A Fountain Filled With Blood

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 that 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.”