The Sniper's Wife(4)

Sammie Martens shook her head. “I saw him through the window, running back to his car. What was the name of the New York cop?”

“Hang on.” The woman crossed the narrow hallway into the dispatch area and retrieved a pad from her console desk. “Detective Ogden.” She handed the pad over. “That’s the number.”

Sammie placed her hand on a nearby phone. “This okay?”

The woman nodded before resuming her seat at the console.

Sammie dialed and heard a deep, clear, almost radioquality male voice pick up on the other end. “Detective squad—Ogden.”

“Detective Ogden, this is Special Agent Samantha Martens of the Vermont Bureau of Investigation in Brattleboro. You just talked to a colleague of mine, Willy Kunkle?”

“That I did.” “I don’t want to step on any toes here, but could I ask what you talked about? He took out of here like a jackrabbit and didn’t tell us what was up.”

There was a long hesitation.

Sammie tried to help the man out. “I could have my supervisor call you. Or you can call him, so you’d know for sure I am who I say I am. VBI’s in the phone book.”

Ogden relented. “It’s nothing that confidential. We were looking for a next-of-kin for a DOA we have down here.”

Sammie was stunned and increasingly confused, having had to make a few calls like that herself. “Oh, my God. One of his family? But why call him? He has relatives right in New York that could act as next-of-kin.”

“It’s not that easy. The woman we have isn’t strictly family. In fact, we don’t know who she’s related to. All we found in her apartment were her divorce papers from Mr. Kunkle. That’s why I called him. I was looking for a blood relation and thought he could help. I didn’t realize he took it so hard. That didn’t come across in his voice.”

Sammie nodded at the familiarity of that. “Did he give you a name?”

“Her mother’s, but he said it would be a waste of time. And he was right. I just hung up on her. Told me her daughter had been dead to her for years already—that she didn’t want anything to do with her. Actually, I’m kind of glad you called, ’cause we need a definite ID on this woman—”

“Mary,” Sammie interrupted. “That was her name.” Ogden was caught off guard. “What? Oh, right. Sorry. Did you know her?”

“We met once, a long time ago. Department picnic.”

“Okay. Well, anyway, we really need someone to ID Mary, and it’s looking like William might be it, if he’s willing. Mary’s mother said that would suit her fine.”

Sammie was filled with sadness, anxiety, even a perverse pinch of jealousy. She’d only met Mary Kunkle that single time, true enough, but she knew of their history as a couple, and the guilt that Willy carried for having beaten her once in a drunken rage and bringing the marriage to ruin. Never an emotional brick at the best of times, Willy was going to take this hard.

“What did she die of?”

“We’re looking good for an accidental overdose. You think you could help me out?” Ogden asked.

Oh, Christ, Sammie thought, the word “overdose” rising like a snake from hiding. Now she knew for sure what channel Willy was on, which made her all the more fearful. “I don’t think I need to,” she answered. “He’s already on his way.”





Chapter 2





It was nearing dark when Willy Kunkle approached the city. It shouldn’t have been that late. It normally took under five hours to drive from Brattleboro to New York, and he’d gotten the call from Ogden first thing in the morning. The traffic wasn’t to blame, however. It had been the turmoil in his head that had slowed him down and finally forced him off the road somewhere in Connecticut. He’d ended up going for a long, aimless walk before finding himself at a diner, drinking countless cups of coffee and pushing something slimy and uneaten around a plate with his fork.

None of it had helped. If he’d been more focused, he would have recognized the dangers of reverting to old, destructive, brooding habits, and moved to avoid feeding them. Increasingly, Willy had found that his best chance for peace of mind was in simply getting things done. He didn’t talk about most issues, large or small. He definitely didn’t ask how other people felt about them. He avoided even thinking about them. He just set himself a task, from cooking dinner to running an investigation to making love with Sammie, and then he did it. The trick was to get down that corridor between conception and goal without wasting time, without opening doors along the way, and without suffering fools who might try to make him do so. That’s how he’d finally dealt with the nightmares after ’Nam, how he’d beaten off the alcohol, and how he’d learned to cope with the crippled arm. It’s how he’d partitioned off what he’d done to Mary and what the attending loss of self-respect had cost him.