Dead of Winter

CHAPTER 11

Louis glanced at his watch. Only seven-thirty, still plenty of time before briefing. He got up and went to the coffeepot, pouring his second cup of the morning. Returning to his desk, he looked down at the papers and mail, the stuff he had taken from Lovejoy’s mailbox. Gibralter had told him to go through it, see if there might be something, some small clue.

Louis sipped the coffee, struggling to get his blood flowing, his mind working. He hadn’t slept more than a couple hours, but for once he didn’t care.

Zoe had stayed until nearly three. He had wanted her to spend the night, entwined with him in the afghan on that moth-eaten bear rug. But she had refused. Strange woman. Tender in her lovemaking but as soon as it was over she had turned edgy, as if she couldn’t wait to leave. Strange, strange woman, unlike any woman he had been with before. The others had all expected things after sex — everything from a couple minutes of cuddling to a lifetime commitment. But not Zoe. It had left him feeling a little unbalanced and, he finally had to admit, bruised around the old ego. She wouldn’t even give him her phone number. Just the promise that she would return. He couldn’t remember the last time he had wanted a woman as much.

He rubbed his hands roughly over his face. Easy, easy…back to the task at hand. He began sorting through Lovejoy’s mail.

Lots of bills…but nothing from the phone company, which was what he had been hoping to find. He jotted a note to Dale to have Lovejoy’s phone records pulled. Discarding the junk mail and the magazines, he turned his attention to the copies of the New York Times.

Pulling off the blue plastic he saw all three were Sunday editions. Now why would a guy who didn’t get the local paper take the trouble to have the Sunday Times sent to him every week?

The crossword. Lovejoy had been working on one when he was shot in the shanty. Louis focused on the dates on the front pages. December 1, December 8 and December 15. Louis fished out his pocket notebook and flipped through it. The puzzle found in the shanty was dated November 24. Why was Lovejoy working on an old puzzle when there were new ones in his mailbox?

Louis sat back in his chair, frowning slightly. Maybe it took three weeks for the damn paper to make its way to an outpost like Loon Lake.

He opened the paper and found the circulation number. He dialed it and reached an operator, who politely told him he could get the Sunday edition of “the world’s greatest newspaper” mailed to him for fifty-six dollars a year. But that since he lived in a rural area it would be a three-day delivery.

Louis thanked her and hung up. He was staring at the Times, lost in thought, when Jesse came in. He grunted out a greeting and went straight to the coffeepot. He stood, still in his parka, gulping down the coffee. He came over to Louis’s desk, peering down at the mail and newspapers.

“That Lovejoy’s stuff?”

Louis nodded.

“Anything in it?’

“No,” Louis said. “No copes of the Argus, at least.”

Jesse gave a snort of derision. “The Argus? Shit, Fred hated that rag. Got mad at it when they endorsed Jimmy Carter and he canceled his subscription.”

Louis drummed the pencil on the desk. That explained no local papers at least. But the untouched Times still bothered him. And the dead dog, he realized suddenly. If Lovejoy had been killed recently, the dog would not have starved to death.

“Something doesn’t make sense,” Louis said.

“What doesn’t?” Jesse asked.

“Lovejoy left the papers in his mailbox. The last crossword he worked on was November 24.”

Jesse frowned. “So?”

“It could mean Lovejoy was killed weeks ago, some time between November 25 and December 4.”

Louis watched as Jesse’s expression shifted from confusion to trepidation. “About the same time as Pryce,” Jesse said.

Louis nodded.

Jesse turned away. Louis couldn’t tell but he thought Jesse was looking at Pryce’s photo on the wall.

“Jess.”

He turned to look at Louis. “I don’t get it,” he said.

“Get what?”

“What’s he waiting for?” Jesse said. “If it’s been three weeks, what’s he waiting for?”

Louis didn’t know what to say. An undercurrent of fear had been running through the station ever since Lovejoy was discovered but not one man had given voice to it. Two cops were dead. Who was next? It was the question every man asked, but only of himself.

“Maybe he’s finished,” Louis said, knowing it didn’t sound convincing.

Jesse wasn’t listening. “What’s the fucker waiting for?” he murmured. He went slowly into the locker room.

Louis thought of going after him but what could he say? He glanced at the wall clock. Nearly eight, time for briefing. He gathered up Lovejoy’s mail and stuffed it back in the bag. This would have to wait. Jesse would have to wait, too.

“Morning, Kincaid.”

Louis looked up to see Gibralter coming in.

“Chief,” Louis said.

“I want to see you and Harrison before briefing,” he said, as he swept by into his office.

