01 Storm Peak

by John Flanagan

  “Hold you to it,” Jorgensen replied. He waved, then let himself out. Lee took a deep breath, looked around the busy crime scene and realized that the man who’d found the body was still sitting there, ignored by everyone else in the room as they went about their tasks.

  She moved over to him, smiled sympathetically and sat down on the couch beside him.

  “I guess this is all a hell of a shock to you—” She consulted her notepad. The town police had filled her in with a few details when she’d arrived. “Mr. Kramer.”

  He nodded several times. A nervous, jerky movement of his head. He was still reliving that moment when he’d let himself in and seen his friend lying dead on the floor, blood seeping from the neat, blue-edged hole in his forehead.

  “I … walked in and he was just … lying there … you know?” he said. His voice was a little higher in pitch than normal.

  “The door was open?” she asked and he shook his head distractedly.

  “No. No. Jerry leaves a key on top of the lintel there—outside the door. I let myself in. I always do. And there he was.” He shook his head as the scene replayed itself in his mind again. He looked across to where the body of his friend was still lying. One of the town cops was carefully tracing a yellow chalk outline around the body. Within a few minutes, they’d remove it and take it to the hospital where Doc Jorgensen could carry out his autopsy.

  “When did you last see him?” she asked. Kramer shook his head, still dazed.

  “Last night,” he said. “Last night at the Town Saloon. We played in the darts tournament there. We do that every week.”

  “And what time did Mr. Marrowes leave? Did you see him leave?” she asked.

  Again, Kramer nodded assent. “Wasn’t till late. Maybe one, one thirty. Said he wasn’t working today so he’d sleep in late. We arranged to go back to the Saloon for lunch today. That’s what I was doing here.”

  Lee doodled on the notepad in front of her. So far there seemed nothing worthy of note.

  “You known the victim long, Mr. Kramer?” she asked. Kramer considered the question briefly

  “Year or two, I guess. We met working together on ski patrol last season. Don’t see much of each other in the summer. I usually look for work up north in summer.”

  “You’re in the ski patrol?” she asked.

  Again she got the nervous nod from the man. “Both of us”—he paused, then amplified the statement—“I’m on the professional staff. Jerry, he’s—” He stopped himself. “He was a volunteer.”

  Lee nodded to herself. Most ski patrols were organized that way. A small cadre of professionals, supplemented during the high season by amateur volunteers. The volunteers were repaid with a season ski pass, a free uniform and a lot of time on the mountain. It was a popular job. But it didn’t leave a lot of time to earn a living, which might explain the empty wallet.

  “So I guess Jerry—Mr. Marrowes—was a little hard up for cash?” she suggested. It was often the case with people working in ski towns. But she was wrong.

  “Hell, no. He made good money in the summer. Worked on one of them oil rigs down in the Gulf of Mexico. They make good money there. Plenty enough to see him through the winter. And this place didn’t cost him much in rent,” he added.

  Lee looked around the small room with its worn carpet and cheap, second-or third-hand furnishings.

  “I guess not,” she agreed. “So you’d think it unusual that there was nothing in his wallet when we found it?” she asked. Kramer for the first time lost his dazed look. He was definitely surprised to hear that news.

  “Can’t be,” he said emphatically. “Jerry was the big winner in the tournament last night. You know,” he added, “we all throw in ten bucks a head and the winner takes it all. He must have walked out of the saloon last night with close to two hundred bucks on him.”

  “Well, it surely wasn’t there this morning,” Lee told him.

  He shook his head sadly. “Two hundred bucks. You think someone killed him for just two hundred bucks, Sheriff?” he asked. Lee snorted briefly.

  “Folks been killed for a lot less than that,” she said. Kramer raised his eyes to her sadly.

  “I guess that’s true,” he said.

  “So … anyone in that darts game get mad because he won?” she asked carefully. But Kramer saw the track she was heading down and blocked it indignantly.

  “No way, Sheriff! This wasn’t done by any of those boys!” he said. “Hell, we’re all friends. Known each other for years, most of us.”

