at Dupree who was busy doodling on a legal pad with a felt pen. I glanced down at the yellow page and noticed several large circles filled with crosshairs… just like a gunsight on a scope. At the bottom of the page, I could see a very skillfully done profile sketch of my face. It was very unnerving and disconcerting. I paused, and took a deep breath. After collecting my thoughts, I continued. “Isaiah do you ever hunt deer with a mounted scope?”

“Not usually. My Dad and I always liked to give them a sporting chance. You know, to even the playing field a little.”

I asked, “Did you use a scope for any kind of hunting on any of your guns in 1965?”

“No Ma’am…didn’t even own one in those days.”

“Are you a good shot, Isaiah?”

“Well, pretty good, I guess. I made the finals of the Junior Olympic air rifle championship in my sophomore year in high school.”

“Did you go on to compete in NCAA events in college?”

Allerton put his head down and said, “No, I dropped out of college when my parents were killed.”

“I’m sorry. So, let’s get to the day you discovered the body. What if anything drew your attention away from the trail and towards the ravine where you found Libby?”

“I was tracking a buck I had seen earlier that morning, in the snow. When I heard movement in the brush coming from that ravine, I climbed the short ridge, looked down and saw the bear digging his claws into Libby’s body. His snout was covered in blood and he was grunting real loud.”

“That rifle shot you took. Where did you place it?”

“I shot into the air over the ridge.”

“Why not aim at the bear?”, I asked.

Isaiah seemed annoyed. “Because he was over her body. I didn’t want to risk hitting Libby.”

“When you fired that shot from your rifle, did the bear run away?

“Not exactly. He stood up on his hind legs and growled at me. It was a very big male…. biggest I’ve ever seen.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Was there any part of Libby’s body still in his mouth?”

“The Chief asked me that already.”

“I know. But I’m asking again. It’s been twenty years. Is your memory of that about the same or a little sharper now that you’ve had time to think about it?”

Isaiah fidgeted with a pencil. “There might have been something in his mouth. I’m just…. not sure.”

“Could you tell if the chest cavity had been torn open at that point?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Just then Dupree stood up, stretched and walked over to my chair. He leaned over and whispered in my ear. “That’s bullshit. He’s lying.”

I ignored the comment and returned to my planned questions. “Isaiah, we know you were carrying a hatchet. Were you also carrying a knife?”

“No, I wasn’t. If you’re asking me if I had my field dressing kit with me. No, I left that at home.”

“After the bear ran away, did you approach the body I presume?”

“Yes.”

“How close to it did you get?”

“Pretty close. About a couple feet.”

“Did you smell anything unusual.?”

“Well, yes, I smelled some body decomposition. You know… the kind of odor you get with a deer or moose that’s been lying dead in the woods for a while.”

“Anything else?”

Isaiah looked nervously at the deputy. “Yes, but I forgot to tell Deputy Dupree about it at the time.”

Dupree frowned and leaned forward in his chair, as Isaiah continued. “Something smelled rotten… really nasty. Something different from the smell of a dead carcass.”

“Like what, Isaiah?”

“Like the smell of old garbage. Like dead fish. You know, like the smell you get a few days after you’ve cooked fish.”

“Any idea why the body smelled like that?”

“No Ma’am. I figured Doc Brodsky would figure that out later.”

“Why didn’t you tell Mister Dupree or Chief Bradley about the smell?”

“I don’t know. It didn’t seem important then. Besides, no one ever asked me that.”

“Isaiah, have you ever hunted black bear?”

“Nope. I only hunt what I can properly dress, carry out and eat. I don’t like the taste of bear meat anyway. Too gamey. They taste like the animals they scavenge, you know, like dead beaver, possum …fish. Venison and moose meat taste much better because they only eat vegetation.”

“Isaiah, the Chief showed you a list of hunters who had valid hunting licenses and who we believe may have been within a couple of miles of your property on the day Libby ran into the woods. Do you remember him showing you the names on that list?”

“Yes, I remember.”

I handed him the list Bradley had prepared from the clerk’s licensing office records twenty years ago. “Tell me, do you now recognize any of those names? Did you know any of these men?”

Isaiah scanned the list of about a dozen names of local and out of state hunters. “Nope. I still don’t recognize any of the names.”

“How did Libby get up to the house on that day?”

“She usually drove to the head of trail that leads straight up to my house. I figured she hiked the rest of the way. Her car didn’t have four-wheel drive and had an extremely low undercarriage. You need something like what I drive, to get up and down that road.”

During the forty-eight hours she was missing did you have the opportunity to go to the trail head?”

“Yep, I passed by there almost every day.”

“During those forty-eight hours, did you ever see her car in the place where she usually left it when she came up here to visit you?”

“No. I never saw it again.”

“Isaiah were you aware that her car was found abandoned and damaged six months later in a ditch off to the side of another trail about two miles away from here?”

“No. I had no idea.”

“Deputy Dupree never told you that?”

“No. He didn’t. Never.”

“Did Mister Dupree ever ask you where Libby left her car the day she disappeared?”

Isaiah glanced at Dupree, lowered his head and said in almost a whisper. “No, he never asked me that.”

“How often did she hike into the woods alone or go up to the lake to paint.”

“Almost every day, as long as there was decent weather.”

“Where did she paint that portrait of you?”

“Right here at the house. Out there on the porch. Took about a week to finish it.”

At that point Saunders insisted that we take a ten-minute break. I used the bathroom in the house. Dupree relieved himself about twenty yards past the tree line in the back of the house.

When we reconvened, I said. “Ok, Let’s change gears. I want to ask you about Libby’s rape claim.”

Isaiah’s face flushed and he reflexively clenched his fist. “It wasn’t a claim. It really happened.”

“You’ve told the Chief and Mister Dupree that you had no idea who this man who attacked her might have been. Am I correct?”

“She refused to tell me. I don’t know who it was…. but she did.”

“But she’s not here to tell us. Did you get the impression that she knew her attacker well? That she knew his identity and his name?”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure she knew.”

“Did you ever see her, while she was living in Carrabassett, with any of the local men? Any other guy?”

“No. She spent almost all her time either painting up by the lake or with me here at the house. She didn’t date anyone but me.”

“Let me ask you about her paintings. This morning when I walked into your living room, I saw an oil still life painting of a large beautiful tree. It looks like a beech tree. Did she paint that too?”

“Yes, that old beauty is over a hundred years old. It’s still up near the top of the ridge. She and I used to go up there a lot.”

“That heart and the initials carved into the trunk, in that painting…. are they real? Do they really exist?”

“Oh, yes ma’am. They sure do.”

“Whose are they?”

“Those are our initials. Me and Libby.”

“But she painted the initials L.B. and I.A. Did you ask her what the B stood for?”

“Yes, she said it was for her middle name. Browne…a family name.”

“Isaiah, didn’t you ever ask her for her last name? Her real surname?”

“Yes, at first she said it was Morelli, but later on she’d always just say that it’s character that creates a person’s identity, not letters.”

“But weren’t you curious to know her last name?”

“She told me that she had been adopted by a family in Boston named Morelli and that one of her parents was a Mayflower descendant. Just like me.”

“That’s all you knew about her background?”

“Yes. That’s all I needed to know. She said I would get to know her completely by focusing on her life and her love for me. Not by some name typed by a clerk on a birth certificate.”

With that, Dupree rolled his eyes and mumbled something under his breath. It sounded something very much resembling: “Jesus, what a pair of space cadets.”

Saunders turned and hissed. “Knock it off, Dupree…. right now.”

Dupree winked, grinned and said, “Certainly, counselor. Whatever you say.”

I immediately turned and smiled at Dupree. I paused, then asked Isaiah. “Where was that painting of the tree being kept on the day Deputy Dupree enforced the search warrant of this house? On the day he and Chief Bradley played this tape in your presence?”

He pointed. “Right where it is now. Up on that wall by the front window.”

“In full and open view?”

“Yep.”

“Later, in the second interview in the police station, did Mister Dupree ask you about the initials in that painting? Did he ever ask you where that tree was?”

“Nope. He never said a word about it.”

“If I come back up here tomorrow, could you show me where that tree is?”

“Sure, it’s an easy hike. Only about a quarter mile from here. Just off the trail.”

I quickly scanned my notes. “One last question Isaiah, why were you carrying a hatchet at your waist on the day you found the body?”

“I had planned to go up to that tree later that morning.”

“Why? To do what, exactly?”

Allerton looked sheepishly at Saunders and said, “I don’t want to answer that question. I had my reasons.”

Saunders interjected. “Isaiah, you’ve done pretty well here today. If you don’t want to answer that one, you don’t have to.” He looked at me, smiled and said, “Well done counselor. Any other questions?”

“No, thank you, Mister Saunders. I appreciate your cooperation. Thank you, Isaiah, we’re done for today. I’ll see you tomorrow, if that’s ok with your attorney, to look at that beautiful beech tree.”

Saunders replied, “When you do go up there, Miss Farrell, examine the tree as you like. But there’ll no more questions of my client, please.”

“Of course.”

As I left the house and walked to my car, I knew exactly why Isaiah was bringing a hatchet to that tree. I hoped to get photographic proof of my theory the next day.

SET MY SOUL FREE

The next morning as I walked into Alice’s, Sally smiled and handed me a note. The Chief was out on an early morning call. Someone had broken into the poor box at Our Lady of Mercy church overnight. Bradley was interviewing the Pastor Father Arthur Kane and had left a message with Sally for me, to join him at the rectory.

The old white-haired priest opened the rectory’s front door just as I was beginning to knock. He greeted me with a bright warm smile and a deep southern accent. “Come in, my dear. The Chief and I are in the kitchen having some breakfast. Why don’t ya’ll sit down with us and eat something?”

That something smelled really good. “Thank you, Father. Don’t mind if I do.”

Bradley was seated at a large oak table, eating fried eggs, a thick slice of ham and grits. I laughed and asked. “Are those grits I see on your plate Mister Bradley? That’s something my mother made for us every morning on our Virginia farm.”

Father Kane pointed to a chair at the end of the table. “Sit down right here young lady, and watch this South Carolina low country boy show this Yankee fella how it’s done. How do you want your eggs?”

I looked at the Chief’s plate. “I’ll have exactly what the Chief is having, thank you.”

Bradley wiped his chin and offered. “Well grasshopper, it seems the good padre here has an interesting lead for you on the Brahmin case.”

I smiled and said, “Really? What does someone breaking into a church poor box have to do with a twenty-year-old killing? And, by the way, any idea who burglarized the church?”

“The break-in has absolutely nothing to do with the Brahmin case”, grinned Bradley. “The idiot who broke open that box in the church last night seems to have dropped his wallet and identification before he left with the money. I know the guy. A bit down on his luck. I’ll take care of it. But that’s not why I wanted you to talk with Father this morning. I’ll let him explain it to you.”

The old priest seemed to measure his words very cautiously… with precision. He spoke slowly. “Well, I had a conversation late yesterday with a young woman who has lived here in Carrabassett all her life. Her mother died very recently and she was unburdening herself of a promise, sort of a vow, she had made to her mom years ago. She told me something in the confessional which she has agreed to share directly with the Chief. But only with him, not through me. But suffice it to say, it has something to do with what she personally witnessed twenty years ago regarding Olivia Browne. You understand I can’t tell you any of the details myself. I’m bound by the priest-penitent seal of confidentiality and asked her to repeat everything directly to you. That’s all I can tell you for the moment.”

The Chief’s face bore the widest teeth filled grin I’ve ever seen. “So, grasshopper…. the second rule of police work is, you never know when or where leads can fall into your lap. This may turn out to be nothing…. or…who knows?”

I asked quickly. “How old is the woman, Father?”

“Twenty-nine.”

Bradley said. “That would mean she would have been nine years old at the time of Libby’s death. Old enough to establish competency. You know…. the legal ability to distinguish truth from falsehood. And therefore, the right and qualifications to testify under oath in our courts. Just in the event she was ever called by the prosecution.”

“When may I speak with her?”, I asked.

The Chief handed me a piece of scrap paper with the woman’s contact information. “Whenever you like. But make it sooner rather than later. We’re not going to get out over our skis till we hear what she has to say. Got it?”

“Understood.”

As we left the rectory, the Chief took me aside and said, “Go see this woman as soon as you can and…. whatever you do… don’t bring Dupree with you. I don’t want a repeat of his antics at your Allerton interview. You can handle this one on your own… and report back to me right away. Oh, and by the way, have you been checking in with Lyle Beckwith every day by phone?”

“Yes. My landlady lets me use her home phone downstairs every night in her den before I go to bed.”

“Good. Keep it up. That’s very important. He insisted that I stay on top of you about that.”

Later that day when I got back to my room, I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out at the paper Tom had given me. On it, he had printed the name… Veritas von Bronk, 58 Grand Union Street.

Well, Veritas... Here’s hoping you can live up to your wonderful name.

THE BREAK

The next morning, I knocked on the front door of a modest two-story colonial house. The front yard was ablaze with color …. pink Dogwood in bloom, lilac and bright orange tiger lilies. A very pretty woman, who looked about my age, answered the door. “Hi there. Are you that criminology student from Boston? The one helping out Chief Bradley for the summer?”

“Yes, Miss von Bronk. That’s me. Darcy Farrell’s my name. News travels really fast in this town.”

“It’s a small town, Darcy. Please call me Veritas. Or Vera as most folks do around here. I suppose you’ve talked to Father Kane?”

“Yes. The Chief and I both did. Am I correct in saying that you’re willing to tell me what you told him privately? Something about witnessing an event that may be related to the death of Olivia Browne?”

Vera quickly looked up and down the street. She took my arm and led me through the doorway. “Please come inside.”

Vera ushered me into a small den at the rear of the house. Next to the food stained and worn upholstered recliner was an ashtray stand with a single rosewood pipe. I asked, “Do you live here with anyone, Vera?”

She looked down at the pipe and said, “No. My parents are both gone. My Dad died of lung cancer five years ago.” She picked up and fingered the pipe. She looked at me and said, “I just can’t seem to get rid of some of his things. My Mom passed a few months ago. No…. I live alone now. I’m not married. I have no other family….no siblings or related blood kin in town.”

“Vera…. Father Kane tells me you’re anxious to tell us something. Let me start by asking you this. If what you witnessed twenty years ago was important enough to see a priest about, why did you wait this long to come forward?”

Vera’s eyes suddenly began to tear up. “My mother made me promise not to tell anyone about what she and I saw.”

“But you’re willing to tell us now, correct?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Why?”

“I have to finish what I started out to do. My conscience has been killing me, especially since Mom died.”

“Why don’t you tell me in your own words exactly what it is you remember seeing?”

Vera sat down in her father’s recliner and began to speak. “One night before she was killed, my mom and I saw her… the Brahmin girl… Olivia Browne. She was crying, trying to climb out of the back seat of a police car. I was only nine years old at the time but I remember how scared I was for her. She jumped out of the back of the car screaming hysterically. This happened about two or three months after I first noticed her in town.”

My heart began to race. “Was the car one of ours? Carrabassett Police Department?”

“It was white with black lettering, like the Chief’s. But I couldn’t see the logo …. I couldn’t make out the letters or numbers on the side. It was night time, very dark and there was no streetlight in the back of that big parking lot.”

“Was there a cop inside that cruiser?”

“I don’t know. I heard a man’s voice yelling really loud… fighting with her, but I never saw his face. My mother dragged me away to our car really fast.”

“Where and exactly when did this happen?”

“It was a little after nine o’clock at night. In that big rear parking lot behind the drug store. It had just closed up for the night. My Mom drove us there to fill a prescription. We were walking back to our car when I heard Olivia scream.”

“Can you give me a date? Can you associate this incident with anything going on at the time? A birthday? Any special sporting events? A holiday?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

“What time of year? Was it cold or warm that evening in the parking lot?”

“Definitely cool.”

“Were there leaves on the trees?” I looked out into the rear yard. “Were any of your favorite flowers in bloom?”

“Yes, now that you mention it, I remember that my mom’s white asters were in bloom, back in our rock garden, in the rear yard.”

“Good … late summer, I think.”

“What else did you notice?”

Vera’s eyes again wandered to the window, fixed with a blank stare as though reliving the moment. “It was really dark back there behind the store. But I saw the rear door of the cruiser swing open…. very sudden like. Olivia flew out of the cruiser and started to run. She was stumbling and tripping trying to get away. I remember she was crying and pulling up her underwear while she was trying to run. They were down around her knees.”

“Did either Libby or the cop, or whoever was in that car, see you?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Did your mom also see and hear what you saw and heard?”

“Yes, she told me that she did.”

“But she never reported it?”

“No. She made me promise to say nothing to anyone.” Vera started to cry softly. “She made me swear with my hand on the family bible… right here in this room.”

“Why would she do something like that?”

“I think she knew who was in that car with Libby and was scared to death of him.”

“So, why exactly are you coming forward now. To what end? What are you hoping to accomplish?”

Vera suddenly stood, lowered her voice and said, “My swearing an oath to God… basically to protect that man… it was morally wrong. It was a sin in the eyes of God. Now that my mom’s recently gone to her reward, I feel like I’ve kept that promise long enough… in fact, far too long. When I heard that you were working on the Brahmin case after all these years, I knew I had to go to Father Kane… and especially you. I don’t know how any of this will end up, but I had to clear my conscience by making right what I did wrong twenty years ago.”

“Do you have any idea, any suspicion at all, as to who that man was, Vera?”

“No. And I don’t want to know.”

“Why not?”

“Because for all I know, the man who killed Olivia Browne was the same man in that cruiser. A killer who may still be living in this town.”

“Did you ever have an opportunity to speak with Olivia? About anything…. while she was living here in Carrabassett?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact… I did.”

I was momentarily surprised. “You did? You were nine years old at the time, correct?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Did you ever tell Libby what you saw that night?”

“No. I kept my promise to my mom … right up until now.”

“So, when did you and Olivia have this conversation?”

“About a month after I saw her run from that car.”

“Tell me about it, please.”

“I was never alone with her and we never discussed the event. Actually, it was my mother who spoke with her… always in my presence. I said very little.”

Just then, Vera took my hand and said, “Come with me please.” She led me to her bedroom, stood at the door and silently pointed to the far wall. There, awash in the bright morning light filtering through the curtains was the most stunning color filled portrait of a young girl I had ever seen.

I gasped. “Is that you as a nine-year old?”

“Yes. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Did your mother know about this?”

“Yes, of course. My Mom and Libby had several conversations… but only about this portrait. I think my mom felt guilty about not going to the Chief. And, at the same time, she didn’t want to hurt her feelings or turn down the opportunity when Olivia offered to paint my portrait.”

After a long, awkward silence. Vera said. “My mother and Olivia met three or four times while she was doing the portrait but I never heard either of them ever mention the incident. The last words I ever heard my mom say to her were: ‘Olivia, if you ever need my help for anything, I beg you to call me’.”

“How did you interpret that?”

“I had a strong suspicion that Olivia was aware that my mom knew that she had been attacked in that cruiser.”

“Did your mom pay her for the painting?”

“Olivia didn’t want to charge her. But, yes, she told me she gave her one hundred dollars. That was a lot of money back then, money that we really couldn’t afford at the time.”

I asked finally. “The man’s voice that you heard. Did it sound old, young, distinctive, accented in any way?”

“I really can’t say for sure. I didn’t make out the words, only the tone of the voice. I kind of remember it sounding a bit on the younger side…. and definitely angry… what I would call ugly angry.” She looked down, and away from me. “And very scary.”

“What else do you remember?” I asked.

“The whole incident was over in seconds. It all happened while my mom was dragging me away towards the front of the lot, back to our car.”

I looked searchingly into Vera’s face and said, “I have to ask you this question. Be perfectly honest with me. Did the voice sound like it could have been the Chief’s?”

“Definitely not. I know his voice.”

“Deputy Dupree’s?”

“That I really can’t say for sure. I’ve never heard him speak that much. But I don’t think so.”

I handed her one of the Chief’s business cards and said, “Vera if you think of anything else, please call us right away.”

As I got up to leave, a saw that a knotted brow had framed Vera’s face. She said, “Do you think you’ll find the killer? Do you think he’s still here… one of us folks… here in Carrabassett?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got a lot more work to do. The fact is, the odds against solving any cold case…. and this one is really cold… are very long.”

An hour later I sat in the Chief’s office waiting for him to respond to my briefing. He just stared at me in silence. Finally, he spoke. “Well, that’s certainly an interesting and surprising development, grasshopper. Do you believe her story?”

“You mean do I think she was lying or exaggerating? No, I don’t. And yes, woman’s intuition is at play here…. and I’m going with it. She’s telling the truth for sure.”

Bradley finally voiced what he was quietly thinking. His face was stern and knowing. “Go ahead, ask me the question.”

“What question?”

“Don’t be coy with me, damn it. Ask me the question any good cop would ask under these circumstances.”

My brain formed the right words but, in an instant, looking at Tom’s face, I chickened out. Instead, I asked, “Assuming Vera saw one of our two town cruisers that night, who else besides you and Dupree had access or permission to use either one of them that summer?”