“Right.” Louis picked up the bag and deposited it on Dale’s desk to be logged back into the evidence room. He was refilling his coffee when Jesse emerged in a crisp uniform.

“Chief wants us now,” Louis said.

“He say why?”

Louis shook his head.

Gibralter was lighting up a Camel, standing behind his desk when they went in.

“I’ve decided to pull you two off regular duty,” he said. “I want someone full-time on Pryce and Lovejoy,” Gibralter added.

Louis didn’t have to look at Jesse to get his reaction; he could almost feel the ripple of excitement arc off his body.

Gibralter tossed a folder on the desk. “The prelims from Fred’s shanty are back. The black spots were grease, the stuff they use to lube cars. They found a greasy shoe print, too, size ten. Check to see if it matches the one found on Pryce’s porch.”

“Is there any doubt?” Jesse asked.

Gibralter ignored him. “They’re positive the ice hole was enlarged by the chain saw on the wall. The blood in the chair was Fred’s and they figure he was shot while he was sitting there.”

Louis watched for some emotion in Gibralter’s face but there was none. He found himself wondering if he himself could maintain such control.

“From the trajectory angle, they estimate the height of the shooter at five-nine, assuming he held the shotgun at his waist, dead in front of him,” Gibralter went on.

“What if he held it at his eye, chief?” Jesse asked.

“Then the fucker would be about three foot tall, Harrison.”

Jesse flushed with color.

“They finish printing the shanty and cabin?” Louis asked.

“Not yet. There’s a dozen latents in both places. I doubt we’ll find our killer’s prints in that shanty, though.”

“What about the junk in the cabin?” Louis said.

“Cornwall and Evans are handling that.”

Louis started to mention the mail and his theory about the date of death but the chief pressed on.

“I want you two to talk to every inhabitant on that end of the lake and find out if anyone saw anything. Check with Elton at the bait shop and anyone else out there who might help.”

“Chief-”

“Don’t interrupt me, Harrison. When you get through with that I want you to check out every stinking cocksucker we ever busted in this town and find out what he’s doing now.”

“Case files?” Jesse asked.

Gibralter nodded, grinding his cigarette out in the ashtray. Apparently, the chief had not caught the dismay in Jesse’s voice, Louis noted. Jesse was envisioning something more exciting than sifting through dusty file cabinets.

“Has the ME come back with the time of death yet?” Louis asked.

Gibralter focused on him. “No, but Fred was wearing a watch, his retirement watch. It stopped at two-thirty so they figure that’s when he was put in the water.” Gibralter started rummaging through his drawer for something.

“I have a theory about the date of death,” Louis said.

Gibralter looked up. “Theory?”

Louis quickly summarized his thoughts about Lovejoy’s mail, his dog and the crossword puzzles.

Gibralter listened as he lit another Camel, blowing out the smoke slowly. When Louis was finished, he waited for the chief to say something but he seemed to have drifted off to some private place. Outside, beyond the closed door, Louis could hear the voices of the day-shift men gathering for briefing.

“Is there anything else, Chief?” Louis prompted.

Gibralter blinked, looking at him. “No, no…just call me if you find out anything.”

Louis started to leave.

“Kincaid.”

Louis turned.

“You’ve got a button missing.”

Louis glanced down at his uniform shirt. “I’ll change, sir.”

Louis hurried out the door. The office was empty, the other men already gathered in the adjoining briefing room. Louis noticed a uniformed stranger standing by the door, his cap in his hand. He wore a green nylon jacket and khaki trousers with a brown stripe. The patch on his sleeve said OSCODA COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT. Louis nodded at him. The man nodded back.

“Sheriff Armstrong,” the man said, extending a hand.

Louis came forward to shake the sheriff’s hand and introduce himself.

“How you doing, Kincaid?” Armstrong asked.

Louis knew the sheriff was asking about the entire department. A cop killing transcended territorial boundaries and Armstrong was there to offer assistance, even if it was just unspoken sympathy.

“Frustrated,” Louis answered.

Armstrong nodded. “Well, we got our eyes open for anyone who looks suspicious in the area. You’ll let us know if there’s anything else we can do, right?”

“Thanks, sheriff,” he said, moving to the locker room.

Louis was relieved to see that Pop had left two fresh uniforms on the pole, tagged with his name. He opened his locker and hung one inside, pulling the plastic wrap off the other.

He felt eyes on him and turned around to see two other officers standing at the end of the lockers, both just finished dressing for shift. He didn’t recognize them and he guessed they were night-shift men brought in for extra detail. One was a lean man about forty and the other heavy-set, past fifty.

