Louis shook his head slowly. “But why?”
Pike reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves, holding them out to Louis. “That’s your department.”
Pike put his mask back on and returned to the room. Louis waited a moment before he ventured back into the cabin. The smell was everywhere, like a swirling mist. He tried to concentrate on the task at hand.
It was too big a coincidence that Dancer collected skulls and Julie Chapman’s was missing. He had to search not only for her skull but also for any evidence that she might have been here.
His eyes traveled over the kitchenette, the black potbellied stove, the rough-hewn pine table and chair, the old sofa covered with a plaid blanket, and the small bed tucked in the corner. Despite the grotesque displays of skulls and the smell, the cabin was clean and neat.
Louis pulled on the latex gloves and went to a desk by the window. There was a shelf of books above it, but a quick scan of the titles told him there was nothing odd. A second shelf held what looked to be a collection of sketchbooks. Louis pulled one down and flipped through it.
Drawings . . . it was filled with drawings of horses, carriages, figures, and places around the island. The style was childish and cheerful. He put the sketchbook back and opened another. More drawings, mostly portraits, but the style was assured and carefully detailed. There were many drawings of an old woman with wild hair and a weathered face. Others looked to be workers and shopkeepers on the island, a man wearing a ferry boat captain’s hat, a lady in a waitress uniform, a cop on a bike.
Louis slipped the sketchbook back among the others on the shelf. There had to be at least forty sketchbooks here. Had Dancer done them? Where had he learned to do this?
He turned his attention to the desk. It held a coffee can of pencils and pens, a box of manila envelopes, and a neat stack of papers. There was a file cabinet tucked next to the desk. Louis opened the top drawer. It was crammed with more sketchbooks.
He closed the drawer and turned to the pile of papers on the desk. Bills mostly, all carefully marked PAID. He focused on a catalog. It was from a company in Wyoming called Skullduggery: “The World’s Leading Supplier of Osteological Specimens.”
Louis flipped through it. It featured every kind of animal skull imaginable for sale—dogs, cats, birds, cattle. There were also human skulls for sale with the disclaimer “Due to stringent regulations, these specimens are only available to medical or educational academic institutions.”
Stuck inside the catalog was an invoice from a company in Alaska called Wild Things. It was for one COLONY STARTER KIT. For forty-five dollars and ten dollars handling, Danny Dancer had bought “an assortment of two hundred live adult beetles, larvae, and pupae.”
There was a second invoice. It was hand-printed on lined school paper. At the top was Dancer’s address. It was made out to a Los Angeles company called Architectural Accents. It was for one DEER SKULL (ANTLERED, LARGE) at a price of three hundred and forty dollars.
“Kincaid.”
Louis turned. Rafsky was standing at the open front door. His eyes swept slowly over the skulls and finally came back to Louis.
“Jesus,” Rafsky said.
Louis held out the invoice. “Dancer is running some kind of business selling skulls.”
Rafsky came forward and gave the invoice a glance before his eyes went back to scanning the room.
“What the fuck is that smell?” Rafsky asked.
“Rotting animal heads. He’s got a skull-cleaning setup in the other room. They haven’t found any human skulls yet.”
Rafsky let out a long breath. “Now I see why you didn’t say anything on the radio.”
Louis pulled off the latex gloves. “I need some air.”
They went out onto the porch. For a long time the only sound was the rush of wind through the pines and the soft babble from the police radio in Louis’s back pocket.
“Any word on Flowers?” Rafsky asked finally.
“None. Clark said he’d call if there was any change.”
Rafsky fell quiet again. His trench coat was wrinkled, and his face had a dark growth of stubble. The guy looked spent, and Louis suspected it wasn’t just from the fast drive back from Marquette. He wondered if Rafsky was remembering the last scene in Flowers’s office and how he had insulted both of them.
Pike appeared at the door. His mask was hanging around his neck, and he was wiping his eyes. “I need better equipment,” he muttered.
“What did you find?” Rafsky asked.
