The Poacher's Son

by Paul Doiron

  A few days later, I told him that I wanted to go home.

  “It’s about the other night, isn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “That Truman is a crazy son of a bitch when he’s drinking. I don’t know what the hell got into him.”

  “That’s not it.”

  Color rose to his face. “So what is it, then?”

  “This isn’t what I expected it would be.”

  “I’m not driving you to Waterville.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll hitchhike.”

  He thought it over a bit, then said, “Pelletier’s going to Augusta tomorrow. Maybe you can get a ride out with him.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “I never promised you anything,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “You didn’t.”

  19

  Driving home from my mother’s house, I remembered that the funeral of Deputy Bill Brodeur was scheduled for sometime that afternoon at the Colby College gymnasium in Waterville. On my cell phone I punched in Kathy Frost’s number. “I want to apologize for last night.”

  “Save it, Mike.”

  “So what did you do with the bear?”

  “I sent the head to Augusta for a rabies test and buried the rest just to be safe. Look, I can’t talk now. We’re all getting ready for Brodeur’s memorial service.”

  “What time is that, anyway?”

  “Noon.” There was a pause on her end. “I hope you’re not thinking of showing up. Malcomb would throw a shit fit if he saw you there.”

  “I just want to pay my respects.”

  “Then stay home. Nobody wants to see you there, Mike. You might not like it, but that’s just the way it is.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said, hanging up and turning off my phone before she could slip another word in.

  If I hurried, I might still make the service. I stopped at a gas station and bought a razor and shaved quickly in the restroom, cleaning myself up as best I could. Then I put on the spare field uniform I kept in my Jeep for emergencies.

  When Kathy first told me about the Flagstaff homicides, I’d assumed I’d be part of the formal retinue of uniformed officers-game wardens, municipal and state police, sheriff’s deputies, firefighters-who always attend the memorial services of a fallen law officer in Maine. But after my father lit out for the hills with a target on his back, it became clear that my presence at Brodeur’s funeral would be unwelcome. Now that I was unofficially suspended, I found myself unconcerned about such matters. If I really believed in my dad’s innocence, I had no reason to hide my face.

  Road construction kept me from getting anywhere fast. Sunlight angled through the driver-side window as if through a magnifying glass. I blasted the air-conditioning until a mist formed on the inside of the windshield and goose bumps rose along my neck. The dashboard clock clicked off the minutes toward noon and I was still too many miles away. I thought of my fellow wardens gathering at Division B, all of them solemn and quiet in their red-and-green dress uniforms. In my mind I saw a parade of green patrol vehicles heading north in a procession up the interstate while I approached alone in my Jeep.

  I hadn’t been back to the Colby campus since graduation. As I negotiated my way through downtown Waterville, heading up Mayflower Hill, I felt a nervous excitement, as if I were returning to a new year at school. I saw brick buildings rising against a blue sky, and green lawns where summer students sprawled reading books and listening to music. I saw Miller Library with its white bell tower. Sarah and I once enjoyed a quickie in one of its darkened classrooms.

  The funeral was well under way by the time I arrived. The parking lots between Seaverns Field and the gym were jam-packed with civilian vehicles and police cruisers. But my eyes went immediately to the green trucks bearing the emblem of the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife that were scattered among the other vehicles.

  There was no room in any of the near lots. Finally, after driving around for ten minutes I found a space halfway across campus. Then I had to jog.

  When I reached the gym, I found the foyer empty, but I could sense the proximity of a crowd in the next room. A large group of people gives off an energy like the buzzing of a hive of bees. Still, I was unprepared for what I saw. There must have been close to a thousand people seated in that gym. Rows of folding chairs, holding dozens of law enforcement officers in their multicolored uniforms, were arranged on the parquet floor, and still more officers occupied the lower bleachers. Civilians sat above them with only the highest benches on either side unoccupied. Basketballs hoops had been folded up to the ceiling to give everyone a better view.