“Morning,” Louis said, glancing at their name badges. Burt Cornwall and Ernest Evans.

“Morning,” Cornwall said gruffly.

Louis pulled off his shirt. The silence lengthened.

“You were on that scene yesterday, weren’t you?” Cornwall asked.

“Lovejoy’s? Yeah, I was,” Louis answered.

“I heard the chief gave you the Pryce case, too,” Evans said. The hostility in his voice was undisguised.

“Yeah, he did,” Louis replied. Apparently, he was getting a rep as an ass-kisser. But what did he expect? A police force was no different than any other business when it came to recognition and promotions. Those who didn’t get them blamed those who did.

Louis turned to face Evans and Cornwall, wanting to tell them simply “tough shit.” But he knew he couldn’t let himself get cut off from the others, especially not veteran cops who knew the town. It would be Black Pool, Mississippi, all over again, and he couldn’t afford that if he expected help.

“So,” Louis said, “what can you guys tell me about the local dirtbags? Any suspects come to mind?”

Evans slammed his locker shut. “I give my opinions to the chief,” he said.

The men moved away to the door. Louis watched them, his jaw tightening. Cornwall was probably pissed at pulling the duty of going through the garbage hauled out of Lovejoy’s cabin. Evans, on the other hand, was more likely just a burnout, angry at being passed over on the biggest case the department had ever seen.

The hell with them. They were expected to do the job they had been assigned. And if that meant rooting through trash to find the damn killer, then that’s what they would do. God knows he had pulled his share of garbage searches as a rookie.

He yanked the fresh uniform shirt off the hanger. It felt heavy and he looked at the front, almost expecting to see Pryce’s badge still pinned on it. There was a bulge in the pocket. He unbuttoned it and pulled out a worn spiral notebook.

He flipped it open. Slowly, the crabbed handwriting registered. It was Pryce’s notebook. His wife had said that he was always leaving his things lying around. Like leaving his notebook in a dirty uniform.

Louis turned the pages. They were filled, top to bottom, margin to margin, with notes, much of it in a bizarre type of shorthand.

He felt a tightening in his gut. There had to be something in here, something he could use to kick start the investigation. He slipped the notebook in a pants pocket and hurried to get dressed.

“You find anything yet?” Jesse asked eagerly.

Louis flipped through Pryce’s notebook as they drove toward Lovejoy’s cabin to interview neighbors. Pryce’s writing was like hieroglyphics, as inscrutable as his blotter doodles.

“Man, I can’t make sense out of this,” Louis said. “‘C.L. J.L. C.I.S. @ 5661. November. Proof. Proof. Proof.’ Then at the bottom of a page ‘X31.’ What the fuck does that mean? And listen to this one: ‘Sam Yellow Lincoln 61829.’ Who’s Sam? What the hell is that number, a plate? You know anybody with a yellow Lincoln?”

Jesse shook his head.

Louis keyed the mike. “Hey, Flo, would you run a 10–29 on Sam-Adam-Mary 61829?”

A few minutes later, Florence came back on the radio. “There’s no such plate, Louis,” she said. “At least not in this state.”

Louis thanked her and closed the notebook. They were coming up on Lovejoy’s place. He would have to go over the notebook more carefully later.

Jesse pulled the cruiser over to the side of the snow-filled street and cut the engine. He sat there, staring at the cabin.

“Jess?” Louis said.

Jesse didn’t respond.

“Jess,” Louis repeated.

Jesse looked over at him. With a slight shake of his head, he got out of the cruiser. They stood in the drive for a moment and Jesse finally suggested they start with the trailer three lots north and trudged off. Louis trailed him, wondering just how much help Jesse was going to be on this investigation. Sooner or later, they were going to have to go back in Lovejoy’s cabin.

Louis slowed his step as a sudden realization hit him. Jesse had not had the same reaction at Pryce’s house. Louis remembered the feel of his own stomach turning over when he had seen the stain on the carpet made from Pryce’s blood. But Jesse had been strictly business.

“Jess!”

Jesse turned. Suddenly, Louis didn’t know how to form his question. “I want to ask you something,” he said.

“What?”

“Lovejoy’s death really bothers you.”

“Of course it bothers me. He was a cop.”

“So was Pryce.”

Jesse stared at him. “What are you saying?”

Louis looked out at the lake and then back at Jesse. “I’m not sure. It’s just that — ”

“Are you asking me if I cared more because Lovejoy was white?”

