The Maine Massacre (19 page)

They had to cross the park again to reach the hotel, and the commissaris walked slowly, stopping every now and then to study the trees. Most trees were adorned with small name plates, and the commissaris mumbled the Latin words, following the English classifications. Three men with long black beards sheltered under an impressive oak. They eyeballed the commissaris solemnly and greeted him by holding up three identical flat, unlabeled bottles.

"One, two, /top!" the tallest man said, and the three bottles pierced the three beards.

De Gier nudged the commissaris' arm. "Let's go, sir. When they have swallowed that they'll be looking for trouble."

The commissaris quickened his step. "No more trouble, sergeant, no more than is strictly due to us. You're right."

But they ran into a little more trouble before the day was over. There were other passengers on the plane to Jameson: several hunters and Michael Astrinsky. Astrinsky raised a hand when he boarded but made no effort to start a conversation. The commissaris dozed and de Gier smoked and looked out the window. Nothing but clouds, nothing happened, they didn't even hit any air pockets.

When the plane landed the cruiser was waiting. The sheriff didn't smile when the commissaris limped up to him.

"Good to see you, sir. I was waiting for you. I've just come back from the scene of a crime. Bob and Bert are still there. I think I'll have to call in die state police for sure now. Bernie got himself shot in the head this morning, on a road that goes nowhere, north of Cape Orca. His head is almost off. The weapon was a shotgun, fired from close quarters. Perhaps you'd like to have a look at his corpse before I sound the alarm and call in the supercops. You might see something we've missed."

15

T
HE SNOW," THE SHERIFF SAID. "IT DOES HELP TO COVER it all up."

Nearly two feet of snow had transformed Bernie's cruiser into an indeterminate, sparkling white shape in a curve of the narrow road.

"The engine was still running when we arrived this morning."

The commissaris was studying a disturbed area at the side of the road. "You found the chief deputy's corpse over here, sheriff?"

"Yes, sir. Albert thought there was still a chance that Bernie might be alive, so he moved the body. And tampered with the evidence, of course."

"Albert?"

"He telephoned from a house further along, a few miles from here on the way to town. I came out at once. Albert was here when I arrived."

"Did Albert have anything to do with this?"

"He said he was driving along in his little truck, saw the cruiser, stopped, and found Bernie's body."

"Did you arrest Albert?"

"He's in the jailhouse now. I don't know what charges to bring against him yet. I'm just holding him. But Albert is in trouble all right. Bernie had been looking for him, after having checked Tom's alibi. Tom was in town when the sergeant was shot at. Old Beth swears he was in her restaurant around eight-thirty the day before yesterday, and her daughter says so too. But nobody could find Albert, and Albert has a sign on the door of his cabin: OUT HUNTING. So Bernie went on looking for Albert and then Albert finds Bernie and Bernie is dead."

"And the fox?"

"I am holding the fox too, sir. He can't explain his movements either. He's very vague about where he has been. Bernie must have got himself shot early this morning. The fox says he was wandering around in Cape Orca looking for dead pines. Nobody saw him and he saw nobody. He could have been anywhere."

The commissaris walked over to Bernie's cruiser. Its passenger door was open and a shotgun had slipped between the front seat and the wheel.

"Bernie's gun?"

"Yes, sir. We found an empty shell. Bernie shot something, or at something."

"Did Albert have a shotgun in his truck?"

"Yes."

"Had he fired it recently?"

"Yes, sir, he was out hunting. He had a goose in the car and some ducks."

"Can you identify the ammunition?"

The sheriff spread his hands. "Everybody here buys his ammo from Robert's Market. Tom only stocks one brand. This must be BMF business, sir. Bernie was after the gang and the gang shot him. That Albert reported finding the body is an example of their style. It would be just like them to find their own victim!"

The two young deputies standing next to the dead man's cruiser nodded grimly.

"Did you have a chance to check out that boat in the bay, sheriff?"

"Yes. We couldn't get it out. It was frozen into the ice. I smashed some of the ice with a pickax. Jeremy was right. Not an ounce of plastic foam in the boat and the bulkheads had been replaced neatly. When Mary Brewer went sailing that day she thought her boat couldn't sink, but it sank like a brick and the current must have moved it to the rocks, very slowly. It may have taken months."

"Did the gang see you go out to the boat? How did you get to it?"

"They may have seen me. I rowed a dory across the open channel and then pushed it over the ice for a bit until I got to open water again, and I rowed the last few hundred feet. A man pushing a boat over the ice is visible for miles. I'm surprised they didn't have a crack at me with a rifle."

"Yes," the commissaris said thoughtfully and took a cigar from his pocket. "But so many patterns have been moving around here. The BMF gang is only one of them. The obvious doesn't always point at the truth. Have you dug about in the snow at all, sheriff?"

"Yes, sir, there's a lot of blood. In two places. Around where Bernie's corpse was, of course, and in another place, some five feet further down. Perhaps he walked a few steps, like a chicken that has lost its head, staggered about I mean."

"Where is the corpse?"

"In the back of the cruiser. We wrapped it in blankets."

The commissaris poked at the snow with his cane.

"Do you have any ideas, sir?"

"No, sheriff, only abstractions. I have no facts to make the abstractions concrete. Is there anything you can tell me about Bernie? I only knew him as a pleasant fat man, and that is by hearsay. The sergeant described him to me."

"Fat," one of the deputies said. "Bernie was sure fat. It was worrying him. He burst out of two uniforms and he had to pay for new ones. He was getting close to two hundred and fifty pounds. That isn't fat anymore, that's obese."

"Was he worried about losing his job?"

