winged blackbird, another early migrant, alight briefly atop a swaying stalk of phragmites before winging down the river.
Fishing season kicked off next week, and I wondered who would cover my district. The first day of open- water fishing was one of my favorite days of the year to be a warden. For a moment again, I felt oppressed by my infirmity.
There was another knock at the door.
In my irritable convalescent state, I wasn’t sure who I was expecting, but it surely wasn’t the Knox County sheriff, Dudley Baker.
When I opened the door, I felt a mild brush of wind on my face. Much of the snow and ice had already dropped from the frozen branches. Our little patch of forest was loud with the staccato drip-drip of gravity pulling water down out of the trees.
The sheriff looked, as always, like a man whose entire appearance was sealed neatly into place; he seemed to begin each morning by coating himself from head to toe in immobilizing hair spray. His jowly cheeks bore a flush of color from the morning air. As we spoke, his tinted eyeglass lenses misted over, so that he had to wipe them with the corner of a pressed handkerchief.
“I hope I haven’t disturbed you,” he said, knowing full well that he had.
“I just finished breakfast.”
“How’s your hand?”
“Could be worse.”
He nodded his two chins. “Do you mind if I come in?”
We sat across from each other beside the expiring woodstove. I didn’t offer him coffee, tea, or even a glass of water. The sheriff had driven to my house for a specific reason, and I wanted to hear what it was.
“I thought I should give you an update about the Barter boy myself,” he said. “The doctors decided to fly him down to Boston. He’s in a drug-induced coma. There was extensive damage to the anterior frontal lobes of his brain. It’s too early to predict his prognosis.”
I didn’t know how to respond to this news. “So what are you doing with Calvin?”
“We’re holding him on some bench warrants, in addition to his ATV offenses. Unpaid traffic violations, failure to appear-that sort of thing. He’s going to be my guest for a while unless he can muster bail.”
“Morrison told me Barter’s been dealing pills to teenagers,” I said.
“Roofies are his specialty.”
“I guess it makes sense that a registered sex offender would traffic in date-rape drugs.”
“It’s all just hearsay. A kid we busted said he bought the pills off Barter. We can’t pin anything on Calvin.”
I had the distinct impression the sheriff was beating around some kind of bush. “So, I heard Hans Westergaard’s car might have been spotted in Massachusetts?”
“I can’t comment on that.”
If I kept pressing, I wondered if I could tease some information out of him. “A man just doesn’t disappear into thin air. Whoever killed Ashley left that house in a hurry. If Westergaard was panicked and on the run, he would have used one of his credit cards by now.”
“You know I can’t go into any of the investigative details.” He readjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Mrs. Westergaard told Detective Menario that she spoke with you outside the jail.”
I gave a mirthless laugh. “I figured she would.”
“You should expect that AAG Marshall is going to come after you for tampering with a witness.”
“I’d say Jill Westergaard tampered with me. ”
The sheriff licked his lips. “May I have a glass of water?”
“Help yourself. The glasses are to the right of the sink.”
Even in my altered state, I understood that Baker was behaving oddly.
He returned from the kitchen with a jelly glass full of water and a look of resolve in his moist eyes. The conversation seemed to have taken a wrong turn in Baker’s mind, and now he was determined to get it moving in the right direction. “You know I worked at the Maine State Prison for many years before I ran for county sheriff.”
“I don’t mean to insult you, but that’s one reason I didn’t vote for you,” I said. “Your opponent had real community policing experience. I’m sorry, but it’s the truth.”
For the first time, the tidy little man seemed to bristle. “I’ve heard that criticism before. You’d be surprised how many people at my own church have apologized for not voting for me. But it doesn’t matter. I won the election.”
“Where’s your church?”
“First Pentecostal.” He set down the glass and put a small pink hand on each knee. “Do you worship locally?”
“No, but I was raised Catholic.”
My answer seemed to deflate him, causing his shoulders to shrink. “I learned a lot about human nature working in the prison,” he said out of nowhere. “In my experience, most corrections officers are literal-minded individuals. That’s as it should be. It’s not a prison guard’s responsibility to second-guess judges or juries. Our job is to execute the law without prejudice or preference.”
“Sheriff, I’m really not equipped to have a philosophical conversation at the moment.” I displayed my black fingertips to bring the point home. “Could you please tell me what you want?”
His eyes darted around behind their amber lenses, but they didn’t leave mine. “I know Ozzie Bell and Lou Bates left certain documents with you. Have you had a chance to read them yet?”
The question spun my head around 360 degrees. “Don’t tell me you’re a member of the J-Team.”
He made a not very convincing show of clearing his throat. “As the sheriff of Knox County, I can’t engage in public crusades on behalf of convicted criminals.”
“I don’t believe it-you actually think Erland Jefferts is innocent.”
He sipped his water so lightly, I wasn’t even certain he had consumed any. “When you work at the prison, you get to know certain prisoners. I found Jefferts to be a remarkable young man. He’s a painter, a gardener, and a mentor to the other prisoners. He’s helped inmates learn to read, and he’s organized Bible-study groups.”
“He also raped and murdered a young woman, I seem to remember.”
Baker shook his head with such vigor, I feared his glasses might fly off. “You’re jumping to conclusions.”
“The man was convicted by a jury of his peers!”
“Anyone who researches the prosecution of Erland Jefferts will have their faith shaken in Maine’s legal system.”
I was losing patience now. “But what does this have to do with me?”
“You found Ashley Kim.”
“I found her mutilated corpse.”
The sheriff, sensing my growing irritation, attempted yet another fresh approach. “Unlike Trooper Hutchins, you recognized that Ashley Kim was in danger, and you took action to find her, even though it wasn’t your responsibility as a game warden to do so.”
“That’s a flattering way of saying I’m not a very good law officer.”
“I think you have the aptitude to become an outstanding law officer. That’s why we’d like your assistance.”
“By ‘we,’ you mean the J-Team?”
He refused to bite. “There’s a chance that if you looked through Bell’s files, you might spot a detail we’ve overlooked.”
“Look, Sheriff,” I said. “If you think Jefferts was wrongfully accused and Nikki Donnatelli’s killer also murdered Ashley Kim, then you prove it. That’s your job, not mine.”
He smiled benevolently. “You’re not as cynical as you pretend to be.”
“Is that so? What am I, then?”
“You’re a brave young man who believes in the cause of justice.”
I stood up unsteadily. “I need to take a piss.”
What had Kathy Frost called me? The patron saint of hopeless criminal prosecutions? From Jill Westergaard
