Chapter 2

SUNDAY, AUGUST 28, 11:38 AM                    TWO-PRONGED ATTACK

The Newcastle Borough Municipal Building stood hard against the southern ridge of the Freedom Valley. Originally named Iron Hall, it was a monument to rustic gentility; its walls were built with stone hauled from the nearby quarry, stone left as dregs by the miners who supplied the raw materials for the historic iron forge. Massive oak doors, hewn from the surrounding forest, were sturdy gatekeepers to the past; gleaming elongated windows reflected communal aspirations for the future. The fixtures, forged in the local furnace, were chevrons of respect held for this emblem of community.

When the iron ore played out, Iron Hall came to symbolize the local ironworkers themselves—dregs left behind for greater riches elsewhere. Strong and proud, but dregs, nonetheless. The sense of insular community was lost forever as the men went to work in the steel mill in the neighboring city of Freedom. Iron Hall, the only community center large enough to host the annual Fasnacht Day festival and every kind of bee imaginable, thus became the Municipal Building, and history was partitioned into borough offices and the police station. With the signature pride that natives of Pennsylvania Dutch country hold for their property, craftsmen’s care was taken to preserve its architectural integrity.

Solid and traditional, apt descriptions for both the building and the law enforcement crew it housed. Chief Harley Snitz had headed the Newcastle Police for 31 years, due in large part to personal hallmarks of prudence and courtesy. That his prudence ran to stodginess, even downright stubbornness, only endeared him to his constituents, as those traits fell in line with community mores. So respected was Snitz that when smaller adjacent boroughs cut their departments in cost saving measures, their governing bodies gladly chipped in fair shares to have the Newcastle force patrol those municipalities. As a result, Snitz’s crew had grown to more than twenty officers and support staff and ranged across a crescent running from Avalon on the eastern edge of Freedom City through Newcastle Borough in the south to Culver Pond in the southwest—the entire southern third of Freedom County.

In recent years, the emergence of drugs, with the inevitable thefts and assaults that followed, stretched the limits of Snitz’s force, and the fact that people wanted their children to be regarded as children and only the pushers be brought to justice stretched the limits of his patience. The increasing problem made some citizens wonder if the Chief’s time had passed. He wanted to handle drug investigations with his own unit, despite pressure to seek help from the Pennsylvania State Police.

Bob Samson’s death was a different story. Snitz never had handled a murder investigation, so teaming with that esteemed outfit made sense. If he held any lingering doubts, the events of the weekend had convinced him. On Friday night, after Samson’s wife reported him missing, activity was confined to Snitz’s own department. Then, after the body was discovered on Saturday morning, news crews from Freedom and the nearby cities of Harrisburg, Lancaster, and York arrived to cover the accident that had befallen the local sports legend. Actually, “felled” would have been a better word, for it seemed that Samson had gone down like Achilles by what some thought to be his only weakness: reckless driving through the winding hills of southern Freedom County. By the time regional late news aired, the death of a beloved school superintendent and one of the most successful football coaches in mid-state history was the lead story. And through the miracle of television, Snitz’s face, weathered by years and world-weary wisdom, had become familiar to central-Pennsylvanians.

The Chief shunned the public light, but he was thankful that the media still viewed Samson’s death as accidental. His decision to enlist the help of the State Police was looked upon as an act of magnanimity and, yes, prudence that further endeared him to the citizenry. Truth be told, it was also a formality; they were already involved. A State Police crime scene team had discovered that the initial theory of the cause of Samson’s death—a drive off a cliff and resultant drowning in the quarry—was wrong.

Still, Snitz did not appreciate being called to State Police barracks to organize the investigation. In his mind, Newcastle Borough was where the murder occurred; that was where the investigation ought to begin. Summoning his resolve, he insisted that their investigator travel to his turf so they could begin working on leads right away. To his surprise, the invitation was accepted without debate.

Standing at the picture window behind his desk, the Chief was as much taking respite in the view as he was watching for the trooper who was to become his partner when an unmarked cruiser roared into the lot. Snitz sipped coffee from a paper cup and shook his head in mild amusement as a tall man in civilian clothes unfolded out of the vehicle.

