Deer Season (3 page)

“We’d heard that they were the ones that spray-painted our stadium and bombed some mailboxes last weekend. It was just sort of a payback; we didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” said the bigger of the two, the sandy haired kid with a round, pimple-covered face. Ray noted that Todd was embroidered in bright yellow thread on his jacket under the varsity letter.

“We were on White Oak Trail. One of Shane’s cousins told us where this kid lived. Guess he was bragging all week at school ‘bout what he done last weekend.”

“Who was that, Todd, who was bragging?” Reilly asked.

“I don’t know the kid. His name is Clay something. He’s on the team, plays center. Supposed to be their toughest kid.”

“What exactly happened?” Reilly pressed.

“We had a cherry bomb,” said the other boy, Shane embossed on his jacket. “We found the address on the box. Chris was hanging out of the rear window with a flashlight checking addresses as we drove down the road. It took us awhile to find the right box; it was snowing like snot. When we finally found the right one, Chris got out of the car, lit the fuse and threw it in the box. He jumped back in the car, and I took off down the road; somehow I hadn’t noticed it was a dead end on the way in. I turned around, and when we came back there was this kid in the road yelling at us and waving a gun. I heard some shots after we got by him. The window in the tailgate exploded. I ask Chris if he’s okay, and he says he’s shot. I thought he was kidding at first, but his voice was real funny, so I pulled over and put on the light. He was bleeding. I had noticed the hospital sign along the highway when we were driving up, so I just drove straight here.”

“Did you see who was shooting?” Reilly asked Shane.

“I think it was the guy in the road. I didn’t see anyone else.”

“Could you identify him?”

“I don’t know. Everything was happening so fast. And like it was a whiteout. I was just trying to stay on the road without running the kid over.”

“How about you,” Reilly asked Todd. “Could you identify the person in the road?”

“I just saw him for a few seconds, sorta like a deer darting out into the road.”

“How many shots were fired?” Reilly asked.

“Couldn’t tell you, we had the music cranked,” said Shane.

Reilly looked over at Todd.

“I heard this boom, one, maybe two.”

“What kid of gun did the person in the road have?”

“I didn’t see the gun,” said Todd.

“I don’t know much about guns,” said Shane. “It was big, some sort of rifle I guess.”

“And the address, do you remember the address?” Reilly asked.

Todd fished in his jacket pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. He handed it to Reilly.

“1084 White Oak Trail,” Reilly passed the slip to Sue with a questioning look on his face. She moved away from the group and opened her phone.

“I think we’re just about done with these boys,” Reilly said. “Unless you have other questions, Sheriff.”

“No,” Ray responded.

“Deputy Lawrence has talked to both of your parents,” Reilly continued. “Your fathers are coming in one car to get you. We will be impounding your Durango for the near future.”

“How long?” asked Shane.

“Just a few days. It’s important evidence.”

“Are we in trouble?” Todd asked meekly, looking as though he was just beginning to understand the enormity of the evening’s events.

“In addition to putting yourselves into harm’s way, you broke a number of state and federal laws. We’re going to let you go home with your fathers, but you will be coming back for more questioning and possible prosecution,” Reilly responded sternly.

“Please stay with the boys until their fathers arrive. I’m sure they will have some questions for you,” said Ray to Sergeant Reilly as Sue Lawrence returned to his side. She handed him a notepad. He looked at the name and address on the otherwise blank page. He handed the notepad on to Reilly, who looked at it and nodded his his comprehension.

5
White Oak Trail, unpaved and with a low priority for plowing, was covered by more than a foot of fresh snow. Using a spotlight, Ray checked addresses on the widely separated mailboxes. As expected, the box he was looking for wasn’t on the post. He spotted the torn, blackened remains lying half covered with snow at the side of the road. He pulled into the drive, stopping behind a dilapidated Chevy pickup, and put his spotlight on the numbers next to the door. There were only three numerals; there was a space where the fourth number should have been. The other three numbers conformed to the address he was seeking. Ray climbed out of his Jeep and started for the front door. As he paused to wait for Sue Lawrence to catch up to him, Ray observed that the windshield on the truck was clear, and there was only a light dusting of snow on the hood. He pulled off a glove and touched the sheet metal with a bare hand, feeling the warmth radiating out from the engine.

