Elements of Kill

by Christopher Lane

“Attla!” Ray repeated. He clumsily fished a badge out of his parka pocket with two fingerless mittens.

  The man leaned to examine it. Satisfied, he grunted, “In there.” The hood nodded toward the main building.

  “Thanks.” Ray left the men to their work and trotted across the yard, up the steps. Inside the metal modular, he paused in a mudroom and began undressing, slipping off his goggles, mask, parka. The air in the building felt uncomfortably warm, stifling, after an hour and a half of braving the unforgiving elements on the snow machine.

  He looked for a hook on an overburdened coat rack. Additional parkas had been tossed over the backs of three folding chairs. Boots were scattered about the floor, each pair adrift in a shallow puddle of muddy, gray water. Ray pulled off his boots, opened the only other door, and padded down a hall into a cafeteria. Ten or twelve men were seated at long tables, a few of them eating breakfast, the rest meditating over steaming Styrofoam cups. Behind a waist-high partition, a trio of cooks were pacing back and forth in a narrow galley, clanking pots and attending to sizzling meat. Ray’s stomach growled.

  He was ahout to ask for the camp supervisor again, when he noticed a handwritten sign attached to an open doorway just a few feet from the kitchen: OFFICE. Beneath the letters was a crude arrow. Ray followed it.

  Voices met him in the hall as he approached a wide, windowlike opening in the wall where fluorescent light spilled out over the tile floor. The office turned out to be nothing more than a small room into which six Formica desks had been wedged. File cabinets, stunted book shelves, and two printer stands consumed the remainder of the space. A woman was sitting at one of the desks, her back to the door as she tapped at a computer terminal. Ten feet away, a man stood facing Ray. He was short, heavy set, with wide shoulders. His face was bright pink: thick, fleshy cheeks; a broad, glowing forehead. A flattop of silver-white hair punctuated his cubic appearance, square body, square head. The man’s parka was thawing, chips of ice tinkling to the floor as he engaged in an animated phone conversation. Behind him, the window blinds had been pulled.

  “No. I don’t know,” the man was saying. He looked exhausted, tired eyes shifting from the woman, to the floor, to the window. “No. They’re still working on it … Yeah … Well, that’s why it’s taking so long. Our welder’s sick, so I had to call the main camp. They yanked some poor guy out of bed, fresh from a twenty-four-hour shift.”

  Ray stood there, waiting to be noticed.

  “Oh … maybe an hour. Maybe sooner,” the man said. “Depends. The deputy is around here somewhere.” The man rolled his eyes and his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Some green kid. Just out of school. But the good news is, the real cops haven’t shown up yet. With any luck, maybe they won’t. Maybe the storm will …”

  Ray smiled at the man, waving his badge.

  The man swore softly. “Scratch that. They’re here.” His expression was a mixture of irritation and weary resignation. “What a mess … Good question …”

  Ray heard steps, dress shoes clattering on linoleum. He turned and saw a man in a gray felt Stetson and insulated police jacket, bearing two white cups. The guy was maybe 5′10″ and rail thin, except for a slight paunch around his gut.

  “You must be Officer Attla,” the man drawled.

  “I must be,” Ray said.

  After setting the cups on the ledge of the opening, the man extended his hand. “Deputy Cleaver.” “Cleaver? As in …?”

  He nodded enthusiastically, buck teeth protruding from thin lips. “Yep. As in Beaver Cleaver. ‘Cept, my name ain’t Beaver, a course.”

  “A course,” Ray said, shaking his hand. Cleaver’s face looked so young that Ray wondered if the kid had skipped high school and gone straight into law enforcement.

  “You a coffee drinker, Officer Attla?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” Ray accepted one of the cups. “What do you have so far, Deputy?”

  “Billy Bob. You can call me Billy Bob.”

  You’ve got to be kidding, Ray thought. “Okay,” he sighed, “Billy Bob … what do you have? Dispatch in Barrow said something about a popsicle.”

  “A what?” The combination of Bugs Bunny teeth, innocent eyes, the name, and the accent made Billy Bob seem like something out of a cartoon, the stereotype of a dumb Texas hick.

  “Popsicle. Somebody frozen to death.”

  “Aw … yep. I think so.”

  “You think so? Where’s the body?”

