pay off.
"How long ago was that?" Joe asked.
"Two years."
"She list an address?"
"Yup. Shelburne. From what it says here, she lives with her son. He was the driver."
Joe patted his shoulder. That was a town just below Burlington, not more than sixty minutes from where they were now. "It's getting late. Want to knock on her door tonight or in the morning?"
Lester twisted around in his seat. "You kidding?"
It was just dark by the time Lester rolled to a stop on Hillside Terrace, in the middle of Shelburne Village, opposite a modest, rectangular box of a house with an anemic interior light smudging a pair of heavy curtains. Through the car's open windows, they could hear the constant rumble of the heavy Route 7 traffic a block to the west.
They walked up the cracked driveway and cut across the patchy lawn to the front door, where Joe rang the bell. The house's siding had started life as white vinyl, but its color and integrity had faded over time, becoming yellowed and marred by chips and fissures, making the entire house look like an old and sleeping dinosaur.
The door opened to reveal a turnip-shaped man in baggy shorts and an untucked, faded Hawaiian shirt. He wore thick glasses and had a hank of thinning gray hair draped across his forehead, as if a once carefully applied comb-over had undergone a landslide.
"Yes?"
Spinney spoke first, having read the old traffic report. "William Friel?"
The man's voice was a monotone, devoid of curiosity. "Yes." Behind him, a television was spilling a game show into the room.
"Son of Barb Barber?"
Even then, he didn't flicker. "Yes."
"I'm Special Agent Spinney, of the Vermont Bureau of Investigation. This is Special Agent Gunther. We were wondering if we could come in and chat with you a bit. Would that be all right?"
Friel finally registered a small modicum of emotion by responding unexpectedly. "Wait a minute, okay? I gotta prepare my mother." Without further ceremony, he shut the door in their faces.
"Okay," Spinney said slowly. "That was weird."
A minute later, however, Friel was back, pulling open the door and ushering them in, muttering, "Sorry 'bout that. I don't like her surprised."
Unsure of what to expect, Lester crossed the threshold, looking around. Joe followed him into a living room with little furniture, shabby wall-to-wall carpeting, a cheap and garishly bright overhead light, and an old woman in a wheelchair, staring at the TV set, her legs covered with a thin blanket. The walls were bare, the only bookshelf had some clothes and a pile of old newspapers in it, and the air smelled stale.
Spinney straightened slightly at the sight of the woman. "Hi," he said with artificial brightness. "Sorry to barge in on you like this."
She didn't so much as blink. Friel said nothing.
"Is this Barb Barber?" Joe asked softly.
"Yes. My mother," Friel explained. "That's what I meant."
Joe cast her a quick glance from across the room before asking, "How long's she been afflicted?"
Friel's eyes seemed to settle on him for the first time. He hesitated and then answered, "Three years."
"So it came on fast?"
Her son pressed his lips together, blinked once, and conceded, "Pretty quick."
Joe reached out and touched his arm. "That's a shame. Hard to bear."
Friel nodded without comment.
"Is she reachable at all?" Joe asked. "We were hoping to ask her a couple of questions."
He hesitated before saying; "No. She's gone. I still talk to her, like just now when you were at the door, but it's mostly out of habit. She doesn't really need warning anymore."
Friel didn't seem even vaguely curious about why two cops would be standing in his house, wanting to speak to his mother. As it was, they were still standing as they'd entered, awkwardly in the middle of the room.
"Maybe we could ask you, instead," Joe suggested. "You have a place where we could talk and not bother her? A kitchen, perhaps?"
Friel considered that before admitting, "Yeah."
Joe had by now understood the
"How long ago was that?" Joe asked.
"Two years."
"She list an address?"
"Yup. Shelburne. From what it says here, she lives with her son. He was the driver."
Joe patted his shoulder. That was a town just below Burlington, not more than sixty minutes from where they were now. "It's getting late. Want to knock on her door tonight or in the morning?"
Lester twisted around in his seat. "You kidding?"
It was just dark by the time Lester rolled to a stop on Hillside Terrace, in the middle of Shelburne Village, opposite a modest, rectangular box of a house with an anemic interior light smudging a pair of heavy curtains. Through the car's open windows, they could hear the constant rumble of the heavy Route 7 traffic a block to the west.
They walked up the cracked driveway and cut across the patchy lawn to the front door, where Joe rang the bell. The house's siding had started life as white vinyl, but its color and integrity had faded over time, becoming yellowed and marred by chips and fissures, making the entire house look like an old and sleeping dinosaur.
The door opened to reveal a turnip-shaped man in baggy shorts and an untucked, faded Hawaiian shirt. He wore thick glasses and had a hank of thinning gray hair draped across his forehead, as if a once carefully applied comb-over had undergone a landslide.
"Yes?"
Spinney spoke first, having read the old traffic report. "William Friel?"
The man's voice was a monotone, devoid of curiosity. "Yes." Behind him, a television was spilling a game show into the room.
"Son of Barb Barber?"
Even then, he didn't flicker. "Yes."
"I'm Special Agent Spinney, of the Vermont Bureau of Investigation. This is Special Agent Gunther. We were wondering if we could come in and chat with you a bit. Would that be all right?"
Friel finally registered a small modicum of emotion by responding unexpectedly. "Wait a minute, okay? I gotta prepare my mother." Without further ceremony, he shut the door in their faces.
"Okay," Spinney said slowly. "That was weird."
A minute later, however, Friel was back, pulling open the door and ushering them in, muttering, "Sorry 'bout that. I don't like her surprised."
Unsure of what to expect, Lester crossed the threshold, looking around. Joe followed him into a living room with little furniture, shabby wall-to-wall carpeting, a cheap and garishly bright overhead light, and an old woman in a wheelchair, staring at the TV set, her legs covered with a thin blanket. The walls were bare, the only bookshelf had some clothes and a pile of old newspapers in it, and the air smelled stale.
Spinney straightened slightly at the sight of the woman. "Hi," he said with artificial brightness. "Sorry to barge in on you like this."
She didn't so much as blink. Friel said nothing.
"Is this Barb Barber?" Joe asked softly.
"Yes. My mother," Friel explained. "That's what I meant."
Joe cast her a quick glance from across the room before asking, "How long's she been afflicted?"
Friel's eyes seemed to settle on him for the first time. He hesitated and then answered, "Three years."
"So it came on fast?"
Her son pressed his lips together, blinked once, and conceded, "Pretty quick."
Joe reached out and touched his arm. "That's a shame. Hard to bear."
Friel nodded without comment.
"Is she reachable at all?" Joe asked. "We were hoping to ask her a couple of questions."
He hesitated before saying; "No. She's gone. I still talk to her, like just now when you were at the door, but it's mostly out of habit. She doesn't really need warning anymore."
Friel didn't seem even vaguely curious about why two cops would be standing in his house, wanting to speak to his mother. As it was, they were still standing as they'd entered, awkwardly in the middle of the room.
"Maybe we could ask you, instead," Joe suggested. "You have a place where we could talk and not bother her? A kitchen, perhaps?"
Friel considered that before admitting, "Yeah."
Joe had by now understood the
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