Paul Doiron - Massacre Pond

To the unsophisticated eye of the city slicker, Aimee Cronk might have looked like a backwoods stereotype. She tended to giggle easily and blink rarely. Giving birth to four kids had given her the shape of a Mesopotamian fertility goddess. Her outfits were assembled from the aisles of Wal-Mart: white Keds sneakers, ill-fitting mom jeans, flannel shirts, and a scrunchie to hold back her hair when she cooked the kids’ Hamburger Helper. But she was a tack-sharp young lady who had the highest emotional IQ of anyone I’d ever met.

“Yeah,” she had once told me, “my dad was a drunk. And so my brothers and me, we got real good at reading his moods wicked quick, ’cause otherwise we might get a slap across the face before we even opened our mouths.”

It was no wonder she and Billy had ended up together. The world looked at him and saw only his wild hair and ice-blue eyes and the raw strength of that long body. But Aimee noticed the gentleness in the way her husband stroked a cat, and she saw the faint mist in his eyes when he looked at the sunset lighting up the mountain above their house. If she had graduated from high school, she might’ve made one hell of a psychologist-or a detective.

“You’re right, Aimee,” I said. “I am kind of worried about him. Someone shot a bunch of moose last night on the Morse property and Billy feels responsible somehow. He’s worried Ms. Morse might blame him.” There seemed no reason to withhold this information, since her husband shared everything with her, as best I could tell. “He was supposed to be waiting for some wardens at the Sixth Machias Gate, but when I went by just now, I didn’t see his truck. I thought maybe Ms. Morse had sent him on an errand.”

“Nah, that ain’t it.” The child’s crying petered out, diminished to a few poorly delivered sobs. And then Aimee Cronk said, “It’s more likely he’s gone for a drive. That’s what he does when he’s wrestling with something and ain’t sure what to do.”

“If you hear from him soon, can you have him call me on my cell?”

“I definitely will do that.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve gotten you worrying about him, too, Aimee.”

“Worrying never helped me none, so I just avoid it,” she said. “Besides, I got three loads of laundry to do, and there’s an apple pie in the oven.”

* * *

McQuarrie sent Jeremy Bard to photograph and collect the spent shell casing. He was Rivard’s favorite among my sergeant’s men: a rookie even younger than me, but with that hard-core attitude you often see in new cops. He wore his hair in a “high and tight” buzz cut and lifted weights twice a day. His neck was thicker than his head.

“You didn’t touch it?” His suspicious tone implied I had.

“The shell is lying where Stacey first spotted it.”

“It is,” she confirmed.

He scanned the leaf litter and clumped sand along the roadside, squinted into the alders beyond. The bushes were all tangled in shadows. “Hmm.”

“There’s probably another shell along here somewhere,” I said.

He had close-set gray eyes. “Why do you say that?”

“Moose A was shot twice,” I said. “In the jaw and the lungs. Two shots, two shells.”

“The shooter could have picked up his brass.”

“That doesn’t seem to be his modus operandi.”

Bard stared at me.

“Method of operation,” I said. “Do you want me to help you search these alders or not?”

“You’re supposed to be checking out gravel pits,” he said.

“The pits will still be there an hour from now.”

“No, I’ll find it.” Locating the brass on his own had become a point of pride now, and there was no reasoning with him.

“Good luck, then.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Stacey asked me, pointing behind us. “There’s a Bud pounder can ten feet down the road there.”

In truth, I had forgotten about the beer can-probably because I didn’t want to contemplate its association in my mind with Billy Cronk.

Bard frowned at me. “Anything else you forgot to mention?”

“You know what I know, Bard.”

“Have fun in the pits,” he said, grinning at his own joke.

I gave Stacey a vague smile and tried to keep all emotion out of my voice. “Do you need a lift back to McQuarrie? Because I can give you one-if you want.”

She worked a kink out of her neck forcefully with one hand. “Shit, I didn’t think about that part. Mak’s going to be busy for a while now, which means I’m stranded here. I don’t suppose you’re headed toward Wesley. I need to pick up my truck.”

“I could be,” I said. “Come on.”

She followed me back to my dusty, battered GMC but hesitated at the door. “I’m not quite dry,” she said, touching the back of her pants. “I’m going to get mud all over the passenger seat. The inside of your truck is going to smell like the bog I just waded through.”

“I don’t mind,” I said.

“What’s that noise?” she asked.

“I think it’s my serpentine belt.”

“Can’t you tighten it?”

“It comes and goes.”

“Matt’s been having the same problem. Must be a GMC thing.”

The police radio burped and mumbled. I hit the wipers, hoping to clear away some of the dust. When that didn’t work, I tried spraying some wiper fluid but succeeded only in smearing mud across the windshield, which made it impossible to see through it for several frightening seconds. I kept up a steady stream of blue fluid until the glass became somewhat transparent again. Stacey didn’t seem to notice my alarm.

“What did you think of the Butcher Brothers?” I asked, hoping to start a conversation that wouldn’t end in an argument.

It was as if she’d been half-asleep. “Huh?”

“Clay and Scott Butcher.”

“Those guys are real pieces of work. They had tags for every moose and deer hanging up in their coolers, but I know they must get in some poached animals, too. They were a little too relaxed about our visit, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Like they knew we weren’t going to find anything on the premises. They let us take some samples, like it was no big deal. The other butchers Mack and I visited-they were scared and suspicious as hell.”

“Around here, game wardens come in right below politicians and used-car salesmen on the trust scale.”

“Wildlife biologists don’t score much higher. If you’re driving a state or federal vehicle, you’re considered an automatic asshole.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” I said. “Someone let a skunk loose in my trailer last winter.”

“Yeah, I remember that. You really stank that morning in my dad’s plane. Did you ever catch the jerks who did it?”

“It was Joe Brogan, the guy who used to own Call of the Wild Game Ranch.”

“My dad told me the ranch was for sale.” She kept massaging her sore neck. “I wonder what Brogan’s up to these days. Rivard’s probably going to want to check him out. A disgruntled ex-hunting guide-sounds like a suspect to me.”

“In Rivard’s book, everyone is a potential suspect.”

“What’s his problem with you anyway? I can guess, but I want to hear your version.”

The little jab she’d given me stung, but I didn’t let it show. “I was involved with the sister of that drug dealer who fell through the ice on the Machias River. She had a pretty serious substance-abuse problem of her own, it turned out. But the real reason is that I solved a homicide everyone thought had already been solved, and Rivard didn’t like me getting the credit. I’m just focused on doing my job these days. I’m not going to let myself get dragged into Warden Service politics.”

She gave a sharp laugh, which caused me to glance her way. “So you’ve turned over a new leaf? No more troublemaking? Or pissing off everybody you work with?”