A Fountain Filled With Blood (9 page)

A skinny teenager in a volunteer T-shirt paused while hurrying past them. “Hey, if you’re racing today, better get over to the pen,” he said to Clare. “They’re starting now.”

“Gotta go,” she said, looking even more relieved. “Wish me luck.”

“Break a leg!” Flynn said.

Clare and Russ both looked at him. “Kevin—” Russ began.

Clare cut him off. “Thank you, Officer Flynn,” she said. “See you at the finish line.” She loped off to join the throng of runners crowded into a rectangular starting area marked off by snapping Tyvek ribbon.

Russ reached beneath his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had missed the bullet on that one, for sure. “Kevin, I’m going to take a turn around the park and—” The shout of the spectators cut him off as the starting official in front whirled and lowered her flag and the runners surged forward, sprinting out of the park entrance and onto Mill Street. He leaned back into the cruiser and keyed the mike. “Dispatch, this is fifteen fifty-seven.”

“Fifteen fifty-seven, I hear you.”

“The runners have left the park. Remind the guys on the intersections that we’re supposed to get an all clear from one of the race coordinators before letting traffic through again. I don’t want to have any stragglers run over.”

“Roger that, fifteen fifty-seven. I’ll get right on it.”

He hung up. “Kevin, I’m going to go show the flag. You stay with the cruiser.” He figured as long as the three hiker chicks were hanging around, it would take a major civil emergency to get the young officer to leave his present post, but it didn’t hurt to reiterate things where Kevin was concerned.

Russ strolled along the perimeter of the park, seeing and being seen, greeting people he knew by name, his eyes constantly scanning for the off note that would mean trouble. A bushy-bearded man who had been celebrating the Fourth a little too hard. A couple whose argument rose and then fell away as he walked by. A pair of bony-shouldered girls who carefully avoided meeting his gaze. Overall, though, it was an easygoing group. Real trouble would come later, after the runners had left and the bands moved in, after the darkness had fallen and the bottles came out from hiding, after the families packed up sleepy children and the remaining party hearties went looking for more fun. As much as he loved a sunny Fourth, he was thankful for the cool breeze and heavy clouds. The threatening skies would ensure that the crowd at the fireworks tonight would be smaller than usual. If they were rained out, he might even be able to pull a few officers and let them go home.

He checked his watch as he neared the bunting-draped platform. It had to be getting close to time for the first runners to make it back. When he had been in his prime—he didn’t want to think how long ago that was—he could complete a ten-kilometer run in well under forty-five minutes. In army boots, too, none of this fancy pumped-up, triple-cushioned, shock-absorbing stuff they loaded onto sneakers these days. Of course, running in army boots probably explained the terrible shape his knees were in now.

“Chief! Over here!” His head swiveled in the direction of the voice. It was Mayor Jim Cameron, waving to him from the platform.

“What’s up?”

“I want you to meet some people. Come on up here.” Russ mounted the steps at one end of the platform while Jim Cameron went on. “Russ Van Alstyne here is the finest chief of police we’ve ever had. He came to us with over a quarter century’s experience as a military policeman. We were lucky he wanted to come back home after he got tired of wandering the world. Russ, this is Bill Ingraham, who’s developing the new resort, and this is John Opperman, Bill’s partner.”

You mean his
business
partner, Russ thought, remembering what Stephen Obrowski had said.

“How do you do, Mr. Opperman, Mr. Ingraham.” The man in the polo shirt and khakis, who looked as if he had stepped out of a men’s magazine, turned out to be Opperman. Ingraham, surprisingly, was dressed like one more ordinary Fourth of July spectator, wearing a ratty plaid shirt that his wife would never have let out of the house. Except, of course, Ingraham didn’t have a wife. Russ squeezed the man’s hand a little harder.

“Call me Bill,” Ingraham said, reclaiming his hand. “How long have you been with the Millers Kill PD?”

“Five years now. My wife and I moved back here when I retired from the army.” Dropping mention of Linda into a conversation was automatic for him when he was meeting a woman. Just one of those married-guy things. Now he was doing it with a glorified construction worker. Why? To make sure it was clear up front that he was straight? Damn it, he didn’t need to prove anything. It was obvious to anyone that he wasn’t gay. He realized belatedly that Opperman had asked about his wife.

