“This was the first time you and Kendrick ever met?”
“Yes.”
“What was your impression of him?”
Even though Zanadakis was conducting this conversation in the most informal way possible, I was aware that his notes would be entered into evidence at a trial. We could all pretend that this was just a bunch of fellow cops collegially sharing information on a case, but anything I said now might haunt me at cross-examination.
“I found him to be highly intelligent and interesting. It sounds like he has led an adventurous life. When we were together in the Heath, he impressed me as a highly skilled outdoorsman.” I decided to stop there and let the detective tease out the rest.
“Did either Kendrick or Larrabee mention Randall Cates or John Sewall at the dinner?”
“No. However, we did discuss Trinity Raye.”
The sheriff couldn’t stop herself from leaning forward across the desk. “In what context?”
“Sergeant Rivard had been telling me earlier that day about a student who had overdosed. When I learned that Kendrick taught at the university, I asked him if he knew her. He said, ‘It’s a small school.’”
“Were those his exact words?” Zanadakis asked.
“As I recall them.”
“And that was all he said?” The sheriff turned her ring around 360 degrees on her finger.
“Yes,” I said. “It made me wonder if she was a student of his.”
“She wasn’t,” the sheriff said flatly, “so you can stop speculating.”
That dispensed with one of my theories. “I just realized that there’s something else that’s not in my report that you should know.”
They all waited for me to continue.
“I saw Prester and Randall earlier that day. It was at the McDonald’s in Machias. Sergeant Rivard and I were there getting breakfast. They came in and caused a scene.”
Zanadakis showed me his bleach-white teeth. “Sergeant Rivard included that information in his own report. It seemed a curious omission from yours.”
“I was exhausted when I wrote up my notes.” The truth was that I’d been distracted by my confrontation with Brogan and my lingering thoughts of Jamie Sewall.
“You also neglected to mention it to me when we met at that same McDonald’s yesterday.” Rhine’s tone was as sharp as a butcher’s knife.
“I was exhausted, as I said.”
Zanadakis glanced down at his notebook before reestablishing eye contact. “Describe the ‘scene’ Cates and Sewall caused.”
In my mind’s eye, I saw Randall snatch the visor from Jamie’s head and the look of pure anger on her face when I asked if she needed help. I worried that if I described her expression, it might sound incriminating in a way I didn’t intend. Once again, I felt inexplicable protectiveness toward her.
“They came into the restaurant and hassled Prester’s sister, Jamie Sewall,” I said. “She works there as a shift manager. I think they were harassing her for free food. She asked them to leave. They waited in the parking lot until she brought them a bag and a couple of coffees. It was how I recognized Cates later, when we discovered his body in the Heath.”
“It seems important, don’t you think?” the sheriff said. “Your having an encounter with the murdered man?”
I slouched a bit in my chair. “Yes, ma’am.”
How was Rhine going to react when she heard from Dunbar that I had accompanied the murder suspect’s sister to the hospital a couple of hours ago? I experienced the familiar sensation of watching my career flash in front of my eyes.
“Can I ask a question?” It was Corbett, behind me. He didn’t wait for permission. “I’m curious about that snowmobiler you and Larrabee passed on the Bog Road.”
I was grateful for the change of subject. “What about him?”
The sheriff glanced down at a piece of paper on her blotter. “In your report, you noted that you encountered a male in a green snowsuit riding a green sled. He was heading toward Route 277 from the direction of the Heath.”
“That’s correct,” I said. “At least I think the rider was a male. We saw him only for a second, and he was wearing a helmet with the visor down. Maybe Larrabee got a better look.”
“So you don’t think you’d recognize the rider again?” Corbett asked.
I considered the question. “I might recognize the sled-it was a distinctive shade of green. Larrabee and I were in a rush to reach the Sprague residence. At that time, all we knew was that an injured man had appeared at their door suffering from frostbite and hypothermia. We didn’t realize a homicide might have taken place.”
“Had you met the Spragues before?” Rhine asked.
“Not before last night.”
Zanadakis coughed. “I think we’re getting off track here. I’d prefer to ask my own questions in my own manner.”
In their eagerness, Rhine and Corbett had hijacked his interview.
“How would you like me to proceed?” I asked.
“I want to know everything you did yesterday,” the detective said. “Sheriff, can we use your interview room? I’d like to get this on tape.”
18
The interview lasted two hours. Now that Zanadakis had learned I was prone to omitting relevant details from my reports, he wanted to cover all the bases again. He made me run through the events of my day from the moment I awoke until the discovery of Randall Cates’s body. From the encyclopedic scope of his questions, I couldn’t determine what theories the detective might be pursuing. He seemed interested in everything at once and in nothing in particular.
The more I heard myself talk, the more certain I became that the key to the whole mystery was the identity of the person, or persons, Randall and Prester had met in the Heath. If, as Jamie insisted, Prester would never have harmed his friend, then the next suspect had to be the man they’d sold drugs to that snowy day. My suspicion was reinforced by Corbett, who followed me out of the sheriff’s office and down the heavily salted front steps.
“Hey, Bowditch,” he called. “Hold up.”
I waited for him to descend the stairs behind me. A cold wind was howling down the street, and he hadn’t even bothered to grab a coat.
“I need to talk with you,” he said, already shivering. “You mentioned Barney Beal in there.”
“What about him?”
“I’m fixated on that snowmobiler you saw. Any chance it was Beal? I’m wondering if he was the one they were meeting.”
I remembered Corbett’s saying he lived up the road from the Spragues and that he had staked out the Heath a few times after they’d reported suspicious activity. Was his interest personal or professional?
“Rivard says he’s been busting into camps around Bog Pond to get money to buy drugs. Find out if his sled is green.”
Corbett wrapped his arm around his broad shoulders for warmth. The breeze was lifting the individual blond hairs from his head and making them dance. I hadn’t noticed before, but his neck was suffering from the worst case of razor burn I’d ever seen. “Whoever it was did a number on Cates,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Haven’t you heard what the ME found during the autopsy? Randall’s sternum was cracked. That’s why he must have stayed behind when Prester went for help. The guy was probably in pain every time he took a breath. I’m surprised he made it even ten steps from his car.”
I watched the chief deputy ascend the steps to the sheriff’s office, wondering about the significance of that detail and why Corbett had chosen to share it with me. I was still wondering when my cell phone rang. The number that showed on the screen belonged to Rivard.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I’m back at your house.”
“My house?”
“Yeah, I was passing by and decided to stop in.”
That was unlike Rivard.
“You’d better get back here,” he said.
“What for?”
“Your place has been trashed.”
By mid-February, Maine’s back roads are as battered and bruised as an old boxer’s face. Potholes form yawning craters deep enough to swallow a tractor wheel. Frost heaves create sharp ridges in the asphalt, which, taken at speed, will launch a vehicle clear off the ground. Factor in patches of black ice-slick spots invisible in your headlights-and towering snowbanks that hide driveways from view, and you have the perfect formula for a wrecked car.