by Jeff Nania
“I wouldn’t worry much about getting rid of that snow. A quick trip up the lake will take care of it.”
Bud brought the orange six-gallon fuel can from the shop, set it on the dock, and opened the cap. He carefully measured the right amount of two-stroke fuel stabilizer and dumped it in the tank. Then he lifted the tank and shook it up, mixing the contents thoroughly. I put the fuel tank into the boat, and I hooked it up to the engine. Bud cranked the hoist down until the boat floated free.
“John, run her up to Big Spider, swing around Picnic Island, and come back. That ought to be plenty of running to get the fuel treatment where it should be. I’ll get the lower unit pump and lube ready.”
I sat down on the rear bench seat and got myself centered. I squeezed the in-line fuel bulb until it filled with gas. With the throttle at the start mark and the engine in neutral, I pulled out the choke. Three pulls of the rope and the old engine purred to life. I ran it with choke out and let it warm up a little. Then I pushed the choke back in, and the motor settled into a steady hum. Bud shoved me off from the dock, and I took off toward Big Spider Lake.
The snow began falling again, this time a little more in earnest. Navigating the lake during a snowstorm was a new experience for me. The snow dampened the sound, and it was almost as if I were traveling down a winter tunnel. As I approached Picnic Island, I was out in the open, and the wind increased, and visibility got a bit more challenging. I reached the end of the island and turned to the starboard to round the rocky point without hitting the submerged boulders I knew rested there.
I came around close to shore and was shocked when a large wooly beast jumped off the land and into the water, swimming directly at me. I shut down the engine to avoid a collision, and it was then I realized the situation. I had accidentally turned my boat into a flock of about three dozen goose and duck decoys. The wooly beast turned out to be a big old Chesapeake Bay retriever. I avoided hitting the dog or running over any of the decoys and apologized to the duck hunters. They smiled and waved me on, and in a minute, I was on my way back to the cabin. Bud had instructed me to run the motor full throttle part of the way back, and when I cranked it wide open, the little boat skipped right along.
The snow-dusted trees towered above me. The snow that fell on the water melted and immediately became part of the lake. I was again awed by this place where I lived. It was nature at its pinnacle—rough, wild country painted with a gentle brush. I could not have asked for anything better. This was my home and always would be.
I pulled the boat up to the dock. Bud grabbed the gunnels while I unscrewed the motor from the transom and disconnected the fuel line. The motor, although small, was heavy, and I took my time setting it down on the dock, followed by the gas tank and fuel hose. Then I jumped out.
“Okay, John, let’s each grab a side of the boat and pull it up.”
The boat dragged up on shore and then over to the sidewall of the workshop. Once there, we leaned it on the building, bottom out to prevent any rain or snow from accumulating in parts of the boat where it might freeze and cause damage. The boat would stay there until next spring.
Next, we had to bring in the dock and boat lift. Bud was a genius at these things. He went behind the shed and retrieved two long aluminum planks. I helped him stick the planks under the wheels mounted on the dock underwater. Our dock was pretty short, with only two twelve-foot sections. Once the planks were in place, Bud jumped in his truck and started it up. He drove it back and forth, correcting the position each time until the front of the truck was the exact distance it needed to be from the dock and as squared up as possible. Then Bud lowered the snowplow to gain access to the front-mounted truck winch. He flipped the lever on the winch to free the spool so he could easily pull out the cable. Once he got to the end of the dock, he attached the towline hook to a loop welded to the dock. He locked the winch back in gear and looked at me and smiled.
“Nick and I figured this out. Manhandling those dock sections is a real pain. He started experimenting with different ways to get this job done with as little work as possible. The first thing he came up with was using some sort of ramps. No matter what we tried, we could not get it to work. Then he found these ramps for sale at the local surplus store. The cylinder welded on the bottom lets them pivot like a teeter-totter. The dock goes so far, and when it seems like it’s going to jump off and slam into the ground, the front end of the dock we been pullin’ on tips down on that round piece of pipe and just settles right down. Then we just winch it in and let it set onshore. In the spring, we do the reverse using the boat to pull the dock back.”
