He smiled. “Hey. What did the boss tell us? Find out what kind of cop he was, but keep that part under your hat. That’s a direct quote. So far, we’ve been poking around without making a big deal out of it, but we’ve hardly been undercover.”
“And now you want to go under?” she asked. “As what?”
He scowled. “Nothin’. I’m not talking literally. I just meant under the radar.”
“Oh-oh.” But her face told him otherwise.
He knew he had her. He swung his feet off the bed and began searching for his shoes. “Get your clothes on. We need to break into the sheriff’s department.”
Of course, that wasn’t actually necessary. Getting into the Addison County Sheriff’s Department in Middle-bury amounted to opening the door and waving at the dispatcher. The staff had gotten used to them by now.
That was precisely what Willy was counting on.
After exchanging amenities with the night shift, who expressed no curiosity about the lateness of their visit, Sam and Willy eased themselves behind a carefully closed door, into a room complete with computers, filing cabinets, and nobody to watch them—a situation which, with the routine bustle of day-to-day business, they’d never experienced before.
“Okay,” Sam said softly, looking around. “What’s the plan?”
He gave her a rueful expression. “So maybe it’s less about breaking-and-entering and more about snooping and not being seen. I just figured that if we really wanted to roll up our sleeves and get the dirt on this guy, we might be better off with all this available”—he waved his good arm around— “and nobody looking over our shoulders. You know how thin-skinned cops get about their own, even when they thought the guy was a jerk.”
She saw his point and liked his thinking. She slipped her jacket off and sat facing one of the computers, to which they’d long ago been given passwords and entrance codes. “Let’s get to it.”
Several hours later, north on Route 7, the dawn slowly usurping their headlights, Sam and Willy shared a just purchased cardboard cup of iced coffee.
“Burlington?” she asked.
“Yeah. Get him early before he can start thinking.”
She released the catch to lower the back of her passenger seat and wriggled down a bit to get comfortable. She closed her eyes and asked, “You good? I want to catch a nap.”
He glanced over at her and smiled—a rare display of fondness, revealed only when he thought she wasn’t watching. “Yeah. I’m good.”
They were headed for St. Paul Street in Burlington, about an hour’s drive away, to meet with Alfred Doyle, predictably called Al. From what they’d pieced together after poring over affidavits, interoffice memos, computer-mounted narratives, discovery forms, and
person-of-interest references spanning hundreds of cases, Al Doyle had been among the most reliable and often used of Brian Sleuter’s snitches for his drug cases.
This conclusion was also supported by educated guesswork. Cops—especially those with ambitions like Sleuter—were loath to share their sources. Called Confidential Informants, or CIs, in the trade, these people were supposed to be on file somewhere and usually were. But not always. Also, a great many of them understandably came equipped with shady pasts that could challenge their credibility—another reason some cops kept such information private. It wasn’t favored practice—some state’s attorneys argued that it wasn’t even legal—but Willy himself had been known to employ it. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them” was the usual logic.
Al Doyle appeared to have been Sleuter’s CI more than anyone else, and Willy’s sense of smell told him that Brian had probably used him as frequently off the books as on, making of Doyle a go-to guy to interview.
St. Paul is a quiet residential street leading off from Route 7 as one enters Burlington from the south. Like much of the city, which is by far Vermont’s largest, it is paradoxically small town in feel. In fact, when Willy did pull over by the curb, there was little to indicate that the heart of downtown lay just a couple of blocks up and a couple to the right.
Being sensitive to their last conversation about an interview, Sammie asked Willy over the car’s roof as they emerged, “How do you want to play this? You want me to talk to him or just scare him to death looking tough while you beat him?”
Willy laughed. “Nah—let’s double-team him.”
They crossed the road, followed the arrow appended to the bottom of a sign reading, “Doyle—out back,” and walked the length of a short driveway to the rear of an old, bland, four-unit apartment building. There, beside a second sign, this one reading, “Doyle—upstairs,” they found a flimsy screen door leading to a rickety porch running along the breadth of the structure.
At the back of the porch, they found an unlocked front door, which brought them to a miniature lobby and a narrow set of stairs leading up to the second floor. With a shrug Willy quietly led the way, coming to a stop at a hollow-core wooden door equipped only with a cheap, lockable doorknob.
