Fool's Gold (3 page)

It's a question I've been asked before, usually by policemen who see only the career path open in the Metro department, not the red tape and compartmentalizing. "I was off duty and found a bunch of bikers raping a kid from a milk store. They came at me and I took two of them out."
 

"Yeah?" He prodded me gently, craning up slightly to look over his boots. I noticed that the underside of the instep was polished. Ex-service for sure.
 

"So they arrested me for manslaughter. I got off but the media wouldn't let go, so I quit."

"It happens," he said softly. We sat and thought about that for a minute until the clerk came in with a pot of tea and two cups. "Tea?" he asked, smiling at the clerk and bringing his feet back down again so he could swing forward and do the pouring. When the clerk had gone out again he said, "Gladys is English. Been here for thirty years, bless her heart, good as gold. But damn if she's ever learned to make coffee. I gave up on it finally. When she brews up, I drink tea."
 

We drank tea and chatted about nothing for a minute or two, courteous as a couple of Arabs. Then, as he poured himself a second cup, he asked, "So what brings you to Olympia? Looking to find gold?"
 

I laughed, as he expected me to. "Hell no, wouldn't know what to do with it." I put down my teacup and leveled with him. "The widow of Jim Prudhomme, the geologist who was killed up here, she's a friend of my ex-wife and she's the one who asked me if I'd come up and talk to you, see what happened."
 

Gallagher pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit up, placed the match very carefully in the clean ashtray, and said, "I don't know what she expects you to find out. The widow was up here herself when it happened, with her lawyer. Hell, he was the guy who identified the body."
 

I could see I was on thin ice. His professional pride was injured. What was another cop doing looking over his shoulder? "Well, you know how it is. My ex-wife, feeling helpful, suggests I come up and talk to you, see if the lawyer missed anything. I'm just going through the motions because I'm a month late with my alimony." The last part was a lie. All Amy had asked from me was distance. Big rough men who clobbered people were not what she had bargained for. She was happier with the computer salesmen she worked with.
 

But the lie worked, the chief was placated. He sat and smoked quietly and looked at me before asking: "You know the details, right?"
 

"Just in general terms. Prudhomme was out on a survey, working alone, didn't make his rendezvous with the chopper so you set up a search party and they found the body, gnawed by a bear, unrecognizable."
 

"You got it." He nodded. "That's what made the papers get all excited. There hasn't been a case like it since Coffin was hanged for murdering those hunters. Before you were born, likely, happened in Quebec. By the time they found the bodies, bears had chewed the heads up. Heads and hands, the only portions exposed, I guess."
 

"How did you make a positive identification? From the clothing, what?" I pointed to the teapot and cocked my head, he nodded, and I poured us more tea. The case was on.
 

"Clothes and pocket contents," Gallagher said. "I was all set to get a check made on his dental records but she didn't want that. That friend of hers, the lawyer, he said he was sure it was Prudhomme right enough and that was enough for our coroner. After all, who the hell else could it have been?"
 

"How much of the head was left?" An ugly question, but I've seen enough injuries and wounds that I'm past worrying about the polite observances.
 

"Not a whole lot," Gallagher admitted. "The bone structure was mostly there but the skull was crushed and the lower jaw was gone." He swung around and opened the file cabinet closest to him, pulling out a long drawer and taking a folder from it. He shoved it toward me and I opened it. On top of the contents lay a couple of eight-by-ten photographs. "That's the whole case in a nutshell," Gallagher told me. "How about you take a look at it while I head down to the school for the safety lecture for the kids. I'm due at nine-thirty, be back in about an hour."
 

"Thank you. 'Predate that." I stood up as he left me, reaching for his hat, which had two lines of gold braid on it. Pretty fancy. My own only has one, but then, he had six men working for him. I only had Sam. Scrambled egg doesn't impress him unless it's in his dish.
 