Uncle Nick was a brilliant man, an engineer and inventor by trade.
Bud started the winch, and it slowly pulled the dock section onto the shore. It climbed the incline until it got the pivot point and then dropped down on the ground after teetering for a second. The winch easily pulled it to its winter resting point.
“The next thing we’ve gotta do is drag this hoist up on land. It is so clumsy to handle that the only way to get it up here is by putting on waders and giving it a boost. We can get Julie to run the winch to keep it from falling back on us.”
Rather than walk up to the house, Bud continued his yelling practice, “Julie!”
She came to the door, wiping her hands with a dishtowel. “Geez, Bud, quiet down. You will wake every bear in the area,” she scolded.
“Oh, sorry. John and I are going to pull out the hoist, and I was wondering if you could run the winch while we lift it onto the shore. Not really pull with it, just kinda click the controller to keep the cable tight so the hoist doesn’t slide back into the water.”
Julie, always the willing helper, didn’t bat an eye. “Let me get my coat on, and I will be right out,” she said.
The hoist came up without a problem. On my brief boat ride, I noticed almost half of the lake’s places still had boat docks in. Woe to the guy who didn’t get his pier in before freeze up and found it frozen in the ice one morning. Come spring, it could be fine, or the ice could have twisted it like a pretzel.
We thanked Julie, and she went back into the house.
The last thing to do was drain the lower unit on the motor. Bud set the motor inside the shop on the motor stand. He put a pan directly underneath the prop and removed a round screw from the bottom of the gear case, and then he removed an almost identical screw from higher up on the gearcase. Once done, heavyweight gear lube began to drain into the pan. Bud looked at the fluid coming out and seemed satisfied.
“If that lower unit lube was kinda creamy looking, that would mean that seal is leaking and letting in water. That’s bad. Yours looks real good, though. See, it’s pretty clear.”
This was my first time doing this, so Bud took his time explaining.
“The reason you change the fluid is to put in new stuff, but also because you have got to make sure there is no water. If you didn’t drain it and water had gotten into the gear case, the first night it gets twenty below, that water freezes and cracks the lower unit. Now you’re into some serious money,” Bud explained.
“Here, John,” Bud handed me a sixteen-ounce jug of marine lower unit gear lube with a hose attached. “That one end has a screw fitting. Screw that into the lower hole, the one the bottom plug came out of.”
I screwed in the fitting, and Bud told me to begin to pump the top. Every time I pushed down and released the pump, it shot some new gear lube into the lower unit. Eventually, it started coming out the top hole in a steady stream with every pump. I replaced the filler plugs, and the motor was ready for another year. I had a lot to learn about living year-round in the north country, and I could not have a better teacher than Bud.
I put on my gear and took off for the office. When I was on the road in an area with cell service, I called Len.
“Chief Bork,” he answered.
“Len, it’s John. I am coming into town and wondered if we could get together for a minute.”
“Sure, John. First, I h
ave got to run some errands for Martha. They are making baby blankets for their annual knitting marathon. The yarn came into the Yarn & Book Nook the other day, and I promised to haul it all over to the community center and help set up the tables and chairs. Say, now that I think of it, why don’t you meet me there?”
“On my way,” I sighed. Police work in a small community involved as much volunteer work as policing. No one was the least bit shy about asking for help, and the only acceptable answer was, “I’d be glad to help.”
After setting chairs and tables in a circle under the watchful eye of Martha Bork and her crew, we unloaded bales of yarn. Then we were both dismissed for the moment.