He paused, his fingertips barely brushing the surface of the knob.
Sam could read his mind. “I know it’s tempting, but knock this time, okay? We don’t even know for sure who’s in there.”
Willy sighed and pounded on the door with his fist. “I hate to ruin the surprise.”
“It’s six
A.M
.,” she told him. “We’ll be okay.”
They were. It took Willy three repeats to finally get a short, fat, tousle-haired man dressed only in his underwear to open the door.
“What the fuck do you …?” he tried asking.
Willy already had his badge out and shoved it so close to the man’s face the latter’s eyes crossed and he took a step back. Willy took advantage of the move to get off the stairs and enter the apartment.
“Agents Kunkle and Martens, Vermont Bureau of Investigation. You Alfred Doyle?”
The man’s back bumped against the wall behind him. “What? Who’re you?”
“Police,” Willy restated. “You Doyle?”
“Yeah,” Doyle answered, scowling and blinking. “What the fuck do you want?”
“Where can we talk?” Sammie said, closing the door.
“About what?”
“Got any coffee?” Willy asked, brushing by and looking around the corner, down a short hallway to a small living room.
Doyle opened his mouth to protest, but Sam cut him off with, “You live alone?”
“What?” He shifted his gaze to her as Willy kept walking. “Yeah. What the fuck’s going on?”
Sammie slapped him on his bare, hairy shoulder. “We need to talk. Got pants?”
Doyle stared down the length of his body and murmured, “Shit.” He shambled off ahead of her to a bedroom door on the right. A pair of pants was lying on the floor next to a disheveled single bed covered with sheets Sam doubted had ever been washed.
She watched him pull on the pants and add a T-shirt, before gesturing in the direction Willy had taken down the hall. “After you,” she said.
Meekly, still shaking his head and muttering to himself, Doyle complied. “What is it with you people? It’s always kick down the door. Never just a phone call.”
Willy’s voice came through the living room from the tiny kitchen beyond it. “Come on, Al. Where’s the coffee in this dump?”
Al, now the beleaguered host, told him, “It’s instant—over the sink,” and went to help him out, adding testily, “Here. Let me do it.”
“I take mine black—she’s cream and sugar.”
“I don’t have cream.”
Sam was now leaning against the doorjamb, making the small kitchen feel like a crowded elevator. “What’ve you got?”
“Shit—I don’t know. Some powdered stuff. You know—creamer.”
“Flavored or un?”
Al closed both his fists in frustration. “Who
are
you people?”
“We told you,” Willy said from behind him, standing close. “Cops. Flavored or un?”
“Assholes,” Al growled and pawed through some packages and bottles toward the rear of a shelf.
He plunked down a small container. “Hazelnut,” he declared. “Don’t choke on it.”
Sam stepped into the room and started running the water to put a kettle on. Willy steered Al over to the breakfast table, three feet away, just in the other room, and sat him down in the nearest chair, choosing another for himself.
“Brian Sleuter,” Willy announced, once everyone was settled.
Doyle passed a hand across his face. “Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
“Talk to us, Al,” Sammie said from the kitchen, turning on one of the stovetop burners.
“What’s to talk about? The man’s dead. No huge loss, if that’s what you wanted to hear.”
“Why would we want to hear that?” Willy asked.
Al shook his head. “I don’t know. I just said it.”
“But you said it for a reason. Was he dirty?”
“If you don’t know, I ain’t saying.”
Willy leaned forward in his seat. “Al. Why do you think we’re here?”
Doyle was obviously at odds, literally wringing his hands and staring at the floor. “The man’s dead,” he repeated.
“Meaning there’s nothing to lose.”
Al moved to stand up, but Willy reached out and placed his hand on his forearm. “Stay. Talk.”
Doyle looked from one of them to the other, his nervousness climbing. “Look, I don’t even know why you’re here,” he said. “I barely knew Sleuter. Helped him out a couple of times, maybe.”
Sam pulled a printout from her back pocket, in fact a random document she’d forgotten she even had. She opened it up and pretended to consult it. “A couple? This page is full of times he used you, Al. You were his main man. You helped make him.”
