Paskagankee (18 page)

“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.”

“Good,” Sharon sniffed. “Make sure you don't see eye to eye, or any other body part to body part, with her.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

29

DR. JAN AFFELDT WAS no more engaging in his plush office than he had been last night standing in the freezing Maine woods. He glanced up from his paperwork when Mike and Sharon entered, looking to Mike for all the world like a man who has just bitten into a week-old tuna sandwich.

“Yes, what is it?” he asked impatiently. “I just finished speaking with your two ‘experts' from Portland less than an hour ago, and I have to tell you, if they're the people you're counting on to help you break this case open, you had better plan on it taking a while.”

“Finally we agree on something,” Mike said, pulling two hard-backed chairs across the carpeting in front of Affeldt's desk and sitting in one without waiting to be asked. He wondered how Affeldt had convinced the county to dress his office up so nicely, or whether perhaps the doctor had done it himself, paying for the beautiful Persian rug, expensive oak desk and the crystal chandelier out of his own pocket.

Sharon took the chair next to Mike and he said, “I have a feeling we weren't high on the priority list down there at State Police headquarters. They took the call from the AG and sent their two biggest screw-up's our way. The thing is,” he added, “I'm afraid that if we don't get to the bottom of whatever the hell is going on out there, we very quickly
will
become high on the list of priorities because it seems pretty clear to me that people are going to continue to die. Whoever is doing this has clearly targeted Paskagankee, and isn't likely to stop until he's caught.”

“Agreed. Let me guess,” the doctor said with a sigh. “You want me to repeat the results of the autopsy for you after I just finished going over them with your two friends.”

Mike nodded sympathetically. “Life sucks sometimes. But look at the bright side, you don't have to stage the whole dog and pony show, just hit the highlights and we'll be out of your hair.” He glanced at Affeldt's balding head. “Or at least out of your office.” Sharon kicked his shin out of sight of the ME.

Affeldt sighed again, choosing to ignore the chief's attempt at humor. He seemed to sigh a lot. “What do you want to know?”

“Was Mr. Cheslo killed before his body was torn apart like the devil was having a tantrum or was he still alive when it happened?”

“Well, you understand I can only make an educated guess,” Affeldt said, “but based on the large volume of blood spilled on the road near the car, and the relatively small amount found where the body came to rest, I would say he most likely was dead when he got taken apart. He wouldn't have lasted long, in any event, given the end result.”

Sharon blanched, turning in her chair and looking out the window. Mike guessed she was feeling a little queasy. He certainly was.

The ME continued. “Even if I'm wrong, he was not necessarily conscious for any of it. The head trauma suffered by the victim was extensive, and included a severe blunt-force injury. The skull had tiny bits and pieces of road pavement impacted in the bone and had literally cracked open.

“I believe he was thrown to the ground next to his car with such force that the head trauma, if it didn't kill him, almost certainly rendered him unconscious for the short remainder of time—say anywhere from a few seconds to two or three minutes—that he was left alive.”