Bradley raised his voice. “That should have been your third question, not your first. I’ll answer the proper question, the one you absolutely should have asked me first… but didn’t. I’m not letting you off the hook. Ask me the damn question. Now.”

I lowered my head, avoided his eyes and asked, meekly. “Chief was that you in that cruiser?”

He spoke quickly. “See? That wasn’t so tough, was it? And…. no… that wasn’t me in that car. You already know who the other obvious choice might have been, and I’ll figure a way to deal with him later. But there’s a third possibility. And, by the way, whenever you ask that kind of question…. never look away. Study the eyes, the lips, the forehead, the hands and shoulders… feet shuffling…. every God-damned bit of body language. Got it?”

“Yes, Chief. Who is the other possible choice?”

“Do you remember me telling you that Olivia ran her car into the rear of my cruiser on her first day in town?’

“Yes, I recall that.”

“Well, I’ll have to pull my vehicle service records, but I recollect that my car was out of commission for about three or four days late that summer for that rear bumper and trunk repair. I delayed getting it fixed for too long. It was in the custody of Mike Allen, my mechanic. He had a young man working for him around that time, on a temporary basis. The son of his good friend. Either one of them could have taken the car out, on the remote chance that it needed a test drive. That kind of repair wouldn’t normally need a road test. However, based on the time of day of the incident and my long-term familiarity with Mike’s solid character, I would tend to rule him out right away. That leaves that kid. I can still picture him. I’d have to say that he fit the profile of a good suspect. He looked like every young future felon I’d ever met. And God only knows where the hell he is right now. Probably in jail somewhere.”

“So now what?”, I asked.

“Now? Well, you go out and talk with Mike Allen. He’s retired and getting on in years but he’s still sharp as a tack. He sold the car repair business and gas station but I know he’s always kept good records. Ask him to check for that kid’s name and last known address. Also, check if he has any record as to when exactly that repair was made. Get the exact dates. We’re going to do this methodically … and by the book, grasshopper. Especially if you’re even considering…. as I suspect you are… getting ready to fire your silver bullet at that raging bear we discussed. Now… give me your fourth, and probably your most loaded question….”

“OK…. I give up,” I said.

Bradley said. “The answer to your other unasked question is… yes, Dupree had been working for me only about four or five months at the time. And, yes, the Town Board of Selectmen had made sure that he had his own individual cruiser…. for both official and private personal use at that time. All part of his employment contract.”

Tom grew quiet for a long moment then said, “I wish Vera had given us a tighter time frame for that incident. Go back to her and see if you can trigger her memory a little better. Maybe by using school and church calendars, summer sports league schedules, birthday parties as a reference point. Got it?”

“Got it.”

The next morning at six AM sharp, as the Chief and I were having breakfast at Alice’s, an older, balding man strode into the diner, spied us in the back and made a spritely beeline to Tom. “Well good morning, Chief. Word on the street is you’re looking for me.”

Tom stood and took his hand. “I was… till this moment, Mike.”

“Well, look no further. Here I am. As they say…. the mountain has come to Mohamed.”

Bradley laughed. “As who says? No one around here says things like that, Mike”.

“You know…. you’re not the only literate man here in Carrabassett, Tommy Bradley.”

Tom smiled. “Mike Allen, say hello to my bright assistant Darcy Farrell. She was just getting ready to drive out to see you at home. Thanks for saving the taxpayers the cost of fuel.”

“Pleased to be of service, Chief.” Mike thrust his hand towards me. “Well, howdy there, Miss Farrell. It appears they’re making cops a lot younger these days.”

I smiled. “Oh, I’m not a cop, Mister Allen, just a graduate student in Boston, interning with the Chief.”

The Chief pulled over a chair and said, “Sit down, Mike, and have a cup of coffee on me.”

“I thought we civilians were supposed to be the ones buying coffee for you guys.”

Tom nodded at me. “Go ahead Darcy. You’d might as well capitalize on the opportunity. You’re making it look real easy, grasshopper”, he grinned.

I jumped right into the water with both feet. “Mister Allen, would you still happen to have your gas station business records from 1965?”

“You mean the year that girl was killed up there in the woods?”

“Boy, you have some memory… and some information pipeline, sir. Yes, the Olivia Browne homicide.”

“I figured that’s what this was all about. What would you like to know?”

“That young man who was working for you that summer, can you dig out his name for me?”

“Don’t have to.” He pointed to his head. “It’s right here. That pimple faced kid’s name was Charlie Glover. I tried to help him and his dad out but he disappeared suddenly after just a couple months on the job. I’m pretty sure he left with some cash from my register too. It was plain to see from the moment he pumped his first gallon of gas… that he was up to no good. I figured he’d wind up in big trouble someday.”

I was suddenly beginning to experience the much-touted thrill of closing in on an elusive suspect. The kind of adrenaline high many self-acclaimed detectives write about in their dime store, cops and robbers’ novels.

“Trouble? You mean with the law? Do you know if he’s in jail somewhere?”, I asked.

“Nope. The kid is dead, Miss Farrell. Killed in Portland a few years back. Shot by an off-duty cop while robbing a gas station. An ironic swan song for the little jerk, huh? I heard about it a few months ago from a member of his family.”

My spirits, which had soared high as a kite only moments before, had suddenly crashed to the ground. I looked over at Tom. “That’s too bad…. I guess,” I said.

Bradley shrugged his shoulders. “C’est la guerre”, he said.

I stared at the Chief and said, “You know, I just read about a new test involving genetic DNA. If you had been able to preserve Olivia’s fetus back then we might still have been able to compare the baby’s DNA with that of Mister Glover. Assuming someone had saved something like his hairbrush…. or the like.”

Bradley said, “Police all around the country have been waiting for this kind of testing breakthrough for a long time. In fact, I predicted this twenty years ago. I said then that once the fetal tissue was destroyed, we would probably never know who the father of Olivia’s child, and perhaps her killer, was.”

Mike Allen scratched his head. “Did that no-count kid fool around with that Brahmin Girl?”

“Well, based on what you just told us, we’ll never know.” Bradley answered.

“So, now what do I do?” I asked.

Tom shrugged. “You pick up your dashed hopes. You brush them off and keep on keeping on.”

ARCHIVES

Later that day I stopped at the public library and introduced myself to the chief clerk Mrs. Cavanaugh, a short stout woman with thick reading glasses and the classic librarian silver bun bunched atop her head. She shook my hand firmly and gave me a warm greeting. “Well, Darcy, I was wondering when I would finally get a chance to meet you. What can I get for you?”

I asked, “I’d like to know if you have a local newspaper here in Carrabassett.”

She laughed aloud. “Oh… you mean way out here in the sticks?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cavanaugh…. I didn’t mean to imply…”

She smiled and said, “Oh, that’s alright, dear. Yes, indeed. It’s called The Original Irregular. Kinda’ irregular sounding, isn’t it? The big difference is that… unlike your Boston Globe, we don’t put opinion or town gossip on the news pages.”

I smiled to myself. “That’s the name of the paper?” I asked.

“Yep…. would you like to see this week’s copy?”

“Actually, I was hoping you’d have archives of the paper from the year 1965.”

“Oh, that’s right …you’re working on the Brahmin Girl murder.” She smiled knowingly.

Wow, it’s a good thing I’ve been well behaved since I’ve been up here. There’s no such thing as a secret in this town.

Minutes later I was scanning the social and gossip pages of the Original Irregular for the month of November 1965. Only ten minutes into my search I found what I was looking for. There on page 20 of the town’s event calendar was a story and photo of none other than Charles Paulos… reporting that on November 24, the day before Thanksgiving, he had received a citizen of the year award from the local Chamber of Commerce at a local Elks dinner given in his honor.

I made a photo copy of the page and shoved it in my pocket.

BETTER LATE THAN NEVER

For some reason, the prospect of interviewing Doc Brodsky frightened the hell out of me…. even more than my experience with Attorney Saunders. By all accounts, he was a sweet, gentle, mind mannered old man. But the thought of questioning this beloved physician about his mistakes…. and…. there was no way to get around it…. his drinking problem…. kept me up the entire night before my interview with him.

Mrs. Brodsky opened the door with a sweet, bright smile that lit up her craggy- lined face. Her bright blue eyes beckoned, “Come in, Miss Farrell. The Chief has told us all about you. How exciting it must be for you… to be doing real police work for the entire summer. You must be thrilled.”

“Thank you, Ma’am. Yes. It’s a great opportunity. And an honor to finally meet you and your husband.”

As she escorted me down the long hall to the small den at the rear of the house, Sarah Brodsky said. “Try to keep your voice up, dear. Harold has become a little hard of hearing. Especially in his left ear. As I’m sure the Chief has told you …he suffers from a little dementia too, but you happened to catch him on a good day. He’s pretty alert, and anxious to meet you.”

I walked into a small sunlit room. A diminutive, frail looking, white-haired man was sitting, eyes closed, in a recliner. A book was opened and propped up against his chest. Despite the warm weather, his lap was covered in a thick colorful afghan. He looked up, removed his wire rimmed glasses, smiled and spoke in a surprisingly strong voice. “Please come in and sit here next to me, Miss Farrell. I’ve been expecting you. Tom Bradley says you have some questions for me about the Brahmin girl. Oh, I keep forgetting… excuse me… she does have a name… Olivia Browne.”

In spite of his gaunt, fragile appearance, I was impressed immediately with the brightness and clarity of his large brown eyes and the resonant timbre of his voice. I studied him for a long moment then said, “It’s a real pleasure, Doctor, I’ve heard and read so much about you.”

Doctor Brodsky laughed. “Oh, so you’ve read about me? You mean on those wanted posters down at the post office?”

I smiled and answered. “No, excuse me. I meant to say I’ve read your detailed autopsy reports in the file.”

His smile faded. “Oh, those. Not my best work, I’m afraid.”

I pulled my notes out of my briefcase, looked at my first few questions but then put them face down on the coffee table in front of me…. pushing them away.

Come on, Darcy. You know this stuff cold… inside and out. Time to walk the wire without a net. Enough of the small talk. Jump in and get it done.

I stepped out of the bright moment and plunged right into the clouded past. “If I may get right to it, Doctor…. did you know Olivia before her death? Had you ever actually spoken to her?”

“Oh, yes, indeed. Can’t say that I really knew her. I suspect no one really knew her. That is, except for the Allerton boy. But yes, I did talk with her on one occasion.”

“Really? When was that?”

“About a week before she was killed.”

“Please tell me about it.”

“Well, it was a little strange. The conversation, that is.”

“How so?”

“I was walking out of my office late one night when she suddenly approached me. It was out near the street, in the dark. I was startled, till I could see who it was. I could tell she’d been crying. I asked her what was wrong. There was clear tension and a hint of worry in her voice. She said, ‘Could I ask you a question Doctor… in confidence?’ I stared at her for a minute, then said. ‘Why don’t we do this proper like and talk tomorrow morning in my office?’ She said, ‘Please, just one question. I’ll only take a moment of your time.’ I didn’t know exactly how to react.”

“What did you do?”

“Well, I agreed. I normally wouldn’t discuss what I anticipated to be a medical question with a non-patient in that setting… but she acted like she was in some kind of trouble. And sure enough, she was.”

At that moment Doc Brodsky looked at his wife who was still standing at the door and gently asked, “Do you mind dear? Darcy and I will need some privacy.”

She said, “Of course, I understand completely, Harold. I’ll get you both some iced tea.” She left the room, closing the door.

“What kind of trouble?”, I asked quickly.

“She said she thought she might be pregnant and that she needed some advice.”

“Did she say what kind of advice?”

“Well, naturally I just assumed she wanted the name of a doctor who would perform an abortion, which was still illegal in Maine except for therapeutic reasons in 1965.”

“Is that really what she wanted?”

“No… not at all. To my surprise she wanted to know if there was some kind of charitable group or government agency somewhere in the state of Maine who would help her arrange for the birth and adoption of her baby.”

“Did you give her that information?”

“Of course. I had done it several times before. I knew some people, a couple of local pastors who would help her have the child and put it up for adoption.”

“I don’t suppose she told you how she became pregnant or who the father was, did she?”

“No. She didn’t. And I didn’t ask.”

“Did you ever tell the Chief or Dupree about Olivia’s nighttime visit?”

“Of course not. She spoke to me on the condition of confidentiality, which I honored.” He lowered his head and said, “As it turns out, my keeping the lid on this didn’t adversely affect the homicide investigation.”

I momentarily bristled and asked, “That’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it, Doctor?”

Brodsky sat straight up in his recliner and appeared annoyed. After a long period of uncomfortable silence, he looked hard at me and said slowly: “No, my dear. It’s not a matter of opinion. It’s a matter of conscience and medical ethics. I had no choice but to keep that confidence.”

I immediately regretted my comment. “Sorry, Doctor. You’re right.” I said sheepishly.

Doc lowered his voice and continued. “Speaking of conscience and ethics, I need to get something off my chest. I was hoping Tom would be here with you today, Darcy. I need to confess something that’s been slowly tearing and eating at me for the past twenty years. It concerns the Brahmin girl.”

I started to stammer nervously and glanced over at the door to the den. “Wouldn’t you rather… uh… speak…. directly to Chief Bradley, Doctor?”

“I’m ninety-three years old, my dear. Every minute of time I may have left in this life is a precious luxury I can no longer afford to waste. I need to settle up, to make things right. Time is not, has never been, on my side .”

“I don’t understand.”

“My wife didn’t tell you this, but I have only weeks, maybe a couple months left before cancer blows the final whistle on me. I’ve lived a long productive life. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished… in spite of that big ugly monkey on my back. But there’s something else in my past …. of which I am even more greatly ashamed.”

My heart skipped a beat. I instantly debated whether to allow Doc to open this looming can of worms in front of a novice like me.

I thought, I need to hold this off till I can get the Chief to deal with what Doc is about to tell me. I’m not ready… or emotionally equipped for this. Jesus, this is so uncomfortable.

I hesitated and tried again, “Please let me call the Chief and ask him to come over here and join us.”

Doc’s face suddenly grew very pale. He asked. “Young lady, do you intend to go into law enforcement when you get your graduate degree?”

“Yes sir, I do.”

“Well then... don’t run away from this moment… don’t be afraid of what I’m about to tell you. If I can muster the courage to deal with it … so can you. As would any good investigator. The Chief can always talk to me later if he likes, when I can apologize to him privately, face to face. If you’re handling the Brahmin case, Darcy, then you need to hear this. All of it.”

I averted eye contact… finally said. “Please go on.”

Doc’s eyes started to well up as he continued. “I’m sure you’ve heard the controversy about my decision to cremate the girl’s body and organs?”

“Yes, of course. A misunderstanding on the part of the Deputy, right?”

Doc lowered his head and let out an almost imperceptible moan. “No... there was no misunderstanding, Miss Farrell. Dupree threatened to hurt me if I didn’t immediately dispose of the body.”

I found myself emitting an audible gasp and said, “Threatened? How?”

Brodsky continued, “He said that if I didn’t cremate the body and the fetus he would go to the Board of Selectmen and tell them that, because of my chronic drinking problem, I had made serious errors in judgment and demonstrated gross incompetence in at least a dozen criminal cases. He actually threw the stack of folders on my desk and rattled off the names of the defendants…. and the victims. I recognized most of the names immediately. He was threatening to wreak havoc not only with my career and my practice but the justice system itself… even the victims of the crimes in which I helped get convictions.”

“But is any of that true? The incompetence charge?”

“Yes, I’m sorry to say. All of it was alcohol related. I’d made a few serious mistakes along the way. Probably not in that many cases in total… but enough for him to make real trouble for myself.”

“How else did he threaten you?”

“There was more. He had personally pulled me over on three or four occasions when I was driving impaired… none of which he ever reported to the Chief. Looking back on it all, I’m convinced he’d tailed me for months, waiting for multiple opportunities to build a case against me regarding my drinking problem. I didn’t disappoint him. He had me over a barrel. He was, in effect, blackmailing me.”

“But couldn’t you have fought him? He was on the job only a few months at the time. The Chief would have backed you up. Don’t you think?”

“Maybe. But Dupree had me by the proverbial short hair. He had done his homework well. Truth is, I needed the job. My wife was very sick at the time and I desperately needed the money. No one was going to hire an out of work coroner with a chronic alcohol problem. No one was going to help me re-establish my own medical practice in this or any other town. Not at age seventy-two. Not to mention the trouble I could expect from the State Medical Society and my medical liability carrier.”

I answered, “But even if you hadn’t cremated the fetal tissue and the rest of the body, Chief Bradley had no other murder suspects at the time … or anyone in mind for a possible paternity testing. So, no harm, no foul… right?”

“No, Darcy. It’s not that simple. There’s more. There was one other thing I did which was inexcusable.”

I dreaded asking. “What could be so inexcusable?”

I noticed Doc’s hands suddenly begin to tremble. He raised them to his face, covered his eyes and said, “I’d told Tom that I thought I noticed the odor of rotted fish all over the girl’s clothing.”

I suddenly remembered what Allerton had told me in my interview with him. “The same exact fish smell Isaiah Allerton had talked about?”, I rambled out loud.

“I never reported to Tom that I’d actually tested the residue on the clothes. That I’d found microscopic particles of fish scales, skin and flesh all over the girl’s hair, jacket and jeans. Dupree had specifically mentioned the clothes as part of his threat. He’d told me to be sure to burn the clothing also and never discuss the issue with anyone again. He warned me to forget about all of it…. and to keep it all out of my autopsy report.”

Suddenly the thought flashed across my brain like a bright streak of lightening. It triggered something I had researched in the town library about hunting black bear in the woods of Maine. I asked excitedly, “Are you saying someone covered her body with bear bait…you know, the kind hunters use as a scent lure?”

“You’re a quick study, Miss Farrell. I’m duly impressed. That’s precisely what I had also assumed. But I had suppressed that information in my reports to the Chief for fear of losing my job.”

After a pause of a few long moments, Doc exhaled a long, low moan. His face had turned ashen. “There I’ve said it. I can go to my grave with a hell of a lot more peace in my soul than I’ve enjoyed at any time over the past twenty years.”

“Oh, my God”, I said. “Dupree bear-baited her body? He’s involved in her death?”

“I don’t know that for sure. If he’s not complicit in the girl’s murder then he probably knows who is. There’s no doubt about it. Someone covered her in bear bait. I can only guess who that person may be. But I think whoever did that…. had a direct hand in the killing of Olivia Browne. He knew exactly what he was doing. It was very clever, actually.”

I hypothesized out loud: “And the obvious implication is that someone either killed her first outright, or disabled her to the point that she had become an enticing, unconscious attraction… a piece of fresh carrion…. for a scavenging bear. Excuse the pun, but it sounds like the goal was to throw the Chief’s investigation off the scent trail. Is that what you’re thinking?”

Doc smiled faintly. “You’re going to be a good investigator, Darcy…. well on your way I’d say. But let’s be honest here. It was I who was complicit in throwing Tom off the proper trail. I ruined any hope of pursuing that line of inquiry by fudging … falsifying… my autopsy report. And by doing that, I think I destroyed any real possibility of ever finding her killer.”

“This is not over,” I said, instinctively.

Doc Brodsky suddenly took my hand and squeezed it with surprising strength. He pulled me towards him. “That’s right. Go get him, Darcy.” he said. “But, please, for God’s sake… don’t do it alone.”

As I left Doc’s house, Dupree was waiting for me near the street, leaning up against his cruiser. “Learn anything interesting, Miss Farrell?”

“Yes, actually. More than you care to know.” I was steamed and it showed.

His dark eyes were concealed behind a pair of dark gray shooters… but I could feel him glaring at me. “A piece of free advice, Missy. Doc is very old, senile, alcoholic and, oh yeah…. on his last legs…. poor guy. I would hate to see you chasing down phantom leads provided by someone as unreliable and confused as him. Are you registering what I’m saying?”

“Loud and clear.” I barked, in reply.

He smiled. “Good girl. So how is your summer adventure going so far? Having fun yet, I hope?”

I wanted to scream. Wanted to shout that he was next on my interview target list but I held my tongue. At least until I could brief Tom on my session with Doc Brodsky. “Duly noted, Mister Dupree. I want to thank you.”

“Really? For what?”

“For letting me get to know exactly who….and what…. you really are. It’s been very educational. You’ve taught me lessons I could never have learned in a stuffy classroom.”

Dupree just grinned and said, “Happy to be of service…. grasshopper. See ya’ back at the barn.” He turned and climbed back into his cruiser.

When I walked into the station, Margie handed me a note. The Chief had driven to Farmington on official police business and would see me as soon as he got back later that night. Meanwhile I decided to follow up with Allerton on that old American beech tree with the carved heart and initials. I wanted to take a close look at it to satisfy my hunch as to why Isaiah was carrying a hatchet the day he found Olivia’s body.

