The Damage Done

by P J Parrish

  Louis had called Nurmi’s office before he left Munising and reached a woman named Monica. When he told her he was coming to talk about the old case of the boys in the box, her response had been polite but clipped. She had told him she would advise the sheriff he was coming.

  Eagle River was a small collection of well-tended homes with no business center that he could see. His directions said to turn at the “big, white community center” and the sheriff’s office, housed behind the county courthouse, would be just beyond that. He slowed as he came up on the courthouse. It was an imposing building for a town this size, a big, white-pillared building that reminded him of the courthouses back in Mississippi. He parked next to a low brick wall and found the sheriff’s office in the rear.

  Inside, everything was modern and cut into clean cubicles with all the new computers and radios a good force might need. Beneath it all was a pleasing smell of old wood and fireplace ash. The wood wall clock was in the shape of the Michigan mitten. It was almost six. He was a little early.

  “Sheriff Nurmi is expecting me,” he said, flipping open his state police wallet to the pretty, plump brunette woman manning the reception desk. The nameplate read MONICA. She was wearing a pink sweatshirt, the front emblazoned with the initials from some college called SISU.

  “You made good time,” she said with a gap-toothed smile.

  “The roads were empty.”

  “They always are.” She punched a phone button. “He’s here, Sheriff.”

  She motioned to her left and Louis saw a man waving him toward the glass office in back. There was no one else in the small office, no chatter coming from the dispatch radio. Louis wondered how many officers the department had.

  The man sitting behind the desk wore a crisp, dark brown uniform shirt and a tan tie. He had a pleasant, pink face, sparse hair, and warm, blue eyes that reminded Louis of the Florida Gulf. He reached across his neat desk and extended a hand.

  “Reuben Nurmi. Good to meet ya,” he said in a voice that sounded like it belonged on some late-night jazz station. Except for the distinctive Yooper twang. Louis had always liked the accent, which fell somewhere between the hard nasal vowels of Detroit and the odd lilt of Canada.

  “Louis Kincaid. Thanks for seeing me, Sheriff.”

  Nurmi motioned to a chair and Louis sat down. “No problem. I’m happy to have the state look into this. Though I really don’t know what I can offer.”

  The guy was actually smiling, apparently grateful for the offer from the state. But Cam’s words came back to Louis in that moment. Watch out for wolves.

  “So, where do we start?”

  “A few questions maybe?” Louis said.

  Nurmi nodded. “Shoot.”

  “You weren’t here twelve years ago when the remains were found in ’79?”

  “That’s right. I’m not from Eagle River. I lived most my life down in L’Anse. Sheriff Tom Halko was here then. He passed on almost four years ago now. Found him dead in his bed, right on Christmas morning. Heart attack.”

  “What do you know about the case?” Louis asked.

  Nurmi shook his head slowly. “Not much. Just talk around town but that’s not worth much, eh? But I had one of my men give ‘er tarpaper for you.”

  “Pardon?”

  Nurmi smiled. “I’ve had one of my deputies working hard since your call earlier. He pulled everything he could find on the case for you. Wasn’t easy. Things were sort of disorganized before I took over.” He pushed the folder across the desk. “Go ahead, take look.”

  There was a touch of pride in the sheriff’s voice. Louis patted his jacket pocket, found his reading glasses and slipped them on. He opened the file and did a quick scan of the tabs—police reports, autopsy results, witness statements, and photographs. He pulled out the autopsy report. The first thing he noticed was that the report wasn’t from a state lab, but from a place called Blue Water Laboratories out of Houghton.

  “What’s this lab, Blue Water?”

  “Bunch of quacks who decided to start their own forensic lab back in the late seventies,” Nurmi said. “Half the cases they worked on were thrown out and they finally lost their accreditation due to corruption. They’re long gone.”

  Louis wondered why any sheriff would entrust the remains of two children to a disreputable lab when the state facility was just a few hours down the road in Marquette. Probably trying to save money.