The sheriff nodded. "He may have been. I'd talked to him about his physical problem. He'd been getting a little sleepy lately. He would drop off a lot, even on patrol. Can't have a sleeper next to me in the cruiser."

"Any other problems?"

"The dog," the sheriff said slowly. "The damned dog. Bob, where does Bill Thompson live, the old farmer whose dog was causing all the ten sixty-four's. Doesn't Bill live at the end of Blueberry Neck Road?"

"That's right, sheriff."

"This
is Blueberry Neck Road!" the sheriff shouted. "It goes to the sea and stops. Bill's farm is three miles from this spot. His dog was killing the deer in these woods right here!"

"Bernie has been after that dog, sheriff," the deputy said. "He was talking to us about it."

The sheriff was rubbing his chin furiously. "So maybe he got the dog. That would explain the blood. And then somebody got
him."

"I know Bill Thompson, sheriff," the deputy called Bob said. "Bill has two shotguns and two deer rifles and a couple of wooden boxes full of shells and cartridges. His house and his bam are on a hill. He would have some handguns too."

Bob walked over to his car, next to the sheriff's. "Shall I call the state cops, sheriff? We'll need more men to take that house. Maybe it's not a house right now. Maybe it's a bunker."

"No. No, wait, Bob. We can handle this. You and Bert get in your cruisers. Follow me, but stay out of sight. Lock Bernie's car. You gentlemen can come with me if you like."

"Hell," the sheriff said a little later. "I think I can see it now. Old Bill must have been driving his Ford truck with the dog sitting next to him. A big short-haired brown dog, friendly enough when he hasn't got the smell of deer in his nose. Bill's buddy. The two of them are driving along quietly, on their way home probably, and Bernie comes zooming along after them. Bernie switches on his lights and plays his siren and old Bill pulls up. Bernie stops behind the Ford and takes out his shotgun. Maybe he talked to Bill, maybe he didn't, but he must have got the dog out of the truck. He probably just opened the dog's door and called him. Dog jumps onto the road and Bernie shoots him straight in the eyes. Bang. Dead dog. Bernie's temper has been bad lately. He was polite enough to me, but he hadn't forgotten my remarks about his big belly and his fat bum. And the BMF gang got him scared. And the game wardens had been after him about Bill's dog. So he meant to do something, for a change. But Bill doesn't know about Bernie's troubles, and cares less. All Bill hears is a bang, and all he sees is his buddy dead on the snow at the side of the road. So Bill reaches over, grabs the old sixteen-gauge that's hooked up against the roof of his truck's cabin, slips in a shell, and pokes it out of the open door.
Wham!
Another corpse in the road, but this time it's Bernie. And Bill picks up his dog and carries him into the truck and drives off, and the snow falls and falls and blots everything out. Albert says Bernie was completely snowed under when he got to the scene."

"Yes," de Gier said. "That sounds fine. What's Bill Thompson like?"

"Old. Eighty and some I should think. And quiet. He still farms and he still fishes and he still hunts. A proud old man who doesn't cash his social security checks. He won't take money from the welfare people either, not even if they put it on his kitchen table. He pushes it back at them. In summer he sells fish off his truck. I've bought them for the jailhouse. He's got the fish spread on crushed ice and his price is about half of what we pay elsewhere, and then we have to drive forty miles."

"A nice old man?"

"Not nice. He isn't friendly. He says what he has to say and goes home again. I think he really can't stand people, like a lot of us around here. But he is a good man and I don't want to shoot him up. I know what my deputies want to do. Call the state cops, and the sheriff from the next county and his men, and get everybody in position around Bill's house. They'll yell at Bill a few times and order him to come out with his hands over his head, and if he doesn't they'll blast his house from all sides at once."

"I see," the commissaris said. "Your suspect won't be the sort of man who likes to be yelled at. But he might listen if talked to."

"I'll talk to him," the sheriff said. "And I'll go alone." He stopped the cruiser well away from the house and parked it behind two imposing maples. He pressed a button and picked up the microphone. The house and the barn looked pretty and restful under their loads of glistening snow. A black battered pickup truck stood next to a tractor with a snow-blade attached. The sheriff picked up his microphone and activated the loudspeaker on the cruiser's top.

"Bill," the sheriff said quietly. "I know you're in there. Listen to me."

The hill echoed and the sheriff adjusted the loudspeaker's volume.

"This is the sheriff speaking, Bill. I'll be coming out of the cruiser in a minute. I'll have a gun, but I won't use it. I'm going to walk up your driveway and you can shoot me if you like, but I advise you not to do that. You've killed my chief deputy. Maybe you were right, maybe you were not right. I'm going to ask you to come with me and the judge will hear your case."

The sheriff released the button on the microphone and looked at the house. There was no movement. He pressed the button again. "I'm coming now, Bill. I won't put a hand on you. I'm going to ask you to accompany me."

The commissaris looked around. Bob's and Bert's cruisers had stopped at a safe distance. The two deputies stood in the road. They couldn't be seen from the house; neither could their cars.

The sheriff signed and opened his door. The commissaris and de Gier watched his small straight figure walk up the driveway. The short walk took a long time. The sheriff stopped next to the black truck, crossed his hands behind his back, and waited. De Gier looked at his watch. Thirty seconds passed. Then the door of the house opened and a tall man in a dark floppy hat and a long gray coat stepped out and walked up to the sheriff. He walked with a stoop and supported himself on a stick. The sheriff turned and began to walk back to the cruiser. The tall silent shape followed him after a slight hesitation.

The commissaris touched de Gier's hand. They both got out of the cruiser.

"All clear?" Bob asked.

"Yes," the commissaris said. "Mr. Thompson is coming quietly. Can you give us a lift back?"