Deer Season (11 page)
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I’m okay during the day when I’m busy at work. It’s when I’m trying to go to sleep, or when I wake at 2:00 or 3:00 and can’t get back to sleep. That’s when the enormity of it all hits me. I’m struggling to even understand what happened. I have this sense of loss and sadness. And I don’t think I’ve ever really been depressed before. Not like this.”
“You really had a double whammy. The physical and emotional stress from being shot, well, that’s enough for anyone. But then the discovery of your relationship to the victim, that’s almost beyond comprehension. It’s going to take time, Ray. And it goes without saying that there are some things we never completely recover from. But we do get to a place where we can go on with our lives. You like Dr. Sandlow?
“You always refer me to good people.”
“How about that pretty woman who visited you in the hospital. You seeing her?”
“Occasionally, but I don’t know if it’s fair to date someone when I’m feeling so…what… down…confused?”
“Look Ray, you won’t feel any better isolating yourself and waiting for a time when you have everything figured out. We’ve got piles of literature that says people are healthier when they are involved with other people. I know that this is easier to say than do, but you need to try to get on with your life.”
Ray nodded, indicating his understanding of the advice.
“And come in and see me this week or next. I’d like to closely monitor your health for the next few months. Let’s see if we can find ways to mitigate some of the physical effects of this stress.”
“What can I say, Saul. I’m forever in your debt. But I’m really busy right now….”
“And when you fall over dead, people will remember your dedication to your job for at least two weeks after the funeral. If I don’t see you in a few days, I’ll come looking for you. Where are you going now?”
“I wanted to know about Lynne’s condition. You’ve helped with that. Now I’d like to find her father.”
“He’s probably in the surgical waiting room.”
“That’s where I was heading when I ran into you.”
There were only two people in the surgical waiting room, a large man talking forcibly on a cell phone and a much younger man sitting attentively at his side. As Ray approached the pair, the man on the phone looked up briefly, his eyes magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses, and continued on with his conversation. Although Ray had yet to get the drift of the conversation, he could tell by the man’s commanding tone that he was used to getting what he wanted.
The young man—thirty-something, with brown hair in a Princeton cut, button-down shirt and tie, and blue blazer—rose and extended a hand. “I’m Harry Hawkins, Mr. Boyd’s personal assistant and lawyer.”
Ray felt Hawkins’ muscular grip and noted his height, about 6’4” or 6’5” he guessed, as he gave his name in return.
“And you, sir, are the Cedar County Sheriff?” Hawkins asked before releasing Ray’s hand.
“Yes,” Ray answered. “Ray Elkins.”
“Have you arrested that bastard yet?” asked the other man, the person Ray assumed was Lynne’s father, coming to his feet, still holding the cell phone to his left ear. “Or do we have to deal with cops protecting their own?” he asked, anger in his voice. The man was quite stout, and Ray guessed he was close to six feet tall. His head was large and round, mostly bald with a ring of peppergray hair from sideburn to sideburn, and flushed cheeks. Before Ray could respond, the man demanded in an angry tone, “Do you know who I am?”
Ray held the man in his gaze for a long moment, slowly filled his lungs in a effort to control his anger, and replied, “I assume, sir, that you are Lynne Boyd’s father.”
Ray’s response seemed to further enrage the man.
“You haven’t answered my first question,” the man demanded, poking a finger into Ray’s chest. “Do you have that bastard behind bars yet?” His voice was gravelly, that of a person who was still or had been a heavy smoker for most of his life.
Harry Hawkins gently pulled his employer’s hand down. “Sir, I’m sure you can understand how upset Mr. Boyd is.”
“What are you people doing?” Boyd demanded, his tone indicating that he was sure nothing was happening.
Ray took his time to respond. He wanted to slow down this exchange, to get a sense of this man and his world, but he was in no mood to be bullied.
“The investigation is well under way,” Ray responded.
