Elements of Kill

by Christopher Lane

  “No. This is more like a chemistry set.” He replaced the sack, noting that there were probably fifty others in the box.

  “What’re they for?”

  “To help customers beat random drug tests,” Ray surmised. “Right, Ed?”

  Behind them, Stewart broke down, weeping as if he had just lost his closest friend. Sinking to the bunk, he cradled his head in his hands, gasping repentant curses through the tears. “Don’t … bust me … Please … I got—I got a wife and three—three kids back home … in Tulsa …” he sobbed. “Please …”

  “We’re not DEA, Ed,” Ray comforted. “Tell us what we want to know and we’ll be on our way.”

  “But I don’t know anything!”

  “When did you notice that the pipe was clogged?”

  He sniffed and snorted. “About … midway through the shift, I guess.”

  “How’d you find the clog? Why didn’t ya just set the pipe?” Billy Bob asked.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” he blurted out. A trembling hand reached up to push back a stray lock of oily brown hair. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “We didn’t say that you did,” Ray offered. He shot Billy Bob a puzzled look.

  “I was up on the monkey board the whole time,” Ed said, as if this explained everything. He was perspiring freely, his shirt dark with sweat.

  “And you seen the clog as you was about to set the pipe?” Billy Bob tried.

  Stewart’s head rocked back and forth. “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t check it out in the yard?” Ray asked.

  “Huh-uh.” Here his head shifted direction, shaking emphatically. “Prudhoe’s supposed to do that, before the casing gets here.”

  “Nobody checks it here?” Ray clarified.

  “No. Why should we?” The pendulum had returned from panic and was swinging back toward the realm of veiled paranoia. After snorting and wiping at the resulting blood, he blurted out, “I’m supposed to. Okay? I’m responsible for inspecting the casing before a job. Satisfied?” His arms were like hyperactive snakes—uncrossing, shooting hands into the pockets of his shorts, jabbing at his hair, recrossing. It made Ray anxious just watching the man fidget.

  “Why didn’t you check it this time?” Ray pushed.

  “I … forgot.’”

  “You forgot?”

  “I got busy. With my … my business.” Here he gave the goods in the closet a forlorn look. Then, “I told the muktuk twins to do it.” He cursed the native workers until he noticed the expression on Ray’s face. “Oh, uh … sorry, man. I didn’t mean anything.”

  Muktuk twins? Ray glared at him. Ed was obviously one of the jerks Jim had eluded to. Ray had the sudden urge to send the boozed up hophead across the room with a high kick. Instead, he asked, “You told the roustabouts to check the pipe?”

  “Yeah. Sam and Jim,” Stewart explained, attempting to redeem himself. “Good men. But they must have forgot to do it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Any way you look at it,” Ed sighed, sniffing back the blood, “it’s Prudhoe’s fault. Those …”—he chose several expletives to express his disdain for the men at the main camp—“they’re supposed to check every piece of equipment that shows up in Deadhorse. But half the time, they don’t bother. They just stick it on a truck and send it up here. They’re the ones who screwed up.”

  “That’s assuming the body was placed there before the casing arrived here at the rig,” Ray pointed out.

  “Huh?”

  “Maybe the body was stuffed into the pipe while it was sitting out there in the yard.”

  Apparently Ed hadn’t considered this possibility. His sharp features contorted. The idea seemed to be too much for his hazed, drug-confused mind to entertain.

  Ray showed him the sketch. “Know this guy?”

  Ed’s head moved closer, tilted back, leaned in, his eyes attempting to focus on the image. “Nah. Never seen him in my life.”

  “Okay,” Ray sighed. He frowned: another dead end. “Thanks Mr. Stewart.”

  “What about … what about …?” Ed asked, gesturing to the closet.

  “I’d advise you to close up shop before you get caught.”

  “You’re not gonna … arrest me?”

  Ray shook his head.

  “Thanks. Thanks officer. I really appreciate that. Thanks …”

  He was still gushing his appreciation at them as they started down the hall, toward the stairwell. When they were out of earshot, Billy Bob asked, “What now?” In the deputy’s language, the word “now” was two syllables: nay-ow.

