Paskagankee

by Alan Leverone

  Mike sighed. “Great,” he mumbled to his empty office. “Just what this investigation needs—a crusading journalist.” He spread his notes out on the desk, covering every available inch of surface, and got back to work.

  24

  AT NINE O’CLOCK PRECISELY, the front door of the concrete block police station opened and the two-person investigative team from the Maine State Police entered the building. Like Melissa Manheim before them, the pair moved directly through the station to Mike’s office. A tall, silver-haired man dressed in a sharp blue suit knocked once on the door, sharply, then the pair entered without a word.

  Mike rose, noting at first glance the smug attitude radiating off the silver-haired man and wondering if it was matched by the other member of the team. After completing the perfunctory introductions—the men’s names, if Mike had heard correctly, were Detective O’Bannon and Detective Shaw, or perhaps Shore, it wasn’t easy to tell thanks to the man’s thick down-east accent—Mike passed a copy of his notes to each man and began filling them in on the events of the past two days.

  “So, let me summarize,” Detective O’Bannon, apparently the lead investigator, said. “You’ve got no suspects, no concrete leads and no idea where this person, if it even is a person, is hiding?”

  “That’s right, and our ME assures me that the pattern of bruising on the neck of the first victim was most likely made by human hands. The results of the autopsy on Victim Number Two, Frank Cheslo, should be available soon. Hopefully we can get the doctor to provide us with preliminary results as early as this afternoon. I asked him to put everything else on the back burner until he completes this examination.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful,” O’Bannon replied snidely. “Have you ever heard of a single case where a human being, using only his hands, has ripped another man’s head clean off his body, Chief?”

  Mike gazed at the man for a long moment, trying to decide on a response. For the time being he elected to take the high road in hopes of remaining part of the investigation once the Staties started calling the shots. He knew he was facing long odds, but he had come to think of Paskagankee as his town already, and Mike didn’t want to be an observer when the killer was finally brought down; although he had every expectation that would be the case. Jurisdiction wasn’t something easily shared, and the Maine State Police possessed a lot more clout than he did. “I’m relating the facts as they’ve been presented to me by the medical examiner. You can interpret them as you choose, but I thought you should know where this investigation stands. And by the way,” he added, “there was nothing ‘clean’ about how Harvey Crosker’s head was ripped off his body or how either of those men died.”

  “Right. Sure. Investigation?” O’Bannon huffed. “Is that what this is? Because all I see is a couple of stiffs and nothing much being done in terms of investigating at all.”

  Mike glared at the man, doing his best to keep his temper under control. “I know you look at this town and see a little Hickville police department and think you can come in here and intimidate me, but let me tell you something, we know what we’re doing. I understand we don’t have the resources to handle this type of investigation, and I understand the governor himself sent you boys up here, but from here on out you’ll keep your opinions of me and my department to yourself or you’ll find yourselves returning to Portland so fast you’ll be back in the city before you’ve finished admiring your reflection in your hotel room mirror. Am I making myself clear, detective?”

  O’Bannon looked at his partner, a smirk passing over his face and then disappearing. Mike was getting tired of seeing that look on people’s faces. “Sure, Chief, whatever you say,” he answered. “Is there somewhere in this tiny shoebox of a building Detective Shaw and I can set up shop?”

  Mike showed the two men to a corner at the far end of the station where a couple of desks had been thrown together and stocked with computers and file cabinets. He still wasn’t sure whether the second guy’s name was Shaw or Shore and decided it really didn’t make much difference. These two were trouble, but he was just going to have to put up with them for the time being until they caught the murderer, which, hopefully for his rapidly evaporating patience, would be soon.

  As the two men began organizing their work spaces, Mike turned back toward his office. Detective Shaw/Shore spoke up; the first time he had said a word since introducing himself. “I assume we can count on the full cooperation of you and your department, Chief?” The inflection he imparted to the words let Mike know it was meant as a statement and not a question.

  Mike stopped and debated telling him that he expected cooperation from the Maine State Police rather than vice-versa, but then bit his tongue and said only, “Of course,” without turning around. He stalked into his office and closed the door. It was starting out to be another long day.

  25

  BACK INSIDE THE RELATIVE peace and quiet of his office, Mike decided he might just as well tackle another piece of unpleasant business. No reason to let the bitter taste in my mouth go to waste. He picked up his phone and dialed the number listed on Frank Cheslo’s business card for the home office of Computer Solutions of New England.

  A relentlessly perky female voice answered on the second ring with a scripted, “Thank you for calling Computer Solutions of New England. What solution can we provide for you?”

  Thankful he had at least gotten a real person and not a recording, Mike identified himself as Chief of the Paskagankee, Maine, Police Department and asked to speak with the man or woman in charge. The voice came back, “May I ask what this is in regards to?”

  “It’s a confidential matter regarding one of your employees, Mr. Frank Cheslo,” Mike answered.

  “Mr. Cheslo is out of the office right now and is not expected in until at least tomorrow, perhaps the next day,” the disembodied voice told him.

