08-A Thousand Bones, page 31
“Do you know where?” Florence asked.
Joe shrugged. “Try Inkster or the Detroit area.”
“I wish I had a time of birth,” Florence murmured.
Joe moved to the string of lights on the floor and gathered them up. She would go ahead and finish stringing them. Keep her mind busy. While she worked, she could hear her mother flipping pages in her ephemeris.
“Good Lord,” Florence said. “His sun and his Mercury are squared to each other and both retrograde.”
Joe was quiet, remembering slivers of this stuff from her childhood, when Florence used to do charts for the neighbor women.
“And his moon and his Venus are in opposition,” Florence said.
“What’s that mean?”
“The moon—his moods and the women in his life—is at opposite purposes with Venus, his planet of love and relationships.”
Joe glanced over her shoulder. “I already know he’s a sicko, Ma. Now, if you could tell me where the hell he disappeared to, that might be helpful.”
Florence ignored the sarcasm. “His chart is lopsided. I’d be willing to bet he’s a Pisces rising. That would put…”
Florence was scribbling with her pencil. Joe opened a box of ornaments. She wished she had some of the ornaments her mother had stored in Cleveland. There was a toy fire truck in that box somewhere, given to them the first Christmas they were without Joe’s father.
“Was this guy an orphan?” Florence asked.
Joe shrugged. “His father was killed when he was sixteen. I don’t know about his mother.”
“If I’m right at where I’m putting things, then I’d say he didn’t get along with his father,” Florence said. “There was violence in the home. Lots of failures. Isolation.”
Joe suppressed a sigh. “I don’t care how badly he was mistreated.”
“I know you don’t. But just like the victims, you need to understand him if you’re going to find him.”
“I’m not in charge of finding him, Ma.”
Joe was glad when Florence didn’t answer. She knew she sounded depressed and miserable, and she thought again about what that doctor in Traverse City had said. It’s important you talk to someone now. I’ve spoken with many police officers who have experienced trauma similar to yours, and I can help.
Littleton…that was his name. She still had his card somewhere, probably in her jewelry box.
The crunch of tires on the snow made Joe look to the window. She went to it, pulling back the curtain to see a sheriff’s cruiser in the drive. Mike got out with an armload of folders. By the time he got to the porch, she had the door open.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hi,” he said. “Can I come in?”
She nodded, and Mike slipped past her. He looked around and set the files on the kitchen table, catching the ones on top so they didn’t slide off. He unzipped his jacket and took off his cap, setting it on the files. His black hair was recently trimmed. His tie was so starched it looked like cardboard, and his collar chevrons and star were polished to a high sheen. There was a piece of black tape over the badge.
Mike saw Florence. “You must be Joe’s mom,” he said, giving her a smile. “Nice to meet you.”
Florence lowered her glasses, giving him a long look. “Michael Villella. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Not all bad, I hope,” Mike said.
Florence smiled. “Not all.”
Mike flushed and turned to Joe. “I hope you don’t mind me just stopping over. How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay,” she said. “How are things in the department?”
“Well, you know the board made me acting sheriff, until they can arrange an election.”
“I heard.”
“And I don’t have an undersheriff,” he said. “So mostly it’s just me and the other guys, doing regular patrols and things. There’s some state troopers in town, just keeping an eye out.”
“No sign of Trader?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Any news on the case?”
He sighed. “Kellerman’s guys found two bones in the dunes this morning,” he said. “They think it’s a couple of hand bones.”
Joe shook her head slowly. So that erratic-looking carving hadn’t been a copycat after all. “Is Kellerman keeping you in the loop?” she asked.
“Not really,” Mike said. “He says we just need to heal and return to our regular routine.”
“So,” she said, motioning to the folders, “if everything is routine, what’s all this?”
Mike looked suddenly uncomfortable. “Well, a few days after the…ambush, Kellerman called and said he wanted everything we had on the case. I went into the sheriff’s office to gather it up, and I found myself standing there at his desk and looking down at his stuff.” He blew out a long breath. “Well, I realized I was about to give up any chance we had as a department to help bring his killer in.”
Mike glanced at Florence, then down at the floor as he tried to find the words to finish. His head came up slowly. “I didn’t want to do that.”
Joe opened the top folder and gave it a quick glance. There were about fifteen pages, neatly typed and labeled, BACKGROUND—ROLAND J. SNIDER/TRADER.
“This is new,” she said. “Did you compile all this background information?”
“Holt and I did,” he said. “I sent him to Inkster to dig stuff up. He talked to neighbors and even found a distant aunt in Detroit. We found out a lot about these two guys.”
Joe closed the folder. “Why did you bring the files here?”
Mike sighed. “Because Holt and me don’t know what to do with this information. You’re the best investigator we got. We need you to look at it.”
Joe said nothing.
“If you’re ready,” Mike added.
She opened the folder again and walked away from him as she read it. Roland had graduated from Cherry Hill High School, and despite scoring a 1460 on his SATs, he ended up at Henry Ford Community College. More colleges, six or seven different majors, but no diploma and twenty-some jobs in his twenty-seven years. His last known address had been an apartment on a street Joe remembered being near Ronnie Langford’s house.
