P. Parrish - Dead of Winter

“Has the ME come back with the time of death yet?” Louis asked.

Gibralter focused on him. “No, but Fred was wearing a watch, his retirement watch. It stopped at two-thirty so they figure that’s when he was put in the water.” Gibralter started rummaging through his drawer for something.

“I have a theory about the date of death,” Louis said.

Gibralter looked up. “Theory?”

Louis quickly summarized his thoughts about Lovejoy’s mail, his dog and the crossword puzzles.

Gibralter listened as he lit another Camel, blowing out the smoke slowly. When Louis was finished, he waited for the chief to say something but he seemed to have drifted off to some private place. Outside, beyond the closed door, Louis could hear the voices of the day-shift men gathering for briefing.

“Is there anything else, Chief?” Louis prompted.

Gibralter blinked, looking at him. “No, no…just call me if you find out anything.”

Louis started to leave.

“Kincaid.”

Louis turned.

“You’ve got a button missing.”

Louis glanced down at his uniform shirt. “I’ll change, sir.”

Louis hurried out the door. The office was empty, the other men already gathered in the adjoining briefing room. Louis noticed a uniformed stranger standing by the door, his cap in his hand. He wore a green nylon jacket and khaki trousers with a brown stripe. The patch on his sleeve said OSCODA COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT. Louis nodded at him. The man nodded back.

“Sheriff Armstrong,” the man said, extending a hand.

Louis came forward to shake the sheriff’s hand and introduce himself.

“How you doing, Kincaid?” Armstrong asked.

Louis knew the sheriff was asking about the entire department. A cop killing transcended territorial boundaries and Armstrong was there to offer assistance, even if it was just unspoken sympathy.

“Frustrated,” Louis answered.

Armstrong nodded. “Well, we got our eyes open for anyone who looks suspicious in the area. You’ll let us know if there’s anything else we can do, right?”

“Thanks, sheriff,” he said, moving to the locker room.

Louis was relieved to see that Pop had left two fresh uniforms on the pole, tagged with his name. He opened his locker and hung one inside, pulling the plastic wrap off the other.

He felt eyes on him and turned around to see two other officers standing at the end of the lockers, both just finished dressing for shift. He didn’t recognize them and he guessed they were night-shift men brought in for extra detail. One was a lean man about forty and the other heavy-set, past fifty.

“Morning,” Louis said, glancing at their name badges. Burt Cornwall and Ernest Evans.

“Morning,” Cornwall said gruffly.

Louis pulled off his shirt. The silence lengthened.

“You were on that scene yesterday, weren’t you?” Cornwall asked.

“Lovejoy’s? Yeah, I was,” Louis answered.

“I heard the chief gave you the Pryce case, too,” Evans said. The hostility in his voice was undisguised.

“Yeah, he did,” Louis replied. Apparently, he was getting a rep as an ass-kisser. But what did he expect? A police force was no different than any other business when it came to recognition and promotions. Those who didn’t get them blamed those who did.

Louis turned to face Evans and Cornwall, wanting to tell them simply “tough shit.” But he knew he couldn’t let himself get cut off from the others, especially not veteran cops who knew the town. It would be Black Pool, Mississippi, all over again, and he couldn’t afford that if he expected help.

“So,” Louis said, “what can you guys tell me about the local dirtbags? Any suspects come to mind?”

Evans slammed his locker shut. “I give my opinions to the chief,” he said.

The men moved away to the door. Louis watched them, his jaw tightening. Cornwall was probably pissed at pulling the duty of going through the garbage hauled out of Lovejoy’s cabin. Evans, on the other hand, was more likely just a burnout, angry at being passed over on the biggest case the department had ever seen.

The hell with them. They were expected to do the job they had been assigned. And if that meant rooting through trash to find the damn killer, then that’s what they would do. God knows he had pulled his share of garbage searches as a rookie.

He yanked the fresh uniform shirt off the hanger. It felt heavy and he looked at the front, almost expecting to see Pryce’s badge still pinned on it. There was a bulge in the pocket. He unbuttoned it and pulled out a worn spiral notebook.

He flipped it open. Slowly, the crabbed handwriting registered. It was Pryce’s notebook. His wife had said that he was always leaving his things lying around. Like leaving his notebook in a dirty uniform.

Louis turned the pages. They were filled, top to bottom, margin to margin, with notes, much of it in a bizarre type of shorthand.

He felt a tightening in his gut. There had to be something in here, something he could use to kick start the investigation. He slipped the notebook in a pants pocket and hurried to get dressed.

“You find anything yet?” Jesse asked eagerly.

Louis flipped through Pryce’s notebook as they drove toward Lovejoy’s cabin to interview neighbors. Pryce’s writing was like hieroglyphics, as inscrutable as his blotter doodles.

“Man, I can’t make sense out of this,” Louis said. “‘C.L. J.L. C.I.S. @ 5661. November. Proof. Proof. Proof.’ Then at the bottom of a page ‘X31.’ What the fuck does that mean? And listen to this one: ‘Sam Yellow Lincoln 61829.’ Who’s Sam? What the hell is that number, a plate? You know anybody with a yellow Lincoln?”

Jesse shook his head.

Louis keyed the mike. “Hey, Flo, would you run a 10–29 on Sam-Adam-Mary 61829?”

A few minutes later, Florence came back on the radio. “There’s no such plate, Louis,” she said. “At least not in this state.”

Louis thanked her and closed the notebook. They were coming up on Lovejoy’s place. He would have to go over the notebook more carefully later.

Jesse pulled the cruiser over to the side of the snow-filled street and cut the engine. He sat there, staring at the cabin.

“Jess?” Louis said.

Jesse didn’t respond.

“Jess,” Louis repeated.

Jesse looked over at him. With a slight shake of his head, he got out of the cruiser. They stood in the drive for a moment and Jesse finally suggested they start with the trailer three lots north and trudged off. Louis trailed him, wondering just how much help Jesse was going to be on this investigation. Sooner or later, they were going to have to go back in Lovejoy’s cabin.

Louis slowed his step as a sudden realization hit him. Jesse had not had the same reaction at Pryce’s house. Louis remembered the feel of his own stomach turning over when he had seen the stain on the carpet made from Pryce’s blood. But Jesse had been strictly business.

“Jess!”

Jesse turned. Suddenly, Louis didn’t know how to form his question. “I want to ask you something,” he said.

“What?”

“Lovejoy’s death really bothers you.”

“Of course it bothers me. He was a cop.”

“So was Pryce.”

Jesse stared at him. “What are you saying?”

Louis looked out at the lake and then back at Jesse. “I’m not sure. It’s just that — ”

“Are you asking me if I cared more because Lovejoy was white?”

“What?” Louis said, stunned. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“That’s not what I — ”

“Then what did you mean?”

“Look, I just want to know why you’re taking Lovejoy’s death so much harder, that’s all.”

Jesse shrugged. “Maybe I’ve had some time to get over Pryce, know what I mean?”