Paskagankee (17 page)

At ten minutes to eight, as the day shift filed in, most of the officers greeting each other in subdued voices rather than with the typically boisterous razzing that normally marked shift change, Sharon entered and flashed a dazzling smile on her way past his office. He winked at her and looked forward to seeing her after conducting the task force briefing. Mike still had a lot to do beforehand, however, and dived into the material, forcing himself to push aside the pleasant memories of last night.

He had no sooner resumed working than a tall, willowy, red-haired woman barged into his office, somehow managing to bypass the front desk and giving his office door a single perfunctory knock before charging in like she belonged there. She looked vaguely familiar, but Mike couldn't put his finger on where he had seen her. She stood before his desk with an expectant look on her face, saying nothing, until he finally asked, “May I help you, Ms. . .”

“Melissa Manheim,
Portland Journal.
”

Mike reluctantly stacked his notes into a neat pile and slid them to the far corner of his desk, rising and shaking the reporter's hand. The one hour of uninterrupted prep time he was counting on before the arrival of the State Police investigative team had suddenly been shortened considerably, maybe even eliminated, depending upon how persistent this young woman turned out to be. Mike pegged her as maybe thirty years old, and she stood at his desk, staring in anticipation. Of what, he wasn't sure.

Finally he broke the silence. “I'm Mike McMahon. I'm the new—“

“Yes, I know who you are,” she interrupted. “You're the new Chief of the Paskagankee Police Department, taking over for the recently retired Chief Court. I must say,” she purred, her voice low and seductive, “this is definitely an upgrade. Chief Court was a fine man and a good administrator, but you are much easier on the eyes.”

Mike blinked in amazement. Had he just heard what he thought he heard? He glanced involuntarily out the glass walls of his office to the bullpen, where the day shift officers were gathering, and saw Sharon watching, her eyebrows drawn together with a look on her face which Mike could not decipher. “Listen, Ms. Manheim, it's nice to meet you and all, but—“

Once again she interrupted him, a trait that seemed to be habitual and one that Mike decided would become tiring very quickly if he were to be around this woman for any length of time.

“—But you're very busy investigating these horrible murders in your town and you don't have time for freedom of the press, is that it?” she asked with the smug look of a woman used to bulldozing people into giving her what she wanted. “You've heard of the First Amendment, I presume, Chief?”

Mike wondered through his growing impatience where the leak to the press had originated. Was it someone in his department, or perhaps Dr. Affeldt's office? Right now, of course, the source was irrelevant, but Mike knew he would have to find it and seal it at some point.

“Ms. Manheim,” he finally responded. “When we have anything to report we will be more than happy to announce it at a press conference, which you or a representative of your newspaper will of course be welcome to attend. Until that point, I have to tell you I don't appreciate my workspace being invaded, and I don't appreciate your sneaking past my front desk clerk.”

“Well,” she said indignantly, “Chief Court and I had an understanding, and I expect—“

Now it was Mike's turn to interrupt the reporter. He had to admit it felt good. He raised one hand to stop her tirade and said, “I understand the First Amendment and freedom of the press much better than you probably realize, but you need to understand something, too. Whatever agreement you made with Chief Court regarding information to be funneled to your newspaper, or giving you unfettered access to this office, or about anything else for that matter, is hereby officially and unequivocally revoked. If you want to talk to me about the situation unfolding here in Paskagankee or about anything at all, I expect you to make an appointment beforehand. The next time you barge into my office unannounced, you will be arrested and escorted immediately to a holding cell where you will be charged with disturbing the peace. Am I making myself clear, Ms. Manheim?”

“Crystal,” she responded, a frosty look transforming her appearance from one of almost carnal anticipation to icy, barely controlled rage. “I've been doing this a long time,” she continued, “and I have developed quite a robust following among the population of this region. Believe me when I tell you it would be a mistake to make an enemy of me.”

Mike picked up his stack of notes and began riffling through them. “Thank you for the warning. If you've finished threatening me, I have quite a lot of work to do.” He looked from Melissa Manheim to his office door and let his gaze linger on it until she finally took the not-so-subtle hint and marched through it, pulling it closed behind her authoritatively in what was almost but not quite a slam. She wound her way through the bullpen staring resolutely forward, looking at no one, until exiting the building and disappearing.

Mike sighed. “Great,” he mumbled to his empty office. “Just what this investigation needs—a crusading journalist.” He spread his notes out on the desk, covering every available inch of surface, and got back to work.

24

AT NINE O'CLOCK PRECISELY, the front door of the concrete block police station opened and the two-person investigative team from the Maine State Police entered the building. Like Melissa Manheim before them, the pair moved directly through the station to Mike's office. A tall, silver-haired man dressed in a sharp blue suit knocked once on the door, sharply, then the pair entered without a word.

Mike rose, noting at first glance the smug attitude radiating off the silver-haired man and wondering if it was matched by the other member of the team. After completing the perfunctory introductions—the men's names, if Mike had heard correctly, were Detective O'Bannon and Detective Shaw, or perhaps Shore, it wasn't easy to tell thanks to the man's thick down-east accent—Mike passed a copy of his notes to each man and began filling them in on the events of the past two days.

“So, let me summarize,” Detective O'Bannon, apparently the lead investigator, said. “You've got no suspects, no concrete leads and no idea where this person, if it even is a person, is hiding?”

