Douglas Preston - White Fire

The chief ushered her over to a little sitting area in one corner, where an elderly secretary brought in a tray with paper coffee cups, sugar, and cream. Corrie, who had arrived the day before yesterday and was still feeling a bit jet-lagged, helped herself, refraining from her usual four teaspoons of sugar only to see Chief Morris put no less than five into his own cup.

“Well,” Morris said, leaning back, “sounds like you’ve got a very interesting project going here.”

“Thank you,” Corrie said. “And thanks for meeting me on such short notice.”

“I’ve always been fascinated with Roaring Fork’s past. The grizzly bear killings are part of local lore, at least for those of us who know the history. So few do these days.”

“This research project presents an almost perfect opportunity,” Corrie said, launching into her carefully memorized talking points. “It’s a real chance to advance the science of forensic criminology.” She waxed enthusiastic as Chief Morris listened attentively, his chin resting pensively on one soft hand. Corrie touched on all the salient points: how her project would surely garner national press attention and reflect well on the Roaring Fork Police Department; how much John Jay — the nation’s premier law enforcement college — would appreciate his cooperation; how she would of course work closely with him and follow whatever rules were laid down. She went into a revisionist version of her own story: how she’d wanted to be a cop all her life; how she’d won a scholarship to John Jay; how hard she’d worked — and then she concluded by enthusing over how much she admired his own position, how ideal it was having the opportunity to work in such an interesting and beautiful community. She laid it on as thick as she dared, and she could see, with satisfaction, that he was responding with nods, smiles, and various noises of approval.

When she was done, she gave as natural a laugh as she could muster, and said she’d been talking way too much and would love to hear his thoughts.

At this Chief Morris took another sip of coffee, cleared his throat, praised her for her hard work and enterprise, told her how much he appreciated her coming in, and — again — how interesting her project sounded. Yes, indeed. He would have to think about it, of course, and consult with the local coroner’s office, and with the historical society, and a few others, to get their views, and then the town attorney should probably be brought into the loop…And he finished off his coffee and put his hands on the arm of his chair, looking as if he was getting ready to stand up and end the meeting.

A disaster . Corrie took a deep breath. “Can I be totally frank with you?”

“Why, yes.” He settled back in his chair.

“It took me ages to scrape together the money for this project. I had to work two jobs in addition to my scholarship. Roaring Fork is one of the most expensive places in the country, and just being here is costing me a fortune. I’ll go broke waiting for permission.”

She paused, took a breath.

“Honestly, Chief Morris, if you consult with all those people, it’s going to take a long time. Maybe weeks. Everyone’s going to have a different opinion. And then, no matter what decision you make, someone will feel as if they were overridden. It could become controversial.”

“Controversial,” the chief echoed, alarm and distaste in his voice.

“May I make an alternative suggestion?”

The chief looked a bit surprised but not altogether put out by this. “Certainly.”

“As I understand it, you have the full authority to give me permission. So…” She paused and then decided to just lay it out, completely unvarnished. “I’d be incredibly grateful if you’d please just give me permission right now, so I can do my research as quickly as possible. I only need a couple of days with the remains, plus the option to take away a few bones for further analysis. That’s all. The quicker this happens, the better for everyone. The bones are just sitting there. I could get my work done with barely anyone noticing. Don’t give people time to make objections. Please, Chief Morris — it’s so important to me!”

This ended on more of a desperate note than she intended, but she could see that, once again, she had made an impression.

“Well, well,” the chief said, with more throat clearings and hemmings and hawings. “I see your point. Hmmm. We don’t want controversy.”

He leaned over the edge of his chair, craned his neck toward the door. “Shirley? More coffee!”

The secretary came back in with two more paper cups. The chief proceeded once again to heap an astonishing amount of sugar into the cup, fussing with the spoon, the cream, stirring the cup endlessly while his brow remained furrowed. He finally laid down the plastic spoon and took a good long sip.

“I’m very much leaning toward your proposal,” he said. “Very much. I’ll tell you what. It’s only noon. If you like I’ll take you over now, show you the coffins. Of course you can’t actually handle the remains, but you’ll get an idea of what’s there. And I’ll have an answer for you tomorrow morning. How’s that?”

“That would be great! Thank you!”

Chief Morris beamed. “And just between you and me, I think you can depend on that answer being positive.”

And as they stood up, Corrie had to actually restrain herself from hugging the man.

Corrie slid into the passenger seat of the squad car, next to the chief, who apparently eschewed a driver and drove himself about. Instead of the usual Crown Vic, the vehicle was a Jeep Cherokee, done up in the traditional cop-car two-tone, with the city symbol of Roaring Fork — an aspen leaf — painted on the side, surrounded by a six-pointed sheriff’s star.

Corrie realized she had lucked out, big-time. The chief appeared to be a decent, well-meaning man, and although he seemed to lack spine he was both reasonable and intelligent.

“Have you been to Roaring Fork before?” Morris asked as he turned the key, the vehicle roaring to life.

“Never. Don’t even ski.”

“Good gracious. You need to learn. We’re in the high season here — Christmas approaching and all — so you’re seeing it at its finest.”

The Jeep eased down East Main Street and the chief began pointing out some of the historic sights — City Hall, the historic Hotel Sebastian, various famous Victorian mansions. Everything was done up in festive lights and garlands of fir, the snow lying on the roofs, frosting the windows, and hanging on the boughs of the trees. It was like something out of a Currier & Ives print. They passed through a shopping district, the streets thicker with upscale boutiques than even the gold mile of Fifth Avenue. It was amazing, the sidewalks thronging with shoppers decked out in furs and diamonds or sleek ski outfits, packing shopping bags. The traffic moved at a glacial pace, and they found themselves creeping down the street sandwiched among stretch Hummers, Mercedes Geländewagens, Range Rovers, Porsche Cayennes — and snowmobiles.

“Sorry about the traffic,” the chief said.

“Are you kidding? This is amazing,” Corrie said, almost hanging out the window as she watched the parade of stores slide by: Ralph Lauren, Tiffany, Dior, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Gucci, Rolex, Fendi, Bulgari, Burberry, Brioni, the windows stuffed with expensive merchandise. They never seemed to end.

“The amount of money in this town is off the charts,” said the chief. “And frankly, from a law enforcement point of view, that can be a problem. A lot of these people think the rules don’t apply to them. But in the Roaring Fork Police Department, we treat everyone — and I mean everyone —the same.”