why was I rushing to his rescue now? I guess I was still waiting for the day when he decided he needed me.
That day was today, but instead of being pleased, I was pissed off. I didn’t for an instant think he was capable of cold-blooded murder. But was he capable of waking up with a hangover and punching out a sheriff’s deputy who got in his face? Yes, he was. Self-incrimination was my father’s stock and trade. And now, for all I knew, he had both the State Police Criminal Investigation Division and the Somerset County Sheriff’s Department believing he was a cop killer. Jack Bowditch: the State of Maine’s Public Enemy Number One.
The stupid prick.
I drove fast along a newly paved stretch of forest road. It was a miracle I didn’t run my truck headfirst into a telephone pole. On the dashboard, the speedometer was back up to seventy.
7
T he last time I’d visited the Somerset County Jail had been the morning after the bar fight in Dead River. Now, here I was rushing to his rescue again. It hardly felt as if two years had passed.
The jail was a brick fortress, next door to the old court house in downtown Skowhegan. It was a spooky building that always brought to mind a story my dad told me as a kid. Years ago, a prisoner wrapped his hands in towels and scaled the razor-wire fence that surrounded the exercise yard. He thought he could escape by swimming across the flood-swollen Kennebec River. Big mistake. A week later searchers found his broken body stuck in the dam downstream.
Now my father was a prisoner in the same jail.
I opened the glass door leading to an office. Seated behind a high counter, a lone dispatcher was taking a call, jotting down a note on a pink message slip. A police radio chattered beside him.
“Ma’am, you did the right thing,” the dispatcher said without glancing up at me. He was a harried-looking guy with wire-frame glasses and auburn hair combed and sprayed over a bald spot. Behind him was a wall of wood-partitioned cubbyholes stuffed with more pink slips. “We’ll be glad to check it out for you. I’ll send someone down as soon as I can.”
On the counter was a clipboard holding the week’s pink incident reports, left out for reporters who covered the crime beat. I leafed through them, looking for the name Bowditch. I saw nothing, but I knew how paperwork lagged in these offices. Chances were that my father was still being booked downstairs in the jail, having his mugshot and fingerprints taken.
“No, I can’t say when exactly,” the dispatcher continued into the receiver. “A deputy will be there as soon as possible. No, I really can’t say when.” He put down the phone and gave me a blank, shell-shocked expression. “What an effing morning,” he said.
Effing?
“I’d like to see Sheriff Hatch, please.”
Before the dispatcher could respond, a busty woman in uniform—the redness in her eyes showed how much crying she’d done that day—appeared in the door behind me.
“Heard anything from Pete?” she said.
“I still can’t raise him,” said the dispatcher.
The woman seemed to notice me for the first time. “Can I help you?”
Her wrinkled lips were painted a metallic pink, the color of a Mary Kay Cadillac. Like the dispatcher, she was wearing a black ribbon pinned to her uniform shirt, a reminder of their murdered deputy.
“One of your deputies just brought in a prisoner,” I said.
The phone started ringing again, but the dispatcher didn’t answer it right away. The woman’s eyes directed themselves to the little name plate on my uniform.
“I believe it’s my father,” I said.
“Stay right here,” she said, and darted through the door. Through the glass wall I watched her enter the sheriff’s office.
The dispatcher answered the phone. “Sheriff’s office,” he said, keeping his eyes on me as if I might suddenly break and run
The raccoon-eyed woman returned. “It turns out the sheriff wants to see you, too,” she said
That day was today, but instead of being pleased, I was pissed off. I didn’t for an instant think he was capable of cold-blooded murder. But was he capable of waking up with a hangover and punching out a sheriff’s deputy who got in his face? Yes, he was. Self-incrimination was my father’s stock and trade. And now, for all I knew, he had both the State Police Criminal Investigation Division and the Somerset County Sheriff’s Department believing he was a cop killer. Jack Bowditch: the State of Maine’s Public Enemy Number One.
The stupid prick.
I drove fast along a newly paved stretch of forest road. It was a miracle I didn’t run my truck headfirst into a telephone pole. On the dashboard, the speedometer was back up to seventy.
7
T he last time I’d visited the Somerset County Jail had been the morning after the bar fight in Dead River. Now, here I was rushing to his rescue again. It hardly felt as if two years had passed.
The jail was a brick fortress, next door to the old court house in downtown Skowhegan. It was a spooky building that always brought to mind a story my dad told me as a kid. Years ago, a prisoner wrapped his hands in towels and scaled the razor-wire fence that surrounded the exercise yard. He thought he could escape by swimming across the flood-swollen Kennebec River. Big mistake. A week later searchers found his broken body stuck in the dam downstream.
Now my father was a prisoner in the same jail.
I opened the glass door leading to an office. Seated behind a high counter, a lone dispatcher was taking a call, jotting down a note on a pink message slip. A police radio chattered beside him.
“Ma’am, you did the right thing,” the dispatcher said without glancing up at me. He was a harried-looking guy with wire-frame glasses and auburn hair combed and sprayed over a bald spot. Behind him was a wall of wood-partitioned cubbyholes stuffed with more pink slips. “We’ll be glad to check it out for you. I’ll send someone down as soon as I can.”
On the counter was a clipboard holding the week’s pink incident reports, left out for reporters who covered the crime beat. I leafed through them, looking for the name Bowditch. I saw nothing, but I knew how paperwork lagged in these offices. Chances were that my father was still being booked downstairs in the jail, having his mugshot and fingerprints taken.
“No, I can’t say when exactly,” the dispatcher continued into the receiver. “A deputy will be there as soon as possible. No, I really can’t say when.” He put down the phone and gave me a blank, shell-shocked expression. “What an effing morning,” he said.
Effing?
“I’d like to see Sheriff Hatch, please.”
Before the dispatcher could respond, a busty woman in uniform—the redness in her eyes showed how much crying she’d done that day—appeared in the door behind me.
“Heard anything from Pete?” she said.
“I still can’t raise him,” said the dispatcher.
The woman seemed to notice me for the first time. “Can I help you?”
Her wrinkled lips were painted a metallic pink, the color of a Mary Kay Cadillac. Like the dispatcher, she was wearing a black ribbon pinned to her uniform shirt, a reminder of their murdered deputy.
“One of your deputies just brought in a prisoner,” I said.
The phone started ringing again, but the dispatcher didn’t answer it right away. The woman’s eyes directed themselves to the little name plate on my uniform.
“I believe it’s my father,” I said.
“Stay right here,” she said, and darted through the door. Through the glass wall I watched her enter the sheriff’s office.
The dispatcher answered the phone. “Sheriff’s office,” he said, keeping his eyes on me as if I might suddenly break and run
The raccoon-eyed woman returned. “It turns out the sheriff wants to see you, too,” she said
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