Heart of Ice (17 page)

The sound of the front door opening and a rush of cold air drew Louis’s eyes to the open Dutch door. He was sitting at an angle that gave him a clear view of the front entrance.

Joe.

She came into the office and every head turned in her direction. Just hours ago back at the hospital she had been shaking and smeared in blood. Now, in black jeans, black leather jacket and boots, her hair back in a neat ponytail, she was all business again.

Rafsky’s back was to the door, and he couldn’t see her. There was no way to stop it, no way to make this easy. Louis rose, his eyes on Joe.

Rafsky turned to follow Louis’s gaze.

A look of surprise moved across Joe’s face—not at seeing Rafsky, Louis knew, but at how he had changed.

Rafsky’s eyes flicked to Louis and then went back to Joe as he tried to figure out what was going on. When Joe came up to Louis’s side and put a hand on his arm—a small but obviously intimate gesture—Rafsky watched her carefully. Slowly, gradually, a look of comprehension settled into Rafsky’s face, followed by something else. At first Louis couldn’t read it, but then it registered—barely concealed contempt directed at Joe.

“Sheriff Frye,” Rafsky said.

“Detective Rafsky,” she said.

Again Rafsky’s eyes went from Joe to Louis and back to Joe. Louis wondered if Rafsky was going to ask about him and Joe, but Rafsky said nothing. The ringing of a phone finally split the awkward quiet.

Rafsky turned to Louis. “Dancer’s upstairs. Follow me,” he said. He glanced at Joe. “You, too, Sheriff Frye.”

T
he three of them stood at the window, watching Danny Dancer in the room beyond. There was a table and two folding chairs in the room, but Dancer sat on the floor in the corner. His head was bent over a notebook, his knotty-knuckled hand furiously working a crayon across the paper.

“Whose idea was it to give him the crayons and paper?” Rafsky asked.

“Sergeant Clark,” Louis said. “Dancer asked for it.”

“I wouldn’t have given the bastard shit,” Rafsky said. “But it seems to be keeping him calm.”

Rafsky unlocked the door, and they went inside. Dancer looked up only long enough for the fluorescent light to wash once over his face. He had the healthy weathered look of an outdoorsman, but his eyes were strange, two circles of iridescent silver, like tiny round mirrors.

“Here they are, Dancer,” Rafsky said. “The black guy and the lady, just like you asked for. Start talking.”

Dancer pushed up the wall to his feet and clutched the notebook to his chest. He looked at Louis and Joe but said nothing.

“Talk to them, Dancer,” Rafsky said.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

“Sorry?” Louis asked.

Dancer looked at the floor. “I shouldn’t have done what I did. I’m really sorry, sir. And ma’am.”

“You shot at three people,” Louis said. “And all you can say is you’re sorry? You think that fixes anything?”

Dancer cringed at the edge in Louis’s voice. “Is Chief Flowers okay?” he asked.

Louis’s first instinct was to grab Dancer and yell at him that the chief wasn’t okay, that he would never be the same again because he had a hole in his neck that this bastard had put there. But then Dancer looked up again, clearly straining to keep eye contact. His expression was contrite. And something about it was very genuine.

“No, he’s not okay,” Louis said. “He’s hurt badly.”

“Can I tell him myself that I’m sorry?” Dancer asked.

“No,” Rafsky said. “Sit down.”

When Dancer didn’t move, Rafsky grabbed Dancer’s sleeve, dragged him to the table, and forced him into the chair. Dancer went down hard, then lowered his head and started to rock.

Rafsky sat down across from him. “Okay, asshole,” he said. “It’s time to talk to me.”

Rafsky had basically dismissed them, but Louis was reluctant to go. A few days ago all he could think about was Lily and Joe, but this afternoon had changed all that. A man Flowers had described as harmless had picked up a rifle and fired at a cop he knew and respected. The key to a cold case homicide—a young woman’s skull—was missing, and now they had uncovered a collector of skulls. And then there were the Chapmans. A father and son who had waited two decades to find out what happened to Julie.

Louis had made a promise to the chief, but with Flowers out of commission Louis now had no authority to even be in the room. And neither did Joe. He gave her a motion that they should leave and reached for the door.

“No, no, no,” Dancer said. “Don’t leave. Don’t leave.”

Rafsky leaned across the table. “Look, you son of a bitch, you don’t dictate the rules here. I do.”

