into the back pocket, and pulled out a rip-stop nylon wallet, with red piping to match the missing red coat.
Max’s heart sank.
MacIan could tell immediately that the expensive wallet stuffed with credit cards was not the kind of thing a hiker would carry. A transparent window showed a driver’s license with a picture of a good-looking older man named Arthur Gager. MacIan flipped the driver’s license back and rooted through the receipts sticking out of the slit-pocket. “Gotta go,” he said, and motioned to Max.
Max anticipated a handshake and a friendly goodbye, but MacIan yanked the body around, pulled off the expensive hiking boots, and tossed them to Max. “These’ll go nice with the red parka.”
Max clutched the boots and backed away. “How’d you know about that?”
MacIan raised one eyebrow, then pressed the palm of his right hand against Max’s forehead and jumped into the Peregrine.
Max stood dumbfounded. But as the wind-dome dropped, he felt something stuck to his forehead. He peeled off it a receipt from a New York City sporting goods store: 1 Size 48L - Red - Down Filled Parka = $1,729.00.
* * *
T rooper MacIan landed at Bedford Barracks and taxied to the morgue entrance. The barracks was a mid-century modern facility, a key Pennsylvania State Police headquarters that’d devolved into a remote outpost of the National Police Force. The aluminum frame and glass block structure was low, flat-roofed and built to last. It looked almost new sitting on its knoll overlooking the historic town of Bedford, a seldom-used crossroad to Washington D.C., the Mid-Atlantic States, New York and New England, with Pittsburgh eighty miles to the west. A major crossroad in the middle of nowhere.
MacIan got out and gave Arthur Gager’s body a quick once-over. He was checking his own pockets for the victim’s wallet when Cassandra’s voice came over the loudspeaker, calling him to Commander Konopasek’s office. Her voice trailed off into the silence of the winter forest on the verge of spring, alive with promise. He felt so alone.
Commander Konopasek was a second generation Pennsylvania State Trooper. He hated that cliché, but it fit. The only thing he hated more was the consolidations that had castrated his beloved Pennsylvania State Police. They were the first State Police in the nation, had been notorious straight-shooters for over a century, and got a thumb in the eye for their effort.
Commander Konopasek had been asked to take over the newly consolidated Bedford Barracks, or take an early retirement. He had no life outside these barracks, which might account for his lack of social skills. Although well-spoken, his timing was so off he could barely tell a knock-knock joke.
Three sharp raps sounded on his door. “Enter,” he said.
MacIan stepped in and stood at attention. The Commander looked up from his desk with a silvery pen hovering over a stack of forms. “Sit.” He aimed the pen at an aluminum chair directly in front of his desk. MacIan sat, but maintained a respectful bearing.
“So, ah, you just got here, when wazz’at? Oh, last night?” He pushed the forms into a pile and gave MacIan a welcoming grin.
MacIan relaxed a bit.
“Welcome aboard.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’m required to give you the speech. You know the little sack o’ shit I’m talking about?”
“The one about safety and a proud history?” said MacIan cheerfully.
A twinkle lit Konopasek’s eyes. “The very one.”
MacIan liked this old guy right off the bat.
“We haven’t talked, so we probably don’t have much to talk about then, do we?” said Konopasek, thumbing through MacIan’s paperwork and dotting his index finger on the tip of his tongue. “Um-hum . . . born 2019 . . . atzz’a what, thirty-two years old?”
“Yes sir.”
“Pittsburgh — born in Pittsburgh?!”
“Yes sir.”
“Know it well, know it well.” He looked up at MacIan with a frown. “After the Withdra . . .” He lurched
Max’s heart sank.
MacIan could tell immediately that the expensive wallet stuffed with credit cards was not the kind of thing a hiker would carry. A transparent window showed a driver’s license with a picture of a good-looking older man named Arthur Gager. MacIan flipped the driver’s license back and rooted through the receipts sticking out of the slit-pocket. “Gotta go,” he said, and motioned to Max.
Max anticipated a handshake and a friendly goodbye, but MacIan yanked the body around, pulled off the expensive hiking boots, and tossed them to Max. “These’ll go nice with the red parka.”
Max clutched the boots and backed away. “How’d you know about that?”
MacIan raised one eyebrow, then pressed the palm of his right hand against Max’s forehead and jumped into the Peregrine.
Max stood dumbfounded. But as the wind-dome dropped, he felt something stuck to his forehead. He peeled off it a receipt from a New York City sporting goods store: 1 Size 48L - Red - Down Filled Parka = $1,729.00.
* * *
T rooper MacIan landed at Bedford Barracks and taxied to the morgue entrance. The barracks was a mid-century modern facility, a key Pennsylvania State Police headquarters that’d devolved into a remote outpost of the National Police Force. The aluminum frame and glass block structure was low, flat-roofed and built to last. It looked almost new sitting on its knoll overlooking the historic town of Bedford, a seldom-used crossroad to Washington D.C., the Mid-Atlantic States, New York and New England, with Pittsburgh eighty miles to the west. A major crossroad in the middle of nowhere.
MacIan got out and gave Arthur Gager’s body a quick once-over. He was checking his own pockets for the victim’s wallet when Cassandra’s voice came over the loudspeaker, calling him to Commander Konopasek’s office. Her voice trailed off into the silence of the winter forest on the verge of spring, alive with promise. He felt so alone.
Commander Konopasek was a second generation Pennsylvania State Trooper. He hated that cliché, but it fit. The only thing he hated more was the consolidations that had castrated his beloved Pennsylvania State Police. They were the first State Police in the nation, had been notorious straight-shooters for over a century, and got a thumb in the eye for their effort.
Commander Konopasek had been asked to take over the newly consolidated Bedford Barracks, or take an early retirement. He had no life outside these barracks, which might account for his lack of social skills. Although well-spoken, his timing was so off he could barely tell a knock-knock joke.
Three sharp raps sounded on his door. “Enter,” he said.
MacIan stepped in and stood at attention. The Commander looked up from his desk with a silvery pen hovering over a stack of forms. “Sit.” He aimed the pen at an aluminum chair directly in front of his desk. MacIan sat, but maintained a respectful bearing.
“So, ah, you just got here, when wazz’at? Oh, last night?” He pushed the forms into a pile and gave MacIan a welcoming grin.
MacIan relaxed a bit.
“Welcome aboard.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’m required to give you the speech. You know the little sack o’ shit I’m talking about?”
“The one about safety and a proud history?” said MacIan cheerfully.
A twinkle lit Konopasek’s eyes. “The very one.”
MacIan liked this old guy right off the bat.
“We haven’t talked, so we probably don’t have much to talk about then, do we?” said Konopasek, thumbing through MacIan’s paperwork and dotting his index finger on the tip of his tongue. “Um-hum . . . born 2019 . . . atzz’a what, thirty-two years old?”
“Yes sir.”
“Pittsburgh — born in Pittsburgh?!”
“Yes sir.”
“Know it well, know it well.” He looked up at MacIan with a frown. “After the Withdra . . .” He lurched
Similar Books