I sat down and took out the photograph. It was as the chief had described it. Prudhomme's body was lying in a tangle as if it had been thrown down by some impatient giant. The face and most of the head were gone, so were the hands. Aside from that the body was intact, still dressed in a heavy canvas-type jacket with lots of pockets, what looked like jeans, and prospector's boots with thick, ridged soles for walking over rough terrain. The second shot showed a close-up of the head. It had been crushed and most of the contents of the cranium were missing. If a bear had done it, he must have been as strong as a grizzly, not one of our local blacks. And I couldn't help thinking that the injury couldn't have been better designed for disguising a body.
 

I read the police report next. Prudhomme had been reported lost by the chopper pilot, a man named Kinsella. When Prudhomme didn't show for the rendezvous the two had arranged, Gallagher had taken a couple of his own men and some volunteers and gone into the area to search. It took them two days, in canoes and the chopper, to locate the body on an island in one of the small lakes that dot the whole area. They were lucky to find him so soon but one of the searchers was an Indian, Jack Misquadis, which I happen to know is the Ojibway word for turtle. Misquadis was a trapper by profession and he had picked up signs on the second day on the portage leading to the lake where the island, and ultimately the body, had been found.
 

There were statements from Misquadis and Gallagher and the pilot all confirming the discovery in the dry language that police reports use to turn horror into paperwork. The only colorful statement among them was from Misquadis. He had written: "I have been trapping this place thirty years but I never saw anything like this before. This one must be a mean bear."
 

The other important document was the coroner's report. Prudhomme had been killed by a crushing blow to the head, the damage was compatible with a swipe from a bear's paw, and the teeth marks on the bone were compatible with the dental structure of a bear. That was it.

I read the rest of the papers. There was an itemized list of Prudhomme's personal effects: wallet, the usual ID and a couple of receipts, one of them from a place in Olympia called Keepsakes, two letters, gold watch, compass, tin of Erinmore tobacco, matches, pipe, all the etceteras you would have expected. In the ruined backpack there were cooking utensils, cup, plate, geologist's hammer, and a camp lantern. That was it.
 

The silent Gladys refused to make a photocopy of the file. Her face grew tense and she smiled like a Japanese diplomat, but there was no way I could make copies of anything without direct permission from Chief Gallagher. I didn't force it. I was sure Gallagher would let me take one later.
 

While I waited for him I went over everything twice more, looking for anything that jumped out and shouted murder. Nothing did. I was rereading the list of Prudhomme's belongings when Gallagher came back. I heard his rumble in the outer office and the tiny piping of the clerk explaining what a bad boy I had been. Then another rumble and Gallagher came down the corridor with her in front of him, like a frigate escorting a carrier. She stopped in front of me, bent slightly from the waist like a bird on a windowsill, and told me, "The chief says it's all right. So if you'll let me have the file, Mr. Bennett."
 

I thanked her and she swept everything away. Then Gallagher sat down behind his desk and reached for his cigarettes. "Find anything we missed?" he asked with enormous unconcern.
 

"You knew I wouldn't," I said cheerfully. "I appreciate the chance to look through it, though. And I do have a couple of questions."

He struck a match on the sole of his boot and lit up. "Shoot."

"Well, I was wondering if you'd mind if I talked to the pilot and the Indian,” I began. "And secondly, I wondered if you came up with any kind of bag of rock samples at the scene."
 

He shook his head. "Nothing. I was a little surprised by that. He had that hammer they all carry, all the geologists, but no rock samples."
 

"Maybe he was just heading out from his camp. Hadn't had time to collect any," I suggested, but Gallagher shook his head again, looking huge and shaggy as a bison.
 

"No, he just didn't have a bag with him, period."

We thought about that one, but before I could go "Aha!" and stick my finger in the air Gallagher reminded me, "Don't forget that all the land around here is already licensed. Some of it belongs to Darvon, some to other mining outfits. Some of it belongs to moms and pops in towns like this. That's one mothering big lode out there. They say it's the biggest thing outside South Africa. And it's no secret to anybody."
 