THE HEART OF THE MATTER

It was late. Already three in the afternoon… but it was warm and sunny enough for a hike in the woods. This time I was ready. I had good rugged mountain boots, a long-sleeved shirt, bug spray and a cowbell hanging from a lanyard around my neck. But foolishly, I took no water or trail food with me. Yet one more rookie mistake… as it turns out.

When I got up to Isaiah’s house, I knocked at the door, searched the grounds, but there was no sign of him anywhere. I remembered what he said about the tree location and the directions he gave me when he called back the day after the interview. He’d told me to stick to the main trail… walk in the opposite direction of the waterfall. Proceed for about a half mile until I came to a pile of large boulders about thirty yards off to the right. I had hoped to have Isaiah with me as a guide, but I knew I could find it.

What the hell. There’s no reason why I can’t do this on my own, I thought.

I picked up the main trail behind Isaiah’s property and, this time, I made a right instead of a left, heading east. After a couple hundred yards of steep rocky incline, the ground leveled off and the climb became much easier. Sure enough, just as he had described, I spotted the formation of boulders rising about forty feet off the ground. And there, behind them, stood one of the most stately, magnificent trees I had ever seen. It soared nearly eighty feet tall, reaching up almost to the top of the forest canopy. Its slender leaves and slick, smooth gray trunk bark were unique and stood out from among the countless other tree species with their rough, shedding, wrinkled skins. A classic beech tree. Nature’s perfect, pristine blackboard, I thought… perfect for carving a lasting memorial to young love.

As I slowly circled the base of the tree, I came upon it, on the side facing away from the trail. Obviously, this had been intended by the lovers to be unseen… hidden from the prying eyes of a passing hiker or hunter. A secret point of rendezvous.

It stood at shoulder height. A well-proportioned heart with the precision carved initials L.B. And just beneath them… the letters I.A. It was a lovely sight, were it not for the despoliation of its symmetrical beauty …by dozens of deep, ragged hack marks slicing through it. This, clearly, was the product of pent-up rage inflicted by an angry lover… wielding a sharp bladed object. Twenty years had somehow failed to mitigate the high drama and import of the event. I could almost hear the thumps. Isaiah slamming his hatchet blade into the tender bark, in his frenzied loss. Mother nature had done little to heal the insult to this magnificent tree.

And so, my hunch proved correct. I regretted not having had my camera with me.

As I stood there studying the tree, I thought, Allerton did what any young man in his situation might have done under the circumstances. His pristine love affair had been defiled by the rape of an unknown monster and he needed to vent his anger…to destroy this painful reminder of it all.

As I stared at the pale lonely heart, I thought of the tiny bird hearts preserved in formaldehyde along Isaiah’s kitchen shelf. Suddenly, another image, another sharp, pointed edge of intuition rose and poked at me from the depths of my brain.

Is it even remotely possible? I thought.

Again, I circled the base of the tree quickly… looking for some sign, some indication that the ground had ever been disturbed. My thoughts seemed to take shape on their own. They carried me away… racing under their own power and volition.

Don’t be a fool, Darcy. It’s been a full, long twenty years of water erosion, heat and freezing cold. And the endless, grinding cycle of the ground heaving up and down from the freezing and thawing of ice and snow.

After twenty minutes, as I was about to abandon my momentary fantasy, I saw it. Lying, large as life, wedged and grounded between two large tap roots near the surface. A glint of the sun bouncing off a foreign object caught my eye in the late, low afternoon sun. A metal lid! I grabbed a sharp stick, poked at the ground, broke it, grabbed another. I kept probing and digging till the object was half exposed to the light of day. I could see it clearly now. A large glass mason jar with a rusted metal screw cap. I pried the rest of the glass container from the stingy jaws of the rocky soil… held it up to the sunlight… and just stared at it, in disbelief.

There it was. The murky, brown, amorphous shape of a human heart immersed in a glass jar filled with fluid. I leaned in for a closer look…. all four of its anatomical lifelines had been neatly severed.

THE FINAL ACT OF ATONEMENT

Tom Bradley and I huddled over the cold, gray autopsy table where Doc Brodsky gently emptied the contents of the mason jar onto a stainless-steel tray. Doc’s breathing was heavy and labored, his face pale and sallow. It was midnight. He had insisted on immediately examining what I had found in the woods. He had said, when the Chief wrapped him in a warm blanket and drove him to the morgue, that it would be his final contribution towards justice and “his final act of atonement”.

“No question. A female human heart.”, Doc proclaimed.

“Female?” I asked.

“Yes, typically about two thirds the size of an adult male heart.”

“Why hasn’t it decomposed after all these years?” I asked.

Doc carefully spilled out some of the liquid into the tray. “Because of this. A little deteriorated, but the unmistakable smell of formaldehyde.”

I shot a side glance at the Chief, who simple smiled and gave me a quick thumbs up signal.

Brodsky took a slender metal probe and began to pick along the edges of the cut vessels. “No question about it…. even after all these years … a well-defined cut in each artery.”

Doc continued to probe the heart chambers. “Oh, my God.”

“Bradley leaned in closer. “What…what is it, Doc?”

Doc picked up a pair of tweezers … lifted a small metal object out of an upper heart chamber and dropped it with a loud clang into the metal tray. He was having trouble breathing. “I have to sit.”

Tom pushed a chair over to him and eased him into it. “Is that what I think it is, Doc?”

“Well, I’m no ballistic expert, but that’s definitely a slug, a bullet. Likely from a high-powered rifle.”

We all stood there in utter silence until Tom finally broke the spell. “Who’s the best firearm forensic expert we have in the area, Doc.?”

“That would be Joe McAleer over in Fairfield. None better.”

I quickly asked. “But Doc, there were no entrance or exit bullet wounds, right?”

“This bullet never exited the body. It was probably fired from a long distance, lost velocity and got lodged in the heart chamber. A freak shot. She died almost instantaneously.”

“But what about an entrance wound?”

“The outer chest wall was completely obliterated by the bear trying to get at the internal organs. That would have destroyed any sign of a bullet entry site.”

Tom finally spoke. “Well, grasshopper. This is as fine a piece of detective work as I think I’ve ever seen. That hunch about the tree was a stroke of genius.”

Brodsky looked up at Tom and said, “Thank God. This confirms that the girl was unconscious by the time the bear and Isaiah found her. The wide blood splatter marks probably came from the force of the bullet ripping into the body. It looks like the bear, picking up the scent of decomposed salmon, came along and opened her chest…”

The Chief finished Doc’s thought, “And Allerton took advantage of the exposed heart and just removed it. As weird as it sounds, it kinda’ makes sense. He simply took it. Assuming he’s not the one who fired the shot, he may be innocent of felony murder, but he sure as hell violated a string of state regulations regarding the improper handling of a dead human body.”

Tom looked at me and said, “I’ll get another warrant for Allerton’s thirty-aught six tomorrow. You can go up there with me to take it for forensic testing.”

I looked at Tom quickly, then said, “What about the other rifle, Chief?”

Tom stared at the jar for a very long moment. “I know, I know. I’ll get his gun tomorrow and put him on desk duty till forensics can test his too. You stay out of his way. He’s not going to be a happy camper. To be honest, I’m not thrilled about the way this day is shaping up either. No police chief wants to see evidence incriminating a fellow officer, no matter who he is.”

I asked briskly, “Why don’t you just arrest him now and get it over with?”

For the first time since I had met Tom Bradley, he became furious and yelled at me…. loudly. His words laced with raw anger. “Damn it, Darcy. Not without ballistics results. There’s a protocol to be followed here. I have to do it by the book. I keep telling you that. For God’s sake, stop shooting from the hip and think it out.”

“Sorry, Chief. But are you still going to let me question him?”, I pushed.

“Absolutely not! I’ll do that myself first thing in the morning. Don’t say a word to him. I have to confiscate his rifle first.”

I got bolder in my questions. “Are you going to ask for backup from the Chief in Kingfield?”

“No, I am not. I want you to take the day off tomorrow. I don’t want to see you at the station house at all. Got it?”

“But, Chief….”

“Got it?!!”

“Yes, sir.”

REKONING DAY

Early the next morning, I drove over to Alice’s and sat alone at the Chief’s table. As I waited for my breakfast, I noticed a tall distinguished looking middle-aged man in designer jeans, well-tailored blue blazer and expensive, designer sun glasses. He approached my table and stood there silently for a full half minute before he spoke. He smiled and said in a deep, smooth, cultured voice. “Good morning, Miss Farrell. You may recall we met very briefly at the last town board meeting. We were introduced by Chief Bradley. My name is….”

“Charles Poulos. Yes, sir, I recall. Nice to see you again.”

“I was wondering if I could have a word, Miss Farrell.” He pulled up a chair, “May I join you?”

Before I could say anything, he was sitting right next to me in the Chief’s chair.

“I understand from the Chief that you’re working on the Brahmin Girl case in a summer intern cold case project. That must be exciting. How is it going so far? Any success in solving that old mystery?”

I studied his face for a few seconds and asked. “Were you living here in Carrabassett at the time?”

“Yes, I remember it well. The talk of the town for months. I first heard about it a few days after Thanksgiving that year. I had been up at my resort upstate for a few days of skiing.”

I said, “So I’ve heard. With Deputy Dupree, right?”

Poulos laughed. “Yes. The Chief was none too happy about my having him as my guest that week. In retrospect, he was probably right. I shouldn’t have created that wrong kind of appearance. I should have kept our law enforcement folks at arm’s length… if you know what I mean. But, after all, it’s a small friendly town and we’re all pulling at the same oar, right?”

“I understand you knew the Deputy in another life?”, I asked.

He studied my face for a few moments with a quizzical frown. “Indeed. I met him when he was a rookie cop years ago in Providence. He did a favor for my son on a minor traffic violation.” Poulos took off his sunglasses stared at me with bulging eyes and said, “I like to repay my debts… every one of them… small or large. A sound philosophy, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, I do. Tell me Mister Poulos, which particular debt were you repaying with your kind offer of a fully paid ski vacation at such a fine resort?”

Poulos pursed his lips, tightened his eyes and mouth for a split second. “Well, I don’t want to disturb your breakfast Darcy, so I’ll be running along. If there’s anything I can do for you while you’re up here this summer, please feel free.” He smiled, stood and stepped towards the door.

“Well, sir, there is one thing you can do for me, in fact.”

He stopped, turned back and looked at me. “Name it”, he said.

“Tell me please, were you and Dupree up at that lodge together for the entire four days before Thanksgiving?”

I thought I saw a twitch in the corner of his mouth as he answered. “Yes, Miss Farrell. He was with me the whole time that week. In fact, we got home together late in the evening, sometime after dark, on Thanksgiving Day. I had to get home to my family. My wife and I usually just go out to dinner alone instead of having a family get together. Most of my family is still in Providence. As I recall, he was anxious to sleep it off and recover.” Paulos chucked softly. “It was a bachelor party that went on a little too long.”

As Poulos walked out the front door, a rush of blood surged through my head. Gotcha, you slippery pig. I’ve got to find the Chief…. now.

As Sally poured me a hot cup of coffee, her boss, Hank Stevens ran out of the kitchen, leaned over my table, lowered his voice and said, “Miss Farrell, the Chief is on the phone in the back. He says it’s urgent. He needs to talk to you… now.”

I ran to the wall phone in the kitchen and grabbed the receiver. Before I could say anything, I heard the Chief’s frantic voice. “Darcy, get over to Father Kane’s rectory right now. He’s expecting you. And stay there till I come for you.”

“What’s going on?” I asked fearfully.

“Dupree ran into the office early this morning looking for you. He wanted Margie to tell him if you had come in yet. And if not, what time she expected to see you. Then he asked Margie to confirm your street address. I don’t like the sound of any of that. Also, he opened the gun vault and took out his Browning and his second hunting rifle, the one with the scope. Then he rushed out the door.”

“What? What else did he say?”

“Margie ran out to try to stop him. When she approached him, he was leaning into his opened trunk. She tried to grab his arm. He pushed her to the ground, jumped behind the wheel then pulled away.”

I heard a distinct hint of fear in Tom’s voice. “Darcy, listen to me carefully. Margie saw a leaking jug of bear bait in the corner of his opened trunk. She could actually smell it. Plus, there were latex surgical gloves scattered on the floor of the trunk. Darcy, get over to the Padre now. Stay there and have him lock all his doors. He’s waiting for you.”

I could barely think. “Yes sir.”

While the Chief was on the phone, I heard Margie screaming in the background. “He’s lost it! Gone over the edge. He’s going to kill someone.”

I heard the Chief turn away from the phone and ask Margie. “Did you notice if he had his shotgun in the car rack?”

“Yes, Chief, it was there.” Margie started to cry, “He threatened to kill me. Tell Darcy to hide and get out of sight.”

“Did you hear that, Darcy?”

I took a deep breath. “Yes sir. I’m on my way.”

.

I got into my car and headed for the church rectory about a half mile away. At the corner, in the periphery of my right eye I saw a police cruiser pull up along-side me at the light. It was Dupree. He rolled down the window and said, “Pull over Miss Farrell, we need to talk.”

“Have you reported in yet?”, I blurted out, trying to stall him.

“Nope. It’s such a beautiful day. I thought I’d call in sick, take the rest of the day off. Think I’ll go out and do a little bear hunting. Why don’t you do the same and join me? Come on. What do you say? It’ll be fun.”

His words sent a cold chill down my spine. All I could think to say was. “But it’s not bear season.”

“That’s Ok. The game warden and me are buddies. He ain’t gonna ticket me or the little star student from Boston.”

“The Chief is expecting you…. in the office, Dupree.”

“Screw the Chief”, he snarled. “You know, Missy. I noticed the other day that you have an expired inspection sticker. That’s not very law abiding of you now, is it?” He raised his voice menacingly. “Pull over now, goddammit… or I’ll place you under arrest.”

I froze.

He put on his emergency lights and siren. And yelled. “Now, Farrell.”

The traffic light turned green. I felt a surge of adrenaline-charged anxiety rush through my body. I panicked and pushed the gas pedal to the floor. I tried to make a quick right turn to head back towards the police station but he wedged his cruiser between me and the corner, striking my right rear quarter panel and blocking my car. I looked around the street for someone…anyone… who might help. But, at that hour most of the townsfolk were still home getting ready for work. I raced to the next corner and made a sharp right turn on two wheels.

I can’t go to the rectory now. It’s too late. I have no choice. I’ve got to try to outmaneuver and avoid him on these small streets…. and maybe do it long enough for the Chief to find me. Please God, let one of these nosy neighbors call in.

I prayed that Tom would hear the siren from the station or wherever he was.

Just then, Dupree shut off the emergency lights and siren. His cruiser was speeding so close behind me that I couldn’t see the hood of his car in my rear-view mirror. It was then that I made another critical amateur mistake. I hadn’t been paying attention to where I was. I found myself on the main road headed north, out of town, moving at sixty-five miles per hour up towards the hills. I knew I couldn’t outrun his cruiser…. and I couldn’t turn around easily on the narrow two-lane highway.

I made a snap decision to pull off the highway onto one of the dirt roads, to get as far away as I could and maybe leave my car in a narrow, wooded section of the trail blocking his car from following me. After a few minutes of racing and weaving I made a right onto the first dirt trail I could find and didn’t stop till the tree branches were practically removing the paint off the sides of my car. I grabbed my keys, jumped out and ran into the thickest area of the woods, climbing straight uphill, negotiating rocks, tree stumps and slippery moss…. scraping knuckles…. shins …. hand over fist. After a minute, I turned. He wasn’t anywhere within sight or sound. I craned my neck and searched the silent stillness of the forest below, listening for a telltale sign… that he was on the move upward. Suddenly a voice rang out from below and echoed through the towering pines.

“You know, for a smart little city girl from a fancy big university, you’re pretty goddamned stupid, Missy. You know that? Huh?”

I positioned myself behind a tree and waited quietly for him to make his move before I would dare resume climbing.

He yelled. “I can wait you out all day. You don’t stand a chance up there. What are you going to do once it gets dark, and you run out of room, little girl? Roll up into a ball and cry?”

I looked out from behind a tree trunk when suddenly the sound of a rifle shot reverberated through the trees. A branch from a white pine exploded about a foot above my head raining needles down over my head and shoulders.

His menacing voice roared up the slope. “Peekaboo…. I seeeee you!!. Did you forget that I have a scope on my rifle, little girl?”

I turned and scrambled another fifty yards up the steep rocky incline behind a tree, and slid down behind a rocky outcropping.

He shouted, “Tell me something, Missy. Did you really think I was going to let you solve this case….and then walk away to live and talk about it?”

I couldn’t catch my breath. I felt the world crushing down against my chest. For the next half hour, I scrambled up that slope hand over fist. As I stopped to catch my breath behind a tree trunk, I assumed the frightened, frozen pose of a deer being stalked by a skilled hunter… nostrils flared, ears cocked, eyes wide, every sense magnified tenfold. Every time I heard him move through the underbrush, I climbed even higher… till, suddenly the horrible reality hit me squarely in the face. I was out of cover. I had reached a flat, exposed, treeless, plateaued ridge. There was nowhere left to climb or hide.

“It won’t be long now”, he shouted, his voice getting closer.

He was right. I had to think outside of the box… now. As I rushed towards another rock formation I slipped on a growth of moss and tumbled into a deep ravine. My ankle began to throb almost immediately. I tried to stand but it would not support my weight. I knew I had run out of options. Despite the enormous risk, I laid down and wildly scooped all the forest debris I could grab with my arms. I frenetically covered my body and head with dozens of armfuls of pine straw and cool, wet decaying leaves. My heart raced… and I prayed as I have never done before.

Barely two minutes later, I heard the snapping twigs. The sounds of his boots were heavy, plodding, methodical. He called out again, now only yards away from my position. He stopped and spoke in a sing song, grammar school taunt. “Come out, come out, wherever you are, Missy. Where arrree you? Time to come out and face the music. Ready or not…. here I come.”

My heart pounded in my chest. I was afraid that my hyperventilation, the sound of my quick shallow, panicked breathing, would give me away.

He shouted again. “I have a surprise for you. I’m not going to shoot you in the chest like I did the Brahmin Girl. I’m going to shoot you in the knees. Then I’m going to gag you. And then, for the piece de resistance…. well… use your imagination.”

He laughed. “C’est fini, ma Cherie. Tu es mort. Ha…. did you know my parents were both French Canuck? I speak fluent French. Does that surprise you, smart ass college girl?”

He was getting much closer…. I could hear him breathing hard.

“Oh yeah… and then I’m going to throw some fish chum, made fresh just this morning from the finest land locked salmon in the state of Maine… all over your trembling pathetic little body. And then we’ll wait for ole’ Papa bear to come a knockin’ at our kitchen door. Boy, is he going to be happy with the menu tonight. Sounds like fun, huh? He might even leave a big tip with a big pile of scat!”

Through a tiny opening among the soggy maple leaves covering my face I could see him standing at the top of the ridge. He held a plastic jug in his left hand and was looking down right at me, grinning like a madman. I gave up my position and moved, assuming he’d already seen me. I closed my eyes and prayed aloud.

“Our Father, Who art in heaven….”

“Shut the hell up! Knock that off!” he screamed.

Dupree suddenly lowered his voice. “You know, you really should have listened to the Chief when he warned you against coming up here without a good pair of boots. He was right, you know. Those little white sneakers are going to end up getting you killed, Missy.”

Oh, God, I don’t want to die like this. Please Jesus, not like this.

He picked up a rock and flung it at me, hitting me in the head. “Stand up!!”, he screamed.

I slowly got to my feet. I don’t know how I mustered the guts to say it…. but I did. “What a brave manly guy you are, Dupree. The sick killer of innocent women. If you had any guts at all you would give me your sidearm so I could have a fighting chance. A level playing field. Either way, whatever you decide…. whatever way this plays out, the Chief will bust your sorry ass.”

Dupree shouted. “There’s nothing he can do to me. The statute of limitations on the Brahmin girl has run out. I can’t be convicted of her murder.”

“That’s the least of your worries, Dupree. You’ll go to jail for my murder, and threatening the lives of a half dozen people, not to mention conspiracy to obstruct a criminal investigation. Your hopes of being the next Police Chief are dead. Bradley will have you for lunch. You’ll never step into his job now.”

“You mean that old worn-out excuse for a cop? He won’t get me. Not alive anyhow. I’ve run out the string and he knows it. I’ve got nowhere left to go, nowhere to hide, thanks to your goddamned little summer project…. bitch.”

Desperate, I opted for provocation. “Yeah, well, why don’t you toss this bitch your Browning, Deputy. Give me a thirty-minute head start and let’s see if you’re man enough to duel it out with me…. here in your own back yard. It’ll be you with your high-powered scoped rifle against me with a little old .9mm and a seven-shot clip. What’s the matter? Afraid of the odds, you worthless pussy?”

“Nice try,” he hissed through clenched teeth. He opened the jug, took out a spoon ladle and threw the fishy, slimy mix straight into my face and hair. Then another at my chest… and another at my legs. The smell was nauseating.