  Blue Water Labs had placed the year of death somewhere between 1965 and 1975. That seemed an intentionally vague span and Louis knew—hoped—that now the Marquette lab could be more precise. He would have the bones exhumed and take them there.

  He pulled out the stack of photographs and sifted through them quickly—exteriors of a mine entrance and interiors of the mine shaft, many shots of the surrounding grounds. He stopped briefly at the photograph showing just the skulls in the wooden box, the same photo from his own thin file, but then he moved on to others that showed the whole skeletons laid out on stainless steel tables.

  There were many photos of the empty wooden box. He paused at one, a close-up of the side on which lettering was clearly visible—GOODWIN M’F’G COMPANY MINING CANDLES ST. LOUIS MO. U.S.A.

  “Candles?” Louis said, turning the photo toward Nurmi.

  The sheriff glanced at it and nodded. “The mines were all lit by candles in the old days. They were lighter to carry than lanterns and put out more light.”

  “Are these boxes rare?”

  “They are now. Twenty years ago you could still find them if you went deep enough into the old mines. Folks were always going in there looking for junk they could sell to tourists. But things are picked pretty clean now. And you can’t really get inside the mines anymore. Only place you find a candle box these days is in some fancy antique store.”

  Louis slid the photographs back in the folder to go over later. “Hard to believe no one ever came forward to claim these boys,” he said.

  Nurmi just nodded.

  “Where are their remains?” Louis asked.

  “Well, you know, I couldn’t find any internment notice, but I’m thinking they would be at Evergreen Cemetery. You passed it coming in.”

  “And what about the candle box?” Louis asked.

  “It’s down in the courthouse basement with all the other physical evidence.”

  “Can I see it?”

  The sheriff looked out over Louis’s shoulder toward the window. Louis turned and saw the brunette woman pointing her pencil up at the wall clock.

  “Well, it’ll have to wait until tomorrow. My wife says our time is up,” Nurmi said with a small smile. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

  Louis rose, gathering up the file, trying to hide his disappointment, wondering how much to push this man who, so far, had been unexpectedly cordial. When he looked up, he was shocked to see the sheriff scooting around the desk in a compact lightweight wheelchair. Louis tried hard to recover but Nurmi saw his expression.

  “Car accident four years ago,” he said.

  Nurmi wheeled out to the front office. A young uniformed officer had come in and was taking over the reception desk.

  “What’s for dinner?” Nurmi asked Monica, who was pulling on a parka.

  “Pot roast,” she said. “If it’s not all shrunk up to nothing by now.”

  Nurmi looked up at Louis. “You want to come over for dinner, Detective Kincaid? Our place is just next door.”

  When Louis hesitated, Nurmi smiled and held up a hand. “You’re too polite to say it so I’ll say it for you. You’d rather be down in the evidence basement, eh?”

  “Yes sir, I would, to be honest,” Louis said.

  “Okay then,” Nurmi said. “All my men are out on the road right now and the courthouse is closed. But the fellow who cleans up should be there. Monica will get you the keys to the cage.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff,” Louis said.

  “Call me Reuben.” He looked up at his wife. “Let’s get rolling, Monica.”

&
nbsp; There was a man in a red plaid shirt, jeans and ball cap waiting for him under the white columns of the courthouse. Louis noticed he was staring at the blue state police car parked out by the wall, and when the man’s eyes shifted to Louis, they held the same suspicion he had seen from others who lived in small towns and didn’t like outsiders. It was especially true here in the U.P., a place where signs announced drivers had come to The End of The Earth.

  “Thanks for letting me in,” Louis said as he followed the man into the deserted lobby.

  “No problem,” the man said. “Basement’s this way.”

  The man slapped the wall switch and, down below, the fluorescent lights buzzed to life. They reached another door, which the man unlocked. Inside, Louis found himself looking at a chain-link partition with a padlocked gate. Beyond were rows of metal shelves filled with white file boxes.

  Louis had been anticipating a couple hours in a dank cave rummaging through mildewed liquor boxes. But this place was as neat and organized as an operating room.

