by P J Parrish
“We’re going to have to set up some lights,” Louis said.
“Electric’s bringing them.” Jesse started walking around the body. “We might be out here ‘til fucking dawn.”
Louis sighed loudly. “Damn.”
“Hot date?” Jesse asked with a grin.
“In my dreams, man, in my dreams. You call your wife?”
“Yeah, she’s pissed. No tacos for moi tonight.”
Jesse came up to Louis’s side. They stood there, staring down at the body. They had already called the coroner and the fire department. The latter had been Jesse’s idea when Louis broached the problem of how they were going to get the body out of the ice. At first they had considered trying to chip it out with a crowbar but quickly realized how stupid that would be given the foot-thick ice. To say nothing about what damage they could do to the body.
“Any idea who it is?” Louis asked.
“Nope. We’re about halfway up the lake. A couple small tourist cabins up here, so it might be an East Egger. They have a habit of getting tanked up, taking out the old Chris-Craft and falling into the lake.”
“Not in winter,” Louis said.
“Who’s to say the guy didn’t fall in last summer and just now floated up?
Louis glanced at him. “He’s wearing a parka.”
“No shit.”
They were getting irritable from the cold. Louis felt his stomach rumble with hunger.
“Well, no matter when he fell in, maybe somebody reported him missing,” Louis said. “You remember anything like that?”
Jesse shook his head. “That’s what makes me think it was an Egger, maybe somebody who was up here alone. A local would’ve been missed.”
Louis nodded in assent. He was staring now at the pinky sticking up from the ice. He focused the beam of his flashlight on the hand, picking up a flash of metal.
“He’s wearing a watch,” Louis said. Gingerly, he stepped down from the shallow bank onto the ice and the ice groaned with his weight. Louis squatted and directed the beam at the frozen body’s wrist. “Looks like a gold one.”
“Figures.” Jesse trudged back up the bank. “What the hell is keeping the fire guys?”
Louis moved the flashlight over the body. He was a large man and from the style of coat, the light gray hair and the thickness of the neck, probably an older man. Damn, why hadn’t anyone missed him? And how the hell did he get under the ice when the entire lake was frozen?
“Hey, you know what this reminds me of?” Jesse said suddenly.
Louis jumped. He hadn’t heard Jesse come back.
“A movie I saw this past summer,” Jesse went on. “Julie and me went down to the drive-in at Rose City. It was about some caveman they found frozen in the ice of the North Pole. Shit, what was the name of that movie?”
Louis looked toward the road, hoping to see headlights. “Didn’t see it,” he muttered.
“That guy was in it, you know, the one that was in the movie about the kid who drowns and the brother tries to slit his wrists?”
Louis was thinking about Zoe. Maybe she wouldn’t run tonight. It was too cold.
“Louis, what was the name of that movie?”
“Shit, Jess, I don’t know.”
“Mary Tyler Moore was in it. And the guy from Taxi was in it. Played a shrink.”
“Ordinary People. Judd Hirsch.”
“Yeah! That’s it. He was in the caveman movie.”
“Judd Hirsch was a caveman?”
“No, no, the kid in Ordinary People,” Jesse said impatiently. “He was the scientist who found the caveman frozen in the ice. I can’t remember how they got him out though.”
“Chain saws, I’d bet,” Louis muttered.
They fell silent for several minutes.
“Iceman!” Jesse said suddenly.
“What?”
“That was the name of the movie.”
They were quiet again. A dog barked somewhere far-off, the sound caroming against the pines surrounding the lake. They stood, staring at the body in its ice coffin.
“Gives a whole new meaning to the word ‘stiff,’” Jesse said.
Louis looked up at him. Jesse grinned. Louis started to laugh. Jesse joined in, their cackles echoing in the dark trees. It broke the tension, lessened the irritation. It felt odd, laughing. Louis couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed so hard out loud.
“Chief’s here,” Jesse said.