“That's right, and our ME assures me that the pattern of bruising on the neck of the first victim was most likely made by human hands. The results of the autopsy on Victim Number Two, Frank Cheslo, should be available soon. Hopefully we can get the doctor to provide us with preliminary results as early as this afternoon. I asked him to put everything else on the back burner until he completes this examination.”

“Well, that's wonderful,” O'Bannon replied snidely. “Have you ever heard of a single case where a human being, using only his hands, has ripped another man's head clean off his body, Chief?”

Mike gazed at the man for a long moment, trying to decide on a response. For the time being he elected to take the high road in hopes of remaining part of the investigation once the Staties started calling the shots. He knew he was facing long odds, but he had come to think of Paskagankee as his town already, and Mike didn't want to be an observer when the killer was finally brought down; although he had every expectation that would be the case. Jurisdiction wasn't something easily shared, and the Maine State Police possessed a lot more clout than he did. “I'm relating the facts as they've been presented to me by the medical examiner. You can interpret them as you choose, but I thought you should know where this investigation stands. And by the way,” he added, “there was nothing ‘clean' about how Harvey Crosker's head was ripped off his body or how either of those men died.”

“Right. Sure. Investigation?” O'Bannon huffed. “Is that what this is? Because all I see is a couple of stiffs and nothing much being done in terms of investigating at all.”

Mike glared at the man, doing his best to keep his temper under control. “I know you look at this town and see a little Hickville police department and think you can come in here and intimidate me, but let me tell you something, we know what we're doing. I understand we don't have the resources to handle this type of investigation, and I understand the governor himself sent you boys up here, but from here on out you'll keep your opinions of me and my department to yourself or you'll find yourselves returning to Portland so fast you'll be back in the city before you've finished admiring your reflection in your hotel room mirror. Am I making myself clear, detective?”

O'Bannon looked at his partner, a smirk passing over his face and then disappearing. Mike was getting tired of seeing that look on people's faces. “Sure, Chief, whatever you say,” he answered. “Is there somewhere in this tiny shoebox of a building Detective Shaw and I can set up shop?”

Mike showed the two men to a corner at the far end of the station where a couple of desks had been thrown together and stocked with computers and file cabinets. He still wasn't sure whether the second guy's name was Shaw or Shore and decided it really didn't make much difference. These two were trouble, but he was just going to have to put up with them for the time being until they caught the murderer, which, hopefully for his rapidly evaporating patience, would be soon.

As the two men began organizing their work spaces, Mike turned back toward his office. Detective Shaw/Shore spoke up; the first time he had said a word since introducing himself. “I assume we can count on the full cooperation of you and your department, Chief?” The inflection he imparted to the words let Mike know it was meant as a statement and not a question.

Mike stopped and debated telling him that
he
expected cooperation from the Maine State Police rather than vice-versa, but then bit his tongue and said only, “Of course,” without turning around. He stalked into his office and closed the door. It was starting out to be another long day.

25

BACK INSIDE THE RELATIVE peace and quiet of his office, Mike decided he might just as well tackle another piece of unpleasant business.
No reason to let the bitter taste in my mouth go to waste.
He picked up his phone and dialed the number listed on Frank Cheslo's business card for the home office of Computer Solutions of New England
.

A relentlessly perky female voice answered on the second ring with a scripted, “Thank you for calling Computer Solutions of New England
.
What solution can we provide for you?”

Thankful he had at least gotten a real person and not a recording, Mike identified himself as Chief of the Paskagankee, Maine, Police Department and asked to speak with the man or woman in charge. The voice came back, “May I ask what this is in regards to?”

“It's a confidential matter regarding one of your employees, Mr. Frank Cheslo,” Mike answered.

“Mr. Cheslo is out of the office right now and is not expected in until at least tomorrow, perhaps the next day,” the disembodied voice told him.

“I understand that,” Mike said evenly. “Now, please connect me to the person in charge immediately. This is an urgent police matter.”

Coolly, the voice replied, “Hold please,” and Mike listened to two or three minutes of elevator music that quickly convinced him—not that he had had much doubt to begin with—that it would be more pleasant to continue his conversation with the two Statie jokers setting up shop out in the station than have to suffer through this musical torture. He wondered idly how many customers Computer Solutions of New England
lost every day just because the callers couldn't stand having their ears assaulted on the telephone by bland Muzak versions of ABBA and KC and the Sunshine Band while waiting on hold.

At last an authoritative male voice came on the line and without introduction asked brusquely, “What's Frank done? If it's something stupid like drunk driving again, this company won't be held responsible.”

Mike introduced himself and asked, “Who am I speaking with, please?”

“This is Earle Stanley. I'm the owner and CEO of CompuSol New England.
This is a small business and I'm very busy, Chief . . . I'm sorry, what did you say your name was again?”

“McMahon,” Mike replied. “Mike McMahon.” He wondered how Stanley's company remained in business given the lack of telephone etiquette that seemed to be in evidence from the top man on down. “So, Mr. Stanley, Frank Cheslo is an employee of yours, is that right?”

“Yes, that's right.” Mike could imagine the man holding his telephone handset away from his ear and fuming at his inability to rush things along.

“Mr. Stanley, we're not calling you about a drunk-driving situation.”

“Then what is it? What has Frank gone and done now?”

“He's gone and gotten himself murdered, Mr. Stanley.”

There was a short silence on the other end of the line while Earle Stanley digested the information. “What? Murdered? What are you taking about? Where are you calling from again?”

“The name of the town is Paskagankee, Maine, Mr. Stanley, and you've probably never heard of it. We're on Route 24, roughly halfway between Presque Isle and Orono.”