The Maine Massacre (4 page)

"Caught him, sheriff?"

"The sheriff is in the suspect's car. We are on our way back."

"Who are you?"

"Sergeant Rinus de Gier, Amsterdam Municipal Police."

The radio crackled emptily.

"Come again?"

De Gier came again.

"You the guy the sheriff went to meet on the airstrip?"

"Right."

"You got the subject?"

"Yes, man named Leroux."

"Leroux. He's big. Did he fight?"

"A little."

"Okay, ten four."

De Gier put the microphone back. 'Ten four," he mumbled.

"Means 'acknowledged,'" Leroux said. "Ten three means 'go ahead.' Sheriff's talk. I have a CB radio. Everybody has. It's fun to listen in sometimes, not always. They talk a lot of shit too. You really from the Amsterdam police?"

De Gier adjusted his rearview mirror so that he could see Leroux's face. The small beady eyes twinkled back at him.

"Yes."

"That's close to France. How come you're here?"

"An exchange. I am learning."

Leroux laughed. "On me, hey? I would have murdered that little bastard."

"Maybe not. How do you feel?"

"Bad. Take the cuffs off and I'll feel better."

"No."

Never trust a suspect when he's just been arrested. A golden police rule. An arrested suspect feels threatened, his nerves are ready to break, his reasoning is impaired. Better to humor him.

"You French?" de Gier asked.

"Not French French, local French."

"American."

"Yes, everybody is American. But I'm French. They don't like us here; they say that we are niggers but we've been sandblasted so the color doesn't show."

"What's wrong with black?"

"Black isn't white," Leroux said. "Take my cuffs off. Bastard put them on too tight."

"In a minute."

Leroux leaned forward. The sheriff had left the glass partitioning open. Leroux's chin rested on the barrel of the shotgun that was clipped to the two front seats.

"I can bite your neck off."

"Don't bite my neck off," de Gier said. "It'll be another charge. You have enough already. Did you steal the car?"

"Borrowed it."

"Will the owner say you borrowed it?"

"Sure. Charlie only wants his car back, and I won't give it back unless he gets my chain saw fixed."

"You'll give it back now. Are you drunk?"

Leroux grinned slyly. The Oldsmobile was still ahead. There were houses on both sides of the road now, and the dainty steeple of a clapboard church pointed at the clear, pale blue sky. Great elms flanked the street. A store sign glided by: ROBERT'S MARKET. TWO pickup trucks were feeding off the pumps under the awning of the store. An old woman pushed a rusty supermarket cart through the caked snow on the sidewalk. A fat black dog limped behind the woman.

"Jameson," Leroux said. "Good old Jameson, nothing but trouble. I haven't made money, not even in the summer. Broke my leg and the bill from the hospital is still on the shelf. They'll be pulling the house from under me soon. It's a good thing they're feeding the kids at the school or I'd have them whining around me. There's a deer in the freezer for the holidays, but they eat a deer in a week and there'll be another week after that one. If the judge fines me heavy it'll be all over."

The cruiser turned sharply, following the Oldsmobile. A small sign, overshadowed by a twisted pine, said JAIL. The sheriff stood next to the cruiser.

"How is our friend? Quiet now?"

"I'm quiet, sheriff."

The sheriff opened the rear door. Leroux didn't move.

"I'll be real quiet, sheriff. Take them off."

The handcuffs snapped free.

"Walk."

"Yes, sheriff."

"Bernie McDougal," a fat man said and shook de Gier's hand. "Good to meet you, you did some work, that's good, loafers get very cold here. Shall I take him, Jim? I couldn't raise Bob's cruiser, but you had enough help."

"All yours."

Leroux was led to the rear of the building. The big man was rubbing his wrists. There was the clang of a metal door and Bernie came back. He wore the same uniform as the sheriff but there was a plastic disc above the left tunic pocket: "Chief deputy."

"Are you going to hit him, Jim?"

"Speeding," the sheriff said. "Fifty-mile limit, he was doing eighty but maybe we'll drop it to sixty-five. That'll be a twenty-dollar fine. He won't have much more."

"Drunk?"

"He wasn't too drunk."

"Stolen car?"

"Phone Charlie. Tell him we found his car and to bring the key. Leroux used some silly wire. It may short-circuit the system. Charlie won't want to press charges, but we should talk to him about Leroux's chain saw. Leroux is a logger in winter. He needs the saw. If Charlie has broken it he should do something."

