The Ravens (15 page)

IT
SNOWED
the whole way to Minneapolis. The lake had disappeared behind the swirling flakes, but he could still sense the vast space out there. Everywhere he saw people shoveling out buried cars or clearing their driveways. Bowed figures wearing shapeless clothing and moving stiffly. Children played in the snow, dressed in caps and mittens and snowsuits, sliding down hills on their sleds. Snowmen had started to appear in yards and on playgrounds, some with the classic carrot noses and top hats. Lance noted how happy all this made him feel. Minnesota in the wintertime, with a beauty that was only for those who were tough.

After leaving Duluth and Lake Superior behind, he entered the flat, uniform landscape that marked the transition between the forestland of the north and the great plains. Here the woods were interspersed with marshy areas that were visible only as open spaces in which a dead tree or two stuck up.

The farther south he drove, the more the cultivated fields took over. Huge barns loomed, dark and sinister, in the snowdrifts.

Just before noon he crossed the Mississippi. According to the GPS, all he had to do was stay on Cedar Avenue and go past the old cemetery, where the bones of thousands of Scandinavians and Germans lay moldering in the frozen winter ground. A few minutes later he saw the simple stucco building on the corner of Cedar Avenue and Thirty-Fifth Street.

The first time he’d gone to Matt’s, Lance had been a young
man attending the police academy in Minneapolis. Later he’d always taken the opportunity to have a Juicy Lucy whenever he was in town. He had a feeling Matt’s was one of the few places that hadn’t changed at all in the more than twenty years that had passed since then. Here everything was exactly the way it used to be. It was partially this lack of branding and marketing that had made the place so popular. It still functioned as a neighborhood bar, but people from other areas had also embraced it long ago. People like Clayton Miller, for example, thought Lance as he went inside.

Since all the tables seemed to be taken, he sat down at the bar, where a few stools were still vacant. It wasn’t yet twelve thirty, but he was starving. Should he wait for Miller to arrive? Yet they hadn’t really agreed to have lunch together. And besides, he had a hard time believing a poet and professor would eat in Matt’s Bar. Miller probably stopped here occasionally for a beer and discussed with friends how authentic the place was. But a Juicy Lucy? Not likely, thought Lance as he ordered one for himself. Since it was impossible to get anything that tasted even close to a Mesabi Red, he chose a Grain Belt instead.

Matt’s resembled a classic American diner, with the long counter and the booths against the walls, which were paneled with dark wood. The red vinyl on the bar stools had cracked to form a fine network of veins. The buzz of voices from the other guests completely enveloped Lance. Most looked to be locals who had dropped by for a bite to eat. The air smelled sharp and damp from the snow that had melted on clothes and boots.

But it was more than just the casual, neighborly atmosphere that made Matt’s so attractive. Lance’s stomach growled in anticipation as the waitress placed a Juicy Lucy in front of him on the counter. It looked like any decent, ordinary hamburger, but as the name indicated, there was nothing decent about it. A Juicy Lucy was a sinful burger, and that made it dangerous. Lance, who was a man of experience when it came to burgers, let it rest for a few minutes to cool down. When he finally sank his teeth into the burger, melted cheese sprayed out of the meat with explosive force, like yellow lava from a volcano. It burned his hands and face, but not too bad, since he’d allowed it to cool down first. Many a
newbie headed to the door with burns on his face after a first encounter with the famous burger. That was because a Juicy Lucy was filled with melted cheese. This was achieved by forming two hamburger patties and then placing a sizable portion of American cheese on one of them. Then the second patty was placed on top of the cheese and the edges of the meat were pressed tightly together all around. Then the burger was put on the grill until it was properly cooked with a piping hot core of melted cheese inside. It was this specialty that was the bar’s real claim to fame. Even though it was now possible to get a Juicy Lucy in countless other places in Minneapolis, it was here that the first one was served. At Matt’s the cooking grease was scraped off the walls twice a year, an operation that was probably behind the myth that the same grease was constantly reused. And that was purportedly why a Juicy Lucy tasted especially good in this place—because it had been cooked in the original grease from the very first burger.

Lance was almost done with his food when Clayton Miller appeared at his side. He was wearing a heavy, dark coat, a Russian-looking fur hat, and elegant leather gloves, which he proceeded to remove.

“So, here you are, huh?” he said in greeting.

