P. Parrish - Dead of Winter

“I told you he was probably a hunter,” Jesse said. “What kind of gun?”

“Shotgun. Twelve-gauge.”

Jesse’s expression shifted subtly, his brows coming together.

Louis was about to ask him what was the matter when it hit him. “Pryce was killed with a twelve-gauge,” he said.

Jesse nodded.

Louis ripped off a paper from his pad and held it out to Dale. “They found a wallet. Dale, run the guy’s name and see if he’s reported missing. Run it out of state, too, in case he was a tourist.”

Dale took the paper and started back to the computer. He stopped. “Jess,” he said, turning.

Jesse looked up at him. “What?”

Dale’s face had drained of color. His eyes went from the paper in his hand to Louis and finally back to Jesse. Jesse came forward and took the paper from Dale.

When he looked up, his eyes were glazed.

“Dale, go get the chief,” he said quietly.

The dead man’s cabin was located on the west side of the lake in a neighborhood of small bungalows and trailers, about an eight of a mile north of where the body had been found. It was, Louis guessed, where Loon Lake’s less well-heeled lived, the gas station attendants, fishing guides and most of the women who waited tables and changed the motel sheets for the tourists.

His name was Fred Lovejoy. He had been sixty-one years old, single, childless and a former Loon Lake cop.

Now there were two. One old, one young. One white, one black. One with a family, one who lived alone. One active, one retired. But both had worn Loon Lake uniforms.

Jesse hadn’t said much on the way over. Louis wanted to question him about local history, possible suspects and anything else Jesse could tell him. But the look on Jesse’s face and the subtle shaking in his hands stopped him. Jesse had lost two coworkers in less than a month. The questions could wait.

Jesse swung the cruiser to the side of the plowed road. Louis got out and paused, looking at the cabin. Lovejoy’s place looked like the others, a small, dark-green box with a few scraggly evergreens out front. Jesse started up the snowy walk.

“Jess, just a minute,” Louis called out. He opened the large metal mailbox. It was crammed with papers. Louis dug it all out and sifted through it. The pile appeared to be nothing but bills, junk mail and one copy each of Field and Stream and Hustler. There were also three thick newspapers, stuffed in blue plastic bags emblazoned with the New York Times logo.

Next to the mailbox was a bright green plastic mail tube with the Oscoda County Argus logo on the side but there were no papers inside. Louis stuffed the newspapers and mail into a bag, tossed it on the seat of the cruiser and followed Jesse to the front door. He noticed a late-model Buick parked in the narrow driveway, covered with a foot-deep layer of snow.

Jesse saw Louis looking at it. “Fred loved his Buicks,” he said. “Bought a new one every other year.”

“Not bad for a retired cop living on a pension,” Louis said.

“He drew some big bucks when he retired. Worker’s comp settlement to the tune of thirty grand.”

“For what?” Louis asked as he shoved gently on the door. He was surprised to find the door unlocked. He had to remind himself that unlocked doors were the norm in Loon Lake.

“Shattered disc or something. Got it taking down a drunk.” Jesse’s voice trailed off as they surveyed the inside of the cabin.

It was apparent that, other than the Buick, Lovejoy did not spend his money on any other comforts. The place was a dump.

“Jesus, what’s that smell?” Jesse said, recoiling slightly in the doorway.

“Garbage, I think. I hope,” Louis said. “Just be thankful it’s so cold.”

He took two steps into the tiny living room. The old yellowed shades were pulled down on the windows, casting the room in a murky gold light. The ancient sofa was half covered with a cheap chenille bedspread. The mismatched end tables were heaped with yellowed newspapers, magazines, dirty dishes and Pabst Blue Ribbon bottles. An old Danish-modern Zenith console TV sat in the corner, its top heaped with more papers and trash. Three-foot stacks of newspapers lined the walls, some spilling onto the floor. The green shag carpeting was littered with empty pizza boxes, open tin cans, and what looked to be bones.

Jesse’s eyes widened as he noticed the bones. Louis pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and slipped them on as he squatted down. He picked up one bone then tossed it down. “Chicken,” he said.

Jesse let out a breath and followed Louis into the kitchen.

“Damn, it’s cold in here,” Louis said.

Jesse stopped at the black potbellied stove. It was dark and cold. “This must be the only heat Fred had.”

They made their way to the kitchen. A large plastic trash can lay overturned in the middle of the linoleum floor, garbage strewn everywhere. A box of Cheerios lay on the counter, most of the cereal shaken out. A set of metal canisters had also been overturned, leaving a blanket of sugar and flour over the counter and floor. All the bottom cupboards had been opened, with the pots and pans thrown across the floor.

“Someone was looking for something,” Jesse said.

“Doesn’t look like he had anything worth a damn,” Louis said.

Jesse headed down the hall. Louis continued to search the kitchen, squatting to peer into the cabinets, then standing up. Strange, the upper cabinets were untouched.

“Oh, shit…”

“What it is?” Louis called out.

“You’d better come back here.”

Louis hurried back to the bedroom. Jesse was staring at something in a corner. Louis went around the rumpled bed and drew up short. It was a dog, a large brown-speckled one, a spaniel of some kind. It was dead, lying on its side, stiff from the cold.

“I forgot Fred had a dog,” Jesse said. He ran a hand over his face. “That explains the smell. There’s dog shit all over the place.”

“It might explain the mess, too,” Louis said. “Maybe the dog was looking for something to eat.”

Jesse grimaced. “You think it starved to death?”

“Maybe.”

Jesse reached down and pulled a blanket off the bed. He carefully laid it over the dog. Without looking at Louis, he hurried out of the room.

Louis looked around the dingy bedroom but it offered no clues about Fred Lovejoy’s death. It was simply a sad testament to a lonely life. He had heard that retired cops sometimes went off the deep end like this. Without the regimen of station or family to give their lives shape, ex-cops drifted into a netherworld of solitary idleness. Louis’s eyes drifted over the piles of unwashed clothes. Something on the dresser caught his eye and he moved to it.

It was a holstered gun. Louis slowly pulled it out and turned it over in his hand. It smelled of fresh Hoppes gun cleaner and the oil left spots on his latex gloves. Even the leather was cared for, like a beloved baseball glove. Louis slipped the gun back in its holster and put it back on the dresser.

He went to the small bathroom. It was filthy, the water in the toilet bowl iced over. Leaving the bathroom, he wandered toward a closed door. He pushed it open slowly. This smell was so strong he drew back. There was a large cage in the corner, with an old blanket in it, layered in dog hair. It was apparently where Lovejoy kept his dog when he was away.

Louis drew his arm over his nose and stared at the cage. It was clear that Lovejoy had not intended to be away from his cabin long or he would have caged the dog. Had his killer come to the cabin? Had Lovejoy been murdered in his own home and then dumped in the lake? Louis frowned. But how did you dump a body in a frozen lake? And where was the blood? Louis had never known of a shotgun blast that didn’t leave a drop or two. But if he wasn’t killed here, then where?