“Why the hell you arrest me?” he demanded. He had a weird accent, even stranger than the usual Michigan twang.
Louis didn’t answer.
“I ain’t done nothing.”
Jesse turned to glare at him. “Listen, you stupid Yooper, you shut that fucking trap of yours or you’re gonna be eating those teeth.”
Louis watched the man’s face in the mirror. The man stared at Jesse for several seconds then slumped down in the seat, turning his face away to stare blankly out at the snow.
Louis dropped Jesse off at the emergency room entrance of the hospital. When he reached the station five minutes later, Dale was waiting for him just inside the front door. He watched as Louis helped “John Smith” out of the cruiser and trailed behind as Louis led the suspect inside.
“Who is it?” Dale asked.
“I don’t know yet.” He told him to send someone out to retrieve the red Ford truck in Jo-Jo’s parking lot.
“Red truck?” Dale asked. “You think — ”
“Don’t know yet,” Louis said.
“What do I book him on?” Dale asked, his gaze sliding uneasily over the suspect.
“Attempting to elude, for now.”
As Dale led the man to the back, Louis shrugged out of his jacket and went to his desk. He fell into the chair and took a deep breath. The idea that they had lucked into finding the right truck was too much to hope for. But the description fit, and the man was about five-foot-nine, the estimated height of Lovejoy’s killer.
Louis glanced toward the glass that separated the booking room from the office. Smith had taken off his army jacket. Louis was surprised to see how small he was underneath. He looked like someone had placed a hand on his head and squashed him down a few inches. His legs bowed outward, but his chest and shoulders, outlined beneath his thin T-shirt, were rock hard with muscle.
Louis rose and went to the booking room door, crossing his arms. Smith glanced at him as Dale took his prints.
“I ain’t done nothing,” he said.
“Then why’d you run?”
Smith shrugged.
“You’re not scoring very high on the brain meter here,” Louis said. “Why won’t you tell us who you are? You got warrants?”
Smith shook his head as Dale rocked his inky fingers on the print card.
“We’re going to find out anyway.”
Smith sighed. “Okay, okay. Can we talk alone?”
Louis nodded to Dale to leave. “Okay, talk,” Louis said, closing the door.
“My name is Duane Lacey. I’m on parole. I’m not supposed to be out of Houghton County without permission.”
“Who owns the truck?”
“My mother.” He wiped a strand of dirty blond hair off his forehead. “I thought you guys wanted me for parole violation.”
“What are you doing down here?”
“Seeing my kid.”
“Where’s he?”
“Red Oak juvie center. That’s a few miles — ”
“I know where it is. When did you get here?”
“Yesterday. I was heading there this afternoon. They only let you visit afternoons.” Lacey moved to the bench and sat down. “I ain’t seen him in years. His mother took him.”
“Sad story,” Louis said.
“Look, I’m telling you the truth. Look at that letter you took off me. It’s from my kid.”
Louis reached in his back pants pocket and took out the page of loose-leaf paper which began: Dear Dad.
Louis opened the door to look for Dale, wanting him to run Lacey’s name for warrants. Dale was nowhere to be seen.
“Who’s your parole officer?” Louis asked. and
“Bill James,” Lacey answered.
Louis pulled a pen from his pocket. “All right, Lacey, give me your social security number.” Lacey rattled it off and Louis started for the door.
“You ain’t gonna reach James at his office,” Lacey called after him. “It’s the holidays, you know.”
Louis picked up Lacey’s army jacket and left, locking the door. He gave Lacey’s number to Florence to run for outstanding warrants then went to his desk and dialed Dollar Bay information to get a home phone number for William James. Louis called him, and after apologizing for bothering him on the day after Christmas, he told him about Lacey.
James gave a short bitter laugh. “He ran on you? Doesn’t surprise me.”
“Why?”
“He’s paranoid. Tells me all the time everybody’s out to get him. Hold on, gotta turn down the TV.”
Louis waited until he heard James pick up the phone again. “So, what did he do now?” James asked.
“Ran a light,” Louis said, deciding not to involve James until he had reason to.
James sighed. “Idiot’s not supposed to be out of Houghton. What’s he doing down there?”
“Says he’s visiting his son,” Louis said.
“Son? Oh, right, forgot. Lacey’s new to me so I don’t have all the background. I can tell you, though, he’s been a model citizen since he got out of prison.”
“When was that?”
“Real recent, but I’d have to check.” Louis sensed impatience in James’s voice, as though he wanted to get back to his television.
“What was he sent up for?” Louis asked.
“Tell you what. I’ll call the local P.D. and have them send you his sheet. The chief’s my cousin. What’s your fax number?”
Louis gave it to him. “One last question. Is Lacey dangerous?”
“Well, he’s weird,” James said, “but he’s always been polite to me. It’s Christmas, he probably just wanted to see his kid.”
Louis thanked him and hung up. He glanced at the letter in his hand and then looked back at Lacey, sitting quietly in the booking room. Turning his back, he unfolded the letter.
Dear Dad,
I know you haven’t probably gotten no letters from me since you went up but I was thinking maybe now that you was out maybe you might want to come and see me. I don’t know where mom went to. The last time I saw her she said she would give grandma her address so when I got out I could maybe come there. She said something about Florida. But I ain’t heard from Grandma neither. I understand maybe you won’t want to come all the way down here because its such a long drive and that’s cool if you don’t. Grandma never wanted to come neither and I’m really doing okay here. I mean I’m still alive so far. It sucks bad though.
Louis refolded the letter. While he waited for the fax, he carefully examined Lacey’s jacket for any tears. It was old but intact.
The fax machine began to purr and he went to it, pulling off the papers as they dropped off the end.
Duane Herbert Lacey had been a criminal from the age of eighteen. Shoplifting, grand theft auto, joyriding, burglary, possession and assault on his wife. In February 1977, he was arrested for assault with a deadly weapon and sentenced to twelve to fifteen in Marquette State Prison.
Louis glanced back at Lacey. What the hell was he doing out after only seven years? Then he saw it. Duane Lacey had been paroled on the governor’s early release program earlier in the month, on December 10, 1984.
Louis lowered the paper slowly, a wave of disappointment washing over him. Pryce and Lovejoy had been killed on or around the first. This guy could not be their killer.
When he went aback to the booking room and unlocked the door, Lacey’s head jerked up.
“You reach James?” he asked.
Louis nodded. “The assault. What happened?”
Lacey looked away, shaking his head. “It was a bar fight. I drew a knife.”
“You were just defending yourself, right?” Louis said flatly.
“That’s right,” Lacey answered, meeting his eyes.
Louis stared into Lacey’s eyes. They were like water, colorless and shallow, as though nothing stirred beneath. Finally Lacey looked away.
James was right, there was something weird about the guy. But no more strange than a hundred other lowlifes who were wound a little too tight. It would be easy to call Red Oak to verify Lacey’s story about his kid but why bother? Duane Lacey had been five hundred miles away, behind bars, when Pryce and Lovejoy were killed. Besides, if he booked him now for running, the guy would go right back to Marquette on parole violation.