Tundra Kill

by Stan Jones

  “Tuesday? Of last week? The same day Pete Wise was killed?”

  He nodded and raised his eyebrows.

  “Hmm. Maybe she left some behind?”

  Active was already punching in Lucy’s extension. “Hi, Lucy—what? Yes, I think Jeremy will be fine while you’re gone. What? No, of course I won’t ask him to stay on permanently. I promise, your job will be waiting when you get back from maternity leave, OK, now? Listen, would you get the Anchorage crime lab on the line for me? Thanks.”

  He punched off. “So where does that leave us for this week’s hearing?”

  “Nowhere we weren’t before, but I’ve still got four days to find a hat with a rabbit in it,” Procopio said. “Maybe on eBay.”

  Active shook his head. “Anybody you can call about how we get into the files in Wise v. Mercer? Old law school prof who specializes in this sort of thing? Another prosecutor in the law department?”

  “I don’t know, there’s gotta be somebody.”

  His phone rang and Lucy’s extension lit up. He punched her on. “Hi, you got the crime lab on the line? Thanks, put ‘em through.”

  “No, there’s somebody here to see you. A Bill Ashe from the Alaska Police Standards Council? Did you make another appointment without telling me?”

  “What? Who?”

  She said it again.

  “OK, send the guy up.” He looked at Procopio, whose mystified expression mirrored his own.

  “Police Standards Council?” she said. “What do they want?”

  Active tried to mask his unease. “God knows. Maybe one of our criminal masterminds actually figured out how to file a complaint against a cop.”

  Procopio grimaced. “But why would they send somebody all the way up here as soon as they get it? Don’t they normally do some kind of review before they spend their travel budget?”

  Active shrugged. “Normally. Maybe it’s a special case.”

  “Should I go?”

  “Stay. I may need a witness.”

  They waited in silence. Within a couple of minutes, Bill Ashe was in the doorway introducing himself. He was gray-haired and wore bifocals and a gray goatee. And civilian clothes, Active noted. No uniform. Probably another ex-cop or Trooper racking up a few final years in the state system to beef up his retirement check. “Chief Active, pleasure.” His voice was gray, too.

  He offered a card, which Active took, and kept his hand out. Active gave it a shake as he glanced at the card.

  “Mr. Ashe,” Active said with a nod. “Theresa Procopio, our local prosecutor.”

  They shook, exchanged banalities, and Ashe took a chair next to Theresa.

  Coffee was offered and declined. Ashe set a brown leather satchel on the floor beside him, unbuckled it and pulled out a folder. “It might be better if we talked in private.”

  Active shrugged. “We don’t have many secrets in Chukchi. I don’t mind, if you don’t.”

  “I do, actually. No offense, Ms. Procopio.”

  “None taken,” Procopio said.

  “And if you’d close the door,” Ashe said.

  “No offense taken whatever,” she added in a tone that made clear a great deal was. She shut the door behind her with considerable emphasis.

  “Quite the little support group among the Chukchi law-enforcement community, I see,” Ashe said.

  Active grinned. “Pretty much. But how can I help you today? One of our guys make a wrong move, allegedly? None of the citizenry has complained to me.”

  “Actually, it’s you. Allegedly. This complaint is from the governor.”

  “The governor?”

  “She claims you made advances in a tent on the—how do you say it?—the Isignaq?

  Active nodded. “Close enough.”

  “Mm-hmm. On the Isignaq River after your plane was forced down.”

  “Horse shit.”

  “Conduct unbecoming a sworn police officer was how she put it in the complaint.”

  Ashe pushed a copy across the desk. Active scanned it and tried not to let his face heat up.

  “The gist of it is, she says you tried to seduce her during the night and assaulted her when she resisted, causing scratches on her neck.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Do you have anything to say? We need to get this cleared up and as an ex-cop myself I just want to help you help yourself here.” He extended his hands, palms up. “Let’s get it straightened out, OK?”