Doyle groaned.
Willy sat back and crossed his legs, smiling affably. “Hey, don’t get all twisted up about this. Start with the general stuff. What was he like?”
Doyle stared at him.
“Like?
What do you mean? He was a shithead.”
“You helped him out a lot.”
“Sure I did,” Al’s voice rose. “What choice did I have? He caught me dirty, kept the goods, and used them against me from then on. It was either help him or go to jail.”
“No prosecutor was involved?”
“No way—just him and me.”
“And he paid you,” Sam said.
He twisted in his chair to face her, still standing by the stove. “Sure he paid me—pissant amounts now and then.”
“You could’ve bitched to his boss,” Willy suggested. “This is Vermont. They hate dirty cops. The slightest hint of anything bad, and he would’ve been off your back.”
“Right,” Al said. “My word against his—the super cop. Spare me.”
“How did you help him, Al?” Sam wanted to know.
Doyle shrugged. “Usual stuff. I told him what I heard. Lot of junk moves through this town, heading south right through his turf. Dopers hate the interstates—too many troopers. Backroads’re the latest rage. It was easy enough for me.”
“You must’ve hated it, though,” Willy commiserated with him. “And it must’ve been scary sometimes.”
Al’s eyes widened. “No shit. Do you know what would’ve happened to me? Not that Sleuter gave a fuck.”
Sammie saw what might be next, so she momentarily ignored the slowly singing kettle to bend at the waist and virtually whisper in his ear, “Well, don’t worry about that from us. This is completely off the record. Like you said, he’s gone, and we will be soon.”
“If you keep cooperating,” Willy added.
“I
am,
aren’t I?” he complained.
“Sure are,” Willy agreed. “Duly noted.”
Sam spoke as she spooned coffee into the cups. “Did it ever get hot enough that somebody threatened to shut
him down? Keeping your ear to the ground, you must’ve heard that kind of stuff, too, especially since nobody knew you were working for him.”
But Doyle shook his head. “It’s not like New York here. People bitched, but they weren’t looking to take him out. He was just known as someone to duck.”
“It’s getting more like New York than it used to be,” Willy argued.
“Well, maybe,” Al agreed. “But not that bad.”
“Still,” Willy persisted, “he did a number on you. How many others do you think he squeezed the same way?”
“He wasn’t gonna tell me that.”
Sammie placed a cup of coffee before him and smiled brightly. “Hey, Al, we all show off. He may not have mentioned names …”
Al consulted the floor again. “Maybe a couple. He did say he had others on the hook.”
Sam pulled a chair around and sat down, after placing the other two cups on the table. “Great,” she said. “Now we’re cooking.”
Later that morning, Willy pulled off the road, south of Shelburne, and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his right hand.
“Want me to drive?” Sam asked, knowing the answer.
“Yeah,” he said, surprising her. She swung out of the car and switched places with him. He was either really tired or this was yet another minuscule crack that he’d allowed her through his armor.
She knew better than to ask. “What do you think?”
she queried instead as she adjusted the seat and he settled into hers.
“Al killing Sleuter? Doesn’t have the balls.”
“I agree,” Sammie said, “but I’m wondering generally.”
“If somebody else might’ve?” Willy shook his head. “I’ll tell you what: unless the boss gets a signed confession from Grega that he did the dirty deed, I’m open to any number of other people. Brian was a cowboy. He played fast and loose and he didn’t protect his friends—makes me look like a goddamn saint. If anybody caught wind of what he was up to—blackmailing snitches and setting up busts like Al told us toward the end—running his own one-man, unofficial, antidrug task force—then I’d say he was lucky he lived as long as he did.”
He looked out the side window as Sam picked up speed, getting back on the road, and added, “It was just a matter of time before somebody got him—us or the bad guys. I’m gonna take a nap.”
Sam remained silent, and in moments, Willy’s regular breathing told her he’d been as good as his word, as usual.
Of course, it wasn’t as simple as he’d just said. The fact that Sleuter’s ambition had led him to customize the law only meant that the supposedly cut and dried story on the man’s own cruiser tape was very possibly more complicated.
If so, the punch line then resided with Luis Grega. And therefore with Joe Gunther.