Michael Connelly - The Poet

"My theory? My theory is he went out there and whoever it was who'd called him didn't show. It was another dead end for him and it tipped the scale. He drove up to that lake and he did what he did… Are you going to write a story about him?"

"I don't know. I think so."

"Look, I don't know how to say this but here goes. He was your brother but he was my friend. I might've even known him better than you. Leave it alone. Just let it go."

I told him I would think about it but it was only to placate him. I had already decided. I left then, checking my watch to make sure I had enough time to get out to Estes Park before dark.

I didn't get to the parking lot at Bear Lake until after five. I realized it was just as it had been for my brother, deserted. The lake was frozen and the temperature was dropping quickly. The sky was already purple and going dark. It wasn't much of a draw for locals or tourists this late in the day.

As I drove through the lot I thought about why he had picked this place to come. As far as I knew it had nothing to do with the Lofton case. But I thought I knew why. He parked where he had parked and just sat there thinking.

There was a light on in the ceiling of the overhang above the front of the ranger shack. I decided to get out and see if Pena, the witness, was there. Then another thought struck me. I slid over to the passenger side of the Tempo. I took a couple of deep breaths, then opened the door and started running for the woods where they grew closest to the car. As I ran I counted by thousands out loud. I was at eleven thousand by the time I had gotten over the snowbank and reached the cover.

Standing there in the woods, a foot deep in snow without boots on, I bent over and put my hands on my knees as I caught my breath. There was no way a shooter could have gotten into the woods to hide if Pena had been out of the shack as quickly as he had reported. I finally stopped gulping the air and headed toward the ranger's shack, debating how to approach him. As a reporter or a brother?

It was Pena behind the window. I could see the nameplate on his uniform. He was locking a desk when I looked through the window. He was calling it a day.

"Can I help you, sir? I'm closing up."

"Yes, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

He came out, eyeing me suspiciously because I obviously wasn't dressed for a hike in the snow. I had on jeans and Reeboks, a corduroy shirt beneath a thick woolen sweater. I had left my long coat in the car and I was very cold.

"My name is Jack McEvoy."

I waited a moment to see if it registered. It didn't. He had probably only seen the name written in reports he had to sign, or in the newspaper. Its pronunciation-Mac-a-voy-didn't jibe with its spelling.

"My brother… he was the one you found a couple weeks ago."

I pointed toward the lot.

"Oh," he said, understanding. "In the car. The officer."

"Uh, I've been with the police all day, looking at the reports and stuff. I just wanted to come out and take a look. It's hard, you know… to accept it."

He nodded and tried to hide a quick glance at his watch.

"I just have a few quick questions. You were inside there when you heard it? The shot?"

I spoke quickly, not giving him the chance to stop me.

"Yes," he said. He looked like he was trying to decide something and then he did. He continued. "I was locking up just like tonight, 'bout to go home. I heard it. It was one of those things, I kinda knew what it was. I don't know why. Really what I thought was that it might be poachers after the deer. I came out pretty quick and the first place I looked was the lot. I saw his car. Could see him in there. All the windows were fogged up pretty good but I could see him. He was behind the wheel. Something about the way he was leaning back, I knew what happened… Sorry it was your brother."

I nodded and studied the ranger's shack. Just a small office and storage room. I realized that five seconds was probably a long estimate from the time Pena heard the shot until he saw the lot.

"There was no pain," Pena said.

"What?"

"If it's something you want to know. There was no physical pain, I don't think. I ran to the car. He was dead. It was instant."

"The police reports said you couldn't get to him. The doors were locked."

"Yeah, I tried the door. But I could tell he was gone. I came back up here to make the calls."

"How long do you think he was parked there before he did it?"

"I don't know. Like I told the police, I don't have a view of the lot. I'd been in the shed-I got a heater in there-oh, I'd say at least a half hour before I heard the shot. He could have been parked there the whole time. Thinking about it, I guess."

I nodded.

"You didn't see him out on the lake, did you? You know, before the shot."

"On the lake? No. Nobody was on the lake."

I stood there trying to think of something else.

"Did they come up with any reason why?" Pena asked. "Like I said, I know he was an officer."

I shook my head no. I didn't want to get into it with this stranger. I thanked him and started back to the lot while he locked the shack door. The Tempo was the only car in the plowed lot. I thought of something and turned back.

"How often do they plow?"

Pena stepped away from the door.

"After every snow."

I nodded and thought of something else.

"Where do you park?"

"We've got an equipment yard a half mile down the road. I park there and walk up the trail in the morning, down at quitting time."

"You want a ride?"

"Nah. Thanks, though. The trail will get me there quicker."

The whole way back to Boulder I thought of the last time I had been to Bear Lake. It was also winter then. But the lake wasn't frozen, not all the way. And when I left that time, I felt just as cold and alone. And guilty.

Riley looked as if she had aged ten years since I had seen her at the funeral. Even so, I was immediately struck when she opened the door by what I hadn't realized before. Theresa Lofton looked like a nineteen-year-old Riley McEvoy. I wondered if Scalari or anybody else had asked the shrinks about that.

She asked me in. She knew she looked bad. After she opened the door she casually raised her hand to the side of her face to hide it. She tried a feeble smile. We went into the kitchen and she asked if I wanted her to make coffee but I said I wasn't staying long. I sat down at the kitchen table. It seemed that whenever I visited we would gather around the kitchen table. Even with Sean gone that hadn't changed.

"I wanted to tell you that I'm going to write about Sean."

She was silent for a long time and she didn't look at me. She got up and started emptying the dishwasher. I waited.

"Do you have to?" she finally asked.

"Yes… I think so."

She said nothing.

"I'm going to call the psychologist, Dorschner. I don't know if he'll talk to me, but now that Sean's gone I don't see why not. But, uh, he might call you for permission…"

"Don't worry, Jack, I won't try to stop you."

I nodded my thanks but I noted the edge to her words.

"I was with the cops today and I went up to the lake."

"I don't want to hear about it, Jack. If you have to write about it that's your choice. Do what you have to do. But my choice is that I don't want to hear about it. And if you do write about Sean, I won't read that, either. I have to do what I have to do."

I nodded and said, "I understand. There is one thing I need to ask, though. Then I'll leave you out of it."

"What do you mean, leave me out of it?" she asked angrily. "I wish I could be left out of it. But I'm in it. For the rest of my life I'm in it. You want to write about it? You think that's a way to get rid of it? What do I do, Jack?"