“You’re not a man. You’re a coward, Dupree.”, I screamed.

He propped his rifle up against a tree and climbed down into the ravine where he punched me in the face with a closed fist, knocking me to the ground. Then he grabbed a kerosene-soaked rag out of his back pocket and tied it up over and around my mouth. I flailed… tried to pull away. He clutched my throat with both hands and started to squeeze. I was about to black out when I lunged for his Browning and managed to pull it out of the holster. As I tried to slide the rack and chamber a round, he grabbed it and twisted the gun out of my hand. I heard my finger snap…. broken. It sent a shock wave of burning pain up my right arm.

“What a sorry, stupid little amateur you are” he said mockingly. He grabbed the Browning, scurried back up the bank, lifted the rifle and pointed it towards my lower leg. “Too bad, Miss Farrell, you might have made a decent cop…. someday.” He held the stock tight to his cheek, released the safety and placed his finger on the trigger. A deafening single shot rang out. It sounded like an explosion bouncing through the recesses of my brain. I flinched… looked down… expecting to see my lower leg blown apart.

Instead, Dupree, in an instant, dropped the gun, groaned in pain and grabbed his shattered right hip. He had collapsed to the pine straw like a hundred-pound sack of flour.

I spun my head around looking for the shooter but saw nothing. I called out “Chief, is that you? Are you up here?”

I heard a faint voice coming from deep in the pines below me. Then a shout: “Darcy, let me hear your voice…. call to me.” It was the Chief. I could hear him now but couldn’t see him …. too far away. Suddenly a man dressed in camo had just stepped out from the deep underbrush about seventy yards away. “My God, it’s Isaiah” I said out loud. Allerton was standing under a white pine aiming his rifle directly at Dupree. He yelled. “Mister Dupree… make a move and give me the perfect excuse to finish you off! Please.”

I hobbled up the side of the ravine and grabbed the Browning from his holster, and immediately chambered a round. I put it to Dupree’s head and said, “Don’t move.”

Five minutes later I saw two men with long guns climbing up the steep slope towards us. Tom’s familiar voice boomed through the dense forest. “Dupree, get up on your knees and raise both your arms in the air high above your head.”

“I don’t think he’s in any shape to do that, Chief.” I pointed to Isaiah and said, “Isaiah just destroyed his right hip. He’ll be lucky if we can stop that bleeding.”

Then I saw him. The man climbing quickly behind the Chief was dressed in a Boston Red Sox hat, a flak vest and was carrying a scoped rifle. “Lyle!”, I cried. It was Professor Beckwith. He ran up the slope and retrieved Dupree’s rifle on the ground.

“My God, I thought you were dead, Darcy.” He suddenly reached out and held me close. “Someone in town reported you and Dupree driving north like madmen on Route 27. We had no idea which trail you might have turned off onto. The Chief thought you might have come up a trail you and he were both familiar with. His hunch was right. We ran into your car and the cruiser about a half hour ago.

The Chief stood next to Lyle and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Lyle knew something was wrong, when you didn’t check in with him last night.”

Lyle said, “I drove up here early this morning…. wide open on the thruway with my lights flashing all the way. Fortunately, I had my carbine, vest and ammo in my car. I had no idea what to expect… until I walked into the station house and got an update from Margie.”

“I thought I was going to die.” I said, as I started to cry.

Later, as our guys were strapping Dupree to the stretcher, I asked Lyle. “What’s going to happen to him?”

“Now? This mutt will be indicted on multiple felony charges and is likely going away for a very long time. Perhaps not for the cold-blooded murder of Olivia Browne but hopefully for the attempted murder and assault of my best student.”

Tom looked at me and said, “I’m sorry Darcy. I’m kicking myself for throwing you so hard and unprepared into this hornet’s nest. Agent Beckwith promised me as we drove up here, that if we could get you out of these woods alive, he would order you to take the entire rest of the summer off and go home with him now to Boston. The fall semester starts in just three weeks. As far as I’m concerned, your job here is done…. way ahead of schedule.”

A sudden wave of calm and quiet contentment blanketed me. “Thanks, but no. I want to finish out my commitment to you, Chief. Besides, you’ll be a man down in department staff. You could probably use a little help until you can get someone, a real cop, to fill Dupree’s position.”

Lyle thrust his finger in the air and said: “Oh…. I almost totally forgot. Regarding Dupree’s protected status for all these years. You know that name you ask me to check on…. Paulos? Turns out the Chief’s hunch about him is spot on. He and another twelve mob types from Boston and Providence were just named by a federal grand jury in a sealed indictment. They’ll all be charged with running a huge racketeering and drug ring across New England. As a matter of fact, based on the results of wiretaps of Paulos over the past year, the FBI thinks your friend Dupree may have had been involved in his own wife’s murder in Providence. Paulos and Dupree seem to have been feeding from the same pig trough for a long time now. Dupree was protecting his drug operation while Paulos was grooming him for the next Chief’s spot. No wonder they were motivated to protect each other. The shark and the remora.”

Tom smiled at me and said, “You’ll have quite the summer story for your friends in Boston this September, grasshopper.”

THE DUST FINALLY SETTLES

Instead of returning right away to Boston, I stayed on and worked for the Chief until the start of classes…. finalizing my reports on the Brahmin file… being debriefed extensively by the local prosecutor, Eric Riddell. The day I left Carrabassett Valley I’d sat in my VW in front of the police office for a long time, quietly crying. Tom had walked out to the car, smiled and said, “Come take a little ride with me, grasshopper. There’s something you should see before you leave us.”

We’d driven north about twenty minutes and came to an old rutted path that led up a gradual incline. After a five-minute walk through a massive stand of red maples we came to a small clearing in the woods. He pointed to a randomly placed collection of ancient grave mounds overtaken by weeds and saplings. “This is our earliest record of a few Native Americans who once roamed and hunted these woods and valleys. Some of these graves go back to pre-colonial times.”

He led me to a polished granite stone marker which stood out from the dozens of faded crumbling stone and wooden monuments. Some had fallen flat to the ground. Others lay at cambered angles as though looking upwards towards the sky …. and heavens. “Here she is. Olivia Browne. This was the best I could do for her.”

“A wonderful gift”, I said.

“And right next to her, at her side, is the revered Samoset, trusted friend and confident of the Mayflower colonists. The official historical version is that he died in 1653 over in Bristol, on the coast. The story goes that his white friends arranged to haul his body the hundred miles or so up here.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know for sure. The legend says that he wanted to be buried here in this valley, the place where he was born and raised…. where his squaw and children still lived. Not far from where we stand right now.”

“Is he the one mentioned on the taped conversation of Olivia and Isaiah?”

“Yes. And according to the rest of the legend… when they transported his decomposed and dried up corpse here from Bristol, it seems that one of his legs bounced off the wagon onto the road… unnoticed. Lost in transit.”

The Chief laughed. “Old Samoset has apparently been roaming these woods looking for his missing leg all these hundreds of years.”

“Was it you who arranged to have Olivia’s ashes buried next to him?”, I asked.

“Actually, this was the only empty plot left in this section. I had no idea she would end up here…literally right next to the chief. Some coincidence, huh?”

In a moment of silence, I looked around, took a deep breath and drank deeply of the sights, smells, sounds and feel of this magical forest. A red tail hawk looped and circled effortlessly far overhead. It suddenly rocketed over a hundred feet to the earth, about fifty yards from where we stood… pinning a rabbit with its talons to the ground and covering it with his wings. He spun his head around and eyed us cautiously. As we watched him prepare to have his lunch I wondered about the timelessness of the cycle of life and death playing out before us in full view.

I said:” Chief, do you believe any of that stuff Olivia told Isaiah about ghost spirits… you know, communicating with the dead, and all that?”

Tom looked skyward and said, “All I can say is…I can’t disprove any of it. Since we’ve never entered that world… how would we know what it’s like?”

“Do you really think she had those gifts?”

The Chief watched the hawk apply the coup de gras as he thrust his beak into the back of the rabbit’s neck…. then said. “I don’t know. But if she did, it was probably as natural and second nature to her as what you’re seeing here right now. That bird doesn’t complicate his life by thinking of why and how he’s doing what he’s doing. He’s doing instinctively what God intended him to do. Surviving.”

Three months later, back at Northeastern, I got a call early one morning from Tom Bradley. “It’s all over, Darcy. Dupree’s attorney worked out a deal with Riddell. In return for testimony against Paulos and the Providence mob, they dropped all the federal racketeering and drug related charges and the attempted murder charge against you. Dupree pled guilty last week to the assault charge….and more importantly, to the murder of his wife in Providence a few years back. It seems he slipped up big time and held onto the gun he used in her killing. We got positive results from the ballistics testing.”

“Good. I’m glad. What about Libby? I know the statute of limitations has run out on her case.”

“True, but we scored a major coup. One of the plea conditions we insisted upon was that he make a full allocution… a formal admission of all the gory details in the Brahmin murder…. most of which you uncovered… all of which were placed indelibly, for all the world to see, on the record. He’s going to serve hard time. A minimum of twenty-five years and a maximum of thirty-five years in state prison.”

I asked. “How old is he, Chief?”

“Dupree is forty-three, about to turn forty-four. If he really behaves himself, and if word of his former police status doesn’t get him killed in prison, he could theoretically get out on parole when he’s sixty-eight.”

“Young enough to still create a lot of mischief”, I offered.

“Yes, but at least you won’t have to trek all the way up here to testify. And, best of all, you’re through with him forever. He’ll be too old to do you any real harm by then… assuming he survives that long in prison…. being a former cop and all. I’ll bet the farm you’ll never see or hear from him again.”

“You know, if anyone deserves the death penalty, it’s him”, I said.

“I know. But we haven’t had an execution in the state of Maine since 1885, exactly one hundred years ago this month, as a matter of fact. Why? Because of some incompetent, lazy town officer botched up a public execution by improperly tying the hangman’s noose. As the story goes, one prisoner suffered a slow, suffocating death. So, as a result, no one can be hanged ever again. A bunch of old wusses…. our legislators. Nothing’s changed in that hundred years. But the good news is Dupree is done. And a really tough cold case is solved…thanks to you.”

As Tom spoke, his words had sparked a nagging, unsettling memory of something that had happened quickly…. almost unnoticed by anyone… except me and Lyle. Even Tom didn’t see much of it. As they had carried Dupree on the litter past me, he had propped himself up on one elbow and had looked at me. With a smile, he said…: “This is not over, Missy. I’ll be seeing you again.”

Then Dupree added, “And next time… I’ll be seeing a lot more of you than what you’ve been parading around for me to see. You know, you should really get Mrs. Lyscombe to put up some decent bathroom curtains. A girl built like you…. well …. you know…. you can never be too careful.”

Lyle had heard the last remark and had rushed up to the stretcher, had grabbed Dupree by the collar, jerked his head upward to within inches of his clenched fist. He had screamed: “You come anywhere near her again, you pathetic sack of shit, and I’ll kill you in ways that will make your sick bear caper look like a Sunday picnic. I’ll spread your blood like wind on the water.”

I remember Tom Bradley had rushed forward and wedged himself between the two men and had forcefully spun Lyle away by the arm. He’d pulled him aside and said in a hushed voice. “Not in front of my men, Lyle. I don’t want anything like that outburst to derail this prosecution.”

Lyle had immediately extended his now unclenched fist above his head. “You’re absolutely right, Chief. I’m sorry.”

Before he hung up the phone, Tom Bradley paused and said with palpable warmth, “That was excellent police work, grasshopper. I’m so proud to have worked with you. Without you, Dupree would probably have been our next Chief. And this sweet little town…. much the worse for it. Now he’s out of our lives forever, thank God.”

We’ll see, I thought… as a sudden unexplained wave of trepidation and fear flooded over me.

After a long silent interlude, each waiting for the other to be the first to break down and say goodbye, I hugged Tom and bid him a heartfelt farewell. We corresponded intermittently for a few years. You know… Christmas cards…that kind of thing. Except for Doc Brodsky’s funeral, I never saw Tom Bradley alive again. That’s the way life goes, I suppose. I don’t know whether it’s all part of some grand design, but people like Tom Bradley seem to rush onto life’s stage for a brief, welcomed cameo… and then disappear into the wings forever. Never to be seen or even noticed again. And that was ok for him…. and me… in the grand scheme of things.

Yet, that’s not the way I thought of the Brahmin Girl. Somehow in my gut, I knew she wasn’t finished with me. Not yet.

I thought to myself …. I wish I had the ability… the psychic ken…. to communicate with her in some way. With all her gifts, and her unique perspective of the cosmos, I’m sure she still has something to say…. and to offer the rest of us mortals.

EASTON MARYLAND

MAY 2010

VOICE OF LYLE BECKWITH

END OF THE INTERVIEW

“So, John, that’s the story. Darcy and I were married a year later, in August 1986. She went on to graduate from the Academy a year after that and became one of the best investigative agents I’d ever seen. She worked mostly counter intelligence.”

I waved my hand around the room and said: “I inherited this little piece of paradise about twenty years ago from my folks. Darcy and I had both started enjoying my retirement together…. when she was shot and killed……out there in my driveway.”

John said. “If you don’t mind, I have just a few more questions about that morning.”

“There’s not much more to tell... really.”

“Just fill in a few blanks, please. I hate to do this, but tell me exactly what you saw when you stepped off your boat that day.”

“I saw something laying in the driveway. At first, I thought it was a delivery of some packages or something like that. As I got closer, I saw Darcy lying there face down. She had been shot twice…. once in the back of the head and once in the lower part of her back. I checked her right away. She was unconscious. But breathing. I almost panicked, ran into the house and called 911. While I waited for the ambulance, I grabbed my semi- automatic and ran around looking for signs…anything…. anyone. That cocky son of a bitch even took the time to pick up his own shell casings. Can you believe that? I’ve seen that before…you know… in contract killings.”

“Again, nothing was taken from her. Right?”

“No…absolutely nothing.”

“Did you notice anything else? Footprints?”

“I didn’t see any tire marks or footprints in the driveway or on the lawn so I assumed he came in from the main road on foot along that narrow path through the trees behind the house. There’s plenty of woods and marsh grass on the property for someone to approach the house under cover. It wouldn’t be difficult. The Sheriff and I checked the woods and the path later but found nothing…. absolutely nothing.”

“Your driveway is crushed oyster shell, right?”

“Yeah…I’d have seen a recent tire mark, I would think.”

Pritchard asked. “How long was she in the coma?”

“Ten days and eleven hours”, I answered.

“Did she ever regain consciousness?”

“For about sixty seconds…. a few days after her brain surgery to remove the bullet and stop the bleeding.”

“It was a .9-millimeter slug, correct?”

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. “Yes…a goddamned hollow point.”

John leaned in closer to me and said, “Did she ever say anything for those sixty seconds? You were there when she opened her eyes, right?”

“You mean did she ever identify her killer?”

“Did she?”

I looked down at my feet, and half lied. “No, John. She was never able to speak. I would have told you guys that, if she had.” I paused and lied slowly for emphasis… “I don’t know who did this.”

Don’t say anything, Lyle. Not yet….

There was a lot that remained unsaid, but I wasn’t ready. The unvarnished truth was that…. exactly one week after the shooting, I had gotten a return call from Agent Joe Wilson, in the Boston field office. He’d told me that Dupree had been released on parole exactly one month prior. I had specifically asked Joe to check on his status. Joe’s call came on the morning of Darcy’s funeral. He said that the parole board was impressed with Dupree’s record of good conduct and his born again claim to have found Jesus in the contemplative quietude of his cell. After her death I had remembered … too late…what Dupree had said the day we carried him off that mountain. I’d originally wanted to keep close tabs on him…. just in case. Darcy had never said a word about him for all those intervening years. If she had in fact ever thought or worried about him, she never let on to me. And I didn’t want to upset her, so I never spoke about him either. But…. after the funeral, the guilt and self-doubt weighed on me like an anvil… preventing a decent night’s sleep ever since.

John continued his rote drill. “Was she ever able to speak any words at all?”

“No.” I said truthfully.

What I didn’t tell Pritchard was that, for those sixty seconds, Darcy was in fact able to communicate with me, briefly, through a series of eye blinks which I had asked her to do.

“Tell me more about those moments… when she temporarily woke up.”

“I’ll never forget what happened that day. I sat at the edge of her bed for all of those ten days, talking to her, playing music for her… in the hopes that she’d hear it and respond somehow. One late afternoon I played a song she loved… one of her favorites, an old classic ballad called ‘Always’. She suddenly opened her beautiful eyes, smiled at me and…. waved with her non-paralyzed left hand.”

“That must have given you some joy… to see her smile like that.”

“For that brief moment I thought she was going to recover. That somehow the brain injury was transient…. not fatal. My heart soared like an eagle. The funny thing was that her smile wasn’t a smile of joy or contentment. It was her classic smile of heightened cynicism and disgust. As if saying… ‘Do you believe this shit is happening to us?’. I rushed out the door of the hospital room and called for the nurse. I yelled, “Call the doctor. She’s waking up!”

“What happened then?”, asked John.

“The brain surgeon just happened to be making rounds on the floor. By the time she came in, Darcy had slipped back into the coma. When I told her about the smile and the wave, she looked hard at me and said, ‘Are you sure she did that, Mister Beckwith? Sometimes we imagine seeing and hearing things our hearts desperately want to see and hear under these kinds of circumstances.’”

I was annoyed. “I know what I saw, damn it… it wasn’t just wishful imagination.”

The Doctor said. “Mister Beckwith, your wife has had a massive irreparable brain bleed with equally massive brain cell destruction. She’s sustained far too much damage to become cognitive in any way. I know you’ve been waiting for days for some sort of recognition so you can say goodbye to her. But what you just described would defy all medical reasoning.”

I raised my voice, pleadingly, “I’m not imagining what I just saw, Doctor.”

She took my hand and held it softly. “All I can tell you is, if that happened as you say it did, you are one very lucky man. You’ve gotten that one in a million chance to say goodbye to her. A chance very few people in these circumstances ever experience. I’d say you’ve already gotten your special gift from God. Savor it. Don’t be greedy.”

John said. “You know, she probably was right, Lyle. You’re very lucky that you had that moment alone with her. It really was a rare gift.”

What I didn’t tell John was that right after the doctor left the room, Darcy had opened her eyes once again…. very briefly…one last time. I had used those last few precious seconds of consciousness to ask her the few critical questions that were screaming in my brain for answers.

I took a deep breath, lowered my head. “I need a minute or two to myself, John”, I said.

“Of course.”

For the next two minutes I closed my eyes, slipped into a brief reverie and silently relived those last moments with her. I never shared them with anyone and I wasn’t going to start now. I’d spoken to her, seizing the moment. I can still hear my own voice. “Darcy. You’ve been shot. The doctor says you can’t speak. Your eyes are open and looking at me. Use them to talk to me”, I pleaded. I asked her. “Did you see who shot you? Did you see his face? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

She widened her eyes and blinked twice… slowly.

I had trouble getting the words out of my mouth. “But do you know who it was?”

Darcy blinked once, very slowly… purposefully.

“How do you know? Did he speak to you?”

One long blink again.

“You recognized his voice?”

Another long solitary blink.

“Was there anyone else with him?”

Two long blinks.

“Did you see if he had a car?”

Two more long blinks.

“Did he say he’s coming for me?”

One long blink… with eyes that had now filled with tears.

Then, just as suddenly as she had opened them, she closed her eyes. I knew what was happening and I yelled through my own tears. “Please look at me again.” She half opened her eyes. I squeezed her hand three times…. I Love You.

Darcy squeezed my hands faintly…. three times… before she closed her eyes forever.

Suddenly, I was aware once more of John’s soft voice. “Lyle, did she ever wake up again?”

“No. She came off life support and died twenty-four hours later.”

John stared at me for what seemed to be minutes.

“So, you never could actually communicate with her?”

“No” I answered tersely…. and falsely.

“And you don’t have to ask me, John. The answer is still a firm NO. I don’t know who killed my wife. It could have been anyone.”

Sorry for the lies, my old friend. It wasn’t just anyone. She knew her killer’s voice. That told me all I needed to know. You’ll know too… but only when and if I decide it’s time for you to know.

John pressed the issue one last time. “If you were a betting man, Agent Beckwith…. would you put your money on Dupree?”

I said, “Why would I put my money on a horse who can’t get out of the starting gate? On someone you can prove was in Providence on the day of her murder.”

“Humor me, Lyle. If Dupree didn’t have that alibi, would you consider him a likely suspect?”

“I’m not a betting man. And I don’t deal in hypotheticals. Why don’t you go out and find him and ask him yourself where he was?”

“I know that you called Joe Wilson in Boston and got the parole and release status of Dupree not too long ago. Is that right?”

“That’s right. That was long before you told me about his traffic ticket. I also asked him to get the same exact information for Nieport and Reid, and several others I’d already been thinking about. And to be clear…Joe Wilson is an old friend. He’s done nothing wrong. I just wanted to know if these guys had already been let out of prison.”

