by R. E. Donald
A bell clanged, and a black woman in uniform strolled by, hollering for everyone to get up, wash up for breakfast. Sharon rolled over and swung her legs off the bunk, pushed herself halfway to her feet. "Wait!" she called to the back of the uniform. "Wait! I need to talk to somebody. Where did they take my dog?"
The woman in the uniform didn't even turn around.
Her cellmate laughed, an ugly raucous laugh. "What you think they want to talk to you for? You think they give a shit 'bout your dog?" she said. "Who you think you are? Princess Di?"
Sharon ignored her. She needed to talk to Ray. It wasn't fair to keep them separated like this. Goddammit. Why hadn't they talked before, when there was time? She needed desperately to talk to Ray.
Sharon walked the few steps over to the small sink, splashed some water on her face and tried to straighten her hair. Her fingers ran through it easily. Sometimes after she and Ray made love it would be so tangled that there'd be knotted clumps of it on her comb. Ray always apologized, like it was his fault. He loved her so much. Was that a crime?
"Aren't you so special," the skinny woman sneered, mincing around near the cell door, one bony hand flipped up at shoulder level, the other propped against her hip. "Aren't you just a glamour puss, painted nails and Farrah Fawcett hairdo and all."
"Shut the fuck up!" said Sharon. "Just shut the fuck up!"
Teresa Jagpal stepped out of the shower and pulled a towel off the rack, then bent at the waist to let her hair fall in dripping dark ropes, almost to her toes, before wrapping the towel around her head. She grabbed a second towel and scrubbed its rough surface against her skin, starting with her arms and working downwards, shoulders to breasts to hips, until she reached her feet, a daily routine performed on auto pilot, for her mind was occupied with something else.
This was Wednesday. Greg hadn't been home since Friday, and she didn't know what she should do. Saturday night she called the hotel in Chilliwack, and the man told her Greg hadn't shown up for his weekend gig. Chilliwack was east of Abbotsford, where she had grown up on her father’s farm. Where her parents still lived with her two older brothers.
"Please, can you tell me? Did he call?" she had asked the man at the hotel.
"No, he didn't fuckin' call." The man snorted, then said, "He's a fuckin' low-life musician. Why the fuck would he call?" and abruptly hung up.
The first thing she’d done after setting down the phone was to go to Hellen's room and open the door. She saw a pair of blue jeans crumpled at the foot of the bed and resisted the impulse to check if they were Greg's. Hellen wasn't home.
On Sunday morning, she and Hellen had coffee together, then shared a plate of fresh fruit at the picnic table beneath the plum tree in the back yard. The little gray cat chased imaginary mice in and out of the abandoned wooden doghouse beside the fence. Moss dripped across its roof shingles like green lava, and the edges of the carpet scrap on its floor were black with mildew. Hellen sliced open a peach, offered one half to Teresa, then pried the stone out of the remaining piece with a green finger nail, its metallic paint half chipped away. Teresa could never understand why Hellen didn't treat those skilled hands of hers with more respect.
"Greg working out of town?" Hellen had asked casually, nodding toward the empty driveway where his car should have been. Too casually? She tossed the peach stone into the rhododendron bush, wiped her fingers on her cut-off jeans.
Teresa's own fingers, brown skinned and slender, picked up a strawberry, held it to her mouth, then put it back down. She couldn't confide in Hellen. Not anymore. "Chilliwack," she answered, nodding. But Chilliwack was only an hour's drive away. She turned at the sound of the little cat sharpening its claws on the doghouse carpet. "He's been busy at the studio," she had added, wishing that were enough to explain his absence.
But according to the other band members, Greg hadn't been to the studio either. And now Teresa didn't know whether to call the police and report him missing, or perhaps to call his brother Chad. She tried not to think about what could have happened. Had her own brothers found out about him? Who should she talk to? What would be the proper thing to do?
Teresa applied her underarm deodorant, then slipped on a silk robe, tying the belt in a bow to keep it from sliding undone while she dried her hair. She tried to imagine herself calling Chad. What would she say to a man whose hate for her smoldered in his eyes?