Louis sobered quickly and looked toward the road. Gibralter’s cruiser came to a stop atop the bank. As he was getting out, two other cars and an Oscoda County Electric Company truck pulled up behind. The crewmen began unloading portable spotlights while Gibralter and a second man Louis did not recognize came down to the shore’s edge. A third man, lugging a Nikon and bag, stumbled behind them.
“Jess, who’s that?”
“Delp. Little snot-nose from the Argus, the local rag. Thinks he’s Geraldo Rivera or something.”
“What we got here, Jess?” Gibralter said.
“I’d bet an East Egger left over from hunting season,” Jesse said.
“Do we know who it is?”
“No,” Jesse answered.
“Who found it?”
“Some kids ice skating. It was hidden by some snow that was cleared away.”
Gibralter stared down at the body, his face as hard set as the ice. The thin-faced man with glasses, in a massive hooded parka, pulled out a flashlight and ventured carefully down onto the ice. Louis guessed he was probably the Oscoda County coroner, Ralph Drexler.
“What you think, Ralph?” Gibralter asked.
The coroner looked up and shrugged. “No way to tell anything ‘til we get him back to the shop and thaw him out.”
“We called the fire department,” Louis offered.
“Fire department?” Drexler said.
“We figured they’d have the equipment to chip him out, or chain saws or something,” Louis said.
“Well, be careful,” Drexler said. “I need the body intact. Don’t break off any damn arms. Or fingers. The fingers are important. Be careful with the fingers.”
The coroner bent back over the body. The reporter began screwing attachments onto a camera. Louis watched the chief as he trudged back up the bank and toward his cruiser. A moment later, he saw the flick of a lighter and the glow of the chief’s cigarette.
“Man, this is going to make a great picture.”
Louis turned. The reporter was looking at him, grinning. He couldn’t have been more than twenty and his face was flushed from the cold. He wore a red down vest over a heavy turtleneck sweater. Wild blond hair stuck out the sides of his wool cap. He made his way down toward the shoreline and began to take pictures, his strobe sending surreal flashes into the dark night.
“Hey, back off a little,” Gibralter hollered from the cruiser.
The kid looked up at Gibralter then at Louis. “I got enough.” He retreated to the bank to take pictures of the electrical crew unloading lights.
The six men of the Loon Lake Volunteer Fire Department ambled down to the body and stood gawking, making bad jokes. Louis stuffed his hands in his pockets, growing colder and more irritable. He watched as one man yanked on a chain saw, trying in vain to bring it to life as the others stood silently by, shivering. He looked up at the black sky and let out a long breath, trying to imagine Zoe on the frayed bear rug.
Two hours later, a six-by-six-foot block of ice was unloosed from the lake and hoisted up by pulleys rigged to a tow truck. It hung there, gleaming and dripping in the harsh glare of the lights. Everyone stood in a semicircle, silently looking at it for several minutes. A flash of light made Louis glance over his shoulder. He spotted the reporter a few yards off, recording the grisly tableau.
After a half hour of debate it was decided to call Noel Wolfe, who ran the granite quarry, to get a truck big enough to transport the ice block. But when the truck arrived, Ralph Drexler stepped forward.
“That body will
break into pieces if you hit a bump. We need something to cushion it,” he said.
Gibralter looked at Jesse. “Go find a cushion,” he said.
“Where the fuck…?” Jesse pulled off his cap. “Okay, Chief. It’s only fucking midnight. We’re in the middle of nowhere and you want a fucking pillow for this stiff? Jesus Christ, in another hour, you’re going to have to chisel all of us out of the damn ice.”
“Harrison!” Gibralter bellowed, silencing the crowd. “I have given you a directive. Now follow it!”
Jesse stared at the chief, his mouth agape. Louis watched, sensing that Gibralter’s reprimand was totally unexpected. Apparently, under better circumstances, Jesse was allowed his little fits of temper. But not tonight.
Jesse disappeared into the darkness and Louis watched as he flipped on the lights and ran code three back to town. Again, the men fell silent, a few going back to trucks to turn on heaters and thaw out. Louis went to the truck and ducked under the hoisted block of ice, shining his flashlight on the man’s face.
