Shiver Hitch

by Linda Greenlaw

  As long as I was waiting for Deloris, the sheriff asked me to grab the phone in the event that it rang, which was unlikely as it had been extremely quiet. I agreed to do so, wished him a good night, and got back to the Kohl case. I had read every single text message and email, listened to a few benign voice messages, and scrutinized the entire contact list. I had made notes on anything that I considered pertinent or worthy of follow-up. My sense of Mrs. Kohl was that she was not very well liked, had few friends, and her business associates and customers only dealt with her because ALP produced the best-quality value-added seafood on the market. Her husband did not communicate with her. She made her employees nervous. Her real estate dealings on Acadia were sketchy. If this was her only phone and represented all communication with the world, Mrs. Kohl lacked passion. Her correspondence was void of emotion. I hadn’t seen a single exclamation point or bold print or underscored word. She was neither happy nor sad. She was never excited or disappointed. I doubted that she had pleaded for her life if she had warning before her death. My image of Mrs. Kohl was one that did not allow her to put up a fight, or struggle, or scream for help, or beg for mercy, or pray for forgiveness. If her murder had been premeditated, it was one that gave the killer no satisfaction, which, I thought, explained the severe nature of the crime. Except for the fact that Mrs. Kohl had been murdered, and the way in which she had been killed, she was uninteresting. Mrs. Kohl was boring to the point of being intriguing.

  It had been dark for a couple of hours when I looked up from my computer. The security lamps around the building illuminated snowflakes like confetti seen through footlights. Although it had been a snowy two months, I was not yet jaded. Except for shoveling, I got a thrill from a snowy forecast, and liked the challenge that driving roads needing to be plowed provided. I made a habit of listening to the “no school” reports when I got out of bed, and felt a tinge of vicarious excitement for the kids for whom school was canceled. Watching snowflakes flutter through a window was mesmerizing, much like gazing at flames in a fireplace. I stared, yet didn’t really see anything. My mind was racing in contrast to the slow and graceful descent of feathery flakes. Like Robert Frost, whose name is most appropriate for his poem “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” I had promises to keep. And promises made to myself were the most difficult to possess.

  The office phone blared, startling me from the hypnotic trance the flakes had rendered. I jumped and grabbed the receiver. “Hello, Hancock County Sheriff’s Department,” I answered, verbatim in content and tone that I had heard Deloris use.

  “Hi. This is Jackie. Is Deloris there?”

  “No, she isn’t. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “Well, yeah I guess. Can you please have her call home when she gets there? I am starting to get worried. She is always home by five thirty. I tried her cell,” the woman said. “The roads are starting to get bad, and the car doesn’t have snow tires.”

  “Will do. And if she shows up at home before I see her, can you ask her to check in with Jane? She has my cell. I’m getting ready to go home and don’t know how to switch the phone over to night mode.” I explained to Jackie that Deloris had gone to do some legwork, and that I expected her back in the office any minute now.

  Although Jackie seemed delighted that her partner had finally been given an assignment worthy of her talents, she was nervous about her tardiness and noncommunication. I understood this and advised her to get used to it. If Deloris was to become the asset that I suspected she would be to the department, she had to start at the bottom of the totem pole. Jackie confirmed that Deloris had already occupied the bottom rung. After all, she had manned the office as dispatch, secretary, and errand girl for six years! She had been to the Academy, and passed all with flying colors “except the chin-ups”—which kept her from a badge and placement in the Maine State Police. “How much upper body strength do you need to pull a trigger?” And I suspected this attitude had a lot to do with the fact that Deloris had not been issued a gun. We hung up.

  Jackie’s call had me looking at the clock and calculating how many hours had passed since Deloris had headed east, full of the gung-ho that I recognized from many experiences with the almost-made-its who feel they have to prove the system wrong. Deloris had left her post here at the office at just after noon, and it was now 6:15. It should have taken forty-five minutes to drive from Ellsworth to Empire Seafood, I learned as I Googled the business’s address. I estimated an hour, given the road conditions, and allowed thirty minutes for a quick lunch. She really should have been back by now, I thought. All she was doing was verifying employment for the two guys that we had since arrested on subsequent and unrelated charges. I tried her cell, and got no answer. I assumed the cell coverage was inadequate, and decided to give her another call in thirty minutes if she did not surface before then.

