Massacre Pond mb-4

by Paul Doiron

  And yet I’d also heard Stacey talk in awe over her parents’ dinner table about visiting Yellowstone National Park for the first time. At that same meal, I’d listened to her rant about the oil company that had destroyed an entire ecosystem in the Gulf of Mexico. So whose politics was I hearing now? Stacey’s, or those of the man she happened to have fallen in love with instead of me?

  “I thought you were an environmentalist,” I said.

  She took a step forward, as if intending to shove me in the chest. “The woman is an opportunist and a hypocrite, Mike. She made her millions selling herbal supplements-snake oil, basically-but she presents herself as this righteous do-gooder. She says she wants to create this giant ecopreserve, and yet she builds a megamansion right on the edge of it? On top of that, she’s given millions to animal rights groups that hate everything you stand for. Or have you forgotten that she’s banned hunting and fishing on her entire property?”

  “None of that excuses death threats,” I said. “None of it excuses what someone did to these animals.”

  “I can hate what happened to this moose and still wish Elizabeth Morse would go somewhere else to play Earth Mother. Those ideas aren’t mutually incompatible, you know. And how dare you accuse me of justifying the slaughter of six innocent animals?”

  “I wasn’t accusing you of anything, Stacey.”

  “Screw you.”

  Inevitably, McQuarrie chose this moment to return. He came striding back through the wilted goldenrod, straightening his belt beneath his solid stomach. “What did I miss?”

  “Nothing,” said Stacey as she walked off into the woods.

  7

  My pickup looked like it had been beaten with dirty chalk erasers. Mack told me to pull it into the shade of a pine tree so I could debrief him without the two of us roasting like a pair of rotisserie chickens.

  I spread the topographic map across the steering wheel and drew a line to show the meandering route Billy and I had followed through the timber to get from one kill site to the next. My sergeant took careful notes as I offered my theory on how the serial killers had used a spotlight to blind the animals before blowing their brains out.

  “Except for the last moose, there was just a single shell casing for each of the carcasses, so these guys were pretty good shots,” I said. “They might have prior poaching convictions. And their choice of calibers seems unusual. Did you ever bust any night hunters around here who used a twenty-two Mag or a twenty-two long?”

  “I’ve pinched guys using every armament known to man, from peashooters to tommy guns,” McQuarrie rasped. Even with the windows rolled down, I could smell the chewing tobacco stuck in his teeth and the vinegary odor leaking from his armpits. “Sure, I’ve seen a few twenty-twos in my time, but I don’t got a suspect’s name in my back pocket, if that’s what you’re asking. I can tell you one thing for sure, though. In a few years, every poacher we pinch is gonna be carrying one of those military-type AR-15s. Every night-hunting detail is gonna be like going on patrol during the Tet Offensive.”

  I watched through the dirty windshield as a crowd of wardens gathered in the sunstruck meadow. Another patrol truck drove up and stopped beside the dozen others that had already assembled. I recognized my friend, Warden Specialist Cody Devoe, who traveled everywhere with his German shepherd, Tomahawk. The lieutenant was bringing in the entire division, I realized. In a matter of hours, the field would look like a McDonald’s parking lot. Rivard had somehow even managed to persuade Morse and her entourage to return to her house. I saw him shouting and waving, trying to get his men assembled.

  On the dash of the truck, McQuarrie had spread out the bags containing the shell casings and cigarette butts I’d collected. “If we’re lucky, the lab is gonna find some DNA on these smokes,” he said. “AR-15s and DNA tests-the miracles of modern science. It’s a brave new world for dinosaurs like me. Except Tyrannosaurus rex never knew he was going extinct.”

  To a man like Mack McQuarrie, who had always lived for his work and could never imagine an identity for himself that didn’t include wearing a badge and a sidearm, retiring was just the last stop on the road to the cemetery.

  “Did you and Stacey find anything at the Butcher Brothers?” I asked, hoping to change the subject and his mood at the same time.