  Active felt a momentary spasm of pity for Ashe, reduced to trying such an old trick on an actual living, breathing, cop who had so often used it himself. But only momentary.

  “Sure, I have a statement. This is bullshit. She did it herself on the zipper of a sleeping bag, just like she said in that video she put on the Internet. Claimed it proved what a tough Alaska gal she is.”

  Ashe looked at his own copy of the complaint. “I believe she covered that in paragraph twelve. Maybe you should read it a little closer.”

  Active found the spot on the second page, reread it, and looked up at Ashe. “Helen Mercer suffers from battered woman syndrome?”

  “So she says.”

  “You mean from Brad? Her husband beats her?”

  “No specifics. But she claims it’s why she couldn’t tell the truth about what happened in the tent at first. Now she feels she has to take positive action for her own mental health.”

  “But a complaint to you guys? Why not a sexual assault complaint to the Troopers if she really wants to regain her mental health?”

  “I haven’t spoken to her personally—I’m given to understand she hand-delivered her complaint to our chairman—”

  “Who would be the state commissioner of public safety, if I remember right?”

  Ashe nodded. “She delivered it to him in person—”

  “And he was appointed by her and serves at her pleasure, is that also correct?”

  Ashe nodded again. “None of which will affect our investigation in the slightest, of course.”

  “Of course not. But please continue.”

  “Where was I?”

  “You were explaining why she didn’t file a criminal complaint if I assaulted her.”

  “I have the impression she thinks it would create too much publicity. She doesn’t think it looks quite right for a governor to be a battered woman—she’d seem weak and helpless—and this will be quieter. We do our investigation, we pull your Alaska police officer certificate if we find cause, you get yourself a job as a legal investigator or something, everyone’s happy, right?”

  “I’m happy being a certified peace officer and head of the Chukchi Public Safety Department, thank you very much.”

  “Seriously, Nathan. I’m your friend here. If you could just—”

  “All right, Bill. I can see you’re a nice guy in a tight spot. I do have a further statement to make.”

  “Great, very wise. I’ll just record it, if I may.” He dug into his satchel.

  “Oh, it’s quite short,” Active said. “I’m sure you’ll be able to remember it: Talk to my lawyer.”

  Ashe pursed his lips. “You sure? My report will have to reflect your lack of cooperation. It will not work in your favor.”

  “Talk to my lawyer.”

  Ashe sighed. “If that’s the way you want to go. What’s his name?”

  “When I hire him, he’ll let you know.” He stared at the door until Ashe took the hint, packed up his satchel, and walked out.

  Active got coffee from the pot in the corner, set the cup on his blotter and stared at it for ninety seconds before drinking half of it down in a single scalding gulp. He punched Procopio’s line and told her about Ashe’s visit and the Jason Palmer case being reopened.

  “No shit,” she said. “That’s some pressure.”

  “Yeah. I was just wondering—you getting anything like this from your chain of command?”

  Procopio snorted. “No chance. The head of the criminal division’s been around too long for even Mercer and her hack o
f an AG to fuck with.”

  “Must be nice,” he said as he rang off.

  The phone buzzed and Lucy’s line lit up.

  “What?”

  “Arii, you don’t have to yell at me. I’m hormonal right now. I cry when I see a diaper commercial.”

  “OK, I’m sorry. Hello, Lucy. How can I help you.”

  “I have the crime lab on the line. Just like you wanted.”

  He thanked her and punched the button when his outside line lit up. Then he asked for the technician who’d worked over Brad Mercer’s snowgo, and asked the technician if they’d checked for blood on the top edge of the windshield. They had checked, and they had found traces. Enough to tell if it matched Pete Wise’s blood? Active held his breath as the technician pulled the analysis up on his computer. Inconclusive, the technician said. Might be from Pete Wise, might not. Active punched off.

  He finished the coffee, closed his eyes for several seconds, then punched the line for the fire hall.

  “Gabe,” he said. “Got a minute? I’d like to come over and catch up on the Jimmy Shaw case.”

