Thunder Bay

SIXTEEN

When I resigned as sheriff of Tamarack County, I gave as my reason the ill effect the position had on my family and personal life. In light of all that had happened in the weeks before my resignation, most people seemed to understand. For a couple of months, Captain Ed Larson, who headed up major crime investigations for the sheriff’s department, performed the duties as acting sheriff. But Ed made it abundantly clear that he didn’t want the job permanently. When the county commissioners finally got around to holding a special election, one of my best deputies ran for the position and won: Marcia Dross. I’d hired her as the first female law enforcement officer in the department. Eight years later, she became the county’s first female sheriff.

She stood just inside the doorway of Meloux’s cabin, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, listening while Ed sat with me at the table, taking me through the questions. She was tall, with hair the color of an acorn and cut short. When I was sheriff, I wore the uniform. The guy before me had preferred three-piece suits and looked like a banker. Dross had her own look. She generally wore jeans, neatly creased, a tasteful sweater or flannel shirt from the likes of Lands’ End, and a pair of chukka boots. The ensemble looked good at a town meeting, but wasn’t at all out of place at a crime scene in the Northwoods.

The motorboat the department used for patrolling Iron Lake had come up from Aurora. Morrissey’s body, zipped in a bag, had been loaded aboard and transported to the marina in town where it would be transferred to a hearse and taken to Nelson’s Funeral Home, there to be kept in cold storage until a decision had been made about whether to perform an autopsy. Cause of death was pretty apparent, and Tamarack County’s budget would be sorely affected by the cost of the autopsy, so my sense was that in this case, the postmortem examination would be relatively perfunctory.

I’d told Ed everything I’d observed that morning. I’d also told him about my trip to Thunder Bay. He was going over it all again to be certain of the details and to try to make sense of the attack on Meloux. He’d already interviewed the old Mide, who’d been taken into town to give a full, written statement. Jo was going to meet him there to make certain he had legal representation. Meloux had told Ed everything, so I didn’t see any reason to hold back.

“Did Morrissey see the watch?” Dross asked. It was the first question she’d offered in the interview.

I nodded. “When Wellington tossed it to me.”

“You’re sure he hadn’t seen it before that?”

“When I met him at the marina in Thunder Bay, he gave me the box and indicated he didn’t know what was in it.”

“Considering what he tried here, he doesn’t strike me as a man whose word ought to be taken at face value,” Dross said. “Where’s the watch?”

“Meloux has it.”

“Worth much, do you think?”

“You’re asking the wrong guy, Marcia. To me, the prize in a box of Cracker Jacks is a big deal.”

“What I’m getting at-”

“I know what you’re getting at, and I don’t know. I suppose Morrissey could have been after the watch, but I can’t imagine it’s worth a man’s life.”

In the cool corner of the cabin where he lay, Walleye moved and whimpered a little. Meloux and I had taken a good look at the wound. The bullet had grazed a path a few inches long across the dog’s left haunch. It had stopped bleeding, but stitches would be a good idea. I told Meloux when he left for the sheriff’s department not to worry, that as soon as we could, Stevie and I would get Walleye to a vet.

“It’s possible the watch was more important to Wellington than you realized,” Larson said. “Maybe he sent Morrissey after it.”

“And killing the old man was the way?”

“That could have been Morrissey’s idea,” Dross said. “Where were you exactly when you handed the watch back to Meloux?”

“Sitting right here at this table.”

Dross walked over and looked through the window toward the rocks where Meloux had been attacked.

“Morrissey had field glasses,” she said. “He could easily have observed the exchange of the watch and known it was in Meloux’s possession.”

“Okay,” Larson said, moving us along, “the watch is a possible motive. What else?”

“Have you got an idea, Ed?” I asked.

“As a matter of fact. How about rage?”

Ed Larson was the brightest officer in the department, always had been. When I was first elected sheriff many years ago, I’d sent Ed to Quantico to learn from the FBI. He’d gone back periodically for training in profiling and other areas related to law enforcement. He didn’t just look at the known facts of a crime. More often than not, he had a pretty good speculation about the psychology behind the crime. This time, however, I wasn’t so sure.

“Rage?” I said.