  “You gonna be down here long?” the man asked.

  Louis knew the guy probably wanted to go home to his dinner and didn’t want to leave a stranger in the courthouse. He realized suddenly he hadn’t seen a hotel or even a restaurant in Eagle River. The last motel he had passed was that boarded up dump on US-41. Because of his stupidity, he would probably have to backtrack to Calumet, if not further.

  He noticed the emblem on the man’s ball cap—EAGLE RIVER INN. “Is that inn here in town?” he asked, nodding to the cap.

  The man hesitated then nodded. “Right down the hill. If you end up in the lake, you’ve gone too far.”

  “Thanks.” Louis used the key Monica had given him and unlocked the gate. Inside, he began to scan the dates on the nearest boxes. It took him a moment to realize the man was still standing by the door, waiting.

  “I can lock up when I leave,” Louis offered. “No need for you to wait.”

  The man’s gray eyes narrowed. “You from downstate, eh?” he asked in the flat nasally Yooper accent.

  “Yes,” Louis said.

  “What you looking for?” the man said. “Maybe I can help.”

  No matter how small the town or how suspicious its people, they were always curious about police work and often wanted to help.

  “Just some evidence,” Louis said. “And an old candle box.”

  “Candle box,” the man said softly. “Well, okay, then. I’ll leave you to it. Just pull the front door closed and it’ll lock behind you.”

  The man left and Louis turned his attention back to the shelves. Because it was not known what year the boys were killed, the evidence was probably filed under 1979, the year the bones were found. That’s where Louis found the white evidence box. It was neatly labeled JOHNNY DOES (2) GRAY WOLF MINE 79-0250.

  Louis pulled it from the shelf, surprised it was so light, and set it on a table under one of the fluorescents. Inside the box, he found two small brown paper bags. The evidence tape on each was brittle and the writing smeared. Snapping on latex gloves, Louis used his pocket knife to carefully slice the tape and opened the first bag.

  Inside was a small piece of cloth that was maybe once white but had yellowed with age. He opened the second paper bag, which held a duplicate piece of cloth. Louis carefully laid the two pieces on the table.

  It took him a moment to understand what he was looking at and he didn’t want to believe it. But then he saw the faded manufacturer’s tag on the elastic waistband—JOCKEY JUNIOR.

  With a slow exhale, he arranged the two pieces of fabric on the table until each vaguely resembled its original shape.

  Two pairs of small, white briefs. He looked back in the evidence box. No other clothing or shoes.

  He repackaged the underwear, put the bags back in the evidence box, then went in search of the wooden candle box. He found it in the darkest corner of the basement, identified by a tag thumbtacked to the lid. It was smaller than the picture showed, but heavy, about the weight of an old tool chest. He carried it into the light and set it on the table.

  The lid was nailed shut but, using his pocketknife, he was able to pry it off. He set the lid aside and moved the empty box under the fluorescent lights.

  The wood was naturally the color of red oak, but the inside bottom was dark with stains that Louis could only guess were a mixture of decomposing flesh and blood, maybe some water seepage. He picked up the lid to put it back on but then caught a glimpse of the underside. He froze.

  There were small gouges in the wood on the inside of the lid, like someone had raked at it with a dull blade. But he knew the marks had not been made by any instrument.

  They had been made by the boys’ fingernails.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  He found the Eagle River Inn at the bottom of Pine Street, just where the man said it would be. It was a sprawling dark green building sitting alone on the deserted two-lane blacktop road. When Louis got out of the Explorer, it was too dark to see Lake Superior, but he could hear its crash on the shore and feel its bite in the air.

  There was no one manning the desk in the empty lobby so Louis headed toward the restaurant. The place was empty.

  A bearded man hauling a beer case emerged from the back. He seemed surprised to see someone in his restaurant.

  “Sorry, the restaurant’s not open tonight,” he said, setting down the case.

  “Can I get a beer?” Louis asked.

  The man smiled. “That we have. Whatcha drinking?”

