Paul Doiron - Bad Little Falls

“At the moment, that’s not an issue. Who’s handling the case for the CID?”

“Zanadakis is the primary. He’s going to want to talk with you in person. Do yourself a favor, though, and write up your report ASAP.”

It was yet another task to finish before I could get some shut-eye. “So what do you really think happened out there between Sewall and Cates?” I asked.

“They got stuck in the snow and had a fight.”

“So Prester smothers his buddy, then wanders off to find shelter from the storm? When he arrives at the Spragues’ house, he’s almost half dead, but the first thing he does is tell them to go help the man he just killed. That makes no sense.”

There was a silence on the other end.

“Even if he had the presence of mind to concoct some kind of story-”

“Enough, Mike.”

“I’m just trying to piece this together.”

“It’s not your job to conduct homicide investigations. It’s Zanadakis’s. If you want to play detective, you should join the state police.”

“I’m not playing anything.”

“Curiosity killed the cat. Did you ever hear that before?”

The message had been delivered, loud and clear. If I’d ever doubted that Sergeant Rivard had been instructed by the brass in Augusta to keep his new cat on a tight leash, I finally had my answer.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve heard it.”

After I got off the phone, I reclined on the sofa and rehashed the various threats I’d experienced since I’d returned home. First, Brogan had showed up to strong-arm me into dropping criminal charges against Cronk, and then Rivard had all but come out and said that he was going to make my life miserable if I didn’t stop thinking about the Sewall case. I looked at my BlackBerry, feeling a desire to call Kathy Frost or Charley Stevens, but what did I really have to say to my friends, except that I was feeling lonely and frustrated? There was no point in whining about the situation.

I screwed the new fuses into the box and was relieved when the heater begin making a reassuring ticking sound. After a few minutes, the odor of the electric baseboards-the earthy smell of warming dust-emanated from the four corners of the room. I removed my parka and sat down at my laptop with a glass of milk.

I wrote up my report in the short sentences and strict chronology that the criminal justice system demands:

On 2/13 I attended an off-duty social event at the residence of JAMES LARRABEE on Route 277 in NO 19 TWP. I left the residence at approximately 2215. At approximately 2230, I was driving west on Route 277, when I received a call on my personal cell phone from LARRABEE, asking me to return to his residence. He advised me that his neighbors, BEN and DORIS SPRAGUE, of Bog Road, had called him, requesting his emergency medical assistance. (LARRABEE is a veterinarian.) He said that a man, whom I later identified as JOHN SEWALL, of Whitney, had appeared at their door in a state of extreme hypothermia and frostbite. LARRABEE asked that I accompany him to the SPRAGUES’ house and assist him in assessing SEWALL’S condition and performing medical assistance as needed.

I debated whether our game of chicken with the unknown snowmobiler merited inclusion but decided to make note of everything. Detective Zanadakis could decide which incidents warranted further discussion and which did not.

It took me half an hour to finish the report. I reread it twice for omissions, but the words kept blurring on the screen. Eventually I gave up worrying about errors and pressed SEND.

Lucas Sewall’s yellow notebook lay in front me on the table, where I’d first put it down. The kid’s drawings were positively grotesque. One picture showed an owl with its wings extended and blood dripping from his parted beak; another image was of a scary-looking woman wearing a wimple and gown made entirely of feathers. Lucas must have a strange bird phobia, I decided.

There was some sort of code on the cover:

DORT OSNZ CNAP IOZZ

Usually I enjoyed riddles and thought of myself as having an aptitude for solving all manner of puzzles, but I was too exhausted to play word games. I returned to the couch and unbuttoned the top buttons on my shirt. After a while, I closed my eyes.

The phone woke me. I snapped awake with a start, not knowing where I was. The room had grown almost completely black. How long had I been asleep?

“Hello?”

“Warden Bowditch?” It was a man’s voice.

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“Detective Lieutenant Zanadakis of the state police’s Criminal Investigation Division. They’ve given me the Randall Cates mess to clean up. I read your report, and I wondered if you can come into Machias to talk with me about what happened. You’ve given us the play-by-play, but I’d like to hear the color commentary.”

I leaned forward and rubbed my eyes, trying to wake up fast. “Just tell me where and when.”

“We’re running this investigation out of the sheriff’s office. Can you be here at ten o’clock?”

It was nearly 7:00 P.M. now. “Tomorrow?”

“Tonight.” He paused. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“No, sir.”

“I appreciate the cooperation,” he said, and hung up.

At least I had a few hours to take a shower and guzzle coffee. I yawned and stretched my arms above my head, experiencing once more all my exertions of the previous day in my aching joints and sore muscles.

The phone rang again.

I thought it might be the detective calling back, but this time it was a woman. “Mike? This is Jamie Sewall. You gave me and my son a ride home from the hospital.”

How had she found me? Had I given her my business card? I couldn’t recall.

“Hi, Jamie. How are you doing? Is everything OK?”

“This is going to sound funny, but you know how you offered to drive me back to the hospital? My friend said he can’t do it, and it would be like sixty bucks for a taxi from Machias, and I really need my car to go to work in the morning. I hate to ask and all, because you were so nice before, and I feel embarrassed for losing my keys, but can you possibly give me a lift?”

I glanced at my watch again, making quick calculations. If I left in ten minutes, that would give me fifteen minutes to get to her house, half an hour for us to ride into town, some time together at the hospital. Yes, it was totally doable.

“It’s no trouble,” I said. “I’ll be right over.”

“You’re my hero.”

I took the fastest shower of my life and put on the last clean uniform in my closet.

It was a crystal-clear night-the kind you only get far from the light pollution of the big cities. The sky was as hard as an obsidian desert. The Milky Way flowed across it like a river of light.

Someone had done a half-assed job of shoveling a parking spot in the Sewalls’ driveway. A narrow path wound through the snow to the house. Above the wheelchair ramp, a weak porch light glowed like a dying star. I stayed in the truck with the engine going until it became clear that Jamie wasn’t waiting in the window for me to arrive. I needed to knock, in other words.

The subzero air was bracing as I pulled it into my lungs. I never felt more alive than when I was outdoors on a Maine winter night. The cold made me hyperaware of my existence as a hot-blooded animal, part of and yet apart from the natural world. I pushed the glowing orange doorbell and waited with excitement for an answer.

There was no response.

I tried the bell again, this time with more persistence.

Finally the knob turned and I found myself looking down at a haggard woman in a wheelchair. She had shoulder-length brown hair that looked freshly washed, brown eyes that seemed to have trouble focusing, and a cleft chin I recognized as a Sewall family trait. She wore a faded gray-and-red flannel shirt, stonewashed jeans, and white tennis shoes.