“Directed at the father who wasn’t there his whole life, then suddenly shows up out of the blue. You said Wellington’s mental state was precarious.”

“I said he wasn’t hitting on all cylinders, but I didn’t say I thought he was capable of murder. Especially the murder of his father.”

“You didn’t say it,” Dross threw in, “but what do you think?”

“I spoke with the man for ten minutes. I honestly couldn’t say.” Dross nodded, returned to the wall, crossed her arms, and leaned back. “Clearly we need to interview him.”

Larson stood up. “I’ll call the provincial authorities as soon as I get back to the office, start setting things up.”

Dross said, “It’s incredible that an old man like Meloux got the drop on somebody like this Morrissey.”

“Incredible?” I shook my head. “There’s almost nothing about Henry Meloux that would surprise me anymore.”

We were the last to leave the scene. Larson and Dross walked ahead of me on the trail through the meadow and into the trees, which was the only way to get from Meloux’s back to the road. Those who came to see Meloux came on foot. I walked more slowly than the other two, keeping company with Walleye, who was limping. I considered carrying him, but it wouldn’t have been comfortable for either of us. We just took our time.

When we reached my Bronco, the road was empty, though a cloud of yellow dust kicked up by the sheriff’s vehicle still hung over it. Morrissey’s SUV had been impounded, would be gone over for evidence. I helped Walleye up onto the seat, then set out for the Kricks’ resort, where Stevie was waiting for me.

Melissa pointed me to the dock. I found Stevie sitting with his feet dangling in the water. From there, Crow Point, where Meloux’s cabin stood, was a small sliver of dark land far in the distance. He was looking in that direction when I came up beside him.

“It’s all over,” I said quietly.

He jumped up and hugged me.

I bent and kissed the top of his head. “Melissa said she told you Henry was okay.”

He turned his face up toward mine, and I saw the ghost of worry still there. “I was still kind of scared.”

“She say anything else about what happened at Meloux’s?”

“No.”

“Why don’t you come on home with me and I’ll tell you everything. Walleye’s waiting for us. He’s hurting a little. He could use some good attention.”

“Oh boy.” He grabbed his sneakers and socks and ran ahead, toward the cabins.

First stop was Hakala’s Animal Clinic. We were walk-ins and had to wait a bit. I dialed the number for Jo’s cell phone. She told me that she and Meloux had finished at the sheriff’s department and were at the house. She said the girls were at Sam’s Place and had everything there under control.

Stevie went into the exam room with me when Leslie Hakala, who was in practice with her father, Einer, called us in. She took a look at the wound. Walleye patiently suffered the probing of her fingers around the area.

“Bullet, you say?” She looked up at me. “Careless hunter?”

“A bad guy,” Stevie said. “He tried to kill Henry Meloux, but missed and got Walleye instead.”

The vet’s eyebrows lifted noticeably. “That so?” She glanced at me. “The old Indian who lives up north?”

“Yeah.”

“Why would anyone want to kill him?”

“Long story,” I said. “And the details are still sketchy. What about Walleye here?”

“Well, I think we’ll deaden the area and clean it good, put a few stitches in, and that should be fine. You’ll have to watch him closely for a while though, make sure no infection sets in.”

“We will,” Stevie assured her. He petted the dog earnestly.

She tried to get more information from me as she worked, but I held back on the harsher details. In a town like Aurora, she’d hear them soon enough.

We left the clinic and made a quick stop at Sam’s Place. Just as Jo had said, Jenny and Annie had things well under control. They’d called in their friends and were busy with the lunch rush. They knew, more or less, what had happened and were full of questions, but I didn’t want to talk about it between customers. I told them I’d be back later and we’d discuss it then.

Jenny avoided looking at me directly. That was fine. It wasn’t the right time or place for us to deal with her situation. I thanked them all and returned to the Bronco, where Stevie and Walleye patiently waited.

It was going on two o’clock when I pulled into the drive on Gooseberry Lane. We’d been gone six hours, but it felt like days. A lot had happened since Stevie and I sat at the kitchen table munching our raisin bran. I realized, as we stepped into the cool of the house, that I was hungry. I smelled something cooking and, following my nose, I found Jo and Meloux in the kitchen eating fried bologna sandwiches-the Ojibwe often call bologna “Indian steak”-leftover Jell-O salad, and chips. They both were drinking a diet Pepsi.