“Have you questioned Dirk? If he’s not the shooter, he’s the one responsible,” Boyd said. Suddenly his attention shifted back to his phone, still held to his ear. “Well, where is he? I need to talk to him. This is an emergency. If I give you my number, will you have him call me as soon as he’s available?” Boyd asked, bringing the phone around and yelling into the mouthpiece. He gave the number, repeating it twice, and snapped the phone shut. He went back to his original question, this time with his full focus on Ray. “Do you have that bastard under arrest yet?”
“Sir, let me say again, the investigation is well under way.”
“Let’s not play around. What I want to know is if you’ve got Dirk in custody yet.”
Ray noted how Boyd was sucking air. His wife, Lynne’s mother, as Sue described her, might be an archetype of sixty being the new forty, but the man in front of him seemed to be in poor health.
“Dirk Lowther is on vacation this week. We believe that he is in the Upper Peninsula deer hunting. We’ve been trying to reach him. Thus far we have had no success.”
“You’ve called his cell phone?”
“We’ve left messages on his voice mail.”
“Tell me what you know so far,” Boyd demanded. “After the first call this morning from your department, I’ve heard nothing.”
Without disclosing any details, Ray briefly described the crime scene investigation, noting the difficulties caused by the extreme weather. He also explained that they were in the early stages of the investigation and the full resources of his department and cooperating police agencies would be used to find the person or persons responsible for this crime as quickly as possible. But before he had finished, Boyd was responding to the ringing of his cell phone.
He snapped the phone open and yelled, “Yes,” at the mouthpiece. He listened for a few moments, and then, clearly interrupting, said, “That’s all fine and good, but what I want to know is…” His sudden silence, mid-sentence, suggested that someone who was not about to be intimidated had cut him off. “Yes, Doctor,” he finally responded, his tone a fraction meeker. “I didn’t mean to,” he paused again and listened. Then he said, an edge coming back into his voice, “If I call the people at Mayo, do you think that they will give me the same answer?” Boyd listened for a few more minutes, his countenance reflecting his anger and frustration. Finally he responded quickly, “Thank you, Doctor,” and snapped the phone shut.
Boyd looked up at Harry Hawkins, “He said if I wanted to know if they’d do something different in Rochester, I should call them. Bastard.”
“What was their recommendation?” asked Hawkins calmly.
“It’s my cardiologist,” Boyd explained to Ray. “He’s one of Cleveland Clinic’s best, but he’s got no people skills.” Turning to Hawkins, he continued, “He says he discussed the case with the young surgeon here, and he says she’s done everything right, and Lynne shouldn’t be moved until she’s more stable. And he said he’s too busy to fly up here, even if I send the Gulfstream.”
“Are you going to call Mayo?” Hawkins asked.
“The hell with it. I don’t want another runaround. For now we’ll go with his recommendation.” Boyd’s focus shifted back to Ray. “So what were you telling me again?” he asked, irritation in his voice.
“I had described for you the current state of the investigation.”
“Which is what? I didn’t hear that you knew where Dirk was, and I didn’t hear about any other suspects.”
Ray listened to the words and the tone in which they were delivered. It was clear that this man was powerful enough, rich enough, or both that he felt he could heap verbal abuse on those around him with impunity. Ray had no intention of caving into Boyd’s demands.
“Your cooperation would speed the investigation,” Ray said, moving right into a question without giving Boyd time to respond. “Has your daughter, Lynne, said anything to you recently that might suggest that she felt she was in any kind of danger?”
“No.”
“What is the nature of your relationship? If she were apprehensive, is this something she might share with you or her mother?”
“Sheriff, my daughter is a fully functioning young woman. She is absolutely capable of taking care of herself.”
“So if she were worried about something or someone, she wouldn’t seek your counsel?” he asked the same question a second time, slightly altering the language.
“Probably not.”
“And you’ve had no indications that anything is greatly amiss in her life.”
“There are things,” he paused and looked at Ray, “to use your word, amiss in her life. There have been things amiss in her life since she hooked up with that bastard. But she was finally going to do something about that, she was finally getting out.” He stopped and caught his breath, then continued. “So, Sheriff, how can I have confidence in your investigation if Dirk is representative of the kind of people you employ?”
