by Paul Doiron
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Like hell it does!”
I stared out across the slowly moving river to the far bank. There was forest there and firm ground, but you wouldn’t have had to paddle too far south to find the swamp. The question on my mind was how and where Casey Donaldson had escaped the maze and gotten off the Saco.
“Can I borrow this map?”
“Go ahead. It’s a copy, anyway.”
I folded the map and wedged it between the dash and the windshield. “Anything else you’d like to show me?”
To my surprise he zipped up the portfolio and set it at his feet. Then he opened the door and climbed down out of the truck. He slammed the door, gazed at me silently through the glass, and began threading his way through the trees, along the steep riverbank.
Seeing him from behind, I noticed he was hiding a pistol beneath his shirt, in a holster at the small of his back. Ever since the legislature had passed a law allowing pretty much anyone without a criminal record to carry a concealed firearm, I had gotten good at spotting printing, which is the term for the telltale shape a gun that has been inadequately hidden makes. Many ex-cops continued to pack after leaving the job. It shouldn’t have surprised me that Menario, of all people, did.
I caught up with him thirty or forty yards along the forested cliff. He was standing in front of a white cross with Casey Donaldson’s name written on it. A heart-shaped wreath of faded plastic flowers was looped over the top. Her sun-faded photograph was tacked to the center. At the base were a field-hockey stick and ball, a stuffed panda, a paperback copy of Pride and Prejudice with pages warped from the weather, and half a dozen bunches of dead flowers, some in plastic pots, others in crinkled cellophane wrappers.
The detective faced the memorial. He clasped his hands behind his back and began to rock back and forth on his toes. “Not a month has gone by since Casey died that I haven’t come out here. Sometimes her dad comes with me. It’s what we have to remember her instead of a grave.”
21
Menario didn’t speak again until we had returned to the truck. When we were both inside, but before I’d turned on the engine, he said in a softer tone than any he had ever used with me before, “You think I am so obsessed with Dakota Rowe’s guilt that I can’t even admit the possibility that Casey Donaldson is still alive. But here’s a question for you to consider. Are you sure enough that the woman you saw was Casey that you are willing to risk a murderer going free? Because without a body there’s already going to be plenty of doubt in the court that hears the case.”
I knew what the retired detective wanted me to acknowledge: that I was being as obstinate, in my way, as I was accusing him of being. I had to admit it might all be some bizarre coincidence. I had been spectacularly wrong on a number of occasions, and real people had paid for my refusal to concede my fallibility.
“I didn’t identify the person in the sketch to screw up your investigation, Detective.”
“There’s zero chance you’re mistaken?”
“I understand the ramifications. If I am wrong, a guilty man might escape punishment.”
“And you can live with that?”
“What I can’t live with is the alternative.”
His composure began to crack. “Which is what?”
“That Casey Donaldson has been held captive for years without anyone knowing she’s alive. That she’s been raped by her captor, been impregnated by him, and given birth to at least one child by him. That she was finally recognized by a potential rescuer, but he gave up without a fight. That because he didn’t have the courage of his convictions, she was condemned to spend the rest of her life in hell. That’s what I can’t live with.”
I saw his lips tighten as he tried to contain his emotions. “There’s a term for your mental disorder. It’s called a savior complex.”
“I’ll bring you back to your vehicle unless you’d prefer to walk into town.”
He made a disgruntled noise deep in his chest.
When I had gotten the Sierra turned around, he suddenly leaned forward. “Take a right into Hodge’s. There’s one last thing I need to show you.”
Compared with the famous campground across the river, which could play host to as many as sixteen hundred merrymakers on a Saturday night in July, Hodge’s Campground and Canoe was downright genteel. The owners—“Hodge” Hodgkins and his wife, Sue-Ellen—had a reputation along the Saco for reporting intoxicated paddlers and underage drinkers quickly to the Fryeburg police. In consequence, they tended to have vacancies when their competitors were booked solid. The worst of the worst knew to go elsewhere to hold their bacchanals.
