to me.
Sheriff Joe Hatch sat across from me behind a dark-stained oak desk, his big-knuckled hands folded on the blotter. He had mustard brown hair going white about the temples, a brush mustache, and the shoulders of a retired defensive tackle. Pinned to his lapel was that same black ribbon everyone else was wearing.
“I’m sorry about Deputy Brodeur,” I said.
He nodded.
“I was at the criminal justice academy with Bill,” I continued. “He was a good man.”
The metal springs in his chair creaked as he shifted his considerable weight. “What can I do for you, Warden?”
“One of your deputies just arrested my father—his name is Jack Bowditch—up near Rum Pond, and I heard he was being brought here.”
“Who told you this?”
“I got a call from Russell Pelletier. He owns Rum Pond Camps.”
I waited for him to respond, but he didn’t. One of my legs began twitching.
“Look, I don’t know what my father did—” I began.
“He assaulted an officer!”
“Russell Pelletier seems to think he’s a suspect in the Brodeur homicide.”
He smoothed his mustache. “The state police are running that investigation.”
This wasn’t going the way I’d imagined, not that I had much of a plan coming in. “I don’t know what happened to your deputy today—and I’m not making excuses for my father. I just feel like there’s the potential for a misunderstanding here, and I don’t want the CID investigation wasting time.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’d like to speak with my father, please.”
There was a tentative knock at the door. “Come in!” barked the sheriff.
It was his secretary again. Her mascara looked even more smeared than before. “They found him.”
Without another word, the sheriff rose to his feet and left the room. I remained seated, staring at the closed door. In the silence I could hear the rumble of traffic passing along the street outside. What was going on here? Who had they found?
They left me alone in that room for close to ten minutes.
When the sheriff returned, the first thing he did was remove his jacket and toss it onto a chair. His big body was throwing off a lot of heat. I could feel it across the desk and smell it in the sharpness of his Old Spice deodorant working overtime. “Tell me about your father. When was the last time you spoke with him?”
“Last night.”
“Hold on.” He reached into a desk drawer and removed a tape recorder. He set it on the blotter between us. “You said you spoke with him last night.”
“Not exactly. He left a message on my answering machine.” I cleared my throat. “What’s with the tape recorder?”
He gave me the biggest, falsest smile I’d seen in an ages. “We just need to clear a few things up.”
That was a line investigators fed to suspects, not fellow officers. “What’s going on here, Sheriff?”
“You say your father’s being falsely implicated in the homicide. I thought I’d give you a chance to set things straight. What was the message?”
“It wasn’t anything really. He just sort of wondered aloud where I was and then hung up.”
“And where were you?”
“On a call.”
“Did you erase the message?”
I looked out the window. Something—a fast-moving shadow—had spooked the pigeons off the next roof. I watched them scatter in a hundred directions.
“I didn’t realize it was important,” I said.
He was still all smiles, but the strain was showing in the tightness of his jaw. “So you erased it?”
“Has my father asked for a lawyer?”
His smile gave way like a dam bursting. He leaned across the desk at me. “Let me tell you something about your
father
”—he practically spit the word—“your father is accused of killing a cop. If I were you, I’d answer my question.”
“I didn’t come here to incriminate him.”
“I called your lieutenant. He’s on his way here.”
“Lieutenant Malcomb?”
“What do you think he’s going to say when I
Sheriff Joe Hatch sat across from me behind a dark-stained oak desk, his big-knuckled hands folded on the blotter. He had mustard brown hair going white about the temples, a brush mustache, and the shoulders of a retired defensive tackle. Pinned to his lapel was that same black ribbon everyone else was wearing.
“I’m sorry about Deputy Brodeur,” I said.
He nodded.
“I was at the criminal justice academy with Bill,” I continued. “He was a good man.”
The metal springs in his chair creaked as he shifted his considerable weight. “What can I do for you, Warden?”
“One of your deputies just arrested my father—his name is Jack Bowditch—up near Rum Pond, and I heard he was being brought here.”
“Who told you this?”
“I got a call from Russell Pelletier. He owns Rum Pond Camps.”
I waited for him to respond, but he didn’t. One of my legs began twitching.
“Look, I don’t know what my father did—” I began.
“He assaulted an officer!”
“Russell Pelletier seems to think he’s a suspect in the Brodeur homicide.”
He smoothed his mustache. “The state police are running that investigation.”
This wasn’t going the way I’d imagined, not that I had much of a plan coming in. “I don’t know what happened to your deputy today—and I’m not making excuses for my father. I just feel like there’s the potential for a misunderstanding here, and I don’t want the CID investigation wasting time.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’d like to speak with my father, please.”
There was a tentative knock at the door. “Come in!” barked the sheriff.
It was his secretary again. Her mascara looked even more smeared than before. “They found him.”
Without another word, the sheriff rose to his feet and left the room. I remained seated, staring at the closed door. In the silence I could hear the rumble of traffic passing along the street outside. What was going on here? Who had they found?
They left me alone in that room for close to ten minutes.
When the sheriff returned, the first thing he did was remove his jacket and toss it onto a chair. His big body was throwing off a lot of heat. I could feel it across the desk and smell it in the sharpness of his Old Spice deodorant working overtime. “Tell me about your father. When was the last time you spoke with him?”
“Last night.”
“Hold on.” He reached into a desk drawer and removed a tape recorder. He set it on the blotter between us. “You said you spoke with him last night.”
“Not exactly. He left a message on my answering machine.” I cleared my throat. “What’s with the tape recorder?”
He gave me the biggest, falsest smile I’d seen in an ages. “We just need to clear a few things up.”
That was a line investigators fed to suspects, not fellow officers. “What’s going on here, Sheriff?”
“You say your father’s being falsely implicated in the homicide. I thought I’d give you a chance to set things straight. What was the message?”
“It wasn’t anything really. He just sort of wondered aloud where I was and then hung up.”
“And where were you?”
“On a call.”
“Did you erase the message?”
I looked out the window. Something—a fast-moving shadow—had spooked the pigeons off the next roof. I watched them scatter in a hundred directions.
“I didn’t realize it was important,” I said.
He was still all smiles, but the strain was showing in the tightness of his jaw. “So you erased it?”
“Has my father asked for a lawyer?”
His smile gave way like a dam bursting. He leaned across the desk at me. “Let me tell you something about your
father
”—he practically spit the word—“your father is accused of killing a cop. If I were you, I’d answer my question.”
“I didn’t come here to incriminate him.”
“I called your lieutenant. He’s on his way here.”
“Lieutenant Malcomb?”
“What do you think he’s going to say when I
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