this whole valley-until people got up in arms about it. Just like they’re doing now. It’s always something.”
As we drew nearer and began turning for our descent, I could see a little downtown between the Dead River and marshy Flagstaff Pond. I saw clapboard houses and a Mason hall and not a whole lot else. As the plane touched down on the lake, I was beginning to think that I’d just made the worst mistake of my life by coming here.
“The evidence you mentioned,” I said as we floated, motionless, beside a dock. “None of it’s incontrovertible. It could be someone planted it to set him up.”
Charley didn’t respond directly but instead asked a question of his own. “Where do
“The last I heard he was across the border in Canada. That’s what he told my mom yesterday.”
“But you don’t believe it.”
“No.”
“Nor do I,” said Charley Stevens, opening the door.
Climbing out, I glanced again at my watch. It was 11:05 a.m. And I was officially AWOL from the Maine Warden Service.
21
We left the plane tied to the dock and walked into the village. It was a short walk, not more than a quarter mile or so, but hard going because of the heat. The sun was burning a hole in the sky above Jim Eaton Hill, and the air was suffocating even in the shadows of the pines. We passed some cabins for rent near the lake and then a row of farmhouses with blistered paint and gardens all gone to seed. Grasshoppers sprang up at our every step, the only signs of life around. The entire population of Flagstaff-all hundred-and-something people-seemed to be taking a collective siesta.
A sheriff’s patrol car and an unmarked state police cruiser were parked outside the clapboard town hall. Charley and I went inside.
Detectives Soctomah and Menario were waiting for us in the clerk’s office. They were both wearing dress shirts and ties they refused to loosen despite the heat. We exchanged sweaty handshakes all around.
“Thanks for coming, Mike,” said Soctomah. “You look a little green. Charley didn’t show you any of his stunt- flying tricks.”
“Just one. I think he called it a death spiral.”
The detective smiled. Charley threw back his head and laughed like this was the funniest joke he’d ever heard.
Soctomah motioned to a chair beside the clerk’s desk. “Have a seat.”
“So where’s Brenda Dean?”
“Downstairs.”
“I thought she was getting out of jail today.”
Menario’s face was brick red under his gray buzzcut. “We told her we’d give her a ride back to Rum Pond. We didn’t tell her about the pit stop.”
“Does she know I’m coming?”
“No,” said Soctomah, “but she indicated earlier that she’s willing to speak with you.”
“I don’t know why.”
“That’s what you keep saying,” said Menario, tugging on an earlobe.
Soctomah leaned against the desk. He looked shrunken since the last time I’d seen him-as if the investigation had forced him to miss a few visits to the weight room. “There’s something else we want to talk with you about, Mike. Before we bring you downstairs.” Something about the way he said these words made me uneasy. “We understand your father called your mother yesterday.”
I nodded. “Neil-my stepfather-said he spoke to you about it.”
“Your father claimed to be in Canada.”
“That’s right. Did you try tracing the call?”
“We couldn’t verify his location,” said Soctomah.
“It’s kind of unusual, him calling his ex-wife like that,” said Menario.
“What are you getting at?”
“How long did you say your parents have been divorced?”
“Fifteen years.”
Soctomah said, “It was our understanding from talking with you that they no longer had a relationship. You even asked us not to interview her.”
“I didn’t realize they’ve kept in touch. You’re not accusing her of complicity?” The back of my T-shirt stuck wetly to the chair as I leaned forward. “The fact that she reported my dad’s call-you don’t tell the police something like that if you’re acting as an accomplice.”
“So why did he call her?” asked Menario
“Because Neil’s a lawyer. I don’t know. It’s not like he has a lot of people to turn to now.”
“He’s got you,” said Menario.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re his biggest defender. Seems like he’d be in touch again.”
I was beginning to wonder whether getting me up here, asking me to speak with Brenda Dean, was just a pretext to interrogate me. Was she really downstairs, or was this all just a trap?
“You told us he left that message the night of the murder,” said Soctomah, looking me dead in the eyes.
“That’s right.” I tried to keep outwardly calm, but my thoughts were racing. Did they know about the conversation I’d had with Dad three nights earlier? Had they been tapping my phone?
“We would have expected him to contact you again,” said Soctomah. “You’re a law enforcement officer and his son. It seems like he would have asked for your help before he called his ex-wife. You’re sure you haven’t spoken with him?”
Everything I’d learned at the Criminal Justice Academy about detecting a lie flashed through my head. Liars rub their eyes. They cover their ears. They touch their lips and look away, usually upward and to the left, trying to conjure a plausible falsehood out of their imaginations. I’d learned that all but the most pathological of liars will give themselves away through certain microexpressions. An experienced interrogator-a decorated sergeant with the Maine State Police, for instance-can detect a lie nine times out of ten.
“No,” I lied. “I haven’t spoken with him. And I resent the suggestion that I would withhold evidence from a murder investigation.” I didn’t know how much to push my luck, but I tried to muster a little indignation. “I thought you brought me up here to talk with Brenda Dean, not make cheap shots at my expense.”
In the window an electric fan moved the hot air around a little. I became aware of Charley Stevens watching me carefully from across the room.
“OK,” said Soctomah at last. “We’re just trying to cover all the bases. Let’s talk about Brenda.”
“What do you want me to ask her?”
“Just get her talking about your father. Show you’re concerned about him.”
“I
“Then you won’t have any trouble convincing her to trust you.”
“I’m no lawyer,” I said, “but it seems like you’re going to have admissibility problems with anything she says to me. Did you talk to the A.G. about this?”
Soctomah put up his hands, a halting sort of gesture “We’re not looking to make a case against her. That’s not why we brought you here.”
“We want to find out where that son of a bitch is hiding,” said Menario.
I leaned back, and the old chair gave a creak like it might break. “You think she knows where my dad is?”
“If anyone does, she does,” said Soctomah.
“Or you,” said Menario.
It was hard working up any anger over Menario’s accusation when I felt so complicit, anyway. My dad wanted me to talk with Brenda Dean, and the detectives, unwittingly, were giving me the opportunity. But what if Brenda