Lance got down from the bar stool to shake hands.

“Have a good drive?”

“Oh, it was okay,” said Lance.

They each straddled a bar stool, and Miller ordered a chicken sandwich, mineral water, and coffee.

After taking a sip of the water, he turned to Lance.

“What’s going on with Andy?” he asked.

Lance knew that this whole meeting would founder if he tried to sidestep the issue. He needed to get right to the point.

“I’m worried that he’s going to try to kill himself,” he said.

“For any special reason?”

“I think he might be gay, and he doesn’t think he can live with that any longer. I mean, he’s married, you know.”

“But why did you want to talk to me about this?” asked Miller.

“Because I need to know what it said on that note he gave you.”

“What difference does it make?”

“I have to talk to Andy about all this. He’s my younger brother, so I feel responsible for him. But first I need to find out if that’s really the problem. I don’t want to broach the subject if he’s not—”

“Homosexual?” Miller finished the sentence for him.

“Yeah.”

“Tell me, what do you think it said in the note?”

“That he had feelings for you?” suggested Lance.

Miller smiled.

“It was a poem. And the poem was a declaration of love for me, but I didn’t realize that back then. I evaluated its poetic quality, which was so awkward that it made me laugh. It was a terrible poem. Only later did it occur to me what it was really all about, and what it said about Andy. And that’s when I was able to understand his reaction.”

Lance could hardly believe his ears. Andy had written a poem? He tried to envision his brother as a poet, wearing a beret and holding a pen.

“But what did it actually say?” he asked.

“It was just a bad poem.”

“Do you still remember it?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”

“Would you recite it for me?”

“Of course not. It would be disrespectful to your brother.”

His words were the response of a man who was used to talking to people who were below him in status. It was Clayton Miller the professor who had spoken.

After that they both sat there in silence, waiting for the chicken sandwich to arrive. While Miller ate his lunch, Lance took small sips of his beer and stared at the snow falling steadily outside. So it was true, he thought. Only a few months ago no one could have made him believe such a thing about his brother. But now he knew.

“Are you dreading talking to Andy about this?” asked Clayton Miller when he was done eating. He sounded friendlier now.

Lance nodded.

“I have lots of friends who are gay,” said Miller, “and it’s my experience that such conversations usually go more smoothly than anticipated.”

The situation was so unthinkable that it threatened to overwhelm Lance. This isn’t happening, he thought. I’m sitting here in Matt’s Bar in Minneapolis and talking to Clayton Miller about Andy’s homosexual tendencies.

“It’s a different environment than what you’re used to,” Lance replied. “More masculine.”

“So masculine that Andy’s thinking of killing himself?”

Lance nodded curtly.

“Is there anyone else, besides you, who happens to know the truth of the matter?”

“No.”

“What about his wife?”

“I think it would be totally unimaginable for anyone who knows him.”

“Then why isn’t it unimaginable for you?”

“I know something that no one else knows.”

“Something you want to tell me about?”

“No.”

Miller took a cautious sip of the hot coffee.

“Then I don’t know how else I can help you,” he said.

Lance could hear in his voice that he was getting ready to leave.

“Do you think it might happen?” he hurried to ask. “That Andy might actually kill himself?”

“As I said, I know a lot of gay people, and they’ve always managed to figure out how to deal with it. You just need to make it clear to him that you know how he’s feeling and that he can trust you. That’s probably where you should start. But keep in mind that the thought of coming out will seem extremely scary at first. Especially in that kind of environment.”

“But do you think it might have the opposite effect? Push him into committing suicide?”

“It’s really important that you’re completely open with him. Don’t make any demands, don’t pressure him.”

Lance thought with alarm about the scene a couple of days ago. The outmaneuvered brother standing on the front steps of his own house. He must have been really scared.

“But you were the one who . . . ,” said Lance.

It took a moment for Miller to understand what he was getting at.

“Well, I never knew where it came from. Maybe because I wrote poetry?”

Lance was about to say something about long, multicolored scarves that Miller had supposedly knit for himself, but he refrained.

“Or maybe because I was so obsessed with clothes,” Miller went on.

“No matter what, it was terrible that you ended up with that sort of reputation,” said Lance.