  Thirty minutes passed, and still no answer. I didn’t want to alarm Jackie, so decided to not call to tell her that her partner had not returned to the office. Instead, I would have to drive to The Peninsula and find Deloris. She was very likely off the road in a snowbank and waiting for a tow. In the past, I had found wayward partners in bars drowning sorrows, or hotel rooms working on extramarital affairs. I doubted this was the issue with Deloris. No bars or hotels open in Down East Maine this time of year, coupled with the fact that there were not likely to be many lesbians looking to lead her astray, left me assuming that she was overdue for innocent reasons. Jackie’s concern about the absence of snow tires was a good one. The Duster was useless without them. And Deloris drove a compact Hyundai that she was oddly proud to tell me was manufactured in Egypt. I had wondered what Egyptians knew about driving in snow.

  I gathered my things, shut down my laptop, and locked my office door. Stopping in the lobby, I checked the top of Deloris’s desk, and was relieved to find instructions on how to switch the phone over to night mode. I was impressed with the degree of organization Deloris practiced. Everything was labeled and filed under obvious headings. Deloris could be a real asset to me, I thought as I turned out lights and locked the main door behind me. The weakness in my operation was the paperwork end. If I could enlist Deloris to help, we would make an excellent team. I knew that Deloris desired more hands-on investigation, and an arrest with a shootout would be considered a bonus.

  I chuckled to myself; Deloris would be disappointed to have missed my disarming of and diving tackle onto the junkie. I brushed an inch of snow from the Duster’s windshield and climbed behind the wheel. I would have to allow her some involvement to appease her. Maybe I could discuss theories and bounce ideas off of her. She struck me as having a quick mind and being a quick study—she probably retained everything she had been taught at the Academy. She knew more about Maine law than I did. And she had the most valuable attribute of any successful law enforcement officer: common sense. By the time I reached the first causeway, I had come full circle with my opinion of Deloris. Well, here’s hoping, I thought. Everyone deserves a chance.

  When I drove across the second causeway that connected Little Berry Island to Great Berry Island, I noticed that there were no tire tracks in the freshly fallen snow, so I assumed that Deloris had not come through in the last hour. Nor had anyone else. I pulled over onto the narrow shoulder to look at the map I had printed out. There was no way to go wrong. After the first bridge, I was to take a right at every opportunity and land in the small village of Champlain. Champlain was at the very end of The Peninsula, and Empire Seafood is located at the head of a large wharf there. I continued, and drove below the posted speed limit as the road twisted and turned wildly around coves and between houses. I wished I had come in daylight.

  The first streetlamp marked Champlain’s western border with a sign that read “Welcome to Champlain,” but that had been partially defaced by someone with spray paint to add “Now Leave.” Probably school kids entertaining themselves, I thought as I poked along the road, which was so narrow that I wondered what I would do if I met an
oncoming vehicle. It was now 7:45, and may as well have been midnight for the lack of activity. Houses were either completely dark, or lit by television screens that I could see through windows facing the road. I dawdled along, passing closed signs on the Post Office and General Store. I passed the Champlain Congregational Church with a sign lettered with a pithy message in line with those that I had come to know as signature, quintessential, Maine religion: “1 Cross + 3 Nails = 4 Given.”

  A short, dark stretch of road gave way to a well-lit and full parking area hemmed by a number of warehouse-style buildings and a dock. The driveway was gated, but open. I entered and circumnavigated the lot, looking for a Hyundai, which I found parked in front of what appeared to be the office building. Deloris’s car was covered with two inches of snow, while those around it were clean, indicating that she had been here since the last shift left and the present shift began. I regretted allowing Deloris to come here. I found an empty parking spot and pulled in. Some of the buildings were dark. I would start in what I assumed was the processing plant, which appeared to be alive with a full second shift. I proceeded on foot.