  “First, we turn in Ed,” Ray thought aloud as they descended the steps. “Then …”

  “But you said—”

  “I said I wasn’t going to arrest him. I didn’t lie. I’m not going to. For one thing, he’s not in my jurisdiction, but I am going to tell Simpson about Ed’s little enterprise.”

  Billy Bob’s face screwed up at this. It was clearly beyond the cowboy’s limited vocabulary.

  “His drug and liquor business,” Ray clarified. “If the oil companies are as fastidious …” Here he paused to choose a simpler word. “As discriminating as they’re said to be, Davis will send old Ed packing. And in my opinion, that’s what he deserves.”

  The deputy’s headed bobbed at this.

  “In my opinion,” Ray continued, building steam, “that guy represents the lowest rung on the human ladder, just below insurance salesmen.” He took a deep breath, forcing himself to end his tirade on the detrimental effects of bootleggers and drug dealers before he reached full stride, but it was difficult. These were the two most destructive forces the Inupiat had ever encountered. Together they had helped to defeat a once noble people, transforming them into prisoners, slaves to the new, highly addictive gods. Tequila had stolen Ray’s father; cocaine had nearly taken a close friend captive in college. That Stewart was pedaling his wares to white men made no difference. In Ray’s book, Ed was still a sorcerer: a wicked anjatkut who lulled men into bondage and robbed them of their paychecks in the process.

  Back in the cafeteria, Ray poured a cup of coffee, handed it to Billy Bob, then poured another.

  “This thing’s giving me a headache,” Ray muttered.

  “Whattya mean?”

  Ray chewed his lip, studying the floor. “We’ve got a body. But no time of death or motive. We can’t even ID the guy.” He blew air at the tangle of loose ends. “When was the body loaded into the pipe?”

  Billy Bob shrugged, his expression made all the more ignorant by his bunny teeth.

  “And why wasn’t the pipe inspected?”

  Another shrug. “Ya got me.”

  “Apparently it’s standard procedure to inspect the pipe before setting. Yet nobody did. The body wasn’t discovered until they were about to screw the thing into the ground. And then only by accident. If it hadn’t been for Ed, the victim may never have been found.”

  “Naw. It’d a been found alright. They couldn’t have drilled with the casin’ clogged like that.”

  Ray sipped his coffee. “You mean the process of drilling wouldn’t have cleared it?”

  Billy Bob shook his head. “The mud’s shot in under pressure. But the body … there’s no place for it to go, even if it was busted up.”

  “Mud?”

  “The slurry solution that irrigates the bit and washes out the debris. The body mighta been tore up a bit, but … It wouldn’ta made it out of the pipe.”

  Ray watched the steam rising from his cup, thinking.

  “Who’re our suspects?”

  “We don’t have any,” Ray sighed.

  “Member though, Mr. Simpson mentioned foul play. And that Sam, he seems suspicious to me. Meaner than a road lizard. And Stewart, that guy’s a criminal. He’s at the top of my list.”

  “Oh, yeah? And how’s that?”

  Billy Bob shrugged. “Say this guy in the pipe owed him money, say for drugs. So he pops him.”

  “Right,” Ray scoffed. “Some
corporate exec comes to the end of the earth to buy dope and a six pack of Bud, but forgets his wallet. So Stewart shoots him and slices him up, Native-style, and sticks him in a pipe. Then he’s the one who realizes the pipe’s clogged and calls it to everyone’s attention.”

  “Makes him less suspicious, findin’ the body.”

  “Yeah. A whole lot less suspicious.”

  “Guess it don’t exactly fit.”

  “Doesn’t fit at all,” Ray noted.

  “What if the dead man was Stewart’s supplier? Maybe he was tied in with those cartels down in Co-lumbia.”

  Ray ignored this. Finishing off his coffee, he said, “As for Simpson, he’s just concerned about staying on schedule—getting this thing cleaned up, keeping the bosses back in Houston happy. Sam and Jim … They’re saving up for a dream. Why blow it by knocking off some guy?”

  “That don’t leave us with much,” Billy Bob lamented.

  “That leaves us with zip.”

  “Where do we go from here?”

  “We have to identify our John Doe,” Ray said. He surveyed the cafeteria. It was half full—fifteen or twenty men scattered among the tables, throwing down breakfast. Setting his coffee down, he climbed onto a chair.