“You never could let anyone else step up and take charge of an investigation, could you Lyle? You always had to be the one in complete control.”

“John, let’s stop beating around the bush and cut out the bullshit…. shall we? Are you close to picking up Dupree or the others? Or not? Do you have any clue where any of them are?”

John put his head down and said in a near whisper. “No, not yet. All four have fallen off the face of the earth. The trail is as cold as a witch’s tit. We last had Dupree placed in Providence. Nieport in L.A…. no idea about Reid or Williams yet. The Agency guys think Reid in Havana… that makes sense. Nothing since then. But there’s no need to worry, we’ll pick up the scent soon enough. We’ll find them all.”

I grinned. “Do I look worried?”

John said. “No, but you should be. As far as Dupree is concerned, I’m told he’s a weird unpredictable kind of killer, partner. We know for sure he also murdered his ex-wife in Providence. Don’t underestimate him. He may have set this whole thig up as a ruse. We won’t know for sure until we grab him. And don’t you go running off alone on this. Don’t you go rogue on us, Agent Beckwith.” He shoved his fat index finger into my chest and raised his voice. “Do y’all hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying, Lyle Beckwith?

I understand everything. Even if you don’t, John.

I don’t like answering rhetorical questions. So, instead, I tried to break the momentum. I stood, tottered on my feet momentarily… but recovered quickly from my scotch induced light-headedness. I said: “Thanks for the condolence call, John. It was great to see you again. Been too long. Give my regards to the boss.”

John looked confused. “What? Are you kicking us out?”

“Look…. I’m really exhausted. I need to turn in… if you don’t mind. Let’s finish catching up some other time, shall we?”

After an awkward pause Pritchard said: “Sure, I understand. I know I shouldn’t have to say this, but if you have any delayed ideas or sudden inspiration about their possible whereabouts…. or…. if this guy’s crazy enough to contact you….”

I yawned. “Yeah… I know. You’ll be the first to hear from me.”

John stood and gave me a long bear hug. “If you need anything… I mean anything at all… please just call me.”

“The only thing I need right now is a solid night’s sleep”, I said.

As Pritchard and Petrocelli stood to leave, I added, “Don’t forget to drop off Brian… as we discussed earlier… day after tomorrow, after dark, down at the end of my dock.”

“Roger that,” John answered.

When both agents had left, I slid Darcy’s notes back into the drawer. Protruding from between the faded pages of her yellow legal pad was a small white paper note with black, ominous looking writing…. all in crude block letters. The note Dupree had boldly taken the time to write… and the balls to leave propped up on my Jeep’s dashboard…. after calmly murdering my wife. I held it up to the light and studied his sophomoric, wavering style. It read, simply: ‘DON’T BOTHER TO LOOK FOR ME BECKWITH…. I’LL FIND YOU.’ The note looked like it had been written, not with a standard leaded pencil, but a heavy graphite art supply pencil.

Tucked under the note, he had left a stunningly exquisite pencil sketch of Darcy’s face. The shadings, the proportions, and the skill of the person who produced this drawing, were extraordinary. He had captured the delicate features of her beautiful face, eyes closed, emotionless…as though sleeping peacefully. Or… perhaps he intended to portray her as already dead …. in a state of repose. Either way he got my full attention.

Where the hell did you learn to draw and sketch like that, you crude insensitive bastard? So, you told my wife you’re coming for me? Really? You’re a dead man, Dupree. Come and get me. I’m right here… waiting.

From the very moment I had first read his note threat, I’d felt little else except the instantaneous white-hot anger and the rage that it provoked in me. I couldn’t stop thinking how much I had I savored the opportunity of picking up his rough, unpolished gauntlet and throwing it back in his face. I vowed right then and there that I’d be ready for him, at any cost. And when that time came, I knew I would be ready. Or, at least… that was what I had thought.

EASTON MARYLAND

UNIVERSITY OF MARYLAND HOPSPITAL

Five Weeks Earlier

The Voice of Darcy Farrell

I was dying from massive brain injury. My body, my internal organs were shutting down, for good. I knew it…. instinctively. I was trapped in the walled-up, pitch black world of an irreversible pain-free coma. And yet, somehow, I was fully aware of every object that existed outside my body. Of everything that was going on around me. All my physical senses were deadened. And yet somehow, I saw everything and heard every sound in real time. My mind even recognized smells, the aromas of the flowers… as though someone had thrust them directly under my nose. I should have been scared… and at first, I was. But I felt no fear at all.

I remember as he surprised me and ordered me to my knees that his voice was instantaneously familiar. After I felt the first bullet enter my lower back, my legs went numb. I was knocked to the ground face down. “Nice to see you again, Missy” he had said slowly. “I’ll take care of your husband later.”

In the next second I felt a hot white flash of light rip through my head. Since then, I’ve felt no physical pain … just a flood of raw emotions. I see and hear everything in the room… not with my eyes and ears…. but with my mind. The rough, careless handling of my body during the changes of bedding, gowns and catheters by the nurse…. an angry woman who carelessly thought she wasn’t being observed. The tearful visits by my friends and family. The beautiful music played for me by my sweet husband. The priest from my parish praying over me and giving me Last Rites. I can’t remember ever lapsing into what I would normally consider true sleep.

I’d become a prisoner in my own motionless, silenced body. For those first few days I was screaming to be heard, fighting to move my limbs, my mouth… to speak. The only things I could animate were my thoughts. Since then, I am resigned to death. Lyle had been with me at my bedside for over ten days and nights. I’d heard every one of his words, his sobs, his prayers. Oh, how I wanted to be able to get up, to hold him close and console him. I wanted, nearing the end, to be dragged out of my stupor. To either live and breathe on my own… in this world again. Or… to be given permission to leave it. To finally… die in peace.

On my last night on life support he lay on a cot improvised by the nurses, next to my hospital bed, holding my hand throughout the night. Early in the morning my nurse came in, examined me and told Lyle that she thought I wouldn’t leave for at least another twelve hours. I knew my breathing was labored. It was filled with ominous rattles and rales but she had said that my heart was strong “as a bull” with little sign of giving up. She told Lyle to go home. “Get some sleep, some food, a shower and come back later”, she’d said. She had held his hand, said, “Don’t worry. I’ll call you if something changes.”

About one hour later, when the room was still, quiet and dark, they came for me. All of them together…. bathed in a warm glowing light. My angels, my departed parents, the Chief. And hovering over all of them was a beautiful young woman with a radiant smile. I knew who she was immediately. She asked: “Are you ready to go home, Darcy? He’s waiting for you”. In my mind’s eye I could already see Him clearly … awash in a brilliant, shining light, arms outstretched, as though ready to embrace me. I yearned to go, but I pleaded with Him to wait till Lyle got back to my bedside.

I had heard the shrill, continuous flat line alert signal from the heart monitor. It was then that I had seen the luminous smiling face of the Brahmin Girl, my friend Libby Browne, and had heard her say. “Don’t be afraid, he’s coming.”

Lyle rushed into the room twenty minutes later. I heard the nurse say to him: “She turned suddenly about a half hour ago. I’m so sorry, Mister Beckwith. I didn’t think she would go that fast. Her heart was very strong but her breathing suddenly became really labored. She’s been gone for almost a half hour now.”

Lyle came to the bed, kissed me on the lips and gave my right hand three quick squeezes. “I love you.” he said.

I opened my eyes, smiled, lifted my hand off the bed and squeezed his, one last time … to say goodbye. I saw him smile and heard him say. “She’s still here. She’s alive! Did you see that?”

I heard the nurse say. “Oh, my God. Yes, I did. And I don’t believe my own eyes.” She ran out of the room calling to the doctor on rounds.

Then I heard Olivia’s sweet voice: “Lyle will be fine. Thank you, Darcy…. for being my voice… for sounding my trumpet call of justice”. Lyle released my hand … then Libby took it and said, “Come, let’s go home.”

EASTON MARYLAND

ONE WEEK LATER

The Voice of Lyle Beckwith

The day of the funeral was a clouded blur of ancient solemn hymns, incense, prayers and tears. Darcy had always wished, even from the time that we had first dated, that one day, long into the future, her casket be escorted down the aisle of the church with a New Orleans Dixieland band playing the foot-tapping dirge, “Just a Closer Walk With Thee”. By the time we marched rhythmically out through the opened wide front doors, the band had stepped up the tempo…. with an upbeat, swinging exit out into the sunny street. Just the way she would have wanted it. Darcy’s sister Margaret had given the eulogy. Sweet and lovely… and simple. Right on the mark.

I had sat there with my brothers and their families, alert to every extraneous detail, except the service itself. I strained and craned my neck to study the faces of the hundreds of people, mostly friends, relatives and fellow agents who had come to give me some solace. But I was busy looking for the outlier. The face that didn’t belong there. The face of a man I had last seen on a litter being carried down a rocky hill over twenty-five years earlier. I needed to know what he looked like today. Was he more than likely thinner? Perhaps balding? Bearded? I needed to get to work on that right away.

The County Police Chief and the seasoned agents assigned to my case by the director had each asked me to think about tips and ideas…. all the pro-forma, intuitive suggestions. I was polite but curt in my answers. At one point I had almost pulled Dupree’s sloppy note and pencil sketch out of my pocket and handed them to the lead FBI investigator who had come over from D.C. the day of the funeral. But I had decided, at the last second, to keep it all close to the vest. I shoved them back down deep into my suit pocket….to save for a rainy day. The day I might need to go hunting … alone.

Later that same day, I got Joe Wilson from the Boston office on the phone. “Howdy Joe, how’s everything in Beantown?”

“Not bad, Lyle. How are you holding up?”

“I’m doing a little better, thanks. Listen Joe, I need another big favor and, as usual, I need it on the sly.”

“I’ll do my best. What do you want?”

“I want you to use your influence to go back and take a closer look at Dupree’s prison and parole board records. I need to have a recent photo of him. I want to know whether he got any new tattoos in prison. That kind of thing. I need to know who and what he used for a forwarding address, a contact person and phone number. I want to know exactly who his visitors were, if any. And, finally… and this is really important… if he had any bank accounts still in his name… and, if so, where and how much?”

Wilson lowered his voice. “Lyle, do you really want to put all your eggs in one basket?”

“You mean focusing on Dupree and not the others?”

Joe answered, “Yep. You could be dead wrong… literally.”

“My gut has rarely failed me. I’m going to stay with what’s tried and true.”

One more question Lyle. “May I correctly presume that the director doesn’t know you’re digging for this information with old friends and Bureau sources?”

“You presume correctly. I’ve given them most of what I know… but not everything. I need to be sure that this is all done thoroughly…. by the proverbial book. Another set of eyes on this is always good, but I don’t want the boss to think that I’m second guessing him or the team. These guys are friends of mine. Do you know what I mean?”

There was a long pause. “Yeah… I get it. Give me two or three days. And from now on, call me on my cell, not here at the field office. Do you still have that number?”

“Yep. Thanks Joe.”

“Oh…. and Lyle?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t do anything stupid or careless. I mean it. Keep your head down. I’ll be in touch.”

That afternoon I went to a large electronics store in town and bought an elaborate motion detector alert system, cameras, monitors, sensors…the works. I had the whole system installed in under three hours in five critical locations on the house, patio, dock, driveway and guest house. As I was calculating the range of the sensors and walking along the edge of the woods along the margin of the big lawn, I noticed a small but thick red object partially concealed by Darcy’s English Ivy. A pencil. I picked it up on the business end with the edge of my fingertips. It was an artist’s heavy-duty graphite pencil. At the upper end of the wooden shaft were deeply indented teeth marks.

Well, well, it seems our boy has a nervous habit of chewing things besides his fingernails.

I held it at eye level and took a closer look. Hello! What do we have here? And there it is folks… bold as brass! That infamous gap… that huge diastema, between his upper central incisors! Gotcha, Deputy!

I searched for another hour in the woods well beyond the place where I found the pencil. It was becoming pretty clear that he had come up to the house on foot, away from the long driveway… along a very narrow path through the trees. There were roughly twenty heavily wooded acres between the back of the house and the main road. I’ll check them out later, I thought. I walked the quarter mile length of the path back up to the road. Nothing. No recent tire marks or footprints…. for at least a hundred yards, on either shoulder of the road… nothing.

I walked out to the end of the dock and slowly boarded my boat. Everything… rods, net, foul weather gear, buckets… all seemed to be in place… undisturbed. My navigation charts and fishing lures were exactly in their right places. As I turned to leave … about to step up onto the gunwale, something in the water caught my eye. It lay on the sandy bottom, just off the starboard transom. There, in barely three feet of clear water, was a red colored object… something definitely not part of the natural environment. I leaned over with my net and fished it out. It was a piece of chewed gum. I don’t chew gum.

But apparently you do, Deputy.

I picked it up out of the net with fishing pliers and wrapped it in a piece of paper towel.

Jesus. That son of a bitch has been aboard and poking around my own private Chesapeake Bay boat! What an arrogant dick!

My mind kicked into overdrive. I had the same odd, electrified feeling I used to get when I knew in my bones that I was getting close to my fugitive prey. I could almost smell his raunchy body odor and his stale iron breath. I looked back at the large lawn. It swept down to the water from the house which was perched among the pines…. on high ground. I walked back to the head of the dock and looked at the few feet of soft wet tidal bottom that separated it from the wooden planks and steps. There were no signs of footprints…neither human nor animal.

But then, I reasoned, the twice daily tide changes would have blurred and softened them into featureless mud.

I was beginning to feel the ominous depth of the challenge.

This might be the right moment to sharpen my ballistic skills.

I went to my gun safe and took out my AR-15 semi-automatic, my carbine and my 9mm. PPK. For the next two hours I fired over a hundred rounds at targets set up on an improvised range down by the marsh. My firearm skills were never, and would not be, the problem. It was avoiding a surprise and surreptitious visit at a moment when I was least ready and not fully alert for one.

I searched the edge of the woods. For all I know, he could be watching me right now, through those trees, I thought. He’ll come for me at night, for sure. I need to be positioned in a way where I’ll be concealed, yet be able to see his movements with my infrared glasses.

An idea quickly formed in my head. I went down to the edge of the dock and disassembled an old duck blind that I hadn’t used for a few seasons. I carried it up in sections to a place deep within the wooded area a few yards from the path that led from the main road. I put it back together and concealed it perfectly with underbrush.

He’ll never expect to encounter me this far away from the security perimeter of the house, especially when he sees where I’ve mounted the motion sensors and cameras.

Two hours later, sitting in the hot sun on the transom of my boat… binoculars hanging around my neck… and a cold beer in hand… I thought about Darcy and what she would have wanted me to do in this situation. I looked up at the cloudless sky and asked her the obvious question.

Who the hell am I kidding, love? You would want me to call Pritchard and tell him about the note and sketch left in my car... right? Don’t do this alone, you would plead with me.

I pictured her frown and could hear her soft words. But then, she was always the dull pragmatist…the first to offer caution. And the one whose safety, in the end, I couldn’t give her in return.

I’m so sorry, my love.

I spent a long time sitting silently in the warm, late afternoon sun. I closed my eyes and allowed my olfactory senses to take reign of the moment. Darcy was more attuned than I to the tidal-driven surges of life on the bay. She would always tug at my sleeve, in wonderful quiet moments like this. She would smile and tell me with her eyes to slow down. To embrace, to savor the depth and wonder of the whole experience …. the silent, plodding grandeur of the bay. She would ask me not just to watch, but to see with what she called my ‘inner eye’. To see everything around me in one great panoramic sweep of the mind…. the vast prairies of salt grasses that surrounded us... the subtle smells, sights and sounds of this giant estuarial laboratory. “Drink it in… all of it while you can” … she would beg me…. while smiling and inhaling deeply. “Before it’s all gone…before we’re gone.”

The moon tide was slack and out of steam. … waiting for the next shift to take over. The boat bottom was gently bobbing and chafing against the grey sediment and sandy, grassy bed. While all around me the black muddy marsh bottom was swarming with frenetic motion. It reminded me of an old Charlie Chaplin silent film speeded up for its effect. …. with wave after wave of crustaceans and fish larvae scurrying and darting aimlessly across the mud flats in their ritualized, opportunistic, inter-tidal feeding frenzy. A snowy white egret strode within a few feet of me, drawn to the same movement running rampant at her feet. Knees locked. Slender neck craned. Step, stop. Step, stop. Poised for the lightening thrust of her bright bill into the clear water.

I looked out onto the bay’s placid surface. A dozen serpents … dark water moccasins were whipping their way, with long powerful strokes through the water, directly towards me. Seeking shaded cover from the heat of the blazing mid-day sun…. receding into the cooler shadows and protection of the spartina… their heads barely breaking the surface as their long undulating bodies trailed deeper behind.

For one brief moment on the cosmic time continuum, I surrendered to her elusive wisdom. I embraced Darcy’s intuit knowledge of who and what I am. And more importantly, what I needed to be… and what I needed to do …. to survive…. without her. I allowed myself that rare pleasure, that joy of experiencing everything that existed around me in one, unique, fleeting… nonreplicable moment. The smells of creosote from the dock pilings, blending with the wild white honeysuckle blossoms, the decomposing marine life, the musty bay bottom … the sundried eel grasses. All of it filled the entire cup of my senses to the brim. For one brief frozen moment in time…. I was aware that I was, despite what I had incorrectly assumed…. still… very much alive.

And so, it goes. Then I thought of her. Nothing else… no one else… just her.

BACK TO WORK

At that exact moment my cellphone shattered the dream and buzzed me back into faux reality. I looked at the caller ID.

Excellent…. tell me everything I need to know, Joe Wilson. No detail is too trivial. Give me something I can work with.

I sat up, shielded my eyes from the sun and answered the call. “That was really fast, Joe” I said.

“Yeah, I got lucky…. in a hurry. Here’s what I have. I’m sending you over his photo right now. It was taken for the parole board file just six months ago. You were right. He’s lost some weight over the years. Down from two twenty to one ninety-five. The word is he’s super fit and sculpted. He’s been hanging out in the gym for most of that time. He’s a remarkable specimen for a sixty-eight-year-old ex-con. And, more importantly… he’s super clever. He’s never painted himself with any additional ink that we know of. Only that tiny red dragon tattoo on his forearm… from his life in the Corps.

Smart…. one less means of a firm identification.

“What about his face?”, I asked

“When he was released his head and face were totally shaven. That was about two months ago. I don’t know what color his scalp or facial hair would be, when and if it comes back in. Probably a little or a lot grayer, I’m guessing.”

Joe started to speak again… but abruptly stopped. After a lengthy pause I said. “That’s alright, Joe.... you can tell me everything. What is it?”

“There are a couple more things you really should know. A source inside the prison tells me that Dupree, over his last six months in jail, had used the library computer to search both your name and Darcy’s. Unfortunately, the search review log includes a link to your town web site…. Easton, Maryland. I have no idea how he could have come up with that piece of info…. but I don’t like it worth a damn. He even came up with a link to the University of Maryland. Isn’t that where Darcy was teaching as an adjunct professor when she was killed?”

My heart sank. “Damn it all to hell.”

“I don’t know where he could have come up with those leads, Lyle.”

“Yeah, I think I do, Joe. He must have called on his old mob connections in Boston and Providence to fill in those blanks. Darcy wrote in her notes that Dupree was suspected of being involved in some extensive racketeering and drug related activity while he was a young cop in Providence and Maine. Those mob guys know as much about us agents these days as we know about them. Obviously, he was in their hip pocket and they exchanged favors.”

The frightening import of what I had just said suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks.

Oh, Lord Jesus. Why wasn’t I ready for this nightmare? Why didn’t I think this through? Darcy… I’m so sorry, I said to myself again.

Wilson added: “Oh, and there’s one more thing… almost forgot. The word I’m getting here is that your buddy Pritchard has recently learned, probably within the last few days, everything I’ve just told you. He also has a copy of the same photo I’m sending you now. I’m guessing he has his team hot on the case now… actively looking for him too. The Bureau psych profilers in WFO have a list of likely suspects. All guys you put away. Dupree is on that list.”

“What about Dupree’s financial situation?” I asked.

“Got it. He has old bank accounts in both Providence and Carrabassett. Both still open but with no activity in many years. However, there is one particular account in his name. It was opened up only six months ago in Baltimore. It has about twenty-four hundred dollars in it. He’s the only signatory.”

Shit.

“Thanks, Joe, you’re a good friend.”

Joe answered, “Not so much of a good friend that I’d be willing to be fired or censored if the shit hits the fan on this, Lyle. You get that, right?”

“I understand, buddy. If it does, your name will never be mentioned. Not by me. I’d like the same assurance from you.”

“You got it.”

After a long awkward pause, I said: “Don’t worry about me, Joe. I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize your career or our friendship.”

“I know that. But don’t you go and jeopardize your own well-being either.”

“Sure, thanks, Joe.”

“Hey, I‘m serious. You should think twice about trying to take on this guy and bring him down all by yourself. That could be very dangerous…. on a lot of different levels.”

