Dark Tiger (8 page)

Once in a while, when he glanced toward her, he caught her watching him. He couldn't read the expression on her face, but he figured it had to be a good thing that she was at least acknowledging him.

Calhoun put Adrian to work counting the flies in the bins. They'd sold a lot of flies during this early part of the fishing season, and he knew they needed to restock their supply.

Calhoun spent most of the afternoon in his office in the back of the shop, working the telephone and the computer placing orders. Kate stayed at the front counter, as far from the office as she could get and still be in the same shop.

When six o'clock—closing time—came along, she flipped the sign on the door around, went out to her truck, and drove away without glancing at Calhoun. She didn't even give Ralph a pat.

 

 

 

 

Wednesday morning Calhoun called information, got the number for the OCME in Augusta—the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for the state of Maine—and spoke with Dr. Ella Grimshaw, the ME herself. She said that Sheriff Dickman had called her and that she was pretty busy but could meet with Deputy Calhoun at two that afternoon if he wouldn't mind telling her what was on his mind, inasmuch as the sheriff hadn't been very forthcoming.

He told her he was interested in the death of a man named McNulty along with a young girl named Millie Gautier up in St. Cecelia a couple of weeks earlier. McNulty had been shot beside his ear, and the girl was shot in the forehead. It had been made to look like a murder-suicide, but Calhoun had heard that both of them were already dead when they got plugged.

Dr. Grimshaw said she remembered the case. She'd pull the file.

 

______

 

He explained to Ralph that Augusta might be the capital city of the state of Maine, but even so, there was nothing of interest for a dog there, and if he went, he'd just have to sit in the truck, and he'd be a lot happier staying home and guarding the place. “Growl fiercely and bite all trespassers on the ass,” Calhoun told him.

Ralph, who would always rather go in the truck than be left behind, sighed, curled up in a patch of sunshine on the deck, and put his back to Calhoun to show him what he thought about that plan.

Augusta was a straight shot due north up the Maine Turnpike from Portland. From his house in the woods in Dublin, it took Calhoun about two hours to get there and another five minutes to find a place to park around the corner from the OCME on Hospital Street.

Dr. Ella Grimshaw's office was on the second floor. A middle-aged receptionist who wore her reading glasses down on the tip of her nose asked him his name and told Calhoun she'd let the doctor know he was here. He could go ahead and have a seat in the otherwise empty waiting room.

Calhoun had just gotten settled in his chair with a year-old copy of
Field & Stream
when the door behind the receptionist's desk opened and a tall, lanky woman stepped out. She started toward Calhoun.

He stood up. “Dr. Grimshaw?”

She smiled and held out her hand. She had short gray hair and sharp blue eyes. Calhoun guessed she was around fifty. “Deputy Calhoun,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”

They shook hands. She had a man-sized hand and a firm grip.

“Let's go into my office,” said Dr. Grimshaw. “Would you like some coffee or something?”

“I'm good,” said Calhoun. “Thanks.”

He followed her into a big sun-filled office. The wall that looked down on Hospital Street had four floor-to-ceiling windows. On one of the side walls were built-in bookshelves stuffed with serious-looking volumes. The other wall displayed framed diplomas and family photographs. Backed up to the windows was a big oak desk littered with papers and manila folders. In one corner of the office, four comfortable-looking upholstered chairs were angled around a glass-topped coffee table.

Dr. Grimshaw gestured at the chairs. “Let's sit.” She picked up a manila folder from her desk, then sat in one of the upholstered chairs.

Calhoun sat across from her.

She tapped the edge of the folder against her chin and fixed Calhoun with those icy eyes. “So tell me, Deputy. Why does a nonmurder in Aroostook County interest the sheriff's department in Cumberland County?”

Calhoun had expected this question. “Didn't Sheriff Dickman talk to you about that?”

Dr. Grimshaw smiled. “Actually, my old friend the sheriff was rather evasive.”

Calhoun smiled and flapped his hands. “Well . . .”

She nodded. “So I guess I should expect his deputy to be equally evasive.”

