The Edge, page 13
Devine then emailed Campbell with his report, recounting everything he had learned since his last communication to his boss.
A minute later his phone buzzed. It was Campbell.
“You’ve clearly stirred the hornet’s nest,” he said.
“Seems like it.”
“We have been monitoring chatter from the regions where Jenny operated.”
“And?”
“It’s an interesting silence,” replied Campbell. “We would have expected more after an event like that.”
“As in trying too hard not to say something?”
“Exactly.”
“So are we leaning toward her murder being related to her job?”
“Not yet. The silence may be genuine.”
“Well, the crime scene was staged.”
“Explain.”
Devine went over the points and concluded with, “I think she was brought there after she was shot and her body was dumped on the rocks. The bullet entry angle alone blows up the official theory.”
“I agree with you.”
“The casing could have just been dropped at that spot easily enough. But whoever put that scheme together didn’t take into account the entry angle, or the fact that the shooter would be lying prone on the ground.”
Campbell said, “So no spot there where he could have rested the stock on a tree limb and fired pretty much at eye level? Or maybe a full-size tripod that would make for the same angle?”
“All the limbs on the trees around there were well off the ground. And a full-size tripod and a shot from three hundred yards away to make it a level entry into her head? What would have been the point? Why not just fire from a prone position? You’re still going to hit the target.”
“Okay, she was killed elsewhere and dumped where she was found, and the scene was doctored to suggest otherwise. Why?”
“Obviously to cover up where she was really killed, and by whom. The time-of-death window allowed plenty of wiggle room on alibis, so I don’t think that will help us.”
“The environmental elements did a number on the body, I was told.”
“But her body had to be transported there, probably in a vehicle. If we could find it, there might be some trace of her still there. And now we come to the man who found her. Everyone up here seems to think it’s just a coincidence that Earl Palmer happened upon that stretch of coast and looked down and saw her. Me? I think it’s the same odds as winning the lottery.”
“Well, people do win the lottery, Devine.”
“Yeah, but millions of people play the lottery. He was the only one playing this game.”
“You think he was told to lie, then?”
“I think a lot of odd things are occurring in a town filled with odd people. But I don’t know what it all means. Yet. Did you find out anything on Dak Silkwell’s OTH?”
“It’s buried deep. I really sense the hand of his father on this one, Devine. As I told you before, Curt never talked about his son’s service, other than to tell me that he joined up. So what’s your preliminary assessment? Local or global source for her murder?”
“But for one thing I’d say global.”
“What’s that?”
“She told her mother that she had unfinished business up here.”
The call ended a few moments later, and Devine set the phone down. Then he heard a knock on his door.
His hand on the Glock, Devine peered around the corner to see a bespectacled man in his fifties with a gray beard standing there.
“Yeah?” said Devine, from a distance.
The man seemed startled and looked around. “Mr. Devine? Harvey Watkins, I’m a local reporter. I’d like to ask you a few questions if I could.”
Devine opened the door.
Watkins held up his ID showing him to be a reporter with the Putnam Press.
“What sort of questions?”
Watkins gave him a condescending expression. “Jenny Silkwell’s murder? And you’re here to investigate it.”
“If so, you look seasoned enough to know that I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”
“I’ve already interviewed Chief Harper and Sergeant Fuss.”
“Then you have your story.”
“But our readers would like to hear from you.”
“I’m surprised a town this small even has a newspaper.”
“Well, it’s only published digitally, but local news is making a comeback and it’s about time. I only work there part-time. I also work at the hardware store. Someone pointed you out when you were there buying duct tape.” Watkins looked over at the window. “Understand someone took a shot at you.”
“If you were told that, I won’t deny it.”
“Any idea who did it?”
“If I knew that they’d be in custody.”
“So, the investigation?” asked Watkins.
“I’m working in cooperation with the local police, who have been professional and helpful. We hope to make progress and find out the truth.”
“You sound like a PR person now,” said Watkins, smiling.
“Good, then I hit my mark.”
“Can’t you give me anything? I used to be a reporter full-time over in Bangor. Never had a story like this on my doorstep. And I’m not getting any younger.”
He held up his phone with the record function showing and a pleading look on his face.
Devine leaned against the doorjamb. “All right, turn on your recorder.” He waited for Watkins to do so. “Okay, someone did take a shot at me. You and your readers can ask yourselves why. And the answer that occurs most likely at least to me is that our investigations are getting closer to the truth and someone is obviously not happy about that.” He wasn’t going to mention the different types of bullets used.
“Do you think the person is local?” Watkins asked.
“Don’t know. But we can’t rule anything out at this point.”
“We all know that Jenny was engaged in some, well, confidential matters for the federal government. Could that be the reason she was killed?”