I answered, “In the final analysis, all risks in life are calculated….and even more important…. calculable. This one is no different.”

“If you say so. Good hunting…I mean… good luck, Lyle. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

I stood, ended the call and looked up at the clouds scuttling past the marsh in a brisk northeast wind.

Sorry, love. I know you’re worried about me. But the way I see it, this guy has already taken my life… the day he took yours. The God’s truth is …. I’m already a dead man. I’d rather he kill me today, than live another day without you. I’m going to jump all over this chance to take him down…. personally. I’m going to keep my promise to him.

The thing is though… I know Prichard’s team is very good…. reliably professional. But he tends to be too cautious and heavy handed at the same time. He over plans. Over thinks. He would rather send in an entire SWAT team to disarm one old homeless drunk holed up with a gun, than wait for him to make his move. No…. he’s not the right guy for this job. He would screw it up somehow. I can do this just as well, if not better, than he.

I looked up at the house and pictured Darcy’s beautiful smiling face, …. I thought: So, my love, if you have any strong objection to what I’m about to do…. speak now or forever hold your peace.

I waited the appropriate time for a direct response… in total silence. I then lowered my head and smiled to myself. No objection? OK, then… let the games begin.

JUST LIKE THE OLD DAYS

I jumped in my Jeep and drove into Easton. I had a hunch…. a long shot, I admit…. but… what the hell. I had nothing else penciled in on my calendar.

I walked into the only art supply store in town. Just as it was closing. The place was empty except for a young blond female clerk in her twenties. I showed her my FBI credentials and said, “Good afternoon, Miss. I was wondering…. Just how would you gauge your powers of observation?”

“Excuse me? Have we met before?” she answered with a wry smile.

“Not till this moment. Neither my wife nor I know the first thing about art. I wouldn’t know a brush from an easel. And I’ve never been in your fine establishment before now.”

“Are you looking for something, or someone, in particular?” she asked.

I laughed. “Yep, you might say that.”

“So, how can I help you, sir?”

I took out the red graphite pencil from my pocket and showed it to her. “Do you sell these?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Graphite pencils. They’re used for artist sketches. You know, for rough outlines of figures and shapes.”

“How many of your customers come in here for this kind of pencil?”

“About a half dozen or so.”

“Regulars?”

“Yes, I know most of the artists in town.”

“Is there another art supply business in town?”

“Well, yes, there is another much smaller supplier… but he’s affiliated with the local hardware store around the corner. We’re the best known and the best stocked in town.”

“Do you recall if a non-regular customer, a stranger, came in here within the last five or six weeks and bought this pencil?”

The young woman looked at me, grinned and asked. “Is he on the FBI’s most wanted list?”

I returned the smile and answered, “Is who on our most wanted list?”

She looked around the store and lowered her voice. “I don’t have any idea who he was. I can only tell you what he was. “

“Ok then…. what exactly was he?”

“It was about one or two months ago. He was nasty and really surly. That’s what he was. He got really angry when I told him these pencils came in a packet of a half dozen rather than being sold individually. He slammed the money on the counter, glared at me, mumbled something obscene and rushed outside.”

“Please describe him for me.”

“About six foot tall, very well built. He was… I would say… powerful looking. I remember he had very dark eyes and had a short gray haircut. Clean shaven, I believe. Oh……and he was chewing Big Red gum.”

“Really? How do you know that?”

“Because that’s all my dad ever chewed. It has a distinct cinnamon smell. I kinda’ like it. But didn’t care much for that man though.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about his teeth?”

“No. He never smiled and didn’t say much. He seemed really pissed off and in a big hurry.”

“Did you notice where he went when he left the store? Did he have a car?”

“I didn’t notice. He walked in …and walked out. He was by himself.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Some kind of hooded sweatshirt, gray I think…and dark workpants. No hat, no sunglasses.”

Bold, cocky piece of shit, I thought. You can’t wait to mix it up with me, can you, Dupree? And you don’t care who knows about it, do you?

“Did you notice any tattoos on his arms?”

“Funny you should ask me that. His sweatshirt was long sleeved but at one point when he pulled out his wallet, I thought I saw some red ink on his right forearm. Couldn’t tell what it was. A red bird maybe?”

I laughed. “The red dragon…. how did you happen to notice something like that?”

She smiled. “Because I’ve been thinking about getting one myself. Over my dad’s ‘dead body’, of course. And I’ve been checking out everything I can, on everyone I meet, men and women, for one that I really like. I don’t care for dragons though.”

I looked up at the ceiling over the counter. “Do you have any security cameras in the store?”

“No sir…should I?”

I checked my watch. “That’s ok, you’ve been very helpful”, I said. As I walked out of the store, I turned and added “and, by the way, extremely observant too. Well done, indeed. Thank you, Miss.”

I drove home and sat on my enclosed rear porch for the next two hours…. just thinking.

Maybe Joe Wilson is right. It might be a lot easier to nail this guy if I had Bureau help. But Dupree would figure that out…he would see immediately that others were camped out here on the property. All of them involved in his potential capture. He would know that we could make life difficult for him... skewering his odds. No. That won’t do. He has to know, or at least believe, that I’m alone…with no backup…. no support.

My thoughts ran to the most common piece of trapping equipment in this part of the world. The simple rectangular Chesapeake crab trap…with a funneled, narrowed opening for the female sook to enter in search of her mate…her jimmy. Once inside, her disorientation and her frustration to find a way out would lead her eventually to her culinary doom. And straight onto my dinner plate as a delicious well-seasoned crab cake.

Aggressively searching for Dupree would be useless in my situation. Rather, I needed to wait and guide Dupree into my own customized, narrow, funneled trap. Into a time and environment of my own choosing. I’ll lead him directly to me… on my terms. Not in the woods… not in the house… not in the marsh… almost all of which he probably already knows are under camera surveillance. But in the place where I feel most at home… my boat. The long dock, carved out of the dense marsh grasses, was like a long runway funnel…open, unimpeded… direct ….and narrow.

BAITING THE TRAP

The next twenty-four hours were tediously uneventful. On the second night I was alone aboard my boat. The security monitors in the house were unattended. The full moon was peeking her head up over the eastern horizon…. brilliant in her gauzelike luminescence. She casted her long train of silver light along the smooth surface of the water, coming to rest on the shining black hull of my prized possession … the Windhover. I was crouched low in the forward cabin kneeling on the companionway steps, scanning the night vision glasses back and forth over the entire bay side of the property…and especially over the tall, dense salt grasses which flanked and arched over the edges of the dock. A barn owl hooted in the distance. A lone cicada called out to his silent mate, breaking up the silence.

Over my left shoulder, I cocked my ear towards a low engine hum approaching from the western reaches of the bay. A few seconds later I saw it in the moonlight. A small white skiff crept into the quiet shelter of the cove without causing so much as a cat’s paw or ripple on the water.

He’s good… a real Chesapeake waterman…. this one. I’ll have to thank John for honoring my ‘No Wake Zone’ sign.

Suddenly the engine sound died and I heard a whisper carry across the water. “Mister Beckwith, are you there?”

I stepped out onto the deck and saw him …on his knees …. kneeling on the bow of a sleek, low-profile vessel. The boat glided soundlessly up to my starboard gunwale. A young man dressed entirely in black waved and tossed me a line. I caught it and threw a loop around a cleat. Effortlessly, he stepped onto my boat, without a word spoken. In less than five seconds the mystery boat and its pilot had slid away, back off into the distant darkness.

The young man smiled, extended his hand and said quietly. “We meet again, sir. Agent Brian Petrocelli…. reporting as promised for duty, Mister Beckwith.”

I took his black duffle bag, led him below into the cabin and closed the companionway hatch. We sat in the dark and talked for about ten minutes. “First, the name is Lyle, Brian. Only my students call me Mister. Understood?”

“Yes sir…. I mean Lyle.”

“And secondly, this thing we’re engaged in, and your presence here, at this particular time… as welcome as it would otherwise be under other more normal circumstances …. is being played out under strict protest. My protest. Do you understand that?”

“Agent Pritchard explained everything to me. Yes, I understand.”

“Ok, a few basic ground rules then, Brian. The duration and the conditions of your stay here are entirely within my sole control and discretion. It could be five hours or five days. There will be no countermanding my wishes in this regard by you or Agent Pritchard. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Next…. I presume you’ve been told that your role here is basically that of a glorified bodyguard….to keep an eye on me, to protect me against an undefined threat by a recently released convict.”

“Yes, that’s my understanding.”

“Have you been briefed on Deputy Dupree’s background and his connection to my wife?”

“Yes, I have. Are you convinced it’s him rather than the other top suspects?”

“Let’s just say the Vegas odds on Dupree have improved. At least as I now see it.”

“OK, now what?”

“The plan is coming together. Don’t worry. We’ll get him.”

I took another scan of the property through the hatch opening with the infra-red glasses. “I will also insist that you keep out of sight and out of my way as much as humanly possible…preferably remaining inside the house for as long as you’re my guest here. This guy might have me under surveillance, even now as we speak. So, let’s get you inside and into your quarters. You’ll have your own bedroom and bathroom on the upper floor. Do you have night vision equipment, radios, firearms… and the like?”

“Right here in my satchel.”

“Excellent…. any questions, Brian?”

“Yes…. just one, sir.”

“Shoot.”

“I don’t understand why you would refuse the Bureau’s security team. They’re really good. They could protect you against anything or anyone.”

“Not the point, son. I’ll explain this to you only once. What I don’t want is to create an artificial shield around me…. one which, by definition, would be transient. What I want is for this asshole to think bold…to come after me hard…even here on my own property. I want him to think that my guard is down…. that I’m as easy a mark as my unsuspecting wife was. I promise you this… by tomorrow morning you and I will be ready. I’m guessing… or at least hoping he’ll tip toe right into my trap… where I can confront him on my own terms.”

“I’ll help you in any way I can, sir. It will be my honor to do so.”

This kid reminds me so much of myself as a rookie agent, I thought…. as I smiled inwardly.

I answered, “Thank you. And let’s clear something else up right now, Brian. I have the absolute constitutional right to refuse the Bureau’s advice or help in this situation….in case you were wondering. I’m no longer in their employ…or subject to their directives, rules or protocols. I’m retired…a free agent… so to speak. And, much to Agent Pritchard’s chagrin, too much of a free spirit.”

“Actually, I was kind of wondering about that. Thanks for explaining your perspective. It’s not exactly what Agent Pritchard has in mind though.”

“I know. He’ll get over it. Anything else?”

“Yes. If I may say so…. you sound like you really know this guy. I hear you were part of his arrest a long time ago.”

“Indeed, I was. I’ve seen lots of mutts with his criminal, psychological profile…. a dime a dozen. But don’t get me wrong. He’s very clever and intuitive, which is never to be confused with raw innate intelligence. He’s a well-trained survivalist type, deeply motivated to kill me. He’s very likely the same person who has already killed my wife. He’s completed half his mission and knows a lot about what he has left to do…. and how to get it done.”

“He sounds a little unhinged to me…. kind of a loose cannon.”

“He is that…. and much more. He’s dangerous for sure. But I know more than he does. I’m betting he’ll make a mistake…. fatal, I hope. I may be wrong. But if I am, and he somehow manages to kill me…. well, John Pritchard will tell you the rest of the story, in the post mortem.

“You sound really fatalistic about all of this,” Brian said.

I paused for a brief moment and said, “My future means very little to me. My life was turned on its head forever just a few weeks ago. You’re a little young yet to wrap your head around that fully.”

“May I ask…what’s his motivation? Please clear that up for me. Why is he coming after you?”

“Because my wife and I had the audacity to put him behind bars for twenty-five long years.”

“Revenge? Retaliation? That simple?”

“No, not just that. His barbaric murder of a sweet young girl in Maine forty-five years ago was exposed and avenged by someone who was at the very top of his contempt list…. a smart, principled, young, inexperienced student. A non-police amateur….and worst of all … a woman. His misogynist, conceited, insecure psyche just can’t abide that. He had no choice, as he sees it. He’s been driven to teach my wife and her agent husband a lesson that we and the Bureau would not soon forget. What he doesn’t yet realize is that, even after these many years... it’s he who’ll will be on the receiving end of some life lessons.”

When Petrocelli didn’t respond. I paused. “I know I may sound cocky. And maybe I am… to some extent. But he’s made this very personal. And I’m fine with that.”

I changed the subject. “John says you’re an excellent marksman. Is that right?”

“I guess you might say that.”

“What was your firearms ranking… in your Quantico class?”, I asked.

“Number three, sir, in a class of forty-eight.”

“Good.” I grabbed his bag and stepped up onto the deck. “Be extra quiet. Walk softly and follow me, Brian. Oh, and by the way… I was number one in my NAC. And yet, as you will learn, shooting skill always takes a back seat to luck, wit and opportunity.”

Brian and I sat out on the back porch in the dark till midnight. “So, before I turn the protection of my life and safety over to a stranger, why don’t you tell me who you are. Where were you raised… and by whom? Tell me what’s really important in the life of Agent Brian Petrocelli…. you know, the personal stuff.” I yawned and added, “Give me the condensed version if you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all. I grew up in Huntington Long Island in a big blue-collar Italian/Irish family. I’m a practicing Catholic, registered Independent, but I definitely lean Libertarian in my politics. My wife and I are recently married and are now living in Annapolis, Maryland, about forty miles from here by car …or a lot shorter as the crow flies…. or as the boat sails, in this case. My dad and two brothers are all New York City cops. My two sisters are still in school. My mom is a nurse. I have a bachelor’s degree from Fordham in philosophy and a law degree from Columbia. Anything else?”

I laughed out loud. “I’m guessing there weren’t too many job openings for philosophers when you graduated. Is that why you went to law school?”

“The truth is …I’ve always wanted to be an FBI agent from the time I was a kid. Sort of a dream of mine.”

After a long silent pause, I said, “Yeah Brian, me too. Next to Darcy Farrell, that’s all I ever wanted in my life.”

I stood up and turned on a small desk lamp so I could look at and study his face in the light. “You know what the letters FBI represent, I presume?”

“Of course. Fidelity, Bravery and Integrity.”

“Which of the three is your strong suit. The most important to you…if any?”

Petrocelli didn’t hesitate. “I would have to say Fidelity. Anyone can muster up some bravery when he has to, you know, when the heat is turned on. Integrity… well, that’s something that is unique…. entirely private and personal to every individual.”

I stared at him for several seconds and smiled. “Very well said… Mister Petrocelli.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I frowned and asked. “As a board-certified philosopher, surely you recall the last words ever spoken by Socrates before he keeled over and dropped dead?”

Brian smiled and answered. “Why do I get the feeling this is not going to be historically accurate?”

“The old man looked around at his followers and his antagonists, put down his cup and said, “What the fuck?! I just drank what?!”

Brian sounded a crisp chortle. “Never heard that one before. Pretty funny.”

“Those are pretty much the exact words I want to hear on Dupree’s dying lips. ‘What the fuck just happened?’”

A long furrow crept over Brian’s brow. “I need to ask you a really personal question…. Lyle…. Sir.”

“I think I know what it is. But go ahead.”

“Is it your intention, if and when you ever come up against this guy… assuming he’s stupid enough to come after you on your own home court... to kill the man?”

“We’ll see what happens,” was my short reply.

Petrocelli drew a deep breath and said slowly, “If I may be so bold…. that doesn’t answer my question… that doesn’t square with Bureau policy in apprehending subjects.”

“Trust me, Brian. I never have, except once in my life, violated Bureau protocol. I’m not about to start now.”

“Yeah, but……”

“There are no buts. I will defend myself with lethal force if it comes to it. And, by the way, I expect you would do the same. Am I correct in that presumption?”

“Well, Christ…. of course. But I’m not going to gun down a man without justifiable cause.”

“Good answer. How many times have you fired your weapon in the line of duty, Agent Petrocelli?”

“I’ve drawn it only once but never fired at a suspect. I had a warrant for this guy who I watched climb onto his Harley, laugh then give me the finger. He actually taunted me and shouted, ’so, shoot, FBI!’ I really wanted to, but I let him speed away. There were too many folks standing around. I did shoot and kill an attack dog… a, German Shepherd, once in a pre-dawn raid in a joint drug operation with DEA. Had no choice. What about you? Ever fire your gun?”

“Once…. I got caught in the heat of a really messy shootout … when I was about your age. It was all over in seconds. Let’s just say that when the fugitive surprised, shot and killed a DEA agent buddy of mine…. I made sure he wouldn’t hurt anyone else.”

After another minute of silence, I said. “Look, this little talk may all be academic. The only constant in our line of work is that nothing is consistent or predictable.”

“But you seem to be sure that he’s coming for you here, right?”

I answered. “There’s no doubt in my mind about that. As I see it, Dupree is a man not just consumed with anger and hatred. He’s consumed with the original sin of mankind. Dating back to the Garden of Eden. He has an obsession with proving he’s smarter than anyone else. He has to prove he can outwit me.”

“So, what makes you so sure you can win this face off?”

“Because it is my experience that a man blinded by pride and hate will almost always make one too many mistakes. One upon which I will capitalize.”

Petrocelli stared blankly off into the distance. I could read his mind. “Listen, son, if you don’t feel right being a part of this, just say the word and I’ll have Pritchard pull you off the detail….no questions asked. I’ll just tell him I didn’t care for your personality or your company.”

Brian spoke quickly. “That won’t be necessary. It will be my honor to stay here as long as you need me.” He smiled and added, “Besides he’ll never believe that my personality could ever present an issue with anyone.”

I like this kid.

“Ok, let’s give this a shot, shall we?”

THE BEST LAID PLANS OF MICE AND MEN

I led Brian up to the third-floor bedroom, a tidy guest room with front and side window views of the dense woods, the guest house, the driveway and some of the marshland. In it, I had set up an ADT security monitoring system hooked up to the web browser on my PC, with multiple displays of the five camera angles positioned around the property. I had installed floor doorstop alarms at every door entrance to the house, garage, guest house and work shed….and motion sensors at the first-floor windows.

Brian gave me a puzzled look. “You want me to monitor this screen and display? That’s it? What about you? Where do you intend to camp out, while I’m cooped up in this cell?”

I picked up the cue and said, “Not to worry, Brian. You are of enormous value to me just by checking and controlling this new elaborate security system as much as you can. No, I don’t expect you to be locked in here all the time.”

“Am I free to move around?”

“Of course, but only in the dark and with a sharp ear for the monitor. I’ve made a calculated decision. Since I know he’s already been aboard my boat… but not likely here in the house or garage, I’m betting he’ll try that again. I’ll wait for him there on the boat. If he decides to avoid wading through the muck and nighttime swarms of mosquitos in the marsh, the only clear alternative approach is via the long wooden dock. It’s exactly one hundred twenty feet long. I have a strong hunch that he already knows my daily habits. I’m sure he knows that I’m addicted to fishing those waters out there. He’ll know that I often take that boat out twice a day. Once just after sunrise and again an hour or two before dusk.

“Do you think it’s a good idea for us to be physically separated?”

“At night? Yes, I do. We’ll communicate through your wireless radio every hour… religiously. During daylight hours I don’t think he’ll venture out of those woods or marsh, or wherever the hell he’ll be hiding. We’ll figure out some reasonable kind of sleep schedule… probably between midnight and three is better…. alternating between the two of us, of course. This may take more than a couple of days, so I’ve stocked the frig downstairs with a lot of food and drink. No beer please. No music….and no talking…even to yourself. Total silence except when we huddle or use the remote radios. If one of us fails to rendezvous every hour, we’ll presume that the other might be in trouble and needs help. Understood? In that event…three clicks to inquire about status… one click, to confirm all is well.”

“What if your hunch is wrong? What if he gets past the security cameras alarms and breaks into the house somewhere… instead of going to the boat?”

“Well, then…if you see him first … don’t hesitate to shoot him… you can ask questions later. Because, trust me, he won’t hesitate to shoot you. By the way, remember… as long as he’s anywhere inside this house, he’s totally fair game. Outside the house is a slightly more nuanced story…. notwithstanding the chicken shit, anti-stand-and-defend politicians and prosecutors in this state.” I smiled. “In that case, just drag his body in here… over the threshold.”

“Understood.”

“And if he should manage to get the drop on you, or corner you, two clicks on the radio is your distress signal. Incidentally, how are your martial arts skills?”

“Well, I’m pretty quick with my hands, but I much prefer the speed and velocity of a 9 mm. round.”

“Good answer. The bottom line, Brian, is that we can plan all this out till the cows come home. However, as my favorite poet Bobby Burns once said…. those plans…gang aft agley.”

Petrocelli smiled. “I happen to know the poem well.”

“In other words, in the final analysis, the only thing you can count on is personal discipline…. tempered with flexibility. Without that we’re not going to nail this guy.”

Brian stared at me in silence. I asked, “Any more questions?”

“Yes…one. I have to report at least once a day to Pritchard. Do you have a problem with that?”

“None whatsoever. Tell him everything that’s going on here. I’d prefer you make those calls around mid-afternoon. OK?”