"Hello, Chad. Your brother has disappeared."
Or, "Good morning, Chad. Have you heard from Greg lately?"
Or, "Chad, this is Teresa. Did Greg tell you he was leaving me?" After all, someone who had moved into her bed with so little ceremony could easily have moved out with even less. The thought of what Greg's brother might say and how he would speak to her made her stomach flutter. No, she couldn't call Chad. And she couldn’t call her parents’ home.
Teresa decided to wait. Maybe she was worrying for nothing. Maybe Greg would be here tonight, when she got home from work, and life would be back to normal. He'd only been gone since Friday, after all. If she hadn't heard from him by tomorrow, well... perhaps then it would be time to phone the police.
Hunter stepped up to the reception counter in front of one of the desk sergeants, a swarthy man with a heavy fringe of dark hair above his ears but only a few wisps of it on top of his head, visible as he bent over his paperwork. The other desk sergeant was in heated conversation with a young black man, who gestured wildly, a set of car keys dangling from the pinkie finger of one hand. "I'm here to see Detective Russell Kupka," Hunter said, leaning forward to be heard above the din. "He's expecting me." The sergeant asked Hunter's name and wrote it down, then told Hunter to take a seat.
He sat on one of the benches, between a large elderly woman who wheezed with every breath and a middle-aged man in a shiny brown suit that smelled faintly of mothballs. The young black man stalked away from the reception counter, dropped his keys on the floor, scooped them up with a "Shiiiit!", and yanked open the door. Hunter leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and sighed. He wondered, not for the first time, if Ray and Sharon had inadvertently run somebody down, or caused a fatal accident, or if it was a case of mistaken identity. Why else would someone like Ray be connected with a homicide? He tried to recall if there was anything the least bit abnormal about their behavior at Yoncalla, and he could think of nothing. Not a damn thing.
"Rayne? Is there a Hunter Rayne here?"
A young man in a loose-fitting fawn colored suit stood at the door, a piece of paper in his hand. His eyes scanned the room, settled on Hunter as he got to his feet. "You Rayne?' he asked. The man was tanned and fit, his brown hair long and smooth on top, curling slightly at the edges like a mushroom cap, and neatly trimmed around his ears and neck. He looked more like a stockbroker or a lawyer than a cop.
Hunter nodded. "Detective Kupka?"
The man looked Hunter up and down, making Hunter aware of the contrast made by his own conservatively barbered hair, work shirt and jeans, and steel toed running shoes. Hunter offered his hand, but the man ignored it, instead directing Hunter down a hallway to the left of the reception area. He opened a door and said, "Wait in there." It was a small interview room furnished with a table and four chairs. Hunter remained standing, facing the door.
"So. What can I do for you?" said the man when he entered about five minutes later. He sounded older than he looked, and Hunter guessed him to be in his mid-thirties.
Hunter extended his hand again, keeping his eyes on the detective's face, and this time, with only a few seconds of hesitation, the man took it. After a firm and abrupt handshake, the detective's hands went directly into the pockets of his slacks. "As I told you over the phone," Hunter began, "I work for Watson Transportation. I'm here for two reasons. The first is to look after the company's interests by picking up the load Ray and Sharon Nillson were hauling for Watson at the time they were detained, unless, of course, you're expecting to release them within the next twenty four hours...?"
Russell Kupk
a shook his head. He was tapping the toe of a camel colored loafer on the linoleum and jingling change in his pocket, as if Hunter were wasting his time.
"Second," continued Hunter, irritated but managing to keep his voice from showing it, "as a friend and coworker, I intend to line up a good lawyer for the Nillsons and do what I can to help them." He paused here, waiting for a reaction. The detective just looked at his watch. Hunter offered a wry smile. "And you," he added.
The detective showed surprise. "Me? You think you can help me?"
Hunter shrugged. "I'll do what I can. If the Nillsons are innocent, I'd like to see them out of here as soon as possible, and what better way than to help you come to the same conclusion?"