Why do police go to so much trouble making their cars inconspicuous that they actually stand out? Who would buy a car like that? Then there was the officer himself. This was certainly the investigator Snitz had been waiting for. It was too muggy for a jacket, unless a person was concealing something, like a sidearm. Any lingering doubts about the man’s identity were snuffed when the Chief noticed the crew cut—the planar perfection of which would have done the Carrier Enterprise proud—and white athletic socks, peeking out over black soft-soled shoes, spit-shined neon signs that advertised cop. Snitz’s first impression, sense of style notwithstanding: if ever there were a recruiting poster for the Pennsylvania State Police, this man should be the model. As the trooper moved forward, his jacket flapped open to reveal a black T-shirt straining against a coiled steel torso that matched a stern face of chiseled obsidian.

As Snitz left his office to welcome the investigator, he passed Phyllis Utz, his dispatcher, and Ed Knepp, his second-in-command. The two were sharing donuts and complaints about the intrusion of an outsider onto their turf. Aware that even under the best of circumstances the locals were reserved toward newcomers, the Chief said, “He’s here; make him feel welcome.” And then, more as an order than a request: “Please.”

His flinty glare had barely sparked when the trooper entered, craning his neck to take in the surroundings before leveling his gaze on the three people staring up at him. The deputy and the dispatcher remained motionless, except for jaws engaged in slow, thoughtful mastication. The Chief smiled and stepped forward, extending his hand.

“Harley Snitz, welcome to Newcastle.”

“Chief.” A small crease etched upward at the corners of the state policeman’s mouth. “Trooper Neidrich. I’ll be heading up the investigation from our end.”

Snitz made introductions. His face flushed when Knepp gave a wary nod and Utz’s face squeezed into something that came across like the reaction to a gas pain.

If Neidrich noted their disapproval, he gave no sign. “Beautiful building you have here, Chief. Sorry if I offended you by asking you to come to my office, but I’ve learned to trust the security at our barracks.”

“I surely understand.” Snitz stared at Knepp, whose own eyes were downcast, gazing over his imposing epigastrial horizon that put the donut box on the desk in partial eclipse.

“Let’s go to my office Trooper Neidrich. … Coffee? Donut?”

Again, Neidrich’s lips made an almost imperceptible curve into what might have been a smile. “Coffee’s good.” Patting his midsection, he added, “But no donut, thanks. And please call me Nick.”

The weight lifted from Snitz’s chest. Years of police work had honed his ability to judge people, and so, despite the trooper’s somber presence, he felt he was going to like the young man. At times, the State Police acted as though they were a superior breed, firm in the belief that they underwent more grueling and sophisticated training and upheld a loftier mission than local lawmen. Snitz, for his part, had always held himself as a model to the community and believed that fitness and integrity were essential to the profession. The trooper seemed to treat the Chief as a peer.

Snitz shot a sidelong glance at Knepp to see if Neidrich’s words had made an impression. The sergeant hefted the donut box like a football under one arm so he could eat with his free hand as he shuffled down the hall.

“I’m new to the area,” Neidrich said. “What kind of support can we count on?”

“The city cops will be there if we need them. They have enough business of their own, though. The DA’s a lame duck, he’ll be happy to leave us alone.”

“Good,” Neidrich said. “Any suspects come to mind?”

“Most folks loved Bob Samson.”

“Let’s keep respect for the dead out of this.” The trooper’s words nipped at the heels of Snitz’s.

The curt admonition shook the Chief into professional mode. “How do we know for sure he was murdered?”

Neidrich’s features softened and the almost-smile reappeared. “Guess I’d better explain.” As quickly as his expression had relaxed, it hardened again. His eyes paused on Snitz before honing in on Knepp. “I want to emphasize, though, the longer people think the death was an accident, the better off we’ll be.”

“We’ll keep mum; won’t we, Ed?” Snitz said, a slight threat in the undertone.

After watching Knepp bob his head in vigorous assent and mime the movement of a key turning on his lips, Neidrich continued. “Samson was dead before he went over the cliff. There was no water in the lungs, so he wasn’t knocked unconscious by the impact, then drowned. Impact wounds came post mortem. His seat belt wasn’t buckled, but the air bag went off. Then there’s the fact that –”

Knepp interrupted. “Wait a minute. Bob always wore his seatbelt. I’ve ridden with him in that Mercedes; man, he tooled!”

“Interesting,” Neidrich said. “Trajectory from the cliff-edge to where the car settled in the water indicates he wasn’t moving fast enough to have been out of control.”