  “Nothing we could nail them on. They had tags for all the meat, and everything matched with the registration book. But those two are shifty all right. And the place was a fucking sty. There were moose legs sticking up out of this fifty-five-gallon drum next to the bay door.”

  “What was Stacey’s take on them?”

  He gave me a cockeyed grin. “You’re sweet on her. Don’t tell me you’re not. The girl’s a looker, I gotta admit. Smart, too. She charmed old Clay into letting her take a few evidence samples from his taxidermy collection. After his boner went away, it probably dawned on him that they’re headed for the forensic lab. You never know what the DNA’s gonna show now. Maybe there’s a match with a slab of moose steak we pulled out of some night hunter’s freezer. I guess we should be grateful for those DNA tests. It’ll probably be what cracks this case, too.”

  So much for changing the subject, I thought.

  “I know Rivard is big on forensics,” I said, “but my gut tells me there’s only a handful of guys around here who fit the profile. A couple of borderline psychos with excellent marksmanship skills and a beef with Elizabeth Morse? If we ask around enough, we’re bound to get some good leads. It just seems like old-fashioned police work.”

  “Old-fashioned police work!” said McQuarrie. “Who are you-Joe Friday? Tracking down the perps is one thing, kid, but you’ve still got to make a case that stands up in front of a judge and jury.”

  “Anyone who slaughters six moose on Elizabeth Morse’s land is going to crow about it, Mack.”

  “You willing to bet your career on that?”

  I had been on the job only a few years, but I had already learned to stop making absolute predictions about human behavior, especially my own.

  “I didn’t think so,” said McQuarrie.

  My phone chimed on my belt, indicating I had another e-mail. It was my mother again:

  “Do not anticipate trouble, or worry about what may never happen. Keep in the sunlight.”

  — Benjamin Franklin

  McQuarrie, studied my expression. “Something wrong?”

  I clicked the delete button and tucked the phone away. “Just my mom.”

  “It used to be you could never get a signal out here in the boondocks,” Mack said. “Then Queen Elizabeth builds her palace by the lake, and suddenly there’s a new cell tower in Grand Lake Stream. That dame has got some serious pull.”

  “Do you think she has a chance of actually creating a new national park here?” I asked. “Every politician in Maine has come out against the idea because it will cost wood-products jobs. They won’t even approve a feasibility study. The whole thing seems like a pipe dream.”

  “You want my honest-to-God opinion?” McQuarrie removed his hat and ran a hand through his unruly hair. “Right now, the politicians don’t want to lose the blue-collar vote-the loggers, the papermakers, the guys like you and me who hunt and fish. But we’re an endangered species in this state. Most people down south, in the cities and suburbs, they like the idea of a park. Eventually, the city mice are going to outnumber the country mice. And when that happens, you watch how fast those same politicians flip their positions. Morse knows that time is on her side.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a cynic, Mack?”

  “That just means I’m old.” He adjusted his black baseball cap atop his head. “Speaking of politicians, it looks like the L.T. is getting ready to address the masses out there. Come on, Mikey. Let’s go hear what he’s got to say. The man dearly loves to give a speech.”

  We walked through the desiccated field, kicking grasshoppers ahead of us with every step. Here it was, the end of October, and we still had seventy-degree temperatures
and a plague of locusts. McQuarrie’s talk of end times and extinction must have gotten under my skin.

  The lieutenant stood before a semicircle of a dozen or so wardens with his right hand raised in the manner of a politician standing at a podium.

  I had first observed Rivard’s dramatic tendencies when he was my sergeant. I’d watched him put on a menacing performance to intimidate a high schooler be believed was robbing cabins for drug money. I’d seen him fall flat on his face. But now he was running his own division, with twenty-six men under his command, and had the stage to himself whenever he wanted it. “Not bad for a poor French kid from Lewiston,” he liked to say in a Francophone lilt.

  “I just got off the phone with the colonel, informing him of the facts on the ground here. He said he believes this is the worst wildlife crime in Maine history. Think about that for a minute.” He paused to give us an opportunity for quiet contemplation. “The Warden Service has been around since 1881, and this is the worst wildlife crime on record. Six animals shot and left to rot.”

