Elements of Kill

by Christopher Lane

  Ray sniffed the knife. It smelled cold. He considered touching the blade with the tip of his tongue, then laughed at his foolishness. Not enough sleep. Too much caffeine. Only an idiot would lick a piece of steel that had been out in subzero weather. It was a sure fire way to lose taste buds.

  Even without testing it, he was sure about the stain. Crusty, almost black, uneven … Blood. The ulu had been used recently. Possibly on Honey.

  He shook his head at his luck. Had he really found the murder weapon? Ray sank to the stair and sat, thinking this over. It didn’t make sense. Why would a killer go to the trouble of entering by the back door to avoid detection, slipping in and out without being seen, then discard the weapon casually and leave behind a set of snowshoe tracks?

  Unzipping his parka, Ray tried to reconcile these observations with the long list of potential suspects, struggling to find a match. Simpson, the supervisor at the ice rig?… No motive. Stewart the drug and alcohol dealer? … Sufficiently psychotic, but lacking the drive and the brains. The roustabouts? … They would know Native superstitions, but otherwise … no motive, especially in the Weinhart murder. It wouldn’t exactly further your career to kill a VP. Bauer? Why? Ray couldn’t think of a reason, unless it had something to do with the upcoming deal with Arctic Slope Regional. Maybe Bauer had gotten upset with the way Weinhart was dragging his feet. You’d have to be more than just upset to shoot someone though. And why kill a rig foreman? Or a prostitute?

  Ray rubbed his temple and took a deep breath. Leeland was mean enough. Smart enough? Doubtful. He would have to be working for someone.

  That left only three names: Reynolds, Billy Bob, and Makintanz. Not Reynolds. He was too by the book. Given the proper motivation, he might shoot someone for you, but not cut them up. He didn’t seem that cruel. Billy Bob … well … He could have killed Weinhart. Might have had time to ditch the body at Davis. Might have even sabotaged Ray’s Polaris. He could have killed Driscoll while Ray was busy being assaulted by a winch. But Honey? No opportunity. Beyond that, Billy Bob was turning out to be an all right guy. As much as Ray hated to admit it, he was starting to like him, bunny teeth, southern drawl and all. The kid couldn’t stomach a dead body, much less kill someone.

  In the absence of any other ideas, Makintanz was the odds-on favorite. And even he didn’t fit the bill perfectly. He was a weird blend of Native and white culture, probably screwy enough upstairs to end the life of another human being, if it suited his purpose. The problem was, these murders didn’t seem to. Why would he kill Weinhart? Had an argument escalated out of control? No. These murders were calculated, premeditated. Anyway, say he did shoot Weinhart, then decided to “free his spirit” by slicing his neck. What about Driscoll and Honey? Ray couldn’t imagine why the chief would kill them.

  The prints out back could have been Makintanz’s. They were deep enough. But could the corpulent quasi-Eskimo waddle back to the Bradbury after murdering Honey?

  Ray swore softly, repeatedly at the brick wall. Maybe the best thing to do, he decided, was simply to back off and let the city cops handle the mess. Let them get headaches and go sleepless over the incongruities of these bizarre and seemingly unrelated events. It would be tempting to chalk the deaths up to coincidence. Different acts committed by different people, for different reasons. But with the same methodology?

  Staring down at the ulu, Ray wondered if the city cops could do a DNA workup. They didn’t have that in Barrow. They didn’t need it. Things were never this complicated.

  There were more than four thousand men and women on the Slope. Any one of them might have done this. Or maybe Reynolds was right. Maybe there was some Native out there just tagging people.

  Ray began working on the other temple. His head was pounding. His tangle with the hoist seemed like ancient history. So did the jaunt in the snow after his machine died. It all seemed unreal, distant, like remnants of a disturbingly bad dream, but his body knew better. It was reminding him that he hadn’t slept, hadn’t refueled, hadn’t recovered sufficiently. It was time to either hit the sack or start sucking down more coffee. He had little doubt which it would be.