"And if they're not?" He continued to play with the change in his pocket, a habit Hunter found extremely annoying.
"If it's clear that they're guilty, I'll be just as interested in seeing justice served as you are. I'd appreciate it if you could tell me why they're under suspicion, so I can make that call."
The detective stopped short of rolling his eyes, but his demeanor indicated he wasn't taking Hunter seriously. Hunter hesitated. He wasn't sure whether identifying himself as a former law enforcement officer would work for or against him with this detective. It wasn't something he liked to disclose to anyone, if he could help it.
"I spent twenty four years behind a badge, for what it's worth," he finally said.
The jingling stopped. "Yeah? Where?" There was a hint of suspicion in the detective's voice.
"Royal Canadian Mounted Police. At the time I left, I was a Sergeant investigating serious crimes, including homicide, at the detachment in Burnaby, British Columbia. Vancouver, more or less."
"Why did you leave?"
Hunter shrugged. "Time for a change," he said. He had no intention of sharing anything personal with this man.
"Well," said the detective, "I'm sure we could chat about that all day, but there's somewhere I've got to be." He reached for the door handle. "If I think of anything you can do to help, I'll be in touch through your lady boss. She sounds like one tough mother trucker, by the way."
"Before you go," said Hunter, moving closer to the detective. "What about the Nillson's rig? Where can I go to pick up the load of freight?"
"I'll have to see if the crime scene techs are through with it. Call me at two." He opened the door and turned away.
"Hold on there, chief. Any suggestions about where to find a decent lawyer?" Hunter asked, raising his voice and no longer trying to hide his irritation at the detective's bad manners. Being polite hadn't won him any cooperation so far, anyway.
"That's an oxymoron, isn't it? Decent lawyer?" The detective snorted wryly. "Try the yellow pages. There's no shortage of lawyers in this town. You can practically hail them in the street, like cabbies."
Hunter followed him out of the room, back down the hall. Another young man, blond, wearing an olive green suit, and carrying a briefcase, but otherwise with an overall appearance similar to the detective's, walked in through the front door just as they emerged into the reception area. The blond man nodded to the detective. "Hi, Russell. How's it going?" he said with a smile.
"Catch any ambulances lately?" the detective shot over his shoulder as he pushed past, looking pointedly at his watch, perhaps to give the impression that he was in too much of a hurry to even say hello. Hunter shook his head at the detective's behavior, then smiled at the man with the briefcase.
"Is the detective a friend of yours?" he asked.
The young man shrugged. "Former classmate." He hesitated a second, then grinned. "He flunked out of law school, and I didn't. He's held it against me ever since."
"That's good to know," said Hunter. "Have you got a few minutes to talk?"
Russell leaned back and turned up the fan on the car's air conditioning. He was a little ticked at the way things had turned out so far this morning, that he'd been too rushed to think things through properly. If he hadn't been in such a rush to get to the coroner's office for the post mortem on the Iceman, maybe he could have used that cowboy trucker to his advantage. So far, lawyer or no lawyer, neither of the Nillsons had talked. Their tongues could have been cut out, for all he knew. Maybe he should have thrown the cowboy in with Ray Nillson to see if Nillson would say something - anything - that would point Russell in the right direction before a lawyer entered the picture. At least the trucker would be back. Before Russell let him pick up the load in the Nillsons' trailer, Russell would pump him for information about the Nillsons first. At this point, he knew he was relying too heavily on the Iceman's corpse.
When the corpse had finally thawed enough to get the clothes off the body to look for clues to the man's identity, there was nothing in the pockets. No wallet, no credit card receipt, no sales receipt or movie ticket, nothing that would give the Iceman a home and ultimately a name.
