Cold Dish

by Craig Johnson

  I stopped him with a hand. “Maybe later. What time was that?” “Twelve hundred forty-seven.”

  I glanced over at the kitchen table at the two-handed face that told me it was now one. “You look at the clock a lot, Al.”

  “Thirty-two fuckin’ years of waitin’ for closin’ time.”

  He confirmed the fact that he had yelled at the two guys in the Hummer at exactly twenty-one hundred twelve. As I went off to check the ridge, I asked Al if he would hitch up the one-mule team and take my ardent deputy a cup of coffee and some stew. He said he would be fucking happy to.

  The hill was steep, and the fact that I was wearing cowboy boots didn’t help. The snow had tapered off, but the wind remained persistent, and by the time I got to the top I had worked up a decent sweat. I stood there, catching my breath and looking down at the lights of Al’s cabin and at the red-and-blue emergency lights revolving from our vehicles in the parking lot. The only consistent sounds were the wind, Sally munching, and the revolving click of our lights. It was a beautiful place, peaceful, terminally peaceful for Jacob Esper.

  It was a four-hundred-yard shot if it was an inch. It was colder this morning, probably with a slight to negligible headwind and an approximate scale of elevation would be eighty at four hundred yards. I sighed a full breath and watched the steam blow back in my face. It was quite a shot, even with a scope.

  I started at the first few trees at the ridge’s edge, shining my flashlight down along the partially covered ground. Al had said that the shooter was big, but Al is short, so I was beginning to wonder how big big meant. There were no telltale signs in the stiffening grass, so I began using this trail as my pathway as I searched the surrounding area on both sides. If I were shooting someone, would I use the trail? Probably not. I kneeled by the end of the opening that faced the lake and went over each blade of grass. If I were shooting someone from four hundred yards, would I lie down? Probably. There was something funny about the slight depression in the grass to my right, so I walked out of my safe area and looked back where the grass seemed to lay in an odd pattern. I kneeled down and looked back into the hypotenuse of a thin triangle: All the blades bowed in my direction.

  Blowdown. This is where it had all started, all .45 caliber seventy grains of it. There was a weak swipe where someone had scuffed a foot across the area in an attempt to hide the marks, but Al Monroe’s appearance must have curtailed such activity. I extended my view and looked straight back through the trees. I suppose somebody my size could make it through, but their ability to limbo would have to be considerably better than mine. I went back to my path and began working my way deeper into the woods, searching the narrow area for footprints but finding none. If they were big, they were light on their feet. I transferred my search to above ground, looking for any disturbance in the thick foliage of the pines. Nothing.

  I thought about Henry and took my first full breath since Al had made his partial identification. I stood there with my hands in my pockets and tried to convince myself that a man with 4.2 blood alcohol content would be lucky if he could properly identify his own mule. It wouldn’t wash; he had been too precise about all the other points. Al might be a professional alcoholic, but he was an observant one.

  Why would Henry do it? There was the immediate connection with the family; the oldest of motivations, revenge. If somebody had done this to my niece, how would I react? I kept thinking about Omar’s remarks about Henry; was it productive to look at those who had killed when looking for a killer? It wasn’t easy to do, take a life. Henry had killed men, but so had I. Try as I might, I couldn’t develop Omar’s line of thought and went back to the one I liked best, the rationalization of why it didn’t have to be Henry.

  With Al’s partial physical description, we were looking for a largish person, probably male and possibly Indian. Sticking with motivation, it had to be someone connected to the victims’ victim, Melissa Little Bird. And that meant Artie Small Song or Henry Standing Bear. I was going to have to have a conversation with Artie Small Song.

  Did long hair necessarily mean Indian? Omar had long hair and half my staff had longish hair. Vic and Turk both had hair at least to their shoulders. Vic had been growing hers for the last two years, and Turk’s hockey hair was perennial. I always tried to keep an open mind when lining up the suspects. Law enforcement personnel were people, too, which meant they could commit murder just like the rest of us. If I was going to play the game, everybody got a piece.

