Authors: Paul Doiron
The snow had begun to let up, but the roads felt slick beneath my tires. The digital thermometer on the dashboard told me that the temperature had climbed since morning, rising into the mid-twenties. By the standards of mid-February in Down East Maine, that was close to balmy, especially after the extended stretch of subzero days we’d just endured. I passed a reflective yellow-and-red sign that showed the outline of a leaping deer.
CAUTION. HIGH HIT RATE.
* * *
After I crossed the line into Township Nineteen, I fiddled with the GPS to bring up the map of local streets and goat paths. The screen of the DeLorme showed Wyman Hill Road branching off from the north side of Route 277. It didn’t look like much of a thoroughfare.
Nor was it, in fact. The road was poorly marked and hadn’t received a visit from a plow truck in days. My pickup climbed a steep hill through ankle-deep snow. Halfway up, my headlights illuminated a snowshoe hare, as white as the wintertime, bounding from one row of pines to the other.
The road emerged from dense evergreens into a pale landscape of rock walls and snow-covered fields. The top of the hill had been razed for blueberries. I passed one lighted farmhouse and then another before I began to descend again into a copse of paper birches. A low-slung ranch house sat back in the trees. It had tattered gray clapboards and a gray shingled roof that seemed to sag under the weight of the accumulated snow. The GPS told me that I’d reached my destination.
I surveyed the house. The dark windows reminded me of the eye sockets of a skull.
From the road, I saw no vehicles, no cars or trucks, no green snowmobiles. I parked at the end of the drive and waited for a light to come on in a window or outside the front door. None did. The question was whether someone was watching me through the curtains with a loaded shotgun. In my line of work, you always approach a house after dark with extreme caution. Just because a property isn’t posted doesn’t mean the owner won’t unload a burst of buckshot in your face. You have to put yourself in the place of the paranoid home owner. In a stretch of wild country plagued by poverty and infested with drug addicts, home invasions are all too frequent occurrences.
I reached down to touch the grip of my .357 SIG. The holster came equipped with a self-locking hood that required me to release a special catch in order to draw my weapon. The gadget was designed to prevent someone from overpowering me, pulling my sidearm loose, and shooting me through the heart with it. An assailant might eventually succeed in getting my pistol away from me in a wrestling match, but it wouldn’t be easy.
Gray clouds billowed over the hilltop as the line of snow showers passed away into the Bay of Fundy. I blew out my breath and watched the vapor dissolve in the cold air. The paper birches rustled in the darkness. I started up the drive.
Immediately, a dog began barking. It sounded big; it sounded mean. I dropped my hand to my canister of Cap-Stun pepper spray, but no hellhound came charging out of the shadows. The dog was locked inside the house. And the windows remained dark.
I stopped at the side door and rapped my knuckles hard against the aluminum. I heard the clawing of the dog as it came racing down the hall and heard its heavy body collide against the locked door. It leapt up at the window, snapping its jaws and growling. I couldn’t see what breed it was, but I was glad there was a barrier of wood and metal between its fangs and my face.
No lights, no answer.
I stepped away from the door and circled around behind the building.
The snowmobile was parked behind the woodpile. McQuarrie had been right. It was a goblin-green Arctic Cat ProCross turbo: a racing sled, the speed demon’s choice. The very machine I’d seen coming straight at my grille the night of the blizzard.
I dug my camera out of my jacket pocket and took a picture. The flash created a burst of light, like an exploding firecracker. I snapped a shot from every angle. I wanted Doc Larrabee to remember this snowmobile. I wanted to convince the state police to bring Mitch Munro in for questioning. I wanted that son of a bitch out of Jamie Sewall’s life forever.
I wanted her to myself.
29
In my mind, I began preparing my bullshit story:
No, Detective, I had no intention of meddling in the official investigation. I simply went to Township Nineteen to clear up some personal loose ends about the night of the blizzard. It was only after I positively identified Mitch Munro’s Arctic Cat ProCross turbo that it occurred to me he’d had the means, motive, and opportunity to kill Randall Cates.… No, sir, I’m not putting forth my own theory. I just wanted to provide you with information in case you chose to follow up.
