Presumption of Guilt Read Free Page A

of now silent, alarm-equipped, passkey-operated turnstiles, once designed to handle shift changes of hundreds of people in short order.
    The Windham County state’s attorney was a tall, slim, serious-faced woman with a thatch of close-cropped white hair and a fondness for low-heeled shoes and practical pantsuits. Her name was Janet Macklin, and Joe had heard her referred to variously as Jammin’ Janet, Manglin’ Macklin, or inevitably, Mack the Knife—presumably, all from people who’d come up short against her. While Joe dealt mostly with the AG’s office in his VBI capacity, he knew Janet Macklin and knew her to be sharp, tough, good in court, and supportive of law enforcement.
    The Vermont Yankee VP—Roger Goodhugh—he’d never met and didn’t know. VY had been sold some fifteen years earlier by its local birth parents to a Louisiana-based monolith named Entergy—to instantaneous scorn by activist opponents. Joe had always avoided the emotional turmoil around the plant’s virtues or flaws, but could see that in the person of Roger Goodhugh, the “anti’s” had an easy target to parody. Through no fault of his own, he was double-chinned, narrow-shouldered, and wide in the hips. And as Goodhugh extended a predictably flaccid, damp hand and spoke his greeting, Joe also picked up a discernibly thick southern accent. It almost seemed unfair, which immediately made Joe think kindly of him—and made him wonder if some corporate Machiavelli hadn’t worked hard to put Goodhugh precisely where he was for precisely the effect he unconsciously made.
    Joe nodded to both of them as part of the formalities. “Janet. Mr. Goodhugh. My colleague, Special Agent Samantha Martens. As you can imagine, we don’t have much to tell you yet.”
    â€œNevertheless,” Macklin said quickly, “thanks for calling so fast,” cutting off Goodhugh’s soft-spoken, “Call me Roger.”
    â€œNo problem,” Joe told her. “Given how the place attracts attention, I figured you’d want an early heads-up.”
    He looked at Goodhugh. “And thanks for all the help we’ve been given. Appreciate your adapting the security routine for our convenience.”
    â€œOf course,” Goodhugh said with an anemic smile. “Do you have any idea how quickly you’ll be done?”
    â€œWe’ve barely arrived. It’ll be an excavation, like for an archeological dig. Those are not fast-moving, Mr. Goodhugh—Roger. I do have a related question for you, though.”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œActually, it applies to all of us. How do you want to handle the press? Word gets out about a dead body at Vermont Yankee, all sorts of fireworks could blow up if we don’t plan ahead.”
    â€œYou have to throw them something,” Macklin said bluntly, pointing out a window. “Right now, people are phoning and texting whatever they can make up.”
    Goodhugh surprised them with his response, suggesting that he might have been made vice president for some unexpected prowess. “From the little we know, it’s ancient history and unrelated to anything radiological.” He reached into his jacket pocket and presented them with copies of a single sheet of paper. “I had our PR people write this up. It refers to y’all as just ‘authorities,’ since I hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting you, but I hope it’ll do the trick for the time being.”
    Joe, Sam, and Macklin quickly read the release and exchanged glances.
    â€œThat’s fine with me,” Janet announced.
    Joe folded it up. “Vague, almost boring, and throwing it onto us, as promised. Nice, Roger. You’ve clearly had practice.”
    Goodhugh glanced at his feet. “More than you could imagine.”
    In a large urban area, with a police department of thousands, the process thereafter would have taken a few hours. But there