else was wearing. âIâm sorry about Deputy Brodeur,â I said. He nodded. âI was at the criminal justice academy with Bill,â I continued. âHe was a good man.â The metal springs in his chair creaked as he shifted his considerable weight. âWhat can I do for you, Warden?â âOne of your deputies just arrested my fatherâhis name is Jack Bowditchâup near Rum Pond, and I heard he was being brought here.â âWho told you this?â âI got a call from Russell Pelletier. He owns Rum Pond Camps.â I waited for him to respond, but he didnât. One of my legs began twitching. âLook, I donât know what my father didââ I began. âHe assaulted an officer!â âRussell Pelletier seems to think heâs a suspect in the Brodeur homicide.â He smoothed his mustache. âThe state police are running that investigation.â This wasnât going the way Iâd imagined, not that I had much of a plan coming in. âI donât know what happened to your deputy todayâand Iâm not making excuses for my father. I just feel like thereâs the potential for a misunderstanding here, and I donât want the CID investigation wasting time.â âWhat are you trying to say?â âIâd like to speak with my father, please.â There was a tentative knock at the door. âCome in!â barked the sheriff. It was his secretary again. Her mascara looked even more smeared than before. âThey found him.â Without another word, the sheriff rose to his feet and left the room. I remained seated, staring at the closed door. In the silence I could hear the rumble of traffic passing along the street outside. What was going on here? Who had they found? They left me alone in that room for close to ten minutes. When the sheriff returned, the first thing he did was remove his jacket and toss it onto a chair. His big body was throwing off a lot of heat. I could feel it across the desk and smell it in the sharpness of his Old Spice deodorant working overtime. âTell me about your father. When was the last time you spoke with him?â âLast night.â âHold on.â He reached into a desk drawer and removed a tape recorder. He set it on the blotter between us. âYou said you spoke with him last night.â âNot exactly. He left a message on my answering machine.â I cleared my throat. âWhatâs with the tape recorder?â He gave me the biggest, falsest smile Iâd seen in an ages. âWe just need to clear a few things up.â That was a line investigators fed to suspects, not fellow officers. âWhatâs going on here, Sheriff?â âYou say your fatherâs being falsely implicated in the homicide. I thought Iâd give you a chance to set things straight. What was the message?â âIt wasnât anything really. He just sort of wondered aloud where I was and then hung up.â âAnd where were you?â âOn a call.â âDid you erase the message?â I looked out the window. Somethingâa fast-moving shadowâhad spooked the pigeons off the next roof. I watched them scatter in a hundred directions. âI didnât realize it was important,â I said. He was still all smiles, but the strain was showing in the tightness of his jaw. âSo you erased it?â âHas my father asked for a lawyer?â His smile gave way like a dam bursting. He leaned across the desk at me. âLet me tell you something about your father ââhe practically spit the wordââyour father is accused of killing a cop. If I were you, Iâd answer my question.â âI didnât come here to incriminate him.â âI called your lieutenant. Heâs on his way here.â âLieutenant Malcomb?â âWhat do you think heâs going to say when