  “What’re ya doin’?” Billy Bob asked, gawking.

  “Excuse me!” Ray called. “Excuse me! Could I have your attention please!”

  The room grew quiet, conversation falling off abruptly, forks hovering between mouths and plates.

  “I’m Ray Attla, Barrow PD.” He flashed his badge. “In case you haven’t heard, there’s been a … death here in camp. We’re trying to determine who the man is and we would appreciate your help. I’m going to pass out these drawings. Take a look, see if you recognize the face.”

  With that, he hopped down and began handing out copies of his sketch. The papers filtered around the room, tired eyes taking cursory glances before sending the portraits on their way down the line. While they waited, Ray tore sections from a cinnamon roll.

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Billy Bob chirped.

  “Maybe,” Ray replied gloomily. It would be great if someone identified the body. It would be better still if one of the men stood up and confessed to the murder. Short of that, the case had the look of a long-term assignment. His chance of making the wedding shower back in Barrow was starting to fade.

  When the papers had all migrated to the far end of the room, Ray mounted the chair again. “Anybody recognize the face?”

  Heads shook, faces frowning up at him.

  “There’s another crew over at the rig.”

  Ray turned and saw Simpson approaching. “Is that right?”

  He nodded. “And Gene Driscoll, the drilling foreman who was there when Stewart noticed the clogged pipe, he’s still on.”

  Ray hopped off the chair. “About Stewart …” he started to say.

  “He’s out of here,” Simpson declared gruffly. “Work’s been suffering for weeks. Then he forgets to check the pipe. That was the last straw.”

  “You know about his little … business?”

  Another nod. “Through the grapevine. He’ll be shut down by noon and on the first plane out of Deadhorse. That’s saying this blasted storm lifts, of course.”

  “Of course.” Ray was satisfied with this. To Billy Bob he said, “Let’s go over to the rig and show the picture around.”

  “Pick up a hard hat in the doghouse on your way in,” Simpson advised. “And be careful in there. It’s dangerous. Not sure we’re insured for visiting policemen.”

  NINE

  IT WAS STILL Saturday morning. The clock in the mudroom read: 8:17. But night reigned over the yard, over the camp, over the featureless arctic sky. Clad in parkas, masks, boots and mittens, Ray and Billy Bob crunched across the dark yard into the bitter, icy wind, hurrying from one silvery pool of halogen to the next, as if they offered some modicum of relief from the storm. As they approached the rig, a truck the size of a moving van materialized in the blowing snow. The red and gray monstrosity was roaring with the determination of a freight train, competing with the voice of the gale for their attention.

  Mounting the slick steps of the rig enclosure, they entered one end of the doghouse, an 8 ? 20 rectangle of metal. A built-in, hinge-top bench ran along one wall. Above it, a row of hooks suspended wet, heavy parkas. The other wall was occupied by a stand-up desk. Next to the only other door, a steaming coffeepot was perched on a wooden crate. A bulletin board at eye-level bore a collection of notices and charts, and the bold message: SAFETY FIRST.

  “Nobody home,” Ray observed.

  “They’re inside, cementin’,” Billy Bob informed him, nodding at the door. A sticker on it warned: CAUTION—HARD HAT ZONE.

  Ray reached down and took a pair of blue hard hats from a leaning stack. Handing one to the deputy, he asked, “How do you know so much about oil?”

  “My Granddaddy was an oil man; my Pappy was an oil man,” he explained. The “i” was missing from his version of the word oil. It became “ole.” Slapping on the hat, he added, “I worked a rig a few summers ma-self.”

  “Is that right?” Ray tried on the hat. It was too small. He traded it for another.

  “Yes sirree. And I’ll tell you sompthin’. That there is hard work. Dang hard work. Sure don’t have no trouble sleepin’ after a day in the ole field.”

  “I bet not.” When Ray pulled the door open a wave of warmer air rushed to greet them. It was accompanied by bright, glaring light and a strong industrial smell: a mix of greased steel and diesel fuel. Three men in blue coveralls were huddled along the far wall fifty feet away, applying white paint to the chipped and scarred metal. Closer to the door, another man was washing down the floor, spraying dirt from the non-skid bumps and hosing it toward a section of grating. At the center of the enclosure, beside some machinery, a figure in a red RefrigiWear suit was bent over a thick stub of pipe. A flexible hose hooked to the stub ran up and, Ray assumed, into the overwrought truck outside.

