Free Fruits of the Poisonous Tree by Archer Mayor Page B

bust is the badge in their pockets. In my personal experience, that’s mostly bunk—except with Willy. He was a cynical, hardbitten, nasty-minded street cop with a withered, crippled left arm he kept from flopping around by anchoring its hand in his pants pocket. He had no friends that I knew of, no pleasures outside his job, and no discernibly pleasant characteristics. He’d had a wife once, whom he’d taken to beating and who’d left him years ago, and he’d once fallen so far into the dumps that I’d thought we’d have to fire him. Instead, a sniper’s bullet in the arm had retired him on permanent disability.
    That should have marked the end of his career, except that I’d encouraged him to challenge the town under the Americans with Disabilities Act to get his job back. He’d never thanked me for that apparent folly, but he’d never given me cause to regret it, either. For as bitter and disagreeable as he could be, he understood the workings of Brattleboro’s least desirable social circles like no man I’d ever met. And while he talked like them, acted like them, and at times even appeared indistinguishable from them, Willy Kunkle was positively driven to putting the “bad guys” in jail. He was, like a highly motivated but disturbingly hostile attack dog, unbeatable at his job. I just never had him tour the schools upholding the department’s image.
    “Sammie tells me you didn’t have any better luck than she did.”
    “Nope.”
    “Did either one of you hear Jason Ryan’s name come up while you were poking around, in any context at all?”
    Kunkle’s cup froze halfway to his lips. “Ryan? Don’t you think it’s a little early to get that desperate?”
    Sammie merely shook her head.
    “He threatened Gail just a few days ago—got so unruly at a board meeting, Santos was called in to throw him out.”
    Kunkle shrugged instead of responding.
    “I’d like you two to check him out—discreetly—especially what he was up to all last night. Find out if he’s been mouthing off about Gail, and see if you can nail down exactly what was said at that meeting.”
    Kunkle made a face, drained his Styrofoam cup, and tossed it into my trashcan. He easily—even gracefully—shoved himself out of my guest chair with his powerful right arm.
    Sammie, more polite, was looking at me dubiously. “You want us both on this?”
    “As far as it makes sense—I want it fast and thorough. There is one other item, though. J.P. thinks Gail’s attacker entered through one of the living-room windows, and that he knew which one to choose beforehand. She had several windows replaced about a year ago, by whom I don’t remember—some local outfit. We’re thinking one of the workmen might have scoped her place out back then.”
    They both nodded at that one, knowing full well that similar patterns had proven out in the past, in both rape cases and robberies.
    Kunkle headed out the door, but Sammie lingered a moment, looking a little uncomfortable. “I’m sorry about what happened to Gail. Must be tough when it’s someone you know.”
    I didn’t argue the point.
    · · ·
    The next several hours were spent at Lou Biddle’s emergency intelligence meeting—discreetly held in the back room of the local ambulance squad—where a dozen of us culled through reams of files from Vermont’s Department of Corrections and those of law enforcement agencies from most of the towns and counties around Brattleboro, including several from Massachusetts and New Hampshire.
    The mood was not encouraging, however. Stimulated already by Tyler’s faxed circulars, these people had already given their files a preliminary survey, all without a “hit.” Now, each of them discussed their second and third choices, mentioning the presence of a knife, the blindfolding of a victim, the use of physical restraints, the timing of an attack, or the fact that it had taken place in the victim’s home. And while I gratefully accepted even the most