  “Out in the yard.”

  Ray nodded, frowning. What a waste of time this was turning out to be. Investigating a popsicle with a goat roper. He glanced down at Billy Bob’s shoes: brown leather cowboy boots with an intricate pattern running up the sides. Just the right footwear … for Dallas. What a cheechako!

  “You’re not from around here, are you Bill?”

  “No sir. I come from Monahans, Texas. That’s oil country.” He studied Ray for a moment. “You’re an Eskimo, ain’tcha?” According to Billy Bob, the word was pronounced, Ezkeemo.

  “Inupiat,” Ray said with a nod.

  “Wowie! I ain’t never met a real Ezkeemo before. Not face-to-face.” He squinted at Ray, curious eyes scanning from his feet to his head—as if he were some sort of museum exhibit. “Ain’tcha’ kinda big for an Ezkeemo?”

  “As a child I always ate all my Wheaties,” Ray replied, looking down on the deputy. He had a good two or three inches on Cleaver.

  “Do your people really live in igloos?”

  Ray blinked at this. “How long you been up on the Slope, Bill?” Thirty seconds?

  The deputy shrugged. “‘Bout …” A tongue reached out to flick at his bunny teeth. “Waa-ell, I guess almost two weeks now.”

  Ray was about to ask?l’ Billy how he had kept from frostbiting his toes in the leather clodhoppers when the man in the office hung up the phone.

  “Jack Simpson,” he said shaking Ray’s hand. “Camp supervisor.”

  “Ray Attla, Barrow PD.”

  “And you’ve met Deputy Cleaver here.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He give you the lowdown on the situation?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not much to tell, really,” Simpson said. “The crew was running pipe. One of the casing sections was clogged. They assumed it was mud. When they tried to clear it …” Simpson’s face twisted into an odd expression, something between curiosity and surprise. “Is it just me, or are you tall? For a Native, I mean. What are you? Six two?”

  “Six one,” Ray replied. “About the body, I’d like to take a look.”

  “Still in the pipe,” Simpson snorted. “Having a heck of a time gettin’ it out.” The phone rang and he answered it. “Simpson … yeah? … okay. Call me back.” He replaced it and addressed the policemen. “Listen, whatever you boys need, you got it. Phones, computers …” He gestured about the office. “Houston says to give you whatever you want. We intend to cooperate fully. Get this business cleared up ASAP. Davis Oil is a company that operates on the up and up. We don’t tolerate foul play on our projects. Course, we don’t want a scandal either. If you take my meaning.” Here he gave both of the officers a knowing look.

  “Foul play?” Ray asked.

  Simpson’s hands flew into the air. “If that’s what it turns out to be.”

  “Are you saying this body in the pipe … somebody put it there on purpose?”

  The hands lifted higher, palms toward the cops. “I’m just covering the bases. Whatever happens, we’re ready to cooperate, but the word here is speed. Houston wants this thing cleaned up posthaste.” The phone rang again. “Simpson here … Sure, just a sec.” Placing the receiver against his chest, he said, “You fellas go on out there and have a look around. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” He returned his attention to the phone.

  “Come on,” Billy Bob said. “Let’s see how they’re doin’.”

  Ray followed him, sniffing at grilled sausage links as they traversed the cafeteria. Through the fogged windows in the mudroom
, they could see sparks whirling in the wind. In between gusts, the welder materialized. He was attending to the bottom of the pipe now, his slot running down four-fifths of its diameter.

  “How did they find him?” Ray asked, sipping at the coffee. It was lukewarm, a little thin, but he needed the caffeine to help him stay alert.

  “Who?”

  “The popsicle.”

  “Oh. They was runnin’ pipe,” Billy Bob drawled.

  “I caught that. What’s it mean?”

  “It’s when the crew puts the pipe in the hole,” the deputy explained. “Fella looked in, saw somethin’. They took the pipe back out, hit on it awhile. Finally, a couple roustabouts started pokin’ in there with a rebar. Saw some blood …” He paused, setting his coffee on the chair, and dug into the pocket of his jacket. “This fell outta the pipe.” He handed Ray a gold watch.

  “Nice.” Ray examined it. “Still running.” He gave it back. “What else?”

  “That’s it. I was thinkin’ ‘bout talkin’ to the roustabouts when you showed up.”

