The Snow White Christmas Cookie

“When did you get wind of it?”

“Yesterday. I spoke to Hank Merrill about it at the Post Office.”

“That’s not your job,” Questa fumed. “It’s mine.”

“I’m aware of the protocol, Inspector. But Paulette was highly resistant to contacting you. She was worried about how it would look. I told her that I’d be willing to make some informal inquiries on the matter if she’d agree to contact you. I was making a concerted effort to move the investigative process your way. She promised me she’d reach out to you.”

“Well, she didn’t.”

“Well, that’s not my fault.”

“Well, it’s somebody’s fault.”

Des let out a sigh. “Inspector, do you want to throw down or do you want to figure out what happened to Hank Merrill?”

Questa didn’t respond. Just glowered at her.

“So you spoke with the victim yesterday?” Grisky asked Des.

“Informally,” Des reiterated.

“And now he’s formally dead. What do we know about this gee?”

“We know that he had financial problems stemming from his divorce,” she replied. “We know that he texted Paulette a suicide note in which he appeared to confess to stealing the mail himself. The trouble is…”

“Okay, I need for you to stop talking now,” Grisky broke in. To Questa he said, “Tell us what you’re doing about this.”

“We’ve brought in a temporary supervisor from Norwich to take over for Postmaster Zander. He’ll assign a part-time carrier to Hank Merrill’s route until this matter resolves itself. We have to keep the mail moving. That is, and always will be, job one for the USPS. Meanwhile, we work our fundies.”

Grisky peered at him curiously. “Work your what?”

“Our fundamentals,” Questa said, louder this time. “We acquaint ourselves with every aspect of the operation at this individual branch. Interview each and every carrier and clerk. Determine if anyone has recently transferred, retired or been terminated. Determine when the keypad lock in the office was most recently updated. We undertake a top-to-bottom investigation of the security procedures that are in place. Check the padlocks and deadbolts, the safe where the scanners and vehicle keys are kept. According to Postmaster Zander, only she and her senior clerk know the combination to that safe. We’ll have to see about that. We’ve encountered these types of thefts numerous times before. Maybe we’re looking at a dirty carrier. Maybe not. There are other possible scenarios. One is that the theft of these valuables occurred before they got to the carrier. A dirty clerk or clerks can divert them as soon as they come off of the truck, repackage them and send them on to a complicit third party. I’ve seen it happen.”

Des considered this, wondering if Hank had accidentally seen something going on in the back room. Wondering if this was what he’d wanted to talk to her about.

“If that’s how it went down,” Toni said, “then wouldn’t parcels have been disappearing from more than just Hank Merrill’s route?”

Grisky raised his eyebrows, impressed. “Snooki makes an excellent point.”

“Thank you, Agent,” she said, blushing. The poor girl was totally gaga. A temporary and treatable affliction, Des hoped and prayed.

“Not necessarily,” Questa responded. “Hank Merrill had the choicest route in Dorset. And if stuff from all over town started disappearing that would have set off too many alarm bells. Besides, that’s just one possible scenario. Another is the supply train, by which I mean the trucks that bring the mail to this branch from the distribution hub in Norwich. The postal service outsources the trucking to private contractors these days. We perform background checks on all of the drivers, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have ourselves a bad apple. So we work that, too. Interview each and every driver who comes in contact with the Dorset-bound mail. Review the security procedures that are in place in Norwich, then keep on backtracking from there. The Norwich hub gets its mail from Hartford and Wallingford. If mail comes into this state by air it arrives at Bradley International and is trucked to Hartford. We’ll follow it every step of the way. And if we turn up a bad apple I assure you we will prosecute him to the full extent of the law. We’re the US Postal Service. We take our responsibilities seriously. We were on the front lines in the War Against Terror from day one, in case you’ve forgotten the anthrax scare. Because we haven’t. We’re professional investigators who do a professional job. We’re not clowns.”

“It never occurred to any of us that you were,” The Aardvark assured him.

“What he said,” Yolie agreed, nodding his head.

“Kind of thin-skinned, aren’t you, Inspector?” Grisky asked.

“Maybe I’m just sick of you gung-ho frat boys from the bureau taking over our cases.”

Des found herself starting to like little Sam Questa, even if she did keep expecting him to let loose with a yabba-dabba-doo.

Grisky ratcheted down his hard-charging tone a bit. “No one here is doubting that you know how to do your job. And I’m not trying to muscle you. I just do what I’m told, same as you.”

“We all do what we’re told,” The Aarvark agreed. “So let’s just get it done, okay?”

“Fine,” Questa growled.

Grisky looked across the table at Des. “The trouble is?…”

“Excuse me, Agent?”

“You were saying that Hank Merrill had money problems stemming from his divorce. That he texted Paulette Zander a suicide note in which he appeared to confess to stealing his own mail. But that the trouble is…”

“That he didn’t commit suicide,” Yolie spoke up. “Hank Merrill was murdered last night on Kinney Road. There was a cylindrical bruise on his right temple. Early this morning our medical examiner confirmed that it matches the nose of a.38 caliber Smith and Wesson Special. The victim didn’t have a gun permit for any such weapon. We’re checking to see if any of his close friends or coworkers do. There were bruises on the left side of his neck that indicate he was physically coerced. Also bruising beneath his lower lip that suggests he was forced to drink the large quantity of the bourbon that he ingested shortly before his death. His blood alcohol level was.26-more than three times the legal limit to drive in this state. No way he drove his Passat to such a remote locale in that condition. He drank it after he got there. Had to. Yet we can’t find a bottle. If he tossed it out the window then the town plowman most likely shoved it into the snowbanks surrounding the parking lot. I’ve got eight trainees from the academy digging their way through those snowbanks as we speak. If there’s broken glass they’ll find it. We’re also canvassing Hank’s neighbors on Grassy Hill Road to determine if any of them saw him drive away last evening and if so what time. One more thing-when we searched Hank’s jacket pockets we found an unmarked prescription bottle with a half dozen pills in it. The M.E. identified them as ten-milligram doses of diazepam, better known as Valium. Hank had what they estimate to be twenty milligrams of diazepam in his bloodstream when he died. He still had traces in his stomach. We just checked with his personal physician. Hank had never been prescribed diazepam.”

“Sounds to me like he was pacified into submission,” Des said.

“I hear you,” Yolie agreed.

“Were his fingerprints on that pill bottle?” The Aardvark asked her.

Yolie shook her head. “It was wiped clean. The passenger seat floor mat was removed. The passenger seat was moist. The duct tape and box cutter on the seat were wet. Yet when Resident Trooper Mitry found Hank, his hair and shoulders were dry. So were his shoes and the floor mat under them. The man never got out of that car. Someone else duct taped the garden hose to the tailpipe. We found Hank’s fingerprints on the hose. No prints on the duct tape that was wrapped around the tailpipe. Not that we would. The car’s exhaust heated the tailpipe enough to evaporate any fingerprint residue on the tape. We’re continuing to search the car and its contents for prints. We still have to take fingerprint samples from Paulette and Casey Zander, who’ve doubtless ridden in that car a million times and probably driven it, too. We need to eliminate their prints so we can isolate any others that don’t belong. Although I’m guessing that these people were careful enough to wear gloves. And I do mean people. We believe we’re looking for a pair. One drove up there with the victim. The other followed in a getaway car.”

“That’s good work,” Grisky concluded. “Sounds like you’re right on top of this case.”