  “Well, for us it’s a search, not a case, but, yeah,” Gabe said. “Come on over. Or I could come over there. Or we could just jaw on the phone. Ain’t much to report, I’m afraid.”

  “Nah,” Active said. “If I have to sit in this office one more minute, I’m gonna punch out a wall.”

  “I know the feeling,” Gabe said. “I’ll make new coffee. What I got left from this morning is down to street scrapings.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY - SEVEN

  Monday, April 21

  BEFORE HE COULD get out the door, his cell rang in its Bluetooth headpiece. He looked at the caller ID and sagged back into his chair.

  “Morning, Suka.”

  “Morning, Nathan. Just calling to say hi. Hope your weather’s nicer than here. We got the rain, the wind—I’m gettin’ a terminal case of capital fever!”

  “Well, we’ve got wind and snow today, but at least it’s not raining.”

  “God, how I miss Chukchi! Why did I ever think I wanted to go to Juneau?”

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Oh, I was just wondering—how’s that Pete Wise thing coming? You know how much I want to help Grace and you on that ABI investigation but I just can’t, not with that stupid Pete Wise business still hanging over us.”

  “You know I can’t talk about Pete Wise,” he said. “We’ll say what we can at the hearing on Friday. But I can tell you we don’t have any leads yet on whoever stole Brad’s snowgo and dumped in the bay. You guys had any brainstorms on that?”

  “Posilutely nothing,” Mercer said. “It’s a mystery!”

  “That it is,” Active said. “One of a great many going on in Chukchi these days.”

  “Oh, you mean like poor little Jimmy Shaw? Can you give me a report?”

  “Gabe Reeder and his people from search and rescue are still at it, with public safety pitching in as I can spare my officers. Plus a lot of volunteers from the community, of course. But so far there’s nothing.”

  “Is it a criminal matter?”

  “Not yet. Not enough to go on. For now, all we can do is search.”

  “You need an Air Guard helicopter?”

  “I don’t think so. I think this is a ground search. Little kid like that can hardly have gotten out of town.”

  “You think it could be dogs?” Mercer asked. “Like last year?”

  “God, I hope not.” A year earlier, a pack of loose huskies had attacked a four-year-old on the street and mauled him to death before any of the adults nearby could drive them off.

  “That was awful,” Mercer said. “You beefed up animal control with the money I got, right?”

  “Definitely. We have an animal control officer or a cop with animal-control certification on every patrol shift now. But I don’t think it was dogs that got Jimmy Shaw. Even if nobody was around, dogs would have left something—clothes, bones, something.”

  “Let’s change the subject,” Mercer said.

  “Certainly. As a matter of fact, Suka, there is something I was wondering about.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “I had a visit this morning from a guy—Bill Ashe, by name—from the Alaska Police Standards Council. He tells me you want them to yank my certification because I attacked you in Cowboy’s tent up on the Isignaq.”

  Mercer said nothing. So did he. When it came to waiting it out, nobody ever beat him.

  “Well,” she said finally.

  “We both know that’s bullshit, if you’ll pardon my French.”

  “That’s no way to talk to a governor.”

  “And what you said is no way to talk to the people in charge of my peace officer certification. Only two people know what happened in that tent. We’re both of them and we both know I didn’t attack you. You said it yourself on YouTube and everywhere else on the Internet: You put those scratches there yourself with the zipper of Cowboy’s sleeping bag.”

  “What can I say, Nathan. That’s not how I remember it now that I’ve had time to think about it.”

  “Yeah? What changed your mind?”

  “I don’t know, I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. It all just got me thinking. What do I really know, and how do I know it? Who’s my friend and who’s not? The legislature blocking me at every turn, the lamestream media constantly calling me a twit and an airhead, even something as small as Brad’s snowgo being stolen, and now this Pete Wise thing.”

  “Ah. So if the Pete Wise thing went away, that might reduce your stress level?”