"So don't go painting any picture of murder to conceal a big gold strike," I said, and we both laughed at the thought. "Pity, would have led us right to the guy who did it."
 

"I think he'd be called the culprit in that kind of story," Gallagher said, and then dropped the amiability. "Anything else you need?"
 

I shook my head. "No. Like I said, you've wrapped it all up. I just want to talk to those men, go home, and say I checked everything."
 

"Okay, then, I'll turn you loose." He stood up and shook hands formally. "I've got my summonses to get out for the month. Call me if you get stuck."
 

I shook hands with him—it was something like reaching into an oven—collected my photocopies, and left. As I went out I was going over the one fact that had come through so far. Joe Misquadis was a trapper, but nobody had asked him about bear tracks at the site of the killing. It looked as if he would be my next point of call.
 

 

 

 

3

 

 

I went back out to Main Street and looked up and down it. There wasn't a lot to see. At one end was Lake Superior, bigger than any other in the world, big enough to sink big freighters without trace. On the shore stood the pulp mill as it had for eighty years, with its pyramid of logs brought in by water and dumped, ready for turning into newsprint. At the other end of the street was St. Michael's Anglican Church. Across from me was the Loyal Order of Bison lodge hall, the Bank of Montreal branch, and one of the town's four taverns. Behind me was the police/fire station and the Hudson Bay store, a small, clapboard building stocked mainly with catalogs showing the swell chain saws and shotgun shells and Day-Glo lingerie available to mail-order shoppers.
 

Aside from that there wasn't much except a tiny shopping plaza back up toward the highway, with the basic stores—a grocery, a drugstore, hardware and work clothes, and the bus terminal. Somewhere there was a school and a couple more churches in different flavors and nothing else important, except for the streets of company houses—bungalows for workers, two-story for management. Out behind them, in what had been bush a month before, there were scars on the ground where new houses were being built for the workers who would flood in when the new mines went on stream.
 

I looked around and wondered if there was anybody in town who knew anything special about anything, let alone the death of Jim Prudhomme. But I was here so I started looking.
 

First, I did the obvious thing. I called on Jack Misquadis. I figured if he'd been trapping thirty years he had seen other men mauled by bears. He might have something to add that hadn't gone into his statement.
 

The report had given me his address. I knew it was on the road to the town park, in a shack he had built himself. I wondered why he didn't live on the Reserve but figured he was a loner, halfway into the white world, making his money guiding fishermen and hunters, disappearing into the bush in fall to do his trapping. Today, on a bright Indian summer day with not a cloud in the sky and the temperature up in the mid-sixties, I expected to find him repairing his gear and getting ready for winter.
 

It took only a minute's drive to get out of town. I noted that there was a new campsite open. It had a couple of house trailers on it and one or two pickup trucks with cabin backs. There were tents there, as well, and a new sign that read: No camping in the same spot for more than one week. It was signed by the Olympia Health Department. I wondered if Gallagher bothered enforcing it. He was tough on the outside but he knew the unemployed men who had flocked to the mine site needed some place to live. I figured he left them alone as long as they stayed clean and quiet. I would have, and I thought we were cut from the same cloth.
 

I was right about Misquadis. He was outside his cabin with a stack of leg-hold traps beside him and a jar full of gunk that figured to be bear grease. He went on with his work, not speaking. Real Indian.
 

I got out of the car. "Hi, Jack Misquadis?" I asked politely, not trying to smile him into a better humor. He probably didn't have as many changes of humor as a white man. Most Indians don't. If they're mad at you, you know it. Otherwise they act as if time was the cheapest commodity in the world.

He went on rubbing grease on his traps. "Who wants him?"

"Reid Bennett," I said, and waited. He was wearing blue denim pants and jacket over a thick check shirt. He had a pair of work boots on his feet; they were split in a couple of places and I could see that he didn't bother with socks.