  “Still,” Lee said gently. “Maybe someone lost big and got mad …”

  But Kramer was positive in his denial.

  “No one lost big!” he said heatedly. “All’s we put in is ten bucks apiece. Ain’t none of us can’t spare that much! It’s just a bit of fun, Sheriff, that’s all. Just fun. Nobody’s going to get mad over ten lousy bucks!”

  She put up a hand to calm him down. “Okay. I understand,” she said. “We’ve just got to look at all the possibilities. How about other people in the saloon? Anyone see him walk out with that money?”

  Kramer spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “Well, hell, I guess most people did. Or could have if they’d been looking. We didn’t make any secret about it.”

  Lee sighed. “So I guess we could be looking for anyone who was in the Old Town Saloon last night,” she said. Kramer agreed with her.

  “I guess,” he said.

  “Or for anyone who might have talked to someone in the Old Town Saloon,” she added. Kramer was watching her apologetically, as if he felt maybe this was his fault. She smiled at him, closed her notebook and slid it into her inside pocket.

  “Sorry Mr. Kramer,” she said. “Just sounding off a little. Maybe you’d like to go with one of the officers here and let him take down a full statement?” She indicated the two town cops, who had just about finished turning the room over.

  “Fine,” said Kramer. “Anything I can do to help, Sheriff.”

  She smiled again and stood up.

  “I may talk to you again later on,” she said and he shrugged.

  “As I say, anything I can do to help.”

  “Okay, Mr. Kramer. Be seeing you.”

  She nodded to the two cops and made her way to the door. In the vestibule, she noted the parka hanging outside the front door and an old, battered pair of Timberlands. Marrowes’s, she guessed.

  She made for the door, but paused. An ambulance was stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and the two paramedics were hustling the gurney out of the rear. They’d come for the body. They heaved the gurney, leaving its legs collapsed to negotiate the stairs, then hurried up to the apartment. Lee stood aside to let them through. She wondered what the rush was all about. Marrowes certainly wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.

  As she made her way down the stairs, she heard the familiar rattle of a worn four-cylinder motor and turned to see Jesse’s Subaru pull in behind the ambulance. She gave him a tired wave and went to meet him.

  “Heard we had another one,” he said. She shook her head.

  “Doesn’t look like it,” she replied. “Take a look if you like, but it seems like a totally different MO.”

  He hesitated. She knew he was desperate for any new lead at all in the case.

  “You sure?” he asked and she shrugged.

  “Well I’m not one hundred percent sure,” she said, “but it’s a different gun, according to Doc Jorgensen, and there’s two hundred bucks missing from the dead guy’s wallet. Two hundred bucks that maybe fifty people knew he was carrying,” she added. She saw Jesse’s shoulders slump.

  “Who’s the victim?” he asked. “Another out-of-towner?”

  “Not really. He worked on ski patrol.” She checked her notebook. “Jerry Marrowes. You know him?”

  He frowned, running the name through his memory.

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” he admitted. “He a pro or a volunteer?”

  “Volunteer,” she answered and he nodded, unde
rstanding.

  “That explains it. There’s a lot of new guys in this year. I don’t know half of them anymore. Maybe I’ll take a look anyway, now that I’m here.”

  “Be my guest,” she said. “Can’t do any harm.”

  He nodded and headed for the stairs. She’d parked her Renegade on Lincoln and she headed for it now. At the corner, she stopped and looked back. Jesse was just entering the door at the top of the stairs. She watched him sadly. She wondered what had gone wrong between them.

  FORTY-NINE

  Doc Jorgensen phoned around five o’clock, confirming that he’d extracted a .38 Special from the skull of Jerry Marrowes.

  “That’s a beer you owe me, Lee,” he said. She could hear the grin in his voice. The ME was inordinately pleased when one of his hunches was proved right. They most often were too, she thought morosely.

  “I’ll get around to giving it to you, Doc,” she replied.

  “I’ll make sure of it,” said the doctor.

  “You usually do.”

