by Harry Dolan
“Maybe he left his prints on the manuscript I gave you,” I suggested.
“Maybe.” She didn’t think so. I didn’t either.
“I pieced together a description from Bell and some of the other witnesses,” she told me, “but I don’t know what it’ll be worth. We’ll work up a composite.”
I picked up a sketch pad from the coffee table, found the right page, and passed it to her. The page held a pencil sketch of the man I had seen at the Art Fair—hat and sunglasses and all.
“Sarah did this?” she asked me.
I nodded. “I only saw him from across the street. She did a good job with what I could give her. The basics are there: the length of his jaw, the shape of his mouth.”
“It should help.”
Elizabeth put the sketch pad back on the table and picked up a sheaf of papers lying there—a copy of the man in plaid’s manuscript. I’d made it that evening, before I turned the original over to her. I’d done my best to preserve any evidence the pages might contain, even though I’d already handled them. I figured running them through a photocopier would be a bad idea, so instead I used a digital camera to snap a picture of each page, then loaded the images onto my office computer and printed them out. I thought I was entitled; the manuscript had been left at Gray Streets, after all.
It hadn’t been left there by chance.
I understood it as soon as I read the first line. I killed Henry Kormoran . . . I knew that name. I knew a little something about the Great Lakes Bank robbery.
A few months back, I read a newspaper article about Callie Spencer and got curious about her history. I did some research on the robbery and found the details intriguing—especially the part about the fifth robber, the one who never got caught. I kept turning the scenario over in my mind, and eventually I used it as a springboard for a short story.
I published the story under a pseudonym in Gray Streets. The man in plaid must have read it there. I had to assume that was what brought him to the hallway outside my office door.
So I thought I was entitled to a copy of his manuscript. I don’t know if Elizabeth agreed with me, but she returned the pages to the coffee table without comment. She had her own copy. I could see it poking out of a pocket of her handbag.
“Have you read it?” I asked her.
“Not all the way through.”
I’d read the thing twice while I waited for her to come home. I didn’t like it either time.
“You should read it,” I said, “and we’ll talk about it after.”
She shot me a half-amused look. “Will we?”
“I’ve been thinking. If you’re going up north I think I should go with you.”
Her amusement turned to puzzlement. “Why would I go up north?”
“You’ll see, once you’ve read it,” I said, and then I added the words I’d been rehearsing while I waited. “I don’t want you to go alone. I know how things are, with budget cuts in the department. They might be tempted to send just one person. I assume they’ll keep an eye on Sutton Bell, and that’ll take a lot of manpower. So if they send you up north, I’ll go with you.”
“David, what are you talking about?” She reached for her copy of the manuscript. “What’s in here?” she said. “Why would they send me up north?”
I glanced at the sketch on the coffee table.
“Because the man in plaid has been there,” I told her. “Part of his story is set there—in Sault Sainte Marie. The opening pages are about Henry Kormoran, and the last line is about Sutton Bell, but the middle . . . the middle is all about Terry Dawtrey.”
CHAPTER 10
The drive from Ann Arbor to Sault Sainte Marie is three hundred forty miles. Take Route 23 and I-75 and you can make it in a little over five hours, not counting stops. As you travel north beyond Flint and Saginaw, the urban gives way to the rural, and fields and trees come to dominate the landscape. Off behind those trees are sparkling lakes you won’t see from the highway. There are cabins on the shore, places where city dwellers go to escape the heat of the Michigan summer.
When you approach the tip of the state’s Lower Peninsula you find tourist towns that want to sell you stuffed moose dolls and T-shirts silk-screened with images of black bears. Every other shop boasts gourmet fudge. The Mackinac Bridge is a tourist attraction in itself—five miles of steel and cables passing over the straits that join Lake Michigan to Lake Huron.
On the other side lies the Upper Peninsula and fifty more miles of I-75 before you reach Sault Sainte Marie on the border with Canada. Elizabeth and I arrived in the evening on Thursday and drove out to the edge of the Saint Mary’s River. We watched the light fade over the rough water before doubling back to check in to our hotel.