“You think so? To be honest, it was kids like you who were behind it. You were the ones who kept the rumors going. Well, maybe not you personally, but others like you. Andy, on the other hand, had something open and seeking about him. He wasn’t judgmental, at least not during that one summer when I knew him. But I guess by now he’s just like all the rest. I feel sorry for Andy.”

Clayton Miller pulled on his gloves and set the big Russian fur hat on his head.

“But not for you,” he said.

THE
ROWS
OF
PLASTIC
CHAIRS
that were placed back-to-back in the glaring light made the place look like an airport waiting room. Along one wall was a series of small cubicles for visitors. Inside each was a single chair facing a window, and on the other side of the window was a little room with a closed door. Lance was sitting in a cubicle and staring at the door, which he knew would open soon. On the divider to his left hung a telephone receiver that was connected to another receiver on the other side of the soundproof glass. He tried desperately to think of something to say to Lenny Diver, but his mind was blank. Once again he wondered why Diver was willing to talk to him. It couldn’t be just because he wanted to be accommodating.

Then the door opened. Lenny Diver came in, holding a bottle of Chippewa mineral water in his hand. Lance noticed at once that he was a small man and that his hair, which he’d worn long and loose in the newspaper photo, had now been cut short. Since he hadn’t yet been convicted, he had on his own clothes: black jeans and a faded denim shirt. He moved with a supple ease as he came over to the window and sat down.

They stared at each other from either side of the glass pane. Lance nodded and received a slight nod in return. “Thanks for agreeing to see me,” he began.

Lenny Diver put down his bottle of mineral water, then took the receiver from its hook on the wall, and pressed it to his ear.
Lance gestured apologetically and then he too grabbed the phone.

“Thanks for agreeing to see me,” he repeated.

“Haven’t got much else to do,” said Diver. His voice had a metallic sound in the receiver.

Lance was dismayed to feel beads of sweat appear on his face, something that happened only when he was very nervous around other people. He had an urge to wipe the sweat on the sleeve of his jacket, but that would draw too much attention. Yet the more conscious he was of it, the more he sweated. He could feel that a drop of sweat was about to roll down his forehead.

“Nice weather,” said Diver.

Lance seized the straw the man had offered him.

“I thought I’d never get here.”

“Yeah. It’s kind of remote.”

“So how are things going?”

Diver raised his eyebrows as he cocked his head to one side.

Lance saw that he found the question irrelevant. “I was the one who found the body,” he said.

“I know.”

“Georg Lofthus.”

“Hmm?”

“That was his name.”

“Oh.”

“A Norwegian.”

“Right,” said Diver without interest.

A drop of sweat ran down into the corner of Lance’s eye. He set the receiver on his lap and wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket. This was a mistake. He’d come here in the hope that he’d feel better afterward. As if talking to the innocent man who had been wrongly jailed might somehow absolve him of his sin. But he was the one who ought to do something for Diver, not the other way around.

“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” Lance said.

“No?”

“No. I suddenly can’t remember why I’m here.”

“Maybe you were wondering if I was really the one who did it.”

Lance nodded.

“Everybody claims to be innocent, so what’s the use?”

“You still maintain that you’re innocent?”

“I
am
innocent. But you know what’s going to be my downfall?”

“No. What?”

“A baseball bat that I’ve never seen before, with my fingerprints on it. I was so drunk that night that they could have put my fingerprints on Sheriff Eggum’s ass, if they wanted to.”

“Eggum has retired,” said Lance.

“Christ, I thought he’d stay on forever. What’s the new guy’s name?”

“Bud Andersson.”

“Andersson? Another herring eater?”

“Yeah.”

“I was in Grand Marais the whole time that night.”

“With a woman you refuse to name.”

“So you actually believe me?” Lenny Diver seemed genuinely surprised.

“Because it’s true, isn’t it?” said Lance. “You know who you were with, but you’re refusing to tell.”

“Those are your words, not mine,” said Diver.

All Lance had to do was open his mouth and say that he knew Diver was innocent and that he knew who had done it. In theory, it was as simple as that. Just a few words, and then everything would be set in motion.

“But if you didn’t do it,” he said, “who do you think did?”

Diver shrugged.

“All I know is that I’m going to be in here for a very long time.”

Lance sensed that he wouldn’t be able to stand this much longer, sitting face-to-face with Lenny Diver in this building, where no outside sounds penetrated, and doubtless no sounds moved in the other direction either. The jail might just as well have been on the moon. But one thing was perfectly clear: He was the one who should have been sitting on the other side of the window. The one who should have stayed here when the meeting was over, while Diver should have stood up and gone out into the snowy weather to drive north.