“You guys okay?” I asked.

“Good,” Meloux answered. “We are good. And Walleye?”

“He’s with Stevie in the backyard. The vet stitched him up and gave me some antibiotic pills he’ll need to take for a while to fight infection.”

“Hungry?” Jo asked, and began to get up.

I waved her back down. “Relax. I’ll fix it.”

I started a flame under the skillet that still sat on a burner of the stove and took the bologna from the refrigerator.

“Henry and I have been trying to figure out why this Morrissey tried to kill him,” Jo said.

“Marcia, Ed, and I have been doing the same. You guys come up with anything?”

Jo sipped her Pepsi. “I think it was the watch. Henry showed it to me. It’s gold, quite original, and could be valuable.”

“What do you think, Henry?”

“Just an old watch,” Meloux replied with a shrug. “Important to me, but who am I?”

I slapped two slices of bologna in the skillet, one for me, one for Stevie.

“Henry, it may be that Morrissey was sent to get the watch.”

Meloux fixed his dark, unwavering eyes on me. “I do not believe my son would ask that man to kill me.”

“Maybe the killing wasn’t part of his instructions. Morrissey may have come up with that on his own.”

Stevie stepped into the kitchen.

I nodded toward the skillet. “I’ve got a fried bologna sandwich coming up in a minute, buddy. Hungry?”

“Can I eat outside?” he asked.

“Sure. Milk and chips with that?”

“Thanks.”

Jo left the table and hugged Stevie. “That was very important, what you did this morning.”

“What did I do?” Stevie said.

“Getting the Kricks to call the sheriff.”

“That was easy.” Stevie looked down. “I should have been with Dad and Henry and Walleye.”

“Your mom’s right, guy,” I said. “What you did was exactly what you needed to do. We’re very proud of you.”

Stevie didn’t look convinced. He squirmed out of Jo’s arms and said to Meloux, “Walleye’s okay, Henry.”

“I have been told. Stephen, I would like to ask a big favor.”

“Sure.”

“I will be gone for a while. Will you take care of my friend for me?”

“Will I!” he said eagerly.

“Gone?” I turned from the stove.

“Tomorrow we will go to see my son.”

I shook my head. “Things have changed, Henry. A man’s dead. There’s a police investigation in progress. Until they’ve had a chance to interview Henry Wellington, we need to keep out of this. Besides, I’d say it’s doubtful at best that Wellington would agree to see you.”

“I will offer the watch.”

“Henry, I know how important this is to you, but you need to be patient. Let the police do their work first.”

“I know about patience,” the old man said testily. I couldn’t remember Meloux ever getting upset with me, but it was clear he was headed in that direction. “This is something else, and it must be done quickly.”

“Like the vet sewing up Walleye?” Stevie offered.

“Yes, Stephen,” Meloux said. “My son is not well. He needs me to heal him.”

Jo pointed toward the stove. “Cork, your bologna’s burning.” The doorbell rang. Jo brought back Meloux’s nephew, Ernie Champoux, who’d come for the old man. Until this business was concluded, Ernie intended to have his great-uncle stay with him. He’d taken a couple of days off from work for that reason.

“Sunrise tomorrow, I will be ready,” Meloux said as he went out the front door.

“Henry, I won’t be there,” I called after him. I didn’t like being brusque, but I wasn’t going to back down. Seeing his son at this juncture was a bad idea on so many levels.

Meloux stopped, turned, and his eyes hit me like a couple of rocks.

“Give the authorities a little time, Henry,” I tried, “then we’ll see.”

He didn’t reply. I watched, feeling like a lousy son of a bitch, as he walked to Ernie’s truck, which was parked at the curb. Ernie pulled away with Meloux beside him, sitting stiff as iron and staring straight ahead.

Jo took my arm. “Do you really think it would be so bad for Henry to see his son?”

“A man tried to kill him-we have no idea why-and that man’s dead. Rushing ahead is a terrible idea. Hell, Meloux’s waited seventy years to see his son. Will a couple more days make much difference?”

I went back to the kitchen. My burned fried bologna was cold. I looked out the window. Stevie was feeding his burned bologna to Walleye.