“To tell you the truth, ma'am, there's really not much I can say at this point.”

Dr. Grimshaw shrugged. “Then I don't see why I should share my information with you.”

Calhoun looked at her. “I wish you'd told me that before I drove all the way up here.”

She waved a hand in the air. “I didn't say I wouldn't share. I will. Just so you know I'm doing you a favor, since you're of no mind to reciprocate.”

Calhoun nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“It's all right,” she said. “I really don't mind. We're all on the same side here, aren't we?”

Calhoun figured that was a rhetorical question, but he nodded anyway.

Dr. Grimshaw put the folder on the coffee table, opened it, and took out a sheet of paper. She squinted at it, then looked at Calhoun. “When the man's body came to me from St. Cecelia, he was a John Doe with a bullet hole inflicted by a .32 caliber weapon in his head. Subsequently we learned that his name was McNulty. Along with his body came that of a sixteen-year old girl, a resident of St. Cecelia named Millie Gautier, who also had a .32 bullet wound from the same weapon in her head. A .32 caliber revolver was found in McNulty's hand, but we quickly determined that both bullet wounds were postmortem. Hence, it was neither a double murder nor a murder-suicide.” She looked up at Calhoun with her eyebrows arched.

“Shooting bullets into dead people must be some kind of crime,” he said.

Dr. Grimshaw smiled and nodded. “I suppose it is,” she said, “but it's not murder.”

“I suppose you couldn't trace the ownership of that .32.”

“No,” she said. “The handgun was not registered.”

“So since it's not a murder,” he said, “this case is not top priority for you. Right?”

“A different priority,” she said. “Both deaths were unattended, so we needed to come up with a cause. That is easier said than done sometimes.”

“You must have some idea what they died of,” said Calhoun.

“Well,” said Dr. Grimshaw, “without more evidence, I'd rather not even speculate.” She put the paper down on the table.
“Bottom line, Deputy Calhoun, is that we don't know what killed them, and it's frankly quite worrisome. We did all of the standard tests for poisons and diseases and came up with blanks. Something unusual killed these two, and it's very important that we figure out what. I have sent tissue and blood samples from both victims to the CDC in Georgia. The Centers for Disease Control. Frankly, while I'm always interested in solving mysteries—and the circumstances that lead somebody to shoot two dead bodies and try to make it look like a murder-suicide surely make an interesting mystery—professionally speaking, I am far more concerned that there might be some unknown bird flu mutation or a virulent new strain of the West Nile virus going around in the wilds of northern Maine.”

“Is that what you think?” said Calhoun. “The two of them got some rare disease?”

“Like I said,” she said, “I'm trying not to speculate. I don't have a hypothesis at this point. I'm just telling you what worries me. I'm hoping the CDC will identify it for us and tell us it's not something we need to be worried about.”

“When do you expect to hear from them?”

“Hard to say,” said Dr. Grimshaw. “I've asked them to consider it urgent. Could be this afternoon. Of course, knowing how the bureaucracy works, it might not be for another few weeks.”

“Will you let me know?” said Calhoun.

She cocked her head and peered at him. “I would like to understand your interest in the case.”

He shrugged. “Some cases slop over county lines.”

“Aroostook is pretty far from Cumberland,” she said.

“You can drive from one to the other in half a day.”

She smiled. “I'll let you know what I hear from the CDC. I don't have a problem with that, reciprocity or not. It is pretty
intriguing. And if you can figure out why somebody shoots two dead people and wants it to look like a suicide and a murder rather than whatever it is, I'll be all ears.”

Calhoun recited his cell phone number to her, and she wrote it down on the inside of the manila folder. She glanced at her wristwatch, then looked up at him. “Was there anything else, Deputy Calhoun?”

He shrugged. “I was wondering whether you heard anything from the folks up in Aroostook County about who they think did the shooting—and why.”

“You probably will want to talk with them,” said Dr. Grimshaw. “Last I heard, they hadn't progressed very far with their investigation. The two bodies were found in a car parked beside an old logging road in the woods. The police up there interviewed some people—the girl's father, a boyfriend, a few people who might've seen Mr. McNulty and the girl together. No suspects, no arrests.” She tapped the manila folder. “Their entire report takes up less than three pages.”