“What?” Louis said, stunned. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“That’s not what I — ”

“Then what did you mean?”

“Look, I just want to know why you’re taking Lovejoy’s death so much harder, that’s all.”

Jesse shrugged. “Maybe I’ve had some time to get over Pryce, know what I mean?”

“But you worked with Pryce every day.”

Jesse looked away then took off his cap, running his arm across his brow. He turned away, facing the lake.

“Jess?”

Jesse turned. “I didn’t like him, okay?”

“Who? Pryce?”

“Yeah, Pryce. He was kind of a troublemaker.”

“What do you mean?”

Jesse looked uncomfortable. “You know, not a team player.”

“How?”

“He was…shit, he wasn’t one of us, I told you that before.”

“In what way?” Louis pressed.

Jesse shook his head. “Well, like he would report us sometimes.”

“For what?”

“That’s just it. Little shit. Once he even wrote Ollie up for shooting a deer while on duty. Chief didn’t care, let us cook up the damn thing for dinner one night. But Pryce wouldn’t eat any.” He hesitated then shook his head. “He was a jerk, Louis.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“Fuck…”

“Why didn’t you tell me before? It’s no big deal.”

“I didn’t want you to think, you know, like I was some sort of bigot.”

Louis stared at him.

“I’m not a bigot,” Jesse said.

Louis let out a long breath. He needed to change the subject. “I’m sorry I asked. Let’s get this over with.” He started toward the trailer.

“Louis, wait,” Jesse called out.

Louis turned.

“First, tell me you know I’m not a bigot,” Jesse said.

“Jesus…”

“I didn’t like the guy because he was an asshole sometimes. That’s the reason. The only reason. I’m no bigot.”

Louis threw up his hands. “Okay. Okay. You’re not a fucking bigot.”

“I mean, a black guy can be an asshole, just like a white guy, can’t he?”

Louis let out a sigh. Jesse looked away, and they both just stood there, rooted by the edge of the lake. Jesse slowly began shaking his head.

“Man, that was a dumb conversation,” Jesse said.

“No shit.”

“It wasn’t just Lovejoy himself. I hadn’t seen him in years.”

“Then what was it?”

Jesse glanced back at Lovejoy’s cabin. “It’s that there are two now, two dead cops. He’s after us, man. It’s knowing that this fucker could blow us away at any time. It’s affecting everything I do. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat…I can’t…” His voice trailed off.

Louis didn’t know what to say.

“What the hell does he want?” Jesse asked. “Why us? What the hell have we done?”

“That’s what we have to find out.”

“What do you mean?”

“The case files. Maybe we’ll find something.”

Jesse nodded slowly. “Maybe,” he said. He pulled his cap back on and zipped his coat to the chin. He glanced around at the trailer. “Well, let’s get this over with. Maybe we should split up, get it over with faster.”

“Good idea. I’ll take the shanties,” Louis said.

They split up, Jesse going to the trailer, Louis heading out over the ice toward the nearest fishing shanty.

He poked his head inside. A man jumped up from his stool, dropping his pole. “Jesus, you scared the crap outta me, officer,” the man said, clutching his coat.

Louis picked up the pole and handed it back to the man. “Sorry,” he said.

“I was just reading about that Lovejoy guy,” the man said, pointing to the Argus on the ice.

Louis introduced himself, saying he wanted to just ask a few questions. The fisherman stuck out a beefy red hand and offered his name as Art Taub.

“I guess you don’t see a lot of strangers out here,” Louis began, pulling out his notebook. “Are you out here often?”

“Nearly every day, if the wife lets me,” Taub answered, dropping his line back into the water.

“What time do you usually come out?”

“Eight, usually.”

“Do you fellows normally fish at night?”

Taub shook his head. “Early morning’s best.”

“Did you ever see Mr. Lovejoy?”

“Yeah, couple times. Mostly, I heard him.”

“Heard him?”

“His generator,” Taub said with a grimace. “He’d fire it up around six, six-thirty most mornings. He’d run the damn thing for a while, then turn it off, then run it, turn it off. Drove me nuts.”

“So he was out here by six, you think?” Louis asked.

Taub nodded. “You should talk to Elton. He can tell you what time he got his bait every morning. Elton opens at five-thirty.”

Louis paused, thinking about the New York Times in Lovejoy’s mailbox. “Mr. Taub, do you remember if you were out here the first weekend of this month?”

Taub frowned. “Yeah, yeah, I was. I remember ‘cause the wife went to Grayling to visit her mother so I was out every day.”

“Did you hear anything that sounded like a gunshot, maybe around two or two-thirty in the afternoon?”