We’d made a late start. It had taken Owen McCaleb a while to make up his mind to send Elizabeth north. Then we had to pack the car and make arrangements for Sarah to stay with Bridget Shellcross. We didn’t get on the road until midafternoon.
On Friday morning we rose early and drove to the Chippewa County Sheriff’s office, a tan brick building on Court Street. The sheriff met us in the lobby. Walter Delacorte: six feet tall with broad shoulders and a stomach that bulged without quite seeming fat. He put on a pair of amber-lensed sunglasses and walked us down the block to a diner with a CALLIE SPENCER FOR SENATE sign in the window.
“You’ve come a terrible long way,” he said, “and you at least deserve a good breakfast. I’d hate to see you leave disappointed.”
The smell of bacon and strong coffee hit us as soon as we stepped inside. A waitress led us past a long counter to a booth in the back, away from the other customers. We made small talk over omelets, Delacorte inquiring about our drive and my line of work. He turned out to be a fan of crime fiction. Only after the waitress cleared our plates away did he and Elizabeth get down to business.
“I understand why you’ve come,” said Delacorte, “but I’m not sure I can help you. I’ve got my doubts about whether the man you’re looking for was ever in Sault Sainte Marie.”
“Did you read the manuscript I sent you?” she asked him, unfolding a copy on the table. The man in plaid’s manifesto. She had faxed Delacorte the pages before we left Ann Arbor.
“I’ve read it,” he said. “It makes a good yarn, and I can see why you thought you should pass it along. But I’m not convinced. Put yourself in my shoes.”
He tapped the pages with a thick finger. “Whoever wrote this claims to have murdered Charlie Dawtrey. But I’ve got a man in custody for that—fella named Kyle Scudder. He got into a fight with Dawtrey. That’s a fact. It happened at the Cozy Inn over in Brimley. And a few hours later Dawtrey got beaten to death. There’s no mystery about what happened.”
Delacorte leaned back and rolled his broad shoulders. His gray uniform fit him well; it seemed to have been tailored to accommodate his stomach. He had eyes of a lighter gray, and black hair streaked with silver.
“As for Terry Dawtrey,” he said, “that’s no mystery either. They let him out of prison for his father’s funeral and he made a run for it. One of my deputies had to shoot him. I wish to hell it hadn’t happened, but there it is. It doesn’t need explaining. Now you come along with this story that’s supposed to have been written by a man who was at the cemetery that day.” The sheriff’s finger tapped the manuscript again. “He claims to have been on the hill with a rifle. Says he fired a shot at Dawtrey and missed. But nobody I’ve talked to saw him there. He’s a phantom. So what am I supposed to do with this information? You might just as well tell me that my car runs because there are gremlins turning the wheels.”
Elizabeth nodded toward the manuscript. “If he wasn’t there, then how do you explain this?”
“It’s a piece of creative writing.”
“It’s pretty detailed.”
Delacorte’s eyes looked kindly. “I agree, it’s not bad. But there’s really nothing there you couldn’t pick up from the news coverage.”
“The man who wrote this describ
ed how he killed Henry Kormoran,” Elizabeth said. “And he didn’t get it from the news, because he wrote it before Kormoran’s body was discovered.”
“Then it sounds like he killed Kormoran. That’s for you to work out, down there in Ann Arbor. And I’m responsible for the Dawtreys up here.”
“He also made a threat against Sutton Bell on the last page. And Bell was later attacked. Bell, Kormoran, and Terry Dawtrey were all involved in the Great Lakes Bank robbery. Doesn’t it make sense to assume these cases are related?”
The sheriff ran his tongue over his front teeth thoughtfully.
“I don’t doubt that they’re related,” he said. “Maybe you’ve got a copycat on your hands down there. Maybe he heard about Dawtrey getting shot and decided it was a wonderful thing. Maybe he thought someone should take out Kormoran and Bell too—and figured he was just the man to do it. But that wasn’t enough for him. He wanted to take credit for the Dawtreys too. So he wrote up this story.”
“So it’s fiction?”
