Archer Mayor - The second mouse

Copyright 2006 by Archer Mayor

All rights reserved.

Mysterious Press

Hachette Book Group

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New York, NY 10017

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The Mysterious Press name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

First eBook Edition: October 2006

ISBN: 978-0-7595-6929-4

Other books by Archer Mayor

ST. ALBANS FIRE

THE SURROGATE THIEF

GATEKEEPER

THE SNIPERS WIFE

TUCKER PEAK

THE MARBLE MASK

OCCAMS RAZOR

THE DISPOSABLE MAN

BELLOWS FALLS

THE RAGMANS MEMORY

THE DARK ROOT

FRUITS OF THE POISONOUS TREE

THE SKELETONS KNEE

SCENT OF EVIL

BORDERLINES

OPEN SEASON

To my mother, Ana Mayor,

with love and thanks for giving a

tough job the appearance of effortless joy.

As always in the writing of these books, I begin in utter ignorance, dependent upon the kindness and knowledge of others to guide me with their expertise. However, while the following book was written thanks to them, whatever faults there may be remain mine alone. My deepest gratitude, therefore (and perhaps apologies), to all the following individuals and organizations:

Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center

Office of the Chief Medical Examiner-Vermont

Bennington Co., Vermont, Sheriffs Dept.

The Town of Bennington, Vermont

The Bennington, Vermont, Police Dept.

The early bird may get the worm,
but the second mouse gets the cheese.

Anonymous

(As passed along to me by Elizabeth Scout Mayor)

W atch out for the cat.

Joe Gunther froze by the door, his hand on the knob, as if expecting the creature to materialize from thin air.

The young Vermont state trooper stationed on the porch looked apologetic. I dont know if were supposed to let it out.

Gunther pushed the door open a couple of inches, watching in vain for any movement by his feet.

Encouraged, he crossed the threshold quickly and shut himself in, immediately encircled by the rooms strong odor of cat feces, wafting in the summer warmth.

I vote for letting it out, he murmured softly.

He was standing in one corner of a cavernous multiwindowed roomalmost the entire ground floor of a converted nineteenth-century schoolhouse located some five miles south of Wilmington. Contesting the smell, sunlight poured in through a bank of open windows, nurturing a solid ranking of potted and hanging plants. Old but well-loved furniture, none of it expensive and most of it bulky, did a convincing job of filling the expanse with a selection of oasislike islandsa grouping around the woodstove, another in a far corner flanked by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a third before a blank TV set. The most distant wall was dominated by an awkwardly linear kitchena parade of icebox, range, dishwasher, sink, and counter space. Gunther imagined any truly inspired cook here needing running shoes and patience, or a gift for organization. Giving the place a hint of old Africaor what he knew of it from the movieswere several still ceiling fans with brass housings and long, dark wooden blades.

The pine floor was covered with a hodgepodge of worn, nondescript rugs, which in turn bore several small gifts from the missing feline. That detail aside, the entire space looked homey, rambling, a little threadbare, and quietly welcoming.

The house was also imbued with the silence that only death can visit on a placea sense of suspended animation, striking and odd, as when a stadium full of people simultaneously holds its breath.

This stillness was why Joe was here.

At the far end of the row of windows, a shadow appeared in a narrow doorway.

Joe?

Gunther nodded. Hey, Doug. Good to see you. Watching where he placed his feet, he approached his state police counterpart, Doug Matthews, the detective assigned to this region. Younger by several years, but a veteran like Joe, Matthews was experienced, low-key, and easygoing. Unlike many cops, he kept his opinions to himself, did the job, and maintained a low profile. To Joe, in a state with only a thousand full-time officersan oversize family compared with some placessuch self-effacement was highly valued.

Joe stuck his hand out as he drew near. Howve you been?

Pretty good, Doug replied, accepting the handshake with a smile, his eyes remaining watchful. Better than some. Come on in. Ill introduce you.

They entered a much smaller room, tacked onto the building later in life and on the cheap. It didnt have the bearing of its mother shipthe windows were cramped and few, the plywood floor covered with thin wall-to-wall carpeting. Low-ceilinged and dim, it was paneled in fake oak, chipped and cracked.

But the furniture, also battered and old, was of the same ilk as its brethren, supplying a comforting familiarity. The dresser, the heavy desk, and the solid four-poster bed were of dark hardwood, and the dents and scars appearing on them spoke not of neglect but of simple domestic history, the passage of generations.

This feeling of simmering life was echoed by the postcards and photographs adorning the walls and horizontal surfaces. Some inexpensively framed, others merely attached by tape or thumbtack, these pictures displayed vacation spots or loved ones, sun-drenched or laughing, and gave to the room, along with its furnishings, a warmth and intimacy it lacked utterly in its bare bones.

Lying across the broad bed, as if shed been sitting on its edge in a moment of contemplation before falling back in repose, was an attractive dead woman.

Matthews kept to his word about the promised formalities. Joe Gunther, he said, Michelle Fisher.

Joe nodded silently in her direction, and Matthews, knowing the older mans habits, kept quiet, letting him get his bearings.

Dead bodies dont usually present themselves as theyre portrayed in the movies or on TV. In the older shows, they look like live actors with their eyes shut; in the modern, forensically sensitive dramas, its just the oppositecorpses are covered with enough wounds or artificial pallor to make Frankenstein swoon.

The truth is more elusive. And more poignant. In his decades as a police officer, Joe had gazed upon hundreds of bodiesthe young, the old, the frail, and the strong. What hed discovered, blandly enough, was that the only trait they shared was stillness. They displayed all the variety that they had in life, but in none of the same ways. In silent pantomime of their former selves, instead of quiet or talkative, gloomy or upbeat, they were now mottled or ghostly white, bloated or emaciated, transfixed into grimace or peaceful as if sleeping. Nevertheless, for those willing to watch and study, the dead, as if trying to slip free of their muted condition, still seemed capable of a kind of frozen, extraordinarily subtle form of sign language.

That limited communication worked both ways. Everyone Joe knew, including himself, began their interviews with the deceased by simply staring at them searchingly, awaiting a signal. He asked himself sometimes how many of the dead might have struggled fruitlessly to be heard in life, only to be scrutinized too late by total strangers anxious to see or hear even the slightest twitch or murmur.