The Poacher's Son by Paul Doiron

word.
    â€œDo you have any idea who the woman was with him?”
    â€œA girlfriend, I’d imagine. My dad is something of a ladies’ man.” I nearly said
lady-killer
.
    â€œNo one in particular?”
    â€œNot that I know about. But we haven’t spoken in years.”
    â€œDo you remember him ever mentioning Wendigo Timber?”
    â€œNo. The last time I saw him, this was still APP land.” I decided to see how far I could push my luck. “Look, I know your investigation is ongoing, but can you tell me anything about what happened up here last night? I read in the paper about the meeting at the Dead River Inn. Do you think it was connected to the homicides?”
    He grinned, amused at my brashness. “In other words, what do we know about how and why those two men were killed?” He considered this for a moment. “I’m not going to say anything to compromise the investigation, but I can tell you that Jonathan Shipman and Deputy Brodeur were gunned down last night about five minutes after they left the Dead River Inn. They were trying to slip away from the crowd by driving down a logging road instead of going out the front way, and it appears that someone was waiting for them and opened fire on the deputy’s cruiser. I won’t say there’s a direct connection between the meeting and the homicides.”
    â€œBut it goes to reason, right? You think someone who was upset about the Wendigo deal snuck out of the meeting to set up an ambush.”
    â€œI really can’t speculate. And I’ve already said too much.”
    â€œI appreciate the courtesy.” Actually, I was surprised by the detective’s willingness to say anything at all, considering what was happening with my father. Maybe he was the straight shooter Kathy said he was.
    Soctomah smiled again. “I’d be asking the same questions if I were in your place. You want to help your father, so you need to know exactly what’s going on.”
    I started to say, yes, but caught myself. Was he suggesting that I’d cover up for my dad to protect him? “I just don’t want you guys wasting your time on a dead end,” I said.
    â€œThat’s the last thing we want, too. We’re fortunate to have your help in this.” He glanced up at the sky. “Man, it’s like a sauna out here. What say we get out of the sun?” He gestured toward the mobile crime unit parked across the lot.
    This guy is pretty slick, I thought.
    Sure enough, when we’d settled down inside the motor coach and he’d grabbed us a couple of bottled waters, out came the tape recorder. “You understand about this, right?”
    â€œYeah,” I said.
    We went back over the subject of the answering machine message again, this time for the record, and then moved on to my father’s views on corporate ownership of the North Woods, his marksmanship with high-powered rifles, and general proclivities for violence. Midway through the conversation another detective appeared, a spark plug with a snub nose and a do-it-yourself buzz cut, who sat in the back of the vehicle, watching me with a sullen expression. Detective Menario, I presumed.
    â€œHow would you describe your relationship with your father?” asked Soctomah.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWere you close? Distant?”
    â€œI lived with him, on and off, until I was nine years old. But after my parents got divorced, I only saw him occasionally. I spent a couple of months with him at Rum Pond when I was sixteen, working at the camp, washing dishes, that kind of thing, but it didn’t work out.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œI was a kid. I had unrealistic expectations.”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œAbout everything,” I said. “He had his own lifestyle, and I didn’t fit in.”
    â€œDoes he have any friends in this general vicinity? Someone he might turn to if he got himself into