Light shone from the windows, and he could see someone peering out at the vehicles in the drive. As Elkins and Lawrence trudged through the snow toward the house, a yellow bug light came on at the entrance. The front door opened before they reached it, and Donna Bateman stood in the open door.

“Sheriff, what brings you at this hour? It’s not Gavin, is it?” asked Donna. Ray remembered that Donna had bailed Gavin Mendicot out of jail the previous summer after he was arrested for public intoxication.

“No, Donna, we’re not here about Gavin.”

“He’s in the U.P. hunting,” she continued nervously. “When I saw your car, I was afraid that something might have happened to him.”

“Can we come in, Ms. Bateman?” asked Sue.

“Be my guest,” she replied without enthusiasm, as she backed into the small living room.

“Just get home?” asked Ray.

“Twenty, thirty minutes ago. I drink so much coffee in the course of the evening that it takes me a while to wind down. I was just having a drink and cigarette before I tried to sleep.”

“So you haven’t been here all evening?”

“I was tending bar at the Last Chance, as usual. What’s this all about, anyway?”

“It was reported that someone was firing a weapon in this area late this evening.”

“Where?”

“It was reported to be at this address. Who else is in the house, Donna?” Ray asked as he surveyed the shabby and littered interior. The walls, soiled and damaged in places, were textured and painted soft yellow. Long dead shag carpeting in a bilious green covered the living room floor. The place reeked of beer, cigarette smoke, and years of neglect.

A large TV stood at the end of the room; a beat-up vinyl couch faced it, a second couch in a faded floral print leaned toward the wall at its right. Pizza boxes were stacked on the side of the sink in the kitchen area at the opposite end of the room.

“It’s just me and Clay. And there was no shooting going on here, I can assure you of that.”

Ray looked around the room a second time as Donna spoke. He noted a double-barreled shotgun partially visible in the far corner at the right of the TV.

“Would you get Clay for us; we’d like to talk to him,” he asked.

“Sheriff, the boy is sound asleep. He had football practice today; he always comes home dead tired. I’m sure he’s been sleeping for hours.”

“Donna,” Ray moved close to her, looked directly into her eyes, and repeated firmly, “We want to talk to Clay.”

She bristled and stepped back. Her tone became hostile. “You have no right to come barging in here and demanding that I….”

“Donna, get Clay out here right now.”

She stood and looked defiant for a long moment, then turned, but before she had taken more than a step, a door from an adjoining room opened. Clay stood in the opening wearing a football jersey that hung half way to his knees.

“What’s going on, Mom?”

“Sheriff’s here. Says someone reported hearing gunshots. You don’t know nothing about that, do you?”

Looking at his mother he said, “I think I’ve been asleep since about 8:00.”

“Who else was here?”

“No one, I was here alone.”

“Do you have any firearms in the house?” Ray asked, his eyes fixed on the shotgun.

“Gavin’s got some; he keeps them locked up in a trunk in the pole barn,” Donna answered.

“How about that shotgun?” Ray asked, pointing to the one in the corner.

“Oh,” she said, a few seconds passing as she took in the gun, “that’s just an antique. Clay likes to fool with it when he watches his movies.”

Ray stepped forward and picked up the weapon with a gloved hand and carefully sniffed at the end of the barrel. “Smells like it has been recently fired, Clay. What do you know about it?” Ray opened the weapon; the chambers were empty. He held it so Sue could see.

“I don’t know shit about nothing. Like I said, I’ve been sleeping.”

“And you don’t know anything about mailboxes?” pressed Ray.

“No,” he countered, his manner becoming increasingly hostile.

Ray approached him. Clay backed into his room and then lunged at Ray. He caught him with a glancing blow to the left shoulder. Ray grabbed Clay’s arm and twisted it behind his back. He cuffed the right wrist and with Sue’s help secured and cuffed the other arm.

“Sheriff, what’s this all about?” Donna demanded.

“Some boys from Sand River were cruising around the area this evening. Seems they were getting even for some vandalism that took place in their community last Saturday night. Your address, Donna, was one of their destinations. They blew up your mailbox. They allege that as they were coming back down the road someone fired a weapon at their vehicle.”

“Well they can allege any goddamn thing they want. Clay told you he was in bed. You heard him tell you so.”

