Northern Lights

the same cooperation regarding the Galloway investigation. This is my town, sergeant. We both want to nail this down, but we're going to have to share the hammer. I'll be expecting you."
    He hung up. "I need you to look at the body. Can you give me an approximate time of death?"
    "So it's true. Max is dead." Ken slipped his fingers under his glasses, pressed them to his eyes. "I've never had to do this sort of thing before, but I should be able to give you a ballpark."
    "Good enough. Put these on." Nate handed him a pair of gloves. "It's not pretty," he added.
    Ken stepped in, then took a moment to visibly steady himself. "I've dealt with gunshot wounds. But nothing quite like this, not when I knew the victim. Why the hell'd he do this to himself ? The winters can prey on people, but he's been through them before. Worse than this. He wasn't suffering from depression. Carrie would've told me, or I'd've seen it myself." He flicked a quick glance at Nate.
    "I never thought about killing myself. Too much effort. If I change my mind, I'll try to let you know first."
    "Feeling better these days?"
    "Some days. Ready now?"
    Ken squared his shoulders. "Yeah, thanks." He stepped over. "Can I touch him? Move him at all?"
    He had the photographs and had outlined the body in crime scene tape for lack of something better. So he nodded.
    Leaning down, Ken lifted one of Max's hands. Pinched the skin. "I'd do better if I could get him to the clinic, strip the body, do a more thorough exam."
    "You'll get your chance. Give me an approximation."
    "Well, digging back into my student days, and figuring the temperature of the room, the state of rigor, I'd guess between eight and twelve hours. That's really rough, Nate."
    "So, that would be somewhere between nine P.M and one A.M. Good enough. We might be able to close that in some with Carrie's statement. I'm going to send Peter for a body bag. I need you to put the body somewhere secure—and cold."
    "I've got the area we use as a makeshift morgue when we have a death."
    "That'll work. I don't want you talking about this to anyone. Keep him under wraps until I get there."
    He supervised the transfer of the body, made a printout of the note on the computer before shutting it down. Once he'd locked the doors, he started back to the station.
    Hopp ran him down.
    "I need to know what the holy hell is going on."
    "I'm still working that out. What I can tell you is that Max Hawbaker was found dead at his desk at the paper, apparently from a gunshot wound to the head. Possibly self-inflicted."
    "Oh, God. Oh, god damn it. Possibly?" She trotted to keep up with him and plucked at his sleeve when he outdistanced her. "What do you mean possibly? You think he was murdered?"
    "I didn't say that. I'm looking into it, Hopp. The State Police have been notified and will be here in a few hours. When I have answers, I'll let you know. Let me do my job." He hauled open the door of the station. And shut it in her face.
    He took the time in the Arctic entry to pull off his gear and try to clear his mind. The sun was up now, and the day as clear as the forecasters had promised.
    They'd be heading up to retrieve Galloway today, he thought. And maybe, they'd be flying in to pick up the body of his killer. Two for one.
    He'd see about that.
    He opened the inner door and found John sitting in one of the wait chairs, reading a paperback copy of Watership Down. John got to his feet, stuffed the book in his back pocket without marking his place. "Peach has Carrie back in your office. Otto's with Jim back in a cell. Not locked up," he added quickly. Then sighed. "Hard to think."
    "Otto get your statement?"
    "Yes. There wasn't that much to tell. I left The Lodge, took a walk, heading to school. I saw Jim and Carrie, stopped for a minute to talk to them. Carrie had breakfast in a bag—and the light was on in Max's office. You could see the backwash of it through the window. She went in, and Jim and I stood there another couple minutes talking. He was going to pick up some bait. Going fishing. He likes to rib me about it because I don't hunt or fish."
    He began to rub the left side of his jaw as if it ached. "Next thing we knew, Carrie's screaming. We ran in, and we saw him. Saw Max."
    He closed his eyes, drew a couple of breaths. "I'm sorry. I've never seen anyone dead before—not until they were . . . prepared for viewing."
    "Take your time."
    "I, ah, I pulled Carrie back. Didn't know what else to do. Yanked her away,