The Orphan's Guilt: A Joe Gunther Novel

PROLOGUE

The Deathwatch Beetle

Perfect.

John Rust spotted the cruiser as he was leaving Putney, parked under a tree down a side street, almost completely shaded from the nearby street lamp. A shark lurking by a rock in gloomy waters.

John had missed sideswiping a parked car moments earlier, overcorrected in response. As soon as he saw the cop, he knew what to expect.

On cue, the inside of his vehicle began pulsing with blue lights from behind, making him feel trapped inside a hyperactive pinball machine. Additionally, all three of his rearview mirrors lit up from the cruiser’s takedown strobes, completely blinding him. It wasn’t the first time John had been subjected to this light show. Designed to protect the cop and intimidate the suspect, it had been well researched and tested. Resigned to his fate, he pulled over, feeling as deflated as he’d been contentedly anesthetized twenty seconds earlier. John didn’t even bother reaching for his paperwork in the glove compartment. He just sat motionless, his hands in his lap, numb once more.

The sharp rap on his front passenger-side window still made him jump when it came, however, along with the fidgety darting about of a powerful flashlight beam—an intrusive, inquisitive Tinker Bell designed to strip him of his secrets.

Roll down the window, sir, came the order.

John did so, using the control button at his left hand. The cool night air felt good. It was early spring, which in Vermont could mean a serious careening of temperature shifts. But right now, depressed, at loose ends, and convincingly drunk, he wasn’t thinking about the weather.

Nor was he thinking much about what was happening.

He was wandering the corridors of his own recent past, suffering the loss that had encouraged him, yet again, to fall off the wagon.

The trooper, Tyler Brennan, six years on the job, had made his stop by the book. The Vermont State Police, and cops in general throughout this supposedly peaceful region, had come under increasing pressure to be more respectful, considerate, sensitive, and caring with their targeted population. At the same time, the very same people, to Tyler’s mind, had been ramping up their aggressiveness, use of weapons, and numbers of overdoses.

These were complicated times, Tyler’s sergeant had told them at a recent briefing. No shit, had whispered a colleague, tapping the naloxone dispenser they now carried in their pockets, designed to reverse an opioid OD. And as for the days when a Vermont cop could almost depend on spending his career without pulling his gun on duty, those had been relegated to the past.

So, yes, complicated times—with increasingly little room for error.

Therefore the passenger-side approach. Tyler had taken the new caution to heart. Years ago, most officers pulling over a car walked up to the driver’s window and engaged in immediate conversation. Nowadays, they emulated what Tyler had just done. Each tended to circle the rear of their flashing cruiser—therefore not cutting in front of the blazing lights and outlining themselves—to unobtrusively peer through the suspect vehicle’s rear right window. This tactic afforded a number of advantages. It distracted the driver, who was squinting into the left outside mirror, expecting to see a shadow approach; it gave the cop a brief contemplation of the interior, including the driver’s often hidden right hand; and it supplied an element of surprise when the request to talk was finally issued. It also didn’t hurt that it lowered the chance of the officer’s being struck by a passing car.

But in Tyler Brennan’s experience, it also had a final, paradoxical, effect. Because of its emphasis on lowering the threat threshold, the covert approach actually made Tyler more paranoid, as did an additional habit of placing his bare hand on the suspect’s car, in order to leave trace of his DNA and fingerprints behind, in case things went haywire.

In all, by the time he’d knocked on John Rust’s right front window, he was ready to draw down on his suspect at the slightest provocation.

But Rust barely moved. Quite the opposite of a trigger-happy possible killer, this guy appeared borderline catatonic.

The revelation spurred Brennan to preface his usual spiel with a note of concern. Sir, are you all right?

Rust had jumped in his seat upon the rapping of Tyler’s flashlight on the glass, but he now merely blinked, as if stirring from sleep. Sure, he said vaguely.

You don’t seem that way, Brennan countered, adding, and so you know, this conversation is being audio- and video-recorded. Have you been drinking alcohol tonight, sir?

Rust seemed to consider the question. The requirement to announce any bodycams or recorders was routinely done casually, so as not to draw attention to the fact.

Yup, Rust said slowly, still not moving.

How much would you say you’ve consumed?