  Rising, he stuffed the ulu in his pocket, fastened the Velcro clasp, and started down the stairs. As he did, he recalled Maniilaq’s promise: much killing. In Ray’s mind, three corpses qualified as “much.” The part about a “place of beauty” seemed to refer to the brothel. It was, after all, “where all men go.”

  “Salome,” who was, according to the shaman, the key to the whole exasperating puzzle, was nowhere to be found. That she even existed was something of a shock. Maniilaq had somehow tapped into a spirit, a ghost, or, more likely, a gossip pipeline, and knew about the woman. Yet she had vanished, and those who were acquainted with her were either unable or unwilling to provide additional information. Fanny had to know something. Maybe a warrant would help jog her memory, Ray thought, stepping into the bar area.

  Harry’s was actually crowded now, the chairs occupied, the standing room taken up by bodies, all male, all with beers and drinks in hand. Ray decided that the owner must be rich. The prices were more than double those of bars in Barrow, and the clientele were made up of men with plenty of money and nothing to do in their off-time.

  Elvin was absent from his post, but Ray spotted Billy Bob at the bar, on the phone.

  “Are you sure?” he was saying when Ray reached him. “Yeah …” He grunted, obviously displeased. “I understand, all right. I just don’t like it.” He rolled his eyes as he listened, then cursed. “Okay, okay … Hey! I know what my duty is … Nah … I can handle it … I said, I can handle it!”

  When he hung up, Ray asked, “What’s going on?”

  The deputy took a deep breath and swore.

  “What?”

  “That was Reynolds.”

  “And?”

  “And they found your stuff, from your sled.”

  “Really? Great.”

  “Well …” He sighed heavily, cheeks puffing out before falling into a severe frown. “Turn around for a sec,” he said without enthusiasm.

  “Huh?”

  “Turn around.”

  Ray looked at him. “Why?”

  “Trust me, Ray, just do it.”

  He shrugged and complied, turning away from the bar. Suddenly his arms were jerked back, his wrists snapped into a pair of handcuffs. Stunned, he demanded, “What are you doing?!”

  “Yer under arrest, Ray.”

  “What?!”

  “You heard me.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  Heads turned in their direction, eyes growing wide, men snickering at the sight. “About time you rousted the klooch,” a voice observed. This was followed by a chorus of laughter.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” Ray asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “I’m under arrest?”

  Billy Bob took him by one arm and led him toward the front door. “You have the right to remain silent, if you give up the right to remain silent …”

  They met Elvin near the entrance. The truck-sized man was emerging from a short hall, zipping his fly as he ambled forward. When he noticed the cuffs, his jaw went slack. Swearing, he asked, “What’s goin’ on?”

  “I’m being arrested,” Ray told him as the deputy continued to recite the Miranda.

  “Arrested?” Elvin shook his head. “Bummer, man. That’s a real bummer.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “AT LEAST TELL me what I did.”

  Billy Bob ignored this. Unlocking the door, he nudged Ray into the sheriff’s office. It was cold, their breath issuing like smoke.

  “Darned heater,” the deputy said. He assisted Ray into a chair, then began tinkering with the thermostat. Down the hall behind them, the furnace ticked, then lit.

  “Why am I under arrest?”

  “Stand up.”

  Ray did. Billy Bob patted him down, removing from his person a pen, a small pad, wallet and ID, keys to the 4x4 that was waiting back in
Nuiqsut. He removed Ray’s parka and began checking the pockets. “What the …”

  “Oh … I was going to tell you about that,” Ray said.

  “Really …” For the first time, the deputy sounded suspicious. “What is this? Blood?”

  “I think so. I found that in back of the roadhouse.”

  “Is that right?” He pushed Ray roughly, forcing him back into the seat. “Just happened to find it, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  Billy Bob swore at him. “I trusted you.” Ray met his accusatory gaze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I trusted you and the whole time, I bet you was thinkin’ what a stupid hick I was, laughing at me behind my back.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “In with the stuff from yer sled, they found a rifle and a knife.” He lifted the ulu. “One a these here.”

