P. Parrish - Dead of Winter

Going to the desk, he put the materials in his drawer and glanced at the clock. It was past seven. His research time was almost up for this morning. He knew he could work late tonight, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He wanted to be home in case Zoe jogged by.

He went to the locker room to change into uniform. Normally, he preferred dressing at home but with the weather as cold as it was and his car on the fritz he couldn’t risk appearing at briefing less than crisp and spit-shined. Yesterday, Gibralter had blasted one guy for having mud on his shoes. Ten inches of snow and Gibralter was worried about mud.

There was a clean uniform hanging in the locker, one of the three he’d received his first day. He wondered when he’d get more. Surely, they would give him more than three. Shit, he probably had to buy them.

“Good morning,” Jesse said from behind him.

“Morning, Jess.”

“You’re here early.”

“I wanted one more crack at the file cabinet.”

“Find anything new?”

“Resumes and letters. Pryce was looking for another job.”

Jesse didn’t look up. “Not surprised. Sometimes I think he felt we weren’t good enough for him.”

Louis let the comment go. “I was also going over the case file. There’s a statement I’d like to follow up on, a Moe Cohick, lived behind Pryce. He saw a man running.”

“He saw a shadow, that’s all,” Jesse said. “Couldn’t give us any description.”

“Well, sometimes people remember things later. I’d still like to talk to him. Can you go after shift?”

“Yeah. Remind me to call Julie though. Tonight is taco night and she gets pissed if I’m late.”

Jesse pulled off his white T-shirt and opened his locker. “Motherfucker. He didn’t bring them.”

“Bring what?”

“Pop’s Cleaners. They were supposed to drop off my uniforms.” Jesse looked at his watch. “Chief is going to rip me apart if I’m not in a clean uniform.”

Louis turned to say something but his eyes were drawn to Jesse’s bare, brawny back. Across the shoulders and down the spine were faded little scars, like small whip or knife marks.

The door suddenly opened and an old bald man with a fuzzy goatee rushed in, a dozen or so plastic-wrapped uniforms over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Jesse. Snowed in this morning.”

Jesse took five of the hangers from him. “Damn it, Pop, you know it’s tough to work the streets bare-ass naked.”

“Cold, too.”

Jesse pulled out his wallet. “How much?”

“Forty.”

“You greedy old bastard.” Jesse slapped the money in the old man’s palm.

“You keep talking to me like this and one day I’m going to keep the shit you leave in your pockets.”

Jesse sighed. “How much this time?”

Pop held out a handful of wrinkled bills. “What? You think I count it?”

“I know you fucking count it.”

“Five ones and twelve cents.”

Jesse took it from him, paused then stuffed the bills in the old man’s shirt pocket. “Can’t believe I keep tipping you.”

“Can’t believe I keep thanking you.” Pop grinned. He folded the remaining uniforms over his arm and nodded toward Louis.

“New customer?”

“Louis, this is Pop,” Jesse said. “He picks up and delivers. Usually, he’s on time.”

Louis shook his hand. “How do I get in on the pickup?”

“Just leave ‘em on that table in your bag every Monday. I come back on Wednesday.”

“Sure thing. Thanks.”

Pop leaned over to Jesse. “Same size as Pryce, isn’t he?”

“Man,” Louis moaned.

“Reminds me,” Pop said. “I still got three of his. I’ll bring ‘em to you. And they’ll be on the house.”

Jesse passed the park and turned left on Fourth Street. It was only five, but in response to the winter dusk, the streetlights were already on. Louis craned to look up at the modern poles. They cast the street in harsh, Martian-landscape light. Forget the quaint old lamps that lined Main Street. Even in a burg like Loon Lake property owners wanted the brightest, newest lights to protect their homes.

Jesse swung the cruiser into Moe Cohick’s drive. Like Pryce’s house, it was the last one on the block. To the south was a sturdy twelve-foot wooden fence, which marked the boundary of a small lumberyard beyond. To the north were more homes, each yard partitioned by chain-link fences.

Moe came out on his porch. He was a round little man, with red cheeks and wispy white hairs sprouting from a bald head. He was wearing a brightly striped turtleneck sweater that made him look like a Russian stacking doll. He was eating a bearclaw.

“Evening, Officers. What brings you about?”

Jesse didn’t offer his name and Louis assumed he and Moe knew each other. Louis introduced himself. “We wanted to ask you about the man you saw running the night Officer Pryce was killed,” he said.

“Sure, but I don’t know what else I can tell you.” Moe popped the last of the bearclaw into his mouth.

“Can you show us where you saw him?”

Moe nodded and led them around his garage to the backyard. A long-snouted dog leapt at them from the neighbors’ yard, barking furiously. Moe stopped in the center of his backyard. He pointed to the back of the Pryce house then moved his finger along the chain-link fence north, toward the end of the block.

“He was going that way.”

Louis opened his notebook, where he had jotted what little description Moe gave the first time. “You said he was big?”

“Well, now, I think I said bigger than me.”

Moe was so short Louis could see a birthmark on his scalp. “Can you be more specific, Mr. Cohick?”

“How tall are you?” Moe asked.

“Six-foot.”

“Not as big as you. But he could’ve been bent over, like hunkering down.”

Jesse let out an annoyed sigh. The dog behind them was still barking. Moe picked up a snowball and threw it at the dog. “Shut up, you mangy mutt!”

The snowball splattered against the fence, seeming to make the dog angrier. It was growing hoarse.

“Where were you standing?” Louis asked.

“At my kitchen window.”

“You’re up at three-fifteen in the morning?” Louis asked.

“I own the bakery on Main. I have to be in by four.” Moe patted his belly. “I make the best stuff in the county. Always fresh.”

“We ain’t here to talk about your damn donuts, Cohick,” Jesse said. Louis glanced at Jesse. He guessed Jesse had gotten an earful from Julie about being late.

Another bark drifted to Louis. This one was high-pitched, almost shrill. Louis peered over Cohick’s head to the house catty-corner. An agitated terrier was straining against its chain, yapping back at the long-snouted dog behind them.

“Mr. Cohick, what direction did the man come from?” Louis asked.

“Well, now, I believe he came around that way and headed that way. Toward Pine, where the park starts.”

Louis trudged through the snow to the back fence. He squinted in the fading light at the tall wooden fence of the lumberyard; there was no way a man could scale that. He looked the other way, down the long expanse of chain-link fence that separated all the yards. He could see the pines of the park at the end of the block and in between he counted six backyards that the killer could have cut through on his escape. He was assuming the killer had stayed in the back, under the cover of darkness, making his way across the yards to Pine Street. It was only a guess, but it made sense. A shotgun made a big noise; the neighbor had called it in almost immediately. The killer needed to stay hidden as long as possible. He couldn’t take a chance of being spotted in the glare of those streetlights out front.