Russell caught himself absently running his fingers down his tie as he waited out a red light. He draped the tie over the steering wheel, admiring its plum and ochre whorls, and shook his head at fate. He had a suspicion that the Iceman's home would turn out to be in Vancouver, where the meat was from, and that's where Jennifer had bought the tie. Chinese silk. She was there again now, doing whatever a production assistant on the pilot for a new television series does. They'd only spent one night together on her last trip home. She said she was under a lot of pressure in her new job, trying to make a good impression. What a pair. Both of them with unpredictable hours, sometimes fifteen and sixteen hour days. Both of them with promising careers. He didn't take that thought any further. He had never asked her what kind of a salary she made, but she gave him better gifts than he gave her, and she leased a new BMW, left it parked weeks at a time while she was away. The light turned green, and he cranked his thoughts back to the Iceman.
Even without an autopsy, the coroner had been pretty sure that the victim froze to death. Russell had come to the same conclusion himself. It didn't take a genius. The Iceman's curled up position indicated that he was doing his damnedest to try to keep warm, and wherever he had been, it wasn't enough. He sure as hell didn't freeze solid anywhere in the Tehachapi Mountains. It wasn't even cold enough for that in most of Alaska at this time of year. It had to be a freezer, and given the location, most logically, a mobile freezer, like the Nillsons' trailer loaded with frozen meat. They'd lifted numerous prints and fibers from the inside of the trailer. Russell planned to pick up the prints from the corpse's thawed fingers and personally deliver them to the lab for a comparison. He had no doubt that many of the prints from the Nillsons' trailer would belong to the Iceman. Whoever he was.
When he stepped out of the elevator at the morgue, Merv was already standing outside the door, covered in a protective gown with a mask hanging under his double chin. Russell cursed under his breath. "I thought you were in court again today," he said aloud.
"Cutter copped a plea."
"I figured that would happen. His lawyer likes to cancel court dates. Gives him more time for booze. They got him out on the table?" Russell asked as he checked in and picked up his own mask and gown.
Merv nodded. "The doc's just finishing up a floater. Don't smell too nice in there right now."
"When does it?" Russell adjusted the gown to make sure it covered every inch of his suit sleeves and shirt collar. "You seen those shoe things?"
"Cupcake needs some booties!" hollered Merv.
Russell stiffened, tried to keep his breathing under control. What he wouldn't give to be able to drive Merv's teeth down his throat and into his voice box. Just then a morgue assistant opened the door to the autopsy room and leaned out.
"Hey, Merv. Your Iceman's on the table."
My Iceman, Russell said to himself, gritting his teeth. He elbowed his way past Merv and was first inside.
"Cupcake! You forgot your booties."
The corpse’s torso was still partly frozen inside, so the coroner decided not to do a complete autopsy, which was fine with Russell. During a
utopsies, he usually spent most of the time studying the line where the ceiling met the wall. Today’s post mortem revealed only a couple of pieces of information that Russell felt were of value. There was some bruising on the Iceman's neck, which the coroner suggested could mean he'd been held in an armlock and possibly choked unconscious before being placed in the trailer, but the cause of death remained the same: hypothermia, which seemed pretty much of an understatement. And the Iceman had been a musician, probably a guitarist. The tips of the fingers of his left hand were padded with calluses.
Russell left the morgue with a manila envelope containing the Iceman's photograph and fingerprints. Maybe the photograph would loosen the Nillsons' tongues, if he could get another crack at them before they'd been muzzled for good by lawyers. He left in a hurry, before Merv could fetch his pork pie hat and ask for a ride.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Sharon hung her head, kept her eyes on her toes, trying to hold her hands so she wouldn't feel the cold steel of the handcuffs against her wrists. Two women in uniform walked beside her, one on each side. Sharon herself wasn't a short person - she was five foot eight, not fat, but far from skinny - yet these women made her feel tiny. She didn't want to see the other prisoners gawking at her, didn't want to feel like part of their afternoon entertainment, so she didn't look up until she was out of the corridor.
She was ushered into a room with a small barred window. She recognized the two people already inside as the same ones who'd come to talk to her yesterday. An attractive dark haired policewoman in street clothes was seated at the table, and the yuppie detective who'd been there when she and Ray were arrested was pacing up and down, his hands in his pockets. He had the uniformed women remove the handcuffs and sent them away, then pulled out a chair and motioned Sharon to sit down in it. She sat.