"Coffee?"

"Yes," de Gier said. "Coffee. Is there a place to eat nearby?"

"By my guest," the sheriff said. "We have a cook in the jailhouse. What's he got, Bernie?"

"Pea soup and there's bread in the oven. No eggs but there's bacon. Four frostbitten green peppers from the greenhouse but enough lettuce. Tomatoes. Clam chowder."

The sheriff nodded. Bernie went back into the jail and returned with a barefoot young man with long shiny brown hair.

"You had your bath?"

"Yes, sheriff."

"Won't have a dirty cook. Did the bread rise?"

"Yes, sheriff. But you got the wrong yeast. I don't want little chunks, I want the little bags."

"Chunks are cheaper. Meet the sergeant."

De Gier and the young man nodded at each other.

"The sergeant is our guest. A police officer from abroad. Call him 'sergeant.' His name will give you a sore throat. Sergeant, this is Albert, second man of the BMF gang. He'll be out tomorrow, but we have another cook. How is he shaping up, Albert?"

"His soups are better than his stews."

"He'll have to learn."

The meal was served on the room's only table. It was a big room, pine paneled on all sides and with a high roof carried by dark brown rough beams. Half a dozen rifles and shotguns were chained to a rack on the wall. A modern radio transmitter and receiver stood on a shelf next to two old black telephones. Uniform jackets and stiff high felt hats hung from hooks near the door leading to the jail. The sheriff unbuckled his gunbelt and lowered it carefully into a drawer under the table.

"You want a gun, sergeant? I can let you have one, but you'll have to wear it so that it shows. There's a law against hidden guns here and I can't make you a deputy. Only Americans can serve in a sheriff's department. I can call the general—maybe there's an exception to the rule I don't know about."

"No, I don't want a gun."

"Good, you shouldn't need one. I hardly ever touch mine. It antagonizes the locals. They've all got guns too. If I pull mine it may give them ideas. What were those chops you used on Leroux? Karate?"

"Yes."

"You good at karate?"

"No, I am trained in judo. It's a gentler method, but the suspect was big and I thought I might lose my footing if I moved around him."

"Yes," the sheriff said, cutting the bread, then pushing a steaming bowl of soup across the table. "I really thought you had killed the motherfucker."

"Motherfucker," de Gier said and held up his plate so that Albert could serve the salad. "Does the suspect have a perversion?"

"Not that I know of. It's just a term. We deal with two types: subjects and motherfuckers. Everybody is a subject until we have a charge against them that will stick. Charges make them motherfuckers. And the judge may change their status again. If he confirms the charge they become prisoners."

"I'm a prisoner," Albert said. 'Take this pepper, sergeant. It looks a little black on the edge, but it's okay."

"What did you do?"

The sheriff stopped eating. "I'll tell you what he did because he won't tell you. He did very well. Old Bernie likes a good chase and he likes to make the cruiser jump, and Albert, here, he knows that. So Albert does a number of things. First he comes to see us, all meek and pleasant-like, and he says his motorcycle is stolen. Just disappeared. One minute it's in front of Robert's Market, sitting quietly in the sun, and the next minute it's gone. Very strange, for Albert's motorcycle is some outlandish contraption and nobody knows how to start it but Albert. But anyway, it's gone and Albert comes to see us. It's a red bike, easy to spot. Then Albert goes and gets himself a big beard made out of twine or something, and he hangs it over his face and gets some funny clothes and puts them on, and he finds his bike where he has hidden it, and he races up Main Street. Just as Bernie is coming out of Bern's restaurant. Bernie jumps for his cruiser and tries to yank its door open. The door is stuck. Bernie puts his foot against the cruiser and gives a mighty heave and the whole door comes out, on top of Bernie, who's sitting on the sidewalk. Okay. Bernie gets up and into the cruiser. He starts the engine. Fine. But the shift is locked in park. Bernie gets mad and tries to force the shift, and meanwhile he has his foot on the gas. The shift works after a while and the cruiser jumps away, into a parked vehicle. Okay. Bernie backs up and takes off. But then the cruiser has four slow leaks and Bernie doesn't get very far. I didn't see it but I listened to people who did. They were still laughing and it was hours later. Like a Laurel and Hardy movie, only better. Full color and three dimensions. And Albert was gone. Eh, Albert?"