  When I entered the processing plant, I was impressed with the cleanliness and amount of stainless steel. There was no fishy smell whatsoever. All workstations were manned by people dressed in white protective suits and white booties. Most of the workers appeared to be Latino, I thought as I wandered looking for a tall redhead among the hair nets. The workers were lined up on either side of two long tables where they picked crabs.

  “Hello, can I help you?” A man’s voice called from behind me. I turned around to a pleasant-looking young man who wore a blue shirt with “Manager” embroidered above the chest pocket.

  “Yes. I’m from the Hancock County Sheriff’s Department,” I showed him my badge. “I’m looking for a woman. Her name is Deloris and her car is in your lot. Have you seen her?”

  “The majority of our second shift are hired through a subcontractor. Most of them don’t speak English or drive here. I can look through the contracts and see if there is a Deloris,” he offered. “What does she do?”

  “Oh, no. She doesn’t work here. She works for the police department, and came to Empire to verify employment of two guys we are investigating. She was overdue getting back to the office, so I decided to come find her. I take it cell phones don’t work here.” I looked at mine—no service. Tension pulled at the back of my neck. I was afraid of what may have happened to Deloris.

  I gave the manager the abbreviated account of the day, starting with this morning’s episode with the two men and ending with their arrest. I mentioned the chemicals that I had mistakenly thought were drugs. He said that he didn’t know of the two men or any chemicals that they may have been transporting. He shrugged and said, “But I only run the second shift. Maybe they’re legit. Don’t know. We only process at night. Shipping is in the morning.” My stress level doubled as he spoke.

  “I need to look around. I need access to all buildings. Deloris’s car is in the lot. She must be here somewhere.” My nerves exposed themselves as beads of sweat popped out on my forehead. The manager handed me a master key from his pocket, and explained that he would stay on the job unless I needed his help. I asked permission to speak with some of the people working the line. He agreed, but warned me that I wouldn’t get far unless I spoke Spanish. I confirmed that I did, thanked him, and started hustling through the plant.

  The laborers I attempted to question were hesitant to look up from their work of picking crabmeat. I learned that they were doing piece work, so the more pounds produced, the higher their compensation. Their fingers flew. No one had seen a tall, redheaded, white Caucasian. They had started their shift at five o’clock. I searched the break room and both restrooms. No Deloris. I searched coolers and freezers. No Deloris. I searched the packaging and supplies storage room. No Deloris. I searched the manager’s office. No Deloris. She was not in the plant. I headed outside and into the next building.

  The entryway was dark and damp. I could hear the humming of machinery and the sound of circulating water. I fumbled along a wall with my right hand and found a row of light switches and flipped them on. Fluorescent lights flickered and came on dimly at first, revealing the biggest wet storage tank system I had ever seen. Series of fiberglass tanks linked by miles of hoses and pipes that circulated salt water ran the length and width of the enormous room. Two large compressors aerated the tanks through perforated PVC pipes that lined their bottoms. The tanks were full of live product; mostly lobster and a few tanks with crabs. I walked the room from end to end looking in every tank. I shouted out several times for Deloris and got no answer. There was a certain creep factor involved in being alone in a room with so many crawling creatures, all of which seemed to be following me around the room with their buggy, black eyes. I quickly exited and, swelling with doubts, hustled to the office building.

  I found lights, turned them on, and called out several times for Deloris. I searched every office, closet, and restroom. Every door I swung open was accompanied by a flutter of anxiety with what I might find. There was no sign of her. Why had I allowed her to come here alone? I hustled out and ran to the warehouse, where lights revealed mountainous stacks of pallets and shipping boxes and containers of many different sizes. I called out, and, much to my relief, heard a muffled cry from behind a door at the far end of the warehouse. I ran to the door and was again relieved to find that the master key opened it right up. I flipped on a light and found Deloris in a heap on the floor surrounded by bits of dusty plaster. “Are you all right?” I asked as I ran to her.

  “No. I think I have broken bones in both feet. Thank God you’re here! I have been yelling for help for hours.” She broke into tears.

