In Plain Sight

11

THE NEXT MORNING JOE WENT FOR A RUN, FED THE horses, retrieved the newspaper, walked the girls out to the school bus (via the back door, so they wouldn’t have to see the Miller’s weasel on the front), and paced back and forth from the living room to the kitchen, waiting for eight A.M., when he called headquarters in Cheyenne and asked for Randy Pope. He was angry.

“The director is in a meeting,” Pope’s receptionist said, her tone clipped. Joe didn’t think he liked Pope’s receptionist; there was something off-putting and chilly about her.

“Can you please get him out of it?”

“Is this an emergency?”

It is for me, Joe thought. So he said, “Yes,” knowing Pope wouldn’t agree.

Joe listened to Glen Campbell sing about the Wichita lineman while he held. The music was another addition since Pope had taken over, but the choice of songs belied not only another era, but another planet.

Pope came on. “Make it quick, Joe.”

“Someone killed a Miller’s weasel and stuck it to my front door last night,” Joe said. “I tried the emergency number there in Cheyenne last night and they told me you were not to be disturbed.”

“That’s right, Joe,” Pope said, an edge in his voice. “I was at a dinner at the governor’s mansion. It was a get-to-know-you dinner, and I informed dispatch I was not to be interrupted.”

Joe sighed. “Randy, if you’re going to be my supervisor and require me to get authorization from you for every move I make, you need to be available. Either that, or loosen up the reins and let me do my job.”

Marybeth passed by the doorway to his office holding the newspaper. She cocked an eyebrow, cautioning him.

“That would be Director Pope,” Pope said, his voice flat. “Tell me again what happened and what you want to do?” Joe could discern he was measuring his words carefully. Joe vowed to try to do the same. Every time he talked with Pope he ran the risk of saying something that could get him reprimanded or suspended.

“There is a dead Miller’s weasel stuck to my front door with a knife . . .”

“That house is Game and Fish property,” Pope interjected. “It doesn’t belong to you personally.”

Joe stopped pacing and shut his eyes. This is what Pope did, his method—he’d say something so blatant and obvious that it killed the purpose of the conversation in the first place.

“I know who the house belongs to,” Joe said wearily. “And since you own it, how about a new furnace? How about that? How about putting some insulation in the walls and sealing up all of the cracks where the wind blows through?”

Marybeth was hovering in the hall, listening and not trying to hide it. He could tell she was amused, but also concerned.

“Joe . . .”

“Right, you don’t want to talk about that,” Joe said to Pope. “So how about we talk about the animal on the front of my, um . . . our door. The Miller’s weasel is an endangered species, as you know. But it’s more than that. This is personal.”

“So what do you want me to do about it?”

Again, Joe closed his eyes for a moment, contemplating whether or not he should count to ten, or resign immediately. Or drive to Cheyenne and shoot Pope in the heart, which would be the best alternative—or at least the most satisfying.

“I need your authorization to investigate it,” Joe said quietly, trying to keep anger out of his voice. “You said in your memo that you want to be informed prior to me opening any new investigations, so I’m informing you. I want to ride to where the last colony of Miller’s weasels are, and see if I can find any evidence of who was up there to kill one. Then I might need some help from our investigators to trace the knife. I can start interviewing people around here today to see if anyone saw the vehicle or knows who did it.”

The line was silent for a moment. Joe could picture Pope sitting back in his chair, maybe putting his feet up on his desk.

“Joe?” Pope said.

“Yes?”

“There’s a big difference between asking for authorization and telling me what you’re going to do,” Pope said. “This is a good example of the kind of problem I have with you and some of the other game wardens. You act as if you’re the Lone Ranger in your district, that you and you alone decide what you’re going to do and how you’re going to do it. No other law-enforcement officer has that luxury, Joe. Everyone else has to get authorization to proceed. Can you imagine a sheriff’s deputy showing up at work in the morning and saying, ‘Gee, I feel like going out on the interstate highway today and catching speeders and playing highway patrolman instead of staying in the county and following up on all of these annoying complaints.’ Can you imagine that, Joe? It’s time you realized this isn’t how things are done in the real world, where we have to justify our existence to the legislature and the public. Why is it you think you’re special?”