The knitting marathon attracted over fifty knitters, men and women, young and old. They started on a Friday morning and knitted for three straight days, only stopping for a bit of sleep and food. The VFW recruited volunteers and did all the cooking to keep the knitters fed. At the end of it all, the knitters turned the giant piles of yarn into colorful knitted blankets. The local fire department delivered the larger ones to local nursing homes and senior centers. The smaller ones were given out at the hospital and for families in need. It was a grand tradition that began before World War II. Several of the knitters were over ninety; one had passed the century mark.
“Let’s go over to the coffee shop, John. We should be safe there. They have fresh coffee here at the community center, but I don’t think we should hang around. Those old gals see two men standing around doing nothing, and it becomes their mission to replace our idleness with activity.”
Len Bork was one of the best men I had ever met in every regard. He had told me once that he was a Bible reader and a Bible believer. That appeared to be so, but Len Bork had something else. Hero’s blood ran through his veins. His community had faced some hard times. Len’s boss, the chief of police, turned out to be corrupt and almost tore the community to pieces. After thirty years with the department, Len looked forward to spending his remaining years hunting, fishing, and traveling the country with his wife. But when his community, his home, and neighbors were in need, he was the first to step up and lead. He was appointed chief, and it looked like he had no immediate plans of moving on.
We sat down in the back of the Crossroads Coffee Shop, Len with a scone and me with coffee. I was still full from breakfast.
“What can I help you with, John?”
“You know a local guy named Travis Winslow?”
“Travis Winslow, I haven’t heard that name for a while. Sure, I know him, or I guess I should say knew him. He’s dead.”
“How did he die?”
“He drowned,” Len stated.
“Swimming or boating accident?” I asked.
“Neither. Winslow was always into something, anything to make a crooked buck. He was a druggie and a small-time dealer. Anyway, he had an under-the-table deal with a couple of local restaurants. He’d go out at night when the walleyes were spawning. Using a headlamp for light, he speared the fish and threw them in a big cooler. When he had enough, he’d sell them to the restaurants for cash. One night he was spearing up by the dam at Crooked Lake. The dam is only three or so feet high, but he must have been trying to walk across it. It looks like he slipped off the dam and hit his head on the way down. The official cause of death was drowning. That was it. A guy from the DNR was checking the dam the next day and found two big coolers full of walleyes. He got to looking around and saw Winslow on the bottom under the outflow of the dam.”
“When did it happen?”
“I would have to look for sure, but I think about four years ago.”
“What did he have to do with Crystal Lockridge?”
“To start with, I think he was Amber Lockridge’s father. He and Crystal were an on-again, off-again couple. The only thing they had in common was attracting trouble and doing drugs. It seemed like they would start to get their act together, but it never lasted,” Len answered.
“He was Amber’s father?” I asked.
“I don’t know for sure, but I think so. Like I said, he tried to get it together. He had several jobs, mostly unskilled labor. He didn’t last too long at any of them. Winslow was a junkie, and like every other junkie, the only thing that mattered to him was getting high. Toward the end, we kind of figured that he was dealing. He didn’t have a job but had money. I think he got Crystal hooked up in selling too. She got busted with a bunch of meth that everybody figured she was holding for him, but who knows.”
“I know some of it. I read the case file.”
“She cooperated, and since she had a daughter, they cut her a break. DNE charged Travis and, based on the information from Crystal, recovered a pile of drugs. Other than that, it never came to anything ’cause in the meantime, while Winslow was out on bail, he slipped off the dam and drowned.”
“What about the Lockridge family? What is the story with them?” I asked.
“As far as I know, Ed, Stella, Crystal, and Amber are the only Lockridges left around here. I think Ed and Stella got married when they were really young. Stella was raised on the reservation. I don’t know much about Ed’s family. They are different, the sort of folks who live off the land as much as they can. They hunt and fish, run a trapline, sell tanned furs and sometimes hire out to fishing lodges for short stints as a guide and cook. I can tell you one thing about them for sure. They are the salt of the earth. Ed and Stella are good folks, always willing to lend a hand. Why are you interested?” said Len.
