P. Parrish - Heart of Ice

Flowers’s eyes slid to him, then back to the empty shot glass. For a long time neither man said anything.

“Then Carol got the job offer in Kansas City,” Flowers said. “She wanted me to move there, but I knew I wasn’t going to be able to get on with any department there. So we split up.”

Louis wondered why Flowers had taken the job here on the island. It couldn’t be for child support because he doubted the chief made much here. More likely, Flowers felt he needed a title in front of his name to convince himself he was still in control of something, even if it was only a tiny island.

“Well, isn’t this an impressive image of quality police work.”

They both turned on their stools to see Rafsky standing behind them.

He was carrying two FedEx boxes and a manila envelope. The packages and his trench coat were spotted with rain. Louis glanced at the window. Rain rippled the glass, giving the streetlights a quivering white glow.

“How did you two make out with the ferry employees?” Rafsky asked.

“It was twenty-one years ago, Detective,” Louis said. “No one remembered anything worth following up on.”

“There was the Coffee woman,” Flowers said.

“Excuse me?” Rafsky asked.

“One old lady said she remembered a girl buying a ticket one New Year’s Eve,” Flowers said.

“She has Alzheimer’s,” Louis said to Rafsky.

“Still doesn’t mean she doesn’t have the memory stored in there somewhere,” Flowers said. “I told you, people with Alz-”

Rafsky stopped Flowers in midsentence by turning his back on Flowers and making a point to look at Louis, for the first time meeting his eyes with some level of respect.

“I need you to do something for me, Kincaid,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“When Mr. Chapman gets here tomorrow, I want you to deal with him,” Rafsky said. “I want you to explain to him that the chief made a mistake by contacting him and that until we get a positive ID we cannot release the remains to the family.”

Louis glanced at Flowers. In the dim light he could see the rise of color in the chief’s cheeks. Louis had a sudden memory of a long-ago moment when he was facing his foster parents after getting into a fight with a bully. His foster father Phillip wanted to admonish Louis, but it was his foster mother who had the best advice.

Well, Louis, some people just need a good punch in the face.

That’s what Rafsky needed, but this wasn’t the time or place for Flowers to find his courage.

Rafsky set the manila envelope on the bar in front of Flowers. “This is all the missing teenage girls in the state for the years 1968 through 1972.”

“Why are we wasting time on other missing girls when we already have a solid lead on Julie Chapman?” Flowers asked.

“Because that’s what an investigator does, Chief Flowers,” Rafsky said. “Making the assumption that the bones belong to Julie Chapman without further investigation is amateur work. So please do as I ask. Go through this list and eliminate all the other missing girls you can.”

Louis picked up the envelope and pulled out the three-page list of names. For a small department like the island PD, researching a hundred or so missing girls was going to be a tedious and time-consuming task.

Louis glanced at Rafsky, wondering why he hadn’t just assigned this task to one of his underlings, but then it occurred to him that Rafsky was probably trying to keep Flowers busy while he did the real investigating.

Rafsky set one of the FedEx boxes on the bar, nearly knocking over Flowers’s beer. Louis could see the return address: BLOOMFIELD HILLS POLICE DEPARTMENT. It had to be Julie Chapman’s missing persons file. The box had already been opened.

“I take it you requested this?” Rafsky said.

“Yeah, anything wrong with that?” Flowers asked.

“Not at all. As I said, just don’t get yourself so wrapped up in Julie Chapman that you blind yourself to other possible victims.”

“Point made, Detective.”

“I’ve already been over the file,” Rafsky said. “Read it tonight and make sure you know what’s in here before the father gets here tomorrow so you’re prepared.”

Flowers started to say something, but Rafsky roughly set the second box on top of the first. The return address on this box was the Cranbrook Academy. Like the other, this box had been opened.

“This I do have a problem with,” Rafsky said. “Why did you request old yearbooks from Julie Chapman’s school?”

“I thought it might help if we got a feel for her life, maybe look at her activities, maybe-”

“All the information you need right now on the Chapman girl is in that missing persons file,” Rafsky said. “If and when we need more background on her we’ll get it from her friends and teachers. Not from yearbooks.”

Flowers looked to the mirror behind the bar.

“Homicide investigations aren’t completed overnight, Chief Flowers,” Rafsky added. “They’re tedious and complicated and full of dead ends.”

Flowers continued to stare at the mirror.

Rafsky sighed and started buttoning his trench coat. “I’ll be in Marquette in the morning and back here by the afternoon,” he said. “Call the Marquette post if anything comes up you can’t handle.”

Rafsky left the tavern. Flowers looked back at the FedEx boxes, then reached for his shot glass. Finding it empty, he set it down again.

Louis wanted to tell Flowers that Rafsky was right. Most homicide investigations took months or years, even when you had a quick ID on the victim. But he didn’t have the heart to explain that right now. Flowers needed a reprieve from Rafsky’s battering.

But maybe he needed a good slap on the head even more.

Louis ordered two more beers. Alcohol was a good lubricant when you were about to get your ass handed to you.

“You know, Chief, when it comes to Rafsky, you need to grow a pair,” Louis said.

Flowers’s eyes shot to Louis, filled with fire. But it quickly faded, and he looked away, finding his face in the mirror behind the bar again. He didn’t seem to want to look at that, either, and he turned his attention to the window.

“This is your case, Chief,” Louis said. “You called the state in. You can also tell him to leave.”

Flowers grabbed the fresh beer that the bartender had set before him, but he didn’t take a drink.

“I need him,” Flowers said. “In a couple of days, you’ll be gone, and I can’t do this alone.”

“Then turn it over to the state,” Louis said.

Flowers shook his head slowly. “I can’t do that, either.” He pulled in a deep breath. “I can’t explain this. But this is like somebody invaded my home. I have to. .”

His voice trailed off. It took him a moment, but he finally met Louis’s eyes.

“This is my job,” he said.

He had walked right past it the first time, mistaking the wooden carved sign for just another one of the historical markers that seemed to be fastened to every old building on the island.

The two-story white clapboard house looked more like a bed-and-breakfast than a police station. Inside, the disconnect continued as Louis stood in the tiny foyer facing a Dutch door. Its top half was open to reveal what he assumed was the heart of the Mackinac Island Police Department.

It was a narrow, long room, its walls lined with built-in desks topped with what looked to be the latest in computers, printers, and other electronics. The place smelled pleasantly of hazelnut coffee and chimney smoke, although there was no fireplace that Louis could see.

The officer sitting at the computer looked up. “Yes, sir?”

“Louis Kincaid. The chief’s expecting me.”