“What the hell brought you here?” asked Danica Marshall.
“It was a hunch,” I said.
She was dressed in an electric blue down jacket, making her eyes that much more vivid, black denim pants that flattered her legs, and shiny black boots. She had a skier’s golden tan-new since the last time I’d seen her.
We were standing around my Jeep-Danica, Menario, Baker, and me.
Somewhere in the darkening woods, the state police evidence-recovery techs were performing their painstaking work while the medical examiner inspected the corpse. Under the Maine attorney general’s Death Protocol, the body couldn’t be touched or moved until Dr. Kitteridge had made his preliminary assessment. I was willing to predict the ME would attribute death to a severing of the carotid artery, but I was less certain about the timing. The Range Rover had certainly been mired in place since before the ice storm.
“We know you came here straight from the prison,” said Menario.
I’d taken a Vicodin after I called in my grisly discovery and now felt a mellow self-confidence. “News travels fast.”
“A guard called to tell me there was an off-duty game warden speaking with Erland Jefferts,” said Danica. “I didn’t need to be Perry Mason to figure out who it might be.”
“What were you doing with that asshole Bell?” asked Menario.
I noticed that Sheriff Baker had slid his hands into his parka pockets and kept gazing dreamily off into the trees. He needn’t have worried. I had no intention of squealing on him.
I cocked my head. “Which question am I supposed to answer first? What brought me here? Or why was I at the Maine State Prison with Oswald Bell?”
“Don’t be a joker,” said Menario.
“We know you spoke with Jill Westergaard, too.” Danica tried to stare me down, to no effect.
“Is that a third question?”
“Are you on something, Bowditch?” asked the detective, looking into my undersized pupils with suspicion.
This was the first question that actually provoked a nervous reaction in me. I had no idea how impaired I was by the Vicodin in my system. I was fortunate that Kathy Frost had been summoned that morning to Aroostook County to help look for a lost girl. The only warden on the scene was Ruth’s cousin, Mark Libby. At the moment, he was off in the woods with the CID techs.
“I went to meet Erland Jefferts at Ozzie Bell’s request,” I said.
Danica opened her mouth and shook her head in disbelief. “Didn’t I warn you about Jefferts?”
I looked over at the sheriff, who was doing his best imitation of an invisible man. “I’m not joining the J-Team, in case you wondered,” I said. “I know Erland is guilty, but I wanted to meet him. You wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re right there,” she said. “What is with you anyway? Do you have some kind of career death wish?”
I rested my body against the cold hood of my Jeep. “I was curious about Jefferts. I wondered why seemingly sane people flock to his defense.”
The detective and the prosecutor waited. They were expecting me to drop a pearl of wisdom on them.
“Go on,” said Menario finally.
“He’s a con man,” I said.
Sheriff Baker coughed into his fist. When he had arrived on the scene, I knew from his glare that Bell must have told him how abusive I’d been to the J-Team’s beloved convict.
“That’s an amazing insight,” said Danica Marshall.
I let the sarcasm roll off my back. “After I spoke with Jefferts, I started thinking about the similarities between the two homicides. He said something about an old tree the kids carve their initials in. I figured this place might be another point of connection to the Nikki Donnatelli killing. Being the district game warden, I decided to investigate. I recognized the tire tracks, found the vehicle, and called you in.”
Menario gave me one of his patented eye rolls. “The district game warden? You’re on sick leave!”
“But this is still my district.”
“Not for long,” said Menario.
I was unimpressed by his bluster. “What are you going to do, punish me for finding the most wanted fugitive north of Boston?”
“I’m having a hard time understanding your personal obsession with this case,” said Danica without animosity. She was genuinely perplexed, and I couldn’t blame her.
I was still formulating a response when a state police evidence tech came running down the trail. “Detective!”
“Don’t go anywhere,” said Menario, stalking off toward the crime scene.
After a moment of indecision, Sheriff Baker hurried along behind. As a clandestine supporter of the J-Team, he wanted to overhear every possible conversation.
I thought maybe Danica Marshall would follow the two men, but evidently she didn’t want to let me out of her sight. She reached into her ski jacket for something. It turned out to be lip balm, which she applied overgenerously to her wide mouth. “I don’t get you at all,” she said. “How long have you been a game warden? Two years?”
“Less than that.”
“I have no idea what to make of you. On the one hand, you have the highest conviction rate of any warden in the service, according to your lieutenant. On the other hand, your colonel is taking bets in Augusta on when you’ll quit or be fired. You strike me as a world-class fuckup, and yet you keep doing Menario’s job for him.”
“Does it really matter what you make of me?” I asked.
“Not anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was worried before about putting you on the stand. Now it doesn’t matter whether you’re an unreliable witness.”
I understood what she was hinting at. “There’s not going to be a trial.”
“Not if it’s a murder-suicide.”
“But Westergaard didn’t kill himself,” I said. “Someone else did.”
She inspected the painted nails on her left hand, pretending I hadn’t offered an objection. “What did Bell tell you about me anyway?” she asked casually.
“I’m assuming you’ve read Bell’s dossier,” I said. “He thinks that you suborned perjury by Detective Winchenback and suppressed evidence at the Jefferts trial.”
