P. Parrish - Dead of Winter

There it was: the first domestic violence report. Christmas Eve, 1970. A drunken Lacey had thrown all the Christmas presents out into the snow, smacked Helen, and then passed out on the sidewalk. Bjork was the responding officer. In June 1972, Lacey put Helen in the hospital with a smashed jaw and two broken ribs. She, in turn, finally put him in jail. He served sixty days.

A year later Lacey was arrested again, this time for child abuse. Louis picked up the small Polaroid attached to the report. It was a close-up of Cole’s thin shoulders with six small red marks. The cigarette burns. Louis tucked the photo back into the file. He read a brief synopsis of the unsubstantiated sexual assault charge. As Bjork had said, Social Services had removed Cole Lacey from the home but he was returned six months later.

Up to this point, Lacey had kept to beating up women and kids. What had finally turned him into a murderer? What had finally caused the jug to break?

Louis returned to the rap sheet and finally reached February 1977 and the assault that had resulted in Lacey’s prison sentence.

Lacey had said it was a bar fight where he had just pulled a knife. Lacey had pulled a knife, all right, slicing open an old man’s abdomen five times. He was sentenced to twelve to fifteen years in Marquette State Prison. Bjork had included a brief report on Lacey’s prison record. It was surprisingly unremarkable.

Louis drained the Dr Pepper and leaned back against the headboard. But Lacey had been busy in prison, real busy. Somehow, he had found out about the raid. Maybe Cole had told him, maybe his mother. But Lacey had found out that his son and daughter had been killed by Loon Lake cops. And for two years, he just sat in his cell, with nothing to do but wait and plan his revenge.

Louis closed the file. There was a knot in his stomach, the same one he had felt earlier back in Lacey’s room but with a slight nausea creeping in. He knew Lacey now. And Lacey knew them. Lacey knew who he wanted to kill, knew where they lived, when they were on duty, even their call numbers. All Lacey had to do was pick his time.

Louis slipped off the bed and walked to the window, throwing it wide open. The sound of laughter drew his eyes down to the street. His room overlooked downtown Houghton. The snow was heaped in eight-foot drifts along Main Street, more falling now. But the town was alive with activity, mostly college kids, he guessed. He watched a couple stroll under the window. The woman’s laugh drifted up to him again. They paused to share a kiss.

He moved back to the bed, staring down at the files spread over the rust-colored spread. He had to get out.

King’s Tavern was quiet except for a jukebox near the back that was playing “All My Ex’s Live in Texas.” A trio of coeds sat at the bar, heads together, giggling softly. Louis slid onto a stool, laying his coat on the stool next to him.

He ordered a Heineken and when it came he ignored the glass and gulped it quickly. The beer dripped onto his chin. He started to reach for a bar napkin but one appeared in front of his face.

Louis looked to see Bjork standing next to him. He accepted the napkin and wiped his chin.

“Thanks,” he said.

“I was sitting in the back and saw you come in,” she said. She wasn’t in uniform. She was wearing jeans and a heavy, cream-colored sweater.

“Join me?” Louis asked.

“You buying?”

“Sure.” He pulled his coat into his lap and Bjork slid onto the stool. She looked different, softer. Her braid was gone and her hair was a red washboard of ripples down her back. She reached up to tuck her hair behind her ears and gold earrings glimmered in the neon lights of the bar. It took Louis a moment to realize they were tiny handcuffs.

Bjork saw him looking at them. “A gift from my ex,” she said.

“Was he a cop, too?”

She shook her head. “Lumber worker.”

Louis hesitated, wondering if he should get personal. There had been only one woman back at the academy and he never worked with one.

“What did he think about you being a cop?” he asked. He didn’t know what had prompted the question. Maybe the idea that something in Bjork’s experience could give him a clue about Zoe.

“Wasn’t crazy about it,” Bjork said. “Guess that’s why he finally split.” She fingered the earrings, smiling. “He got these for me one Christmas. It was a hint after the black nightie didn’t work.” She waved at the bartender. “Ed was not the most subtle guy in the world.”

Louis stared at her, questions swimming in his head. He looked away, finished off his beer and set it out in the well. Another appeared, along with a Stroh’s for Bjork. She held up her bottle.

“To catching the son of a bitch.”

Louis clinked his bottle and took a sip.

“You finish reading the file?”

“Almost. I got hungry,” Louis said.

“Looks to me like you’re drinking your dinner.”

Louis covered up his mild annoyance with a smile. “Occupational hazard.”

“Want to bounce a few things off me?” she asked.

“Like what?”

Her face grew serious. “Two dead cops. Maybe I can help.” Louis hesitated then looked around the tavern. There was an empty booth and he picked up his beer, motioned for her to follow. He slid in one side, Bjork across from him. Neither said anything for several long seconds. The jukebox launched into Artie Shaw playing “Summit Ridge Drive.”

“So tell me about how they died,” Bjork said.

“Both surprised by a shotgun to the chest, both off duty,” Louis said.

“Ballsy little bastard, isn’t he?”

Louis nodded. “One was an easy target, a retired old fart who drank a lot. He was out fishing at six a.m. The other was active duty, young, alert and experienced. He carried his gun to his own front door. Lacey was on his porch and blew away the door with him behind it.”

“Christ,” Bjork said.

“It gets sicker. He leaves these cards.”

“What kind of cards?”

“A military thing, death cards. A sign that was supposed to tell us ‘I was here.’”

Louis caught the bartender’s attention, circling a finger to indicate another round.

“Kincaid, what is Lacey after?” Bjork asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why is he targeting your cops?”

Louis hesitated. “Revenge. Two of his kids, teenagers, were killed by us in a barricade situation five years ago. They fired on the cops and refused to surrender. The girl drew on one of the officers.”

Bjork took a sip of her beer, digesting his words. “What about Cole?”

“He’s at Red Oak until he’s twenty-one.”

“Stiff sentence for a kid.”

“He pulled a shotgun when they took him into custody.”

Bjork shook her head. “Well, pardon my bluntness but given what you just told me why did it take you guys so long to name Lacey as a suspect?”

Louis was glad it was so dark; she couldn’t see his embarrassment. Over what? That Jesse had fucked up? That the DOC was filled with incompetents? That no one bothered to bring up the raid? That Gibralter was too pigheaded to ask for outside help? That he himself had let Lacey go?

Her question hung in the smoky air, waiting to be answered. Maybe he was embarrassed because he had no idea how to answer. Hell, maybe he was embarrassed because he didn’t know what in God’s name to do next.

He met her eyes, seeing again the spread of fine wrinkles at the corners, seeing for the first time the depth on the inside. All right, she was a woman. But she was also a cop. A cop with decades more experience than he had. If anyone could understand about his letting Lacey go, she would.

“We had him once,” Louis said.

“Lacey?”

Louis nodded. “Day after Christmas. We picked him up for running from us when we walked into a bar.”