After a pause, the answer was, The usual, I guess.

Thank you, the cop responded, genuinely grateful, hoping his camera was fully functioning. Could I see your driver’s license, proof of insurance, and registration, please?

John Rust liked the young cop’s face, even under the severe forward tilt of his imposing campaign hat—wide eyes, hint of a smile, an open expression. It almost compelled John to be honest, although he sighed inwardly when he heard himself admitting to being drunk. That wasn’t going to improve things any.

He sat waiting in his car as the trooper retired to run his paperwork for priors, a process guaranteed to end poorly. John couldn’t even remember how many times he’d been pulled over.

He wasn’t upset, however. He no longer felt any reason to be. His life, as he’d known it for forty years, had ended. Whatever happened now would be like cutting a kite loose of its tether—freeing it to float away.

Or plummet.

The ensuing roadside minuet of nystagmus eye test, walk-and-turn and one-leg stand, and finally the forceful breath into the Alco-Sensor occurred sequentially, politely, almost courteously toward the end, as trooper and driver found their rhythm.

Many such interactions are punctuated by anger, impatience, and, especially, sloppiness by the offender. But this one was very different for both men. For a number of reasons—mood, time of night, overall state of being, or, more likely, the simple fact that these two just connected somehow—their ritual of command-and-obey, perform-and-observe, oddly suggestive of two tall, thin birds acting out a ceremonial, nature-driven encounter, became almost pleasant. This wasn’t hurt by the fact that Rust performed his dexterity tests quite well, a result usually restricted to either the sober or to seasoned alcoholics, whose tolerances could be alarmingly high. The Alco-Sensor reading had indicated that John was among the latter, but his demeanor throughout remained peaceful and courteous. By the time Tyler Brennan eased his now-handcuffed subject gently into his back seat for the trip to the barracks, a genuine if unacknowledged affection had bloomed between them.

DUIs, DWIs, or sometimes deewees in the jargon, are lengthy affairs, quasi-liturgical in their formality. There are steps to be followed, protocols to enact, tests to endure, and forms to be completed. A decision tree algorithm dictates which path to engage, depending on the investigator’s discoveries and the arrestee’s cooperation and choices. The whole exercise can take hours and result in a trip to jail, or end at the barracks with a citation and the arranging of some form of transport back home.

Phones, computers, and faxes are variously employed, necessitating a lot of sitting around, waiting. It was during this phase that Brennan entered the room Rust had been assigned, bearing two mugs of coffee. His compulsory guest was sitting with his head cocked, like a dog’s listening to some tiny siren call from afar.

Tyler didn’t interrupt as he handed over one of the mugs and sat in the room’s remaining chair.

Hear that? John asked him, a small smile on his otherwise permanently sad face.

Tyler yielded to the building’s silence long enough to shake his head and admit, No. What’m I listening for?

That ticking.

Tyler now heard it. Hot-water pipe, he explained. I got the same thing at home. When the nights are cold, it can get pretty loud. You must’ve heard that before, John.

Rust hadn’t been very talkative so far, responding to questions quietly and in a surprisingly soothing tone that Brennan had come to appreciate. Now, for the first time, he gazed at the trooper and spoke off topic.

Yes, I have, and of course you’re right. It’s just that I heard the same thing earlier today. It got me thinking.

’Bout what? Brennan asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

You ever hear of the deathwatch beetle? John asked.

Deathwatch? Tyler repeated. Doesn’t sound good, whatever it is.

It’s nothing nasty, John assured him. Ironic, maybe. It’s a wood-boring beetle, mostly in England, from what I’ve read. Kind of a termite, I suppose. It lives in the wood of really old houses, destroying the integrity of the beams from the inside. People don’t discover it until they notice a little wood dust here and there. Then, when they tap on the surface, it gives way to huge holes of underlying powder. It’s actually quite startling. Very destructive while being almost invisible. I’ve seen pictures of the damage. Impressive.

Okay, Tyler replied slowly, wondering what any beetle had to do with noisy pipes—and if Rust’s level of inebriation was maybe worse than he’d imagined. But he was amused by this almost abrupt evolution from virtual silence to random eloquence, and was happy to allow it some rein.

