this point, I suppose anything is possible.” He eyed Cork. “I imagine you’ve been racking your brain pretty hard. Anything rattle loose?”
“Not yet,” he said.
“All right, then.”
Rutledge stood up and Larson followed him out the door.
Cork sat for a while, trying to muster some energy. Beyond the window of his office, the gray rain continued to fall. Across the street was a small park. All summer, the Lion’s Club had raised money for new playground equipment and had spent several days volunteering their own time to install it, heavy plastic in bright colors. The playground was deserted. Beyond the park rose the white steeple of Zion Lutheran Church, almost lost in the rain.
Cork went out in the common area to pour himself some coffee. Two men stood on the other side of the security window that separated the waiting area from the contact desk. Deputy Pender was listening to them and nodding. When he became aware that Cork was behind him, he said, “Just a moment, folks,” and turned to Cork. “Sheriff, there are some people here to see you. They say their name is Jacoby.”
11
H E SEATED THE two men in his office. The elder man had white hair, a healthy shock of it that looked freshly barbered. He was tanned, in good condition, and dressed in a dark blue suit and red tie, as if he’d come to chair a board meeting. His eyes were like olive pits, hard and dark. If there was sadness in him, they didn’t show it.
“Louis Jacoby,” he’d said in the common area when he shook Cork’s hand. “Edward’s father. We spoke on the phone.”
He’d introduced the second man as his son Ben. Ben remained quiet as his father talked.
“You arrived sooner than I’d expected,” Cork said when he sat at his desk.
“I have a private jet, Sheriff O’Connor. Tell me what happened to Eddie.”
Cork explained the events of the preceding night and where the investigation stood. “I have some questions I’d like to ask.”
“Later,” the old man said with a wave of his hand. “I want to see my son.”
“That’s not a good idea, Mr. Jacoby.”
“I’m sure he’s right, Dad,” Ben Jacoby said. He appeared to be roughly Cork’s age, maybe fifty. There was a lot of his father visible in his features, but his eyes were different, not so dark or so hard.
“I want to see my son.” Jacoby didn’t raise his voice in the least, but his tone was cold and sharp, cutting off any objection.
Still, Ben tried again. “Dad—”
“I’ve told you what I want. I want to see Eddie.”
Ben sat back and gave Cork a look that asked for help.
“I can’t prevent you from seeing your son, but the autopsy’s only just been completed. If you could wait—”
“Now,” the old man said.
“I don’t understand—”
“I’m not asking you to understand, Sheriff. I’m telling you to show me my boy.”
Cork gave up. “All right.”
He took the Pathfinder. They followed in a rented black DeVille driven by a man they called Tony.
In a few minutes, Cork pulled up in front of Nelson’s Mortuary on Pine Street. It was a grand old structure with a lovely wraparound front porch. It had once been a two-story home and was still one of the nicest buildings in town. When the Jacobys met Cork in the drive, Lou Jacoby stood in the rain, looking the place over dourly.
“I thought we were going to the morgue,” he said.
“The morgue’s at the community hospital, and it isn’t set up for autopsies.”
For a long time, the mortician Sigurd Nelson had been the coroner in Tamarack County. That position didn’t exist anymore. Most of Cork’s officers had become deputy medical examiners qualified to certify death. The autopsies were now contracted to be done by Dr. Tom Conklin, a pathologist who’d retired to a home on Iron Lake. For years prior, he’d been with the Ramsey County ME’s office in St. Paul. He still used Sigurd’s facility.
Cork rang the bell and the mortician answered. He was a small man
“Not yet,” he said.
“All right, then.”
Rutledge stood up and Larson followed him out the door.
Cork sat for a while, trying to muster some energy. Beyond the window of his office, the gray rain continued to fall. Across the street was a small park. All summer, the Lion’s Club had raised money for new playground equipment and had spent several days volunteering their own time to install it, heavy plastic in bright colors. The playground was deserted. Beyond the park rose the white steeple of Zion Lutheran Church, almost lost in the rain.
Cork went out in the common area to pour himself some coffee. Two men stood on the other side of the security window that separated the waiting area from the contact desk. Deputy Pender was listening to them and nodding. When he became aware that Cork was behind him, he said, “Just a moment, folks,” and turned to Cork. “Sheriff, there are some people here to see you. They say their name is Jacoby.”
11
H E SEATED THE two men in his office. The elder man had white hair, a healthy shock of it that looked freshly barbered. He was tanned, in good condition, and dressed in a dark blue suit and red tie, as if he’d come to chair a board meeting. His eyes were like olive pits, hard and dark. If there was sadness in him, they didn’t show it.
“Louis Jacoby,” he’d said in the common area when he shook Cork’s hand. “Edward’s father. We spoke on the phone.”
He’d introduced the second man as his son Ben. Ben remained quiet as his father talked.
“You arrived sooner than I’d expected,” Cork said when he sat at his desk.
“I have a private jet, Sheriff O’Connor. Tell me what happened to Eddie.”
Cork explained the events of the preceding night and where the investigation stood. “I have some questions I’d like to ask.”
“Later,” the old man said with a wave of his hand. “I want to see my son.”
“That’s not a good idea, Mr. Jacoby.”
“I’m sure he’s right, Dad,” Ben Jacoby said. He appeared to be roughly Cork’s age, maybe fifty. There was a lot of his father visible in his features, but his eyes were different, not so dark or so hard.
“I want to see my son.” Jacoby didn’t raise his voice in the least, but his tone was cold and sharp, cutting off any objection.
Still, Ben tried again. “Dad—”
“I’ve told you what I want. I want to see Eddie.”
Ben sat back and gave Cork a look that asked for help.
“I can’t prevent you from seeing your son, but the autopsy’s only just been completed. If you could wait—”
“Now,” the old man said.
“I don’t understand—”
“I’m not asking you to understand, Sheriff. I’m telling you to show me my boy.”
Cork gave up. “All right.”
He took the Pathfinder. They followed in a rented black DeVille driven by a man they called Tony.
In a few minutes, Cork pulled up in front of Nelson’s Mortuary on Pine Street. It was a grand old structure with a lovely wraparound front porch. It had once been a two-story home and was still one of the nicest buildings in town. When the Jacobys met Cork in the drive, Lou Jacoby stood in the rain, looking the place over dourly.
“I thought we were going to the morgue,” he said.
“The morgue’s at the community hospital, and it isn’t set up for autopsies.”
For a long time, the mortician Sigurd Nelson had been the coroner in Tamarack County. That position didn’t exist anymore. Most of Cork’s officers had become deputy medical examiners qualified to certify death. The autopsies were now contracted to be done by Dr. Tom Conklin, a pathologist who’d retired to a home on Iron Lake. For years prior, he’d been with the Ramsey County ME’s office in St. Paul. He still used Sigurd’s facility.
Cork rang the bell and the mortician answered. He was a small man
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