Free Presumption of Guilt by Archer Mayor Page B

owners with the right acreage—and who’d carefully chosen which trees to cut—the view encompassed a vision of New England approximating what the original inhabitants had enjoyed.
    It was a far cry from Joe Gunther’s standard field of operations.
    This last point was driven home as he rounded the final curve in the access road to encounter a broad, paved driveway flanked by two enormous granite pillars supporting matched concrete vases.
    He looked in vain for an overarching wrought iron sign declaring Xanadu, before he swept up the avenue, rounded a manicured copse of trees and a fountain, and found himself staring at what he imagined to be an undersized knockoff of a run-of-the-mill palace.
    â€œJesus,” he whispered.
    There was a cool breeze at this altitude, carrying the odor of new spring growth, reminiscent of what drifted out from a flower shop’s refrigerator when a bouquet was being retrieved. Joe paused by his car and faced the view, letting the sensation of yearly renewal soak into his bones, along with the anemic but welcome sunshine. He wondered if bears underwent the same level of appreciation when they finally escaped their dens. Joe was a native-born son of the soil, descendant of a long line of stoic Vermont farmers, but he was hard-put to argue against this past winter as having challenged a man’s patience.
    â€œPerfect time of year, isn’t it?” said a male voice from behind him. “Especially before the bugs wake up.”
    Joe turned to see a white-haired, unshaven man in old jeans and a soiled shirt round a corner of the elaborate house, a shovel in his hand.
    â€œYou had to bring them up, didn’t you?” he asked.
    The man shrugged, approaching. “That’s why we live here, ain’t it? Nine months of snow and three more of damned poor sledding, swattin’ at flies.”
    The two men shook hands, in so doing recognizing a kinship in pedigree, and perhaps background.
    â€œJoe Gunther—Vermont Bureau of Investigation.”
    â€œNo shit? A lousy copper. You finally caught me; took you long enough. BB Barrett.”
    Joe smiled. “Thought you worked for the lord of the manor. Today casual Friday?”
    Barrett laughed and turned to face his easily seven-thousand-square-foot home. “Yeah, right. Ridiculous, ain’t it?” He hefted the shovel. “Nope. I’m the lord, and the gardener, and the master of all my goods and chattel. What the fuck is chattel anyhow?”
    â€œYour personal belongings besides real estate.”
    Barrett stared at him. “Really? Then what’re goods?”
    â€œMerchandise.”
    The other man grunted. “Huh. Guess those days’re behind me, then. No goods. Shitload of chattel, though. What do the cops want with me? And the Bureau of Investigation? What the hell’s that? I never heard of you guys. No offense.”
    â€œNone taken. We’re a major crimes unit. They invented us a few years back, supposedly to streamline things and ramp up the quality of work.”
    â€œYou a state cop?”
    â€œYes and no. We’re not state police, but most of us were recruited from them. Not me. I used to work for the local PD.”
    Barrett leaned forward slightly and peered at him intently. “Who did you say you were?”
    â€œJoe Gunther.”
    â€œHoly shit. I remember you. You worked for Frank Murphy back when. Headed up the detective squad after he died.”
    â€œThere’s a name from the past. Yeah, that’s me.”
    Barrett shook his hand a second time. “Jeezum, man. You been around forever.”
    Joe shrugged without comment.
    Barrett placed a hand on his back and ushered him toward the huge house. “God. I know what that’s like. Come on in. You wanna drink of something? I won’t offer you a beer, unless you’re real old school, but we got all sorts of other stuff here.”
    â€œYou have a Coke?”
    His