Given my reputation, would anyone believe this line of crap? It would definitely help to have Doc Larrabee corroborate that the snowmobile we’d seen belonged to Munro. I decided to stop at his farmhouse and show him the photographs and then tell Zanadakis what I’d happened to find.
Night hadn’t yet fallen, but as I pulled into Doc’s driveway, I was startled to find lights burning in almost every window. You might have thought he was having another party.
Doc took his time answering the door, and even then he felt compelled to peel back the curtain in the window to get a good look at me. His Amish beard was poorly trimmed, and he looked as baggy-eyed as an insomniac. “What are you doing here?”
“I’d be lying if I said it was a social call. Can I come in? I want to show you something.”
He squinted over my shoulder into the gloom with what seemed like real nervousness. “What is it?”
I tried to put him at ease with a smile. “Some photos.”
“Does this have something to do with Prester Sewall? I heard he killed himself today.”
Despite my best efforts, Doc seemed intent on having this conversation on his freezing doorstep. “This morning, a plow truck hit a school bus, and a bunch of kids went to the hospital with minor injuries. During the confusion, Prester slipped out of the ambulance bay and took off into the woods. The police tracked him to the river. He tried to cross on the ice but went through and was swept under by the current. I’m sorry, Doc. You worked so hard to save his life.”
“So it was definitely suicide?”
I pictured Corbett standing on the riverbank, staring down at the hole in the ice. “I think it’s premature to conclude anything one way or another.”
“No one helped him to escape?”
“What do you mean?”
“I wondered if he’d had any visitors at the hospital.”
“Just his sister and me.”
“
You
visited him?”
I nodded and rubbed my hands together. “You don’t have any coffee, do you? It’s kind of chilly out here.”
Doc took hold of the doorknob again, blocking my way. It was as if the jovial, wisecracking guy who had accompanied me to Brogan’s ranch had been replaced with some sort of pod person. “You’d better not come in. I’ve been sick with the flu.”
He certainly looked ill, but unless he was treating himself with Maker’s Mark, I would have suspected first that he was intoxicated. I reached into my pocket for the digital camera. “Do you remember on the night of the blizzard how a crazy snowmobiler almost rammed my Jeep as we were driving down to the Sprague house? I think I’ve found out who it was, and I’m hoping you might recognize the sled.”
“What does it matter now?” he asked in a scratchy voice. “If Prester murdered Cates and then killed himself, isn’t that the end of the investigation?”
“I’m just trying to tie up some loose ends.”
“The state police were clear about my not discussing that night with anyone, especially you.”
I turned on the camera, and the picture of Munro’s sled showed on the stamp-size screen. “Come on, Doc. Do me a favor. You won’t get in trouble. Just tell me if this is the snowmobile you saw on the Bog Road.”
His watery eyes remained focused on mine. “Whose sled is it?”
“I don’t want to prejudice you.”
His gaze darted to the screen. “Sorry.”
“What about these?” I clicked through the series of pictures I had taken.
“No.”
I couldn’t keep the frustration out of my voice. “You’re positive?”
“I don’t understand why this is important. Are you planning on charging the driver with reckless driving or something?”
“It would help if you would corroborate that this was the sled that almost hit us.”
“I’m sorry, Mike.” His voice softened and he seemed genuinely apologetic, more like the kindly old man who’d invited me to dinner. “My eyes aren’t any good anymore.”
“OK. Thanks.”
He called after me, “So what will happen now?”
I stopped short. “With what?”
“With the murder investigation?”
“I guess it depends how interested the investigators are in what I have to show them.”
A gust kicked up, and he shivered noticeably. “You’re not going to tell me whose sled that is?”
“As you said, I’m not sure it matters. Have a good evening, Doc. Sorry to disturb you.”
He smiled sadly and seemed to be on the verge of offering a comment, but he caught himself and closed the door. As the porch light was snuffed out, I found myself again in the dark. Everyone I had met in recent weeks seemed to be a cipher, and I didn’t know whether it was a characteristic of the people of Washington County or a reflection of my woeful inability to see clearly into the heart of another human being.