“Hmm? No, she’s not here. I’m on duty all day today, so Linda went to visit some friends.” Of course, Ingraham didn’t come across as gay, either. Neither did Emil Dvorak, now he thought about it. He shook himself and forced his attention back to the conversation. Might as well do his bit for the town. “I’m sure Mayor Cameron has already said this, but thanks for sponsoring the race today. It’s nice to have it back.”

“It’s good business to be a good neighbor,” Opperman said, sounding like a man who had read too many business advice books and taken them to heart.

“Right,” Russ said. “Neither of you interested in running, though, I see.”

“John wanted to, but I persuaded him to stick around and help me show you folks the human face behind BWI today.” Ingraham grinned at Opperman. Russ thought the bean counter wasn’t the best candidate to show the human face of anything. He exuded all the warmth of a wet mackerel. Ingraham went on: “John is Mr. Fitness in our organization. He plays pretend army in the woods in the summer, leads a touch-football team in the fall, heads up the basketball league all winter, and—what
do
you do in the spring, John?”

“Competitive rowing. Six-man shell.”

“There you go. It tires me out just thinking about it. Now me, I agree with Robert Benchley. Whenever I feel the urge to exercise, I lie down until it passes. How ’bout you, Chief? Cops have to stay pretty fit, don’t they?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. At my last checkup, my doctor said, ‘Congratulations, Chief, you have the body of a forty-eight-year-old.’ I said, ‘But I am forty-eight years old.’ ‘Well, there you are,’ she said.”

Ingraham and the mayor laughed. “Seriously,” he continued, “there’s not as much call for foot pursuit as you’d think from watching TV shows And fortunately, the criminals around here tend to be in worse shape than I am.”

“The crime-rate statistics I studied before we bid for the Landry property indicated very little other than small-scale property crimes and domestic violence,” Opperman said. “One of the attractions for tourists is that this area is safe.”

“That’s true,” Russ said. “And I aim to keep it that way.”

Ingraham turned to his partner. “You do know the police are investigating a serious assault that took place Wednesday last, don’t you? The victim had actually been at the inn where I’m staying right before he was attacked.”

Mayor Jim Cameron leaped in, a reassuring look pasted on his face. “But that’s very, very rare. And the doctor who was attacked was local. I don’t think we’ve ever had any incidents involving tourists, have we, Chief?” He went on before Russ could respond. “I think it’s the influence of our superlative setting. Surrounded by magnificent mountains, pristine lakes, and fish-filled rivers, who can fail to feel happier and more relaxed?”

Plenty of folks, Russ thought, but he kept his mouth shut.

Ingraham laughed. “You don’t have to sell me, Jim. If I didn’t believe this place would draw in visitors, I wouldn’t have picked it for the new resort.”

“It is a site with a lot of visual appeal,” Opperman said. “I’ve flown in several potential investors, and I always swing through the mountains and over the surrounding countryside on those trips. Everyone comments about the extraordinary setting.”

“So, you’re definitely going ahead with the construction?” the mayor said.

“Well, like I said at the meeting, we will as long as we don’t have any trouble from the DEP.”

“Good,” Cameron said. He looked as though he was about to say more, but instead, he closed his mouth and nodded.

Russ thought maybe a change of conversation would be in order. “You said you fly, Mr. Opperman?”

“We hire pilots as necessary, but I’m licensed for both our two-engine prop plane and the company helicopter.”

“What type of helicopter?” Russ asked.

“Why?” Ingraham said. “You like to fly, Chief? John could take you up sometime. No problem.”

“No, but thanks. I’ve got a…friend who used to fly, that’s all.”

The noise from the spectators in the park had surrounded them with a constant hum. Now Russ could hear yells and cheers. “They must be coming in,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to check on how the roads are clearing. Nice meeting you, gentlemen.”

The coed hikers must have headed for greener pastures at some point, because Kevin Flynn was moping about the squad car, looking like a dog left too long outside a store. “Everything okay?” Flynn asked, raising his voice to be heard above the cheers of the crowd around the finish line. Runners were pounding through makeshifts chutes, drenched with sweat despite the cold weather, as a large digital clock displayed their times in tenths of a second.

“No problems yet,” Russ said. He slid into the car, closed the door, and rolled up the window so he could hear Harlene over the noise outside. Flynn hopped in the other door. “Dispatch, this is fifteen fifty-seven.”

