Dead of Winter (15 page)

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.