She heard her mother asking Mike if he wanted some coffee, but their voices faded as she read on. Holt had interviewed a neighbor who described the Snider boys as rambunctious and bratty. Described the father as a yeller and a drinker who taught his sons to shoot blue jays in the backyard with BB guns.
She turned. “Mike, did you find anything more on how his father died?”
Mike set his coffee down and came forward, pulling off his jacket and hanging it on a chair. “I couldn’t find the responding Deputy Miller,” he said, pulling out a file. “But this is the original report you already saw, and I made some notes on it.”
Joe took it from him. Mike had scribbled in the margin: “4:30 p.m.—almost dark. No one starts hunting at 4:30. Plus—why only 2 guns for three hunters?”
“Good points,” she said.
Mike shrugged. “I don’t think they were setting off to hunt. I think something else was going on. And I’m not even sure the shooting was accidental. Did you know they didn’t even take their father’s body home? They buried him up here in the county cemetery, same place Ken Snider is now.”
“Were there any photos taken of the scene where the father was killed?”
He nodded, slipping them from his folder and holding them out to her. “I finally found these last week. Kellerman didn’t ask for them, so I didn’t send them.”
She sifted through them, stopping at one that showed the backyard of the cabin. The body was a dark form on the leafy ground. The father’s shotgun lay near his right hand.
“Two guns for three people,” she said softly. “What if Roland was the one who didn’t have a gun, and maybe he didn’t have one because he didn’t like to hunt?”
“Then why would the dad bring him up to the cabin?” Mike asked.
“To force him,” Joe said. “To teach him…”
“To be a man,” Mike finished for her.
Joe nodded, moving on to other pictures. She stopped at another photo of the backyard. In the background, she could see a shed, an old covered well, more trees than were now there. And hanging not far from the father’s body, on a low branch, a deer hoist. Roland Trader’s voice was in her head.
Go get the hoist, Kenny.
How can you do that to her after what he did to you?
“You okay, Joe?” Mike asked.
It took her a second to bring herself back from the woods. She held the photo out to Mike. “Look at the hoist in the tree,” she said.
Mike glanced at it. “You think the father used the hoist on the kid?”
Joe shut her eyes, hit again with the memory of her feet being tied to the cold metal.
“Oh, God,” Mike said softly. “I’m sorry, Joe.”
“No, it’s okay,” she said quickly. Her throat felt dry, and she licked her lips. “Roland used the hoist for a reason when he killed. He learned it from somewhere.”
“His dad would have been a real bastard to do that.”
“Maybe that’s why they killed him,” Joe said.
“Good theory,” Mike said. “But I don’t know what it gets us.”
“It gets us understanding,” Joe said.
Mike said nothing, and Joe went back to reading the background gathered from the aunt and the neighbors. The neighbors didn’t remember the mother at all. The only mention of her in the interview was her name—Mary Trader—and the fact that she had died when the boys were young.
“Mike,” Florence said from her perch on the sofa. “You got Roland Trader’s birth certificate in there somewhere?”
“Ma,” Joe said quietly.
But Mike dug through another file, pulled out a piece of paper, and took it to Florence. “You do astrology charts?” he asked.
Florence eyed him. “Let me guess. You’re an Aries.”
“Scorpio,” Mike said.
“Born late afternoon, though, right?” Florence asked.
Mike grinned. “Four a.m.”
“I’m losing my knack,” she mumbled, going back to her scribbling.
Joe looked up. “Mike,” she said, “you didn’t happen to get a copy of Mary Trader’s death certificate, did you?”
He went back to her and pulled it out. Joe read it.
Name: Mary May Trader.
Born: Leelanau County, Michigan.
Died: Leelanau County, Michigan.
Manner of death: Car accident.
Cause of death: Multiple internal
injuries.
Date of death: January 1954.
Home address: Inkster.
Age at time of death: 28.
Race: Indian.
“Good Lord,” Joe whispered.
“What?” Mike asked.
“His mother was Indian,” she said, facing Mike. “That’s why those children’s Indian books were in the basement. Roland was only five when she died.”
Mike was quiet, and he was staring at her, his face crossed with bewilderment.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“You sound like you feel sorry for him.”
Joe started to snap at him, then stopped herself. “I hate this man with every ounce of my being,” she said. “Don’t ever mistake anything I say or do in this investigation for sympathy. I have none.”
Mike was quiet for a moment, then his radio crackled, and Augie called to him. Mike answered and stuck the radio back in his belt.
“I need to run,” he said. “Do you want me to leave all this with you?”
“Yes, please,” Joe said.
“Maybe you and Holt and me could meet later and talk about what else we can do?”
“Sure. Come on, I’ll walk you out.”
Mike looked at Florence as he pulled on his jacket on. “Nice meeting you, Mrs. Frye.”
“Flo,” she said. “Call me Flo.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Joe walked Mike out to the cruiser, arms folded against the cold. He stopped to face her. “Joe, I didn’t get a chance to say this before. I’m really sorry about what happened to you,” he said.