Snitz winced. It would be pointless to tell Knepp he should have chided his hero for being reckless; his sergeant never had the guts to stand up to Samson. “If he always wore a seatbelt except on Friday …” the Chief scrubbed his chin with the palm of his hand, “that might support a scenario that he was helped off the cliff.”

Neidrich started to speak, but Knepp broke in again. “What’s that have to do with the price of bologna in Lebanon?”

Snitz exhaled a deep, slow breath. “You see, Ed, either the murderer didn’t realize Dr. Samson always wore his belt, or he wanted the plunge to maximize body damage, or both.”

“True,” Neidrich said, “and some of the injuries can’t be explained by his dive. In fact, some were obviously the result of an assault.”

Knepp broke into raucous laughter punctuated by a scowl. “You’re saying he was beat up? Nobody could handle Big Bob Samson. No one in the county.” He looked to Snitz for support, but found only a disapproving frown.

“Ed’s exaggerating, but it would take a tough man to handle Dr. Samson, I dare say. What kind of injuries are you talking about?”

Neidrich leaned forward, elbows on knees, and clasped his hands. Snitz noticed fingers like old tree roots—the gnarled trophies of a hand-fighter—before the trooper’s words pulled his mind back to the topic at hand.

“Wounds were inflicted by a tubular object about an inch in diameter. Black and gold paint flecks—highly shellacked, japanned—were embedded in the wounds. Nothing in the car or the quarry matched up.”

“The past year there’s been quite a few muggings,” Knepp said. “Has to do with drugs—getting money for drugs, I mean. I’d be for thinking we should check some of our usual drug suspects. Bet your bottom dollar Bob dinged them up a bit.”

Snitz shook his head. “Most drug-related robberies have been purse-snatchings or car break-ins. Not many outright assaults, unless they were deals gone bad.”

“Could’ve been a mugging,” Neidrich said. “Wallet was rifled. But druggies probably would’ve left the body. Besides, this attack was efficient.” Neidrich leaned even closer and spoke in a near-whisper.

“Here’s the clincher, along with the blows, there was a single thrust of a sharp—very sharp—instrument up through the solar plexus. Straight-edged double blade.”

After a moment of stunned silence, Knepp bolted upright. “Must’ve been two perps, maybe more. It’d take at least two people to kill Bob. Ain’t, Harley?”

Ain’t, Harley? — a shard of local argot, meant to elicit agreement. It would have made the hair on the Chief’s neck stand on end if he were ever anything less than impeccably groomed. Whenever Knepp emitted the phrase, Snitz wanted to disagree, even if the attached assumption was correct. “No one is invincible, Ed.”

Rather than acknowledge his boss’s tempered response, Knepp continued. “And it would take two people to move him; he weighed a good two-twenty. But what I don’t understand is why they’d move his body.”

“I can think of two reasons off hand,” Snitz said. “The killers wanted it to seem like an accident, or, more likely, the location of the attack could lead to their identities.”

“That’s my thought,” Neidrich agreed. “So we need to backtrack his steps.”

Knepp sat up. “I can help you with that. I know his hangouts.”

“Good, we’ll check those places right away.”

“Have you established time of death?” Snitz asked.

“The body being in the water makes it tough to be exact. Security system has Samson coding out at 8:03. Sunset was 7:48—dusk, good cover for an attack.”

“Bloody knuckles?” Knepp asked. “Skin under the nails? DNA?”

“Again, water’s our enemy. We got some hair and fibers. Also, grass stains on his pants and gravel in the cuffs, which could’ve come from falling during the assault or the body being dragged. But there was no indication he fought back. Whoever it was got the drop on him, maybe someone he knew. Back to my original question, any suspects?”

“Dr. Samson made some enemies.” The Chief scrubbed his chin again, and his face screwed into a pucker from the effort it took to say something negative about a person. “He had power. Sometimes he used it for good, sometimes for not so good. He went after folks who rubbed him the wrong way. Enough for someone to murder him? I don’t know. Folks didn’t mess with Dr. Samson, though. I’d figure someone to shoot him before taking him on close range.”

“OK,” Neidrich said, “Let’s cross-reference people who had an ax to grind with those physically and emotionally capable of carrying out the job.”

