P. Parrish - Dead of Winter

He had half expected Houghton to be like some Siberian tin-shack outpost but it turned out to be a pretty town, handsome red brick buildings built on snowy bluffs overlooking the river below. The streets were freshly plowed, lined with towering drifts. As he drove along the river, he passed the modern buildings of Michigan Tech. On the other side of the river, he could see the colorful parkas of skiers racing down a steep hill. The town had the cozy bustle of any college town and it reminded him a little of an arctic version of Ann Arbor.

He headed the Bronco to the center of town, slowing to look for King’s Tavern, where Bjork said he would meet him for lunch. He would have preferred to conduct business at the sheriff’s department but he knew how these small-town sheriffs could be. Long on down-home wisdom but short on the kind of technical know-how that solved murder cases.

King’s Tavern was a small log building set down between an antique shop and a bookstore. Louis parked, fed a couple quarters into the meter and went in.

It took him a few minutes to adjust to the dim light within, but he soon picked out the requisite mahogany bar, jukebox, pool table and booths. It looked like Jo-Jo’s, but cleaner with a pleasing hickory smell coming from a black potbellied stove. His nose also picked up a delicious meaty smell.

His eyes swept the flannel-clad patrons. Great, so where was Dudley Do-Right already?

“Kincaid?”

Louis turned at the sound of the soft voice. A woman’s face poked out from the last booth. She was wearing a brown shirt. Louis stared. There was a badge pinned to it.

“Over here.” She waved him over.

He went slowly to the booth, taking off his hat. She stuck out her hand.

“Sheriff Bjork,” she said.

He stared at her.

“Sit down, please,” she said.

Louis slid across from her. She was about forty, with a strong square-jawed, sun-freckled face. Lines fanned out from her lively blue eyes, framed by sprigs of red hair that sprouted from her heavy braid. Christ, a woman sheriff. Louis could almost feel the gears shifting as his brain tried to digest this.

A small smile played on her lips. She was enjoying his confusion and wasn’t going to give him an easy entree into conversation by apologizing for her gender.

“I hope you don’t mind but I went ahead and ordered for us,” she said.

“That’s fine,” Louis said.

“What’ll ya have to drink?”

“Ah, Dr Pepper, if they’ve got it.”

“Dave!” Sheriff Bjork yelled out.

“Yeah, Liddie?”

“You got Dr Pepper back there?”

“Got Coke, Vernors, Faygo Rock and Rye. That’s it for pop.”

Bjork looked at Louis.

“Coke,” Louis said.

Sheriff Bjork settled back in the booth. Louis found himself staring at her badge. And at her breasts. They were big and healthy, like the sheriff herself seemed to be. He was grateful when Dave brought over a Coke and glass, and he immersed himself in the process of pouring it.

“So, how was the drive up?” Sheriff Bjork asked.

“Fine. Roads were pretty clear.”

“You have trouble finding King’s here?”

“No, Not at all.”

“Saw that little U-ey you did out there. That’s illegal here.”

He managed a smile. “Professional courtesy?”

She returned the smile and nodded. “So, where you want to start with Lacey?”

“Well, with any records you might have on him.”

She set a thick folder on the table. “I could have faxed you this stuff. You didn’t have to make the trip.”

“My chief thought it would be better this way,” Louis said. “Plus, I want to talk to his mother.”

“Millie?” Bjork slowly shook her head. “I don’t know how much help she can be to you.”

“Why?”

“She’s not exactly Donna Reed.”

Louis nodded. “Just the same, I need to see Lacey’s home.”

Bjork shrugged. “It’s after noon. She might be sobered up by now.”

Dave came to the table and deposited two plates between them. Louis looked down at the steaming, fragrant pie-like concoction.

“It’s a pastie,” Bjork said. “Kinda like a Swanson’s pot pie, only better.” She smiled. “It’s the ne plus ultra of Yooper cuisine.”

Louis took a bite. It was delicious. “May I?” he said, pulling over the file.

Bjork nodded, digging into her food. Louis quickly scanned the contents of the file. It was filled with detailed reports: Lacey’s arrest records, including copies of every incident report, judicial files, fingerprints, even high school transcripts. Louis focused on the military record. It took him a moment but he found it: Lacey had been attached to the 123rd squadron in Vietnam. He closed the file.

“This is very complete,” he said.

Bjork gazed at him over the frosty glass. “You sound surprised.”

“No, I just…”

“We run a very professional department here, Officer Kincaid,” Bjork said.

“I didn’t mean — ”

“Do you know how many Yoopers it takes to screw in a lightbulb?”

“Pardon?”

“None. We don’t have electricity here.”

Louis smiled weakly.

“You hear about the Yooper who saw the billboard that said ‘Drink Canada Dry’? He’s been trying to ever since.”

Louis gave a chuckle.

She smiled. “We know what you think of us up here. We know you think we do nothing but hunt deer, drink and go bowling. That’s how you trolls see us, right?”

“Trolls?”

“Yeah, all you folks who live under the bridge.”

Louis laughed.

“Eat up, Officer Kincaid,” Bjork said. “And I’ll take you to meet Millie.”

“Call me Louis, please.”

She gave him a curt nod. “Only if you call me Bjork.”

They rode in Bjork’s Jeep. Leaving Houghton, they passed over an old iron bridge that spanned a partially frozen river. Abandoned shipping berths loomed to the south, framing the river like a giant rusty chain. Hancock on the other side was not nearly as pretty as its sister-city Houghton and faded quickly as Bjork steered her Jeep up a hill and out of town. Five or six miles later, they saw the state-issue, green metal sign for Dollar Bay.

The town had a haphazard look, as though it had come together out of plain bad luck rather than some neat chamber of commerce design. Even the streets seemed an afterthought — no names, just numbers that intersected letters. The town’s core was a clump of buildings: a general store, a beauty parlor, a bar and further on, a ramshackle lumberyard.

Louis stared at the rows of shingled houses that made up Dollar Bay’s residential area. Gray..everything here was gray. Even the damn snow. The place smelled of dirt, rust and defeat. Coverdale’s profile came back to him in that moment. The blue-collar dream gone gray.

They passed a two-story school of old brick and just as Louis was wondering why they needed a school so large, Bjork told him that it drew students from all around the area.

“So Lacey went there?” Louis asked.

“Me, too.”

“Did you know him?”

She nodded. “There were only ten in my graduating class. So yeah, I knew Duane.”

“What was he like?” Louis asked.

“Quiet. Skinny. Skipped school a lot, ya know? I never took him to be dangerous, though. He was just one of those weird guys who took shop class, smoked in the john and lurked around the edges of everything.” She reached down and pulled out a thin blue book. “Here’s our yearbook. Make sure you get it back to me.”

Louis took it and opened to the seniors. He quickly found Lacey’s picture. He was thin-faced and unsmiling, his odd watery eyes unsettling even then. He looked like some kind of feral animal, like a stray cat or ferret. There was nothing listed under his name except “Audio-Visual Club.” The yearbook editors had used popular song titles for future predictions and in a stroke of cruelty some smartass had stuck Lacey with Chuck Berry’s “No Particular Place to Go.”