  “At least six,” I muttered.

  To my surprise, the lieutenant heard me. “What’s that, Bowditch?”

  “We found only six animals this morning,” I said. “There may be others out there we haven’t found yet.”

  “That’s a good point.” His accent tended to make his th’s sound like d’s and brought a singsong melody to many of his sentences. “We need to do a canvass of this entire township. For ease of evidence tracking and communication, we’re going to assign letters to each of the carcasses.” He pointed across the field. “This animal is moose A, the next three are B, C, and D, and so on. We’ll be creating a map that shows the kill sites. The initial focus will be on collecting evidence. If you see so much as a candy wrapper, I want it logged and bagged.”

  I glanced around, looking for Stacey, but she had disappeared into the woods. I had been such an idiot to provoke her-and to what end? I felt like a hormone-addled teenager who had acted out in order to be noticed by the head cheerleader.

  “I don’t want the fuckers who shot these critters getting off on a technicality because one irresponsible warden”-Rivard focused his polarized gaze at me-“decided some detail wasn’t important. This investigation needs to be done by the numbers! We’ve got a metal detector to sweep each of these sites for lead. Sergeant Polson will be in charge of photographing and videotaping the carcasses. You’d better call your wives and tell them you’ll be late for dinner, because we won’t be leaving these woods until it’s too dark to see.”

  “What about the other investigations we’re pursuing?” asked Cody Devoe. He was a big-boned guy with a perpetual blue stubble on his chin that no razor seemed able to erase.

  “This case takes top priority. I expect these killings to receive intense media attention. That is why I am assuming personal command of this case, so everyone understands the seriousness of this matter.” Rivard gestured toward a whip-thin warden leaning against the door of an unmarked pickup. “I will be assisted by Warden Investigator Bilodeau.”

  Bilodeau had closely set eyes, a pointed nose, and a thin-lipped mouth, which I had never once seen in the shape of a smile. He wore his sandy hair cut straight across his forehead. He had a toothpick pressed between his lips.

  I didn’t know the man well, but I coveted his job. Investigators in the Maine Warden Service were the closest things we had to detectives. They worked undercover, often for months at a time, to break up poaching rings; investigated boating accidents where the evidence didn’t quite match up with the testimony of the survivors; pursued all hunting homicides, of which there were still too many, even after the introduction of strict blaze orange and target-identification laws; and otherwise stuck their noses into every suspicious-smelling case that drifted our way. Being a warden investigator was my dream job, but I had zero shot at ever getting it while bureaucrats like Rivard were in a position to deny me promotions.

  The lieutenant went on: “All of us are familiar with Elizabeth Morse and her idea for a national park.”

  Behind me, someone coughed the word bullshit into his fist. McQuarrie scowled, but I heard a few chuckles from the peanut gallery.

  “I do not want personal politics interfering with this investigation!” said Rivard, thrusting his jaw forward. “Whatever you think of Elizabeth Morse and her scheme, you need to leave those opinions at home. I will serve as the liaison between her estate and this investigation. I have already convinced her to grant us complete access to her employees. We will run a textbook forensic investigation that will result in swift arrests and an ironclad case for the DA to bring to court. That is the pledge I made to Ms. Morse.”

  There was no way in hell that Rivard had ever considered delegating the liaison job to another warden. This case was a career maker for the lieutenant, his next step on the road to colonel. You could hear his excitement in the raised pitch of his voice.

  It hadn’t dawned on me until now what an ungodly spectacle was going to take place in these woods once the media got hold of the story. Elizabeth Morse was already front-page news across Maine, and that was before some psychos started murdering moose outside her mansion. Rivard had probably already called the television stations in Bangor, encouraging them to send out news vans with satellite antennas to broadcast from the scene. The only thing I cared about was busting the men who’d shot these animals, no matter who got the credit. Nothing Rivard was saying gave me confidence that we shared the same priorities.

