Bobby Ocean inhaled deeply. The grin was long gone.
‘You and a Negro were seen drinking together within sight of my son’s truck on the night it was destroyed,’ he said. ‘I believe that you and he were responsible for what occurred. You’re a blind man, Mr Parker. You live by the sea, but you can’t spot the changing of the tides. The time of your kind is passing, and a new order of men will take your place. Go tell that to your Negroes and your queers.’
He turned away, got in his truck, and backed slowly down Parker’s drive before heading west. Parker watched the road until the truck disappeared, and wondered just how much worse his day might have been had he not gone to church.
30
On reflection, Parker decided that it might be counterproductive, even unwise, to head out to the burial site without some form of permission to enter. He contacted Gordon Walsh, who didn’t sound overjoyed to hear from him again, but didn’t sound surprised either. Walsh agreed to make some calls, and Parker drove toward Piscataquis beneath clear blue skies, accompanied by Here & Now on Maine Public Radio. As he grew older, he preferred to listen to sensible conversation while he drove. Music he could choose for himself, or have selected for him by one of the half-dozen Sirius channels he favored, but he always learned something from exposure to NPR. Perhaps it was just a function of realizing, as the years went by, how little he really knew about very much at all.
Parker tried to exorcise Bobby Ocean from his mind, but the man’s voice, appearance, and bigotry persisted in intruding, perhaps in part because Bobby Ocean, odious though he was, had a legitimate grievance, and the burning of his son’s truck would serve only to harden him in his hatreds. As for Billy, he and Parker had never enjoyed any dealings, but Parker knew enough about him to be grateful for this.
The condition of the road deteriorated as he neared Piscataquis County, and he bounced most of the way from Dexter to Dover-Foxcroft, the blacktop pitted and broken, before continuing on toward Borestone Mountain. It wasn’t difficult to spot the turnoff for the burial site. A couple of news vans were parked by the side of the road, along with a pair of Piscataquis County Sheriff’s Office cruisers and one MSP cruiser, which was already pulling away as Parker arrived. Troop E out of Bangor worked Piscataquis and Penobscot Counties: fewer than thirty officers for a total area of almost eight thousand square miles, including the one-hundred-plus miles of interstate between Newport and Sherman. Much of that land fell under the jurisdiction of local law enforcement, but when it came to serious crime, the state police held the bag.
The news crews were kicking their heels; if no infant body emerged soon, the stations would reassign their resources to other stories. A reporter named Nina Aird, whom Parker knew as a face around town as well as on TV, was smoking a cigarette and flicking idly through her phone as he pulled up. Parker caught Aird glance casually at him once before looking more closely a second time while simultaneously signaling to her cameraman to get some footage, fast. The camera was already fixed on Parker by the time he gave his name to the first of the sheriff’s deputies, and he knew the reporters would be waiting for him when he reappeared. Unless something more newsworthy transpired between now and deadline, his face would be on the evening news.
The deputy waved Parker through, and he continued driving up a rutted dirt road so narrow that the branches of the evergreens at either side met above his head. About a quarter of a mile along, he saw another, much larger conglomeration of cars and trucks, a mix of police, the Maine Warden Service, and civilian vehicles.
Parker had already begun making notes of individuals with whom he might need to talk while he was up here. One of them was Ken Hubbell, the local physician in Dover-Foxcroft who served as M.E. for the immediate area on a voluntary basis. Hubbell would have been among the first to visit the scene, and Parker thought it might be useful to get his impression of what had been uncovered, in addition to whatever could be gleaned from the police and wardens. For the present, though, it was the latter on whom he would have to concentrate.
A dead body found in remote woodland generated a lot of activity, especially when there was the possibility of another set of remains buried somewhere nearby. While a Piscataquis County deputy had responded to the initial call about human remains, the attorney general’s office maintained a protocol for homicides and suspicious deaths, so the Piscataquis County Sheriff’s Office had done the prudent thing and informed the Maine State Police of the discovery, followed by the Warden Service. Ken Hubbell had quickly arrived on behalf of the M.E., and so the accretion of personnel had begun.
The MSP now had a dozen-strong evidence response team working the scene, alongside troopers, sheriff’s deputies, staff from the M.E.’s office, and the anthropological advisors and students from Orono; but anyone with any sense deferred to the wardens, who were the ones most familiar with the terrain, and who were responsible for organizing the search for the infant’s body. That made for anything up to seventy people on the ground in total, as well as an assortment of cadaver dogs that Parker could already hear barking in the woods as he pulled up.
A state police sergeant approached him. The badge on his uniform read ALLEN, which Parker recalled as being one of the ten most common names in Maine. Apparently ‘Smith’ was the most prevalent, although that was probably true of most of the other forty-nine states in the Union as well.
Parker got out of the car, and he and Allen shook hands. Allen had responsibility for all those entering and leaving the scene, and it was easy to see why. He was about Parker’s age, but had fifty pounds on him, and a foot in height. It was hard to picture the trooper fitting easily into a car that wasn’t specially built.
‘I hear you want to view the scene,’ said Allen.
‘If it’s okay with you.’
‘Detective Walsh gave the all clear – although he said that if you were to fall down a deep hole, none of us should be in any hurry to rescue you.’
That Walsh. What a joker.
‘I’ll be sure to watch where I step,’ said Parker. ‘Anything else I should be aware of?’
‘It’s muddy as all hell in there, but at least you’re wearing good boots. Other than that, it’s the usual: stay inside the marked paths, and don’t pick up or drop anything. I’d appreciate it if we could hold off for a few minutes, though, just until you meet Gilmore.’
Lieutenant John Gilmore was the search coordinator for the Maine Warden Service. He was as highly regarded as they came.
‘Don’t want to cross the wardens,’ said Parker.
‘Sure don’t. Gilmore is dispatching search groups right now, but he’s expecting you. We have coffee, if you want it.’
Parker accepted the offer. It was noticeably colder out here, and ice was more persistent and prevalent than on the coast. He went back to his car, found a pair of gloves on the floor behind the passenger seat, and slipped them on. Allen retrieved a thermos from his own vehicle, and poured two paper cups of black coffee. They talked about nothing much until Gilmore appeared from the woods, trailed by a couple of civilians carrying GPS devices. He was another big man, although rangier than Allen. He said something to the civilians that sent them on their way before heading over to where Parker and Allen were waiting. Standing between the two men made Parker feel like an adopted child, his awkwardness lessened only slightly by Allen wandering off to make some calls.
‘I know the face,’ said Gilmore. ‘And the reputation.’
‘Likewise.’
‘You here to stir up trouble?’
‘Only if you think it might help.’