“Okay, this is only preliminary, but I didn’t find any human skulls or bones anywhere in the cabin,” Pike said.
“What about an attic?” Rafsky asked.
“No attic.”
“Crawl space?”
Pike nodded to the other tech, now out in the yard taking photographs. “Sam checked it out. Solid concrete foundation.”
Rafsky looked out over the woods. “Then he buried it out here in his yard somewhere.”
“It’s not his yard, Detective,” Pike said. “It’s all state land. You going to dig up the whole damn island?”
“I am in charge here now. We’ll dig wherever I say we’ll dig.”
Pike shook his head. “I hope you have a lot of troopers and a lot of fucking shovels.”
“Look, I suggest you get your ass back in that cabin and find something to connect this bastard to Julie Chapman,” Rafsky said.
Pike looked like he wanted to punch Rafsky, and Louis started to step between them but held off. Everyone was on edge. Finally, with a glance at Louis, Pike headed back to the porch. Louis waited until Pike was inside before he turned to Rafsky.
“You know, you’re a real prick,” Louis said.
Rafsky faced him. “And you have no reason to be here anymore.”
“At least I was here,” Louis said.
Rafsky’s eyes locked on him. “What the hell does that mean?”
Louis started to walk away, but Rafsky grabbed his arm. Louis spun out of his grip.
“What the hell are you saying?” Rafsky demanded.
“I’m saying that you want to be in charge but you never seem to be around for any of the real work.” Louis paused. “Where the fuck do you disappear to? Why aren’t you here when it counts?”
Rafsky glared at him, then his eyes moved over Louis’s shoulder. Louis realized the two officers at the tape perimeter had heard them. But he didn’t care.
“Are you saying this is somehow my fault?” Rafsky said.
“I don’t know. Is it?”
Rafsky started to say something, then stopped. His expression shifted, as if he had suddenly gone somewhere else. It lasted only a second or two and then he was back. But the ice in his eyes was gone.
“I have work to do,” Rafsky said quietly. He walked away, ducking under the yellow tape and ignoring the stares of the officers.
19
Quiet. There were always these strange hours of quiet after a shooting. Maybe it was a natural reaction to the first moments of terror and the following lost time of chaos. Or maybe it was just that the fire of adrenaline finally burned out for everyone.
Louis rubbed his face and looked up. It was nearly seven, and the tiny office of the Mackinac Island Police Department was almost empty. Clark was outside dealing with the press. His second in command was busy logging evidence. The other officers were helping the techs process at the cabin and lodge. Even the radio was silent for the moment. Barbara, the dispatcher, pulling her second shift of the day, was staring vacantly at the wall, her hands cradling a cold cup of tea.
No one was talking. The tension was too thick. Word had come from the hospital fifteen minutes ago that Flowers’s condition had stabilized, but he was still unconscious. If he made it through the next twelve hours, the doctor said, his chances were good.
Louis turned his attention back to the form in front of him. He had been here an hour now and still had not finished writing out his statement or drawn the diagram of w
hat had happened at the cabin.
It wasn’t the process. He had written countless statements far worse than this. But there was something gut-wrenching about this one. It was like it should never have happened in a place like this.
He thought back to the scene at the cabin with Rafsky. As angry as he was at the man he shouldn’t have said what he did. It had come out of frustration and anger at himself for walking into Dancer’s trap.
He glanced at the phone. He had called Joe twenty minutes ago. She said she was fine and would be there soon so they could go get something to eat.
Eat . . . he couldn’t remember the last thing he had eaten. And right now, a big hamburger, two cold beers, and a warm bed with Joe at his side were the only things he wanted.
Clark came back in. He looked beleaguered as he walked up to Louis.
“How’d it go out there?” Louis asked.
“One of them asked where Ross Chapman is.”
The Chapmans. Shit.
“You better call him and fill him in,” Louis said. “We’re not going to be able to keep Dancer’s skulls quiet long. I don’t want Chapman hearing about it from a damn reporter.”