It said something about Casey and her friends that they had chosen to stay here rather than at one of the more raucous and freewheeling locations. (Unless they had merely been unable to get a reservation at one of the hot spots.)
The road rolled downhill through white pines that were older than the American Revolution. The brush had been cleared beneath the trees, and cars and trucks, many with out-of-state plates, were jammed between the massive trunks. Menario motioned me toward the office, which doubled as the camp store. I parked behind a cube-shaped Honda Element from Massachusetts. A beer-bellied young man in a bathing suit, flip-flops, and an orange T leaned against the lift gate. His shirt had a picture of the cartoon character He-Man with the words SUP LADIES? He was enjoying a cigarette while he waited for his companions to pay for their campsite.
Or I thought it was a cigarette until I stepped out of the truck.
As soon as he saw me, He-Man dropped the joint to the pine needles and mashed it down with the bottom of his sandal.
“Hey, Officer,” he said preemptively. “You having a good day?”
“Not as good as you.”
“Yeah, well—”
I could tell from Menario’s demeanor that the ex-cop wanted me to harangue the guy, but I was of a different mind-set. With marijuana now legal in Maine, I rarely did more than offer a reminder that the provisions of the law didn’t include toking up in public places. Besides, with opioid abuse rampant throughout New England—Maine was second in the nation in the number of babies born addicted—it seemed inconsequential to mess with every stoner I caught blowing a stick.
The store was a small wooden building made of stained-brown boards—the official color of all lean-tos and park signs—with green trim and a needle-strewn roof. A Pepsi machine hummed behind a stack of camp wood priced at five dollars a bundle. I followed the retired detective up the stairs to the screen door.
Inside, the place was packed with young bodies whose sweating skin smelled of sunscreen, bug repellent, and Axe body spray. A shirtless bronze giant in boardshorts stood at the counter signing the papers for a fire permit. Three girls in shorts and bikini tops inspected the merchandise hanging on the wall: pool noodles, cans of lighter fluid, folding beach chairs, dime-store fishing outfits, pound bags of candy. A huge sign over the registration desk warned that all fireworks were illegal on the Saco; the three exclamation points at the end suggested this message was infrequently heeded.
“Do you want a s’more kit?” I heard the woman behind the counter ask the giant.
“Absolutely!” said one of the girls.
Two older-looking rednecks—not college-aged and probably not even high school graduates but definitely here to hook up with coeds—jostled me against a rack of brochures, boating regulations, and river maps.
“Watch it!” said Menario.
The rednecks mumbled apologies and slipped out the door.
“Have a safe, fun float, de-ah,” the woman told the giant. “Who’s next?”
“We are, Sue-Ellen,” said Menario, elbowing his way forward.
I finally got a look at the woman behind the counter. She was short, which is why I hadn’t seen her, and thin with a heart-shaped face and close-cut gray hair, and she was dressed in a Hodge’s sweatshirt and a brimmed straw hat.
An eclipse passed over the woman’s f
ace and all the light left her eyes. “Detective.”
“Where’s Hodge?”
“Down at the launch with Rusty repairing that sign that got burnt.”
“How did it get burnt?” Menario asked.
“Vandalized. I suppose you’re here for Dakota, but he just left to run the van down to Walker’s Bridge to pick up some kayakers.”
I hadn’t spoken a word, and Menario hadn’t introduced me, but the eyes of the young campers were all on me—and more specifically the gun on my belt. It was always the case when I met kids who didn’t have routine contact with law-enforcement officers and were contemplating various misdemeanors.
Menario crossed his arms and teetered back and forth on the balls of his feet thoughtfully. “Tell Dakota I said hello.”
“I thought you were retired.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t take an interest in him.”
“I wish you’d leave him alone.”
“You’re a soft touch, Sue-Ellen. That’s why I love you.” Menario headed for the door as more campers were trying to come inside. They cleared a path when they saw my uniform so we could descend the steps.