“Again, we can rule nothing out. But any new information will be given out to the local press at the appropriate time. We like to be transparent, but we can’t jeopardize the investigation. I’m sure your readers will understand.”
Watkins turned off his recorder and smiled. “Thanks for that.”
“Now can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Did you know Jenny?”
“I knew all the Silkwells, including the senator. I came here from Bangor over thirty years ago. My wife has family in the area, and a job had opened up on the daily paper here that was better than what I had in Bangor. Of course, over the years, things change and that job went away. But we liked it here and stayed.”
“So you knew Jenny as a child?”
“Sure did. Precocious and curious about everything.”
“I’ve heard that from other people.”
“We all knew she was destined for bigger and better things, and she was. What we didn’t know was that she was also destined for a premature death.”
“Did you know her parents well?”
“Oh, sure. Covered all of Curt’s campaigns. War hero turned maverick politician. The people of Maine loved him. And he did right by them. Maine has gone through some tough times. But we’re hardy folks and we keep plugging away. Curt was one of us. He was tough and kept plugging, too. Sure sad to hear how sick he is now.”
“What did you think of Clare?”
“She was a good partner to Curt, and I mean as a wife, mother, and political spouse. Those are three distinct roles, and most people fall down on at least one of them. Not Clare.”
“And the kids?”
“Nice, polite, all talented in their own way.”
“I understand that years ago Alex sort of had a personality transformation. You know anything about that? Because the people I talked to had nothing specific to tell me.”
Watkins looked around nervously. “You can’t quote me or anything.”
Devine straightened and his expression sharpened. “Anything you tell me is confidential. You want to come inside?”
Watkins nodded and stepped across the threshold.
Devine sat on the bed while Watkins perched on the edge of the desk chair.
“It was during the summer. She was a rising junior in high school.”
“What happened?” asked Devine.
“Alex was assaulted and ended up in the hospital. I believe she almost died.”
Devine was stunned. “Did they catch the person?”
“No, they never did.”
“So Alex didn’t know who it was? Or why she was attacked?”
“No. It was either a stranger, or Alex couldn’t identify the person for some reason. The whole thing was hushed up, if you want the truth. Curt was running for the Senate for the first time back then. Most people in Putnam probably don’t know what really happened. I only know what I told you because I was a reporter. And I have to say that back then my boss put the kibosh on digging into it or me really talking about it.”
“So she became… reclusive?”
“Changed her whole life, really. She just became a shadow of what she had been. It was really very sad.”
“You’d think it would have made her want to move away from here.”
Watkins took off his glasses and cleaned them on the sleeve of his coat. “I think it just made her afraid, Mr. Devine. Afraid of the old and the new. She at least was familiar with this place. But other locations just became too big a potential nightmare for her. And as the years passed, I think whatever walls she built solidified. She has the old house, and now her studio, the kids she teaches, and that’s about it. At least that’s my two cents’ worth of psychology.”
“Did she get counseling?”
“I would imagine she did.”
“Did her family support her?”
“Jenny was working in DC at the time. She came straight home and spent every day at the hospital. And after her sister was released, she was with her all the time. Probably calming her, reassuring her, supporting her. That was Jenny.”
“And Dak?”
“He was away in the Army at the time.”
Devine nodded, his mind going back to a naked Alex standing defiantly in that window. Does she feel safe there? Invulnerable? Am I overthinking this?
“Mr. Devine, you okay?”
Devine came out of his thoughts to find the man staring worriedly at him.
“What a terrible thing to have happen,” he said. And then Devine thought how lame that must sound.
“Happens to far too many women,” noted Watkins. “Although one is one too many. But we live in a troubled society and things are not always what they appear to be, people included. Had a neighbor back in Bangor. Nicest guy, help you whenever you needed it. The year we left Bangor to move here he was arrested for possession of child pornography. You think you know someone, and then, hell, you realize maybe you don’t know a damn thing.”
After Watkins left, Devine sat there thinking that the reporter’s last words were some of the truest he had ever heard.
CHAPTER
25
DEVINE DROVE OVER TO THE Bing and Sons Funeral Home and parked next to the front door. A long black hearse stood with its rear doors open next to the side entrance. A young woman at the front desk, upon seeing Devine’s credentials, made a call and then led him back to a small office where Françoise Guillaume was sitting behind her desk.
“Haven’t gone back to Augusta yet?” he asked.
“I actually live here,” she said, rising to shake his hand. “I just keep a condo in Augusta. I’m one of thirty-five medical examiners appointed by the chief medical examiner, whose office is under the attorney general’s department. It’s a volunteer job. I’m assigned to this part of the state. But I have a medical practice in town. And I also work here with my brother, Fred. We both have degrees in mortuary science, and are licensed embalmers. My brother also has a degree in funeral services. Plus we’re certified in cremation services, which is the route more people are choosing.”