  “Why does Mr. Simpson back there think it was murder?”

  “Murder?” Billy Bob’s eyes grew wide.

  “He called it ‘foul play’. But that’s what he was thinking. When I got the call, I assumed somebody just froze to death. You know, got disoriented in the storm, crawled into the pipe to get warm or something. Happens out here.”

  “Maybe that is what happened,” Billy Bob offered.

  “Maybe,” Ray nodded. “Sure would be nice. Then we could all go home and get some sleep.”

  Outside, the welder was flat on his back, torching the underside of the pipe. Blowing snow made the scene dull and undefined, like an impressionistic painting.

  “We better get out there,” Ray said. He pulled on his parka and mask, then stuffed his feet into two white bunny boots. Next to him, Billy Bob waited with a blank expression—a Texan lost in the Arctic.

  “Do you have any real boots?” Ray asked.

  The deputy shook his head.

  “You have a real coat, don’t you? And a hat?”

  Another shake. Billy Bob pulled two thin leather gloves from his pocket.

  “You’re kidding? Those are your gloves?”

  A nod.

  “Didn’t the Borough issue you any cold-weather gear?”

  “Sure. I got a mess of it back at the office in Deadhorse. But … well … I don’t go outside that much. Don’t get much call to. The Slope’s a quiet neighborhood. And when I patrol, I’m in my truck. It’s a Ford. Got a good heater.”

  “Here.” Ray selected a parka and a pair of mittens from the rack. “What size shoe do you wear?”

  “Thirteen.”

  Ray blinked at him, glancing at his feet.

  “They grow ever-thang big in Texas,” Billy Bob announced proudly, a stupid grin pasted on his face.

  Ray picked through the boots. “Well … twelves will have to do. Put ‘em on.”

  Billy Bob sank into a metal chair and yanked at a cowboy boot. When it finally slid off, he began to struggle with its partner. Shoeless, he worked his feet into a pair of heavy-duty Sorrels. Setting his Stetson aside, he climbed into the parka, zipped it up, and pulled the cord to snug the hood and built-in mask.

  “Boy, howdy. This is comfy. I’m warm as toast!” his muffled voice declared.

  Ray led him outside, into the darkness and the subzero wind, wishing with all his heart that he was back in Nuiqsut, sleeping peacefully in Grandfather’s drafty ivrulik, instead of out here on the ice with Cowboy Bob.

  FOUR

  RAY AND BILLY Bob had just reached the pipe when the welder snuffed his torch. The man lifted his visor, cursed, added something about “going to bed,” then waved the rest of the crew in. The group of bodies split up, four hustling to one end of the casing, three taking the other. The slit in the steel grew from an inch to two inches, to four inches, widening as the men used their weight to pull the two sections apart. It groaned and resisted before snapping in two.

  Ray stepped forward and looked into the left section. It was empty. Turning to the other, he saw a tangle of boots and pants.

  Simpson appeared next to Ray. Even cloaked in down and neoprene, the guy looked irritated, as if finding a dead body in a pipe was a royal pain in the neck. He swore loudly in a pretense of concern.

  Ray nodded to Billy Bob. “Let’s get him out.” They each took a boot and started to pull. Nothing happened. They tried again. The body wouldn’t budge. It was frozen into the steel cylinder. Finally, with two men assigned to each leg, the clump of rock-hard flesh slid out onto the ground. It landed with a clink, like an ice cube in a tumbler.

  Simpson swore again, this time in genuine horror.

  It was a man. Or at least, it had been at one time. The body was crumpled into a ball, legs against the chest, arms folded between the knees. Loosed from its confining quarters, the corpse remained rigid, in a fetal position—an oversized infant taking an eternal nap. Dark dress slacks and Sorrels covered the lower extremities. A parka zipped up above the neck provided unnecessary protection from the icy wind. No gloves. And no face mask. The hands and cheeks were purple-black from frostbite. The entire specimen was encrusted in a thick layer of dirty gray frost.

  Popsicle, Ray thought, but chose not to say. “Anybody recognize him?” It was an unfair question, really. Even if the hood had been pulled back, the parka zipped down, identification would have been difficult.

  “Anybody?” he repeated. Hoods shook from side to side. “Mr. Simpson?”