Dancer’s eyes filled with fear.

“Dancer, talk to the detective,” Louis said. “You’ll be okay.”

Dancer’s head dropped and he started whispering something that sounded like a children’s song.

Rafsky slammed his palm on the table. “Don’t play the village idiot with me! Start talking!”

Dancer jumped from the chair, clutching his notebook. “I’ll talk to them!” he shouted. “Not you! Them!”

Rafsky glared at Dancer and pushed away from the table so hard he nearly tipped it. He reached for the door, then changed his mind and just stood there, staring out at the empty hallway. It wasn’t hard to guess what he was thinking—that he was being pushed around by a dimwitted cop shooter and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

“Kincaid,” Rafsky said finally, “you know what we’re looking for out at that cabin. I don’t care how you do it, but you make him tell us where it is.”

Dancer was still in the corner, holding his notebook, staring at his shoes. Louis stepped toward him.

“You want to come back and sit down?” Louis asked.

Danny shook his head.

Louis reached for his sleeve, intending to guide him
back to the chair, but Dancer jerked away and pressed deeper into the corner.

“Don’t touch me.”

Louis backed off. “Fine. But if you want to talk to me you need to sit down.”

Dancer hesitated, then slid into the chair. Louis took the chair across from him.

“Why did you shoot at us?” Louis asked.

“I was scared,” Dancer said.

“Scared of what?”

“I was scared you were going to take away my skulls.”

“Why would we do that?” Louis asked.

“It’s not legal to sell skulls. I was scared you were going to stop my business.”

“Bullshit,” Rafsky said. “You know it’s not illegal.”

Dancer shrank lower in his chair.

Louis was thinking how organized Dancer’s record keeping was and about Skullduggery’s catalog. Rafsky was right that Dancer knew damn well his business was legal. Maybe he wasn’t as dim as they assumed.

“Where do you get your skulls?” Louis asked.

“Everywhere.”

“You can’t hunt on the island,” Louis said. “Where do you get them?”

“I find them in the U.P.”

“You don’t have a car,” Louis said. “How do you get around in the U.P?”

“I
do
have a car.”

“No you don’t,” Rafsky said. “We checked.”

“Yes, I do,” Dancer said. “It’s Aunt Bitty’s 1966 Ford pickup. License plate RFS456. I keep it in a garage in
St. Ignace for ten dollars a month. I drive it to find the animals.”

“Do you hunt the animals?”

“No, I never kill,” Dancer said, “I pick them up off the road, and I make them clean.”

Louis could actually see this guy scraping up roadkill. But he also remembered seeing some large skulls in the cabin.

“Where do you get the big skulls?” Louis asked.

“Max trades me sometimes. Big skulls for skins and eyeballs and claws.”

“Max?”

“Max the taxidermist in Escanaba,” Dancer said. “He hunts places he’s not supposed to and gets me big skulls. We trade lots of things. That’s how I got Callisto.”

“Who’s Callisto?” Louis asked.

“My bear skull.”

Rafsky sighed loudly.

Louis knew now where he wanted to go with his questions. He also decided to get more personal and use Dancer’s first name.

“Danny,” he said. “Do you name all your skulls?”

Dancer started to fidget, as if he knew naming skulls made him look childish. “Some of them.”

“Can you tell me the names?”

Dancer shrugged. “Callisto, Penelope, Lycus, and—”

“Do you have a skull named Julie?”

Dancer bolted from the chair, but Louis caught the back of his overalls and yanked him back. Dancer fell, tipping over the chair. His notebook skidded across the floor.

Joe picked it up. Dancer’s eyes were riveted on her. Louis tapped the table to get Dancer’s attention.

“Danny,” Louis said. “You didn’t answer me. Do you have a skull named Julie?”

Dancer wrapped his arms around himself and lowered his head. He began to rock gently.

“Louis?”

He looked back at Joe. She had the notebook open.

“May I speak with both of you?” she asked Louis and Rafsky.

Dancer didn’t look up as they left, closing the door behind them.

“I think Dancer’s autistic,” Joe said.

“Autistic?” Louis asked.

“He has many of the symptoms,” Joe said. “The rocking motion, the recoiling from touch. And he has trouble looking people in the eye.”

“The man runs a business,” Rafsky said. “Autistic people aren’t that high-functioning.”