  The lieutenant took a deep breath, as if considering the best way to conclude his stem-winder. “You might not know this,” he said. “But in China, they use the same word for crisis as they do for opportunity. I believe we have an opportunity here to make history as conservation officers. Someday, I expect this investigation will be taught to every recruit at the Advanced Warden Academy. So I am not exaggerating when I say this will be a textbook case.” Suddenly, his face broke into a grin that made his mustache wriggle. “OK. That’s enough hot air from me. The day is already hot enough, and we have lots of work to do. Bilodeau and I will be meeting with the sergeants now, and they will be responsible for assigning specific duties to each of you. Understood?”

  I raised my hand. “Can I ask a question?”

  This time, Rivard chose to ignore me. “Make me proud, Wardens,” he said.

  Cody Devoe came over, with his dog trotting close to his knees. “What question were you going to ask?” he whispered.

  “I wondered if he knew the Chinese word for clusterfuck.”

  8

  The actual question I’d wanted to ask Rivard was whether he was bringing in a pilot to scout for additional moose kills. Charley Stevens lived just a few townships away. Despite being officially retired from the Warden Service, he was constantly volunteering his aerial assistance on search-and-rescue missions and other details requiring eyes in the sky. Knowing Stacey’s dad the way I did, I expected the old bird already had his Cessna gassed up and ready to go. All he needed was a formal invitation from the lieutenant.

  I understood that Rivard needed to formulate a plan, but the sun was lobbing itself across the sky, and we weren’t any closer to finding the shooters. And where had Stacey disappeared to? I hadn’t seen her drive off with anyone.

  Cody Devoe’s dog sniffed my knee. I bent over and scratched the panting K-9 behind her velveteen ears. “How are you doing, Tomahawk?”

  “She doesn’t like the heat,” Devoe said.

  “She’s not the only one.”

  He waved absently at a yellow jacket that was noisily circling his head. “So everyone is saying you were the first one on the scene here.”

  “Me and Billy Cronk.”

  “I saw Billy on the way in. I didn’t know he was working for Queen Elizabeth. That’s an odd couple to be sure.”

  I straightened up and brushed the dog fur from my hands onto my pants legs. “You shouldn’t call her that, Cody.”

  “Why not?”

  “It se
ems disrespectful.”

  Devoe shrugged, ceding the point. My friend had the blocky shoulders and heavy brow of a caveman, but he was no Neanderthal. Anyone else might have needled me for defending Elizabeth Morse, but not Cody. “How do you think the shooters got in here anyway?” he said. “There are gates on every access road coming in.”

  “Billy says he supervised the construction crew who built the gates, and he thinks they might have missed an old tote road or two.”

  “No way,” said Cody. “I used to hunt these woods hard for partridge and woodcock. They didn’t miss any roads, so I don’t know what Billy’s talking about.”

  I chewed over this nugget of information, unsure whether to swallow it. McQuarrie had stationed Billy at the Sixth Machias gate to let in whatever law-enforcement vehicles arrived on the property. For a moment, I considered hopping in my truck to go press my friend on this point, but I reconsidered when I saw my sergeant coming toward us across the field. Mack’s face was as red as a canned tomato, and his uniform was splotched with perspiration.

  He whistled with his fingers. “OK, Wardens, time to get to work!”

  In his job, McQuarrie supervised six men, only five of whom happened to be present. He gathered us together like a coach assembling his basketball squad before a game. “Here’s how it’s going to go,” he said. “Bayley and Sullivan, you get moose A. The lieutenant wants you to retrieve whatever lead or bullet fragments you can from the carcass. The site’s been pretty trampled, but do a sweep again to see if you can pull anything out of the weeds. Use Polson’s metal detector. Devoe, I want you to take your K-9 and see if you can backtrack the moose to the point where he was shot. That’s assuming Stacey is right about it not being killed here.” He turned his head. “Where is our pretty little biologist?”

  “She disappeared,” I said.

  “What do you mean she disappeared?”