“You’re a very busy woman, Ms. Guillaume.”
“I’m used to juggling lots of balls in the air. Keeps me energized and engaged.”
She sat down and pointed to a chair, which Devine took. “What can I do for you?”
“Angle of bullet entry on Jenny Silkwell?”
Guillaume’s cheek bulged as she clenched her jaw. “What about it?”
He just stared at her until the woman dropped her gaze and started to fiddle with a pen on her desk blotter.
“I suppose you’re referring specifically to the path the bullet traveled through the deceased’s head.”
“I know quite a bit about guns and shooting them. There are basically four ways to do it: prone, sitting, kneeling, and standing. The latter, for a long-range shot, is by far the worst because it’s the most inaccurate. The best is the first method. It takes away most of the physiological wobbles that can mar the shot. And while three hundred yards away at night, with rain and wind, is not the most difficult shot an accomplished sniper has to make, it’s not easy, either. And you’re not making it by standing.”
“Really?” she said, not looking convinced at all.
“Yes, really. If you’re holding your weapon under your own power, you do not have a stable foundation to prevent body shakes. A sniper rifle feels like a barbell. I don’t care how strong you are, or whether you use the sling for support to create tension between the rifle and your arm, the so-called Hasty Sling, you’re going to get some movement. Some hunters use the kneeling position in knee-high grass, placing the elbow on the lower quad muscle, not the bone of the knee because bone on bone is not stable. Same with the sitting position. None of that matters very much over a short distance, but it’s critical at long ones. And the only way the angle of entry makes sense in this case is if the shooter was standing, probably less than ten feet from Jenny, not over three hundred yards away lying on his belly.”
He had taken a risk telling her this, since she could run to Harper and reveal to him all that Devine had just said. But he remembered the smile she had given him at the end of their first meeting. He thought she could possibly be an ally. Well, he would find out if he was right or not.
“I see that you’ve thought this through.”
“I try to do so in all important matters.”
“Did your ME come to this conclusion?”
“It wasn’t that hard, was it?”
Guillaume steepled her fingers and sat forward, her elbows pressed into her desktop so rigidly that her own fingers were now shaking.
“The fact of the matter is, I made no official finding on anything that you just spoke to. I accurately measured the angle of entry and exit. I did not address where the casing was found or make an opinion or finding as regards the exact distance between the shooter and the victim or the firing position the shooter was using.”
“Spoken like a prepared witness in court.”
“I try to be accurate.”
“So do I. The thing is, Harper and Fuss have never raised that point with me. As far as I can tell, their official position is the shot came from where the casing was found.”
“I’m not sure I know what to tell you.”
He decided on the direct route. “Is it just me or does this town have secrets?”
“Every place has secrets,” she countered.
“I think Putnam hits above its weight on that score.”
“Maybe it does,” she conceded.
“My only goal is to find out who killed Jenny Silkwell.”
“I know,” she said in a bare whisper.
He sensed a shifting dynamic between them right now.
“I’d appreciate any insights you can provide,” he said.
She looked up, her expression pained. “This is my hometown, too, Mr. Devine.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I might be the wrong person to ask.”
“I thought medical examiners just wanted to get to the truth, by letting the dead speak to them? Every victim of violence deserves that, don’t they?”
“They… do.”
“Did you know Jenny?”
“I was a few years older than she was, but, yes, I knew her.”
So come on and tell me what you know.
However, before she could say anything the door opened and a man leaned in. He was tall and looked to be in his late thirties; his features neatly copied Guillaume’s.
Devine said, “You must be Fred Bing?”
“I am. Do we know each other?”
The two men shook hands after Devine introduced himself.
Bing wore his brown hair on the longish side. About six three, he had a clean-shaven face, a long, fit runner’s build, and penetrating grayish eyes. His white dress shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing pale muscular forearms. He looked tired.
“What do you need?” asked his sister.
He held up some papers. “Your signature.” He looked at Devine. “We’re refinancing our working capital loan. The documents one has to read to do so will cure any insomnia.”
Devine smiled. “I’m sure.”
“I would like to talk to you about some of the terms, sis,” said Bing. “Get your advice before we actually sign off.”
She glanced at Devine. “Sure, we were just finishing up, weren’t we, Mr. Devine?” The woman’s look was more pleading than triumphant.
Devine rose and handed her his card. “If you remember anything else helpful,” he said.
“Yes, of course,” she said, hastily pocketing the card.
“I heard you’re here about Jenny?” said Bing. “Awful, just awful.”
“You knew her?”
“Oh yes. Jenny and I were in the same high school class. I went to college and got my teaching certificate, and went back and taught science at the high school for a while. Then I got the necessary degrees before coming to work here. Jenny was the cream of the crop. We all knew she was destined for bigger and better things.”