“I know, Mike.”
“I should’ve been there.”
“If you had been, you’d be dead. Don’t do that to yourself.”
She knew there was something else on his mind, and she stayed quiet, letting him work out how to say it.
“I was going through your desk the other day looking for something,” he said. “I found this.”
He pulled a photograph from his pants pocket. It was the one of the pretty teenage girl posed on the hood of his cruiser.
“Thanks for not showing it to anyone. It was…” He shook his head.
“You don’t need to explain anything to me.”
“Yes, I do,” he said. “I want you to know nothing happened. I was bored, and she was up here on vacation, and she said she’d never been in a patrol car, and I…” He blew out a long breath. “I guess I just wanted to steal a few minutes with a pretty girl. It was childish and stupid.”
He kicked at the snow with the toe of his boot. “When I was your partner,” he said, “I know I was an embarrassment to you. I’m sorry.”
“The sheriff would be proud of you now.”
He looked away, over her shoulder, blinking away tears. He had to clear his throat to speak. “I miss him,” he said.
“Me, too,” she said.
“Shit, I even miss Mack.”
Joe gave him a small smile.
They stood for a moment longer, listening to the chatter on Mike’s radio. Augie’s familiar voice. Holt’s cheerful response. The faint wail of a siren as Holt kicked his cruiser into gear.
Mike turned and reached for his door, then looked back at her. “When you coming back to work?”
She hesitated. “Monday,” she said.
“Good. We need you.”
Mike got into his car and backed out of the drive. She stayed at the end of the walk, slippers growing wet, arms crossed, watching the cruiser. The lettering on the trunk still read, “Leelenau County SO, Sheriff Cliff Leach.”
When she went back inside, her mother was penciling in planets on Roland Trader’s chart. Chips was snoozing on a bed of tinsel.
Joe went to finish stringing the lights on the tree. She thought about dinner and made plans to go down to the market and splurge on a couple of steaks. And a bottle of wine. After dinner, she and her mother would watch M*A*S*H and maybe talk some about her father. She had a feeling that maybe tonight she would fall asleep early.
And tomorrow, she would go in search of Mary May Trader.
46
The dirt road came to an abrupt end. Joe shoved the Jeep into park and surveyed the barren landscape in front of her. She was high on a bluff above Lake Michigan, about five miles north of Echo Bay.
She got out, tugged the baseball cap down on her head, and set off toward the setting sun, knowing by the smell that she was close to the lake. But there was no path, and the brush and grass were so high she couldn’t be sure of her footing.
The wind was pushing in hard and cold, the western sky a welling bruise of pale yellow and angry purple. She made her way another twenty feet, stopped, and looked down. Far below was the gray swirl of Lake Michigan, the waters choppy and whitecapped. Through the spray, she could barely make out the dark sand of a beach. In summer, it was a favorite place for swimmers and sunbathers, but today it lay as cold and empty as some primordial shore.
Joe turned and looked at the bare aspen trees that formed the edge of the clearing. There was a giant dead oak tree standing alone in the weeds. It was cleaved in two, its insides blackened by the lightning bolt that had killed it countless years ago. This had to be the place. But there was nothing here. No houses, no fences, nothing to mark the fact that any human had ever touched this place.
She saw him coming through the tall brown weeds. In the whistle of the wind, she hadn’t heard a car. He had seemed to materialize out of the gray sky and now was moving toward her, his dark hair whipping around his face. She didn’t move. There was no place to go. There was nothing but the sky and the lake at her back.
“I didn’t think you would come,” she said.
Thomas Ahanu’s eyes were slitted against the wind. He was bundled in a plaid wool jacket, old chinos, and heavy workboots. Strands of his hair flew like a torn curtain around his face.
“I am here,” he said.
The same vague sense of unease she had felt around Ahanu on their first meeting came back to Joe. When she had called him yesterday to ask for his help with Mary Trader, she had expected him to refuse. But he had agreed and then surprised her by asking her to meet him here.
“You had no trouble finding your way?” Ahanu asked.
“Your directions were good,” Joe said. “But why here?”
“You said you wanted to know about Mary Trader,” Ahanu said. “She is here.”
Joe was trying to figure out what to say without sounding disrespectful, when she realized Ahanu was smiling. Barely. But it was definitely a smile.
“Look, Mr. Ahanu, I didn’t come all this way—”
“I know.” Ahanu turned and gestured toward the clearing. “This is a cemetery,” he said. When he looked back at Joe, the half-smile was still there, but there was a sadness in it she hadn’t seen the first time.
“I told you I would tell you about Mary. Come, let’s go,” he said.
Joe followed Ahanu through the heavy brush, past the dead oak, and toward the aspens. She spotted something gray in the thigh-high weeds and stopped. It was an old headstone, the name and years erased by the wind and time. Ahanu hadn’t stopped, and she drove through the brush after him. She spotted one more ravaged headstone and a toppled stone cross before she caught up to him.
She watched as he crouched down and pulled away at the brush with his rough hands. There was a stone marker lodged in the hard brown earth. The name mary trader was visible and the years 1925–1954.
