“Not before downloading and looking at them.” She took her time, sipped on a soda from the small refrigerator in the department. Stocked by Lester, Oliver, and herself, they shared leftovers and kept it stocked with caffeinated drinks.
“Well, no. Okay, yes.” He looked crestfallen. “I know, I know. But it’s human nature, you know? I swear I deleted the pictures. All of them.”
“Okay,” she said quietly. “I have to take your word for it.”
“You’re mad at me,” he pointed out.
“A little, yeah, I guess.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. This department should have its own cameras. I’m grateful for you saving the day.” She looked at the containers of food in front of them. “Twice today.” Meghan wiped her mouth with a napkin and suppressed a belch.
“What happened to her?” he asked. It wasn’t a reporter trying to get information out of a cop for a scoop in the paper. It was a man asking someone who knew what was going on when the tragedy happened.
“How well did you know Nancy?”
“Well,” he started and smiled. “She was very, very popular.”
Meghan nodded. “Her sister said the same thing.”
“I think Nancy liked all the boys chasing her.”
“Did you ever chase her?”
He waited to answer. Nancy was thirty-three, still holding on the youthful twenty-six appearance. It was the magic of a woman to have the right form-fitting underwear, the sense of the proper application of make-up, and the right lighting to pull off the magnetism and allure. “I chased briefly. Shortly after her divorce, we started to get to know each other. Small acquaintance through the diner,” he added. “I think she came back to Kinguyakkii only because her sister had a business that could use Nancy.”
Meghan smiled because Calvin pronounced the Inuit word like a lifelong Alaskan with all five syllables rolling off his talented tongue.
“What happened?”
“I saw through her. Honestly, I really wasn’t interested in dating Nancy. She was new in town. You know how it is.”
“Not really,” Meghan said.
“No, you don’t see behind you.” He smiled. “You’re too busy looking ahead to notice around you.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Not really, but you’re a little like Nancy, people see you. People like you—”
“Well, that’s a lie.”
“It’s not. You’re guarded. I get it. You’ve seen the worst in people. You know what it means when people say one thing and don’t mean it. This place isn’t like anywhere else in the world, Meghan. You need to give it a chance.”
She waited to speak. Calvin had her at a disadvantage. He’d done his homework on her. And unlike cursory looks at superficial internet searches, Calvin was a journalist, and from what she’d read of his articles in the weekly Northern Lights Sounder he had a clear narrative that was objective without the need for self-promotion through slanted opinions that made journalistic articles more like sounding boards to influence readers.
“You know me apparently better than most.”
“You need to get out more into the community. Let them see you as a person, not just a big coat with a badge on it.”
“Hard to see a person that’s constantly shivering all the time without that big coat.”
It was a man’s arctic weather coat. It was two sizes big on Meghan but long enough to dip below her knees. It kept her warm, that’s what mattered.
“So, you didn’t date Nancy?” she pressed.
Calvin shook his head. He collected the leftover Chinese-Mexican dishes. “Too much baggage for me,” he said. “I live a minimal lifestyle. Nancy brought more than I ever wanted to carry around.”
Satisfied with Calvin’s answer, she collected her wits and stood up on tired legs. “I need to get back to work.”
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
Meghan gave him a look. She’d swept up her coppery waves into a disorganized mess on the back of her head. The hair was out of her eyes, and while she knew there were no beauty contests in town until July Fourth, Meghan was confident in her appearance. At least at a distance; she still needed a shower. “You’ve done a lot. Thank you, Calvin.”
He smiled, a sweet smile on thin lips that made his hazel eyes sparkle under the fluorescent lighting. “You’re welcome, Meghan.”
Chapter Eleven
It wasn’t until after midnight when Meghan locked up and left the office. She’d taken the time to plug in the block heater for the Suburban, so it fired up on the second try. Driving home in the dark, the rest of the town slept. Most everyone, that was, as Meghan considered, Brian and Cheryl were probably still awake. She knew Oliver was awake, or at least, awake enough to answer the text she sent him when she left the office.
Sometime yesterday, Nancy McCormick had company at her apartment, two people were alive and awake; afterward, one was dead. Meghan couldn’t think straight and needed a few hours of sleep to clear the fuzzy junk in her head. She drove by the Snyder’s house on her way home. There were lights on inside.
Shedding her clothes as she walked through the small one-bedroom house on Bison Street, Meghan made her way to the bathroom. One of the best features of the tiny house was the pressure and heat of the shower. It had new fixtures, and once she let it run hot, Meghan stepped under the steamy stream and tried scrubbing away the day.
The stippling puckered point where the bullet went into her body just above her right breast left a permanent reminder that life as a Special Agent for the FBI wasn’t all about serving federal summons, or in-house casework. Outside the tundra of Alaska, wild churned and bubbled, melted slowly for the coming summer where the sun shown in the sky most of the day.
Villagers would be up late, out later, as the townspeople celebrated life anew. Someone took a slice of that life from Nancy McCormick, and Meghan wanted to know who in her tiny village miles from the real world wanted to disrupt harmony.
