are?”
He patted her butt on his way to grabbing his parka. “Yeah. ’Cause now you love it.”
She headed out the door. “You are such a jerk.”
He laughed and followed her into the overheated second-floor hallway of Brattleboro’s municipal building, where the VBI had a one-room office for its four regional agents. “So, what’s the deal?”
“With P and P?” she asked. “We gotta interview Dave Snyder about one of their ex-parolees—someone named Andy Griffis.”
“Griffis?” Willy commented, following her toward the stairs. “He’s dead. What do we care?”
She half turned to respond, “How did you know that?”
He poked her in the small of the back. “You gotta keep up, girl. Plug into the gossip.”
Say what you might about Willy Kunkle—that he was irascible, disrespectful, impolitic, and prone to cutting corners—he was still a cop’s cop and made an art form of knowing everything about everybody who’d ever had a run-in with the law. He had an encyclopedia in his head about the people you’d never want to invite home.
As if to prove the point, he added, as they headed down the stairwell, “He was Gunther’s case from when we all used to work downstairs. He hung himself.”
Downstairs meant the Brattleboro Police Department, where Willy had also once been a detective. Of their squad, only Spinney had come from outside.
“Hanged himself,” Sam corrected.
“Whatever, and you didn’t answer the question.”
“Joe asked me to look into Griffis because of the car crash that put Leo and his mom in the hospital.”
Willy reached out and grabbed her arm to slow her down. “Whoa. I thought that was an accident.”
“It is on paper,” she answered, still walking toward the door to the parking lot.
“Meaning what?”
She shrugged. “Not sure. He didn’t go into details. Just asked us to get what we could on Griffis.”
Which vagueness, of course, only appealed to Willy’s sense of balance. “Cool,” he said as they stepped outside.
In the town of Brattleboro, Parole and Probation was housed in what used to be a bright pink chocolate factory, adjacent to both a popular restaurant and a stunning view of the confluence of the West and Connecticut Rivers. It was wrapped in greenery and appointed with enough small architectural details to make it look like an Italian villa designed by someone who had never traveled overseas.
To many observers—and many in law enforcement—the setting and history of this halfway house for the unfortunate was apt for both the town and the state in general, given Brattleboro’s and Vermont’s reputation for being less than draconian in their treatment of the legally wayward.
That said, the facility’s interior was pretty standard office building, and nothing about its layout or the attitude of its occupants implied any coddling of the clientele. This was immediately demonstrated by the receptionist behind the bullet-resistant window when Sam and Willy walked in—especially after she caught sight of the latter and leaped to a reasonable conclusion.
“Sign in and have a seat.”
Sam smiled brightly and flashed her badge. “Understandable mistake. We’re here to see Dave Snyder.”
The receptionist reacted with a deadpan “Don’t sign in and have a seat.”
Snyder, when he appeared a couple of minutes later, was a small, intense man with a hard handshake and a ready smile, who ushered them down a tangle of narrow hallways, up a half flight of stairs, and finally into a truly minute office with not even an air vent for circulation, much less a window. So much for the Italian villa.
The three of them conducted a facsimile minuet getting seated without bumping into each other, after which Willy, with his usual grace, opened up with a small conversational ice breaker.
“Christ. Either somebody really hates you or you need lessons on sucking up.”
Snyder laughed. “I spend about an hour a day in here. It’s actually kind of
He patted her butt on his way to grabbing his parka. “Yeah. ’Cause now you love it.”
She headed out the door. “You are such a jerk.”
He laughed and followed her into the overheated second-floor hallway of Brattleboro’s municipal building, where the VBI had a one-room office for its four regional agents. “So, what’s the deal?”
“With P and P?” she asked. “We gotta interview Dave Snyder about one of their ex-parolees—someone named Andy Griffis.”
“Griffis?” Willy commented, following her toward the stairs. “He’s dead. What do we care?”
She half turned to respond, “How did you know that?”
He poked her in the small of the back. “You gotta keep up, girl. Plug into the gossip.”
Say what you might about Willy Kunkle—that he was irascible, disrespectful, impolitic, and prone to cutting corners—he was still a cop’s cop and made an art form of knowing everything about everybody who’d ever had a run-in with the law. He had an encyclopedia in his head about the people you’d never want to invite home.
As if to prove the point, he added, as they headed down the stairwell, “He was Gunther’s case from when we all used to work downstairs. He hung himself.”
Downstairs meant the Brattleboro Police Department, where Willy had also once been a detective. Of their squad, only Spinney had come from outside.
“Hanged himself,” Sam corrected.
“Whatever, and you didn’t answer the question.”
“Joe asked me to look into Griffis because of the car crash that put Leo and his mom in the hospital.”
Willy reached out and grabbed her arm to slow her down. “Whoa. I thought that was an accident.”
“It is on paper,” she answered, still walking toward the door to the parking lot.
“Meaning what?”
She shrugged. “Not sure. He didn’t go into details. Just asked us to get what we could on Griffis.”
Which vagueness, of course, only appealed to Willy’s sense of balance. “Cool,” he said as they stepped outside.
In the town of Brattleboro, Parole and Probation was housed in what used to be a bright pink chocolate factory, adjacent to both a popular restaurant and a stunning view of the confluence of the West and Connecticut Rivers. It was wrapped in greenery and appointed with enough small architectural details to make it look like an Italian villa designed by someone who had never traveled overseas.
To many observers—and many in law enforcement—the setting and history of this halfway house for the unfortunate was apt for both the town and the state in general, given Brattleboro’s and Vermont’s reputation for being less than draconian in their treatment of the legally wayward.
That said, the facility’s interior was pretty standard office building, and nothing about its layout or the attitude of its occupants implied any coddling of the clientele. This was immediately demonstrated by the receptionist behind the bullet-resistant window when Sam and Willy walked in—especially after she caught sight of the latter and leaped to a reasonable conclusion.
“Sign in and have a seat.”
Sam smiled brightly and flashed her badge. “Understandable mistake. We’re here to see Dave Snyder.”
The receptionist reacted with a deadpan “Don’t sign in and have a seat.”
Snyder, when he appeared a couple of minutes later, was a small, intense man with a hard handshake and a ready smile, who ushered them down a tangle of narrow hallways, up a half flight of stairs, and finally into a truly minute office with not even an air vent for circulation, much less a window. So much for the Italian villa.
The three of them conducted a facsimile minuet getting seated without bumping into each other, after which Willy, with his usual grace, opened up with a small conversational ice breaker.
“Christ. Either somebody really hates you or you need lessons on sucking up.”
Snyder laughed. “I spend about an hour a day in here. It’s actually kind of
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