  Why would Vic do it? She was a pretty militant female, a master in ballistics, and she was also the first on both crime scenes. I had talked her into joining up about two years ago, when these boys had been handed down their suspended sentences. I looked down at the revolving lights, at the flickering shadows cast on the sides of the vehicles, and at Jacob’s shadow-smear that didn’t move. Her sense of justice just didn’t seem to fit. She didn’t have any reason to do it, and she wasn’t big, even if she had the hair.

  Why would Turk do it? Just being a prick wasn’t enough, and the fact that I was looking forward to our next meeting like Grant did Gettysburg shouldn’t interfere with my abilities to investigate. Did he want my job bad enough to try and make me look this bad? None of it seemed likely, but he was big, his name was on Dave’s list, and he had the hair.

  Why would Omar do it? Omar could make this shot, but what could his motivations be? I started thinking about which grade B actor would play Omar in the television movie of the week and quickly dropped it. But he was big enough, had the hair, had a Sharps, and knew how to shoot.

  Why would Artie Small Song do it? And why wouldn’t he have used a rocket launcher or a bazooka? This spoke to the violent-death side of the case, and his family connections loomed large. Basic investigative technique was jumping up and down and screaming it was Artie. He was large, might have the weapon, and he had the hair.

  Why would Henry do it? I didn’t believe he did, and that was all there was to it. But . . . he had been late running yesterday morning; he hadn’t gotten to my house until after eight. I thought back and tried to think of what time it had been when he arrived, but I didn’t have Al’s gift for chronographic pinpointing. If the Cheyenne Death Rifle was the one he used, how did he get it back to Lonnie in time? Two men could keep a secret if one of them is dead, or so the old saying goes, but I didn’t think it was possible to get from here to the Rez and back to my place in three hours.

  I took one last look around, satisfied that I had done as much as I could, and started down the hill. By the time I got to the path, Al was making the return journey to his cabin. “Al, how long are you going to be here?” He truly was a vision atop his mule with his floral print trunks in full display.

  “I was thinkin’ about getting the hell outta here tomorrow, but with all this stuff happenin’ I might just stick around.”

  “Well, if you do decide to head back, would you mind checking in at my office? It’s down in Durant, behind the courthouse, or you can just give me a call.” I handed him a card. “This’s got my home phone on it, along with all the office numbers. If you think of anything else, anything at all, be sure to call me. There’ll probably be somebody over later to ask you the same questions and get your personal information. Do you want me to tell them to wait till the morning?”

  “What time is it?”

  I started to laugh, then pulled out my pocket watch. “Oh-two-hundred.”

  “Aw, hell, it’s the shank of the evenin’. Send ’em on over.”

  I got out of the mule’s way and started the long slog around the lake. When I got to the scene, Vic was warming up in her unit. I walked over and kneeled beside Jacob Esper. Something was bothering me, something had been niggling at me for the last few hours. I looked at the body and back over my shoulder. It was a clear shot and had planted the young man squarely against the side of the truck. How did the perpetrator get the feather onto the body? Granted, there seemed to have been long periods of Al’s drunkenness where somebody could’ve
planted an entire aviary on Jacob, but it did add to the time that it would’ve taken Henry to complete the journey to my place. It was another reason my buddy couldn’t have done it, and I was feeling a little better. Even if I was feeling better, the niggling thought remained like an itch at the middle of my back. There was something here, something I’d seen that was out of my reach. I stared at Jacob Esper, just like I’d stared at Cody Pritchard, and I hoped like hell that I came up with better answers.

