Page 8 of A River Red With Blood
“I believe he was even more cautious about such matters than I am.I see no reason to contest the conclusion of accidental death.Do you have any cause to believe the injury might have been inflicted purposely?”
“None,” I said.
“Then why do you ask?”
“It’s what I do.If I didn’t, I’d be forced to find a proper job.”
“That would be a bad thing, right?”
“It would be terrible.I’d have to set an alarm for the mornings.”
“It’s been interesting talking to you, Mr Parker.”
“And to you, Dr Saputri.Good luck in your new role.”
“And good luck with avoiding the autopsy table,” she said.
Which was kind of her.
The situation with Scott Theriault was complicated by the fact that his death wasn’t the only recent incident in the Kennebec Valley to occupy police time and the public imagination.Anineteen-year-old Bingham girl named Mallory Norton had gone missing shortly before the discovery of Scott’s body, and had yet to be found.
It was in the nature of crime in the internet age that social media commentators, podcasters, and all manner of prurient observers now waded into criminal investigations, muddying the waters.Police appeals for information, always crucial to inquiries, drew more attention than before, not all of it helpful.I doubted harried detectives would welcome me sticking my nose in their case, but that wasn’t any reason not to do it.
While I was at my desk, I reached out to both the Maine State Police and the Somerset County Sheriff’s Office.Neither had anything more to add to the file on Scott Theriault, and when I brought up Mallory Norton’s name, I was told to mind my own business.But because I’m nothing if not obdurate, I called in a favor, which I might as well have left untouched.I learned only that Mallory’s phone had not been located, and ceased sending out a signal somewhere between The Forks and West Forks on the night she went missing.The records were subsequently accessed with a warrant, including all calls and texts.The MSP found nothing in them to indicate that Scott Theriault’s death and Mallory Norton’s disappearance were connected, but were “keeping an open mind,” which was police-speak for a dead end, even if it hadn’t stopped some of the internet sleuths from yoking one case to the other.It made for a better story, and story was all.Either way, nobody expected Mallory Norton to be foundalive.
Chapter 9
Roger Teal wasn’t in his room when Edward Kenney dropped by the hotel shortly after ten a.m., but neither had he checked out.Kenney left a message in a sealed envelope, suggesting they meet at the Lager House on Michigan Avenue at two p.m., though Kenney added that he’d be there from earlier in the afternoon.He hoped Teal would realize it had to be important if Kenney, the most vigilant of them—and a stickler for the rules, as Mike Hurvich had learned in his final moments—was prepared to breach protocol in this way.
The Lager House had been around since Prohibition, when it operated as a speakeasy under cover of a furniture outlet.By night it was a loud music joint, but it was quieter during the day and the beer was about the cheapest Kenney had ever come across in a major city.At two dollars for a can of Hamm’s, a man could get a decent buzz on for ten bucks and be close to incapacitated for twenty.But someone would have had to put a gun to Kenney’s head to make him drink more than one can of Hamm’s, let alone ten, so he ordered a Blue Moon and nursed it while watching YouTube and X videos on his phone and thinking about Nola Maddick, the woman from the previous night.In between footage of car chases and bar fights, Kenney browsed a few news websites, including theDetroit Free Press,Bridge Michigan, andMLive, but there was nothing yet about a missing Black woman.
The twenty-four and forty-eight-hour period before a person being officially acknowledged as missing was only so much baloney for TV shows and movies.Normally, any delay was down to friends or relatives assuming the subject would show up with a hangover or bedhead, looking either sick or sheepish;that, or they didn’t give a rat’s ass about the person one way or the other, unless they owed them money.Kenney hoped the latter might be true of Nola Maddick.They’d found nothing in her pocketbook but $23.92 in small bills and change, a driver’s license, a receipt for cheap clothing at Nice Price on Greenfield Road, one of a chain of local discount stores, and another receipt for even cheaper food at the Ever Fresh Market in Dearborn.The driver’s license gave her address as Dearborn, so she’d been out of her home territory when Kenney and Teal picked her up.She might have had a boyfriend or girlfriend close to the center of town, Kenney thought, or she could have been a hooker, as her body was more worn than he’d expected.Oddly, the pocketbook hadn’t contained car keys, so however Maddick managed to get to Fishkorn from Dearborn, it wasn’t in her own vehicle.
All things considered, Kenney was minded to take a positive view, especially with no car to link Maddick to the area from which they’d snatched her.The Game had been played as close to textbook as they could manage.Like any sport, the Game involved an element of chance, and three or four times the players had been forced to leave a city unfulfilled, with the options being to reschedule or let the Game go for that year.Nobody had ever yet gone for the second choice, the risks associated with trying again only adding to the pleasure.
But one or two facets of the night’s events nagged at Kenney.Until they’d really gotten into it, and the blood began to flow, his impression was that Maddick was more angry than frightened.She had a core of steel to her, which took the two men time to break.Also, on reflection, “worn” wasn’t the right word to describe her.Rather, she might have been older than her license indicated, which meant it could have been false.She was muscular, too: well built for her height, but not fat.
Kenney was distracted by Teal’s arrival.Teal looked weary; his exertions had caught up with him.Kenney wondered where he’d been earlier.He’d hardly gone sightseeing.The center of Detroit might have been undergoing a kind of renaissance, but that revival was progressive, and starting from a low mark.
Teal slumped into the chair opposite and ordered a FoggyGeezer, a fancy IPA in a can.The music in the background was set at the perfect volume for Kenney’s purpose: loud enough for them not to be overheard, but not so loud that they couldn’t hear each other.Kenney waited while the server went to get Teal’s drink.The can, when it arrived, was a nineteen-ounce monster, and the beer came in at 7.3 percent ABV.
“That’s strong stuff,” said Kenney.“I’d need a ride home after.”
“I walked here,” said Teal.“I wanted some air.”
“You won’t be walking back, or not in a straight line.I can drop you.”
Teal didn’t jump at the offer, and Kenney knew why.They’d seen enough of each other, in every sense of the word, after what was done to the woman.It was one thing to get caught up in the moment, but another to come down from it.Even after so many years, it was better to process the backwash alone.
“Why are we here?”asked Teal.
“I’m worried.”
“About?”
“The Saint.”
No proper names.Better safe than sorry.