  “I understand that,” Mike said evenly. “Now, please connect me to the person in charge immediately. This is an urgent police matter.”

  Coolly, the voice replied, “Hold please,” and Mike listened to two or three minutes of elevator music that quickly convinced him—not that he had had much doubt to begin with—that it would be more pleasant to continue his conversation with the two Statie jokers setting up shop out in the station than have to suffer through this musical torture. He wondered idly how many customers Computer Solutions of New England lost every day just because the callers couldn’t stand having their ears assaulted on the telephone by bland Muzak versions of ABBA and KC and the Sunshine Band while waiting on hold.

  At last an authoritative male voice came on the line and without introduction asked brusquely, “What’s Frank done? If it’s something stupid like drunk driving again, this company won’t be held responsible.”

  Mike introduced himself and asked, “Who am I speaking with, please?”

  “This is Earle Stanley. I’m the owner and CEO of CompuSol New England. This is a small business and I’m very busy, Chief . . . I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?”

  “McMahon,” Mike replied. “Mike McMahon.” He wondered how Stanley’s company remained in business given the lack of telephone etiquette that seemed to be in evidence from the top man on down. “So, Mr. Stanley, Frank Cheslo is an employee of yours, is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Mike could imagine the man holding his telephone handset away from his ear and fuming at his inability to rush things along.

  “Mr. Stanley, we’re not calling you about a drunk-driving situation.”

  “Then what is it? What has Frank gone and done now?”

  “He’s gone and gotten himself murdered, Mr. Stanley.”

  There was a short silence on the other end of the line while Earle Stanley digested the information. “What? Murdered? What are you taking about? Where are you calling from again?”

  “The name of the town is Paskagankee, Maine, Mr. Stanley, and you’ve probably never heard of it. We’re on Route 24, roughly halfway between
Presque Isle and Orono.”

  “I don’t understand,” Stanley said. “What was he doing in a hick town in the middle of nowhere anyway? What happened to him?”

  Mike swallowed the sarcastic retort that tried to leap out of his mouth of its own accord and said, “Mr. Cheslo was involved in a car accident on a remote section of road during the terrible ice storm that has been ravaging the area for the last few days. We believe he stepped out of his vehicle to retrieve some survival gear from the trunk and was ambushed.” Mike decided the man didn’t need to know the condition of Cheslo’s body when they found him. He almost wished he didn’t know.

  He concluded, “That’s all the information we can really divulge at the moment, but the investigation is ongoing. The reason I’m calling, sir, is that we could find no contact information of a personal nature in Mr. Cheslo’s possession. Does he have a wife, girlfriend, or some other relative we could notify?”

  “Well, Chief McMahon, Frank just started working here a few months ago, and as far as I know, no one has gotten too close to him. Our sales force works long hours and each member has quite a large territory to cover, so contact between our employees is spotty and rather random at best. I don’t know offhand if Frank ever mentioned a wife or girlfriend, but I will certainly check our records and notify the appropriate next of kin; the person Frank listed as his emergency contact in our employment package.”

  “I would appreciate that, Mr. Stanley. If you think of anything you believe might be of help in our investigation,” Mike said optimistically, still hoping the State Police team wouldn’t shut him out, “no matter how trivial it might seem, please call at any time of the night or day. Thank you for your time, and I’m sorry to have to deliver such terrible news.”

  Mike hung up the phone and sat back in his chair, relieved to have gotten the call out of the way but disappointed with its result. A man had been brutally murdered and there didn’t seem to be anyone who would even notice, much less give a damn. Kind of a depressing prospect, Mike thought sadly.

  26

  MIKE HUNG UP THE telephone and almost immediately was interrupted by an abrupt knock on the door. The two State Police investigators—Mike had already begun to think of them as Huey and Dewey—reentered the office, again without waiting for an invitation. Mike tried not to show his impatience. “Are you gentlemen all set up?”

  O’Bannon answered curtly. “Yes. What we’d like to do now is interview the wife of the first victim, Mrs . . .” he consulted his copy of the notes Mike had given them, “. . .Crosker. She was alone with her husband when he disappeared, is that right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then we’d like to see how she tells her story.”

  “Listen, guys,” Mike said. “That woman had nothing to do with her husband’s disappearance.”

  “If you say so,” he responded. “We’re going to talk to her anyway.”

  Mike wanted to tell the two investigators there was no way the dead man’s petite wife could have inflicted the kind of extensive damage on her husband’s body that he had suffered; that no one could have ripped Harvey Crosker’s head off, much less a five-foot, two-inch middle-aged woman. He knew already, though, that he would be wasting his breath. These two jokers were going to do whatever they felt they needed to do, regardless of his input, regardless of common sense, so he held his tongue. Huey and Dewey would understand soon enough. Once they got a good look at the condition of the two victims, it would become patently obvious.

  “And about your men,” O’Bannon continued.

  “You mean my officers? I have a female on this department, too,” Mike interrupted, just to tweak the pompous ass.

