Dead of Winter

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.