The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

state police cruiser were parked outside the clapboard town hall. Charley and I went inside.
    Detectives Soctomah and Menario were waiting for us in the clerk’s office. They were both wearing dress shirts and ties they refused to loosen despite the heat. We exchanged sweaty handshakes all around.
    “Thanks for coming, Mike,” said Soctomah. “You look a little green. Charley didn’t show you any of his stunt-flying tricks.”
    “Just one. I think he called it a death spiral.”
    The detective smiled. Charley threw back his head and laughed like this was the funniest joke he’d ever heard.
    Soctomah motioned to a chair beside the clerk’s desk. “Have a seat.”
    “So where’s Brenda Dean?”
    “Downstairs.”
    “I thought she was getting out of jail today.”
    Menario’s face was brick red under his gray buzzcut. “We told her we’d give her a ride back to Rum Pond. We didn’t tell her about the pit stop.”
    “Does she know I’m coming?”
    “No,” said Soctomah, “but she indicated earlier that she’s willing to speak with you.”
    “I don’t know why.”
    “That’s what you keep saying,” said Menario, tugging on an earlobe.
    Soctomah leaned against the desk. He looked shrunken since the last time I’d seen him—as if the investigation had forced him to miss a few visits to the weight room. “There’s something else we want to talk with you about, Mike. Before we bring you downstairs.” Something about the way he said these words made me uneasy. “We understand your father called your mother yesterday.”
    I nodded. “Neil—my stepfather—said he spoke to you about it.”
    “Your father claimed to be in Canada.”
    “That’s right. Did you try tracing the call?”
    “We couldn’t verify his location,” said Soctomah.
    “It’s kind of unusual, him calling his ex-wife like that,” said Menario.
    “What are you getting at?”
    “How long did you say your parents have been divorced?”
    “Fifteen years.”
    Soctomah said, “It was our understanding from talking with you that they no longer had a relationship. You even asked us not to interview her.”
    “I didn’t realize they’ve kept in touch. You’re not accusing her of complicity?” The back of my T-shirt stuck wetly to the chair as I leaned forward. “The fact that she reported my dad’s call—you don’t tell the police something like that if you’re acting as an accomplice.”
    “So why did he call her?” asked Menario
    “Because Neil’s a lawyer. I don’t know. It’s not like he has a lot of people to turn to now.”
    “He’s got you,” said Menario.
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “You’re his biggest defender. Seems like he’d be in touch again.”
    I was beginning to wonder whether getting me up here, asking me to speak with Brenda Dean, was just a pretext to interrogate me. Was she really downstairs, or was this all just a trap?
    “You told us he left that message the night of the murder,” said Soctomah, looking me dead in the eyes.
    “That’s right.” I tried to keep outwardly calm, but my thoughts were racing. Did they know about the conversation I’d had with Dad three nights earlier? Had they been tapping my phone?
    “We would have expected him to contact you again,” said Soctomah. “You’re a law enforcement officer and his son. It seems like he would have asked for your help before he called his ex-wife. You’re sure you haven’t spoken with him?”
    Everything I’d learned at the Criminal Justice Academy about detecting a lie flashed through my head. Liars rub their eyes. They cover their ears. They touch their lips and look away, usually upward and to the left, trying to conjure a plausible falsehood out of their imaginations. I’d learned that all but the most pathological of liars will give themselves away through certain microexpressions. An experienced interrogator—a decorated sergeant with the Maine State Police, for instance—can detect a lie nine times out of ten.
    “No,” I lied. “I haven’t spoken with him. And I resent the suggestion that I would withhold evidence from a murder investigation.” I didn’t know how much to push my luck, but I tried to muster a little indignation. “I thought you brought me up here to talk with Brenda Dean, not make cheap shots at my expense.”
    In the window an electric fan moved the hot air around a little. I became aware of Charley Stevens watching me carefully from across the room.
    “OK,” said