He opened the paper and found the circulation number. He dialed it and reached an operator, who politely told him he could get the Sunday edition of “the world’s greatest newspaper” mailed to him for fifty-six dollars a year. But that since he lived in a rural area it would be a three-day delivery.
Louis thanked her and hung up. He was staring at the Times, lost in thought, when Jesse came in. He grunted out a greeting and went straight to the coffeepot. He stood, still in his parka, gulping down the coffee. He came over to Louis’s desk, peering down at the mail and newspapers.
“That Lovejoy’s stuff?”
Louis nodded.
“Anything in it?’
“No,” Louis said. “No copes of the Argus, at least.”
Jesse gave a snort of derision. “The Argus? Shit, Fred hated that rag. Got mad at it when they endorsed Jimmy Carter and he canceled his subscription.”
Louis drummed the pencil on the desk. That explained no local papers at least. But the untouched Times still bothered him. And the dead dog, he realized suddenly. If Lovejoy had been killed recently, the dog would not have starved to death.
“Something doesn’t make sense,” Louis said.
“What doesn’t?” Jesse asked.
“Lovejoy left the papers in his mailbox. The last crossword he worked on was November 24.”
Jesse frowned. “So?”
“It could mean Lovejoy was killed weeks ago, some time between November 25 and December 4.”
Louis watched as Jesse’s expression shifted from confusion to trepidation. “About the same time as Pryce,” Jesse said.
Louis nodded.
Jesse turned away. Louis couldn’t tell but he thought Jesse was looking at Pryce’s photo on the wall.
“Jess.”
He turned to look at Louis. “I don’t get it,” he said.
“Get what?”
“What’s he waiting for?” Jesse said. “If it’s been three weeks, what’s he waiting for?”
Louis didn’t know what to say. An undercurrent of fear had been running through the station ever since Lovejoy was discovered but not one man had given voice to it. Two cops were dead. Who was next? It was the question every man asked, but only of himself.
“Maybe he’s finished,” Louis said, knowing it didn’t sound convincing.
Jesse wasn’t listening. “What’s the fucker waiting for?” he murmured. He went slowly into the locker room.
Louis thought of going after him but what could he say? He glanced at the wall clock. Nearly eight, time for briefing. He gathered up Lovejoy’s mail and stuffed it back in the bag. This would have to wait. Jesse would have to wait, too.
“Morning, Kincaid.”
Louis looked up to see Gibralter coming in.
“Chief,” Louis said.
“I want to see you and Harrison before briefing,” he said, as he swept by into his office.
“Right.” Louis picked up the bag and deposited it on Dale’s desk to be logged back into the evidence room. He was refilling his coffee when Jesse emerged in a crisp uniform.
“Chief wants us now,” Louis said.
“He say why?”
Louis shook his head.
Gibralter was lighting up a Camel, standing behind his desk when they went in.
“I’ve decided to pull you two off regular duty,” he said. “I want someone full-time on Pryce and Lovejoy,” Gibralter added.
Louis didn’t have to look at Jesse to get his reaction; he could almost feel the ripple of excitement arc off his body.
Gibralter tossed a folder on the desk. “The prelims from Fred’s shanty are back. The black spots were grease, the stuff they use to lube cars. They found a greasy shoe print, too, size ten. Check to see if it matches the one found on Pryce’s porch.”
“Is there any doubt?” Jesse asked.
Gibralter ignored him. “They’re positive the ice hole was enlarged by the chain saw on the wall. The blood in the chair was Fred’s and they figure he was shot while he was sitting there.”
Louis watched for some emotion in Gibralter’s face but there was none. He found himself wondering if he himself could maintain such control.
“From the trajectory angle, they estimate the height of the shooter at five-nine, assuming he held the shotgun at his waist, dead in front of him,” Gibralter went on.
“What if he held it at his eye, chief?” Jesse asked.
“Then the fucker would be about three foot tall, Harrison.”
Jesse flushed with color.
“They finish printing the shanty and cabin?” Louis asked.
“Not yet. There’s a dozen latents in both places. I doubt we’ll find our killer’s prints in that shanty, though.”
“What about the junk in the cabin?” Louis said.
“Cornwall and Evans are handling that.”
Louis started to mention the mail and his theory about the date of death but the chief pressed on.
“I want you two to talk to every inhabitant on that end of the lake and find out if anyone saw anything. Check with Elton at the bait shop and anyone else out there who might help.”
“Chief-”
“Don’t interrupt me, Harrison. When you get through with that I want you to check out every stinking cocksucker we ever busted in this town and find out what he’s doing now.”
“Case files?” Jesse asked.
Gibralter nodded, grinding his cigarette out in the ashtray. Apparently, the chief had not caught the dismay in Jesse’s voice, Louis noted. Jesse was envisioning something more exciting than sifting through dusty file cabinets.
“Has the ME come back with the time of death yet?” Louis asked.
Gibralter focused on him. “No, but Fred was wearing a watch, his retirement watch. It stopped at two-thirty so they figure that’s when he was put in the water.” Gibralter started rummaging through his drawer for something.
“I have a theory about the date of death,” Louis said.
Gibralter looked up. “Theory?”
Louis quickly summarized his thoughts about Lovejoy’s mail, his dog and the crossword puzzles.
Gibralter listened as he lit another Camel, blowing out the smoke slowly. When Louis was finished, he waited for the chief to say something but he seemed to have drifted off to some private place. Outside, beyond the closed door, Louis could hear the voices of the day-shift men gathering for briefing.
“Is there anything else, Chief?” Louis prompted.
Gibralter blinked, looking at him. “No, no…just call me if you find out anything.”
Louis started to leave.
“Kincaid.”
Louis turned.
“You’ve got a button missing.”
Louis glanced down at his uniform shirt. “I’ll change, sir.”
Louis hurried out the door. The office was empty, the other men already gathered in the adjoining briefing room. Louis noticed a uniformed stranger standing by the door, his cap in his hand. He wore a green nylon jacket and khaki trousers with a brown stripe. The patch on his sleeve said OSCODA COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT. Louis nodded at him. The man nodded back.
“Sheriff Armstrong,” the man said, extending a hand.
Louis came forward to shake the sheriff’s hand and introduce himself.
“How you doing, Kincaid?” Armstrong asked.
Louis knew the sheriff was asking about the entire department. A cop killing transcended territorial boundaries and Armstrong was there to offer assistance, even if it was just unspoken sympathy.
“Frustrated,” Louis answered.
Armstrong nodded. “Well, we got our eyes open for anyone who looks suspicious in the area. You’ll let us know if there’s anything else we can do, right?”
“Thanks, sheriff,” he said, moving to the locker room.
Louis was relieved to see that Pop had left two fresh uniforms on the pole, tagged with his name. He opened his locker and hung one inside, pulling the plastic wrap off the other.
He felt eyes on him and turned around to see two other officers standing at the end of the lockers, both just finished dressing for shift. He didn’t recognize them and he guessed they were night-shift men brought in for extra detail. One was a lean man about forty and the other heavy-set, past fifty.