“Jess, just a minute,” Louis called out. He opened the large metal mailbox. It was crammed with papers. Louis dug it all out and sifted through it. The pile appeared to be nothing but bills, junk mail and one copy each of Field and Stream and Hustler. There were also three thick newspapers, stuffed in blue plastic bags emblazoned with the New York Times logo.
Next to the mailbox was a bright green plastic mail tube with the Oscoda County Argus logo on the side but there were no papers inside. Louis stuffed the newspapers and mail into a bag, tossed it on the seat of the cruiser and followed Jesse to the front door. He noticed a late-model Buick parked in the narrow driveway, covered with a foot-deep layer of snow.
Jesse saw Louis looking at it. “Fred loved his Buicks,” he said. “Bought a new one every other year.”
“Not bad for a retired cop living on a pension,” Louis said.
“He drew some big bucks when he retired. Worker’s comp settlement to the tune of thirty grand.”
“For what?” Louis asked as he shoved gently on the door. He was surprised to find the door unlocked. He had to remind himself that unlocked doors were the norm in Loon Lake.
“Shattered disc or something. Got it taking down a drunk.” Jesse’s voice trailed off as they surveyed the inside of the cabin.
It was apparent that, other than the Buick, Lovejoy did not spend his money on any other comforts. The place was a dump.
“Jesus, what’s that smell?” Jesse said, recoiling slightly in the doorway.
“Garbage, I think. I hope,” Louis said. “Just be thankful it’s so cold.”
He took two steps into the tiny living room. The old yellowed shades were pulled down on the windows, casting the room in a murky gold light. The ancient sofa was half covered with a cheap chenille bedspread. The mismatched end tables were heaped with yellowed newspapers, magazines, dirty dishes and Pabst Blue Ribbon bottles. An old Danish-modern Zenith console TV sat in the corner, its top heaped with more papers and trash. Three-foot stacks of newspapers lined the walls, some spilling onto the floor. The green shag carpeting was littered with empty pizza boxes, open tin cans, and what looked to be bones.
Jesse’s eyes widened as he noticed the bones. Louis pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and slipped them on as he squatted down. He picked up one bone then tossed it down. “Chicken,” he said.
Jesse let out a breath and followed Louis into the kitchen.
“Damn, it’s cold in here,” Louis said.
Jesse stopped at the black potbellied stove. It was dark and cold. “This must be the only heat Fred had.”
They made their way to the kitchen. A large plastic trash can lay overturned in the middle of the linoleum floor, garbage strewn everywhere. A box of Cheerios lay on the counter, most of the cereal shaken out. A set of metal canisters had also been overturned, leaving a blanket of sugar and flour over the counter and floor. All the bottom cupboards had been opened, with the pots and pans thrown across the floor.
“Someone was looking for something,” Jesse said.
“Doesn’t look like he had anything worth a damn,” Louis said.
Jesse headed down the hall. Louis continued to search the kitchen, squatting to peer into the cabinets, then standing up. Strange, the upper cabinets were untouched.
“Oh, shit…”
“What it is?” Louis called out.
“You’d better come back here.”
Louis hurried back to the bedroom. Jesse was staring at something in a corner. Louis went around the rumpled bed and drew up short. It was a dog, a large brown-speckled one, a spaniel of some kind. It was dead, lying on its side, stiff from the cold.
“I forgot Fred had a dog,” Jesse said. He ran a hand over his face. “That explains the smell. There’s dog shit all over the place.”
“It might explain the mess, too,” Louis said. “Maybe the dog was looking for something to eat.”
Jesse grimaced. “You think it starved to death?”
“Maybe.”
Jesse reached down and pulled a blanket off the bed. He carefully laid it over the dog. Without looking at Louis, he hurried out of the room.
Louis looked around the dingy bedroom but it offered no clues about Fred Lovejoy’s death. It was simply a sad testament to a lonely life. He had heard that retired cops sometimes went off the deep end like this. Without the regimen of station or family to give their lives shape, ex-cops drifted into a netherworld of solitary idleness. Louis’s eyes drifted over the piles of unwashed clothes. Something on the dresser caught his eye and he moved to it.
It was a holstered gun. Louis slowly pulled it out and turned it over in his hand. It smelled of fresh Hoppes gun cleaner and the oil left spots on his latex gloves. Even the leather was cared for, like a beloved baseball glove. Louis slipped the gun back in its holster and put it back on the dresser.
He went to the small bathroom. It was filthy, the water in the toilet bowl iced over. Leaving the bathroom, he wandered toward a closed door. He pushed it open slowly. This smell was so strong he drew back. There was a large cage in the corner, with an old blanket in it, layered in dog hair. It was apparently where Lovejoy kept his dog when he was away.
Louis drew his arm over his nose and stared at the cage. It was clear that Lovejoy had not intended to be away from his cabin long or he would have caged the dog. Had his killer come to the cabin? Had Lovejoy been murdered in his own home and then dumped in the lake? Louis frowned. But how did you dump a body in a frozen lake? And where was the blood? Louis had never known of a shotgun blast that didn’t leave a drop or two. But if he wasn’t killed here, then where?
Jesse came down the short hall. “Hey, Louis, I think I — ”
He came to an abrupt stop in the doorway. His eyes locked on the cage. His expression went suddenly dead, his skin ashen.
“Listen, Jess,” Louis began, “we’re going to have to — ”
Jesse bolted from the room.
“Jess!”
Louis stuck his head around the door frame but Jesse was gone. A moment later, he heard the slam of the front storm door.
“What the hell?” Louis muttered. He went back out into the living room. Through the open front door he could see Jesse leaning against a tree. His head was down and his ragged breath formed white clouds in the cold air.
Louis came up behind him. “Jesse? What’s the matter?”
Jesse shook his head. Then slowly, he drew two deep breaths and straightened. His face was sweaty.
“I don’t know. I felt sick,” he said. “The smell got to me, I think. And that damn dog.” Finally, he looked at Louis, his brown eyes glistening. “I’m sorry, man. Don’t…don’t tell the chief, okay?
Louis stared at him for a moment then awkwardly patted his shoulder. “No problem. It never happened.”
Jesse wiped his brow and stared off toward the lake. “Shit, I just remembered something.”
“What?”
“Fred was a fisherman.”
So?”
“An ice fisherman. You know, shanties, holes in the ice.”
Louis stepped around the tree and followed Jesse’s gaze out at the lake. “Like that one?” Louis asked, pointing to a small wooden structure about thirty yards out on the frozen lake.
“Yeah, just like that one.”
Louis turned up his collar and started across the snow. Jesse pushed himself off the tree and trailed after him.
“Maybe we should call the chief before we go out there,” Jesse said.
Louis pulled his radio out and hailed Florence. He advised her to notify the chief, and on a hunch, the county crime-scene unit. He stuffed the radio back in his belt just as they reached the fishing shanty door. A gray layer of haze drifted over the lake, casting smoky shadows that glittered with light snow. Damn, it was desolate out here.