  “Unlock the door.” She reached across with a yawn and flipped the small knob up. I must have woken her. It was like a nest, with little pieces of paper and equipment scattered and stuffed into every available spot. I pulled a collection of duty notebooks from under my ass, sat them on the floor beside my wet boots, and thought how much her truck reminded me of Al’s oasis across the lake. Two Thermoses rested against the four-wheel-drive shifter; evidently she hadn’t saved me any coffee. I got settled and looked over at my deputy, whose face was resting against her door. She appeared to have fallen back to sleep.

  Vic didn’t look like a killer. Her fine Italian skin contrasted with the dark luster of her hair and, even in sleep, an eyebrow was arched in disbelief. At this angle, you could just make out the little upturned point at the end of her nose that always made me want to pick her up and squeeze her. I hadn’t ever done it, figuring she’d likely kick me in crucial areas. Not for the first time did I notice my deputy was a very good-looking woman. “So, you get to home plate or what?”

  Just as I’d suspected, everything else could stop moving, but not the mouth. “Sorry?”

  “Oh, you’re one of those kiss-but-don’t-tell guys. Fine, I’ll just go back to sleep.” I looked at the clouds of vapor on the window beside where she had spoken.

  “Home plate?”

  “Yeah, I was trying to cater to your delicate sensibilities. Did you fuck her?”

  “I don’t think this was the conversation I had in mind when I climbed in here.”

  “Too bad . . . put out or get out.” She repositioned herself and smiled, satisfied with her wit.

  “The truth would be pretty boring.”

  “I was afraid of that.” I watched as the condensation on the side window grew and subsided with her breath. “I suspect that nobody’s having sex in this county.”

  I waited a moment for her to continue, but she didn’t. “That the problem with you and Glen?”

  “What, the fact that we haven’t had sex for three months? What would make you think that?” She still hadn’t moved, and I was considering getting out and going for a walk. “Do you find me unattractive?”

  “You?” That got an eye. It wouldn’t hurt anything to level with her, and she was being vulnerable, which only happened on leap years. “I was just sitting here, a moment ago, thinking what a handsome woman you are.”

  “Handsome?”

  I caught my breath. “Wrong word choice?”

  “Sounds masculine.” The eye again. “You think I’m too butch?”

  “No, I don’t, and I really was thinking what a good-looking woman you are.”

  The eye closed, but the smile returned. “Good.”

  “Then you opened your mouth . . .”

  She tried to kick me but only glanced off the accelerator and gunned the motor. She glared at the dash. “Shut up.” Her eyes shifted to me. “How often did you have sex when you were married?”

  “In the beginning or the end?”

  “Forget I asked that question.” She settled back against the door and fluffed the rolled-up blanket she was using as a pillow. “How come you have never made a play for me?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh; life in general was just so much more interesting with women around. “I um . . . considered it a dereliction of the sheriff-deputy relationship.”

  “No, dereliction would be what Glen is doing to me.”

  “Well, that’s another issue. You’re married, and I’m not into hypotheticals at three in the morning.”

  “In six weeks it’s not going to be a hypothetical.” I sat there, letting that one settle in. “He got some bullshit job up in Alaska, and I’m not going. I did this drill once, and I’m not doing it again.” She lay there, not moving. “You still going to want me around as a deputy if I’m single?”

  “I’m not sure the county can take it.” I reached over and squeezed her shoulder. “Hey, you don’t know you’re my heir-apparent?”

  She snuggled a little more, and the smile broadened. “Yeah, I just like to hear you say it.” The smile held, but her eyes remained shut. “So, you wanna fuck, or do I owe you an apology?”

  I laughed what seemed like the first good laugh I’d had in a very long time and leaned against my own door, covered my face with my hat, and quickly fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  Ferg showed back up at six-thirty with his metal detector. He liked gadgets, which was good, because I didn’t. The wind had died down some, and what snow had fallen last night was piled up against the east side of everything, trailing away in long tails of white with edges as crisp as the blade on a knife. It was still relatively cold, but the promise of warmth had started and, if you weren’t careful, you always found your face directed east.

