“IT’S GOTTA BE one of’em, right?” Procopio put her chin in her hand and regarded her files on the Pete Wise case with a glum look. “I don’t believe that shit about a stolen snowgo for one minute.”
“Nope.”
“But which one, and how do we prove it? We got two suspects, one of which surely did it, the other of which surely aided and abetted, and neither of which can be compelled to testify against the other.”
“Or themselves,” Active said as he gazed out at the day. The cirrus streaks and lazy breeze from Saturday had developed into a moderate blow from the southwest with snow hurrying sideways through town. But it hadn’t reached blizzard proportions yet and wouldn’t, according to Kay-Chuck. Another day or two, and the April sun would be back. Fair enough weather, except when you were stuck on a case. “Unless they are innocent bystanders, like they claim.”
Procopio snorted, and said nothing.
“You hearing anything about Jimmy Shaw?”
“Zip,” Procopio said.
Jimmy Shaw was a six-year-old who’d been reported missing by his parents Saturday night when he failed to come back from “playing out,” as letting kids, even little ones, roam the streets was called in Chukchi. A search had started the next morning when Jimmy still didn’t show up and a quick canvass of his buddies’ houses came up dry. Now it was Monday
Active shook his head. “Normally you can’t sneeze around here without somebody putting a message on Kay-Chuck saying to watch out for pneumonia. But this time there’s nothing, just nothing. It’s like an alien abduction.”
“Foul play?”
“You’d think. I mean, how does a six-year-old get lost in this town? My people have talked to his family, his friends and their families. We’re getting no vibe whatever that somebody took him.”
“I guess Gabe’s on it?”
He nodded. “Yeah, his search-and-rescue guys are everywhere, they put up posters all over town, messages on Kay-Chuck, pictures on Facebook and the borough website, not a clue.
He opened his printout of the medical examiner’s report on Pete Wise, which had arrived in the morning’s email. Procopio saw what he was doing and unfolded the copy he had printed off for her
“M.E.’s office any help?”
“Not a bit,” Active said. “Pete bled to death from the leg being cut off and probably would have died of the head injury if he hadn’t. All consistent with being hit by a snowmobile, no evidence on him as to who was driving said snowmobile.”
“The crime lab was equally unhelpful, I see.”
Active thumbed further into his own copy. “Pretty much. Damage to snowgo consistent with running somebody down, blood smears matched the samples from Pete Wise. Big whoop.” He looked at the blood work again. “Hmm.”
“What?”
“When I picked the governor up to take her to the airport Tuesday, she had a cut over her eyebrow. Said she got it pulling luggage out of a closet, but it strikes me now that it was consistent, as our M.E. might say, with what could happen if you banged your face into the top of the windshield on a snowgo.”
“Tuesday? Of last week? The same day Pete Wise was killed?”
He nodded and raised his eyebrows.
“Hmm. Maybe she left some behind?”
Active was already punching in Lucy’s extension. “Hi, Lucy—what? Yes, I think Jeremy will be fine while you’re gone. What? No, of course I won’t ask him to stay on permanently. I promise, your job will be waiting when you get back from maternity leave, OK, now? Listen, would you get the Anchorage crime lab on the line for me? Thanks.”
He punched off. “So where does that leave us for this week’s hearing?”
“Nowhere we weren’t before, but I’ve still got four days to find a hat with a rabbit in it,” Procopio said. “Maybe on eBay.”
Active shook his head. “Anybody you can call about how we get into the files in Wise v. Mercer? Old law school prof who specializes in this sort of thing? Another prosecutor in the law department?”
“I don’t know, there’s gotta be somebody.”
His phone rang and Lucy’s extension lit up. He punched her on. “Hi, you got the crime lab on the line? Thanks, put ‘em through.”
“No, there’s somebody here to see you. A Bill Ashe from the Alaska Police Standards Council? Did you make another appointment without telling me?”
“What? Who?”
She said it again.
“OK, send the guy up.” He looked at Procopio, whose mystified expression mirrored his own.
“Police Standards Council?” she said. “What do they want?”
Active tried to mask his unease. “God knows. Maybe one of our criminal masterminds actually figured out how to file a complaint against a cop.”
Procopio grimaced. “But why would they send somebody all the way up here as soon as they get it? Don’t they normally do some kind of review before they spend their travel budget?”
Active shrugged. “Normally. Maybe it’s a special case.”
“Should I go?”
“Stay. I may need a witness.”
They waited in silence. Within a couple of minutes, Bill Ashe was in the doorway introducing himself. He was gray-haired and wore bifocals and a gray goatee. And civilian clothes, Active noted. No uniform. Probably another ex-cop or Trooper racking up a few final years in the state system to beef up his retirement check. “Chief Active, pleasure.” His voice was gray, too.
He offered a card, which Active took, and kept his hand out. Active gave it a shake as he glanced at the card.
“Mr. Ashe,” Active said with a nod. “Theresa Procopio, our local prosecutor.”
They shook, exchanged banalities, and Ashe took a chair next to Theresa.
Coffee was offered and declined. Ashe set a brown leather satchel on the floor beside him, unbuckled it and pulled out a folder. “It might be better if we talked in private.”
Active shrugged. “We don’t have many secrets in Chukchi. I don’t mind, if you don’t.”
“I do, actually. No offense, Ms. Procopio.”
“None taken,” Procopio said.
“And if you’d close the door,” Ashe said.
