Proof Positive: A Joe Gunther Novel (Joe Gunther Series) Read Free

like a chain saw’s scar, severing the town’s once bustling western extension and transforming it into an emotionally disenfranchised entity called West Brattleboro—or, more colloquially, “West B.”
    That’s where the VSP barracks had been built, in an unfortunate example of 1970s architecture, the only advantage of which was its proximity to the Chelsea Royal Diner, just across the road.
    Joe parked in the barracks lot, walked up the handicap ramp bordering the low building’s oppressively bland exterior, and was met at the door by a square-built young man wearing a dark blue shirt and matching tie. Cops find it hard to resist discounted tie-and-shirt bargains at Sears and Penney’s.
    “Joe Gunther?” the man said, extending a broad and powerful hand in greeting. “I saw you drive up. I feel like I’m meeting a legend. This is a real honor. I’m Owen Baern.”
    “Hardly a legend,” Joe told him, admiring the young detective’s distinctive head of curly hair—an unusual feature in a profession renowned for crew cuts and flattops. “More like a guy who never learned to quit.”
    Baern escorted Joe into the building, through the secure lobby, and back into the core of the barracks. “That’s not what I’ve heard. You’re like the most famous cop we have.”
    “How long you been at it, Owen?” Joe asked, as much to change subjects as out of modesty.
    “Seven years. I’ve only been working plainclothes for a couple of months, though, so anything you can give me will be much appreciated. I need all the help I can get.”
    They’d worked their way down a long central corridor, and now entered a small office equipped with two desks. “We talking in general?” Joe asked. “Or the Benjamin Kendall case I mentioned on the phone?”
    Baern pulled out a guest chair for him. “Both, maybe. That’s up to you. You want some coffee or a soda?”
    Joe sat down. “I’m good, thanks.”
    There was a moment’s pause between strangers at a loss for words. Joe’s host settled hesitantly behind his desk.
    “Why not start with Kendall?” Joe prompted. “How did you catch the case?”
    Gratefully, Baern turned to his computer and began reading from the screen. “Came in as an anonymous tip. We chased the cell phone data upstream and pinned it to a guy named Jason Newville, DOB: 7/30/84. I know him from my days on the road. He’s a regular when it comes to B-and-Es, selling stolen copper, ripping off car stereos, even shoplifting. And of course, the standard pissant drug deal to see him through the weekend. He targeted Kendall’s place because he heard it was a gold mine and Kendall hadn’t been around lately.”
    “Was that common?” Joe cut in.
    Owen looked at him. “That Ben disappeared now and then? Just the opposite. He was a local fixture—him and his truck. You know about him?”
    “I heard he was a hoarder.”
    “Yeah. Amazing place. I never saw anything like it. Jammed, everywhere—floor to ceiling. I wouldn’t have anything to do with it. My dad was a pack rat. I hated it. Stank, too. But for the Jason Newvilles of the world? That’s the smell of opportunity.”
    “You interviewed Jason,” Joe stated, assuming it was a given.
    “Yeah. In the long run, he didn’t steal anything that I could tell—not that it’ll make much difference to the judge. Finding Ben creeped him out. He literally fell over him, according to his story, hightailed it out, and then couldn’t figure out what to do next.”
    “So he called it in?”
    Baern shook his head. “I know. Crazy enough to make it believable. Don’t know what to do? Call the cops, even if they’ll still arrest you for burglary.”
    “You believe him?” Joe asked. “Newville?”
    Owen absorbed the question before readjusting himself in his chair, thinking for a couple of seconds. “You know? I do,” he admitted quietly, as if fearful of being called out on it.
    “The medical examiner phoned me,” Joe explained. “Ben was her