The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

flaking green brick walls while two interviewers peppered me with questions about my past. It was wintertime, but the room was as hot as a green house thanks to an old steam radiator that hissed at us throughout the interview. I was a sweating mess waiting for the moment when they would produce a folder with my father’s rap sheet—his mug shots taken over the years, his inked fingerprints, his list of drunk driving offenses and simple assaults and night hunting citations—but that moment never came.
    I left that interview believing I’d shaken off the past. But the moment had only been postponed. From this day forward I would be remembered as the son of a cop killer.
    So why was I more convinced than ever of his innocence? Whoever ambushed Jonathan Shipman and Bill Brodeur hoped to scare off Wendigo Timber by making a statement in blood. I knew my dad was capable of violence. But the cold-blooded murder of two men, including a police officer, for quasi-political reasons? He was a bar brawler, not a terrorist.
    If that was the case, then why had he fled? And how had he managed to overpower Deputy Twombley and crash the cruiser? The message on my answering machine seemed central to the mystery. Why had he called me last night and who was the woman with him?
    My greatest fear was that the searchers would corner my father in the woods and there would be a standoff ending in gunfire. In a few hours the case might be closed forever and I would live the rest of my life knowing I did nothing to save him.
    Screw it, I thought, rising to my feet. Let them bust me for insubordination.
     
    Heat was curling off the car tops when I crossed the parking lot, and the inside of my truck was like a Dutch oven. I started the engine, glanced in the rearview mirror, and my heart just about stopped. Lieutenant Malcomb was striding toward me across the asphalt. I rolled down my window.
    “What’s going on, Bowditch?”
    I knew bullshitting was useless at this point. “I was on my way to the incident scene.”
    “My instructions were for you to wait here.” As always, he sounded like he had gravel in his voice box.
    “I know that. I’m sorry.”
    “I don’t want an apology, Warden.”
    “I couldn’t just sit here, Lieutenant—not knowing what’s going on up there.”
    “The state has rules. They exist for a reason. You can’t be involved in this investigation, and you know it.”
    “I’m already involved,” I said. “Please, Lieutenant. It’s my father they’re looking for. I’ve got to be part of this. If something happens—maybe I can talk to him, get him to surrender. He’ll listen to me.”
    He was wearing mirrored sunglasses that made reading his expression just about impossible, and he was already one of the stoniest-faced guys I’d ever met, like a walking granite statue in a green uniform. But when he spoke again I got the sense of something softening in him. “This isn’t a situation you can control, Bowditch.”
    “I know.”
    “He’s the one making all the bad choices.”
    “I understand that.”
    “He’ll be given every opportunity, but it’s up to him what happens next.”
    “Sir, all I’m asking is a chance to be present. I want to be able to tell my mother that I did everything I could.”
    After a moment of silence, he said, “Get out of the truck,Bowditch.”
    My heart sank, but I did as I was told. The lieutenant waited for me to lock the door and then he started off across the lot. At first, I thought we were headed back into the sheriff’s office, but he kept walking toward the street, and that was when I saw his truck parked around the corner.
    “Lieutenant?”
    “You’re right. It’s better that you’re there. But only as an observer.”
     
    Maybe it was because my father was accused of killing a cop, and he wanted me there as a warning to all the other cops that revenge was not an option. Or maybe he was bringing me along as a witness who could testify that every attempt at a peaceful resolution was made and the use of deadly force was warranted. Maybe he just understood a son’s anguish. I didn’t know why Lieutenant Malcomb brought me along with him, but the truth was, I didn’t care, either.
    On the road we didn’t speak for the longest time, both of us listening intently to the police radio. Troopers, deputies, and wardens called in their locations. K-9 units were en route. The Northern Maine Violent Crimes Task Force had taken over a local fish hatchery as its