“Donna, a boy Clay’s age has been wounded. That weapon,” Ray pointed toward the shotgun, “has been recently fired.”

“Who was with you tonight, Clay?” Sue asked.

“I was here alone, and I don’t know nothing about any shooting,” he responded defiantly.

“Let’s get a blood alcohol,” said Ray to Sue, noting that Clay reeked of beer. “And check his hands for gunpowder residue.”

Ray repeated the question, “Clay, who was with you tonight?”

“Like I said, I was here alone.”

“And you had two large pizzas.” Ray picked up a plastic trash bag at the side of the sink and peered in at the contents. “Looks like you washed them down with two or three six packs.”

“I don’t have anything more to say.”

“Donna,” instructed Ray, “do you want to pull some pants on your boy, or do you want us to take him in bare assed. I think a night sitting in a cell will help restore his memory.”

“Clay,” she said, moving close to his face, “you don’t tell them nothing. Wait till I get you a lawyer. Don’t say a word. You hear me.”

“Yeah,” Clay said without enthusiasm.

Donna disappeared into his bedroom, returning a moment later with a large pair of sweat pants. With Ray on one side and Sue on the other, they put Clay on a kitchen chair so Donna could pull the pants on her son.

“What are you going to do now?” Donna demanded.

“We’re going to take Clay in and put him in a cell. Tomorrow morning we will seek an arrest warrant.”

Donna moved in front of Clay, her face a few inches from his. “Don’t answer any questions. I’ll have a lawyer there tomorrow morning and get you bailed out. You hear me?” she asked, her voice filled with anger and fear.

“Get a coat for him, Donna,” said Ray.

She took a large Minnesota Vikings jacket off a hook near the back door and tossed it at Ray. With Sue’s help they draped it over Clay’s shoulders. Sue grabbed the shotgun with her free hand and they marched Clay out into the snowy night.

As they were approaching Ray’s Jeep, another police vehicle pulled into the end of the drive.

“Dirk’s here,” said Sue. “Let’s have him take Clay in.” Passing off the shotgun to Ray, Sue helped Deputy Dirk Lowther get Clay belted into the back seat of his Ford.

“Dirk,” said Sue, “see if you can find out who was with Clay tonight. Be subtle, just weave the question into a conversation.” They stood for a moment and watched the vehicle disappear into the swirling snow. “Let’s catch up for a minute,” said Ray.

After they climbed into her Jeep, he said, “I liked the way you asked Dirk to be subtle.”

“I want to know who was with Clay, but I don’t want Dirk to pound it out of the kid with a Maglite.” Without really discussing it, Ray knew they shared a similar view of Dirk Lowther. Sue called the jail on her cell phone, asking them to check Clay for traces of gunpowder as soon as he was booked. She also asked for a sobriety test. Then she talked briefly with dispatch, requesting that Deputy Jamison be sent to her location.

“What do you need Jamison for?” Ray asked.

“I am going to work this scene now,” she said. “I would guess the shotgun casings are in the snow, and I want to recover them before Donna comes out and tries to clean up the scene. And I need his help because you’re going home. You’re just off medical leave; I want you to get some sleep.”

“Who’s in command here?” Ray asked.

“I’ll make sure there’s nothing on your calendar until 1:00 p.m. With enough sleep I know you’ll be in complete command,” she said. She flashed him a quick smile.

“See you at noon,” said Ray, as he got out of her Jeep and headed for his vehicle.

6
Although physically exhausted, the adrenaline produced during his physical confrontation with Clay Bateman still swirled in Ray’s system long after he climbed into bed.

Ray became aware of some tenderness in his shoulder caused by Clay’s clumsily thrown punch. And there was also the nagging pain in his thigh from his recent wounds, something he could push into the background during the day, but an annoyance during the night when he struggled with insomnia.

He tried reading a long piece in the
New Yorker
but had trouble following the story, his mind preoccupied with everything that had transpired in the last few hours. He reflected on how lives can be forever changed by thoughtless actions, how adolescent boys don’t seem to have the capacity to anticipate the consequences of their deeds, and what might have happened if Clay had had a deer rifle in his hands rather than a shotgun. He thought about the parents of the injured boy and then about Clay’s mother, Donna. He knew she was a scrapper, doing her best to support and protect her son. But her best was probably misguided and not enough to keep Clay out of trouble this time.