Dead of Winter

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.

“Jess!”

Jesse turned. Suddenly, Louis didn’t know how to form his question. “I want to ask you something,” he said.

“What?”

“Lovejoy’s death really bothers you.”

“Of course it bothers me. He was a cop.”

“So was Pryce.”

Jesse stared at him. “What are you saying?”

Louis looked out at the lake and then back at Jesse. “I’m not sure. It’s just that -”

“Are you asking me if I cared more because Lovejoy was white?”

“What?” Louis said, stunned. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“That’s not what I -”

“Then what did you mean?”

“Look, I just want to know why you’re taking Lovejoy’s death so much harder, that’s all.”

Jesse shrugged. “Maybe I’ve had some time to get over Pryce, know what I mean?”

“But you worked with Pryce every day.”

Jesse looked away then took off his cap, running his arm across his brow. He turned away, facing the lake.

“Jess?”

Jesse turned. “I didn’t like him, okay?”

“Who? Pryce?”

“Yeah, Pryce. He was kind of a troublemaker.”

“What do you mean?”

Jesse looked uncomfortable. “You know, not a team player.”

“How?”

“He was…shit, he wasn’t one of us, I told you that before.”

“In what way?” Louis pressed.

Jesse shook his head. “Well, like he would report us sometimes.”

“For what?”

“That’s just it. Little shit. Once he even wrote Ollie up for shooting a deer while on duty. Chief didn’t care, let us cook up the damn thing for dinner one night. But Pryce wouldn’t eat any.” He hesitated then shook his head. “He was a jerk, Louis.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”