“No offense taken whatever,” she added in a tone that made clear a great deal was. She shut the door behind her with considerable emphasis.
“Quite the little support group among the Chukchi law-enforcement community, I see,” Ashe said.
Active grinned. “Pretty much. But how can I help you today? One of our guys make a wrong move, allegedly? None of the citizenry has complained to me.”
“Actually, it’s you. Allegedly. This complaint is from the governor.”
“The governor?”
“She claims you made advances in a tent on the—how do you say it?—the Isignaq?
Active nodded. “Close enough.”
“Mm-hmm. On the Isignaq River after your plane was forced down.”
“Horse shit.”
“Conduct unbecoming a sworn police officer was how she put it in the complaint.”
Ashe pushed a copy across the desk. Active scanned it and tried not to let his face heat up.
“The gist of it is, she says you tried to seduce her during the night and assaulted her when she resisted, causing scratches on her neck.”
“I can see that.”
“Do you have anything to say? We need to get this cleared up and as an ex-cop myself I just want to help you help yourself here.” He extended his hands, palms up. “Let’s get it straightened out, OK?”
Active felt a momentary spasm of pity for Ashe, reduced to trying such an old trick on an actual living, breathing, cop who had so often used it himself. But only momentary.
“Sure, I have a statement. This is bullshit. She did it herself on the zipper of a sleeping bag, just like she said in that video she put on the Internet. Claimed it proved what a tough Alaska gal she is.”
Ashe looked at his own copy of the complaint. “I believe she covered that in paragraph twelve. Maybe you should read it a little closer.”
Active found the spot on the second page, reread it, and looked up at Ashe. “Helen Mercer suffers from battered woman syndrome?”
“So she says.”
“You mean from Brad? Her husband beats her?”
“No specifics. But she claims it’s why she couldn’t tell the truth about what happened in the tent at first. Now she feels she has to take positive action for her own mental health.”
“But a complaint to you guys? Why not a sexual assault complaint to the Troopers if she really wants to regain her mental health?”
“I haven’t spoken to her personally—I’m given to understand she hand-delivered her complaint to our chairman—”
“Who would be the state commissioner of public safety, if I remember right?”
Ashe nodded. “She delivered it to him in person—”
“And he was appointed by her and serves at her pleasure, is that also correct?”
Ashe nodded again. “None of which will affect our investigation in the slightest, of course.”
“Of course not. But please continue.”
“Where was I?”
“You were explaining why she didn’t file a criminal complaint if I assaulted her.”
“I have the impression she thinks it would create too much publicity. She doesn’t think it looks quite right for a governor to be a battered woman—she’d seem weak and helpless—and this will be quieter. We do our investigation, we pull your Alaska police officer certificate if we find cause, you get yourself a job as a legal investigator or something, everyone’s happy, right?”
“I’m happy being a certified peace officer and head of the Chukchi Public Safety Department, thank you very much.”
“Seriously, Nathan. I’m your friend here. If you could just—”
“All right, Bill. I can see you’re a nice guy in a tight spot. I do have a further statement to make.”
“Great, very wise. I’ll just record it, if I may.” He dug into his satchel.
“Oh, it’s quite short,” Active said. “I’m sure you’ll be able to remember it: Talk to my lawyer.”
Ashe pursed his lips. “You sure? My report will have to reflect your lack of cooperation. It will not work in your favor.”
“Talk to my lawyer.”
Ashe sighed. “If that’s the way you want to go. What’s his name?”
“When I hire him, he’ll let you know.” He stared at the door until Ashe took the hint, packed up his satchel, and walked out.
Active got coffee from the pot in the corner, set the cup on his blotter and stared at it for ninety seconds before drinking half of it down in a single scalding gulp. He punched Procopio’s line and told her about Ashe’s visit and the Jason Palmer case being reopened.
“No shit,” she said. “That’s some pressure.”
“Yeah. I was just wondering—you getting anything like this from your chain of command?”
Procopio snorted. “No chance. The head of the criminal division’s been around too long for even Mercer and her hack of an AG to fuck with.”
“Must be nice,” he said as he rang off.
The phone buzzed and Lucy’s line lit up.
“What?”
“Arii, you don’t have to yell at me. I’m hormonal right now. I cry when I see a diaper commercial.”
“OK, I’m sorry. Hello, Lucy. How can I help you.”
“I have the crime lab on the line. Just like you wanted.”
He thanked her and punched the button when his outside line lit up. Then he asked for the technician who’d worked over Brad Mercer’s snowgo, and asked the technician if they’d checked for blood on the top edge of the windshield. They had checked, and they had found traces. Enough to tell if it matched Pete Wise’s blood? Active held his breath as the technician pulled the analysis up on his computer. Inconclusive, the technician said. Might be from Pete Wise, might not. Active punched off.
He finished the coffee, closed his eyes for several seconds, then punched the line for the fire hall.
“Gabe,” he said. “Got a minute? I’d like to come over and catch up on the Jimmy Shaw case.”
“Well, for us it’s a search, not a case, but, yeah,” Gabe said. “Come on over. Or I could come over there. Or we could just jaw on the phone. Ain’t much to report, I’m afraid.”
“Nah,” Active said. “If I have to sit in this office one more minute, I’m gonna punch out a wall.”
“I know the feeling,” Gabe said. “I’ll make new coffee. What I got left from this morning is down to street scrapings.”