  “Can I help you fellas?” The question came from a short, stout man in blue coveralls. The southern accent and the felt flaps dangling from the man’s hard hat brought to mind visions of the cartoon character Huckleberry Hound.

  “Gene Driscoll?”

  “Me? Why, no sir.” Huckleberry seemed to think this was funny. “Nah,” he chuckled. “Fred Brannon, driller.” A gloved hand shot out at them.

  Billy Bob shook it first. “Deputy Cleaver, Deadhorse Police.”

  “Ray Attla, Barrow PD.” He gave the glove a squeeze, then presented his badge.

  Huckleberry squinted at the badge, then looked up at Ray. As he did, the expression on his face changed from one of open hospitality to one of unbridled curiosity. The wheels were turning beneath those fabric ears. Ray braced himself for the question. “Say … you’re a—a …” Huckleberry’s voice trailed off, as if the word Eskimo wasn’t in his vocabulary. “Boy howdy. You’re plenty tall for a—”

  “A police officer?” Ray tried sarcastically.

  “No. For a … you know.”

  A you know? Ray had been referred to by many names and labels in the course of his lifetime—both complimentary and derogatory—but, you know? That was a new one. “What’s he doing?” He gestured to the man attending to the pipe stub, successfully diverting Huckleberry’s attention from the topic of ethnic background and its effect on height.

  “Cementin’ the casing, below the permafrost.” The puzzled look on Ray’s face apparently inspired an explanation. “The cement holds the casing in place, so we can drill deeper. We use a special cement, with a low heat of hydration, that prevents the permafrost from melting.”

  Ray nodded at this, much of the jargon flying right by. “Know anything about the man they found in the pipe?”

  The two-story V-doors creaked open midway through the question and the wind howled wickedly through the enclosure. A man in bright red RefrigiWear stepped in, pushing the doors shut behind him. After he had trot
ted to his partner’s side at the pipe stub, Huckleberry turned to Ray. “What was that?”

  “I wondered if you knew anything about the man in the pipe. Were you there when they found him?”

  “Nah. That was before my shift. But I heard about it. Ain’t that just the dinkdums?” He shook his head at the bizarre tragedy. “Poor fella.”

  Ray offered the sketch. “Seen this man before?”

  Huckleberry studied it, then shook his head. “Nah. Cain’t say as I have.”

  “Is Mr. Driscoll around?”

  This seemed to puzzle him. “Not in the doghouse?”

  Ray shook his head. Next to him Billy Bob mimicked the action.

  “Probably over at the shop.”

  “The shop?”

  “Across the yard. North, past the sheds.” “Okay.” Ray turned to leave, then, “Say, would you mind if the deputy here showed this sketch to your crew?”

  “No problem,” Huckleberry grinned. Two gold front teeth blinked out at them. “We was just fixin’ to go on break anyhow. Give us a good excuse to grab some coffee.” He used his two index fingers to whistle at the men. “Break!”

  “I’ll check the shop and meet you back at the camp in a few minutes,” Ray told Billy Bob.

  “Sure thing.”

  Ray sloshed across the rig floor, bunny boots squeaking against the wet steel. The doghouse was still empty. No Driscoll. Outside the storm seemed to be building, horizontal snow and vengeful blasts of wind combining to create an impressive whiteout: nearly zero visibility. The weather had the effect of making the darkness even more complete, as if it were alive, intent upon crushing all hopes of spring, light, and life.

  As he trotted north, blinded by flying ice, Ray was reminded of Grandfather’s words. Indeed, the conditions were ripe for piinjilak and tuungak. Anyone else, anyone with any common sense, would stay indoors and wait it out. Why was he here? He reached a shed and began feeling his way along the wall, squinting into the darkness. Where was the shop? Beyond the feeble output of the shed’s lamp the world was a black hole. He took ten tentative paces forward. It was like walking into an abyss. He was suddenly reminded that the rig was on an island. Somewhere out there in front of him was the Beaufort Sea: vast, bleak, horribly unforgiving.