It was distorted by ice, grotesque and pale. The man was caucasian and chubby, his clean-shaven face clearly visible beneath the crystal pattern of the ice. His eyes were open, two little holes burnt in the ice, with a mild look of bewilderment. His mouth was open, and the upper plate of his dentures had worked its way loose.
A flash of light went off next to him. The damn reporter had ducked under the block with him and taken a picture.
“This one’s not so bad,” he said, looking at Louis.
“What?” Louis said.
“Pryce. Pryce was still warm when I got there.” The young man thrust out a hand. “Delp,” he said with a smile. “Doug Delp. Oscoda County Argus.”
Louis stared at the man’s bare red hand for a moment then reluctantly shook it.
“You’re the guy who replaced Pryce, right?” Delp asked.
“Yeah,” Louis said. “Excuse me, will you?”
Ollie was peeking in at them. “Is it worth coming under there to take photos? Or should I wait?” he asked hopefully.
“Wickshaw! Kincaid!” Gibralter yelled. “Get out of there before that damn block of ice falls and kills you both.”
Ollie backed off, followed by Louis and Delp. Louis walked up the bank to the cruisers.
Thirty minutes later, Jesse returned with a queen-size mattress tied to the roof of the cruiser. The mattress was placed on the flatbed truck and the ice-encased body gently lowered onto it. Once the block was secured with rope, bungee cords and straps, the electrical crew and firemen began to quickly pack up their gear. No one wanted to linger a moment longer than necessary in the freezing night. Even the reporter had long since hit the road.
“Where will they take it?” Louis asked Jesse.
“Cedar Springs. They have a county lab up that way. It’s about twenty miles.”
“Thank God. We might get home by dawn.”
Gibralter came toward them, tossing aside a cigarette. He watched the firemen finish with the final straps, then looked at Louis and Jesse. “Wickshaw will follow you in the cruiser.”
Louis looked at the body, then back at Gibralter, who was walking away. “He expects us to ride with the stiff?” Louis asked Ollie.
Ollie shrugged. “That’s what I heard. Isn’t that what you heard?”
Jesse was already climbing on the flatbed. Louis started to protest again but Jesse cut him off, extending a hand.
“Louis, get up here,” Jesse said.
Shaking his head, Louis climbed onto the flatbed, over the block of ice and sat down next to Jesse, who had settled into a corner against the truck’s cab.
“This is ridiculous,” Louis muttered.
“Look at it this way. We’re protecting the chain of custody.”
The truck kicked into gear and Louis grabbed the edge of the truck. Jesse looked toward the road and watched as the chief climbed into his Bronco. The flatbed pulled slowly up the bank and onto the road. Ollie swung his cruiser in behind.
“Chief seemed kind of tense,” Louis said after a moment.
“He’s just pissed at me,” Jesse said tightly. “I shouldn’t have spouted off to him like that.”
Louis shivered as the wind began to whip around them. “Not a real smart move.”
“He’s never yelled at me like that for just mouthing off.”
“It’s the circumstances, Jess. It’s freezing-ass cold. The chief’s got a dead body that everyone’s making jokes about and all these civilians watching. He was doing a little chest beating, that’s all.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Louis scooted toward Jesse for warmth. “If I freeze and die out here tonight tell them I died with honor, okay?” he said.
“You’re not going to die. The human body can endure temperatures much colder than this.”
Louis nodded toward the body. “Tell that to him.”
They quickly fell silent in the biting cold of the open highway.
“Louis?” Jesse said, breaking the silence.
Louis grunted.
“Have you ever been, like, suddenly transported back in time? You know, by something that happens to you now?”
“Deja vu?”
“No, more like you’re a kid again and something that happened to you happens all over again?”
Louis looked at Jesse. In the wind, his voice had sounded small. And his face, caught in the headlight beam of Wickshaw’s cruiser following behind, looked different. The wind whipped his dark hair over his forehead and his eyes were teary from the cold. He looked ten years old.
“My father used to make me ride in the back of his pickup,” Jesse said.
“In the winter?”