“Weren’t you married to a woman from the reservation?” Diver asked unexpectedly.

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Oh, you know. It’s a small place.”

“Well, you’re right,” said Lance.

“So she was Ojibwe?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What’s her name?”

He was about to answer when he happened to think about the two young men who had threatened him the last time he was in Grand Portage. They clearly knew something about the situation he was in. They told him that he could save Lenny Diver from life in prison. But how did they know that?

“It doesn’t matter,” he said.

“And don’t you have a son?”

Lance didn’t reply.

“Are you scared of me?” Diver was practically sneering.

“Why would I be scared of you?” said Lance.

“I have no idea.”

Lance realized that it would be an easy matter for him to find out the names of his ex-wife and son.

“Her name is Mary Dupree,” he said.

“Wasn’t she a teacher?”

“She still is.”

“She was my teacher in junior high.”

“She told me that.”

“What did she tell you?’ Diver suddenly seemed on guard.

“Just that you didn’t make much of an effort. And then she said something about a job that you had after junior high, something to do with canoes.”

“I was an apprentice with Hank Morrison, who builds canoes in the old way.”

“Was it interesting?”

“I liked it.”

Lance thought that it was less than ten years ago that Lenny Diver was a young apprentice learning a craft that was a thousand years old. Now he was sitting behind soundproof glass in a jail.

“I’ve seen birchbark canoes,” said Lance. “Beautiful yellow-colored vessels.”

“When they’re new, yes. It’s the inner side of the fresh bark that looks like that.”

“ ‘That shall float upon the river / Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,’ ” said Lance.

“‘Like a yellow water-lily,’” Diver continued. “Hank Morrison used to quote ‘The Song of Hiawatha’ to me while we were working on a canoe.”

“But you quit?”

“Other things got more interesting.”

“Like what?”

“Partying. Women. Dope.”

The same old story, thought Lance. First a few years of hero status among a group of friends, then a life of misery. Sinking ever deeper. As a police officer, Lance was often in contact with men like that. Still, he had to admit that few of them could quote Longfellow.

“Do you have any regrets?” asked Lance. He had a feeling the man sitting in front of him could have become something quite different if he’d made other choices.

“Do you?” asked Lenny Diver.

“Regrets about what?”

“How do I know?”

“Of course I have regrets,” said Lance.

It felt good to say that, even though the other man didn’t know what he regretted.

Diver took a big gulp of bottled water. “What exactly do you want?” he asked impatiently.

“Maybe I’m looking for some sort of resolution to this case.”

“Then you’ll have to look somewhere else, but I hope you find it.”

“And I hope you find it too.”

“Oh, I’ve already found my resolution,” said Diver. “It’s happening right now, in the present. But it’s a present that will go on for a very long time.”

“If you’re convicted.”

“Of course I’m going to be convicted. They have the baseball
bat with the dead man’s blood on it, along with my fingerprints.”

“And biological evidence that proves the killer had to have been an Indian,” said Lance.

“Yeah. That too. Bad luck for me, as usual.”

“Why don’t you just tell them who you spent the night with?”

He wished that Diver or somebody else would lift the burden from his shoulders, because at this moment it seemed unthinkable to replace this man on the other side of the glass with Andy.

“I was so drunk I can’t remember her name or what she looked like,” said Diver automatically, as if he’d rehearsed the reply.

“But that means that someone out there could give you an alibi.”

“Sure. And there’s also somebody out there who knows who the killer is. There are lots of reasons why people choose not to talk.”

Lance felt like some heavy object was pressing down on him. His shoulders ached. It was the weight of guilt.

“But maybe someone will finally speak up.”

“If they were planning to talk, they would have done it long ago.” Diver raised his index finger in warning. “But they’re going to be cursed for the rest of their life. That’s their punishment.”

Lance couldn’t stay there even a minute longer. He turned around and craned his neck to get a glimpse of the big window in the waiting room. Outside he saw the snow drifting down in the harsh light from the spotlights.

“I’ve got a long drive ahead of me,” he said.

Diver nodded.

On his way out, Lance again noticed how the place looked like an airport waiting area, but no planes ever took off from here. That much he knew.