“As if they're not pursuing it very hard,” said Calhoun.

“There are aspects of the case that might be embarrassing to people,” said Dr. Grimshaw. “There might be some, um, pressure not to pursue it too hard.” She shrugged. “I don't know that for a fact. Reading between the lines. They don't have a murder. The only apparent crime is shooting bullets into already-dead bodies. If they did find somebody to arrest, it's unclear what they'd charge him with.”

Calhoun nodded. “They've got a point.” He stood up. “I won't take any more of your time. Thanks for seeing me.”

Dr. Grimshaw stood up, also. She was nearly as tall as Calhoun. She went to her office door and opened it. “I'll let you know when I hear something from the CDC.”

Calhoun nodded. “Thank you.”

She held out her hand, and he shook it.

“Good luck, Deputy.”

“Thanks for your help.”

“One of these days,” she said, “maybe you'll tell me what your real interest is in this case.”

“Oh,” he said, “I'm just doing my job.”

“Of course.” She smiled, then handed him a business card. “Call me.”

 

After supper that night Calhoun opened a duffel bag on his bed and filled it with clothes for a month at the Loon Lake Lodge. Plenty of warm socks, flannel shirts, a few pairs of blue jeans, a couple of windbreakers. Boots and moccasins. Sweaters. Underwear. Toilet articles. Books. The charger for his cell phone, though he doubted that there would be service at Loon Lake.

It didn't take very long to pack. He wasn't that interested in clothing.

Then he loaded a big bag with fishing gear. This took more thought. From the dozens of fly boxes that were piled on a shelf in his living room, he selected those that contained landlocked salmon flies. Then he threw in a few that held trout flies, and on third thought, he added a couple with smallmouth bass and pickerel flies. He wasn't sure what he'd run into up at Loon Lake.

He dumped in a dozen fly reels, plenty of spools of tippet material, and a few containers of bug dope. He added his Colt Woodsman .22 pistol, which he liked to carry in the woods, a box of long-rifle bullets, a filleting knife, and a hunting knife in its leather scabbard. Finally he selected eight fly rods that he or his clients might use for trolling and casting.

When he was done packing, he poured himself a mug of
coffee, took it out onto the deck, and sat on one of his Adirondack chairs. Ralph came along and lay down beside him.

Calhoun reached down and gave the top of Ralph's head a scratch. “I'd rather we didn't have to do this,” he said.

Ralph did not reply.

“Well, it's got to be done,” Calhoun continued. “I'm glad you'll be with me, anyway.”

They watched the color fade from the evening sky and listened to the owls and other night creatures hoot and peep and squawk in the surrounding woods. In front of the house, some bats were flapping around chasing insects. Calhoun tried to think of something he'd failed to pack that he'd need. Six weeks was a long time to be gone. He figured he'd overpacked. He probably wouldn't need half of the stuff he'd jammed into his bags.

He was supposed to meet the float plane at the Balsam Street dock on Moosehead Lake in Greenville at two the next day—Thursday afternoon. Marty Dunlap hadn't said anything about limiting the weight of his gear. He'd told Calhoun that the pilot's name was Swenson, readily recognized by his red bush of a beard and his Hawaiian shirt, not to mention the fact that the plane would have the Loon Lake Lodge name and its triple-
L
logo painted on its fuselage.

His mug of coffee was almost empty when he heard the whine of a truck engine turning off the road onto his driveway a quarter of a mile away. When it downshifted he recognized it by its sound. “It's Kate,” he said to Ralph. “I'll be damned.”

A couple of minutes later headlights cut through the woods, and then Kate's truck pulled up beside Calhoun's in the opening in front of the house.

She shut off the lights and the engine, stepped out of the cab, and used her hand as a visor to look up at the house. She
was wearing a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a red-and-black checked flannel shirt.

She looked spectacular.

Calhoun waved at her. “Come on up. I got bourbon. Or coffee, if you'd rather.”