  The supervisor stared down at the gnarled figure. “I don’t think so.” He knelt for a closer examination. “Hard to tell …”

  Ray sighed at the body, then bent and gazed into the pipe. It was shiny with ice, but no blood, no gloves, no mask … nothing. Popsicle, he decided with growing certainty.

  The dress slacks. The Rolex. That made John Doe an executive. Maybe. Probably some dope from Outside, Ray thought. Guy comes up from the Lower 48, visits the Slope, goes for a walk around the equipment yard, doesn’t show the proper respect for the environment, like old Billy Bob here in his dung kickers. At minus 50, any exposed skin would frostbite almost immediately. The severe chill factor would only speed the process. The clown panics. Hypothermia sets in. The cold affects his brain. His judgment is impaired. He climbs into the pipe, presumably to get out of the wind. Thinks he can warm up and go back inside for a nice hot cup of joe. The lights go out.

  It made sense. Sort of. Except for one thing: No one had seen him before.

  “You had any folks up from Davis Oil’s headquarters in Houston?”

  “No. At the main camp in Prudhoe. But not here. Think he’s management?”

  Ray shrugged at this.

  “How’d he get in there?” Billy Bob wondered aloud, squinting at the pipe.

  “Heck if I know,” Simpson said, frowning. He glared at the maimed piece of casing and shook his head.

  “What’re we gonna do with him?” Billy Bob asked.

  “I called the medical emergency team in Deadhorse,” Simpson said. “Guess they’re socked in by the storm. Should’ve been here by now.”

  “Call them back. Tell them not to bother. This guy doesn’t need a medic,” Ray assured him. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a coroner on staff?”

  “Coroner?” Simpson shook his head, as if Ray had been serious. “No. We got a nurse. But she’s off this week. Went to Anchorage.” He paused, thinking.

  “What about Jorge?” one of the men offered.

  “Jorge?” Ray looked at the worker, then to Simpson. “Who’s Jorge?”

  “Mexican on the drilling crew. Went to med school for a while. Acts like he knows a lot. Did CPR on a roustabout one time. Turned out it wasn’t the guy’s heart though. Just a bad case of the flu.”

  Ray nodded. He was already planning his revenge on the captain for sending him on this tour of la-la land.

  “I’ll see if I can find him.” Simpson marched toward
the rig.

  The cluster of blue suits began to disperse. “Hey, guys, help us carry him inside,” Ray instructed. Hoods shook, profanities were grumbled, the figures turned and moved toward the camp.

  Ray cursed under his breath, then looked to Billy Bob. “Grab his legs.” The deputy hesitated. “Grab his legs!” Together they lugged the ice man into the building, through the mudroom, past weary diners consuming ham and eggs. When they reached the office, Ray puffed, “Where can we put this?”

  The secretary typed something into the computer before swiveling in her chair. Her mouth fell open as she inspected their cargo.

  “Is there a spare room someplace?” Ray asked.

  “Geez … he’s … heavy,” Billy Bob panted.

  The woman started to say something but gasped instead, the blood draining from her face. A hand rose, a trembling finger pointing at the wall. “S—s—storage room.”

  They started down the hall, wet boots skating and slipping on the tile. After passing three closed doors, they came to a doorless rec room. It was deserted: two empty couches, an unused Ping-Pong table, a silent television set …

  Ray cursed, losing his grip on the corpse. He used a knee to get a fresh hold. At the end of the corridor he could see a meeting room with a table and chairs and a stairwell.

  “Where’s the storage room?” Billy Bob whined. “My arms is fixin’ to fall off.”

  Ahead of them, a janitor in blue coveralls rounded the corner, pushing a cart of cleaning supplies. He worked a door with an oversized key ring, then swung it open.

  “Is that the storage room?” Ray asked, his biceps burning.

  The man’s head swiveled toward them. He looked them over suspiciously, eyed the body, dropped his broom.

  “Is that the storage room?” Ray demanded.

  The man nodded in slow motion, mouth agape.

  “Can we put him in there?”

  He shrugged. “Be my guest.” Moving his cart to one side, he backed away.

  “We could shore use some help,” Billy Bob grunted as they trudged past the man, into the room.

  “I’ll just bet you could,” the janitor scoffed. The wheels of his cart sang as he hurried away.