“No dope.”
“But you woke up with heroin in your veins.”
“That’s right.”
“How did you know that?”
“I didn’t. They told me. I just knew I was high.”
“Had you ever taken heroin before?”
“Don’t ct'›t'› all us niggers?”
“Had you?”
“No.”
“What about Kimberly Harris? Were you two friendly?”
This time he positively grinned. “That’s the biggie, isn’t it? Did you ever see a black chick you wanted to lay?”
“No.”
“Well, I’ve never seen a white chick that interested me neither. Believe it or not, a black man’s idea of dying and going to heaven has nothing to do with any white piece of ass.”
“I just asked if you were friendly.”
“Bullshit.”
“Maybe. Did you talk at all?”
“Sure we talked. She spent damn near every day lying around that pool. Said she wanted a tan like mine. Real funny.”
“No job?”
“Not that I could tell.”
“Did she have any friends?”
“We talked, man. That means the weather, ball games, stuff like that-not her love life.”
“I didn’t mean that. Any comings or goings at all?”
“I barely knew her. Ask Boyers-he’s the man with the eye for detail.”
“Boyers?”
“The manager.”
“He really watched the door, did he?”
Again Davis laughed. “Doors aren’t his thing-more like windows. He is white, though; I guess he’s allowed.”
“You saw him doing that?”
“Sure. I tend to blend in at night.”
“Did he do anything else?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Could he have killed Harris?”
“You thought I did.”
Good point. “Do you know where he was when you were knocked out?”
“No. His lights were on, but that might have been anything.”
“What about someone who might have had it in for you? Had you crossed anyone?”
He leaned forward, his face transformed by anger. “I was fresh off the goddamned bus, man… the only black face in that whole honky town. I came up here to get away from all that shit-the ghetto, the Vietnam stuff. I swallowed all that Vermont, home of the Underground Railroad crap-hook, line, and sinker. But a cracker here’s like a cracker anywhere else. You dudes know what a nigger is just like they do in Georgia or Alabama or anywhere else. Hell yes, I cr celler ossed someone. As soon as I hit town, I crossed every man, woman, and child what saw me.”
He stood up, overturning his chair, and walked away.
I returned through the gates and locked doors, past the listless guards, and slowly traded the jail’s gray embrace for the gentle blur of falling snow. I knew he’d overstated his case-he had good reason. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that his basic argument was probably right on the mark.
The chief medical examiner’s office for the state of Vermont is located in Burlington on the second floor of a renovated residential building on Colchester Avenue. The first floor is occupied by a local dentist. I arrived at the unmarked side door-a concession, no doubt, to the more pessimistic of the dentist’s clients-near the middle of the afternoon, having spent the previous three hours on the interstate from Woodstock. The snow had continued to fall all day, and what little traffic there was had been gradually reduced to using the right lane only. The sole plow truck I’d seen was going in the other direction.
The ME was not in. This was her week on duty, and she pretty much hung her hat at the Medical Center all day. Her secretary suggested I speak with the assistant, who was also not in, having had an emergency call from home, but who might be back later. When I asked whether I could see the ME anyway, wherever she might be, I was informed that was impossible-her schedule indicated she was in the middle of an autopsy at the very moment. I thanked the secretary and left the building.
The drive to the Medical Center took five minutes; locating the morgue took fifteen. I finally found it in the basement, behind several signs warning against unauthorized personnel, on the other side of a door pasted with an oversized dancing Snoopy. I wondered who was responsible for the curious mix of messages.
The room I entered had two large gleaming steel tables surrounded by arcane and expensive-looking equipment on wheels, all lit by a single globe mounted in the center of the ceiling. A scene to warm Dr. Frankenstein’s heart. A small man dressed in green and wearing a transparent rubber apron appeared at another door. I checked in vain for a hump.
“Looking for someone?”
“Dr. Hillstrom.”
“She’s in there. I’ll be right back.” Igor crossed the room and disappeared down a hallway, leaving me to pick my way carefully through a tangle of dimly lit cables and stray chairs to the door he had indicated. I pushed it open and walked in.
It was a smaller version of what I’d just left: one table, half the equipment. It was also well lit and occupied by one tall, angular blonde woman dressed in green and one enormously fat dead woman lying naked face up on the table.
“Are you from the police?”
“Yes,” I answered, surprised. I hadn’t realized her secretary was that efficient.
“I’m Dr. Hillstrom.” She reached over to a counter behind her and picked up a clipboard. “Could I have your name? State law requires I note everyone attending an autopsy.”‹ c auind/p›
“Joe Gunther.”
“Rank?”
“Lieutenant.”
“Rutland Police Department.”
“No, Brattleboro.”
She stopped writing and looked up. “What?”
“Brattleboro.” She glanced at the clipboard and then back to me. “Are you on some kind of exchange program or something?”
There was a sound behind me. A nervous young man with a wispy, struggling mustache slid into the room.
“Who are you?” Hillstrom demanded.
“Sorry I’m late. I’m John Evans. I’m supposed to collect some stuff on the autopsy…” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a notebook. “A Mrs. Ricci?”
“Then you’re from Rutland.”
Evans nodded and repeated. “Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t find a parking space.”
Hillstrom stared at me. “Perhaps this gentleman took it.”
I let out a small sigh and smiled. “I think we’ve started out on the wrong foot.”
“If you leave right now, we haven’t started out at all.”