John seemed to understand the cop’s inner debate and waved a hand reassuringly. I know. I’m rambling. The deathwatch beetle blows its cover when it’s searching out company. It actually thumps its head repeatedly against the wood to attract a mate.

No foolin’, Tyler said, partly humoring him. Must be huge.

It’s not. Third of an inch or so. You can’t really hear it at all unless things are absolutely still. That’s how it got its name. Here’s the irony I mentioned: Back in the day, people held vigils for the dead and dying, all through the night. In the silence, they’d hear the beetles hard at work, calling out so they could create life. But the two phenomena got weirdly combined—death became associated with the tapping, to the point where people started saying the poor beetle was calling for death itself, counting down the seconds.

Brennan put down his coffee and stood up, headed for the fax machine in the other room to see if his paperwork had come through yet. Well, take comfort, John. He jerked a thumb overhead. "That is a hot-water pipe."

John smiled again. Oh, I know. All this goes back to before indoor plumbing. But it does make you wonder—if nature sometimes knows more than we do.

That stopped Brennan at the door, caught up by the notion and recalling something else John had mentioned. You said this was the second time you heard ticking today.

Rust looked caught out, and furrowed his brow, staring at the floor. Did I?

Yeah. The young cop released the doorknob and watched the older man closely. When was that? he pursued.

Rust spoke reluctantly. I lost somebody today. That’s when I heard the tapping. It was more in context then.

Somebody died? Tyler asked. In his experience, people talk to excess, usually about themselves, and drunks can be especially talkative. Here he was learning that Rust had just suffered the death of someone close, and yet hadn’t said a word until now, and then virtually by accident.

My brother, Rust said.

Tyler sat back down, his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. He was ill?

It was expected. Still—he looked up, his expression so troubled Tyler was quite moved, and added—it came as a surprise. You know?

Brennan thought of his grandmother last year. A woman in her nineties, whose death had nevertheless left them bereft and longing. I think I do. I’m sorry, John.

Tyler got up to leave again, but this time, in violation of one of his own practices, he touched Rust in passing, gently pressing his shoulder.

That gesture notwithstanding, Brennan was in no way deflected from his course of action. Another revelation over the past few hours had been that John Rust, as mellow and soft-spoken as he presented, was nevertheless a committed and unrepentant alcoholic. More to the point, this was his fourth DUI recently where he’d registered a BAC of over 0.16—twice the allowable limit.

It wouldn’t be the first time Tyler had enjoyed the company of someone his charges put behind bars. It was one of the peculiarities of the profession that bonds often formed between cop and crook, considering all the time they spent in each other’s company.

Jail wasn’t going to be a feature tonight, though. Rust was going to be cited and released on his own recognizance. He’d been cooperative, pleasant, and coherent. His car had been impounded and he’d be taken home in a cab. Additionally, he’d just suffered a personal loss, and, if standards were followed, he’d be losing his privilege to drive in a few days anyhow, this being his fourth offense. Tyler saw no risk to public safety in letting the poor guy go.

Not immediately, however. As Brennan entered the dispatcher’s office, she informed him that a domestic dispute involving a knife had just been reported a few miles away, and all hands were being requested. Rather than wrapping up with Rust—collecting his fingerprints and mug shots before release—Brennan would have to detain him at the barracks for a few more hours, under the dispatcher’s watchful eye via camera, until this new emergency had been addressed.

It was a routine-enough occurrence, and one that Tyler doubted his new acquaintance would mind.

Indeed, John Rust used the extra time to slowly grasp his new reality, emerging from the trancelike state Brennan had found him in to something like an epiphanic awakening. Whether it was the alcohol’s release of his brain or simply his meditation on the deathwatch beetle, John had glimpsed a possible new direction for his life that he hadn’t considered previously.

Following Pete’s inevitable if slow-coming death, John had fallen upon habit, and emptied a bottle. But was that what he wanted, acting as he had before, even without Pete at the center of things?

In the countdown that measures one’s time alive, that suddenly seemed to John—surrounded as he was by the stark reality of a police station—a poor destiny to embrace.

Especially if the same long-expected death could serve as a springboard for something more rewarding.

By the time Tyler Brennan returned four hours later to complete the booking procedure, he found Rust clear-eyed, engaged, and confident in his movements—the picture of a man with a mission in mind.