“As far as the Dawtreys are concerned. I’ve got no reason to think otherwise. The evidence just isn’t there.”
The waitress came by to refill our coffee. Delacorte loaded his with sugar and cream.
“Could we talk about the evidence, then?” Elizabeth asked him.
He stirred his cup. “You’ve come all this way. We can talk about anything you like.”
Elizabeth smoothed back a lock of her hair and said, “I’m curious about Kyle Scudder, the man you think killed Charlie Dawtrey. You said they got into a fight. What started it?”
“The usual,” Delacorte said. “They got into it over a woman. Gal named Madelyn Turner. She and Dawtrey were married for a while, years ago. They’ve got a son, around fifteen years old. The boy stayed with her after the marriage ended.”
“Why did it end?”
“You’d be better off asking why it started. Charlie Dawtrey was already pushing sixty when he met Madelyn; she would’ve been forty or so. He was never any prize. Worked at lousy jobs all his life. But Madelyn was considered a beauty in her day. She went through a string of men. Some of them wealthy, successful.
“She lasted about three years with Dawtrey, then took up with a fella named Alden Turner and stayed with him seven years before he passed away.”
Delacorte drank some coffee before continuing. “I don’t think Dawtrey ever really got over her. They stayed in touch—they had the son together. Kyle Scudder started seeing her a few months ago. I suspect he didn’t realize the difference in their ages. Madelyn’s in her mid-fifties now, but she tries not to look it. Scudder is forty-two. They met when she hired him to do some landscaping at her house. He fell for her. Got to be jealous of her spending time with Charlie Dawtrey. He caught them together at the Cozy Inn that night. The fight started when Charlie put a hand on Madelyn in a way Kyle Scudder didn’t like.”
“What does Scudder have to say?” Elizabeth asked. “Does he admit to killing Dawtrey?”
“He denies it. Says he was with Madelyn at her place all night.”
“What does she say?”
“Depends on when you ask her. At first she said Scudder followed her home from the Cozy but she didn’t let him in—because she was angry about the way he’d treated Charlie. Then she changed her story. Said she and Scudder spent the night together.”
I broke in then. “Why the change?”
Delacorte looked me over as if he had forgotten I was there. It was a cool, efficient look, intended to remind me that I was out of place: a civilian sitting in on a meeting where technically I didn’t belong. Delacorte had allowed me to be here as a courtesy to Elizabeth.
He smiled briefly to let me know he would indulge me by answering my question.
“Mr. Loogan,” he said, “if I understood why women do the things they do, I’d have a better job than the one I’ve got. If I had to guess, I’d say Madelyn told the truth the first time. But once she thought about how much trouble Scudder was in, she decided to cover for him.”
“What about witnesses?” Elizabeth asked him.
“Charlie Dawtrey lived alone in a cabin in the woods. No close neighbors. No one heard or saw anything.”
“Murder weapon?”
“We didn’t find it at the scene. Coroner said it was probably a metal pipe or a tire iron.” Delacorte’s lips made another brief smile and he laid his hand atop the manuscript. “I know how much that pleases you, since it matches what’s written here. But I have to tell you that our coroner likes to talk to the press. Whoever wrote this could have gotten the tire iron idea from the newspaper.”
“And I imagine you’re going to tell me Kyle Scudder owned a tire iron.”
The smile came back, and this time it held a hint of self-satisfaction.
“Everyone owns a tire iron, right? We got a search warrant for his truck and his house. Funny thing is, we didn’t find a tire iron. He says he had one, but he lost it. The story is, he stopped to help a lady with a flat a few weeks ago. He thinks he might have tossed it in her trunk by mistake. He never got the lady’s name, of course.”
“You think he’s lying,” Elizabeth said.
“I think he had time to dispose of the tire iron. Charlie Dawtrey’s body wasn’t found until late the next day. His son went over to see him. Madelyn’s boy—Nick. Rode his bike over. They were supposed to go fishing.”
Elizabeth leaned forward and I watched her in profile. She gazed at Delacorte as if she were trying to read his thoughts.