  Brodeur’s flag-draped coffin rested on a platform surrounded by flowers at the front of the auditorium, and hanging behind it were other flags and banners. A podium and microphone stood nearby, and Sheriff Hatch, dressed in his uniform today instead of a sport coat, was reading from a prepared speech.

  I hung inside the doorway at the top of the stairs and listened.

  “Bill was what you might call soft-spoken,” Hatch was saying. “But as they say, still waters run deep. Even though he was new to the department, I believe he was becoming a role model for other officers to follow. You can never accurately predict a man’s potential, but I believe Bill Brodeur had as bright a future as any deputy I have seen in thirty years of law enforcement.”

  The sheriff cleared his throat and then took a long moment trying to find the place in the text where he’d left off. “Bill gave his life in defense of another human being. Too often certain actions of law officers are called heroic by the media when really they are just part of doing our job. That’s the way Bill felt about it. If he heard you call him a hero, I’m sure he’d just look over his shoulder to see who you were referring to because he surely wouldn’t recognize himself in that word. We, however, can recognize Bill’s valor for what it was, an act of sacrifice and courage. William Brodeur was a genuine hero, and it was my privilege to know him for all too short a time.”

  On the floor of the auditorium I was able to pick out the red dress jackets of Lieutenant Malcomb, Kathy Frost, and dozens of wardens I knew seated together in a row. Among the police officers on the dais I saw Deputy Twombley. His dress uniform was as tight around his middle as a sausage casing. His cherub cheeks were shining with tears.

  The next speaker was Father Richard Pepin, a thin, bespectacled guy with a French accent, who identified himself as Brodeur’s parish priest. He recalled the deputy in the sort of vague terms that made me think he knew the family well but the young man not at all. He asked that everyone remember the other man killed that night, Jonathan Shipman, of Wendigo Timber, whose family must also be grieving, and he ended with a prayer for the assembled law enforcement officers, asking God to “protect these brave men and women, grant them your almighty protection, unite them safely with their families after duty has ended. Amen.”

  “Amen,” we all said.

  The service went on like that. Family and coworkers of the dead man talked emotionally about him, but the shapeless anecdotes they told-of his love of snowmobiling and NASCAR-left me without a sense of who Brodeur had been as a man. I realized, too, that no one had mentioned a girlfriend. The picture that emerged was of a quiet, responsible, yet unremarkable young man. His death seemed senseless and unlucky-he truly was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  The service drew to a close. While a bugle and bagpipes played taps, the pallbearers lifted the flag from the coffin and folded it in military fashion into a tight triangle and presented it to Brodeur’s mother. She clutched it to her breast. Then, along the aisle, an honor guard formed a corridor of uniformed bodies. Everyone stood as the dead man’s coffin floated on the shoulders of the pallbearers down the aisle and outside into the sunshine.

  I watched the auditorium empty. I knew that Brodeur would be given a twenty-one-gun salute as his coffin was loaded into the hearse. Then uniformed officers would line the roadway down Mayflower Hill. Outsid
e, afterward, there would be a crowd of familiar faces. My gut felt like a knot of worms.

  “Warden Bowditch!”

  I hadn’t realized anyone was behind me. I spun around and came face-to-face with a wiry old man in an ill-fitting black suit. He had a hawk nose and fierce green eyes that held my own without blinking. I almost didn’t recognize him without his warden’s uniform.

  “Warden Stevens,” I said.

  He held out his hand for me to shake. “Call me Charley.” He held my hand a long moment, looking straight into my eyes. His grip was like a blacksmith’s vise. “You going outside?”

  I nodded, hesitantly. “Yes.”

  “I’ll come with you then, if you don’t mind the company.”

  It had been a while since we’d seen each other; I knew that he and his wife lived somewhere near Flagstaff. I wondered if he’d driven the two hours to get here or whether he had flown his airplane across the miles of forests and lakes. According to Lieutenant Malcomb, Charley Stevens never drove anywhere when he could fly.