Tyler could only wish him well.

CHAPTER ONE

Searching Out the Weak Spot

Sally Kravitz liked Scott Jezek. A runner, a reader, a family man, he was the kind of lawyer who made lawyer jokes ring hollow. He was a small-time operator, owner of a one-man practice in Brattleboro, Vermont, a town that, since the 1970s, had earned an eccentric, politicized, left-wing reputation that allowed unusual types like Jezek to fit right in.

His most winning feature for Sally was his soft spot for the underdog. Having cut his legal teeth for two decades in Boston, Jezek had amassed a small fortune and was yearning for a simpler life, if still within the practice of law. He’d chosen Brattleboro for this, and opened what he referred to as a boutique firm, where he could pick and choose his clients based on whether he believed in their cause over their ability to pay, often charging just enough to settle his bills and, for the most part, rejecting the very people who could easily afford his high-octane background and credentials.

This made Sally and Scott kindred spirits, since, though wildly different in nature, their backgrounds had sculpted in each a sympathy for the downtrodden. A homegrown Brattleboro girl, Sally had been reared by a father devoted to experiencing and learning from the hardscrabble lives of society’s lower rungs. He had moved her around the town like a nomad for years, camping out in other people’s apartments and trailers and homes, exchanging labor and gifts for shelter, while absorbing a culture from which most middle-class residents only dreamed of escaping.

But just as Scott Jezek no longer depended on money to function as a lawyer, Dan Kravitz, Sally’s father, hadn’t lived among the disadvantaged through fate or misfortune. It had been a choice. In fact, he had money. Quite a bit, not that anyone knew it. He’d developed a covert career as an information thief, and a good one, complete with a rigid and moral standard of operations, who broke into high-end homes to bug people’s electronic devices and thus follow—and benefit from—their activities, whether legal or not. As a result, once he felt that his daughter had learned what she could on society’s ground floor, he’d put her into a prestigious prep school so she could study the flip side.

Now, at last an adult, Sally had chosen a profession that helped her again to peer into how and why people function as they do, as a private investigator.

And like Scott Jezek, she selected many jobs despite a lower income. Differing from most of her colleagues, she tried to avoid domestic work—the euphemism for spousal cheating cases—and weighted her business toward defense mitigation. Lawyers like Scott hired her to discover good things about their clients, for use in tempering the prejudice of prosecutors or judges or both, since their grasp of a defendant’s entire personality was often based solely on the charges against them.

That explained Sally’s being here now. Scott had phoned earlier that morning to ask if an unusual DUI might be of interest.

Sally didn’t drink alcohol. At all. Never had. It was one of her personal details that, despite the influences that had formed her, she had created for herself an unreachable behavioral niche, where she remained safe like an eagle high on a cliff.

That being said, she understood addiction and the various forces leading to it. She didn’t necessarily disagree that some drunks were self-indulgent boors, too inconsiderate of others to merit much slack. But Sally’s own view was more charitable, having found that most addicts were caught up in emotions exceeding their ability to control them.

Jezek’s office matched his profile. Housed in an old Victorian mansion, now home to a preponderance of psychology practices—of which Brattleboro had an impressive number—it consisted of a single room flooded with light from a large bay window and appointed with hardwood floors, wood paneling, and a coffered ceiling. Lining the ancient mantelpiece above an inoperative fireplace was a parade of some of Jezek’s collection of antique Christmas cards, lined up like a colorful if faded paper train.

The lawyer himself, dressed casually in jeans and an open-necked, button-down shirt, rose from his chair upon her entrance and fairly raced around his desk to greet her.

Sally, he said, smiling broadly, shaking her hand, and waving her into one of two guest chairs. You came. I am delighted.

He took the chair catty-corner to hers as she replied, Sure. You thought I wouldn’t?

I didn’t know if this met your principles. I know you’re pretty selective.

If you took a case, she told him, it’s a fair bet I would too. You’re a good gatekeeper.

He laughed before saying, All right, enough, before we both overdo the compliments.

What’ve you got? she asked.