Finally she said, “You’re not worried that you’re making a mistake—that Kyle Scudder might be innocent?”
“I just don’t see it,” Delacorte said. “But it’s really not my call. I’ve turned everything over to the county prosecutor. I’ll pass your story along to him, but he believes we’ve got a solid case.”
Elizabeth drew a long breath and I could tell she had decided to let the matter rest.
“Let’s talk about Terry Dawtrey,” she said.
Delacorte nodded his consent.
“He was serving a thirty-year sentence,” Elizabeth said. “Does it seem strange to you that they would let him out, even for a few hours?”
“The warden at Kinross made that decision, but I can’t say it surprises me. A man’s father dies, you try to make allowances.”
“But Dawtrey was a high-profile prisoner. He went away for shooting Harlan Spencer, and now Callie Spencer’s running for the Senate.”
Delacorte sipped coffee before he answered. “The way I heard it, the warden ran the idea past Harlan Spencer, and he didn’t object. That doesn’t surprise me either. I used to work for Harlan, when he was sheriff. I couldn’t say if he’s forgiven Dawtrey, but I know he’s made his peace with what happened.”
“Two of your deputies picked up Terry Dawtrey down at Kinross and drove him to the church, and to the cemetery.”
“That’s standard procedure. I assigned Sam Tillman and Paul Rhiner to handle Dawtrey. They had escorted prisoners before—without incident.”
“What went wrong this time?”
The sheriff looked around the diner, and I thought he meant to summon the waitress for more coffee, but he was making sure no one was close enough to overhear.
“This is between us,” he said.
“Of course,” said Elizabeth.
“Tillman and Rhiner are suspended right now, and the whole thing is under review. What I tell you can’t go any further.”
“I understand,” she said.
He gave me a warning look and I gave it right back to him. I think he decided I was harmless.
“The fact is, they screwed up,” he said. “Terry Dawtrey behaved himself at the church service. When they got to the cemetery, Tillman and Rhiner let down their guard a little. They should have stayed right at Dawtrey’s side the whole time, but they didn’t. Tillman is a member of the congregation at Saint Joseph’s. He stopped to chat with the priest at the graveside. Rhiner let Dawtrey wander off. Dawtrey told him
he wanted to visit his grandmother’s grave. Rhiner followed him, but at a distance. They had Dawtrey in shackles. Where was he going to go?”
“But Dawtrey managed to free himself from the shackles,” said Elizabeth.
“He had help. Someone left a vase of roses in front of his grandmother’s headstone, with a handcuff key in the grass beside it.”
I pointed to the manuscript. “That detail is in here.”
“It was in the newspaper too,” said Delacorte. “We’re not sure where the key came from. Access to handcuff keys is supposed to be restricted, but I’ve seen them for sale on eBay.” For my benefit he added, “Handcuff locks are pretty much universal. They all open with the same kind of key.”
The waitress came around again with coffee, and Delacorte did his thing with the cream and sugar.
“What about the roses?” I asked him. “Did you try to trace them?”
“A rose is a rose. We couldn’t tie them to a particular shop. No prints on the vase.”
He raised his brows as if inviting me to ask him something else. When I didn’t, he turned back to Elizabeth and continued where he had left off.
“Once Dawtrey had the shackles off, he made a run for the cemetery fence. Rhiner ordered him to stop. Dawtrey climbed the fence and would have gotten away if Rhiner hadn’t shot him. Someone had left a car for him on the other side of the cemetery hill. An old Camaro that belonged to a kid who delivered pizzas. It’d been stolen the night before. The kid left it running outside an apartment building while he made a delivery, and when he came out it was gone.”
“Any leads on who stole the car?” Elizabeth asked.
“No one saw anything, naturally,” said Delacorte. “And the car had been wiped clean of prints. We found the keys above the visor, some cash in the glove box, and a change of clothes and shoes in the trunk.”
“That’s some reasonably sophisticated planning,” she said.
“Yup. And then there was the diversion. Two boys on bikes who set off fireworks in the cemetery parking lot. They drew attention away from Dawtrey at just the right moment, so he could unlock the cuffs.”
