P. Parrish - Dead of Winter

“What are you doing down here?”

“Seeing my kid.”

“Where’s he?”

“Red Oak juvie center. That’s a few miles — ”

“I know where it is. When did you get here?”

“Yesterday. I was heading there this afternoon. They only let you visit afternoons.” Lacey moved to the bench and sat down. “I ain’t seen him in years. His mother took him.”

“Sad story,” Louis said.

“Look, I’m telling you the truth. Look at that letter you took off me. It’s from my kid.”

Louis reached in his back pants pocket and took out the page of loose-leaf paper which began: Dear Dad.

Louis opened the door to look for Dale, wanting him to run Lacey’s name for warrants. Dale was nowhere to be seen.

“Who’s your parole officer?” Louis asked. and

“Bill James,” Lacey answered.

Louis pulled a pen from his pocket. “All right, Lacey, give me your social security number.” Lacey rattled it off and Louis started for the door.

“You ain’t gonna reach James at his office,” Lacey called after him. “It’s the holidays, you know.”

Louis picked up Lacey’s army jacket and left, locking the door. He gave Lacey’s number to Florence to run for outstanding warrants then went to his desk and dialed Dollar Bay information to get a home phone number for William James. Louis called him, and after apologizing for bothering him on the day after Christmas, he told him about Lacey.

James gave a short bitter laugh. “He ran on you? Doesn’t surprise me.”

“Why?”

“He’s paranoid. Tells me all the time everybody’s out to get him. Hold on, gotta turn down the TV.”

Louis waited until he heard James pick up the phone again. “So, what did he do now?” James asked.

“Ran a light,” Louis said, deciding not to involve James until he had reason to.

James sighed. “Idiot’s not supposed to be out of Houghton. What’s he doing down there?”

“Says he’s visiting his son,” Louis said.

“Son? Oh, right, forgot. Lacey’s new to me so I don’t have all the background. I can tell you, though, he’s been a model citizen since he got out of prison.”

“When was that?”

“Real recent, but I’d have to check.” Louis sensed impatience in James’s voice, as though he wanted to get back to his television.

“What was he sent up for?” Louis asked.

“Tell you what. I’ll call the local P.D. and have them send you his sheet. The chief’s my cousin. What’s your fax number?”

Louis gave it to him. “One last question. Is Lacey dangerous?”

“Well, he’s weird,” James said, “but he’s always been polite to me. It’s Christmas, he probably just wanted to see his kid.”

Louis thanked him and hung up. He glanced at the letter in his hand and then looked back at Lacey, sitting quietly in the booking room. Turning his back, he unfolded the letter.

Dear Dad,

I know you haven’t probably gotten no letters from me since you went up but I was thinking maybe now that you was out maybe you might want to come and see me. I don’t know where mom went to. The last time I saw her she said she would give grandma her address so when I got out I could maybe come there. She said something about Florida. But I ain’t heard from Grandma neither. I understand maybe you won’t want to come all the way down here because its such a long drive and that’s cool if you don’t. Grandma never wanted to come neither and I’m really doing okay here. I mean I’m still alive so far. It sucks bad though.

Louis refolded the letter. While he waited for the fax, he carefully examined Lacey’s jacket for any tears. It was old but intact.

The fax machine began to purr and he went to it, pulling off the papers as they dropped off the end.

Duane Herbert Lacey had been a criminal from the age of eighteen. Shoplifting, grand theft auto, joyriding, burglary, possession and assault on his wife. In February 1977, he was arrested for assault with a deadly weapon and sentenced to twelve to fifteen in Marquette State Prison.

Louis glanced back at Lacey. What the hell was he doing out after only seven years? Then he saw it. Duane Lacey had been paroled on the governor’s early release program earlier in the month, on December 10, 1984.

Louis lowered the paper slowly, a wave of disappointment washing over him. Pryce and Lovejoy had been killed on or around the first. This guy could not be their killer.

When he went aback to the booking room and unlocked the door, Lacey’s head jerked up.

“You reach James?” he asked.

Louis nodded. “The assault. What happened?”

Lacey looked away, shaking his head. “It was a bar fight. I drew a knife.”

“You were just defending yourself, right?” Louis said flatly.

“That’s right,” Lacey answered, meeting his eyes.

Louis stared into Lacey’s eyes. They were like water, colorless and shallow, as though nothing stirred beneath. Finally Lacey looked away.

James was right, there was something weird about the guy. But no more strange than a hundred other lowlifes who were wound a little too tight. It would be easy to call Red Oak to verify Lacey’s story about his kid but why bother? Duane Lacey had been five hundred miles away, behind bars, when Pryce and Lovejoy were killed. Besides, if he booked him now for running, the guy would go right back to Marquette on parole violation.

Florence called to him. “No warrants, Louis. He’s clean.”

Louis watched Lacey’s watery eyes for a reaction. But nothing registered, not even relief.

Louis tossed the fatigue jacket at Lacey. “Go on. Get out of here,” he said, holding out the letter and the keys to the truck. “Get your ass back to Dollar Bay.”

Lacey rose slowly, took the letter and keys and put on his jacket. “You don’t know how much I appreciate this, officer, I really do,” he said quickly. “I don’t wanna end up back in jail just because I wanted to see my kid.”

Louis turned away, and on his way to the locker room asked Florence to cancel the truck’s tow. He pushed open the locker room door.

It was cold inside and he shivered as he passed the first row of lockers. God, he was discouraged. So damn close. First Hammerstein or Hammersmith or whatever the hell his name was. Now this pathetic jerkweed who risked jail to see his delinquent son on Christmas.

He was pulling on a sweatshirt when the door slammed open with a bang. Louis looked up. Jesse rushed in, waving a paper.

“Where is the motherfucker?” he shouted.

Louis frowned. “Who?”

“Lacey!” Jesse said, jabbing at the fax. “Lacey. Fucking Lacey. I don’t believe this! We got him! Where is he? Where’s Lacey?”

“I let him go,” Louis said.

Jesse’s mouth dropped open. “What? You let him go? Why?”

“Because he was in prison during the time Pryce and Lovejoy were shot,” Louis said.

Jesse stared at Louis. “What? He couldn’t have been!”

“Read the release date from prison,” Louis said.

Jesse read the fax. Slowly, the information registered and Jesse blinked rapidly. “Fuck,” he whispered. He crumpled the paper in anger and dropped down onto the bench.

Louis sat down next to him. His own disappointment prevented him from saying anything of comfort.

Jesse uncrumpled the paper and stared at it again. “This has to be wrong,” he said.

“Jess…”

Jesse jumped up. “I’m going after him. This has to be — ”

Louis grabbed Jesse’s arm. “Jess, listen to me,” he said firmly. “I talked to his P.O. Lacey was in Marquette when Pryce and Lovejoy were killed. It’s not him!”

Jesse’s face went slack, the mix of fatigue and bitter disappointment finally taking hold. Louis glanced at his pant leg, which had been cut off at the knee. A six-inch-long track of small black stitches was outlined against the fresh gauze wrapping.