  Outside, I fumbled for my sunglasses. Charley just turned his face to the sun and smiled. He must have been in his late sixties, but he had the vitality and physique of a backwoods farmer: strong hands, flat stomach, and no chest to speak of. His grizzled hair stood up like the bristles of a horse brush.

  The honor guard was preparing to fire their rifles in the field across the parking lot.

  “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said casually.

  “No?”

  “Your dad isn’t the most popular feller around now, is he?”

  I felt my skin flush red. “I guess not.”

  “I told your lieutenant he’d give us the slip in those woods. I said Jack Bowditch is as woods-smart as they come.”

  Twenty-one rifles fired within seconds of each other. I felt my heart stop and resume beating. Silence rushed in to fill the vacuum created by the bullets.

  Charley said: “Did you know Deputy Brodeur?”

  “We were at the academy together.”

  “So you were friends?”

  “Not really.”

  “Did he strike you as a good cop?”

  “Yeah, sure. I mean, the man is dead. I’m not going to speak ill of him.”

  The crowd began breaking up. Other uniformed officers were moving their vehicles to line the procession route.

  Charley squinted over my shoulder. “There’s a familiar face. Hey, Russell!”

  Russell Pelletier stood alone smoking a cigarette. He wore a corduroy jacket, too heavy for the weather, and a loud tie that didn’t match his plaid shirt.

  “How’s it going, Charley?” Pelletier’s voice was like a public service warning for throat cancer.

  “It’s a sad day. I guess I didn’t realize you were acquainted with Deputy Brodeur.”

  “I saw him around. You know how it is.”

  Charley placed his big hand on my shoulder. “Do you remember this young man?”

  “I remember.” Pelletier didn’t offer to shake hands. After our last phone conversation, where I practically accused him of framing my dad for murder, that was no surprise. He looked at Charley. “Any word about Jack?”

  “We’re still looking,” said the old pilot. “The FBI thinks he’s in Canada.”

  “But you don’t?”

  The pilot shrugged his shoulders.

  “It’s a damned tragedy,” said Pelletier. “That son of a bitch really screwed up this time.”

  “So you think he’s guilty then?” I said.

  “He beat the snot out of Pete Twombley. Of course he’s guilty.”

  What Charley said next took me by surprise: “I can’t figure what his motive would be, though.”

  It was the first time anyone involved with the investigation had voiced even a little doubt about my father’s guilt, and I didn’t know what to make of it.

  Pelletier blew out a mouthful of smoke. “Jack was just pissed off about what was happening with Wendigo and the leaseholders. He was already angry about the thought of me losing the camp and him out of a job. And he was drunk as always.”

  “What about Brenda Dean?” I asked.

  “What about her?”

  “Detective Soctomah thinks she’s my dad’s accomplice.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

  “So I guess you’re not bailing her out, then?” said Charley.

  Pelletier laughed, but his eyes were dead serious. “As far as I’m concerned, that little bitch is on her own. I’m already looking for another cook.”

  “She’s still in jail?” I wondered what Brenda had done to make him hate her this way.

  “Far as I know.”

  Charley pulled on his long chin, probably considering how much to tell us. “Soctomah thinks she knows more than she’s saying. But they don’t have anything to hold her on, really. I expect they’ll be letting her go today or tomorrow.”

  “I just hope the damn fool gives himself up soon.” Pelletier finished his cigarette, dropped it to the ground, and squashed it like a bug. “There’s been enough killing already.”

  He didn’t say good-bye, just walked away.

  Charley looked at me. “Old Russ has never been much for the social graces.”

  “I worked for him, remember?”

  “I guess you think your dad has been falsely accused.”

  “What I think doesn’t much matter. Does it?”

  He smiled and nodded, but I couldn’t tell what the hell he was thinking. “Look,” he said, lifting his chin. “There’s your lieutenant.”