  As Ferg unloaded the equipment and supplies, I took the opportunity to get out of my dating clothes and put on the winter gear I always kept behind the seat of my truck. Mine were the same as Al had described as having been on the shooter last night: arctic weight coveralls and a hooded jacket that matched. The medium brown had faded to a light khaki and the seams were starting to look a little threadbare, but the little star was still holding fast, and it had my name on it. Everybody else in the department had these clothes, too; theirs just looked better. I was sitting on the tailgate of my unit, changing into my Sorels, when he came over with the metal detector. “Espers?”

  He had the metal detector taken apart and was checking the charger pack on the thing. “I called DMV and got the registration numbers and descriptions of all their vehicles and put out an APB with the Longmont police, letting them know this was somethin’ to do with a homicide case.”

  “That get their attention?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  I propped a boot against the side of the truck and started lacing; my foot felt immediately warmer. I should have done this last night, but I suppose I had been caught up in the moment. I dropped my foot off the tailgate and turned to face him. “Nothing at the house?”

  “No.”

  “The 3K?”

  “I got Bryan and brought him in.” His face looked like he didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Rest of the family?”

  “Mrs. Keller was there, but not Jim.”

  “I bet that was a warm welcome.” I searched for my gloves in the pockets of my jacket and pulled the stiff leather onto my fingers, flexing them. “Where is he at four o’clock in the morning?”

  “Hunting.”

  Jim Keller hunting, that was interesting. “Where?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  I let it go. “You bring supplies?”

  “In the cooler. I also made arrangements with South Pass Lodge to bring in warm food.”

  “What about Turk?”

  “Didn’t talk to him, but I left a message.”

  “And where is he at five o’clock in the morning?”

  “Some buckle bunny’s bed, I suppose.” He closed the little plastic door, turned the device over, and flipped a switch. The little LED display lit up.

  I smiled, which was hard when it came to Turk. “Jealous?”

  His eyes came up and met mine. “Yeah, a little.”

  “Me, too.” I slid off the back of the Bullet and stood, stretching the stiff muscles that had bunched at my shoulders and neck. It felt good, and my feet were warm for the first time in twelve hours. I indicated the metal detector. “That thing going to work, or am I going to be forced to make a highly dramatic and emotional display by throwing it in the lake?”


  “I think it’ll work.”

  Vic joined us as I peered over the edge of Jacob’s truck bed and turned to look at the snow-covered hillside behind us. “Well, it’s not in the truck and from the looks of Jacob, I’d say it’s not in him.” I extended a finger in the direction a straight trajectory would have taken. “Detect.”

  I wandered over toward the lake to get out of the way and didn’t see any lights on in Al’s cabin; I figured he was still asleep. I was wrong. After a moment, I could hear the door open, and the familiar figure stepped around one of the lean-tos and hollered across the lake, “Hey, you want any goddamned coffee?!”

  I laughed. “Love some!” The echo of my response sounded around the little bowl of the lake, and my voice sounded good, like I was capable. The niggling thought hadn’t gone away though, and a little less than four hours of sleep hadn’t been enough to make it surface. I comforted myself with the thought that I was doing what it took to solve cases like these: knocking on one more door, looking at the crime scene photographs one more time, making one more phone call, making one last try. I went back over to Jacob’s body and ducked under the tarp for another look-see. Obviously, something had been bothering Vic, too. A small Tupperware stepstool was there, so I pulled it over and sat down facing Jacob again. I sat on the top, pulled a foot up on the first step, and rested my elbow on my knee, placing my chin in the palm of my hand. I was finally comfortable, which was more than could be said for Jacob. Here we were, Jacob and I, staring at each other, only one of us seeing. Something wasn’t right, and I’d be damned if I could figure out what it was.

  I listened as Vic and Ferg conferred on the other side of the truck. “I think we’ve got something.”

  He didn’t sound sure. “In the trajectory of the reference points?”

  “We’re getting a strong reading off to the right.”