  “In my stuff?”

  “Leeland found it stashed in a snow bank ‘bout two miles from Davis. According to Reynolds, the rifle was a 243, just the caliber to make the holes we found in Weinhart and Driscoll.”

  “You think I murdered them?”

  “Reynolds does.” Billy Bob sank into his chair and began pulling forms out of a drawer. “I’m not sure we got the right paperwork for three counts of murder one.”

  It was Ray’s turn to curse. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I didn’t want to believe him. But he said if I didn’t arrest you, he and Leeland’d come over and make a citizen’s arrest on ya. And now, with this little goodie in yer pocket …” He waved the ulu at Ray, frowning. “I’m startin’ to think they may be right.”

  “I didn’t kill anybody,” Ray offered with a meager chuckle. “I carry a 30.06, not a 243. As for the ulu … I found it along with some tracks in back of …”

  “Shut up fer a minute and let me figure out this form.” He began fighting with an old Corona, feeding in duplicates and carbon paper. “I told the sheriff we needed a computer when I first got here. Sure would come in handy right about now.”

  Ray stared at him, struggling to comprehend what was happening. Maybe he had nodded off and this was part of a nightmare. It had all the right components: an unthinkable situation, being wrongly accused, sitting in a Deadhorse jail in handcuffs … If it were a dream, he decided, it was time to wake up.

  Billy Bob finally managed to get the paper straight against the roller and began asking Ray questions: date of birth, place of birth, social security number, mother’s maiden name, closest living relative, place of residence, occupation … Ray went along, supplying answers and waiting as the deputy chicken-pecked the information, until they reached the subject of prior offenses.

  “You think they’d let me on the force if I had priors?”

  “I’m just doin’ ma job.”

  “No. You’re doing the job Reynolds wants you to do,” Ray shot back. “You can’t really think I’m a murderer. Do I look like a murderer to you?”

  The deputy’s head tilted up from the Corona and he scrutinized Ray. “Hard to say, I guess. Don’t really know what one looks like. Ain’t never seen one before.”

  “And you still haven’t,” Ray muttered.

  When he’d completed the form, Billy Bob ushered Ray to the only cell in the building. It was spacious, even luxurious compared to most city facilities: a 10 ? 10 square of carpet with a twin bed, miniature boom box, sink, and mirror. The walls were plaster, painted a light adobe tone. Aside from the fact that one wall was comprised of steel bars, it could have been a studio birth on an ocean liner.

  “Where’s the TV?” Ray joked as he sat on the bed.

  “It’s broke,” Billy Bob replied. He unfastened Ray’s cuffs. “Now the toilet’s down this hall.” He pointed. “So if you need to go—”

  “I tell you and you let me out of my cage,” Ray said gruffly.

  “Nah. I was thinkin’ you could just go do your business whenever you need to. I’m gonna leave this door open. This other door will be closed.” He snapped a second wall of bars shut. “Long as you promise me you ain’t plannin’ on tryin’ to bust out or nothin’.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Better not. ‘Cause I’m gonna be sittin’ in there with my sidearm. Now, we’re friends, Ray. And I hope like heck things ain’t as bad as they look. But if you try to go wanderin’ off, I’ll shoot ya. It’d hurt my feelin’s somethin’ awful. But I’d sure as heck do it. Understand?”

  Ray nodded. The deputy returned to the office area and began pecking at the Corona. It sounded to Ray like roughly five words a minute, slow even for a chicken. Stretching out on the bed he asked, “Got any coffee?”

  “I’ll make some soon as I finish up ma paperwork,” Billy Bob called back.

  “I’m having trouble with this charge,” Ray said.

  “I just bet you are,” the deputy chuckled.