He reached over to his desk and removed a file, which he opened on his lap. John Rust. Pulled over by the VSP—Trooper Tyler Brennan—a couple of days ago in Putney for weaving, in what appears to be a righteous stop. Blew way over the legal limit at roadside, did the same on the Datamaster at the barracks, and was released on a citation, even though this is his fourth DUI.

That’s unusual, Sally observed.

True, Scott agreed, but it’s largely officer discretion, and I guess the two of them hit it off. John’s a nice guy, he was heading back to his home in Westminster—was almost there, in fact. Maybe that played a role.

He is in a world of hurt, though, Sally said. It’s beyond officer discretion from here on out. He’s gotta be looking at jail time, and definitely a suspended license. What’s his problem, that he keeps circling the same hydrant?

Scott held up a finger in emphasis. That is precisely why we’re meeting. What doesn’t surface in this— He tapped the file. —is that John had sole custody of and responsibility for a handicapped younger brother who died on the same day as the DUI. According to John, Peter Rust was diagnosed with some form of hydrocephalus at birth and gradually became a vegetable. When he died at twenty-eight, he weighed sixty pounds.

And John took care of him all on his own? Sally asked. How could he do that? He independently wealthy?

Hardly. He works as a freelance web designer. But you’re right in implying Peter’s need for full-time care. I think John came up with that job in large part so he could stay at home and still make a living. From what I gather, finances have sometimes been tight. Nevertheless, I spoke with Peter’s physician on the phone, and he told me he never had a vegetative patient so well cared for. He called John a saint, and stressed that wasn’t a word he used often.

But he drinks, Sally suggested.

Jezek agreed. He does. He was twelve when Pete was born, eighteen when he took over his care, his father having walked out on his birthday, saying, ‘Welcome to adulthood. Good luck. You’ll need it,’ or something similar. John’s mom had already died of an overdose.

Sally was shaking her head in sympathy. The implication being that John was probably already doing most of the caregiving, even before he turned eighteen.

A reasonable assumption, Scott agreed. Can you see why I called you?

I can, she said. Did Rust phone you from the barracks? Take a blood test? Admit to driving under the influence?

He did not phone, to answer the first question. I think because he was in shock. He told me later that through it all, he was in a daze, what with Pete’s death, and that it was only toward the end that he began thinking he wanted to fight what he’d first seen as inevitable. In the past, whenever he was busted, he had Pete’s care to think about. This time, he said, he felt he had nothing to live for.

But he changed his mind.

Scott looked thoughtful. Yeah. I’m not sure what that’s about, exactly. He wouldn’t tell me. He just said it was important that he not be put behind bars for this.

You have anything you’d like me to start with? Sally asked him. Or are you letting me off the leash?

Well, the lawyer said, I know and trust how you work, so you’re mostly on your own. He searched the file and extracted a DVD. This is a substantial recording of John’s arrest and processing that I’d appreciate your looking at. That’ll most likely answer some other questions, too. From what John told me, it seems the trooper did everything right, but you never know, and I would love to find something to blunt the state’s attorney’s zeal.

The SA’s already talked to you about this? Sally asked, surprised.

Not specifically, Jezek said. But it’s an election year, he’s facing opposition for the first time in a while, and he’s not the most popular man around. Coming down on drunk driving has become one of his key talking points. I want to be as armed as I can be, going in, and I know for a fact that he and his staff are too swamped to check out the contents of this— He waved the DVD. —before we all have to show up for the arraignment.

Sally took the recording from him. Got it. She rose to leave, adding, You have a problem with my talking to John, if the need arises?

Scott escorted her to the door, handing her the file. None. Be my guest.

Investigations require a lot of sitting—in cars, behind surveillance cameras, in court, writing reports, and, as Sally was doing now, studying DUI-processing footage. This last was perhaps her least favorite. The viewpoint was static—usually from high in a room’s corner—as was the subject matter, an arrested subject sitting in a chair as the officer comes and goes over a period of hours.

Felony interrogations demand focus. They consist of two people verbally parrying as one pursues the truth while the other evades admitting it, and they entail a reasonable amount of drama.

DUIs are mostly waiting, however. There’s the occasional back-and-forth, the conversation as the officer fills out the relevant multipage form, maybe a fight or a shouting match if the subject is uncooperative. But otherwise, it boils down to one person waiting out the hours until they’re either taken to jail or released on a