Dead of Winter (6 page)

Damn, he had forgotten the nice little speech he had rehearsed on the drive over.  “Well, sir,” he began, “I was thinking tonight — ”

“Thinking?”

“Yes, sir, and — ”

“‘To him whose elastic and vigorous thought keeps pace with the sun, the day is perpetually morning.’” Gibralter smiled. “Thoreau. You ever read Thoreau?”

Louis shifted slightly, clasping his hands behind his back. “Yes, in college.”

“Interesting man, wouldn’t you say?”

Louis tried to remember something impressive from his philosophy course.  It had been senior year, a three-credit slam-dunk course he needed for graduation and he had slept through it.

“Well, sir, I think his philosophy was admirable.”

Gibralter cocked an eyebrow.
“Oh? So you’re a Transcendentalist, are you?”

A snippet from a forgotten lecture drifted into Louis’s head.

“Thoreau believed in the basic good of man. And the strength of the individual. I believe in those things, sir.”

“I’m sure you do,” Gibralter said, leaning forward to snuff out his Camel. “‘Nothing is at least sacred but the integrity of your own mind.’ But that was Emerson, wasn’t it?”

Louis unclasped his hands, realizing suddenly he looked like he was standing at attention.

“Well, I don’t find much to admire in Thoreau’s philosophy myself,” Gibralter said.

So much for a meeting of the minds.

“A belief that intuition is better than logic and reason? The idea that man should turn his back on authority and established order?” Gibralter shook his head, smiling again. “The man ran off and lived in the woods but wouldn’t even set a trap or own a gun.”

Louis’s eyes dropped to the red carpet. How in the hell was he going to turn this around to asking for the Pryce case?

“I understand you were at the Pryce house today,” Gibralter said.

Louis looked up. “Yes, it’s tragic. Jesse said — ”

“It’s more than tragic. It’s a goddamn outrage. No one kills my cops and gets away with it.”

Gibralter reached into a drawer and pulled out a fresh pack of Camels. He slowly peeled off the top and then held the pack out to Louis.

“I don’t smoke,” Louis said.

Gibralter pulled out one, lit it and sat back in his chair. “You came here to ask for the Pryce case, didn’t you?” he said, squinting up at Louis through the smoke.

“Yes, sir,” Louis said.

“Why?”

“The house, the scene bothered me,” Louis began. He reached in his jacket. “I found this picture — ”

“Let me see it.”

Louis gave it to him. Gibralter glanced at it then tossed it on the desk. “Emotions can get in the way in this job,” he said.

“Sometimes they can be powerful motivators,” Louis said.

“What did you feel when you saw that?” Gibralter asked, nodding at the photograph.

“Anger,” Louis replied.

“What else?”

Louis hesitated. “Frustration.”

“What else?”

Louis stared at Gibralter.

Gibralter took a slow drag on his cigarette. “So,” he said, “what makes you think you can work this case when none of my other men has been able to come up with anything?”

The office was very warm. Louis felt a trickle of sweat make its way down his forehead. Shit, he didn’t want this man seeing him sweat.

“Sir, I wouldn’t think to question the ability of anyone here,” he said. “But I was made aware of the fact that the case isn’t going anywhere and that you have not delegated it to — ”

“Stop with the bullshit, Kincaid. Why do you want the case?”

Louis wet his lips. “I want to see the man caught.”

Gibralter considered him carefully then smiled. “And you can’t see yourself answering calls for lost dogs and downed geriatrics for the rest of your career here.”

Louis felt a small spasm of anger.

“That’s all right, Kincaid,” Gibralter said. “Ambition is good in a man. I wish all my men had ambition.” Gibralter was silent for a moment. “Tell me something,” he asked finally. “Do you think a college degree is a help or a handicap for a police officer?”

Now how was he supposed to answer this one? His eyes darted up to the wall with all the certificates. No nicely framed diploma from Stanford in all that police stuff.

“I think it makes some people suspicious,” Louis said.

“Suspicious? Why is that?”

“Other cops, I mean, sir. They might see it as...unnecessary, given the day-to-day demands of the job.”

“Clear thinking is unnecessary?”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant — ”

Gibralter held up a hand. “I know what you meant.”

Louis waited, hoping the man wasn’t going to ask him why he had decided to become a cop. Sometimes he wasn’t even sure himself. When his foster mother had asked him why, just before he went into the academy, he had laughed it off with a crack about girls liking men in uniforms. But what had really triggered his decision? The kindness of the cop who revived the Patterson baby after he fell in the neighbor’s pool? Or had it been the meanness of the cop who clubbed his roommate after finding pot in his car?

It was something more visceral. Flickering images on the Zenith. Black smoke, black faces. Orange fires, blue uniforms. Had his eight-year-old mind understood the rioting going on so many miles away in downtown Detroit? Probably not. But something about those uniforms had stuck.

A phone rang outside and he heard Edna’s nasal voice answering. The wall clock ticked off the seconds. A twig beat against the window. The silence lengthened. Louis focused on the window, watching a droplet weave a slow pattern through the condensation.

“I want that cocksucker caught,” Gibralter said softly.

Louis looked back at Gibralter.

“I want him caught. I want him put behind bars,” Gibralter said. “This state doesn’t have capital punishment but I’d like to see him strapped in a chair, hear him scream and see him shit in his pants when the smoke pours off his head.. I want him to pay.”

Louis was locked by pull of the chief’s icy eyes.
Finally, Gibralter blinked and looked away. “I’m putting you on the case,” he said.

Louis nodded. “I’ll give it my best.”

Gibralter stood up slowly. “You’re still green, Kincaid. Two years total as a working officer. And I don’t want you neglecting regular duties. You’ll still pull patrol like everyone else.”