“Yes, sir.”

I stifled a sudden urge to yawn and said, “So why don’t you make yourself comfortable here. Fresh towels are in the bathroom and the shades are drawn in there. I’m going to grab a sleeping bag, one more cup of coffee downstairs and crawl into the forward cabin of my boat with my shotgun and my PPK. My guess is that he won’t make his move till he’s absolutely ready. May not even be tonight. Or tomorrow night. Patience is the word of the day.”

“Ok, Lyle… every hour…three clicks…. right?”, Brian answered, with a hint of trepidation in his voice.

“Yep. I’m sure you noticed coming out here on the bay tonight, that the moon is nearly full and the sky is clear. It’s brighter than Luna Park at night out here in the summer. He’ll likely either wait a few nights or till we have full cloud cover.”

“Luna Park?”

“Look it up. A famous amusement park. It’s not far from where you grew up.”

The moon had already risen in all her splendor. She lit up the cove and everything in it with a soft midday glow.

Damn. He won’t make his move tonight.

I settled down into the dark cabin… laid the pump shotgun on the navigation table… picked up my night-vision glasses…. signaled to Brian on the radio… three clicks. He answered with one click. Then I closed the hatch for the night leaving a few inches open at the top. Check, check, and check.

And now… we wait...

WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?

As I lay half asleep wrapped in my blanket, I felt a heavy thump… something seemed to slap sharply against the hull of the boat. In one wild erratic cluster of heartbeats the companionway hatch was shattered by the steel toed boot of an intruder…sending splintered teak fragments all over my head. The muzzle of a shotgun blasted red and orange through the still darkness of the cabin. My chest was torn open. Blood flew everywhere, running into… blinding my eyes.

I gasped, struggling to breathe… holding my hands out to defend myself. I wiped the blood from my eyes and focused.

Jesus. Wake up, Lyle …. for chrissakes… you’re having a nightmare!

In the eerie quiet that followed, the only sound I could hear was my heart pounding in my chest… the blood throbbing and pulsating in my head. I slid the hatch open a few more inches and looked up at a dark sky. The blanket of stars I saw earlier was gone. The moon was obscured by low dark clouds scuttling fast over the marsh, riding the same brisk northeast wind.

Suddenly the blood curdling scream of a screech owl shattered the stillness. I jumped again and grabbed the radio. Three clicks. I had last gotten a one click response from Brian at four am. The moon was still bathing the dock with light then and I must have gotten careless…. over-confident.

Nothing. No response.

Shit…. Brian must be asleep or …in trouble.

I looked at my watch. Four-forty AM. The sun will start spilling some light in the east in around thirty-five minutes.

I peered out into the pitch black. Man, whoever said the darkest hour is just before dawn wasn’t kidding.

“I hate to do this” I said out loud. I clicked twice on the radio. Again… total silence.

This is not good. Should I assume he’s in trouble and stay here in place? Should I stick to the plan? Or should I rush the house and see what the hell has happened to Petrocelli? This kid has become my responsibility now.

In one mercurial, impulsive moment, I slammed the hatch open, grabbed the shotgun and jumped up onto the deck. Suddenly I saw some subtle movement out of the corner of my eye. Out there in the tall grass…. off to my immediate right.

I shot a glance into the spartina and could barely make out the outlined image of a man, perfectly disguised in the greens and browns of a complete camo outfit. He was pointing a scoped black semi-automatic rifle right at my chest. I heard a rough gravelly voice say. “Stand where you are, Beckwith. Lay the gun down on the deck …real slow….and raise your hands above your head.”

As my eyes adapted to the darkness, I saw his head. It was Dupree, his face and hands smeared in mud. The only brightness… coming from the whites of his eyes and his teeth.

My mind raced with possibilities… one worse than the other. Well, your plan worked, you idiot. He’s come to you just like you wanted. He’s entered the trap. But you blew your cover and now you’re the one trapped. Goddamned idiot!

My thoughts went to Petrocelli as I heard Dupree say. “Wondering about your friend up at the house, Lyle?”

“And who might that be?”

Dupree growled, “Don’t fuck with me, man. He’s no use to you now. It’s just you and me…mano a mano.”

“What did you do to him?”

Dupree laughed. “Actually nothing. He’s upstairs in his room nodding off in front of your stupid monitor. He doesn’t even know I’m here with you… on your pretty little Chesapeake deadrise. All of your surveillance cameras have been disabled. They’re no good to you now. He’s looking at a blank screen.”

I said nothing, my mind trying to slow down my thinking.

He added, “Oh, and by the way, this is a very nice, sturdy little fishing rig, Beckwith… my compliments.”

Is he lying to me about Petrocelli? Was all of that a bluff?

“How do I know you haven’t killed him?”, I said.

“I’m going to prove to you that your young agent friend is safe and sound. Would you like to talk to him? Would you like to hear his voice?”

“How do you propose I do that?”

“Easy. We’re going to go below… you and me. You’re going to break your stupid little code of silence and actually call him and speak to him on that remote radio of yours.”

“Why would I do that? For what purpose?”

Dupree flashed a wide grin, exposing the gapped front teeth, “You’ll see, soon enough.”

Dupree suddenly stepped forward, quickly swung his left leg over gunwale and climbed up onto the deck. The boat rocked under his weight. His military style boots tracked thick black mud onto the boat.

Dupree waved his rifle towards me and said, “Move away from that gun, Beckwith. If you don’t do exactly what I say from this point on, I’ll kill you where you stand. And then I’ll march up to the house and butcher your buddy. If you follow my orders, I’ll spare his young life. Those are my terms. Take them or leave them.”

“How the hell do you expect to get away with any of this, Dupree?”

“I already have. I’m halfway there. The rest of my plan for you is so simple… a beauty to behold. You and me are going to do a little fishing this morning. I hear the rockfish down here are almost as big as our land locked Maine salmon. Is that true?”

Dupree waved me over to the transom with the barrel of his rifle. “Sit down here and don’t twitch a muscle.”

He picked up my shotgun and flung it out into deeper water off the port stern. “Where’s the other gun…. below?”

I didn’t answer.

“Tell me where that other fucking gun is or I go up to the house and blow that kid’s brains out. Now!”

I stepped below into the cabin with the muzzle of his rifle pressing into the back of my skull. I pointed to the drawer under the navigation table. “In there.”

Dupree retrieved it in seconds and shoved it into his waistband. “A PPK…. nice, Beckwith…you have some class. Unlike that slut you called your wife.” He grinned and raised the gun to his shoulder.

White heat flashed through my brain. My thoughts went to our final exchange on that rocky mountainside so many years ago. “How’s the hip, Deputy? I notice you’re still walking with a limp. I bet it’s real painful in cold damp weather.”

Dupree reflexively grabbed his right hip, and said, “A lucky shot by that imbecile, Allerton. I should have eliminated him and your wife when I had the chance.”

“You’re the lucky one, Dupree. My shot would have been a lot more definitive…. much better placed.”

He glared at me. “Shut the fuck up... I can take you out now with one well-placed shot or work up your body one round at a time…. over a long period of time…. ankle… knee… hip. Would you prefer that? It’s your call…. Professor.”

He spotted the radio, pointed to it and said, “Speaking of calls, get junior on the two-way now.”

“And say what?”

“Tell him you’re tired of waiting for me to make my move and that you’ve decided to go out with the sun this morning for a quiet day of fishing. Tell him to take the rest of the day off…. go into town … repair the broken security cameras…whatever. Just tell him to relax and get lost… you won’t need him for the rest of the day.”

“What makes you think he’ll believe that line of shit? Doesn’t make sense.”

“Make him believe it, Professor. I know all of the little telltale signs for distress and danger on police radio calls… so, no games. I mean it. If you slip up, I’ll kill you now.”

I picked up the radio and held down the transmit button.

“Brian, It’s Lyle. Come in please.”

I repeated the message three times… no response.

I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I haven’t been able to raise him for a while now.”

Dupree shoved the gun in my ribs and snarled. “Then call him on your goddamned cell phone. Do it now. And put him on speaker.”

I considered lying about having it with me… but yielded to my instinct for survival. I took out my phone and dialed the number I had entered earlier that evening for my new contact Brian Petrocelli.

He picked up on the first ring. “Why are you calling me on the phone? And why aren’t you responding to my clicks?”, he answered hurriedly.

“Brian, did you double check the radio batteries earlier today?”

After a long pause, he mumbled, “Uh…….no I didn’t. Sorry, no excuse.”

“Well, never mind about that now. It was a quiet night here. The sun will be up in a few minutes and I’ve decided to change the game plan. I’m taking the day off to do a little fishing down the coast for some striped bass. I’d ask you to join me but I need you to stay here and keep your eye on the place. Why don’t you go into town with my Jeep later and see if you can replace whatever cameras that might not be working... and get some fresh batteries for the radios.”

Brian was quick on the rebound. “Hold on, how did you know about that? The cameras only just went out here about three o’clock this morning. I’ve been trying to reach you since then.”

“Yeah…. I uh…noticed yesterday before you got here that a couple of them were acting up…. the signals were very poor. I should have told you.”

Brian sensed something. I could tell. His voice crackled through the receiver, “Is everything all right, sir? Do you need anything?”

“No… thanks. I just need a little sleep…. and a few fish for our dinner. I should be back after the turn of the ebb tide…around mid-afternoon. Hold the fort down… you’re in charge. Do you understand?”

“Aye, sir. Roger that.” Came the hesitant response.

I hung up the phone and Dupree said. “What does that mean? You’re in charge?”

“Just a figure of speech…it just means you’re on your own.”

THE LAST SAIL

Dupree looked at the eastern horizon and then his watch. “Come on, let’s get moving. I want to be out there by sunrise. Start the engine now.”

My four-cylinder diesel engine sputtered to life in a wispy blue cloud. With Dupree hovering over me like a hawk’s wings covering its kill, I warmed up the engine and tended to the lines and bumpers.

Two minutes later I eased the throttle forward into gear and slid away from the dock. I headed the boat out of the mouth of the cove into the bay. The sun was coming up in a cloudless pink sky over the stern. I looked at the tree tops on shore. “It’s going to be a breezy one today” I said aimlessly.

When Dupree didn’t respond, I asked. “Where exactly are we going?”

“Keep your damn mouth shut. When you get past the inlet, steer a course of 180 degrees…. hug the marsh line as close as you can. But not too close. I don’t want us running aground,” Dupree calmly ordered.

“I usually go right out into deeper water. I don’t know the bottom that well along the edge of the cut to the south.” I protested. “The Bay is two hundred miles long… I’m not familiar with all of it.”

“Shut up. Just do what I tell you. You have a new captain aboard.”

There was a light chop driven by a northerly breeze … pushing us along quickly on a due south course. I finally broke the silence over the monotonous hum of the engine running at about 2000 rpm. “So how exactly do you plan to dispose of my body?”

Dupree laughed. “Don’t worry, professor. I’ve got everything under control. You’re going to have an unfortunate boating accident, Beckwith. An accidental drowning.”

“Everyone knows I’m a strong swimmer. Is that the best you can come up with?” I baited him. “Not very clever.”

Dupree grinned. “But then again, some folks might even think you committed suicide. You know…. what with you losing your beautiful wife so tragically…. and you being so depressed lately. We’ll just keep ‘em guessing, Professor. More fun that way.”

I probed for an opening. “You haven’t thought this through, Dupree.”

“Oh yeah? What the hell does that mean?”

“You’re going to abandon the boat and then what… set it adrift? How do you plan to get off the bay once you’re done with me?”

Dupree’s laugh bellowed through the cabin. “I don’t usually discuss my plans in detail with any of my subjects. But, in this case, since you’re such a big shot FBI authority, I’ll share them with you. You know… from one professional to another. After the deed is done, I’m meeting up with someone down near Smith Island.”

“Smith Island? That at least fifty miles from Easton. Everyone who knows me knows I don’t fish that far south.”

“I know, Professor. In about an hour you’re going to call your young agent friend on the cell and tell him you’ve traveled farther out on the bay than usual and not to expect you back before late afternoon.”

“And then what?”

“Then… after I dispose of your body…. which, by the way, will be found with your leg tangled up in your anchor chain... I’ll transfer onto another boat and be off and running before your friend begins to realize you’re overdue at home.”

“And the guy on this other boat…. is he the one who dropped you off onto my property last night?”

Dupree smirked. “That’s right.”

“And you took the long path down to the water through the woods?”

“Yep. And I saw that lame excuse for a duck blind. You must be kidding. Were you actually hoping to conceal yourself in that thing? You’re pathetic, Beckwith.”

I ignored his question and said, “I’ve got to ask you this, Dupree. How the hell did you convince anyone with a sound mind to help you in this? He must be a certified idiot. And how can you trust your friend not to turn you in later when the pressure on him ramps up?”

“Because he’s not just a friend…. he’s blood… not water”, he answered heatedly and reflexively.

“A brother? You don’t have any brothers.”

Dupree’s voice suddenly grew agitated. “That’s none of your fucking business who he is. You’ll never get to meet him anyway.”

For the next sixty minutes, as we motored south without exchanging a word, I scanned the horizon looking for any sign of a conservation officer out on patrol…. or any one of my fishing buddies. I saw a cluster of bay men out scraping for blue claw and a couple of private boats fishing. Dupree ordered me to keep my distance…. no closer than a quarter mile. Each time I eased the wheel off course and angled towards them, he poked my ribs with the barrel of the gun and said nothing. He didn’t have to.

I pointed to a couple of the crab boats. “You know, Dupree, some of these guys you’re carefully avoiding know me and my rig very well.”

“Good. So much the better when the police and the coast guard start piecing together your terrible bad luck. You know, later on, when they do the post-mortem.”

Suddenly a clear voice boomed over my Marine VHF radio. “Hey Lyle….is that you? Where you headed in such a hurry? This is Mike … aboard the Angela Marie. Come on back…”

I instinctively reached for the microphone. Dupree lunged at me and punched it out of my hand. He had momentarily taken his hand off the trigger guard.

It’s now or never, Lyle. Make your move, for chrissakes. Now.

I swung my arm hard out to my left, grabbed the barrel of the AR 15 and pushed it over to the portside, bending back Dupree’s wrist. The gun fell to the floor.

“You’re a fucking dead man, Beckwith”, he screamed.

I jumped away from the console, reached over to the starboard bulkhead and grabbed my six-inch serrated fishing knife… all in one long simultaneous move.

Dupree pulled my PPK from his waist band and fumbled with it for a moment. “You forgot about this, asshole.”

My brain ran through rapid fire scenarios…watching Dupree flick off the safety and drawing back the hammer… it was all happening in slow motion. Oh God, did I chamber a round last night before I put the gun in the drawer. Shit…this is it. I have to move.

Dupree saw the knife in my hand and didn’t have time to rack the slide. In an instant he leveled the gun at my chest and pulled the trigger. No muzzle flash, no smoky blast…. nothing.

Thank you, Jesus… no round in the chamber.

I jumped straight at Dupree and in one continuous motion thrust my knife deep into his upper belly. I twisted it and pulled it across his gut, left to right… in the traditional seppuku style.

He groaned, dropped the gun, and collapsed to his knees like a wet sack of flour. But, in the next instant he bolted to his feet and scampered up the steps out onto the deck where he collapsed again. He lay on his back staring into oblivion. The blood was like nothing I had ever seen. Pulsating and flowing from his sliced open abdomen. I quickly envisioned a distant memory…. when my father had slaughtered the family hog, in front of us kids. I grabbed a dirty towel on the deck and pressed it up against the wound. “Press this as hard as you can, Deputy”, I said.

I bent over, grabbed my PPK, chambered a round and held it to Dupree’s head. He lay on his back… staring into the sun…. clutching his stomach…. as he slowly opened his eyes.

He spoke in a hoarse whisper. “I have to hand it to you Beckwith. I didn’t expect that at all.”

During the entire confrontation, the boat had continued to run on for about a mile, well beyond the view of my buddy aboard the Angela Marie.

OK, now what? Do I try to save this guy and get him to a hospital? Do I contact the Coast Guard? Should I do anything at all?

In that moment, my mind went into overdrive. Shifting from one violent image to another. I don’t know why…but I thought once again of that mountainside confrontation between me and Dupree. I remembered the way he had begun to put his slow execution plan for Darcy into motion. I thought of the way he had bear-baited Libby Browne’s body. I saw my wife’s body lying face down in the crushed oyster shell …her life’s blood pouring out of her…. sucked into the parched ground.

I stared at the man who had destroyed so many lives…including my own. He was moaning, slipping in and out of consciousness.

Slow it down…think, man. Collect your thoughts, Lyle. You’re only going to have one shot at this. Make it count.

I jumped below, slid the throttle into neutral and picked up the microphone. The boat momentarily rose in the water, slowing quickly. I started to raise the Angela Marie on the VHF… but the words froze in my throat. I took my thumb off the transmit button and scanned the horizon.

Don’t’ make that call, Lyle. He’s dying for sure. Nothing, no doctor, can save him now. Not even you. Especially not you.

I knew I had shoved that knife in his gut, deep…. up to the hilt. I knew I had severed, or at least nicked, a major artery. I leaned over Dupree and said, “Can you hear me, Deputy?”

His breathing was raspy…. labored. His gravel voice was joined by an eerie grin. “Yeah, I hear you. I think you may have killed me, Professor. I’ve gutted enough animals in my time… to know when I’m as good as dead.”

Remembering my evidence class in law school, I tried to squeeze out what trial lawyers call a dying declaration. “Why don’t you clear your conscience now before it’s too late? Tell me that you shot and killed my wife, Dupree. Say the words.”

Gaseous, foamy blood gurgled from his mouth as he chuckled softly. “I guess you might say I had a hand in it.”

I was stunned. My heart still racing. “Jesus… why did you go to all this trouble? You could have killed me early this morning at the dock. You could have avoided this whole charade.”

When he didn’t answer, I added. “Tell me, dammit…. did you kill her?”

“You can’t prove I killed her. Sorry, Beckwith… but I was in Providence at the time. I was nowhere near your property. You can’t connect me to her death…. any more than they could have tied me into yours.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”, I asked.

Dupree seemed to have suddenly recovered some strength and energy. His voice seemed to surge with newfound vitality. He lifted his head and looked squarely into my face. “They have no proof I killed your wife. They’ve got nothing. I wanted to go two for two with you today…. until you fucked it all up.”

I wanted to place a round in his head right then and there. To end his obnoxious rambling. “You’re not making any sense, Dupree. Shut your mouth and save your energy and breath.”

“Do you want to know my rock-solid alibi for today, Beckwith? I’m not even here. No, sir. At this moment, I’m across the Bay in Baltimore.”

Suddenly the thought crashed squarely in my face. I remembered something Chief Bradley and Darcy had footnoted in one of their reports to me more than twenty-five years ago. I grabbed him by his collar and jerked his head forward. “Who the hell are you meeting down at Smith Island?”

He groaned again. “Fuck you, Beckwith.”

A blinding white heat flashed through my brain. “Tell me… you piece of shit. Did you have an accomplice when you killed her? Did you hire someone?”

Dupree’s ashen face simply broke into a bloody grin. And he said nothing. He had pushed me over the line… past the point of no return.

“Ok, Dupree… we’re done here. How are you doing?”

“Actually, I feel a little better than I did a few minutes ago.” He closed his eyes for a brief moment then added. “But I feel kinda’ numb and really cold.”

“Yeah, that’s the euphoria, the mental confusion and the hypothermia all coming together from severe loss of blood.”

Dupree suddenly grew agitated. His first real sign of desperation and panic. He momentarily grew quiet then suddenly blurted out. “Don’t let me die…. not now… not like this. Please, help me, Beckwith.”

“It’s a little late for that. You’re going to bleed out by the time I get you help. There’s nothing I can do for you now.”

“Sure, there is, man.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Get on that radio… call for help. Turn this boat around and get me to a hospital… or the Coast Guard. Do something, Beckwith. Don’t let me bleed out like a pig.”

I stared at the dying, pleading man. “Come on, get up on your feet.”

“What?! I can’t!!”

“Sure, you can.” I leaned over and dragged the dead weight of his body by his shoulders to the edge of the transom. “I’ll help you. Sit up here on the transom and get some fresh air.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

He couldn’t move on his own. I lifted and pulled him under his shoulders, with all the strength I could muster. I got him into a slightly bent, but upright sitting position on the gunwale, his back to the water.

“What the hell are you doing, Beckwith?” he yelled, still clutching his stomach.

“You know, Dupree, the thought just occurred to me that that we both have our unique areas of expertise. Except that we use them in different ways… towards different goals.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Well… you’re a north-woods, mountain kind of guy. You know….an expert on bear baiting and all that hunting stuff. I’m just a low country boy who knows how to bait for any kind of fish or sea critter.”

