Dead of Winter

He heard footsteps and stopped. He turned and saw a figure out near the shoreline. He strained in the half-light of the moon, but could only make out a silhouette. It was a jogger, a girl. She was short and slender, and her ponytail bounced rhythmically with each stride. He watched her until she disappeared into the pines then he went back inside. What kind of place was this that a girl could feel safe enough to jog alone at night?

Inside, he dropped logs on the hearth. Standing to arch his back, his eye caught the photograph of the Pryce boy sitting on the mantel.

A meeting of the minds…Well, if Jesse was any indication, Gibralter wasn’t happy with the way the Pryce case had been handled so far. Maybe he would welcome a new perspective. What did he have to lose? He wanted to work the case and there was only one way to get to it: Come right out and ask.

He glanced at his watch. Just after nine. Jesse had said that Gibralter stayed late at the station. He grabbed his keys and University of Michigan jacket and headed out.

There was no one manning the dispatch desk when Louis got to the station. A steaming mug of coffee, a paperback and a bag of Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies told him Edna had temporarily abandoned her post.

Louis went to Gibralter’s door, tapped on the glass and poked his head in. The chief looked up quickly.

Louis continued on in. “Good evening, sir, I – ”

Gibralter slammed a drawer shut. “Kincaid, are you a mental deficient?”

Louis stopped cold. “Sir?”

“Why the hell didn’t you knock? I told you when I hired you don’t enter without knocking.”

Louis looked back at the door. “I did, sir.”

“In polite society, people wait for permission to enter.”

“My apologies.”

Gibralter glared at him and as quickly as it had come, the anger faded. “I don’t normally give second chances but I’m not going to suspend you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Gibralter lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke in one blue stream that seemed to fill the room. “You’re out of uniform,” he said.

“Sorry, sir,” Louis said. “It won’t happen again.”

Gibralter sat down in the large swivel chair behind his desk. “Now, what did you want?”

Damn, he had forgotten the nice little speech he had rehearsed on the drive over. “Well, sir,” he began, “I was thinking tonight – ”

“Thinking?”

“Yes, sir, and – ”

“‘To him whose elastic and vigorous thought keeps pace with the sun, the day is perpetually morning.’” Gibralter smiled. “Thoreau. You ever read Thoreau?”

Louis shifted slightly, clasping his hands behind his back. “Yes, in college.”

“Interesting man, wouldn’t you say?”

Louis tried to remember something impressive from his philosophy course. It had been senior year, a three-credit slam-dunk course he needed for graduation and he had slept through it.

“Well, sir, I think his philosophy was admirable.”

Gibralter cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? So you’re a Transcendentalist, are you?”

A snippet from a forgotten lecture drifted into Louis’s head.

“Thoreau believed in the basic good of man. And the strength of the individual. I believe in those things, sir.”

“I’m sure you do,” Gibralter said, leaning forward to snuff out his Camel. “‘Nothing is at least sacred but the integrity of your own mind.’ But that was Emerson, wasn’t it?”

Louis unclasped his hands, realizing suddenly he looked like he was standing at attention.

“Well, I don’t find much to admire in Thoreau’s philosophy myself,” Gibralter said.

So much for a meeting of the minds.

“A belief that intuition is better than logic and reason? The idea that man should turn his back on authority and established order?” Gibralter shook his head, smiling again. “The man ran off and lived in the woods but wouldn’t even set a trap or own a gun.”

Louis’s eyes dropped to the red carpet. How in the hell was he going to turn this around to asking for the Pryce case?

“I understand you were at the Pryce house today,” Gibralter said.

Louis looked up. “Yes, it’s tragic. Jesse said – ”

“It’s more than tragic. It’s a goddamn outrage. No one kills my cops and gets away with it.”

Gibralter reached into a drawer and pulled out a fresh pack of Camels. He slowly peeled off the top and then held the pack out to Louis.

“I don’t smoke,” Louis said.

Gibralter pulled out one, lit it and sat back in his chair. “You came here to ask for the Pryce case, didn’t you?” he said, squinting up at Louis through the smoke.

“Yes, sir,” Louis said.

“Why?”

“The house, the scene bothered me,” Louis began. He reached in his jacket. “I found this picture – ”

“Let me see it.”

Louis gave it to him. Gibralter glanced at it then tossed it on the desk. “Emotions can get in the way in this job,” he said.

“Sometimes they can be powerful motivators,” Louis said.

“What did you feel when you saw that?” Gibralter asked, nodding at the photograph.

“Anger,” Louis replied.

“What else?”

Louis hesitated. “Frustration.”

“What else?”

Louis stared at Gibralter.