“She’s lying,” Menario said. “That asshole is here somewhere.”
The pine needles were fragrant and cushiony underfoot.
“Why do you think that my meeting Rowe will make a difference? I saw what I saw.”
Menario treated the question as rhetorical and began beating a trail toward the riverside camping area. I hated leaving my vehicle where it was impeding the flow of traffic into and out of the registration center, but Menario didn’t share my scruples.
I hadn’t glanced at the campground map, but I sensed that the retired detective could have found his way around the property blindfolded and spun around three times for good measure. First, we checked a storage barn where scratched canoes and cheap kayaks were stored upside down on log supports. No one there. We made our way through a cluster of picnic tables and standing charcoal grills where a teenaged employee was picking up trash.
“Where’s Dakota?” Menario said.
The boy just about leaped out of his skin, so stern was the detective’s command. “Bravo Beach.”
Wood smoke floated through the branches of the maples and the boughs of the pines. Hip-hop beats thumped. Laughter echoed. Something about the scene was surreal: so many partially clad people, faceless because of the smoky haze, drifting in and out of view between the trees. Wandering through that dreamland, my mind dulled from the oppressive heat, left me feeling a little drugged myself.
Ricky Elwell had said that the Hodgkinses still employed Rowe because they were afraid of him. I had detected a trace of that apprehension in Sue-Ellen’s tone. She seemed less concerned with Dakota’s welfare than exhausted by Menario’s visits.
We came out on an impressively wide expanse of sand, spread with blankets and beached canoes, where young women tanned themselves in folding chairs and young men hurled Frisbees at each other or splashed loudly in the shallow water.
Menario scanned the crowd with his hand flat over his eyes like a movie Indian. “He’s not here.”
“Yeah, I am,” said a deep voice behind me.
In person Dakota Rowe looked even more imposing than he had when the detective had taken his picture. He wore only cutoff denim shorts and Teva water sandals. His deeply tanned and tattooed muscles glistened with perspiration. His hipster mustache had been recently trimmed.
He squinted at us, both on account of the sun, and because, I believe, it was part of his macho affect. “What do you want, Menario?”
“Detective Menario.”
“Not anymore. You’re a civilian now, Tony. Which means you can’t be threatening my ass whenever you’ve got blue balls.”
“Always the charmer. Dakota, I wanted you to meet Warden Bowditch. He’s not a civilian so I’d watch your mouth around him.”
To my surprise Rowe extended his hand at me. “Pleased to meet you.”
Reflexively I shook it. I could feel the daggers Menario was sending in my direction. “Mr. Rowe.”
“You were at the house that exploded,” he said. “A buddy of mine is on the volunteer fire department. He told me all about it. So the cops think the dude who was renting it rigged the place to go boom? That’s some crazy shit, man.”
“What else did your buddy say?” I asked.
“Only that it was one of the Nasons’ places. Serves them right, those fucking slumlords. Girl I dated lived in one of their shitholes and the pipes froze twice. Landlord said it was her fault for not dripping the water. I could tell you stories you wouldn’t believe about that family.”
So far Dakota Rowe was nothing like I had expected. I couldn’t say that I liked him, but if Menario’s intention had been to show me what a worthless character he was, the experiment was a failure thus far.
The detective seemed to gather as much. “You know what this month is? Don’t you, Dakota?”
“I know.”
“Four years from the night you and I first met.”
“Worst night of my life.”
“No, that one is still to come. It’ll be your first night in prison.”
Rowe spat in the sand. “Is that why you came out here from the old folks’ home or wherever you’re living? My lawyer warned me the DA is finally going to bring a bullshit case against me. He said I should avoid you like the plague, which is what you are, Tony.”
“One last chance to admit you killed her,” said Menario.
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Once the attorney general brings the case before the grand jury, you’re out of options. Don’t think you’ll plead your way out of it.”
