“I think you’ll find that Helen was Miller’s wife,” said Wheeler. “Making that recording was damn quick thinking on Janice’s part. It gives a much better handle on him.”
Ellen Davis voice was a little shrill. “Yeah, but it doesn’t help us find him, and while we’re sitting here, Janice is in trouble.”
Wheeler held up a finger. “I don’t think Janice is in any immediate danger,” he said. “From the sound of the recording, she seems to understand what’s going on, and as long as she plays along, accepts his protection, he won’t harm her.”
Clipper had been sitting, head down, silently going over the recording in his mind. “And I’m pretty sure I know where they’re going.”
Two hours later, Clipper stepped into the clearing in front of the farmhouse at the end of a country lane in Hudson. He had followed a single set of tracks in the thin patches of melting snow on the unplowed road just far enough to see the late model Chevrolet sitting in front of the farmhouse, then pulled back to allow his detectives, along with members of the State Police Special Response Team, time to quietly filter into the woods around the clearing.
The farmhouse sat silent in the moonlight with a thin trickle of wood smoke climbing straight from the chimney into the still air, and a gentle glow of yellow light behind the shaded kitchen window.
Clipper kept an eye on that window as he walked slowly toward the front porch, ready to dive for cover at the first twitch of the shade. Moving stiffly due to the vest and ballistic plates under his coat, he had just reached the rear of the Chevy when the front door of the farmhouse swung silently open.
“You’re not needed here, Lieutenant.”
“I’m alone, Nelson. I just want to come in and talk for a minute.”
Miller stopped the negotiation unborn, his chuckle ghostly in the quiet night. “I don’t think so, Lieutenant. We’ve both played this game before, but a man’s got the right to see to the safety of his family. If you’re not gone by the count of three, I’m going to shoot you. One…two…”
The shot, a distant crack muffled by the walls of the farmhouse, was followed by an eternity of silence, finally broken by a plaintive cry.
“Cliiipperr!”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“I wish you’d stop fussing over me. I’m okay, really.” Janice smiled tiredly as Clipper hurried around to help her out of the truck. It was mid-morning, and they had just come from the Troop E State Police barracks where a two-hour interrogation session had wrapped up the investigation into Nelson Miller’s death. They were parked in front of Ray Wheeler’s office in Bangor.
Once inside, Janice repeated her protestations to Wheeler. “I don’t mind talking with you,” she said, “but I really am okay with it. He killed all those people, and he was about to kill Clip. I had tried to reason with him and… and… there was no other choice.”
Wheeler nodded. “Well, all right, then. why don’t you drop by around three tomorrow afternoon and we’ll chat. Right now, you’re probably feeling relieved that it’s over, but it would still be good to talk it out.”
Janice shrugged her acceptance. “Okay. I guess I do feel a little sorry for him. I mean it’s not like he molested me or anything, I think he really thought he was protecting me, but it’s too bad it turned out the way it did.”
Clipper had been half listening, thinking how lucky it was that Janice had gotten into the habit of carrying his little .380 in her purse, when the thought exploded in his mind.
At least the family can be thankful…
“Doc, I’m sorry, we’ve got to go.”
The list of people that had been at the hunting cabin was voluminous, but twenty minutes later Clipper found the name he’d remembered, and a half hour after that he knocked gently on a killer’s door.
“Good afternoon, Reverend Webster.”
Epilogue
With Nelson Miller gone and all of the homicide cases closed, a degree of normalcy descended on the department. Cold weather had settled in, and the Christmas holidays lay ahead. Property crimes began their annual year-end spike, and snowy roads brought the expected spate of early winter traffic accidents.
“I heard Webster pled this afternoon,” John Peters said around a mouthful of crackers and cheese.
Clipper grinned, surveying the crowd of family and friends partying in his home. “Yeah, how ‘bout that. Year’s about over and not a single open homicide.”
“Why did he do it?” Carole Murphy had drifted up behind them.
Clipper shrugged. “Kristen went back to the church that morning. He says she came on to him and then threatened to tell her parents when he responded, which seems a little unlikely to me, but for whatever reason, he hit her, and she hit her head on the corner of his desk when she went down. He remembered the hunting camp and took her body out there that night.”
“I don’t suppose you’d tell me how you figured it out.”
Clipper’s smile was tired. “Just a little matter of us damn cops keeping secrets,” he said. “We don’t do it to make you reporters crazy, even though that’s how you act. We do it because if there are details only a killer can know, well then someone who knows them must be a killer.”
“Okay, so what did you hold back?”
“Even the almighty power of the press didn’t give you access to the fact that Kristen Pollack hadn’t been raped. No one knew.” The smile turned wolfish. “But Webster knew.”
And he turned away to go find Janice in the crowd.
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About the Author
Richard Stockford is a Maine native with a love of history and literature. A retired chief of the Bangor Police Department, he spends his time writing, and crafting handmade custom knives. You can find him at RichardStockford.com.
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