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Authors: Paul Doiron
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incident scene.”
“My instructions were for you to wait here.” As always, he sounded like he had gravel in his voice box.
“I know that. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want an apology, Warden.”
“I couldn’t just sit here, Lieutenant—not knowing what’s going on up there.”
“The state has rules. They exist for a reason. You can’t be involved in this investigation, and you know it.”
“I’m already involved,” I said. “Please, Lieutenant. It’s my father they’re looking for. I’ve got to be part of this. If something happens—maybe I can talk to him, get him to surrender. He’ll listen to me.”
He was wearing mirrored sunglasses that made reading his expression just about impossible, and he was already one of the stoniest-faced guys I’d ever met, like a walking granite statue in a green uniform. But when he spoke again I got the sense of something softening in him. “This isn’t a situation you can control, Bowditch.”
“I know.”
“He’s the one making all the bad choices.”
“I understand that.”
“He’ll be given every opportunity, but it’s up to him what happens next.”
“Sir, all I’m asking is a chance to be present. I want to be able to tell my mother that I did everything I could.”
After a moment of silence, he said, “Get out of the truck,Bowditch.”
My heart sank, but I did as I was told. The lieutenant waited for me to lock the door and then he started off across the lot. At first, I thought we were headed back into the sheriff’s office, but he kept walking toward the street, and that was when I saw his truck parked around the corner.
“Lieutenant?”
“You’re right. It’s better that you’re there. But only as an observer.”
Maybe it was because my father was accused of killing a cop, and he wanted me there as a warning to all the other cops that revenge was not an option. Or maybe he was bringing me along as a witness who could testify that every attempt at a peaceful resolution was made and the use of deadly force was warranted. Maybe he just understood a son’s anguish. I didn’t know why Lieutenant Malcomb brought me along with him, but the truth was, I didn’t care, either.
On the road we didn’t speak for the longest time, both of us listening intently to the police radio. Troopers, deputies, and wardens called in their locations. K-9 units were en route. The Northern Maine Violent Crimes Task Force had taken over a local fish hatchery as its command post. There hadn’t been a manhunt like this in Maine in years.
Lieutenant Malcomb scarcely acknowledged me as we drove. He smelled strongly of cigarettes. Kathy Frost had told me he’d started smoking again after his wife died last fall.
“I got a phone call this morning you should know about,” he said. “A man says you harassed him and his son this morning on Indian Pond.”
“Anthony DeSalle,” I said.
“Tell me what happened.”
I straightened up in my seat. “He was putting in a boat at the public landing with his son. I checked his license and registration. I cited him for not having adequate PFDs. He didn’t appreciate being cited. That’s about it.”
“He claims you were verbally threatening.”
“Excuse me, Lieutenant, but that’s bullshit.” I tried unsuccessfully to keep the resentment out of my voice. “I think I displayed considerable restraint with Mr. DeSalle. He swore at me repeatedly in front of his little boy. I thought he might take a swing at me at one point. It doesn’t surprise me he made a complaint. I think Mr. DeSalle has problems with anger management.”
I waited for the lieutenant to speak.
“That’s my assessment, too,” he said at last. “The guy’s choice of language didn’t win any points with me, either. Maybe that kind of talk works down in Massachusetts.”
“So what happens now?”
“I’m not inclined to do anything for the moment, but if this De-Salle makes a complaint in writing, we’ll have to do some
“My instructions were for you to wait here.” As always, he sounded like he had gravel in his voice box.
“I know that. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want an apology, Warden.”
“I couldn’t just sit here, Lieutenant—not knowing what’s going on up there.”
“The state has rules. They exist for a reason. You can’t be involved in this investigation, and you know it.”
“I’m already involved,” I said. “Please, Lieutenant. It’s my father they’re looking for. I’ve got to be part of this. If something happens—maybe I can talk to him, get him to surrender. He’ll listen to me.”
He was wearing mirrored sunglasses that made reading his expression just about impossible, and he was already one of the stoniest-faced guys I’d ever met, like a walking granite statue in a green uniform. But when he spoke again I got the sense of something softening in him. “This isn’t a situation you can control, Bowditch.”
“I know.”
“He’s the one making all the bad choices.”
“I understand that.”
“He’ll be given every opportunity, but it’s up to him what happens next.”
“Sir, all I’m asking is a chance to be present. I want to be able to tell my mother that I did everything I could.”
After a moment of silence, he said, “Get out of the truck,Bowditch.”
My heart sank, but I did as I was told. The lieutenant waited for me to lock the door and then he started off across the lot. At first, I thought we were headed back into the sheriff’s office, but he kept walking toward the street, and that was when I saw his truck parked around the corner.
“Lieutenant?”
“You’re right. It’s better that you’re there. But only as an observer.”
Maybe it was because my father was accused of killing a cop, and he wanted me there as a warning to all the other cops that revenge was not an option. Or maybe he was bringing me along as a witness who could testify that every attempt at a peaceful resolution was made and the use of deadly force was warranted. Maybe he just understood a son’s anguish. I didn’t know why Lieutenant Malcomb brought me along with him, but the truth was, I didn’t care, either.
On the road we didn’t speak for the longest time, both of us listening intently to the police radio. Troopers, deputies, and wardens called in their locations. K-9 units were en route. The Northern Maine Violent Crimes Task Force had taken over a local fish hatchery as its command post. There hadn’t been a manhunt like this in Maine in years.
Lieutenant Malcomb scarcely acknowledged me as we drove. He smelled strongly of cigarettes. Kathy Frost had told me he’d started smoking again after his wife died last fall.
“I got a phone call this morning you should know about,” he said. “A man says you harassed him and his son this morning on Indian Pond.”
“Anthony DeSalle,” I said.
“Tell me what happened.”
I straightened up in my seat. “He was putting in a boat at the public landing with his son. I checked his license and registration. I cited him for not having adequate PFDs. He didn’t appreciate being cited. That’s about it.”
“He claims you were verbally threatening.”
“Excuse me, Lieutenant, but that’s bullshit.” I tried unsuccessfully to keep the resentment out of my voice. “I think I displayed considerable restraint with Mr. DeSalle. He swore at me repeatedly in front of his little boy. I thought he might take a swing at me at one point. It doesn’t surprise me he made a complaint. I think Mr. DeSalle has problems with anger management.”
I waited for the lieutenant to speak.
“That’s my assessment, too,” he said at last. “The guy’s choice of language didn’t win any points with me, either. Maybe that kind of talk works down in Massachusetts.”
“So what happens now?”
“I’m not inclined to do anything for the moment, but if this De-Salle makes a complaint in writing, we’ll have to do some
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