  “Think about it, Billy Bob. How could I be the murderer? You’ve been with me since the investigation started. And I wasn’t even here when Weinhart was killed.”

  “You weren’t?”

  “Of course not. I was at my Grandfather’s.”

  “So you say.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Tell you the truth, I don’t know who to believe.” He continued hunting and pecking, a letter every few seconds. A minute later, the deputy said, “You don’t have an alibi for Weinhart.”

  “My Grandfather,” Ray argued.

  “He can place you at his house Friday evening?”

  “No. But from midnight on.”

  “We both know Weinhart was killed earlier. Between four and six.”

  “I was at work until four.”

  “Coulda flown over to Prudhoe just in time to kill Weinhart.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is, you ain’t got an alibi.”

  “Do you?”

  “I’m not an Ezkeemo.”

  “Huh?”

  “I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout worms and rituals.”

  “So?”

  “And I wasn’t the one out looking for Driscoll by myself,” Billy Bob said accusingly.

  “I never found him! What do you think, I beat myself senseless with a winch on purpose?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “And what about my machine? You think I rigged it to break down on the trip to Davis?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Okay, then what about the body? You were the one who was in the can when it was stolen.”

  “Don’t know about that. You coulda ditched it when you was stranded. Nobody ever saw it at the Davis camp.”

  “Oh, come on …”

  “I do know that instead of going with us to get Driscoll’s body and check out the murder scene, you went off to visit some witch doctor.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “And buried the stuff from your sled.”

  “It was stolen!”

  “Along with the rifle and the ulu.”

  “They’re not mine! And I suppose you think I sabotaged my Polaris and almost froze to death just to cover my tracks.”

  “That’d do it.”

  Ray swore at the deputy’s illogical assumptions. “And Honey, I killed her too?”

  “You were the last one to see her alive, Ray.”

  “Someone else was coming up,” he rebutted.

  “So you say. But nobody ‘members that. Not Fanny. Not even Elvin.”

  Ray swallowed hard. The accusations were illegitimate, nonsensical, absurd. Still, taken as a whole, they formed a neat, circumstantial trap. He had been at the right place, or at least unaccounted for, during each of the killings.

  “What about motive?” he called.

  “Huh?”

  “Why did I murder three people I never met before?”

  “You got me there, Ray. Why did ya?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, I didn’t.”

  Billy Bob appeared at the bars, unloc
ked them and walked past on his way to the can. Thirty seconds later, Ray heard the toilet flush. The water ran for a moment, then the deputy retraced his steps and locked the gate.

  “You left the light on,” Ray told him.

  Billy Bob glanced toward the bathroom. Shrugging, he said, “Maybe you knew them.”

  “Knew who?”

  “The victims. For all I know, they owed you money or somethin’. Maybe you got a real problem with yer temper. Maybe all three of ‘em ticked you off.”

  “Right. Sure. That explains everything. And maybe I’m engaged to marry Cindy Crawford.”

  “Cindy who?”

  “Never mind.”

  “I thought you said yer sweetie’s name was Margaret.”

  “Did you start the coffee yet?”

  Billy Bob left to attend to it. There was a thrashing sound, a cabinet opening, something falling out. “Comin’ right up.”

  Ray stared at the wall, the bars, listened to the faucet leak. Five minutes later, when Billy Bob finally showed up with coffee, Ray asked, “Where were you when Weinhart was killed?”

  The deputy stared at him through the bars with a puzzled expression. After unlocking the outer door, he replied, “Right here in the office.”

  “Anybody with you?”

  “Nah. I took the sheriff to the airport that mornin’. I was just hangin’ around by ma-self.”

  “So you could have killed him.”

  Billy Bob blew air at this. “Could have, I guess. But didn’t.”

  “And when I got knocked out by that hoist in the shop, you could have been out killing Driscoll.”

  He passed a cup of coffee to Ray. “Guess I coulda. But I didn’t.”

  “You went to the bathroom about the time Weinhart’s body disappeared.”

  “Yep. So?”