I decided to e-mail the photos of Munro’s Arctic Cat to Detective Lieutenant Zanadakis and Sheriff Rhine and leave it to them to follow up with me. Under most circumstances, the word of a game warden testifying that he recognized a vehicle was good enough for investigators to pursue, but my history of making imaginative leaps—as the sheriff might say—combined with my ill-considered sexual involvement with Jamie Sewall was likely to weigh against my credibility.
Some days—most days—I wondered whether I was really cut out for my job.
I suspected my superiors thought the same thing.
* * *
The wet snow had whitewashed all the fixtures in my dooryard: my ATV beneath its tarp, my Ski-Doo on its trailer, my overturned canoe, my rusting Jeep. I made a quick sweep around the property, looking for new tire tracks or footprints. There were none.
A sour smell greeted me as I opened the door. The odor was definitely fainter than it had been, and masked somewhat by the chemical freshness of the industrial cleaners I had used on the carpets and walls, but the place still reeked to high heaven. I dragged my duffel bag inside and flung it on the floor. I would just need to resign myself to smelling like roadkill for the indefinite future. It seemed to be a message from the universe that I was truly meant to live alone.
I microwaved three burritos and sat down at the table. The mushy beans scalded my tongue on the first bite, and I rushed to fill a coffee mug with cold water. I remembered the can of beer in my refrigerator and figured that, after last night, I might as well drink it now. The beer made me think of Jamie. How much time needed to pass before I could safely call her?
After I’d finished eating, I plugged my camera into my laptop computer and downloaded the pictures of Munro’s snowmobile. The phosphorescent paint job was unmistakable. It puzzled me that Doc hadn’t made the identification instantly. I tried to conjure up the look he’d given me when I showed him the photos. In my mind’s eye, I saw his mouth widen and the side of his face jerk with an uncontrollable tic.
Doc Larrabee had been lying when he’d said he didn’t recognize the sled. I was 100 percent certain of it now. But why? What reason would the veterinarian have had to cover for Mitch Munro, of all people?
I composed an e-mail, recounting the tip I’d gotten from Mack MacQuarrie and my subsequent visit to Munro’s residence. I reaffirmed my eagerness to speak with the state police, the sheriff’s office, or Maine Drug Enforcement agents should they find this information of interest. I attached the pictures as JPEG files, CC’d Sergeant Rivard, and sent off my message in a virtual bottle.
Then I went to take a long, hot shower.
After I got out of the bathroom, I made myself a cup of coffee and checked my mailbox for new e-mail. Zanadakis hadn’t responded, but there was a new message from an address that got my heart pumping: [email protected].
At first I marveled at how he’d tracked me down. Then I remembered that all Maine government e-mail addresses follow the same formatting, based upon the state employee’s full name, followed by @maine.gov. My own address was also printed at the bottom of the business card I handed out all the time.
The message was short and to the point:
Good evening, Warden.
You need to keep a closer eye on your prisoners! You shouldn’t let them wander off into rivers.
Did you like the sweet-smelling present I left for you?
I’ve enjoyed playing with you, but I’m beginning to get bored. My crystal ball says you’re headed for a bad end sooner than you think. Will it happen tomorrow? I wonder. Wait and see.
Sincerely,
Your Friend George
30
That night I slept like the proverbial dead. The next morning, I printed out Magoon’s e-mail. On its surface, nothing in the message seemed to rise to the level of criminal threatening, but that decision belonged to the district attorney.
Rivard called while I was wolfing down a bowl of Cheerios. He was all business, in a hurry. He said the Division C airboat and dive teams would lead the recovery effort for Prester Sewall’s body. Teams of searchers from local law enforcement, fire, and rescue, members of the Coast Guard station in Jonesport, and community volunteers would scour both banks of the Machias downstream of the point where Prester had gone into the water. I would help coordinate the search along the shore. Rivard didn’t mention the e-mailed photos I’d sent to the sheriff, and I didn’t bring up the subject, knowing that his mind was appropriately elsewhere.