Dakota raised both palms at me in an imploring gesture. “Can you believe this guy? Four years he’s been coming out here, trying to get me fired, or coming to my parents’ home. You should watch out for them, by the way, now that you’re a civilian. They don’t like the way you’re stalking me. And they have a lot of lawyers.”
Menario seemed delighted by this response, as if it was what he’d hoped to provoke. “Is that a threat? You know it’s against the law to threaten a law-enforcement officer.”
“It wasn’t a threat, Tony. It was a warning. Stop fucking with me. You’re not going to like what happens if you keep it up.”
“Sounded like a threat to me. And criminal threatening is against the law no matter who it’s directed at.”
“Detective Menario?” I said.
“This is the scumbag who killed Casey Donaldson, Bowditch.” Menario was making a point to speak in his loudest voice so that the nearest campers could overhear.
Dakota Rowe shook his head. “And you’re a totally crazy person. I said it before, and I’ll say it until the day I die. I had nothing to do with that girl disappearing.”
“Let’s get going, Detective,” I said.
“Listen to the warden, Tony. You need to get out of the sun. A man your age—it makes your head soft.”
“That’s not helping, Mr. Rowe,” I said.
“How come it’s not illegal for this guy to keep harassing me is what I want to know.”
“Take out a restraining order against me if you want,” said Menario. “Go ahead. I dare you. Go in front of a judge and tell him why you need it.”
Dakota Rowe raised his face to the sun, as if it were God and he were praying to be delivered.
“Come on, Menario. You made your point.” I took hold of the detective’s arm and pulled, but he leaned his weight against me.
“Four years equals presumption of death in the state of Maine. Four years means we don’t need a body to prove you killed her.”
“Fuck you.”
“Justice will be served, you piece of shit.”
“Keep shouting, old man. Keep shouting.” Dakota Rowe turned his back and began walking toward the waterline.
“You can’t walk away from this, Rowe. Not anymore. It’s time to pay for what you did.”
&nbs
p; What happened next caught me off guard: Menario rushed at Rowe’s back with his arms outstretched, intending to push him to the ground. Somehow Dakota sensed him coming and used a martial-arts move to divert the attack. The former detective landed on his face in the sand.
Rowe’s laugh was sharp and cruel. “That was truly pathetic, Tony.”
The next thing either of us knew, Menario had rolled over, drawn a revolver from his concealed holster, and had the snub-nosed barrel leveled at Dakota Rowe’s chest. “Motherfucker! I should—”
My own hand went to the grip of my sidearm. “Menario!”
“He assaulted me!”
Rowe had both of his hands raised. “Take it easy, take it easy.”
I thought a quiver of fear was in his voice, that he was genuinely afraid for his life, until he kicked sand into Menario’s eyes.
Rowe then jumped on the blinded detective before I could take three steps. The two men began a wrestling match in the sand during which Dakota twisted Menario’s wrist until he lost the grip on his pistol, while the former detective pummeled Rowe repeatedly in the ear. Sand was flying everywhere. Both of their bodies glittered with it.
My first thought was to kick the firearm clear; my second was to reach for my pepper spray.
But even before I could pull the canister loose, Dakota Rowe escaped Menario’s grasp. He sprang to his feet, massaging his hurt ear, bleeding from scratches on his face, but laughing as if he’d just had the time of his life.
“You are so pathetic, Tony. Why don’t you drop dead of a heart attack already?”
Menario rose to his knees and tried to surge forward, but I intercepted the ex-cop before he could grab Rowe’s knees. For a man in his fifties, he was amazingly strong—which told me how rugged Rowe must have been.
“Stop it!” I said. “Just stop!”
“That son of a bitch assaulted me.”
Rowe continued his campaign of humiliation. “Dude, you assaulted me first.”
In my peripheral vision I could see campers gathered in the trees and along the waterline to watch the show.
“Detective,” I whispered harshly into Menario’s ear.