  There was a pause, then Jorgensen’s voice lost its joking tone. “One other thing. I found traces of fabric in the wound.”

  “Fabric?” Lee asked. “What kind of fabric?”

  “A wool-rayon blend. There were a few strands there—badly scorched, but recognizable. Couple that with the fact that there were no powder burns on the victim, even though I’d say he was shot at fairly close range.”

  He paused while she digested those facts.

  “You think he had something wrapped around the gun. Is that it?”

  “I’d say so, Lee. That way, he’d keep the noise down a little. Not as good as a silencer, but it’d still quieten things down a piece.”

  She felt a quick surge of hope. “So … is there anything special about this fabric? Is it traceable at all, Doc?”

  She sensed the slight hesitation, felt the quickly born hope stifled. She knew what he was going to tell her.

  “Shouldn’t think so, Lee. Every second sweater or pair of socks or scarf is made from that sort of blend.” He paused, then knowing she would be let down, added, “Sorry, Lee.”

  “Yeah,” she said heavily. “Well, it isn’t your fault, Doc. Thanks for the information.”

  “Only thing is, if the killer still has the sweater or whatever with him, it’ll have scorch marks and powder residue from the shot. That could be handy,” he suggested.

  “If he still has it,” she replied. “Odds are he’s already gotten rid of it.”

  Doc said nothing for a few seconds. They both knew she was right.

  “Nothing much else turned up in the examination, Lee,” he told her apologetically. “I’d place the time of death as between nine thirty and ten thirty this morning. That’s about all I can give you.”

  She sighed. This was just what she needed right now, she thought. Another murder case with little prospect of a successful conclusion.

  “Let me know if anything else occurs to you, Doc,” she said.

  “You know it,” the elderly man replied and he broke the connection.

  Lee stood up and walked to the window overlooking the river and looked across to the ski-jump hill behind the town. As she watched, a jumper came hurtling down the run, took off and soared high above the snow, seeming to hang in the air for an impossibly long time, before making smooth contact once more with the hard-packed surface. He ran another fifty yards or so, then skidded the big, wide jumping skis sideways to halt in a flurry of snow.

  Something was bugging her about this case. There was something in the back of her mind, nagging away in the half-light, refusing to come out and be seen and recognized.

  She swore softly to herself, then turned as there was a tap at the door.

  “Come in,” she said briefly.

  The door opened and Packer Thule entered.

  “Afternoon, Sheriff,” said Packer. “Opie Dulles asked could I drop this off to you on my way home.”

  Packer was wearing the deep blue uniform of the ski patrol, with a large yellow cross emblazoned on the back. It was a high quality, expensive outfit. It had to be, Lee thought, as the ski patrol stayed out long hours in all weather, making sure the mountain was safe. Consequently, their uniform was comprised of a wind-and waterproof long-line GORE-TEX parka and ski pants-the sort of thing that would cost maybe six or seven hundred bucks if you bought it privately.

  In some cases, Lee knew, it was actually quite an incentive to join the ski patrol. In addition, the uniform gave patrollers automatic priority at lift lines, a fact that had caused one hell of a dogfight the previous season, when patrollers were found wearing their uniforms and jumping lines on their off-duty days.

  The practice still continued, she knew, but not quite as blatantly as before. She knew Packer well. He was a longtime member of the patrol and they’d worked together several times in the past when skiers had gone missing. He was holding out a manila folder to her now. She looked at it with idle curiosity.

  “Marrowes’s personnel file,” Packer told her, interpreting the look. She understood suddenly, nodded her thanks and took the file.

  “Yeah, thanks, Packer,” she said. “My mind was a long way away there for a moment. Opie said he’d send over the file. Maybe there’s something in it.”

  Packer shook his head sadly. “Sure is a shame about Jerry,” he said. “He was a nice feller.”

  Lee glanced up at him. “Got on all right with everyone on patrol, did he?” she asked and Packer nodded affirmative.

  “Wasn’t anyone didn’t get on with him,” he said. “He was a popular guy.”

