Tough Cookie

“Sergeant Bancock, Tom and I have been married not quite two years. Before that, I was a single mother. Every now and then I would go out. On a date. I spent a couple of evenings with Doug Portman, enough to know he collected military memorabilia. And I knew he’d become involved in politics. Something in law enforcement, right? I saw him every now and then at the picnics.” I paused. Bancock, Hoskins, and Tom all waited, too. “When I went out with Portman, he was a forensic accountant. I’d hired him regarding divorce proceedings from my first husband. I hadn’t really talked to him for years,” I went on. “I knew he’d married, now apparently divorced. When Tom said he wanted to sell some World War Two skis, I called Doug. We agreed to meet this morning after I did my cooking show.”

Bancock made another notation in his notebook, then leaned forward, his expression impenetrable. “And did you?”

“Yes. He came to the bistro, where I was doing the show. Afterward, it was snowing hard. We agreed to ski down and meet at Big Map.” I faltered. “That’s how I knew what he was wearing … the black suit and cowboy hat. That’s how I recognized him on the slope, when he’d … fallen.”

Bancock stopped scribbling. “Did you see him drink any alcoholic beverages?”

“No,” I replied without hesitation. “Nor did I see him eat anything.”

“Did he complain of headache, nausea, chest pain, anything like that?”

“Nope.”

Hoskins interjected, “But … did he seem drunk?” When I shook my head, he continued: “Did he seem tired?” No. “Have you skied with him before?”

“Never.”

Bancock was writing again. “Had he skied any runs prior to coming to the bistro?”

I thought back to the morning. Had Doug been pink-faced, sweaty, breathing hard? Had he seemed tired? “Don’t think so. Why?”

“Was Hot-Rodder one of the runs you were supposed to go down together?”

“Yes. But it was closed.”

“It was closed,” Bancock repeated crisply. “Bamboo poles with ropes and red flags were pulled across the top. But we can’t find anyone on the ski patrol who shut the run.”

Patrolman Hoskins glanced at Bancock; Bancock nodded at Hoskins to go ahead. “How about his equipment?” Hoskins asked me. “Did you see anything wrong with his skis or boots? Maybe his poles or bindings? Did he complain of anything not working, being loose?”

When I shook my head again, Bancock took up the questioning. “All right. Now, please describe once again everything that happened once you left the bistro. We need to know every detail you can remember.”

This I did, including seeing Doug disappear into the snowfall, my own slower skiing as I followed, getting caught up with the crowd trying to catch money. Suddenly remembering the wad in my pocket, I pulled out the bloody bills and placed them in a paper bag offered by Hoskins. Then I recounted how I’d looked for the source of the cash and seen Doug on the run below…. Total time elapsed from the bistro to the death scene: about twenty-five minutes, I concluded.

“Please describe the exact appearance of the victim,” Bancock said, in a chillingly matter-of-fact tone.

This I did: ski suit, hat, skis off and broken, one pole down the slope. Doug, covered with snow, sprawled motionless, looking as if he’d taken a spectacular fall and landed like a grotesque rag doll. The blood. I shuddered.

“And what did you think when you first saw him, Mrs. Schulz?”

“That he’d hit his head.”

“The money,” said Bancock thoughtfully, tapping his notebook. “Did you request he pay you in cash, instead of by check?”

“He said he was paying cash, and I didn’t ask why. Eight thousand dollars.” I thought again of the blizzard of falling currency on the mountainside, and swallowed.

Tom rolled his eyes and Bancock snorted.

The latter went on, “Did anyone else but you know he had the money for the skis on him?”

“I don’t have a clue.” How much of that scattered eight thousand would the authorities ever recover? I shot another apologetic look at Tom. My husband’s face was blank. I said, “What’s going on here?” An awful suspicion dawned on me. I turned to Tom. “Did you know Doug Portman in some official capacity? What did he do exactly?”

Tom exhaled before replying. “He was in corrections. And yes, I knew him in an official capacity.” He checked Hoskins’ face, which revealed nothing, then Bancock’s. The sergeant nodded.

“Doug Portman was the chairman of the state parole board,” Tom told me. “You didn’t know?”