Paul Doiron - Massacre Pond

Near the back of the pit was an improvised shooting range. Someone had propped up a piece of plywood against the gravel wall and stapled various paper targets, which had largely rotted away or been shredded into bits by gunfire. But you could tell from the groupings of the holes that this was a destination for shooters.

I probably spent the better part of an hour scouting for shell casings beneath the fog-shrouded sky. Just as in the previous pits I had inspected, I found rounds from a wide variety of firearms-everything from little.32 ACP handguns to big.30-30s that could have taken down a charging bull moose with one shot. What puzzled me was what I didn’t find. Although there were.22 shells aplenty, there were no.22 long rifle or.22 Magnum shells. The odds alone should have dictated that I would find a few.

So intent was I on my work that I didn’t hear Jeremy Bard creep up behind me. One minute I was bent over, picking up casings from a pile of pebbles; the next a shadow appeared beside me, and I straightened up with a start.

“What are you doing here?” He had the flattened face of a bulldog and a barrel chest that could probably have benched four hundred pounds with ease.

“I didn’t hear you,” I said.

“You weren’t supposed to. What’s going on? I got a call you were poking around up here.”

“I wanted to meet Pelkey and Beam before opening day. Billy Cronk told me they were worth getting to know.”

“What else did he tell you?”

“Hey,” I said. “I’m not trying to step on your toes here.”

“Too fucking late for that.” He crossed his powerful forearms. “I know what you’re doing, Bowditch. You’re bored with the job Rivard gave you, and now you’re trying to get in on the investigation by interrogating Pelkey and Beam. You just can’t follow an order, can you?”

“One of my ‘jobs’ has been hanging out in gravel pits, looking for shell casings.”

A muscle in his thick neck twitched. “That’s not why you’re here, and we both know it.”

“I already cleared this with Bilodeau,” I said. “He didn’t have a problem with me coming out here.”

“Yeah, well, I have a problem with it. This is my district, and I don’t want you harassing people here.”

“I wouldn’t call the conversation I had with Pelkey and Beam harassment.”

“That’s not what my cousin says.”

“Your cousin?”

“Tiffany.”

So that was how Bard knew I was here. Tiffany hadn’t wasted any time getting on the phone with her warden cousin. “It doesn’t bother you, her shacking up with those two lowlifes?”

He took another step closer. One more and he could have thrown a punch. “That’s my family you’re talking about now.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll get out of your hair. But maybe you can do me a favor.”

The request seemed to amuse him. “Why should I do you a favor?”

“I’m getting calls from Chubby LeClair,” I said. “He says you’re basically stalking him.”

“The fat ass is at the top of our shit list.”

“I’m not defending him. I just don’t like getting his phone calls every day. He seems to be having a nervous breakdown. If you’re going to make a case, you’d better do it fast, because he’s going to have a heart attack before you can bring charges.”

“Is that all?”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s all.”

Bard followed me back to our trucks, and we drove out together. He rode my bumper, as if to literally push me out of his district. I thought he might tailgate me all the way to Route 1, but instead he stopped at his cousin’s trailer, while I continued south down the branching roads. I wasn’t sure what I’d just learned in Talmadge, but the experience wasn’t sitting well in my stomach.

It made sense for me to enter the Morse estate from the north, rather than circling around to the Sixth Machias gate at the edge of my own district. I left the main drag in Indian Township and drove eight miles into the woods. The little village of Grand Lake Stream was jammed, as usual, with late-season salmon fishermen. Guys in waders and vests were hanging around outside the Pine Tree Store, laughing and sipping coffee, and I saw fly anglers packed shoulder-to-shoulder when I crossed the little bridge over the gin-clear river.

At Morse’s north gate, there was no security guard waiting, although I noticed a new video camera twenty feet up a red pine, focused on the entrance. I put the squealing truck into park and called Elizabeth’s personal number.

A man answered. “Yes?”

“Hello,” I said. “I’m calling for Elizabeth Morse. Is this the right number?”

“Who is this?”

“Mike Bowditch, with the Maine Warden Service.”

“This is Spense. What can I do for you, Warden?”

“I’m at the north gate,” I said. “Ms. Morse is expecting me.”

“Hold on, please.”

The security consultant put me on hold for five minutes. My whining truck belt seemed worse than ever this morning. When I turned the engine off, the sensation was similar to having a bad tooth pulled-a sudden sense of physical relief. I rolled down the window and breathed in that moldering late-autumn smell the forest gets as fallen leaves begin to decompose on the ground. The thermometer on my dashboard said it was sixty-five degrees.

By now, Neil and my mom would be in Boston. My mother would be in a dressing gown, or maybe pajamas, getting ready to receive her first dose of the powerful drugs that might or might not kill the malignant tumors growing near her womb. She might already have the needle jammed into the vein of her thin arm. I could imagine the fear my mom was feeling. It was as if our nervous systems were connected across those hundreds of miles.

“Warden Bowditch?” It was Elizabeth Morse now; those aristocratic inflections were unmistakable.

“Good morning, Ms. Morse.”

“I won’t be needing you today.”

She seemed incapable of speaking to me except as a master addressing a servant. “Are you sure? I can make myself inconspicuous.”

“I have construction crews beginning work to repair the house, and I’m going to be preoccupied overseeing them.” I heard a saw start up in the background. “Frankly, I’d prefer it if you were out looking for whoever did this, rather than just sitting around my lake house, flirting with my daughter and drinking tea. Mr. Spense is not particularly impressed with the caliber of your investigation so far. It’s been five days since you found those moose, and you haven’t made a single arrest.”

Rivard’s instructions to me had been to share as little information about the case as possible, but I knew her impatience would rise as the days went on without a break in the case. Now that she had an internationally renowned security specialist whispering in her ear, even I was falling out of favor. Having her new mansion strafed with semiautomatic-rifle fire probably hadn’t helped.

“We’re continuing to narrow the list of suspects, and Warden Investigator Bilodeau has some strong leads based upon evidence he collected last night from your property.” I had no idea if any of this was true, but I was certain that it was the sort of goulash Rivard would have wanted me to dish up for her.

“What about my reward? Have you received any tips?”

“Yes, ma’am. We’ve received a number of promising calls.” This, too, was bullshit.

“Don’t patronize me, please,” she said. “I know that Lieutenant Rivard thinks I’m some rich bitch who’s used to getting her way and needs to be ‘handled.’ He’s not entirely wrong about that. But someone shot up my house two nights ago. Tell your lieutenant that if I don’t get a call from him soon telling me that you have a suspect in custody, my next national interview is going to include a comparison of your organization with the Keystone Kops. Have I made myself clear?”