Gibralter’s expression had shifted slightly. His eyes burned like gas-blue flames but there was something slack, almost weary around his mouth. “When one cop dies, we all die,” he said.

Louis nodded once, sensing Gibralter expected no reply.

Gibralter opened a drawer and pulled out a plastic bag sealed with a wide band of orange evidence tape. “You’ll need this,” he said. Gibralter also picked up the photograph of Pryce’s child and handed both items to Louis.

“You’re dismissed, Kincaid,” Gibralter said. He turned his back, looking out the dark window.

Louis slipped the photograph and the evidence bag in his jacket and started to the door.

“Kincaid.”

He turned back. Gibralter was still facing the window. “That other feeling you had when you saw the picture?” Gibralter said. “It was fear.”

Louis paused, hand on the doorknob. “‘If a man hasn’t discovered something that he will die for, he isn’t fit to live,’” he said.

Gilb
ralter looked up. “Churchill?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Louis said. “Martin Luther King, Jr.”

Gibraltar gave him a long look, then looked down at his paperwork. “Dismissed, Kincaid,” he said softly.

There was something eerie about sitting at Thomas Pryce’s desk. The contour of his body was still molded into the worn brown vinyl of the chair. The drawers of the desk he had shared with Ollie Wickshaw were still cluttered with little things that had meaning only to Pryce: paper clips twisted into squares and triangles, a worn tube of Chapstick, gnawed swizzle sticks from endless cups of coffee, and several half-rolls of Tums.

Louis plucked a pen from the plastic holder and chewed on the end as he stared at the ace of spades in the plastic evidence bag. It had already been scrutinized by the experts for prints. There had been none of any use.

Louis turned over the card. It was a Bee card, in the familiar blue-and-white pattern with the slightly drunken looking insect. It was from a case mass produced by the U.S. Playing Card Company in Cincinnati and sold everywhere. What made this card different, however, were the black marks on it. The lab had determined the ink was not from an ordinary felt-tip pen; the writer had used a laundry marker. Louis wondered if it had been a conscious choice, to use an indelible pen rather than one that would have easily smeared. He studied the odd black scrawl. It looked as if it had been done hastily, almost like a graffiti. There was a badly drawn skull and crossbones and below it: 1 2 3.

Louis checked his watch. He had been here since 6 a.m., unable to sleep once his mind had begun to churn on the investigation. Now it was almost seven-thirty, briefing was in a half hour and he would have to put the Pryce case aside for the day.

The door opened and Dale came in. His boyish face was flushed from the cold. He wiggled out of his coat and walked to the fireplace, stooping to toss logs into the hearth.

“Good morning,” he called out cheerfully.

“Morning, Dale,” Louis said. He could feel Dale’s eyes on him and he looked up. Dale was staring at the evidence bag.

“What are you doing with that?” he asked.

“Chief gave it to me last night,” Louis said. He saw the slight look of distress on Dale’s face. “Is there a problem?”

“Dale blinked rapidly. “No, I just didn’t know he had it.”

“What? The card?”

Dale nodded. “I’m in charge of the evidence room.” He jangled the ring on his belt. “Only me and the chief have keys.”

Louis nodded.

“I mean, it’s not that you can’t go in,” Dale went on. “It’s just that I keep things straight around here, and if you don’t log in and out, things get lost.”

Louis nodded again. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’m kind of the administrative assistant here,” Dale said. “The chief never got it officially approved by the city council, so technically I’m a patrolman but I don’t pull street duty.”

Louis looked up at Dale again. “Well, every well-run office needs a manager.”

Dale smiled. “You aren’t kidding. You should’ve seen this place before I got ahold of things. Now I do it all, run the computer for the numb-nuts who’re too lazy to learn, make the coffee and do all the filing. By the way, Louis, you need anything from the files let me get it for you, okay? You guys really mess up my system. No offense.”

“None taken.” Louis turned back to the card, hoping Dale was finished. No such luck.

“Chief likes things organized, you know,” Dale went on.

“I got that impression.”

“By the way, he wants all reports typed. Did he tell you that?”

“No. Thanks for the warning.”

“Even your daily log should be typed, if you have time. You can type, can’t you?”

“Yeah, pretty well.”

“Of course, that doesn’t apply to Jess,” Dale said with a wry smile. “Jess can barely write let alone type. But then again, not too many rules here apply to Jess.”

Well, every department has a golden boy,
Louis thought. To his relief, Dale busied himself behind the computer, allowing Louis to turn his attention back to the playing card. Dale switched on a radio, tuning it to an easy-listening station out of Alpena. He began to hum along to Perry Como warbling the Beatles’ “Yesterday.” Louis suppressed a sigh but kept quiet.

“Hey, Dale?”

“Yeah?”

“Where’s the other Pryce evidence?”

“There isn’t much really.”

“I’d like to see it anyway. And the case file, too.”

Dale went to the evidence room, signed the log, unlocked the padlock and went inside the grating. He emerged with a manila file and another plastic bag bound with an orange evidence tape. He handed both to Louis and returned to Windexing his computer.

The bag contained a photograph of the boot print. Nothing special. Louis turned to the report, skimming through it. He stopped at a second photograph. It showed Pryce’s body lying on the bottom stairs of his foyer. Louis stared at the gruesome photo, with its tagline date and the photographer’s initials, an ironic “O.W.” he stuffed the photo back in the file and turned to the witness statements.

The first was from Pryce’s next-door neighbor, Leonard Moss, who heard the shots and called the police. The second statement was from a man named Moe Cohick, who lived in the house directly behind Pryce’s. He reported seeing a shadowy man running across his yard at 3:15. Louis turned to the last witness statement. It was from Stephanie Pryce. It was handwritten, in bold, sharply slanted strokes that he had a hard time reading.