P. Parrish - Dead of Winter

“Jess, the man tried to kill me. He tried to hang — ”

“I don’t care what he did!” Gibralter interrupted. “You turned on your own and cops don’t turn on their own!”

“Sir, I think — ” Jesse said quietly.

“No, you don’t!” Gibralter snapped.

Louis glared at Gibralter. “Are you firing me?”

Gibralter shook his head. “I have no intention of making it easy for you. If you leave here it will be because you quit or because your stupidity gets you killed.”

“Jesus, Chief,” Jesse whispered hoarsely.

“That’s enough.”

For a long moment it was quiet in the office. From outside came the murmur of the other morning-shift men, punctuated by the ring of the telephone. Finally, Gibralter turned away from them.

“Dismissed,” he said.

They rode in silence. Louis drove, his hands locked on the wheel, his eyes never wavering from the road. The snow had given way to sleet and Louis flicked on the wipers to keep the windshield from icing over. For a half hour, the silence between them built, like ice on glass. It was Jesse who finally broke it.

“Tell me about this cop.”

Louis shook his head. “Forget it. It was a thousand miles away, a thousand years ago.”

“Louis, for crissake, tell me.”

“I said forget it. I have.”

“Right. That’s why the veins are popping out of your temples. Tell me, damn it, why’d this guy try to hang you?”

“You heard enough.”

Louis stared straight ahead. They were heading southwest, passing through farmlands, flat acres of white nothingness that blended with the slate-gray sky.

“What? You think because I’m white I can’t understand? Is that it?” Jesse asked.

Louis glanced at him then looked back at the road.

Jesse let out a snort. “Man, you’re fucked up, you know it? You’re emotionally constipated and it’s fucked up your head and now you’re transferring your anger.”

“Spare me your psycho-crap,” Louis said.

“You’re angry at the chief and you’re transferring it to me.”

“Bullshit.”

Louis turned the wipers up a notch. They rode in silence for another ten miles until Jesse gave him directions to turn.

“Chief has ordered us all to double up,” Jesse said.

“On patrol?” Louis asked.

“Yeah. Did it while you were away. Says he doesn’t want anyone riding alone right now.”

Louis nodded. At least Gibralter was finally taking precautions to protect his men. He glanced at Jesse, wondering if he should try to explain about Larry Cutter. What was the use? Even if Jesse understood the other men wouldn’t. And Gibralter would make sure every last man on the force found out. What the hell was the matter with the man? Was this part of some plan to break him just because he had let Lacey go? Or was it just because he had challenged him on the Lacey kids, the call from Lovejoy and about getting outside help?

“Somebody said you found letters from Cole,” Jesse said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Yeah, in Lacey’s room,” Louis said.

“What did they say?” Jesse asked.

“Not much. He’s proud of his dad for, quote, killing that nigger, unquote.”

Jesse shook his head. “Guess the kid hasn’t gotten any smarter.”

“What you mean?”

“I busted him once when he was about eleven for shoplifting. He had a smart mouth then, too.”

Louis tried to conjure up an image of Cole at eleven. The only thing that came to him was the five-year-old Cole with the cigarette burns on his back.

“He was abused. Did you know that?” Louis asked.

“So what? Plenty of abused kids turn out okay,” Jesse said.

“Well, it kind of puts a different spin on — ”

“It’s no excuse for being an asshole,” Jesse said. He shook his head. “I hate that kind of talk. It’s crap, like the chief said about the vets blaming everything on post-traumatic stress. It’s like nobody wants to take responsibility for their actions anymore.”

Louis bit back his thought, that Jesse could be talking about his own temper.

They survived the rest of the drive on a diet of small talk about the case. It was eleven-thirty by the time Louis turned the Bronco under an iron arch that said RED OAK CORRECTIONS FACILITY FOR BOYS. The road cut a wet black ribbon through the high drifts, leading to an ugly Kleenex-box building in the middle of a treeless field of snow. The compound was surrounded by a high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. In the distance were some basketball hoops. Jesse looked back at the gate as it closed behind them.

At the entrance, Louis pushed the button. The guard peered at them through the glass door and he buzzed them in. After signing them in the guard directed them down a gloomy corridor to a door marked WARDEN LITTLE.

“Officers Kincaid and Harrison to see Warden Little,” Louis told the secretary. “He’s expecting us.”

She buzzed, and a moment later, a small bald man in a gray suit came out of his office.

“Officers,” Warden Little said, greeting them with a weak smile and weaker handshake. “Can I offer you some coffee?”

“No, thanks,” Louis said. “We’d like to see Cole Lacey.”

“No problem. I’ve secured Cole in our visitor lounge. We find it’s more conductive to getting the boys to relax. It’s comforting to them to have some homey surroundings.”

“Cole Lacey’s comfort level is no concern of ours, Warden,” Jesse said, following Little down the hall.

Warden Little glanced at him as he pressed the elevator button. “Well, we won’t argue the sociological fine points of juvenile crime, officer. But let me assure you many of my boys here are victims, just like those you seek justice for.”

“Tell that to Stephanie Pryce,” Jesse muttered as they entered the elevator.

“Pardon?” Little said.

“We have reason to believe that Cole Lacey’s father killed two police officers,” Louis said.

“I see. That reminds me.” Little reached in his breast pocket. “Here’s the visitors log you asked for.”

Louis took the paper, straining to read it without his glasses. Finally he handed it to Jesse.

“Here it is,” Jesse said. “Lacey was here on November 11. One day after getting out of Marquette. He was here again on Christmas Eve.”

The elevator deposited them on the second floor. A muscular guard in a khaki uniform stood by a door, his arms crossed, a baton and cuffs hanging from a gun-less belt. His nameplate said HAYNES. He unlocked the door and advised them to knock when they wanted out. Louis waited until Little had left before turning to Jesse.

“My way, right?” Louis asked quietly.

“Scout’s honor.”

They went inside, the heavy door locking behind them. The pale blue room was small and it reeked of pine air freshener. The small single window was hung with flowered curtains, frost visible between the bars. At the table in the center of the room sat a slender teenager. He wore the regulation blue pants and a denim shirt, which ballooned around his thin chest. His dark head was bowed, his bony hands clasped together on the table, his legs wrapped around the metal folding chair.

Louis cleared his throat.

Cole Lacey’s moved from Louis’s shoes up over his uniform to his face. As they skipped over to Jesse Cole’s posture changed slowly from the languidness of an arrogant teenager to a stiffness that Louis read as fear.

Cole stood up and slowly moved around the back of the chair, like an alley cat trying to sidle away from predators. “What do you guys want?” he asked.

“Sit down,” Louis said.

“No.”

Louis reached over and grabbed Cole’s shoulder. The boy tensed but allowed himself to be set back down in the chair. Louis pulled a metal chair from the wall and sat down across the table from Cole.