  “What happened? Who did this to you?”

  “I did it to myself,” she whimpered. “No one here would admit to knowing the two men. I didn’t want to leave without some sort of lead, so thought I would look for evidence of drugs. I was up there,” she pointed straight up to a jagged hole in a very high ceiling. She had apparently fallen through the upper level and onto the cement floor where she now sat. Around her were scattered fragments of ceiling that had come down with her. “I sneaked up a back staircase that led to the attic. I found more packaging supplies. I guess the floor is old and couldn’t support my weight. I caught a beam, and held on for as long as I could, dangling there, knowing that a fall from that height would not be good.”

  I looked around for something with which to drag her to the door, as her feet and possibly ankles were badly broken. I found a large piece of corrugated cardboard and helped Deloris onto it. “I tried to pull myself back up through the hole, but didn’t have the upper body strength.” She cried harder. I understood this to be a long-awaited confession regarding her inability to pass muster in the mandatory physical test required of all Maine law enforcement officers.

  I tried to move Deloris with the cardboard to the door. It was not an easy task. The floor was damp, and the corrugations in the cardboard acted like suction cups. “I’ll run for help,” I said.

  “No, please. I am so embarrassed. Please. I’ll crawl.”

  “Okay, but don’t ask how I managed to pass the upper body strength test,” I teased, trying to lighten the mood. It worked. Deloris rolled her eyes and giggled. “This will never go beyond the two of us, right?” I asked.

  “My lips are sealed,” she called out to me as I ran to bring the Duster closer to the door. I was glad that she wanted to keep this hushed, as I was feeling somewhat responsible. Deloris crawled over the threshold, down two steps, and into the snow where I placed the cardboard for her. She rolled back onto the makeshift sled, and I easily pushed her to the waiting car.

  She was in a great deal of pain, but more concerned with how she had “screwed up,” and how to explain her injuries in a way that would not humiliate her. I told her not to worry, and that we would think of an explanation on the way back to Ellsworth, where we would get to the hospital
’s emergency room for treatment ASAP.

  Once Deloris was loaded and as comfortable as I could make her, I returned the master key to the plant manager and thanked him for his help. I lied and said that I had found out that Deloris had had car trouble and that she’d hitched a ride home without telling anyone. I assured him that someone would retrieve the broken Hyundai soon. It was break time, and the employees huddled around a table in their break room, eating prepackaged junk food from the vending machine. They chatted in an accent I couldn’t place. As I passed the open door to exit the plant a man waved and spoke in Spanish.

  “Te veremos pronto, estoy seguro.” There was something in his tone that indicated that he knew something that I didn’t. But maybe I was reading too much into it, I thought as I got back to the Duster. I had missed the mark so badly on this whole thing that I had to be careful not to grasp at any little crumb to redeem myself. Best to just let it go, and stay focused on the Kohl case. And now that Deloris would likely be incapacitated, I hoped she would be eager to help with researching and documenting.

  The snow had stopped falling. It hadn’t amounted to more than a couple of inches, which did not require plowing, but did make the roads “greasy,” as the locals liked to say. Deloris was in agony, nodding off and coming to, in and out of a pain-induced shock akin to a high-on-opiate state. The outgoing side of Champlain’s welcome sign had also been altered with spray paint to include “Don’t” before the “Come Again.”

  As we made our way from Champlain Village to Great Berry Island, headlights came upon us very quickly from behind. The vehicle had intense high beams that the driver neglected to dim, nearly blinding me with the reflection from the rearview mirror. I slowed to allow the impatient driver who was now tailgating an opportunity to pass. Instead of passing, the vehicle, which I could now tell was a pickup truck, nudged my rear fender. I sped up to put some distance between us. But the driver quickly caught up, and I received another bump; this one a bit harder, causing the Duster to careen off the snowbank on my right and bounce back into the road. There was no place to pull over. And I was hesitant to do so, since I didn’t have my gun. I had always prided myself in my ability to out-drive the best of ’em in normal conditions. But the icy, unfamiliar roads had me at a disadvantage.