Taub shook his head. “But I wouldn’t have paid attention because of the hunters. Probably wouldn’t have heard it anyway because of that damn generator.”

Louis nodded as he wrote. “Were you friendly with Lovejoy?”

“Nah, he was a loner, never bothered to even grunt in passing. One time I went over there to borrow some line and he told me to go buy my own. I never went back.”

“Did you see anything unusual that weekend, anything at all?”

Taub shook his head.

“Think hard, Mr. Taub.”

“Well, wait a minute, there was one thing. There was a red truck driving around over in those trees north of Will Jervey’s trailer, like he was lost. Real beat up, lots of rust. It was a Ford pickup, old model. I’d never seen it around here before.”

“What time did you see it?”

“Ah, little after six. I went in about eight to refill my thermos and it was gone.”

“Did you see the driver?”

Taub shook his head.

“Anything else?” Louis pressed.

Taub shook his head again. “Nope. It was a good day, fishing-wise, I mean.”

Louis made more notes then closed his book. He thanked Art Taub and left. There were four other huts. Two were empty, but interviews with the men in the other two yielded nothing useful. Neither men had seen a red truck or heard a shot. As Louis headed back to shore he saw Jesse coming from the trees near Lovejoy’s cabin. They met at the cruiser.

“You get anything?” Jesse asked.

“One guy said he saw a suspicious red truck,” Louis said. “What about you?”

“Nothing,” Jesse said. “I went over to Elton’s. He said Fred bought bait on Sunday the first and didn’t see him after that.”

“That supports my theory about the crosswords,” Louis said. “Unless Lovejoy used old bait.”

Jesse shook his head. “Elton says he bought fresh every day.”

Louis was frowning, looking out at the shanties on the lake.

“What’s the matter?” Jesse asked.

“The watch,” Louis said. “Fred’s watch stopped at two-thirty. But I just can’t see a killer hitting in broad daylight.”

“Especially since Pryce was hit at three in the morning,” Jesse said.

They were silent for several moments. “Maybe the watch ran for a while,” Jesse offered.

Louis shook his head. “In that water? It would freeze up right away.”

Jesse turned suddenly and started to get in the cruiser. “Let’s go.”

“Where?” Louis asked.

“To find out.”

“Find out what?”

But Jesse had already started the cruiser. When Louis got in, Jesse was radioing Dale, telling him to pull Lovejoy’s watch out of evidence and find out what make and model it was. By the time Jesse swung the cruiser up in front of Red’s Drug Store, Louis realized what was up. He waited in the cruiser until Jesse emerged with a bag holding a duplicate Timex. Jesse seemed so excited by his experiment Louis didn’t have the heart to discourage him. He would let him play Columbo; maybe it would give him some confidence.

Back at the station, Louis watched while Dale scavenged a thermometer from the first-aid kit and Jesse filled the Pyrex coffeepot with ice cubes from the refrigerator. In minutes, the two had their experiment set up on Louis’s desk.

“Check the temperature,” Dale said, caught up in Jesse’s experiment.

“Louis, get the watch,” Jesse called out.

Louis unwrapped the new gold-plated Timex and handed it to Jesse. They waited until the water in the pot had dropped below freezing. Louis stepped back, shaking his head.

He watched as Jesse dropped the watch in the water.

“What time you got, Louis?” Jesse asked.

“Five straight up.”

The seconds ticked off as Jesse and Dale peered at the watch in the water.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Louis looked to the door. Gibralter was standing there, staring at Jesse and Dale huddled over the coffeepot.

Jesse jumped to his feet. “A test.”

Gibralter came over to the desk and looked down at the glass bowl. “What kind of test?”

“We’re trying to find out how long this watch will run in ice water.”

“Why?” Gibralter demanded.

“Louis thinks Fred — ”

Gibralter’s eye flicked to Louis and then back to Jesse. He reached in the coffeepot, pulled out the watch and tossed it on the desk.

“Every minute you waste could cost another officer his life,” Gibralter said, leveling his gaze at Jesse. “I told you to go through the case files. Now go do your damn job.”

Jesse wet his lips. “But — ”

“Do your job, Harrison,” Gibralter repeated, enunciating each word, as if to a child. Without looking at Louis, he went into his office, slamming the door.

Louis looked at Jesse. He was just standing there, his face red with embarrassment. Dale and Florence were watching, their eyes wide in sympathy.

“Fuck,” Jesse muttered, wandering off.

Louis looked down at the watch. The face was clouded with condensation. He picked it up.

It had stopped at 5:04.