  “Oh, I’m sure. All I know is, it looks like you and Grace could use a friend in Juneau, and I could sure use one in Chukchi.”

  “I see.”

  “And I guess we’ll see each other at the next hearing, huh? Maybe we can have a good chat then?”

  “Maybe so, Suka.”

  Active shook his head to clear away the call, and backtracked to where he was before. Ah, Gabe Reeder.

  He galloped downstairs as he debated transportation. The Chevy or the Yamaha? The debate lasted maybe a quarter-second. What he needed today was some wind and snow on his face and enough noise in his ears to drown out the din of unknowns about what had happened to Pete Wise and Jimmy Shaw, and about what Stuart Stewart and Bill Ashe were cooking up.

  He cranked up the Yamaha and headed north up Third Street for the firehouse on Musk Ox Avenue. It was only a long block from Public Safety, but the ride was just what he needed. The wind, the noise, the snow freezing to his eyebrows—they made him feel like…like what? Like life might be worth living, like problems might be solvable. By the time he arrived, his mood had lifted to the point he spun a couple of donuts in the parking lot before he shut down and headed inside.

  “Nathan,” Gabe said as he came into the fire chief’s office.

  Active nodded, turned a chair around, and straddled it before the desk with its sign identifying Gabe as the chief. “Nothing new, I’m guessing?”

  Gabe hooked one thumb in a suspender and scratched the tobacco-streaked beard as Active looked around the office. Familiar and mundane as the room was, it nonetheless reassured Active every time he entered. An all-business office—Gabe’s helmet and grimy turnouts hanging from hooks on a wall and giving off the stench of smoke, three battered steel bookshelves stuffed with ring binders and crested with a row of manila folders in vertical racks, a corkboard with printouts pinned to it, a television that Active had never once seen on.

  “Of course there’s nothing new,” Gabe said at length. He squirted tobacco juice into the water bottle he kept at hand for the purpose. “I would have called you.”

  “Of course,” Active said. “But where are we? I know it’s a search for you guys, but it’s starting to look like a case to us.”

  Gabe sketched the effort again for Active—contacts with the boy’s friends as identified by the family, searches of vacant buildings near the Shaw home on Beach Street.

  “An
d your guys didn’t get a funny feeling from any of the folks you talked to?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. I’m no cop, of course, but I do know most of them.”

  “We can re-interview them, if it comes to that,” Active said.

  “We’re starting to widen out the area, now, so the search is gonna get slower and slower.”

  “I guess we should bring in a cadaver dog.”

  Gabe grunted. “Yeah, it’s been close to forty-eight hours. If he’s been outside in the weather all this time…”

  “I think the closest one’s in Anchorage. I’ll see what I can do.”

  He was on the steps in front of the fire hall, blissed out again by the weather on his face, when his cell rang. He checked the caller ID.

  “Hi, baby,” he said. For now, he wouldn’t think—or talk—about Bill Ashe’s visit or Mercer’s new version of their night in the tent. Grace, he knew, would believe and disbelieve it at the same time and they might never untangle it. He’d maintain.

  “I have to see you,” Grace said. “Can you come to the overlook on Beach Street?”

  “What? Why not in my office or yours? Or home? Or how about the Arctic Dragon? It’s almost lunchtime.”

  “Not on the phone or indoors. Just come.”

  SHE LOOKED THE loneliest he’d ever seen her as he parked his Yamaha behind her snowgo in front of the Dragon and crossed Beach Street to the overlook built as part of the seawall project. Her shoulders were hunched against the wind moving up the shore and her head was deep inside the hood of her parka.

  “Baby,” he said. “What gives?”

  She mimed talking on a cell and pointed at the pocket where he kept his. He squinted in puzzlement, then pulled it out. “You need to borrow this?”

  She shook her head and thumbed a slashing motion across her throat.

  “Turn it off?”

  She nodded, and he did. Her shoulders relaxed a little.

  “What’s this about?”