A panicked look of awareness suddenly came over Dupree’s face as he followed my gaze out towards the water about fifty yards off the starboard bow. There, swirling through the low chop was a giant school of bait fish… bunkers…. leaping and diving…exploding from the surface of the water…. in a mad frenzy to avoid the voracious predators circling and marauding them below. A few minutes earlier I had spotted their familiar gray dorsal fins. I knew these guys. The aggressive bull shark was a native to the Chesapeake. I had seen them occasionally in the upper reaches of the Bay as far north as the Patuxent River. They reached three to four hundred pounds and were documented in an unusual number of human attacks in recent years.

Dupree just gave me a blank stare. Suddenly, he glanced over his shoulder and saw them… at least a dozen jaw-gaping Bull sharks slashing through the water… just yards away from the boat.

“No!! No no….” he screamed.

“So, what’s your expert opinion, Dupree? Do you think bears’ jaws are as powerful as shark jaws…… their teeth as sharp as shark teeth?”

“No! Please ...” he cried.

I reached into the fish well and pulled out a thawed bucket of bloody, bunker chum. “Do you know what this is, Deputy?”

His frantic wide-eyed look answered the question… without need for words.

I said, “It’s really no different than bear bait… except it’s more useful in a marine environment… if you catch my drift.”

I grabbed a ladle, scooped out a measure of ground up chum and flung it into his face. “What do you think, Dupree? Does this remind you of anything or anyone in particular?”

I continued to bait him…. literally and figuratively. “Up until a few minutes ago you had a choice. To cooperate with me, to tell me who your accomplice was. I even gave you a chance to clear your filthy conscience, assuming you have one left hiding somewhere inside you. And assuming you have any belief in an afterlife. And the best part… I offered you the golden opportunity to die quietly…. peacefully…. gradually losing consciousness.”

I pointed to the water and spoke slowly. “Instead of in the middle of that deadly monstrous chaos.”

“No! Don’t do it.” he muttered in a reflexive note of panic.

“Do you remember my promise to you, Dupree? To scatter your blood like wind on the water.”

He looked confused at first. But then his eyes exploded in his raw panicked recall. He was reliving that mountainside incident…. unlocked and spilling out of his memory.

I held up the chum ladle and pointed it at him. “You might say that I’m just bringing things full circle, Deputy. If you live by the sword… you die by the sword. Once again, are you catching my drift here?””

“Please… just tell me… what do you want?! I’ll say whatever you want me to say”, he screamed, blood spurting from his mouth.

“Right now, the only thing I want you to do is to picture the face of Libby Browne… her bait scented body lying in that ravine, with your rifle bullet lodged in her heart. Remember her?”

“Is that what this is all about!” he yelled, as he grabbed his gut. “That little Brahmin bitch?”

In a flash of blind, impulsive rage, I lunged forward and reached out with both arms fully extended, elbows locked, to shove him over the gunwale. But before I could reach him and put my hands on him, I saw his eyes roll up back into this head. He slumped backwards… heels thrown up into the air … overboard. His arms flailed wildly as he hit the water. I watched in awed silence as if being played out in slow motion. He didn’t utter a sound as his body was pulled and jerked beneath the surface. And then, suddenly, he rose up out of the water in his wild dance of death… his eyes opened wide with fear… his mouth gasping for air.

It was over in less than a minute. I watched in wonder as his body was ripped apart, dismembered and consigned to the depths of the Chesapeake. The aqua green water turned bright red as his lingering remains swirled and mixed with the carcasses and blood of countless thousands of bunker fish.

I had been out on the Bay for nearly three fear filled hours. I spent the next four hours sitting at the helm, wandering slowly and aimlessly through the backwater coves and estuaries…. avoiding all other craft…. trying to clear my head. I plotted the sequelae… the unavoidable aftermath…. the myriad of questions that would come rushing at me from Petrocelli… Pritchard…. the Director.

Use this time to get your story straight, Lyle. You’ve got to get this perfect.

The afternoon turned out to be brutally hot. The wind shifted out of the south-southwest… a dramatic one hundred eighty -degree turnaround from the cool morning wind. I removed my shirt and pants, rinsed out the soaked blood over the side of the boat in the bay water, and laid them out to dry quickly on the bulkhead, in the hot midday sun. I retrieved my knife and Dupree’s AR 15 from the cabin and tossed them both out into deep water. I wiped down the cabin floor with a towel, and tossed it into the water. Finally, I cleaned off my PPK and returned it to my chart drawer.

I went through the checklist. Ok, now it’s time to face what’s waiting for me at the dock.

I don’t know why but, suddenly, an image of Lady Liberty popped into my head.

I thought. Finally, after all these years, I get to place my heavy thumb on her tender scales of justice. And damnation…. if this doesn’t feel really good! Despite the blindfold, I knew the Lady saw everything I did out here today. And yet, she managed to look away… seemed to smile and said nothing.

NOW WHAT?

I didn’t anticipate agent Pritchard waiting for me at the dock. After tying up, he stared at me and the bloodied deck for a full minute before I finally answered his question. “Ok, give me the good news first”, I said.

“The good news is that we’ve located Dupree. We’ve got him, Lyle…. or I should say, we had him. He was arrested three o’clock this morning… on a driving while impaired charge by the Maryland State Police in Baltimore. Unfortunately, he made cash bail a few hours ago, before the Bureau learned of his arrest. There should have been an FBI hold on him. But the troopers were in the middle of a shift change, coming off a busy night and didn’t check on it till he was let out of the system. But we have an excellent description and photo of him and his pickup truck. They’ve got an APB out on him now. It’s just a matter of time before we pick him up.”

This ought to be interesting, I thought. “So, what’s the bad news, then?”

“The bad news is that unfortunately your wife’s real killer is still on the loose. And, as we originally thought, it doesn’t appear to be Dupree after all.”

I furthered the charade. “Really? How do you know that?”, I asked.

“Because, when Dupree was arrested last night in Baltimore, they found something very interesting in the glove box of his truck. It was that unanswered traffic ticket, the one I learned about a few days ago. The one citing him for running a stop sign in Providence, on the exact date and pretty much the same time of day that Darcy was killed. Dupree was in Providence Rhode Island. About four hundred miles from here on the day of Darcy’s murder.”

“Really? Well, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you too, John.”, I answered.

John cocked his head to the side. “What’s that?”

I explained, “The Providence traffic law violator wasn’t Dupree. The guy they stopped in Providence and the guy they just arrested outside Baltimore last night. … they’re probably the same guy. But… it wasn’t Dupree.”

John’s voice grew irritated. “What the hell are you saying?”

I said, “The Maryland troopers picked up the wrong man.”

“How the hell do you know that, Lyle? Is this another one of your crazy hunches?”

“No. It’s a lot better than that.”

“Lyle. Listen to yourself. The drunk driver in Baltimore was carrying Dupree’s identification, license, registration. The troopers compared him with a prior arrest mug shot. He looks identical. He fits Dupree’s description perfectly…. weight, coloring, hair. Everything except his height…. which is off by an inch. That could be a simple clerical error.”

“Do you have the State Police booking photo of this guy?”

“No, not yet, but I’m sure I can get it by tomorrow morning. Why do you ask?”, said Pritchard.

“When you get it, see if he has a huge gap between his upper front teeth. I’ll bet you a dollar that he doesn’t. I’ll bet you another dollar that his fingerprints don’t match up with Jacques Dupree either.”

Pritchard raised his voice. “What the hell? How exactly would you know all this, Lyle?”

I smiled, “It all came roaring back to me this afternoon while I was drifting out there on the bay. Right now, I want you to take a walk with me, back up to the house. I’m going to pull out Darcy’s twenty-five-year-old reports. We’re going to read a post arrest report by Chief Bradley… you and me together … a footnote that will knock your socks off.”

“What is it?”

“Darcy learned that Dupree has an identical twin brother. He’s known today as Giancarlo Cicilline…. who, we were told, allegedly died at birth, along with their mother. Except, that as it turns out… Giancarlo didn’t die at all. He was adopted almost immediately, under very secretive circumstances, by someone who later became a capo in the Patriarca crime family in Providence. Our suspect, the other twin, Jacques Dupree, was adopted at about the same time by an entirely different family. Neither adopting family was related or known to the other. The brothers never learned about each other’s existence until many years later. By then, Dupree was a teenager whose own adoptive mother passed away suddenly. We don’t know the particulars yet, but, very soon afterwards, he went to live with his mob connected twin Giancarlo…. without ever changing his name.”

“Holy shit. Then, where the hell does that leave us?”

“Exactly where we started. Out in the middle of nowhere.” I answered.

John breathed a soft sigh. “Jesus. Dupree was using his brother to create an almost perfect alibi. He turned his own brother into an accomplice to murder.”

“Yeah, how about that?”, I said.

“So now we’re looking for two killers instead of one?”

Not exactly, John. But I’ve solved at least half of our problem, my friend. I said quietly to myself. “Yep, afraid so. Two killers on the loose”, I said.

John asked, “I’ll take your word for all of this. I don’t need to read Darcy’s report right now. But would you copy and send me all your Brahmin reports and notes please?”

“Will do.”

Pritchard looked around and said, “Where is Agent Petrocelli? I noticed your Jeep is not in the driveway. Is he out running an errand for you?”

“Yep. He’s picking up some supplies and security cameras in town.”

John said. “Good. I have a hunch you’re going to need them more than ever now. At least till we can locate both these guys. Listen, Lyle… I have to go. I’ll be in touch very soon. I’ve got to get back to the office right away. Tell Brian to stay here a few more days. You’re going to need him. Especially now. His job isn’t done yet.”

“Nope. He’s done.”

“But he…”

“He’s done here, John. He’s a great kid, a good agent. But I don’t need or want him here anymore.”

“But this is not over.” John said.

Yeah, well. As far as I’m concerned, it is for me, I thought.

“Funny…. those were Dupree’s last exact words to my wife twenty-five years ago”, I said.

John turned and said, “I have no choice but to presume that this guy, Cicilline, will remain a problem for us…. and for you.”

“I don’t think so”, I said.

“Why the hell not? Are you kidding me?”

I answered. “Do you really think Cicilline can mount the motivation to finish what his brother started? To get involved in yet another murder…of me? That’s the million-dollar question at this moment. And I’m betting that he can’t…. and won’t take the trouble to do that.” I turned away, looked out towards the bay and smiled smugly. “As a matter of fact, I’ll bet the farm that when you do finally catch Cicillene, he’ll say that he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of his brother Dupree. Hell, I’m betting he’ll never see him again.”

Especially now that he’s wasted a whole day not being able to find his brother down there at the Smith Island rendezvous point… or anywhere else. Nope, Dupree is part of the marine environment now. No. I’m thinking Cicilline is done with this conspiracy. At least until I can figure a way to deal with him some other time.

“Yeah well, let’s hope you’re right. But I think you’re making a mistake. In any event, I’ve gotta go. Call me later, Lyle.”

Twenty minutes after Prichard left, Petrocelli pulled into the driveway. I was still hosing down the boat deck. He walked out onto the dock and asked. “Was that my supervisor’s car that just passed me in the opposite direction out there on the road?”

“Yep. He just left a little while ago. He told me to tell you your job here is finished. He said the State Troopers grabbed Dupree in Baltimore this morning. He’ll fill you in on the rest of the details. Why don’t you grab your things and I’ll drive you back to Annapolis?”

Brian frowned, looked puzzled. I said, “What’s bothering you, Petrocelli?”

“If I may say so, that was really weird … the way you left things hanging early this morning on the radio. Never getting back to me on the radio or phone...”

I cut him off. “Weird? I took the day off to do some fishing. What’s so weird about that?”

Brian was watching me spray down the transom. “Is that blood?”

“Yeah, leftover chum.”

“What did you do…. spill a whole bucket of it all over the deck… and all over those seat cushions?”

“Yep. But It’ll wash out. It’s only blood.”

Brian’s eyes suddenly grew wide as he stared at me. “Whoa. Did you happen to run into Dupree anytime last night?”

Jeez…. here we go.

“Why would you ask me a question like that? I told you he was arrested in Baltimore early this morning. He’s good but he hasn’t mastered the art of bi-location.”

“I swear I heard some definite signs of stress in your voice over the radio last night.”

I was becoming annoyed and glared at him. “Any other questions, super sleuth?”

“Yes. As long as you’re inviting me into your little mystery here. What were you doing out on the bay for over eight hours?”

“What is this now…. a formal 302 crime interview? I told you I was fishing.”

Petrocelli suddenly stepped aboard, went straight to the fish well and opened the lid. He raised his voice. “Where are the fish you caught?”, he demanded.

“Ok…let’s have it…what’s on your mind, son? Let’s hear it.”

He pointed to the cabin. “Permission to go below, Captain?”

“What?”

“May I look around? I’ve always wanted to own boat like this.”

What are you up to my young friend?

“Without any lights aboard the boat last night, I didn’t get a chance to survey this pretty little craft”, Brian added.

Against my better instincts and better judgment, I just rolled my eyes, pointed to the cabin hatch and said, “Permission granted.”

He scurried below quickly. A minute later he stuck his head through the hatchway, climbed back onto the dock and said “Agent Beckwith, where is that big beautiful scrimshaw handled fishing knife? The serrated blade you had laying right next to the depth finder. It was very dark but it caught my eye in the moonlight. I saw it clearly. My dad had one just like it.”

What the hell is going on here? Am I about to be outwitted by a rookie agent? On my own boat? In my own backyard?

“Anything else seem odd or out of place to you Mister Petrocelli?”

“Yes, as long as you ask. I did something late last night that could get me fired. But I want you to hear it.”

What the hell is this kid up to? I mused. “Go on,” I said.

“While you were out here on the boat late last night, I went through your wife’s legal pad notes… the ones you pulled out of that cabinet drawer during the interview. And I found something very intriguing. I saw what I’m assuming was the killer’s note threat to you and his pencil sketch of your wife’s face. Very unnerving stuff. No wonder you wanted to settle things up with him privately… on your own terms. But I’m sure Agent Pritchard and the Director would have liked to have known about those important pieces of evidence… those little flakes of gold…. a few weeks ago. Don’t you?”

I was momentarily stunned. “What the hell are you telling me?! You invaded my privacy?” I asked through clenched jaw.

“Technically yes, but I made a judgment call in the moment. And, truth be told, I’d do it again if I had the opportunity. I remember seeing you fumbling with something sticking out of the pages while you reading from them. You shoved them back into the pad quickly. I watched your face. Your expression was off… guarded. You were definitely hiding something. Sorry… I was just doing my job.”

I just stared at Brian in silence. After a few more uncomfortable seconds I cooled off a bit and added. “Well…. you’ve come this far. Go ahead. Finish your thought.”

He asked his questions calmly and in rapid fire succession. “What did you do out here? You killed someone on this boat early this morning, didn’t you? It was Dupree, right? You knew it was Dupree all along, didn’t you?”

“Yes, yes…. and yes. Any other questions?”

“Ok. That stop sign traffic ticket wasn’t issued to Dupree in Providence, was it?”

I continued to stare at this young, bright, inquisitive agent and realized I’d been bested by a twenty-eight-year-old mirror image of myself. I said, “So, here’s the more important question. Do any of my answers matter to you at this point?”

Petrocelli’s cocky bravado suddenly seem to collapse under its own weight. He raised his hand and looked away. “It’s none of my business. This is between you and my boss…. Pritchard.”

“No sir, my young friend, you’re dead wrong. It is definitely your business now. Let me ask you another question, Agent Petrocelli. Being a firearms expert, I would imagine the Director has wisely assigned you to the fugitive squad. Correct?”

“Yes sir.”

“How many arrests have you made in your first two years on the job?”

“Exactly twenty-four, sir.”

“All felonies?”

“Yes, sir, except one.”

“Have you followed their prosecutions by the US Attorney’s Office? You’ve probably testified about your arrests in a few of the trials, right?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Did any of the bad guys get off? Were any of them acquitted or had their charges dropped by the U.S. Attorney?”

“What are you getting at, sir?”

“Looking back on some of them…. the more heinous… the nastier cases. Did you, in the deepest and quietist moments of contemplation and self-reflection, ever experience the temptation to press your thumb down on the scales of justice? Were you ever moved to alter those unjust outcomes? You know, for the greater good of society… for the sake of the victims… and all the rest of that noble stuff?”

A look of calm and understanding had crept over the “by the book”, square jawed expression on Brian’s face. He said, “Yes, as a matter of fact, there are a couple of cases I’d like to have back…. to relive… and do over. If I could, I’d go back and tighten things up a bit…. where maybe I could have worked a little harder, dug a little deeper.”

“An occupational hazard.” I said, with a sigh. “I know I could have done some things differently here. I might even have been able to protect my wife from this animal. If I had paid closer attention to some things I overlooked. If I had lived more fully in the moment.”

Petrocelli stared into my face. “You’re blaming yourself for your wife’s death?”

I tried to avoid the question. “Do you want to know if Deputy Jacques Dupree killed my wife?” Brian looked directly into my face and said nothing.

“Yes, he did” I said. He did it alone…. by himself. He did however have one insignificant and not very competent after-the-fact accomplice. Someone to help him avoid capture for my own murder…. which I, of course, skillfully avoided.”

“You’re dodging me,” he said, “Answer my question, Agent Beckwith.”

“Do I blame myself? Every single morning when I open my eyes. Yes, of course I do.”

Petrocelli just stared at me and wagged his head slowly from side to side. I could see his mind running at open throttle. I read his thoughts and asked: “Now… let’s continue. What’s the next logical question.”

Brian gave me a knowing look. “Ok, if you insist. That wasn’t Dupree who was arrested in Baltimore last night, was it?”

“You’re good, Brian. Next and last question please.”

“Did you plan it or did it just happen? Did you kill him… or did you execute him?”

“I’ll let you decide that.”

“Meaning what?”

“Just that. One of the things I’ve learned over the years is that, in the heat of battle, when fear and panic grab us by the throat and adrenaline surges through our brains… we’re all gifted with almost superhuman strength and the indomitable will to survive and defend ourselves. It’s hardwired into our DNA. All natural… and very real.” I looked him in the eye and added, “I did exactly what I needed to do to survive and protect myself. Nothing more, nothing less. He made the decision whether he should live or die. Not me. And, in the end, he made it all very easy for me.”

I paused for a long moment and said, “Does that adequately answer your question, Agent Petrocelli?”

“Yes sir, I believe it does.”

“So, then, it appears the ball is in your court. It’s your call” I said.

“What? What the hell does that mean?”

“Don’t be coy with me. What you decide to do next at this point will determine what happens to me. It’s a decision that I suspect will best reflect the state of your conscience.”

Petrocelli’s expression was calm… flintlike. He simply said. “My conscience is just fine, thank you.” He grinned and added…. almost offhandedly: “Can I give you a hand scrubbing down those cushions?”

I drew a long deep breath, exhaled in a long audible sigh, and began to throttle back my mounting anxiety. “Thank you. Yes, I’d appreciate having your help…. cleaning up my ugly mess.”

After a long silence, he asked, “So, what will you do now?”

Without hesitation I said. “I’m going to continue to suffer the exquisite pain of living without her. I’m still going to reach out for her on cool, dark nights while lying in bed alone.” I closed my eyes, took a deep brreath and added “What will I do? I’ll breathe in… and breathe out… every moment… of every day.”

“That’s it? Just an aimless rote existence? Life with no expectations, no surprises?”

I grinned and marveled at such young, rare intuitive wisdom. “No, on the contrary…. I’m going to come down here to my boat every morning at sunrise. I’m going to inhale the rich salty marsh air. Just like I’ve been doing for years. Except, as of today, I’m going to add something new to my routine. A new dimension to my vision …. through what she used to call dormant eyes of wonder. I’m not just going to look at it all. I’m going to actually take it in, pick it up and experience it… all of it… with every last one of my senses. Everything little thing that may have rolled in with the overnight tide.”

I studied his face. He's getting this. He knows exactly what I’m talking about, I thought. A serene look of understanding enveloped Brian’s face. “You know, sir. I think…. that you…” He looked away. Out towards the water.

“That’s ok, Brian,” I said. “What do you want to say? No holds barred. Not at this late date.”

He spoke slowly. “I think that battle raging inside you, if I may say so, is with yourself. Not your wife’s killer. And I think it’s been going on for a very long time.” He shuffled his feet and averted eye contact with me.

“It’s all right, Brian. Go on”, I said.

Brian smiled. “Darcy sounds like she was… is… an amazing woman. You’re an incredible lucky man. She shared a lot of her unique wisdom with you. I think you have to keep tapping into that. Every day.”

I looked up at the blue cloudless sky and suddenly pictured the bright faces of Darcy …. and her friend Libby Browne. I paused and said: “And whatever may be carried in atop that morning tide …. I’ll ….”

Brian split the momentary awkward silence, “You’ll what?”, he pressed. “What will you do with it?”

“I’ll hold it up to the light … and try to make sense of it,” I said. “To see what it all means. You know, to find its proper place and role in the puzzle of the cosmos.” I laughed. “That shouldn’t be too difficult to do … should it?”

Yeah, I think I can handle that. At least for the moment. At least till I see her again.

-30-