P. Parrish - Dead of Winter

“Ford,” Jesse said suddenly.

“What?”

“It’s a red Ford,” Jesse said, peering out at the sludge-encrusted truck ahead of them.

For a second, Louis’s heart beat faster. No, it was too new. Art Taub said the Ford was old and rusted. “It’s not the one. Let him go, Jess,” Louis said.

“No, damn it. His tint’s too dark.”

Jesse flipped on the lights and squawked the siren twice. The driver’s head snapped toward his rearview mirror and he swung to the side of the road. As they pulled up, Louis could see the truck was a new model with not a dent on it, let alone rust.

Jesse was out of the cruiser before Louis could reply. With a sigh, he grabbed the clipboard and followed.

The driver was about thirty, with a thin pale face and a fizz of dirty red hair. He had an old paisley bandana wrapped around his forehead and a small gold hoop in his left ear. On his chin, a sprout of whiskers struggled to form a goatee.

“To what do I owe this honor?” he asked nervously.

Jesse opened the truck door. “Get out.”

“Is that a request or an order?”

“Get out of the fucking truck.”

The man moved slowly. Jesse yanked him from the car so forcefully he fell to the pavement. The man grabbed the door handle to pull himself up, his eyes wide as he looked at Jesse. He wasn’t wearing a coat, just faded jeans and a dingy white T-shirt.

Louis stepped forward. “Your driver’s license, please,” he said.

The man’s pale eyes darted to the truck. “It’s in that bag on the seat.”

Jesse reached in and pulled out a Crown Royal bag. He retrieved the man’s license and thrust it out at Louis. When Louis hesitated Jesse said, “You gonna run that or not?”

“This license is expired, Mr. Bates,” Louis said.

“Dear me, there just aren’t enough hours in the day,” the man said with a sigh.

Louis glanced at Jesse. Christ, he was bouncing on his toes to nail this guy for something. The best thing to do was get this over as quickly as possible. He started back to the cruiser.

“Love the uniform, man,” Bates called after him.

Louis heard a clunk and looked back. Jesse had Bates flat against the truck, reaching for his cuffs. Louis keyed the mike and told Florence to run the plate and license. He had to get this over with fast before Bates lost a few front teeth.

Louis leaned against the cruiser and watched as Jesse began to search the truck’s interior. What the hell was he doing now? If he found anything, Bates would scream illegal search. He was just about to call to Jesse when Florence came back advising that Bates was free of warrants and priors.

Bates was hollering to Jesse from the rear of the truck. “You going to search me, too, officer? I like them full-cavity body searches. You ever done one of those?” Bates looked at Louis. “What about you, Mandingo?”

“Shut up,” Louis said.

Jesse came out of the truck holding a small plastic bag.

“What’s that?” Louis asked.

“Looks like grass to me,” Jesse said, shaking it in Bates’s face. “I asked you if there was any drugs in the truck, asshole. You lied to me.”

“Hey, you didn’t have any right to search my truck,” Bates said. “I’ve got rights here.”

Jesse spun around and grabbed Bates by the back of the T-shirt. “Keep your fucking mouth shut!” He slammed Bates’s head down against the side of the truck bed. Louis jumped forward, ripping Jesse’s arm from Bates’s collar.

Blood dripped from Bates’s nose as he staggered backward. Louis caught his sleeve to keep him balanced and glared at Jesse. “That wasn’t necessary,” Louis said.

“I don’t have to take lip from any faggot butt-fucker,” Jesse hissed.

“Look, cut the macho bullshit. This isn’t the time or the place, you got that?” Louis said, his voice low.

Jesse spun away and walked rigidly to the cruiser. Louis took a deep breath and looked back at Bates, who was leaning against the truck fender. Louis uncuffed him. Bates touched his head, his fingers coming away blood.

“You okay to drive?” Louis asked.

“I should sue you,” he said.

“You’re not going to sue anyone, Bates,” Louis said, picking up the bag of pot. He removed the twist tie and flung the bag in an arc, scattering the pot to the wind.

“Oh, man,” Bates moaned. “That was sinsemilla.”

Louis stuffed the empty bag in Bates’s pocket. “Sense this, asshole. You’re going to get back in your truck and go home to Alcona County. And all the way, you’re going to be telling yourself how lucky you are that it’s Christmas Eve and I’m giving you a damn present.” Louis leaned closer and held out Bates’s driver’s license. “Do you understand?”

Bates nodded weakly, took the license and got in his truck. Louis waited until he drove off then he walked to the cruiser. Jesse was in the passenger seat, his chin on his chest. Louis got in and put both hands on the wheel. They sat there for several seconds.

“Keys?” Louis asked.

“Cuffs?” Jesse asked.

Louis tossed Jesse’s cuffs on the seat. He responded by throwing the rabbit’s foot and keys on the dash. Louis reached for them and jammed the key into the ignition.

“Why’d you let him go?” Jesse said, leaning forward to put his cuffs away.

“He wasn’t our man.”

“He was holding.”

“Half an ounce of grass discovered in an illegal search.” Louis paused. “Look, we’ve got more important things to do than bust potheads.” Louis thrust the cruiser into gear. “Come on. Gibralter’s waiting.”

Dot’s cafe smelled of bacon grease and strong coffee. As he came in, Louis spotted the chief sitting in a booth near the back and he and Jesse went over.

“What kept you?” Gibralter asked, wiping his face with a paper napkin.

Louis slid into the booth, Jesse next to him. “Snow’s really coming down, Chief,” Louis said. “Plus we had a traffic stop.”

Gibralter looked from one man to the other. “Well?”

“I talked to one of the vets, a guy called Cloverdale,” Louis said. “He thinks our killer might be military. He also had a theory on what the cards mean.”

Gibralter pushed away his plate of half-eaten scrambled eggs. “What did he say?”

“He called it a death card,” Louis said, lowering his voice so the men in the next booth would not hear. “It was a thing some GI’s did during the war. A group would go out and wipe out some Vietcong — ”

“Not a group, Kincaid. Soldiers are not sent out in groups.”

Louis suppressed a sigh. “Yes, sir. Afterward, they would walk through the dead and toss cards with their squadron’s insignia and number on the bodies. It was supposed to say ‘We were here. We did this.’”

“You have the card with you?” Gibralter asked.

Louis fished it out of his pocket. Gibralter took it, examining it through the plastic. “Death card,” he said quietly. “The 1-2-3’s a squadron number?”

“Probably, sir.”

“And this skull thing?”

“Cloverdale said he thought it could be the squad’s symbol.”

Gibralter put down the card and looked out the window. The snow was coming down so thick Louis couldn’t see the shops across the street. The sounds of the diner filtered around them, the clink of glasses and plates, laughter, the sizzle of the grill. Comforting sounds.

The waitress set down two fresh cups of coffee and menus. Louis reached for one.

“What else?” Gibralter asked, pulling the menu gently from his hands.

“He said the killer probably had low self-esteem all his life, making him think everybody was out to get him.”

“I could’ve told you that. It’s textbook.”