“What was the official cause of death given by the medical examiner?”
“Drowning. Michaud’s lungs were full of water.”
“Is there any chance that was a lie?”
“Why would it be?”
“To quell some of the political fallout. I heard there were legislative hearings. The whole Valley was already in an uproar. If the ME gave the cause of death as drowning, as opposed to death by gunshot, it shifted the blame back on Pierre Michaud and off Charley and the Warden Service.”
“Except it didn’t shift the blame. And do you honestly believe Charley Stevens would have participated in a cover-up?”
“No.”
“I thought he was too old for this reckless shit.”
“Evidently not.”
“It sure sounds like he’s been using you to get information out of people he knows would never have talked to him. If I were you, I’d be pissed about it.”
“I am, but…”
“You love the old fart, I know.” She raised her voice to be heard over the hospital noises. “So when is Nico Zanadakis going to interview you?”
“Soon, I hope.”
“Does he still dress like a GQ model?”
“I’ve never read GQ.”
“My heart swells with pride to hear you say that, Grasshopper.”
“As soon as I finish my interview with Zanadakis, I am going to find a plane and get down to Portland.”
“No, you most certainly are not—not unless she takes a turn for the worse.”
“You just said I had to.”
“That was before you told me about being run off the road! How’s Dani going to feel when she wakes up and learns you left a murder investigation to sit by her bed? I expect you already know the answer to that question.”
“But what if she—?”
“I’m not superstitious, but I’d prefer you not finish that sentence. I’ll be here for the duration. She stood vigil for me after I’d been shot. It’s time for me to return the favor. Give me a call after Zanadakis is done raking you over the coals.”
“Deal.”
“And, Grasshopper? Watch your back. You might know more than you think you do—and that makes you a threat. Someone already believes you’re a danger to them. And one last thing. When you see Charley again, please pop him in the nose for me. That geezer had no business dragging you into this.”
Like many small-town police stations, this one had a locked vestibule that required someone behind the bulletproof glass to buzz you inside. A pudgy, bright-eyed patrolman by the name of MacLoon did the honors.
Beyond the door, there were a handful of offices, a kitchenette with a coffee maker, an interrogation room, a holding cell, and a garage, where the five officers on the force could maintain their black Ford Interceptor SUVs. If I had to guess, I would have said the Fort Kent cops dealt mostly with moving violations, property crimes, and drunk students from the college campus across town. Anything bigger and badder got kicked to the sheriff’s office or the state police.
MacLoon provided me with a first aid kit and escorted me to the bathroom so I could attend to my cuts and scrapes. For once in my life, my injuries looked worse than they were. A fistful of ibuprofen, a tube of antibiotic ointment, and a few Band-Aids and I was good to go. My host told me to have a seat in the conference room while he fetched coffee.
“This is Tim Horton’s,” he said with the pride of a barista offering me some shade-grown varietal from the island of East Timor. “Chief sends me twice a week to fuckin’ Edmundston for the stuff, but it’s good, aye?”
I nodded, but I had never been a connoisseur of the bean.
“Can I ask you a personal question, MacLoon?”
“Depends what it’s about.” He rhymed the last word with a boot.
“Where are you from originally?”
“Allagash! Scots Irish through and through. Why are you asking that question?”
“I couldn’t place your accent.”
I hadn’t realized that some English speakers on the Maine side of the border had picked up the pronunciations of their neighbors to the north. Given that the TV set in the break room was turned to the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (Harry and Meghan’s new digs), it made sense.
“So this strangulation?” MacLoon began. “Got to be the boyfriend. Don’t you think? Always is in these cases.”
“Not always.”
“You’ll change your tune when you meet Roland. They’re bringing him in now, the greasy fuck.”
A state trooper brought in Roland Michaud fifteen minutes later. There was a stir in the building when he arrived. I made sure to slip into the hallway to have a second look at the bear-faced man.
He wasn’t wearing cuffs, which meant he wasn’t under arrest, which meant he had agreed to undergo the interview voluntarily. That worried me. He was dressed in a corduroy trucker’s jacket over a black T-shirt and the reinforced canvas pants preferred by loggers. He looked like he’d showered for the occasion, the way his beard glistened under the overhead lights.
“Here you are again,” he said when he saw me in the hallway.
“I’m sorry about Angie.”
“No, you’re not.”
One thing I have learned about criminals is that a life of compulsive lying and manipulation makes it almost impossible for them to accept any expression of sympathy as genuine. They assume the rest of us are just as cold and self-centered as they are.
MacLoon seated Roland Michaud in an interrogation room about the size of a phone booth. It contained two chairs separated by a small table with a one-way mirror on the wall through which we could observe the conversation and listen via intercom.
The suspect asked for a Pepsi. When MacLoon
