In Plain Sight

The line was silent for a moment. Joe could picture Pope sitting back in his chair, maybe putting his feet up on his desk.

“Joe?” Pope said.

“Yes?”

“There’s a big difference between asking for authorization and telling me what you’re going to do,” Pope said. “This is a good example of the kind of problem I have with you and some of the other game wardens. You act as if you’re the Lone Ranger in your district, that you and you alone decide what you’re going to do and how you’re going to do it. No other law-enforcement officer has that luxury, Joe. Everyone else has to get authorization to proceed. Can you imagine a sheriff’s deputy showing up at work in the morning and saying, ‘Gee, I feel like going out on the interstate highway today and catching speeders and playing highway patrolman instead of staying in the county and following up on all of these annoying complaints.’ Can you imagine that, Joe? It’s time you realized this isn’t how things are done in the real world, where we have to justify our existence to the legislature and the public. Why is it you think you’re special?”

“It’s my problem,” Joe said, opening the front door and staring at the animal pinned to it, the little body now starting to stiffen. “Like I said, it’s personal. Whoever did this didn’t just happen to find a Miller’s weasel. He went looking for it, and left it here as a message. I haven’t disturbed it since last night in case there are fingerprints or other evidence.”

Pope said, “Do you plan to chase the culprit down and shoot him like you did that outfitter in Jackson? Like you’re some kind of cowboy or gunfighter? That’s not how we do things anymore, Joe. This is a new agency, and a new era.”

A new agency and a new era. Another one of Pope’s catchphrases.

Joe had trouble finding the right words to say. He knew he was turning red. When he looked up at Marybeth, she was gesturing frantically for him to “zip it” by sealing her own mouth with an imaginary fastener.

“Call the sheriff,” Pope said crisply. “That’s what you should have done last night. Ask him to investigate this. It’s his jurisdiction, after all.”

“Sheriff McLanahan is not competent to investigate this,” Joe said.

Pope chuckled drily. “Now, I doubt that, Joe. I’m sure he can handle it. The good people of Twelve Sleep County would never have elected him if he was the buffoon you make him out to be. And this is part of the problem, too. It doesn’t help with our community-relations outreach when our people refer to the locals as incompetents. We need all the support we can get, Joe. You need to learn to work with . . .”

Joe punched off and slammed the receiver down with so much force that the earpiece broke off. He couldn’t listen to another word.

Marybeth obviously heard the end of the conversation and the crash and looked in the door as he tried to fit the pieces of the phone back together. Wires were still attached to the pieces.

“It’s busted,” he said, angry with himself.

“I see that,” Marybeth said. “We can get a new phone. But it’s not the phone I’m worried about.”

As Joe pressed the pieces together, the handle shattered and covered his desktop with shards of plastic.

Joe said darkly, “Maybe I need a new job.”

Marybeth said, “Phone repairman is definitely out.”

SHERIFF KYLE MCLANAHAN arrived at Joe’s house at ten-thirty that morning, driving the oldest pickup in the county fleet, his one-eyed Blue Heeler dog occupying the passenger seat.

Joe went outside to meet him.

The sheriff climbed slowly out of his pickup, as if he’d aged twenty years since he left town. The dog scrambled out behind him, and ran through the gate to Maxine so both dogs could sniff each other for a while.

That seemed to be McLanahan’s intent with Joe as well, to sniff at him.

“That’s it, eh?” McLanahan asked, pointing over Joe’s shoulder at the Miller’s weasel on his door.

“That’s it,” Joe said, watching McLanahan pull on his jacket.

“Happened last night, huh?”

“Yup.”

“But you waited until this morning to call.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Woulda helped if you’d called last night,” McLanahan said, entering the yard and shuffling past Joe. “Before the blood dried and all the evidence was fouled up. I suppose you’ve touched the knife handle, and opened the fence, all of that.”

“I’m afraid so,” Joe said, embarrassed.

McLanahan turned to him stiffly. He moved as if he’d just dismounted after a long horseback trek. “D’you know who did it?”

Joe shrugged. “Someone who wants to send a message. You remember the history on that Miller’s weasel.”

McLanahan nodded. “Well,” he said, reaching up and smoothing both sides of his mustache with a meaty index finger in a surprisingly effete gesture, “I ain’t got much to go on, since you already fouled up the crime scene and you can’t tell me anything.”

“Nope, I guess you don’t,” Joe said, frustrated.

McLanahan ambled back toward his pickup. “You let me know if something else happens, all right? Or if you hear anything about who mighta’ done this? You’ll call, right?”