straightforward.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“You have to be careful. Most men’ll be unhappy with a citation, but a few get outright hostile. I carry a sidearm. Never had to use it.”
“You like your job?”
“I like that I get paid to be outside, in the woods or on a lake. And I think what I do is important.”
“What do you do when you’re not patrolling? Or whatever you call it.”
“We call it patrolling. My time off, mostly I relax. Sit on the porch of my cabin. Read maybe.”
“Read what?”
“Whatever.”
“Hunting and fishing magazines?”
Cork suspected his daughter said this in a deliberate attempt to get English to be more forthcoming. If so, she seemed to have failed. The big Shinnob was silent and seemed deadly intent on the road ahead. But after half a mile and a good half minute had slipped by, he replied, “Billy Collins. James Welch. David Foster Wallace. Sherman Alexie. Hemingway.”
“Whoa,” Jenny said. “Impressive. But Hemingway?”
Daniel gave his huge shoulders a small shrug. “Flawed human being, but he’s always seemed to me a guy who understood the profound impact the natural world can have on the human spirit.” Then he asked in a flat voice that, to anyone who didn’t know the Ojibwe well, might have sounded devoid of any real interest, “Aunt Rainy says you write.”
“Not really,” Jenny replied too quickly. “When I’m not being a mom, I pretty much run Sam’s Place. Keeps me plenty busy.”
Her tone was easy to interpret, and the conversation took a fatal nosedive.
They entered Washburn, a pretty little town perched on hills above the lake. They found the sheriff’s department, part of a new-looking county government complex. At the public contact desk inside, they asked to speak with the sheriff and were told that he was out at the moment. The young woman on duty, who wore no uniform or name badge and was, Cork suspected, simply a clerical employee, asked if there was something she could do for them. They explained their situation. She told them to take a seat and she’d get the officer who’d been in charge of investigating Carrie Verga’s death.
They sat in black plastic chairs in the small public waiting area. In a couple of minutes, a man who looked like an NFL linebacker stepped into the waiting area. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt, blue tie, and khakis.
“Lieutenant Joe Hammer,” he said, offering his hand.
Cork introduced them all and once again explained their presence.
“Why don’t you folks come on back, and we’ll talk.”
They followed Hammer down a short corridor to his office. It was little more than a cubbyhole, but neatly kept. On the desk sat three stacks of file folders, like watchtowers. On one of the walls hung two framed photographs. One was of a younger Hammer with a woman in a yellow bikini on a beach that might have been Hawaii. In the other, Hammer stood with the same woman, this time on a lakeshore, both of them older and each holding the hand of a young child. Hammer took the chair at his desk. With a wave of his huge hand, he indicated that Jenny should take the only other chair. Cork stood behind his daughter, and English leaned against a tall green file cabinet with a stuffed owl atop it that looked down on the gathering with an indifferent, glassy eye.
After he’d ascertained their interest in the case, Hammer gave them some of the pertinent details.
“Cold-water immersion and drowning,” he explained. “That’s the official probable cause of death. There was a high level of alcohol and also traces of heroin in the girl’s bloodstream. I haven’t come up with any witnesses, anybody at all who’d seen Carrie Verga in the last year. So it’s puzzling.”
“There were bruises on her body,” Cork said, recalling the photograph English had shown him the day before.
“Yes. She was treated pretty badly before she died. And lacerations, too, although our coroner concluded those were postmortem and
“Is it dangerous?”
“You have to be careful. Most men’ll be unhappy with a citation, but a few get outright hostile. I carry a sidearm. Never had to use it.”
“You like your job?”
“I like that I get paid to be outside, in the woods or on a lake. And I think what I do is important.”
“What do you do when you’re not patrolling? Or whatever you call it.”
“We call it patrolling. My time off, mostly I relax. Sit on the porch of my cabin. Read maybe.”
“Read what?”
“Whatever.”
“Hunting and fishing magazines?”
Cork suspected his daughter said this in a deliberate attempt to get English to be more forthcoming. If so, she seemed to have failed. The big Shinnob was silent and seemed deadly intent on the road ahead. But after half a mile and a good half minute had slipped by, he replied, “Billy Collins. James Welch. David Foster Wallace. Sherman Alexie. Hemingway.”
“Whoa,” Jenny said. “Impressive. But Hemingway?”
Daniel gave his huge shoulders a small shrug. “Flawed human being, but he’s always seemed to me a guy who understood the profound impact the natural world can have on the human spirit.” Then he asked in a flat voice that, to anyone who didn’t know the Ojibwe well, might have sounded devoid of any real interest, “Aunt Rainy says you write.”
“Not really,” Jenny replied too quickly. “When I’m not being a mom, I pretty much run Sam’s Place. Keeps me plenty busy.”
Her tone was easy to interpret, and the conversation took a fatal nosedive.
They entered Washburn, a pretty little town perched on hills above the lake. They found the sheriff’s department, part of a new-looking county government complex. At the public contact desk inside, they asked to speak with the sheriff and were told that he was out at the moment. The young woman on duty, who wore no uniform or name badge and was, Cork suspected, simply a clerical employee, asked if there was something she could do for them. They explained their situation. She told them to take a seat and she’d get the officer who’d been in charge of investigating Carrie Verga’s death.
They sat in black plastic chairs in the small public waiting area. In a couple of minutes, a man who looked like an NFL linebacker stepped into the waiting area. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt, blue tie, and khakis.
“Lieutenant Joe Hammer,” he said, offering his hand.
Cork introduced them all and once again explained their presence.
“Why don’t you folks come on back, and we’ll talk.”
They followed Hammer down a short corridor to his office. It was little more than a cubbyhole, but neatly kept. On the desk sat three stacks of file folders, like watchtowers. On one of the walls hung two framed photographs. One was of a younger Hammer with a woman in a yellow bikini on a beach that might have been Hawaii. In the other, Hammer stood with the same woman, this time on a lakeshore, both of them older and each holding the hand of a young child. Hammer took the chair at his desk. With a wave of his huge hand, he indicated that Jenny should take the only other chair. Cork stood behind his daughter, and English leaned against a tall green file cabinet with a stuffed owl atop it that looked down on the gathering with an indifferent, glassy eye.
After he’d ascertained their interest in the case, Hammer gave them some of the pertinent details.
“Cold-water immersion and drowning,” he explained. “That’s the official probable cause of death. There was a high level of alcohol and also traces of heroin in the girl’s bloodstream. I haven’t come up with any witnesses, anybody at all who’d seen Carrie Verga in the last year. So it’s puzzling.”
“There were bruises on her body,” Cork said, recalling the photograph English had shown him the day before.
“Yes. She was treated pretty badly before she died. And lacerations, too, although our coroner concluded those were postmortem and
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