Meghan toweled off and wiped the steam from the mirror. The face she remembered looked back her. The body was a little chunkier than her day in the Bureau, but she wasn’t running against the male-driven social status that bent the FBI around their social and formal strata. Meghan still turned heads. Not that she could see anyone while wearing a bulky hood. The coppery natural color and wavy hair drew attention. Unfortunately, hair conditioner was no match for the environment, and the wave lay limp against her hair a little longer than shoulder-length now. She had the obligatory green eyes that went with the recessive trait from a northern European lineage, a small rounded nose, and lips that were a little wide on her otherwise V-shaped face. When the sun caught her cheeks and across her nose, freckles sprang to life, it didn’t often happen since moving to Alaska. She went up a size, maybe two, in her pants since moving to Kinguyakkii, and while Meghan meant to work off that added weight, it just wasn’t part of her day anymore. Fast food was accessible to get; quicker to heat and eat, it was never meant to be kind to the hips.
She sighed, switched off the light, padded barefoot to the bedroom, and slipped into her sleepwear. Checking her phone for any texts from her on-duty officer, Meghan plugged the phone into the charger, set the alarm for four hours from now, and tried to sleep knowing there was still a killer out there and so far, he’d gotten away with it.
***
Refreshed enough to focus, before she went to the office, Meghan drove by the trailer on Fifth Avenue and Lagoon Street, the porch light was on, and the rusty Ford Focus was there. While she didn’t want to bother Calvin again, she needed something more and hoped he’d have the supplies.
After tapping lightly on the door, Meghan walked back to the truck. The ground chilled overnight enough to be crunchy underfoot.
“Everything okay?” Calvin asked from the doorway. He stood at the small steel stairs that led into the trailer. The Northern Lights Sounder placard by the door let everyone know i
t was a place of business.
Meghan faced him, swooped the hood off her head. “I thought you were working. I had another favor to ask.”
He cocked an eyebrow smiling. “You’ll owe me an exclusive when you catch the killer.”
Meghan shook her head. “I don’t think that’s going to happen. We’ll see that the troopers drop by, maybe, if they see fit to worry about it.”
“Come inside. I got coffee on.”
“Now, you’re talking.” She made her way up the corrugated steel stairs. Calvin retreated inside the trailer.
Meghan wiped her feet once inside and pulled shut the door. “I thought this was your office.” She saw a small living room. The TV, a workstation with a large flat screen monitor, along with the kitchenette and the fresh aroma of coffee that permeated the warm air, down the small hallway she saw an unmade bed.
“It’s my office. I work here. But I live here too.” He took down two coffee mugs from the cupboard, poured measured coffee into each. From the refrigerator, he produced two flavored creamers. Meghan pointed to the vanilla. Once she had a cup in her hands, she took in the rest of the trailer. The workstation took up more space than the living room had to offer. There was a loveseat pushed against the kitchen counter. The corner desk took up the entire front of the area. Calvin was working on the latest edition of the weekly newspaper.
Meghan saw a photograph of Nancy McCormick on the front-page layout. It was a photo from the woman’s social media files, not one of the pictures Meghan took at the crime scene.
“I’m going to write a biography of her. Something to let everyone know she was part of the community.” He scrolled through the page layout for Meghan. She ignored the fact that Calvin crossed close to her on the way to the computer, his hand brushed against her shoulder. “Nothing about the murder,” he added.
“I would think you’d write something about the murder.”
He shook his head. “I don’t have anything to write about right now. You haven’t solved the crime,” he said before sipping coffee. “People got enough to worry about here. We have problems with alcoholism, domestic violence. If you read the paper, you’d see I try to make things lighter, easier to digest.”
“Still, people will talk about the murder.”
“They will,” he agreed with a nod. “People are already talking about it. My job, as far as I see it, is to tell the facts. Right now, all we have is a death. I want to write about justice.”
“That’s interesting coming from a reporter.”
“I have readers North Slope Borough and Northwest Arctic Borough. I have subscribers from the lower-forty-eight for the online edition of the paper. I don’t do this for the fame and certainly not the fortune. I don’t make much money doing this. I teach too.”
“You do?”
He nodded. “I have a master’s in journalism; I’m an adjunct professor for the University of Alaska. They do tons of online courses. It helps pay the bills. Sometimes the school principal calls me when she needs someone to substitute for her. The paper is a hobby more than a career.”
“This is nice.” Meghan saw a framed newspaper article on the wall. It was a story about how the community of Kinguyakkii worked together to save a group of kids stranded on an ice flow that drifted out of the bay. Children had a habit of jumping on floating ice as a leisure pursuit, to combat boredom and challenge their friends. It was dangerous with ice chunks large enough to crush boat hulls in waters cold enough to cause hyperthermia in minutes. Kids only saw the adventures, not the trouble that went with it.
“That’s the one, and the only time one of my articles was picked up by the Associated Press. It’s a big deal for a journalist.”
She needed to get back to work and addressed Calvin about why she woke him early that morning. “Did you have some photo printer paper? I’ve got the printer, and I want to get some pictures printed so I can take a look at the scene without straining my eyes on the computer.”