“I think two addicts ambushed him for drug money.” Knepp rose to choreograph his hypothesis, playing three roles and embellishing his improvised skit with staccato commentary. “One perp holds a gun on him. The other perp takes his money. Bob takes the punks on. He disarms the one with the gun, but the other perp stabs him. Then the perp who had the gun picks it up and pistol-whips Bob after he’s down. To get rid of the evidence, they take him to the quarry and send him off.” Knepp bent over, palms on knees, puffing for breath. He mopped a sleeve across his brow and stuffed his shirt back in his pants, a futile effort because, as he squatted to retake his seat, his shirttails made another break for it. “Yep, it was druggies,” he wheezed, nodding with conviction, having forgotten the integral point that Samson had suffered no defensive wounds.

Taking advantage of his sergeant’s mental lapse, the Chief squinted and said, “That’s an interesting scenario, Ed; I think you ought to follow up on it, especially since drug investigations are your specialty. You can be in charge of that prong of the investigation.” Snitz glanced at Neidrich, who was staring at Knepp, impassive except for a furrowed brow. “Meanwhile, I’ll work with Trooper Neidrich.”

“Good to go that way,” Neidrich said with a nod, understanding the Chief’s intent. “Someone who knows the locals following both lines of investigation.”

Wide-eyed, Knepp asked, “How many State Bulls can I have to help me?”

Neidrich started to respond, but Snitz cut in, speaking with slow-paced sagacity: “You should follow the drug lead alone. That way, when the truth about Dr. Samson’s death breaks, and the State Police are concentrating on the personal grudge angle, we’ll draw attention away from you. That way, you can operate with greater latitude.” The Chief nodded, adding softly, reverentially, “A lone wolf.”

Gazing off into the middle distance, Knepp said, “I like that.”

Snitz turned to Neidrich and changed the subject. “As far as suspects, there have been rumors of affairs, but if they’re true, he did a good job covering his tracks. He moonlighted business deals, too, real estate and such. Maybe someone felt cheated.”

“That’s where we’ll start,” Neidrich said.

Knepp had just inhaled a huge chug of coffee and almost choked in his eagerness to speak. “Don’t forget the Freedom Con people. My sister-in-law, Lionda, is a secretary in the District Office, and she gives me the inside poop. Most school people loved Bob, but a few hated him. For the haters, start in Kerry Wyatt’s office, where Lionda works. Wyatt’s in charge of special education, counseling, psychology,” Knepp gave a dismissive wave, “that stuff. Him and Meryl Morgan, she’s the Director of Secondary Education; they didn’t get along with Bob. They’re eggheads. Wyatt’s a bleeding-heart, always going on in that psychobabble. Morgan keeps coming up with ideas to fix things that aren’t broken. Because of Bob, the District runs like a clock.”

“You consider them suspects?”

“Wyatt’s too old and Morgan’s a woman.” Knepp sneered. “Plus, they’re chickens. But they’re in tight with the guy who would do it for them: Doc Randori. He’s Wyatt’s hatchet man. No one likes him, and he doesn’t like anyone right back.”

“That doesn’t make him a suspect,” Snitz said. “Dr. Randori’s an all right fellow.”

“To you, maybe, but I’ve visited Lionda when Randori’s there. Everyone will be joking around, then I’ll walk in and the others keep going, but he just stares at me. He never talks about his personal life, and he doesn’t socialize.”

“Wanting privacy doesn’t make him a murderer, Ed.”

“It sure makes him suspicious. Besides, nobody hated Bob more than Randori.”

Neidrich sat forward. “Tell me more.”

“They had bad blood from back when Randori coached football at St. Thomas More. Bob coached there first, you see, and he had the best record ever at that school. Then Bob came over to Freedom Con. Randori followed Bob at Thomas More and never could fill his shoes. His Catholics played against us, and we whupped him every year.”

“Come on, Ed, there’s a little more to the story.”

Knepp bent closer to Neidrich and lowered his voice. “Darn right there’s more. According to Lionda and Theresa Wagner—that’s Wyatt’s other secretary—Randori was an administrator, Wyatt’s assistant, until Bob demoted him to guidance counselor. Bet that cut his pride. Yep, if I was looking inside the District, that’s where I’d start.”

Neidrich studied Knepp’s face. “Any suspects besides this Randori guy?”

“No one who had the motives and ability like Randori.”

“How so?”

“Randori has a bad temper—and he’s a karate expert. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Not ironic, Ed,” Snitz said, “it’s coincidental.”