“I’ll go out to their house myself tonight.”
“Make sure he understands that right now we have no solid connection between Dancer and his sister.”
Clark nodded.
“Where’s Rafsky?”
“I think he’s still upstairs with Dancer.”
“Did Dancer ask for a lawyer?”
Clark shook his head. “The only thing he asked for was a pencil and some paper.”
“Why?”
“He wouldn’t say. I thought maybe he wanted to write out a statement or something, so I gave him a notebook.”
“You didn’t give him a pencil, did you?”
“No. Barbara had some of her daughter’s crayons in her desk. I gave him those.”
Louis nodded. “Good.”
Clark looked down at the statement form. “Are you going to be leaving the island soon?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Louis said. “I want to make sure the chief is going to be okay first.” He leaned back in the chair. “Have you heard from his ex-wife yet?”
“She called me from the airport in Kansas City. She has a flight to Detroit tonight, but there are no connections until morning. She’ll be here tomorrow. I assigned a man to go pick her up and accompany her here.”
A sound drew Louis’s eyes to the foyer. Rafsky had come down the stairs from the courthouse. He gave Louis a quick look, then started back toward Flowers’s office. Suddenly he stopped and came back to the desk where Louis sat.
“I can’t get anything out of the bastard,” he said. “He said he wanted to talk to the black guy and the lady. What lady?”
The sound of the front door opening and a rush of cold air drew Louis’s eyes to the open Dutch door. He was sitting at an angle that gave him a clear view of the front entrance.
Joe.
She came into the office and every head turned in her direction. Just hours ago back at the hospital she had been shaking and smeared in blood. Now, in black jeans, black leather jacket and boots, her hair back in a neat ponytail, she was all business again.
Rafsky’s back was to the door, and he couldn’t see her. There was no way to stop it, no way to make this easy. Louis rose, his eyes on Joe.
Rafsky turned to follow Louis’s gaze.
A look of surprise moved across Joe’s face—not at seeing Rafsky, Louis knew, but at how he had changed.
Rafsky’s eyes flicked to Louis and then went back to Joe as he tried to figure out what was going on. When Joe came up to Louis’s side and put a hand on his arm—a small but obviously intimate gesture—Rafsky watched her carefully. Slowly, gradually, a look of comprehension settled into Rafsky’s face, followed by something else. At first Louis couldn’t read it, but then it registered—barely concealed contempt directed at Joe.
“Sheriff Frye,” Rafsky said.
“Detective Rafsky,” she said.
Again Rafsky’s eyes went from Joe to Louis and back to Joe. Louis wondered if Rafsky was going to ask about him and Joe, but Rafsky said nothing. The ringing of a phone finally split the awkward quiet.
Rafsky turned to Louis. “Dancer’s upstairs. Follow me,” he said. He glanced at Joe. “You, too, Sheriff Frye.”
20
The three of them stood at the window, watching Danny Dancer in the room beyond. There was a table and two folding chairs in the room, but Dancer sat on the floor in the corner. His head was bent over a notebook, his knotty-knuckled hand furiously working a crayon across the paper.
“Whose idea was it to give him the crayons and paper?” Rafsky asked.
“Sergeant Clark,” Louis said. “Dancer asked for it.”
“I wouldn’t have given the bastard shit,” Rafsky said. “But it seems to be keeping him calm.”
Rafsky unlocked the door, and they went inside. Dancer looked up only long enough for the fluorescent light to wash once over his face. He had the healthy weathered look of an outdoorsman, but his eyes were strange, two circles of iridescent silver, like tiny round mirrors.
“Here they are, Dancer,” Rafsky said. “The black guy and the lady, just like you asked for. Start talking.”
Dancer pushed up the wall to his feet and clutched the notebook to his chest. He looked at Louis and Joe but said nothing.
“Talk to them, Dancer,” Rafsky said.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
“Sorry?” Louis asked.