  It never failed to amuse Lee that, once a person was dead—particularly as a murder victim-he or she automatically seemed to cease having any enemies in the world. Understandably, people knew that if they mentioned any long-term enmities, they were inevitably casting a shadow of accusation.

  Still, she thought to herself, maybe in this case it was true. Packer seemed to be pretty genuine, and they’d known each other for quite some time.

  “Well, one thing’s for sure,” she said finally. “He was unpopular with whoever killed him.”

  Packer rubbed his jaw between his forefinger and thumb. “It’s a bad time, Sheriff,” he said. “First poor Walt Davies, now Jerry. People in the patrol are mighty upset, I tell you.”

  Lee met his gaze evenly. “I’m none too pleased about it myself, Packer,” she told him. “But at least we know it’s not the same guy.”

  “How’s that?” Packer asked quickly. She realized that an undercurrent of tension must have been developing among the ski patrollers. Maybe, she thought, they’d begun to believe that someone had a vendetta against them.

  “Different MO for a start,” she replied. “The guy obviously followed him home and then killed him. Plus there were no previous robberies. And Marrowes’s killer used a .38. Walt was killed with a .32.”

  Packer nodded several times as he took this in. “So,” he said finally. “You don’t think this is someone aiming specifically at the patrol?”

  She realized her earlier assessment had been accurate. She shook her head.

  “Doubt it, Packer. Looks more like coincidence here.”

  Some of the tension seemed to have gone out of the man.

  “Well, if you say so, Sheriff. Makes me feel a little easier about being out on the mountain late in the afternoon. This uniform was starting to make me feel like a target, you know?”

  “Yes,” she said thoughtfully. He’d tripped something in her mind there. That thought that was hovering just out of reach seemed to move a little closer, then recede once again, mockingly. She knew the best way to have it surface was to try to forget it entirely. The harder she tried now to isolate it, the more elusive it would become. She shook her head irritably.

  “Like some coffee, Packer?” she asked. “There’s some fresh made.”

  He shook his head. “Best be going, Sheriff,” he said. “Mandy’s got supper waiting for me.”

  She glance
d at her watch. It was barely five o’clock. Still, Packer would have put in a hard day’s work and she guessed he’d get to bed early. She knew that ski patrollers certainly rose early enough. They had to sweep the mountain before the lifts began running.

  She walked with him to the door, opened it for him.

  “Thanks for dropping in the file, Packer,” she said. The patroller shrugged.

  “Just hope it might be helpful, Sheriff. Still and all, I can’t see why anyone would want to kill poor Jerry.”

  “Looks like two hundred bucks is the reason,” she replied. He shook his head sadly at the thought of it.

  “Damn,” he said. “We’re getting more like New York every minute, aren’t we?”

  She smiled sadly. “I don’t think we’re quite in that league yet, Packer,” she said. “Let’s do our best to keep it that way.”

  He went out, heading for the stairs. She was about to close the door again when she caught sight of Tom Legros in the hallway. She beckoned to him.

  “Tom? Got a moment?”

  The burly deputy was carrying a coffee mug in his left hand. He hitched his gunbelt a little higher on his belly with his other hand and headed toward her. The belt promptly slid back down the reverse slope to its original position. Lee guessed that Tom spent a lot of time hitching his belt up. She guessed that his belt spent a lot of time riding right back down again too.

  He stepped into her office, taking a sip of coffee as he did so. He sighed with pleasure. There was nothing like the first sip of a fresh cup of coffee.

  “You want me, Sheriff?” he asked.

  Lee waved a hand to a yellow message slip on her desk.

  “You know a Mrs. McLaren at all, Tom?” she asked. The deputy frowned a moment, then answered.

  “Alice McLaren?” he said. “From up Laurel Street way?”

  Lee checked the message slip again. “Yeah, that sounds like the one. You know her?”

  Tom planted himself on the seat in front of her desk, tipping it back on its hind legs. The hind legs creaked a gentle warning. Lee raised one eyebrow in Tom’s direction. She’d mentioned this to him before—several times. With a slightly guilty look, he let the front legs of the chair drop back to the floor.