Paul Doiron - Massacre Pond

So much for changing the subject, I thought.

“I know Rivard is big on forensics,” I said, “but my gut tells me there’s only a handful of guys around here who fit the profile. A couple of borderline psychos with excellent marksmanship skills and a beef with Elizabeth Morse? If we ask around enough, we’re bound to get some good leads. It just seems like old-fashioned police work.”

“Old-fashioned police work!” said McQuarrie. “Who are you-Joe Friday? Tracking down the perps is one thing, kid, but you’ve still got to make a case that stands up in front of a judge and jury.”

“Anyone who slaughters six moose on Elizabeth Morse’s land is going to crow about it, Mack.”

“You willing to bet your career on that?”

I had been on the job only a few years, but I had already learned to stop making absolute predictions about human behavior, especially my own.

“I didn’t think so,” said McQuarrie.

My phone chimed on my belt, indicating I had another e-mail. It was my mother again:

“Do not anticipate trouble, or worry about what may never happen. Keep in the sunlight.”

— Benjamin Franklin

McQuarrie, studied my expression. “Something wrong?”

I clicked the delete button and tucked the phone away. “Just my mom.”

“It used to be you could never get a signal out here in the boondocks,” Mack said. “Then Queen Elizabeth builds her palace by the lake, and suddenly there’s a new cell tower in Grand Lake Stream. That dame has got some serious pull.”

“Do you think she has a chance of actually creating a new national park here?” I asked. “Every politician in Maine has come out against the idea because it will cost wood-products jobs. They won’t even approve a feasibility study. The whole thing seems like a pipe dream.”

“You want my honest-to-God opinion?” McQuarrie removed his hat and ran a hand through his unruly hair. “Right now, the politicians don’t want to lose the blue-collar vote-the loggers, the papermakers, the guys like you and me who hunt and fish. But we’re an endangered species in this state. Most people down south, in the cities and suburbs, they like the idea of a park. Eventually, the city mice are going to outnumber the country mice. And when that happens, you watch how fast those same politicians flip their positions. Morse knows that time is on her side.”

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re a cynic, Mack?”

“That just means I’m old.” He adjusted his black baseball cap atop his head. “Speaking of politicians, it looks like the L.T. is getting ready to address the masses out there. Come on, Mikey. Let’s go hear what he’s got to say. The man dearly loves to give a speech.”

We walked through the desiccated field, kicking grasshoppers ahead of us with every step. Here it was, the end of October, and we still had seventy-degree temperatures and a plague of locusts. McQuarrie’s talk of end times and extinction must have gotten under my skin.

The lieutenant stood before a semicircle of a dozen or so wardens with his right hand raised in the manner of a politician standing at a podium.

I had first observed Rivard’s dramatic tendencies when he was my sergeant. I’d watched him put on a menacing performance to intimidate a high schooler be believed was robbing cabins for drug money. I’d seen him fall flat on his face. But now he was running his own division, with twenty-six men under his command, and had the stage to himself whenever he wanted it. “Not bad for a poor French kid from Lewiston,” he liked to say in a Francophone lilt.

“I just got off the phone with the colonel, informing him of the facts on the ground here. He said he believes this is the worst wildlife crime in Maine history. Think about that for a minute.” He paused to give us an opportunity for quiet contemplation. “The Warden Service has been around since 1881, and this is the worst wildlife crime on record. Six animals shot and left to rot.”

“At least six,” I muttered.

To my surprise, the lieutenant heard me. “What’s that, Bowditch?”

“We found only six animals this morning,” I said. “There may be others out there we haven’t found yet.”

“That’s a good point.” His accent tended to make his th ’s sound like d ’s and brought a singsong melody to many of his sentences. “We need to do a canvass of this entire township. For ease of evidence tracking and communication, we’re going to assign letters to each of the carcasses.” He pointed across the field. “This animal is moose A, the next three are B, C, and D, and so on. We’ll be creating a map that shows the kill sites. The initial focus will be on collecting evidence. If you see so much as a candy wrapper, I want it logged and bagged.”

I glanced around, looking for Stacey, but she had disappeared into the woods. I had been such an idiot to provoke her-and to what end? I felt like a hormone-addled teenager who had acted out in order to be noticed by the head cheerleader.

“I don’t want the fuckers who shot these critters getting off on a technicality because one irresponsible warden”-Rivard focused his polarized gaze at me-“decided some detail wasn’t important. This investigation needs to be done by the numbers! We’ve got a metal detector to sweep each of these sites for lead. Sergeant Polson will be in charge of photographing and videotaping the carcasses. You’d better call your wives and tell them you’ll be late for dinner, because we won’t be leaving these woods until it’s too dark to see.”

“What about the other investigations we’re pursuing?” asked Cody Devoe. He was a big-boned guy with a perpetual blue stubble on his chin that no razor seemed able to erase.

“This case takes top priority. I expect these killings to receive intense media attention. That is why I am assuming personal command of this case, so everyone understands the seriousness of this matter.” Rivard gestured toward a whip-thin warden leaning against the door of an unmarked pickup. “I will be assisted by Warden Investigator Bilodeau.”

Bilodeau had closely set eyes, a pointed nose, and a thin-lipped mouth, which I had never once seen in the shape of a smile. He wore his sandy hair cut straight across his forehead. He had a toothpick pressed between his lips.

I didn’t know the man well, but I coveted his job. Investigators in the Maine Warden Service were the closest things we had to detectives. They worked undercover, often for months at a time, to break up poaching rings; investigated boating accidents where the evidence didn’t quite match up with the testimony of the survivors; pursued all hunting homicides, of which there were still too many, even after the introduction of strict blaze orange and target-identification laws; and otherwise stuck their noses into every suspicious-smelling case that drifted our way. Being a warden investigator was my dream job, but I had zero shot at ever getting it while bureaucrats like Rivard were in a position to deny me promotions.

The lieutenant went on: “All of us are familiar with Elizabeth Morse and her idea for a national park.”

Behind me, someone coughed the word bullshit into his fist. McQuarrie scowled, but I heard a few chuckles from the peanut gallery.

“I do not want personal politics interfering with this investigation!” said Rivard, thrusting his jaw forward. “Whatever you think of Elizabeth Morse and her scheme, you need to leave those opinions at home. I will serve as the liaison between her estate and this investigation. I have already convinced her to grant us complete access to her employees. We will run a textbook forensic investigation that will result in swift arrests and an ironclad case for the DA to bring to court. That is the pledge I made to Ms. Morse.”