Calvin went to a filing cabinet and opened the bottom drawer. He handed her a ream of paper.
“What do I owe you?”
“I’ll send an invoice to the town.”
“Duane will love that.”
“Don’t worry about him.”
“Oh, I don’t.” She finished the coffee, put down the mug, and hoisted the package of paper in the air. “Thank you for this.”
Meghan stepped out of the trailer. Calvin stood in the doorway in sweatpants and a t-shirt. It was as if the cold weather didn’t bother him. “Are you going to sit down for that interview one of these days?”
“I might,” she teased as she got into the Suburban.
Chapter Twelve
It was after eleven in the morning when Duane stormed into the police station. Meghan stood next to the table, staring at the rows of photographs she’d spent hours printing. She’d used almost the entire ream of paper Calvin gave her.
Duane was at the front where Lester sat at the counter, reading a magazine. “Hey!” he called when Meghan moved around the massive Formica table and into view from the archway separating the front counter from the rest of the business. Duane pushed through the small swinging café door that was supposed to keep the public from police business. “What happened to the supply of printer—” he stopped talking when he saw the dead eyes of Nancy McCormick staring at him from a few photographs on the tabletop. “What are you doing?”
“My job, Duane,” Meghan said without looking up at him. “What do you want?”
“Shelley told me you took three months’ worth of printer cartridges this morning.”
“I needed color pictures, Duane. Hard to look at a crime scene in black and white,” she said and put down another photo paper page, wet with laser ink. “You owe Calvin Everett for a ream of photo paper too.”
“You can’t do this. You can’t do all of this.” It was as if the crime scene photos were too much for Duane. Arms spread as he spoke as if presenting a buffet of murder on the table, his voice cracked and went up a few octaves. “You’re not authorized to do this. You can’t just make the rules around here. You’re not going to solve this murder.”
At that point, she’d heard enough. Meghan turned to Duane, narrowing her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean, Duane?” She moved around the far side of the table toward him. “Are you going to get in my way? Is there a reason you don’t want me to solve this?” Five feet from him, Duane took a step backward. Lester watched the interaction by leaning over to look without having to get out of his chair.
There was no private place in the building to display the photographs. Meghan wanted to look at all the evidence, and the table was big enough for her to see it all. The welded seams of the conjoined contractor trailers leaked when it rained. Rusty trails had dripped down the walls, kept her from tacking the pictures to a wall. The roof over the table hadn’t sprung a leak so far, and it was the best and only place to set out the scene.
“Why are you worried about me solving this, Duane?” Each step Meghan took forward, Duane took a step back. “Where were you on Saturday night? Do you have anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts?”
Duane’s shoulder bumped into the archway as he backed away from Meghan. “You can’t steal printer cartridges. We don’t have enough money in the budget—”
“Screw your budget, Duane! A woman died here. Now I know that doesn’t happen every day in your corner of the world. But where I come from, it happens a lot, and we’d like to go to bed at night and not have to worry about locking our doors because we have a killer walking around out there. Isn’t that right, Officer Graves?”
“Sure enough, Chief.” Lester used his foot to hold open the small swinging door for Duane. Once on the public side of the counter, the little door squeaked closed. Meghan stood beside Lester at the tall counter.
“Duane, you’re not allowed back in here while we have an active investigation.”
“You’re supposed to call—”
“I called
the State Troopers last night. I spoke to Detective Greg Anderson. I know you’re going to run right next door after we have this chat and check on me. I don’t care. Let me do my job, Duane. The town can afford a few more printer cartridges for the sake of this girl.”
Duane said nothing when he left the office. The slamming door spoke loud enough.
“Lester, how about we lock the front door until this is all done.”
“Sure thing, Chief,” he answered, sliding off the chair long enough to pass through the little gate to lock the door.
Meghan went back to her table, studying the layout, looking at the pictures. She still had fingerprints to analyze but wanted to get a perspective of the scene. Lester timidly wandered through the archway to look at the pictures.
“Tell me what you see,” Meghan said.
Lester took a moment to soak in the view. “I don’t know. Looks a little disorganized.”
Meghan looked up and smiled. “That’s good. That’s what I thought too.”
“It was a man who killed her,” he added confidently.
“I agree.” She motioned to the bed, how the duvet looked. While Lester admitted to touching Nancy, checking for a pulse, he hadn’t moved the blankets. “It looks like the killer threw the comforter over her in shame, in an afterthought.”
“Was she…” he let the rest trail off.
Meghan shook her head. “Nancy wasn’t sexually assaulted. She might have had consensual sex with the killer. But she wasn’t raped before he strangled her.” She took notes, reading the images, and writing down what she saw. “The killer robbed her, but only the money in the cookie tin — nothing like jewelry, not even the money in her wallet. I found credit cards and cash in the wallet. That tells me it was impulsive like something happened, and her death wasn’t intentional.”
“Any idea who did it?”
“Not yet. I think whoever killed Nancy is either still in town or one of the passengers on the flight out early Saturday morning. The troopers are following up with the list of people. I might have his fingerprints. I have to eliminate the known prints I have.”
A Cold Day for Murder Page 5