“You’re wrong. There’s a wide spectrum to autism and often they’re highly intelligent,” Joe said. “Those names he mentioned, they’re Greek. The name he has for his bear skull, Callisto, is from Greek myth about a girl who was changed into a bear.”

Rafsky let out an annoyed breath.

Joe held out the notebook. “Look at this.”

Louis looked at the notebook page. It was a sketch in brown crayon of Joe. It was a perfect likeness right down to the tiny mole near her left eye. Louis knew Dancer had seen Joe only once before she walked in this room—for those seconds outside his cabin as he fired his rifle and
maybe as he sat in the back of the SUV before the police took him away. How had he so accurately captured her likeness?

Joe flipped the page. “And look at this one.”

Another crayon drawing, and this time Louis felt as if he were looking at himself in a mirror. Again every feature was perfectly rendered.

Louis looked up at Joe. “How the hell—?”

“Autistics sometimes have remarkable talents,” she said. She turned to the next page.

Julie Chapman stared back at them.

It wasn’t the somber senior class portrait that had been printed in the newspapers. It was a different Julie. A dazzling smile, windblown hair, long-lashed eyes dotted with carefully drawn little stars.

“May I question him?” Joe asked Rafsky.

Rafsky’s eyes went from the drawing up to the window. Dancer was still rocking, head down.

“Go ahead,” he said.

They went back into the room. When Joe sat down across from Dancer, he looked up. He held out his hand for the notebook but Joe shook her head.

“Who is this?” Joe asked, showing him Julie’s picture.

Dancer’s mirror eyes clouded.

“Who is this, Danny?”

“It’s Julie Chapman,” he whispered. “But I didn’t know it was her until I knew it was her.”

“You mean you didn’t know her name?”

“Not until the newspaper told me it was her.”

“Why did you draw her?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I saw her in the newspaper.”

Joe leaned over the table. “But she didn’t look like this in the newspaper,” she said. “You drew her very happy with a big smile. Where is she in this picture, Danny?”

“Bonfire. Bonfire on the beach.”

“When?”

“Summer.”

“Which summer?”

“Just summer.”

“Were you friends with her?”

“No, she never talked to me.”

“How old were you the summer Julie went to the bonfire?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was your aunt Bitty alive that summer?” Louis asked, hoping Dancer could give them some point of reference.

Dancer didn’t look up at him. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Do you have other drawings of Julie?” Joe asked.

“Lots of them. At home.”

“Do you have photographs of her?” Joe asked.

“I don’t understand.”

“Photographs,” Joe repeated. “Your picture of her is very accurate. Did you take pictures of her to look at later so you could draw?”

“Yes, photographs here,” Dancer said, pointing to his temple.

“What do you mean?”

“My camera is up here,” Danny said, tapping his head again. “My brain-camera takes the picture and later if I want to draw it I just go get it.”

Joe stared at him for a moment, then flipped back a couple of pages in the notebook. “When did your brain take this picture of me?”

Dancer slumped. “When you were scared. I’m sorry I scared you.”

Joe held up the sketch of Louis. “When did your brain take this picture?”

Danny wiped his nose with his sleeve. “When he was trying to help Chief Flowers.”

Joe started to flip back to Julie’s sketch, but Rafsky stepped in. He took the notebook from Joe, and she sat back in the chair.

“You’re a liar, Dancer,” he said. “You can draw Julie Chapman at seventeen because you knew Julie Chapman when she was seventeen. You watched her. She was pretty, you liked her, and one day you decided you wanted to fuck her.”

“Don’t curse,” Dancer said softly. “Aunt Bitty said don’t curse.”

“When she left the island you decided to go get her back,” Rafsky said. “You drove downstate and brought her back up here to that lodge.”

“No,” Dancer said.

“Then you murdered her,” Rafsky said.

Dancer pressed deeper into the corner, murmuring incoherently.

“And you waited,” Rafsky said. “You waited and watched her as she rotted away. And when she was nothing but bones you took what you wanted.”

Dancer wrapped his arms up over his head and began to rock.

“Look at me, Dancer.”

Dancer was crying softly.

Rafsky straightened and gave the notebook back to Joe. “He’s done,” he said. He looked at Louis. “You two can stay if you want. I’m out of here.”

He left the interview room.

Joe watched Rafsky, then with a glance at Dancer, she rose. Louis followed her out into the hallway. When Louis looked back at Dancer through the wiandow, he was curled up on the floor, arm under his head.