Harry Hawkins intervened before Ray could respond. “I’m sure the Sheriff has some competent people.”
Ray anticipated that Boyd’s ire would be directed at Hawkins, but Boyd seemed to accept his comment.
“Is there anything else Mr. Boyd could help you with?” Hawkins asked.
“One thing, going back to what you said a few minutes ago. You suggest your daughter was getting a divorce. Could you tell me at what stage she was in this process?”
“I know she’s been meeting with a lawyer.”
“Was Dirk aware of this?” Ray asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know the grounds?”
“She was going with irreconcilable differences,” answered Harry.
“But I’m sure she could have nailed him for…” Boyd stopped.
Ray waited for a moment, and then asked, looking at Boyd. “Might you know where Dirk’s hunting camp is? Did you ever go up there with him?”
“Why do you ask?”
“We’re having trouble finding its exact location.”
“No, I don’t know. He asked me to go hunting with him the first year or two that they were together. He described the place to me. It didn’t sound like the kind of place I’d want to be. It’s off in the sticks without electricity or water. Not my kind of hunting.”
“Is there anything else?” asked Harry, resuming his role as moderator.
“In recent years I’ve gotten to know your daughter. I admire her greatly as a journalist and a person. We will find the person who did this.”
“Thank you,” said Boyd, his tone softening for the first time. “I appreciate that.”
“Here’s my card,” said Ray, handing it to Hawkins. “If anything comes to mind that you think might be helpful in the investigation, please call me.”
Harry took the card. “We will do that, Sheriff. And here’s my card, the number on it is for my cell. If you need to talk to Mr. Boyd again, please call me.”
Ray started for the corridor, stopped at the door, and looked back. Boyd was talking on his cell phone, Harry sitting patiently at his side, listening to his boss rant. As Ray walked down the long corridors toward the exit he could feel the tension that had built up during his exchange with Boyd.
The turbulent circumstances of the day had propelled Ray forward, his energy focused on the rapidly unfolding events. After leaving the hospital he stopped at the office, now mostly empty and dark, to read over the notes he and Sue had made during the day and to type in a summary of his interview with Lynne’s father. He had learned early in his career of the importance of getting interview notes on paper quickly, while the person’s answers, facial expressions, and body language were still fresh. Ray had found that the truth was often more apparent in the nuances than in the spoken message.
Then he turned his attention to the whiteboard and his diagram outlining the possible strands in the investigation. And as he stood there looking at the board with its lines and circles, a wave of weariness ran through his body. Suddenly all of the adrenaline seemed drained from his system. He knew he needed to go home and get some rest.
Carrying a pizza he picked up on the way, with the mail he had just retrieved on top of the box, he entered the house, switching on the kitchen lights. He set the box on the counter, took off his coat and put it on a hook near the door, and filled the teakettle. Ray started looking through the mail, then got pulled into the opening piece in the
New Yorker
. The whistling kettle pulled him back to the moment. He took it off the burner and turned on the hot water in the kitchen sink to wash his hands. The flow of water slowed, dribbled for a few seconds, and stopped. He pushed the handle farther back—nothing. Then he moved it to the cold side; there was a small trickle, then it ceased. “Damn,” he said out loud. It was one more frustration in a difficult day.
After putting the pizza in the oven, he went to the equipment room, opened the door on the electrical panel and checked the list until he found the well. He looked at the breaker for the pump. It didn’t appear to be tripped, but he pushed it off and reset it a couple of times just to make sure. Then he stood next to the pressure tank on the outside wall. There was only silence, not the usual hum transmitted up through the pipe when the pump was running deep in the well. When Ray got back to the kitchen he called the well drilling company and left a message on the voice mail.
Ray was eating a slice of pizza and a small salad, when a knock at the door was quickly followed by the door opening and then a shout, “Hey, Ray, can I come in?”
Ray greeted his old school friend, Billy Coyle. “What do you mean, ‘can you?’ You’re already in.” They both laughed. Not so much at this exchange, but at a long history of jokes and mischief they had shared from kindergarten through twelfth grade.
“Does Neptune Wells guarantee their work?”