Dancer looked at the floor. “I shouldn’t have done what I did. I’m really sorry, sir. And ma’am.”
“You shot at three people,” Louis said. “And all you can say is you’re sorry? You think that fixes anything?”
Dancer cringed at the edge in Louis’s voice. “Is Chief Flowers okay?” he asked.
Louis’s first instinct was to grab Dancer and yell at him that the chief wasn’t okay, that he would never be the same again because he had a hole in his neck that this bastard had put there. But then Dancer looked up again, clearly straining to keep eye contact. His expression was contrite. And something about it was very genuine.
“No, he’s not okay,” Louis said. “He’s hurt badly.”
“Can I tell him myself that I’m sorry?” Dancer asked.
“No,” Rafsky said. “Sit down.”
When Dancer didn’t move, Rafsky grabbed Dancer’s sleeve, dragged him to the table, and forced him into the chair. Dancer went down hard, then lowered his head and started to rock.
Rafsky sat down across from him. “Okay, asshole,” he said. “It’s time to talk to me.”
Rafsky had basically dismissed them, but Louis was reluctant to go. A few days ago all he could think about was Lily and Joe, but this afternoon had changed all that. A man Flowers had described as harmless had picked up a rifle and fired at a cop he knew and respected. The key to a cold case homicide—a young woman’s skull—was missing, and now they had uncovered a collector of skulls. And then there were the Chapmans. A father and son who had waited two decades to find out what happened to Julie.
Louis had made a promise to the chief, but with Flowers out of commission Louis now had no authority to even be in the room. And neither did Joe. He gave her a motion that they should leave and reached for the door.
“No, no, no,” Dancer said. “Don’t leave. Don’t leave.”
Rafsky leaned across the table. “Look, you son of a bitch, you don’t dictate the rules here. I do.”
Dancer’s eyes filled with fear.
“Dancer, talk to the detective,” Louis said. “You’ll be okay.”
Dancer’s head dropped and he started whispering something that sounded like a children’s song.
Rafsky slammed his palm on the table. “Don’t play the village idiot with me! Start talking!”
Dancer jumped from the chair, clutching his notebook. “I’ll talk to them!” he shouted. “Not
you! Them!”
Rafsky glared at Dancer and pushed away from the table so hard he nearly tipped it. He reached for the door, then changed his mind and just stood there, staring out at the empty hallway. It wasn’t hard to guess what he was thinking—that he was being pushed around by a dimwitted cop shooter and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
“Kincaid,” Rafsky said finally, “you know what we’re looking for out at that cabin. I don’t care how you do it, but you make him tell us where it is.”
Dancer was still in the corner, holding his notebook, staring at his shoes. Louis stepped toward him.
“You want to come back and sit down?” Louis asked.
Danny shook his head.
Louis reached for his sleeve, intending to guide him back to the chair, but Dancer jerked away and pressed deeper into the corner.
“Don’t touch me.”
Louis backed off. “Fine. But if you want to talk to me you need to sit down.”
Dancer hesitated, then slid into the chair. Louis took the chair across from him.
“Why did you shoot at us?” Louis asked.
“I was scared,” Dancer said.
“Scared of what?”
“I was scared you were going to take away my skulls.”
“Why would we do that?” Louis asked.
“It’s not legal to sell skulls. I was scared you were going to stop my business.”
“Bullshit,” Rafsky said. “You know it’s not illegal.”
Dancer shrank lower in his chair.
Louis was thinking how organized Dancer’s record keeping was and about Skullduggery’s catalog. Rafsky was right that Dancer knew damn well his business was legal. Maybe he wasn’t as dim as they assumed.
“Where do you get your skulls?” Louis asked.
“Everywhere.”
“You can’t hunt on the island,” Louis said. “Where do you get them?”
“I find them in the U.P.”
“You don’t have a car,” Louis said. “How do you get around in the U.P?”
“I do have a car.”
“No you don’t,” Rafsky said. “We checked.”
Heart of Ice Page 13