"That's what you say," Albert said.

"That's what I say and what everybody "That's what I say and what everybody says. The cruiser needs a lot of county money and a couple of weeks to get fixed up again. The sheriff's department pays for the car Bernie hit. You laugh and all your buddies laugh."

"No proof?" de Gier asked.

"No proof."

"But the next day Albert telephones to say that his motorcycle has shown up again. We say that that is very nice. Albert says yes and hangs up. Then he goes for a ride. He doesn't wear the funny clothes or the beard. And he passes a state trooper in a curve, on the gravel shoulder, at a hundred and ten miles an hour. When he sees that he's playing with a police car its too late, eh, Albert? You got away but we picked you up a little later and the judge liked the charge. Dangerous driving. Ten days. Thirty suspended. You are a good cook, Albert, we'll miss you, but we'll have you back."

Albert smiled. "You won't, sheriff."

"You can't drive at fifty-five miles an hour, you can't do it, Albert. Only the good citizens can do it, and you aren't a good citizen. You'll be speeding and we'll catch you. That's not a probability, that's a fact."

"I'm selling the motorcycle."

The sheriff held up his bowl. "If you do we're getting somewhere, Albert, but it's winter now and your bike is useless. When spring comes around you'll have forgotten. But we still have thirty days for you."

"More soup?" Albert asked.

"He is a motherfucker," the sheriff said, "but he admits it. He is a
bad
motherfucker. The name of his gang. The BMF gang. How is the fox these days, Albert?"

"The fox is fine, sheriff. He has been visiting."

"We'll have him here too," the sheriff said. "Tell him to brush up on his cooking. I've got a freezer full of mushrooms and I like them sautéed. With a pickle on the side and plenty of gravy. I haven't asked you to try so far because you're still a little coarse, but the fox should do better. Make sure you tell him."

"Yes, sheriff." The young face smiled again. De Gier studied it. An intelligent face with more depth than could be expected of a village rowdy. The clear blue eyes sparkled above a strong jaw.

"That'll be all, Albert. We'll do the coffee ourselves."

Albert's bare feet shuffled over the boards and the metal door clanged.

"You keep the door unlocked, sheriff?"

"Yes. Call me Jim. That door is open, but the cells inside are locked. Albert is a trusty, he can move around. Leroux is in a cell now, but he'll be out in an hour, if we can get the chain saw business with Charlie fixed. He'll have bail."

Bernie had finished his call. "Charlie is on his way, Jim. He's borrowing a car."

"Good."

"This BMF gang," de Gier asked. "Just fun or are they dangerous?"

"They're dangerous, but we keep them in check. The fox is clever and he gets bored sometimes. The fox is the boss—he looks like a fox too, hairy ears and all. If he went to New York he could beat the Mafia, but he likes it out here so he gets his gang to try and beat us. We're the only other power around."

"They got my cruiser," Bernie said. "That was bad. It took a lot of brown-nosing to talk it right with the authorities."

"I'll show you your room," the sheriff said. "Upstairs, next to mine. The motel has closed for the winter. The general said to make you comfortable, but comfort is hard to get around here, although we try at times. And you'll need some clothes. I wouldn't know how. You aren't my size, and Bernie is fat and Bob and Bert are sort of square. You'll need a car too. How about the Dodge, Bernie?"

"Sure, the Dodge was meant to be a detective's car, but the detective never showed up."

"A Dodge Dart, sky blue, about new, got a receiver and a transmitter and no markings. We can clip a shotgun into it. Will that do, sergeant?"

"Yes, thank you very much. But without the shotgun, please."

"Then we won't clip it in. You're welcome, sergeant."

The upstairs room had a dormer overlooking the jailhouse grounds and the town sloping away beneath them toward a bay. The bed was covered with thick patchwork quilts and the whitewashed ceiling contrasted pleasantly with the rough boarded walls. The sheriff sat on the bed and de Gier sat in the room's only chair. He got up and felt about in his suitcase. He brought out a cheese and gave it to the sheriff. "With the compliments of the Amsterdam Municipal Criminal Investigation Department."

"That's a big cheese. What's it called? Edam?"

"Yes."

"Good, That's good cheese. We'll have to keep it away from the prisoners. They steal, you know. Stole my salami the other day. Sat around munching in their cells and didn't know what happened to the salami. Big salami too. Let's have a piece of that cheese now. I'll get the trimmings."