“It’s my problem,” Joe said, opening the front door and staring at the animal pinned to it, the little body now starting to stiffen. “Like I said, it’s personal. Whoever did this didn’t just happen to find a Miller’s weasel. He went looking for it, and left it here as a message. I haven’t disturbed it since last night in case there are fingerprints or other evidence.”

Pope said, “Do you plan to chase the culprit down and shoot him like you did that outfitter in Jackson? Like you’re some kind of cowboy or gunfighter? That’s not how we do things anymore, Joe. This is a new agency, and a new era.”

A new agency and a new era. Another one of Pope’s catchphrases.

Joe had trouble finding the right words to say. He knew he was turning red. When he looked up at Marybeth, she was gesturing frantically for him to “zip it” by sealing her own mouth with an imaginary fastener.

“Call the sheriff,” Pope said crisply. “That’s what you should have done last night. Ask him to investigate this. It’s his jurisdiction, after all.”

“Sheriff McLanahan is not competent to investigate this,” Joe said.

Pope chuckled drily. “Now, I doubt that, Joe. I’m sure he can handle it. The good people of Twelve Sleep County would never have elected him if he was the buffoon you make him out to be. And this is part of the problem, too. It doesn’t help with our community-relations outreach when our people refer to the locals as incompetents. We need all the support we can get, Joe. You need to learn to work with . . .”

Joe punched off and slammed the receiver down with so much force that the earpiece broke off. He couldn’t listen to another word.

Marybeth obviously heard the end of the conversation and the crash and looked in the door as he tried to fit the pieces of the phone back together. Wires were still attached to the pieces.

“It’s busted,” he said, angry with himself.

“I see that,” Marybeth said. “We can get a new phone. But it’s not the phone I’m worried about.”

As Joe pressed the pieces together, the handle shattered and covered his desktop with shards of plastic.

Joe said darkly, “Maybe I need a new job.”

Marybeth said, “Phone repairman is definitely out.”

SHERIFF KYLE MCLANAHAN arrived at Joe’s house at ten-thirty that morning, driving the oldest pickup in the county fleet, his one-eyed Blue Heeler dog occupying the passenger seat.

Joe went outside to meet him.

The sheriff climbed slowly out of his pickup, as if he’d aged twenty years since he left town. The dog scrambled out behind him, and ran through the gate to Maxine so both dogs could sniff each other for a while.

That seemed to be McLanahan’s intent with Joe as well, to sniff at him.

“That’s it, eh?” McLanahan asked, pointing over Joe’s shoulder at the Miller’s weasel on his door.

“That’s it,” Joe said, watching McLanahan pull on his jacket.

“Happened last night, huh?”

“Yup.”

“But you waited until this morning to call.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Woulda helped if you’d called last night,” McLanahan said, entering the yard and shuffling past Joe. “Before the blood dried and all the evidence was fouled up. I suppose you’ve touched the knife handle, and opened the fence, all of that.”

“I’m afraid so,” Joe said, embarrassed.

McLanahan turned to him stiffly. He moved as if he’d just dismounted after a long horseback trek. “D’you know who did it?”

Joe shrugged. “Someone who wants to send a message. You remember the history on that Miller’s weasel.”

McLanahan nodded. “Well,” he said, reaching up and smoothing both sides of his mustache with a meaty index finger in a surprisingly effete gesture, “I ain’t got much to go on, since you already fouled up the crime scene and you can’t tell me anything.”

“Nope, I guess you don’t,” Joe said, frustrated.

McLanahan ambled back toward his pickup. “You let me know if something else happens, all right? Or if you hear anything about who mighta’ done this? You’ll call, right?”

Joe sighed. “I’ll call.”

The sheriff opened the door of his truck to let his dog bound in, then stopped suddenly and looked up at the sky. Joe followed McLanahan’s gaze, puzzled. A V of geese was outlined against a massive cumulous cloud.

“I like to watch the geese,” McLanahan said, as if it were something profound. Then he looked back at Joe and squinted his eyes. “Next time, call me right away. Don’t wait twelve hours, pardner.”