“Winter and summer. Rain or shine.”
“Why?”
Jesse blinked. “Said there wasn’t enough room in the front seat for me and my uncle both.”
Louis shivered and pulled his knees closer. “Excuse me for saying this, Jess, but he sounds like a real ass.”
“He was,” Jesse said. “But in a way, he made me what I am.”
“What do you mean?”
“If he hadn’t kicked me out of the house when I was seventeen, I wouldn’t have become a cop.”
Jesse glanced at Louis and saw he was waiting for more. “I met Gibralter right after that, and man, suddenly it all got clear. I wanted to be a cop. I had to be a cop. Know what I mean?”
He didn’t, but Louis nodded anyway.
They were quiet the rest of the way to Cedar Springs. When the truck pulled into the county morgue parking lot, Louis and Jesse went inside to log in the body. A few minutes later, they were walking back to Ollie’s cruiser.
“Let’s get out of here.” Louis opened the passenger door of the cruiser and started to get in. Jesse grabbed his arm.
“Let me ride in front.”
Louis shrugged. “Sure.”
Louis got in back and closed his eyes. “Don’t expect me in ‘til later,” he muttered. “I’m sleeping in.”
Jesse shot him a look over his shoulder through the metal screen that separated the front and backseats. “At least you got a place to sleep.”
“What do you mean?” Louis asked.
Jesse nodded back toward the morgue. “That fucker used my bed.”
CHAPTER 9
Louis was awakened by the scratchy sound of his radio going off on the nightstand. It was Florence, who informed him it was after eight and he had missed briefing.
Louis fell back on the pillows. Damn, after last night, he expected to get a few extra hours of sleep.
He was zipping up his pants when he heard the squawk of a siren outside. He pushed back the curtain to see Jesse waiting in the cruiser. They went back on routine patrol without hitting the station. Louis sat slumped in the seat, half listening to Jesse’s patter, refusing his offer to share his thermos of coffee. Julie, Louis had quickly discovered, made terrible coffee. At noon, Louis suggested they go back to the station.
Inside, L
ouis went straight to the coffeepot then sank into his chair, rubbing his bristly jaw. He hadn’t had time to shave and he wondered if Gibralter counted that as being out of uniform.
The phone rang and he picked it up. It was the medical examiner from Cedar Springs. Louis waved at Jesse. “Hey, they’ve identified the stiff,” he called out.
Jesse looked over and started toward Louis’s desk.
“Uh-huh. Yeah. Got it,” Louis murmured, taking notes. After a couple of minutes, he hung up. “The guy was shot.”
“You’re kidding,” Jesse said. “When?”
“They won’t know until tissue tests are done.”
“I told you he was probably a hunter,” Jesse said. “What kind of gun?”
“Shotgun. Twelve-gauge.”
Jesse’s expression shifted subtly, his brows coming together.
Louis was about to ask him what was the matter when it hit him. “Pryce was killed with a twelve-gauge,” he said.
Jesse nodded.
Louis ripped off a paper from his pad and held it out to Dale. “They found a wallet. Dale, run the guy’s name and see if he’s reported missing. Run it out of state, too, in case he was a tourist.”
Dale took the paper and started back to the computer. He stopped. “Jess,” he said, turning.
Jesse looked up at him. “What?”
Dale’s face had drained of color. His eyes went from the paper in his hand to Louis and finally back to Jesse. Jesse came forward and took the paper from Dale.
When he looked up, his eyes were glazed.
“Dale, go get the chief,” he said quietly.
The dead man’s cabin was located on the west side of the lake in a neighborhood of small bungalows and trailers, about an eight of a mile north of where the body had been found. It was, Louis guessed, where Loon Lake’s less well-heeled lived, the gas station attendants, fishing guides and most of the women who waited tables and changed the motel sheets for the tourists.
His name was Fred Lovejoy. He had been sixty-one years old, single, childless and a former Loon Lake cop.
Now there were two. One old, one young. One white, one black. One with a family, one who lived alone. One active, one retired. But both had worn Loon Lake uniforms.