  “Heineken?”

  “That’s one I’m out of. Delivery truck broke down.” The man slid a menu across the bar. “I don’t think you’ll have a problem finding something else you like.”

  Louis pulled out his glasses and scanned the long list. It started with Bell’s Amber Ale and ended with Weihenstephanar Dunklewiessbier. He estimated there were at least a hundred beers listed, foreign and domestic, most he had never heard of.

  “You’re that state cop from downstate, right?” the man asked.

  Louis looked up. “Yeah.”

  The man wiped a hand on his jeans and thrust it out. “Sheriff called and said you’d probably be coming by. I got your room ready. The name’s Paul Sternhagen.”

  Louis shook the man’s hand, surprised again at the friendliness of these folks toward a state cop, let alone a “troll” from under the Mackinac Bridge.

  “Thanks.”

  “Let me choose a beer for you," Paul said. "And I’ll scrounge up something from the kitchen, too. Whitefish okay?”

  “I’d eat anything right now.”

  Paul moved away and Louis dropped onto one of the wood stools. The long day and the hard drive were still there in the cramp between his shoulder blades. He shut his eyes.

  When he opened them the image of the scratched candle box lid was gone and there was a tall sweating glass in front of him, something dark red with a lace collar of foam. He took a sip. It was vinegar and caramels, probably the best beer he had ever tasted.

  By the time the fried whitefish arrived, Louis had moved on to Pick Axe Blonde and then a bottle of Aged Pale Ale. After Louis finished the hot apple pie a la mode, Paul brought him a room key and a snifter of Sazerac 18 Year Old Rye.

  “You’re here in town for that thing with those little boys, eh?” Paul asked.

  Louis looked at him. “You know anything about that case?”

  Paul shrugged and wiped the counter. “I was too young to remember much. Most folks figured they were somehow killed by some family on a hunting trip and put in that mine because they couldn’t bury them in frozen ground.”

  Louis nodded. “You’re probably right,” he said, making a mental note to check into Paul’s background. “What do I owe you?”

  “It’s on the house,” Paul said. “I’ve got about a hundred other whiskies if you don’t like this one.”

  “Thanks. This is enough for tonight,” Louis said.

  By the time he pulled his go-bag and Nurmi’s case file
from the Explorer and headed to his room, Louis was feeling the booze. In his early twenties, he had veered too close to chronic drinking and figured he probably had his mother’s alcoholic gene. And ever since Lily entered his life, he had cut back to almost nothing. But tonight, for some reason, he had tiptoed up to that edge again.

  The room was too warm. He went to the window and yanked it open. The cold air poured over him. From somewhere out in the blackness but very close it seemed, came the crash of the lake.

  For a second, he thought of the Gulf coast at night, with its sweet salty breezes, whispering palms and its constant seagull caw. And for another second—only a second—he missed it.

  Bienvenue chez toi.

  Welcome home.

  With a deep breath of cold fresh air, he turned from the window and spotted a clock on the nightstand. Eleven-fifteen.

  Shit.

  He’d forgotten to call Camille and give her a rundown of his meeting with the sheriff for Steele. It reminded him that he still had some things to get used to. Like having a boss to report to. It would have to wait until morning.

  He took some reports out of the accordion file and sat down on the bed. He kicked off his shoes and settled up against the headboard to start reading.

  Dammit. His glasses were in his jacket pocket, hung on the chair across the room.

  For a long moment, he stared at the jacket, not being able to find the will to get up. Reviewing the file could wait until morning, too. Even if he did read it tonight, he knew he wouldn’t remember anything.

  He fell asleep sitting up.

  He awoke in a panic, disorientated enough to throw his arms out for balance. Something crashed nearby and the darkness came down around him like a black blanket of ice.

  Fuck . . . fuck! What the hell?

  He put a hand to his chest, his mind struggling for stability. Slowly it came to him. He was in the lodge, on a bed and it was dark because he knocked the lamp to the floor. Holding his breath, he waited—but he heard nothing but the waves below the open window.