“Fifteen fifty-seven, this is Dispatch.”

“The runners are coming in. Make sure those intersections are getting opened up as soon as possible.”

“Roger that.”

“Any news?”

“It’s been pretty quiet so far. There was a fight out to Lockland’s Whispering Pines campground. Somebody pulled out their RV without disconnecting the water and sanitation lines, and Lockland decked the damn fool.”

Kevin snickered. Russ shot him a look. “They get it all sorted out?” Russ asked.

“Yeah, Lyle convinced the RV guy not to press assault charges and Lockland not to press vandalism charges. Lyle said he hadn’t smelled a stink like that since his brother’s cesspool overflowed.”

“Remind me not to complain about sweaty runners. Anything else?”

“We got a call from Bob Mongue over to the state troopers headquarters. They’ve got a possible on your red Chevy.”

Russ sat up straighter. “Yeah? Where?”

“The Burgoyne campground on Route Four, south of Whitehall. Big ’97 pickup with Pennsylvania plates. Good-sized crunch in the right rear.”

“They run the plates?”

“They’re doing it now. Sergeant Mongue’ll call back when they’ve talked with the driver and checked his ID.”

“Raise me as soon as you know anything, Harlene.”

“Will do. I’ve got one more thing for you.”

“Okay.”

“Mrs. Bain called. Thought she saw a man poking around her house, trying to get in.”

“Oh for—” He clenched the microphone and took a deep breath. “How long has it been since her son came for a visit?”

“’Bout three months now.”

“Okay. She’s definitely due for a prowler. There’s a copy of the last incident report in the files. Get that out and change the date, will you? That way, it’ll be ready to go when she asks for it.”

“Roger that. Dispatch out.”

“Damn,” he said, hanging up the mike. “If Bob Mongue collars those sons of bitches while I’m chasing down one of Mrs. Bain’s imaginary prowlers, I’ll never hear the end of it.” He shook his head. “This is what a quarter century of police work gets you, Kevin. Keep it in mind.”

Of course, Mrs. Bain was very apologetic when they failed to flush out a burglar. The hardest part on one of her calls was getting away—she kept pressing lemonade and homemade brownies on them. Russ extricated himself and Flynn by promising to have the young officer bring over the incident report in person. They escaped into the squad car, clutching a paper bag of brownies.

“You’re pretty good at that, Chief,” Flynn said. “How do—”

The radio crackled. “Fifteen fifty-seven, this is Dispatch.”

“Dispatch, this is fifteen fifty-seven. Come in.”

“Multiple reports of a disturbance at Riverside Park. One caller described it as a riot.”

Russ stared at the microphone in his hand. “A riot? Over what? Who took second place in the forty and over division?”

“Another caller described it as a rowdy demonstration. You better get over there. I’ve sent Noble and Mark, but you’re closer.”

A demonstration. The brownie in his stomach suddenly felt like a small lead brick. “We’re rolling, Dispatch. Keep me informed.”

“Will do. Dispatch out.”

Kevin Flynn was almost beside himself with excitement. “A riot? Are we going to get out the riot gear?”

“No, we’re not going to start lobbing gas grenades into a bunch of runners on the Fourth of July.” He switched on the lights and siren, dreading what he suspected he might see when they got there. BWI…a large open space…plenty of people around…He knew he should have put the elements together before now.

They couldn’t reach the park entrance in the cruiser. Despite blipping the siren to get people out of the way, it was too crowded. He parked and waded through the press of bodies, hauling people out of his way if they didn’t move fast enough, Kevin bobbing along in his wake.

“Two! Four! Six! Eight! We don’t want precipitate!”

All around him, spectators, picnickers, and runners were talking loudly and excitedly, pushing forward for a better view.

“A! B! C! D! Keep your lousy PCB!”

He could see the placards bouncing above the protesters’ heads, seven or eight of them: BAN PCBS and NO DREDGING and WILL WORK FOR CANCER.”

“In! Out! Up! Down! Don’t contaminate our town!”

Sounded like the goddamn cheers were written by a preschool teacher. There was a scuffle on the platform, which was so jammed with people now that he couldn’t make out what was going on yet. He spotted Noble Entwistle forcing his way through the crowd from the riverbank side of the park.