“Julie went over to Crystal Lockridge’s house for a parent-teacher conference with Amber. When Julie got there, Amber wouldn’t let her in, claiming that her mother had the flu. Maybe that was the case, but Julie made it sound a little more desperate than that. Amber wouldn’t even let Julie talk to her mother for a minute. Based on Crystal’s history, well, you know.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time she slipped backward. I don’t know Amber. Is she a good kid?” Len inquired.
“Julie says she is as smart as can be and no behavior issues. I guess she was just concerned.”
“I’ll keep my ear to the ground, and if I hear something, I will let you know.”
“I would appreciate that, Len.”
“While we are talking, what’s the update with the body that showed up out on Ghost Lake Road?” Len asked.
“So far, everything is still pointing to suicide. I don’t know if I told you before, but it turns out the car was stolen out of Georgia, and the VINs were altered. The ME thought he would be done today. I am going to try to convince the crime lab to ship the whole package—guns, shell casing, and bullet—down to the lab in Milwaukee for testing. I’m guessing it won’t see the top of the pile for a while. I got the file from Martin’s P.O. His known next of kin included a brother and mother. His father was listed as deceased. His brother was easy to find; he is a permanent guest of the state penal system, doing life twice. The mother took some more checking, but we eventually came up with a land line and address. I sent it on to the ME for the notification.”
“Keep me posted. I hate to leave you, but I have got a pile of stuff on my plate. Call me if you need me,” Len said and stood up to leave.
“Thanks, Len. I will,” I replied. •
8
On my way back to the office, my phone rang. It was the call I had been waiting for.
“Dr. Chali, what have you got for me?” I asked.
“Here is the long and short of it, Sheriff. One slug to the right temple was the cause of death. It appears to be a nine millimeter, which would match up with the pistol recovered from the car. That’s just a visual on my part with some measurements. The ballistics lab will have to make the final determination. The bullet looks like solid lead. It expanded significantly, and that is why it didn’t exit. I’ll wait until the ballistics stuff comes back, but right now, I am going with death by a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Regarding the ID of the victim, it’s confirmed, through prison medical records. Also Devin Martin’s DNA is on file from a pri
or sexual assault charge, so we are running a comparison. I’ll let you know when we get those results. Incidentally, Sheriff, I took tissue samples to send into toxicology. The powder tattooing near the entrance wound was not consistent with a contact discharge. More likely, he held the gun a few inches away when he pulled the trigger. Thanks for the information on his next of kin. The Milwaukee County ME’s office is attempting to make contact.”
My next call was to Sandra Benson, the lab administrator at the crime lab in Eau Claire County. The receptionist put me right through to her.
“Dr. Benson,” she answered.
“Dr. Benson, this is Sheriff John Cabrelli from Namekagon County.”
“Sheriff Cabrelli, you are the appointee who took over for Jim Rawsom. Jim was a heck of a good man.”
“He still is, Dr. Benson. We are all hoping and praying that he comes back to pin on his sheriff’s star again.”
“It is good to talk to you, Sheriff. I am just getting the swing of things around here myself. As you may be aware, I was recently promoted to fill the director’s position here at the lab. Now, what can I help you with?”
“Your folks did the scene at a death investigation. A decomposed body was found in a vehicle out in the national forest.”
“Yes, Sheriff, I am familiar with the case. Suicide, right?”
“Yes, Dr. Benson, it appears to be a suicide. But before we close the door on this case, I was wondering if you could send everything to the firearm lab, just to make sure we are covering all our bases.”
“Do you have any reason to believe that it is anything but a suicide?”
“Nothing concrete, but I will feel better once the tests are run.”
“We can’t do the testing here. Everything firearm related goes to the Milwaukee lab. Technically, we have the equipment and ability to perform the tests, but even if we could do the testing here, we couldn’t get to it for at least six months. As it is, it will probably be at least three months before you hear anything back from Milwaukee. Unless you put in a priority request, which you could do but would likely be rejected unless you have something that will tip the scales from suicide to homicide.”