“The attorney general and a three-judge panel say I didn’t. You know the J-Team has been shot down on every appeal.”
“Maybe that’s why Bell calls you ‘the Black Widow.’”
When she smiled, I could see that her teeth had been professionally whitened. “The Black Widow. I like that.”
For an instant, the beauty of her smile and the playfulness in her voice almost took me in, but I caught something in her eyes-a calculation behind the seductiveness-that made me bite my tongue. Even candor was just another pose for this woman.
“This peninsula is crawling with sexual predators,” I said. “How come you never looked at anyone else?”
Her eyes narrowed; her lips tightened. “Excuse me?”
“I think Jefferts is guilty, but I also question whether he got a fair trial.”
Instantly, she began oozing venom again. “I’ve devoted my career to punishing men who victimize women. I’m the president of the Coalition to Prevent Domestic Violence. I volunteer at shelters for battered women. So don’t talk to me about that sick predator’s rights. I got into this job to put scum like Erland Jefferts behind bars.”
I sensed that this was just the beginning of what was meant to be a longer tirade, but luckily for me, Menario and Baker appeared again, walking side by side out of the deepening shadows. They were both short guys, but while the detective was all muscle, the sheriff was as soft as an eclair.
“Well?” Her voice echoed loudly through the woods.
Menario was the one who answered. “From the blood splatter, Kitteridge says it could be a suicide.”
“What?” I said.
“The angle of the wound suggests he might have cut his throat with his right hand,” he explained.
“It’s a ridiculous theory,” spat Dudley Baker. The sound of his voice seemed to startle us, as if a dog had been given the gift of speech. “What kind of person cuts his own throat to commit suicide?”
Danica settled back on her boot heels. “The kind of person who rapes a girl, smothers her with tape, and then cuts an obscenity into her skin.”
“It’s only a preliminary assessment,” Menario said.
“An assessment that makes no sense!”
For the first time, I was impressed with my new sheriff. The puffy little man was voicing my exact objections to Kitteridge’s theory.
“Calm down, Dudley. I’m not saying it’s what definitely happened.”
In the dim light of the trees, Baker’s photochromatic glasses had grown clear, and his eyes were wide and fierce. “Are you prepared to tell the media that Hans Westergaard raped and murdered his girlfriend in a manner identical to the Donnatelli homicide, and then he drove to the exact spot Erland Jefferts was arrested, only to commit suicide?”
“Maybe Westergaard had some sort of fascination with the Donnatelli case,” offered Danica. “It could have been a sex game that went wrong, and he killed himself out of remorse.”
“That’s absurd.”
“For whatever it’s worth, there’s an empty bottle of brandy in the vehicle,” Menario told Danica. “The guy was pickled when he died.”
I had a sudden memory of Jill Westergaard’s frantic voice and tear-filled eyes. From the first, she’d believed her husband was a victim. I owed her an apology.
A cell phone rang among us. All three of my colleagues reached instinctively for their pockets. It turned out to be Danica Marshall’s BlackBerry. She didn’t bother to excuse herself, just walked behind my Jeep, out of earshot.
“Come on, Menario,” I said softly after she’d left. “You know this thing is a crock.”
“Stay out of this, Bowditch.”
“Let him talk,” said Baker.
“You’re a professional,” I continued, trying some flattery for a change. “This setup with the Range Rover is obviously meant to distract you from the real killer.”
The detective crossed his powerful forearms. “Are you guys deaf? I’m just reporting what Kitteridge told me offhand. Nothing has been decided here.”
“Both Marshall and Kitteridge have an interest in closing this case.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Neither of them wants the Erland Jefferts investigation dredged up again. We all know they cut corners to convict him. The last thing they want is for the media to start asking overdue questions or for Jefferts to get a new trial.”
“That’s right,” said the sheriff, flying his J-Team flag for the first time. “They have a conflict of interest.”
“I can’t believe I’m listening to this baloney,” said Menario with palpable heat. “You think the state medical examiner is going to call a homicide a suicide to save himself from embarrassment? I’ve known Walt for fifteen years.”
I decided to play my trump card. “Don’t let a murderer outsmart you.”
Menario didn’t answer. His face was brutal with anger, but I thought I detected some doubt in his rapid blinking.
“I said the case was still open,” he replied finally.
Danica had finished her call and strode purposely back to us with a down-turned mouth. Whatever news she’d just gotten hadn’t been happy. “That was the attorney general,” she said. “He wants a full status report. I have to drive back to Augusta.”
“We’ve got to wait on the autopsy anyway,” said Menario.
Danica glared at me with those magnetic eyes of hers; no matter how hard you fought, they inevitably pulled you into them. “Don’t be surprised if you get a personal call from the AG,” she warned me. “He’s as puzzled as the rest of us why you keep popping up at crime scenes before anyone else does.”
The prospect of that conversation gave me heartburn. Being hauled in front of the attorney general was not my idea of fun. Lieutenant Malcomb had already warned me about meddling in this case. There was a good chance I could be fired here.
“I’m prepared to justify my actions,” I said flatly.
“That’s good,” Menario said. “Because you’re going back to the sheriff’s office now to give another statement. You’re going to be there awhile.”