  Lieutenant Malcomb was coming toward us fast across the lawn. A mob of Somerset deputies hung back, waiting to see what would happen next. I saw Kathy Frost there, too.

  “Look who I found,” said Charley.

  “So I see. Can you excuse Warden Bowditch and me, Charley?”

  “Sure thing. Take care, young man.”

  “Good to see you again,” I said.

  “Same here!”

  Malcomb waited until the old pilot had wandered away before he got in my face. “What the hell are you doing here? Didn’t Frost tell you to stay home?”

  “I just wanted to pay my respects.”

  “That’s bullshit. You’re not even in your dress uniform. Remove your sunglasses, Warden. Look me in the eye.”

  I did so.

  He stepped even closer. His breath smelled of tobacco poorly masked by breath mints. “I’ve been blaming your bad decisions lately on what’s going on with your father. And maybe I never should have brought you up to Dead River. But with every new, fucked-up thing you do, I’ve started to wonder about your judgment in general. Kathy told me about your behavior yesterday. What the hell were you thinking, confronting DeSalle again? And that crap with the bear? I’m surprised she didn’t suspend you on the spot.”

  “If you’ll just let me explain.”

  He tapped my chest with his index finger. “I don’t want to hear it, Bowditch. Not now. But tomorrow morning you’re going to come to my office, and you and I are going to have a conversation about your future as a Maine game warden. You might want to think about your answers beforehand-you’ve got a lot riding on them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll see you in my office at eleven sharp. Now get the hell out of here before the entire Somerset County Sheriff’s Department comes over to kick your ass.”

  He waited for me to cross the parking lot, his presence serving as a deterrent from any ass kicking on the part of the Somerset deputies. I tried to remember where I’d parked my vehicle, but all the patrol trucks looked the same until I looked at the license plates. It took me a full minute to remember that I had come in my own Jeep and that it was parked halfway across campus.

  20

  I spent the rest of the day of Brodeur’s memorial service washing my patrol truck and completing the last of the paperwork I still owed the Warden Service. In the morning I would report to Lieutenant Malcomb’s office, and unless I conv
inced him otherwise, he would almost certainly suspend me until a disciplinary hearing could be held concerning my recent behavior. Between the incidents with DeSalle, my confrontation with Bud Thompson, and my attendance at the funeral, I’d pretty well pushed the boundaries of acceptable conduct by an officer as far as they could go. If I still wanted a career as a Maine game warden, I’d need to throw myself on the lieutenant’s mercy and hope for the best.

  I said a prayer and turned in early.

  But just after I dozed off, I awoke with the terrified conviction that the escaped Nazi POW was standing over my bed in the pitch blackness. Heart hammering, I fumbled for the lamp. But, of course, no one was there.

  The phone rang while I was getting dressed for my meeting with Lieutenant Malcomb. I expected it might be Kathy Frost, warning me not to be late, but instead it was Detective Soctomah.

  “Mike, we need you to come up to Flagstaff and talk with your father’s girlfriend, Brenda Dean.”

  “Me? What for?”

  “We’ve been holding her as a material witness, but the A.G. says we don’t have enough evidence to make anything stick, so we’re kicking her loose. She claims she was with your father at Rum Pond at the time of the shootings and says she doesn’t know anything about his current whereabouts.”

  “But you think she’s lying?”

  “Pretty much.”

  I’d been looking for some way, any way, to participate in the investigation, and now, out of the blue, Soctomah was offering me exactly what I’d wished for. There had to be some sort of catch. “What makes you think she’ll talk to me?”

  “She says she trusts you.”

  “But I don’t even know her.”

  “That’s not the way she makes it sound.”

  Did Soctomah think I was lying, too? If he suspected me now, I wondered what he’d think if he learned of the phone call my dad made to me. In all likelihood that clandestine conversation would be the final nail in the coffin I was building for my career.