  “Oh, well, excuse me. Your officers. I want them to split up into two teams and canvass the areas surrounding where the bodies were discovered. They will start immediately and work until I decide they are finished. The moment they find any evidence, I don’t care how insignificant it seems to them, I want to be notified right away, and I don‘t want the evidence disturbed until my partner and I have had a chance to examine it. They won’t move it, touch it, breathe on it, or in any way contaminate it. Is that clear?”

  Mike glanced between the two men with an amused look. “Anything else?” he asked.

  The two investigators either didn’t notice the sarcasm in his tone or chose to ignore it. “No, that will do for now. We’ll advise you as soon as there’s anything else, don’t worry.”

  Mike couldn’t help himself. “You know, my people do understand how to do their jobs.”

  “If you say so,” O’Bannon replied, the second time he had used that retort on Mike. It was becoming clear creativity wasn’t his strong suit. “Later this afternoon Detective Shaw and I will speak with the medical examiner regarding the result of his autopsy on the second victim.”

  “I was planning on paying a visit to Dr. Affeldt myself as soon as we were done here,” Mike said, knowing what was coming next.

  “Don’t bother,” O’Bannon replied. “It would only be a duplication of effort. Your time would be better spent elsewhere.” He didn’t specify exactly where that would be. “Of course, we will keep you abreast of our progress to the extent possible.”

  To the extent possible, Mike thought glumly. So much for being a part of the investigation. What the hell do I do now?

  27

  SHARON POKED HER HEAD through the door as Mike was plowing through some of the mountain of paperwork generated by two murders. Mike rubbed his hands across his face—was it really only ten o’clock in the morning?—and smiled when he saw the ice-blue eyes regarding him from around the edge of the door.

  “Doing anything important, boss?” she asked, “because I don’t want to interrupt.”

  “Important? Those two State Police clowns are going to make sure I don’t have anything important to do from now until they leave town. And before you say it, I’m already well aware that you told me so.”

  Sharon smiled. “I wasn’t going to say ‘I told you so.’”

  “Really?” Mike asked, surprised.

  “Nah. That would be too easy. I like a challenge.”

  “Thanks a lot. Even my only ally is giving me the business.” Mike straightened the stack of official forms that were destined to end up gathering dust in filing cabinets and cardboard cartons and messy closets all over the State of Maine and moved them to the corner of his desk. “I need an ‘out’ basket,” he said, “so I can feel like I’m accomplishing something as I sit at my desk with my thumb up my ass for eight hours a day.”

  He sighed. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for administrative work.”

  “Feeling sorry for yourself, are you?”

  “Damn right,” he answered. “I’ve got to get out from behind this desk. Want to help me?”

  “I know you’re getting old,” she said with a sardonic grin, “but I’m pretty sure you can at least get out of your chair without my help.”

  Mike laughed. “Okay, okay, you win; I’ll agree to stop feeling sorry for myself if you’ll agree to stop making me feel like an idiot.”

  “Fair enough. So what is it you really want my help with?”

  “I’m going to take a ride out to the morgue to speak with Mr. Happy himself, Dr. Affeldt, even though Dumb and Dumber from Portland told me not to bother, that it would just be a ‘duplication of effort.’ Idiots.”

  “You really don’t like those guys much, do you?”

  “Is it that obvious? They’ve been here half a day, they don’t want any input at all, they’re running around covering bases we’ve already covered and meanwhile, who knows how long it will be before someone else ends up looking like a rag doll attacked by a rabid dog? No, to answer your question, I don’t like those guys much.

  “So anyway,” Mike continued, feeling marginally better after venting, “Are you interested in taking a ride out to the morgue with me? You could think of it as a date. Minus the fun, of course.”

  Sharon whistled. “A morgue? How
can I say no? You really know how to show a girl a good time.”

  Mike nodded, leaning back in his chair. “It’s what I do. I figure it’s the perfect place to take you—I can’t help but look good compared to the stiffs that hang out there.”

  28

  ALONE IN THE PASKAGANKEE Police Explorer, Sharon casually asked, “So, what was the deal with The Maneater?” She kept her eyes glued to the empty pavement unwinding in front of the vehicle like it was the most fascinating thing she had ever seen.

  “The . . . what?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she replied, “I forgot you’re new in town. The skinny little vulture with the hair that looks like a lit match who was in your office earlier—she’s known around here as ‘Manheim the Maneater.’”

  “Really,” Mike said. “Maneater, huh? Sounds promising,” and ducked as Sharon threw a backhand his way. “You mean she wasn’t really into me?”

  “So you saw through her little sexpot act?”

  Mike laughed. “I realize I’m extremely young-looking, but I wasn’t born yesterday.” He ignored the snort of derision that came from across the front seat.

  “Seriously, though,” Sharon said. “Watch out for her. That chick will play up to you in any way she has to if she smells a story, but she’ll also turn on you in about half a second if it suits her purposes.”

  “Thanks for the warning, but I don‘t think she’ll be playing up to me again any time soon. We weren’t compatible on a couple of very important issues, like where she gets her information and how much time she’ll be spending in a holding cell if she ever enters my office again without an invitation.”