Dead Deceiver

by Victoria Houston

  Ray Pradt’s quirky talents were a frequent subject of discussion by the early morning McDonald’s coffee crowd—the daily gathering of old guys who would chew over the Loon Lake Daily News’ police report to see if any of their relatives—or wives’ relatives—were listed. This might be followed by speculation as to where one of their missing buddies was fishing that morning. Since not a one of them ever told the truth as to where they put their boat in—the latter was an enjoyable waste of time.

  When those subjects had been exhausted, they would turn to local gossip. On average about once a week—and assuming he was not present—that would include an update on the whereabouts and legal status of Ray Pradt.

  Any recent misdemeanors? The guy might be on the straight and narrow when it came to booze but he had a weakness for mood enhancement induced by locally grown cannabis. One thing they were sure of: if anyone could find locally grown cannabis, it would be that rascal. At least he was wise enough not to grow it himself, as that was a sure ticket to jail time.

  Then there was the tantalizing question of Ray’s sex life. It wasn’t that Ray had a weakness for women so much as the other way around. Of course it didn’t help that he gave his girlfriends nicknames like Snowflake, Tornado and Firecracker. The McDonald’s crew never could figure out what ladies found so attractive in a guy who wore a fish on his head. Shouldn’t that be warning enough?

  Lately, however, the coffee talk had been admiring: The Loon Lake Chamber of Commerce Annual Calendar had just been published and was arriving on doorsteps courtesy of the local Lions Club. Along with dates of local fishing events, church socials and holidays, each page featured eight-by-ten photos of outdoor photography captured by the coffee crowd’s youngest member.

  “Yep,” Dick Zwolanek had said with a grudging shake of his head, “guy might be irritating as hell but he sure can shoot a sunset.”

  “He’s okay,” said Bert Kadubek, “I like Ansel Adams myself. Black and white beats color for me.” Known as “the answer man” behind his back, the McDonald’s crowd suffered Bert’s presence in spite of his pronouncements.

  “Sour grapes, Bert?” Osborne had said.

  “Now, Doc,” said Bert, backpedaling, “I thought he did a nice job with that photo of the newborn fawn hiding under the ferns—all those shades of green. Timed the light just right—probably has a real good light meter.”

  “My favorite’s the snapping turtle,” said Herm Dickson, butting in to demonstrate with a swoop of his arm that knocked over Bert’s coffee. “That sucker looks like he’s coming right at you. Shooom! Jumps right off the page.”

  “It’s a zoom lens, Herm,” said Bert, implying Herm was an idiot and he, Bert, could be just as good a photographer if he had the right equipment.

  “Then why don’t you goddamn do it?” Osborne wanted to say but didn’t. You look worse arguing with Bert Kadubek than if you just roll your eyes.

  But if Ray excelled at his outdoor photography—thanks to years of making a buck wherever, whenever and however he could (the Lions Club paid him five hundred bucks for all twelve photos)—he was equally good at shooting crime scenes. Significantly better than Pecore, whose eyes were often bloodshot, if not fogged over.

  After the second time that Ray and Osborne were deputized to cover for Pecore, Osborne had joked to his neighbor that they had somehow managed to morph into a strange but effective ‘dynamic duo.’

  Lew agreed on that score: she got accurate reports from Osborne, which were respected both by the local pathologist as well as the Wausau Crime Lab. And she got excellent quality in the color and black and white photos from Ray’s cameras. Plus, he was agile and able to shoot from the angles needed. More than once his photos had exposed surprises the eye couldn’t catch at a crime scene.

  The cruiser turned onto the access road, a narrow lane used by loggers. Enough activity had been taking place in recent months that random plowings by the loggers kept it passable. Terry parked next to the largest ATV that Osborne had ever seen.

  “What the heck is this?” said Osborne, walking around the vehicle while Ray pulled an armload of tripods, lights and a battery pack from the trunk of the police cruiser. The ATV held four seats plus a small rear storage area. The seats and the storage were protected with side nets. Not as wide as a car, the ATV would be able to travel the snowmobile, ski and snowshoe trails easily. The fat, grooved tires might mess up the groomed trails but that was the least of worries if a life was at risk.

  “Pretty cool, huh,” said Terry. “The sheriff’s office got the county to approve this four-wheeler—it’s a Polaris Ranger RXR4—because of all the snowmobile crashes last year. Tough to get to those locations any other way. You sure can’t drive a car down a snowmobile trail. You have an accident victim who needs to be airlifted to a hospital? You are flat out of luck with a two-seater snowmobile. This ATV can scramble up a snow bank like you wouldn’t believe.”

  As he spoke, a large white ambulance with the St. Mary’s Hospital logo on the sides pulled up behind the cruiser. Osborne recognized Mike Wittenberg at the wheel and was relieved. Mike was an experienced EMT who had assisted the Loon Lake Police more than once with homicide victims. He knew the drill.

  “Dr. Osborne, good to see you as always,” said Mike, opening his door and climbing out. “Chief Ferris said you have a possible homicide victim so I’ve got a fella following us with a three-wheeler in the back of his truck. My colleague, Jeanine here, and myself should be able to retrieve the body—”

  “Hey, Mike,” said Terry, walking over to the ambulance, “do you mind moving your vehicle over to this side, please? Chief Ferris found some tracks leading from this area to where the victim was found. We don’t want anyone walking over those.”

  “Tracks? What kind of tracks? Where?” said Ray. He had just set his camera bag and other gear in the back of the Polaris. Now he reached over for the camera bag and unzipped it.

  “This way,” said Terry. “Chief Ferris told me to have you get some photos before we meet up with her. She’s worried this snow will cover ‘em up.”

  Ray followed Terry ten feet beyond the ATV and watched as the officer knelt to brush away the fresh snow and expose a crisp layer beneath. “Right here,” said Terry, pointing and aiming the beam of a flashlight. “You can see where that mist we got a couple hours ago froze so you can still make out … there … boot prints! Like someone parked along here, then got out of their vehicle and headed on foot towards the trail.”

  “And the trail is right back behind those balsams, isn’t it,” said Ray, lifting his head to look in the direction of the trees. “Yeah, this is good. The mist freezing like that is a bonus.”

  “Need more light?” asked Osborne, “I can bring over some of those tripods if you need ‘em.”

  “Nope. Flash works fine.” Camera whirring, Ray captured a quick series of photos, checked the results and nodded to Terry—“got it good.”

  “Okay, let’s get going here,” said Terry turning back towards the ATV, “Mike, you want to follow my tracks in when you’re ready? Stay right on ‘em, okay?”

  As Terry was talking, the truck that Mike had been waiting for pulled up behind the ambulance. The driver hopped out and ran to the rear, dropped the tailgate and started to unload a small three-wheel ATV.

  “We’ll wait for them,” said Terry to Osborne and Ray. The three watched in silence as Mike and the driver worked to hitch a toboggan to the back of the second ATV. Aside from their bustling noises, the only sound to be heard was the “shush” of the falling snow. In less than five minutes, they were ready.

  “Listen up, everyone,” said Terry, shouting over the low roar of the ATVs. “Before we go in I want you to watch for two things. First, I will keep to one side of the trail so as not to run over any boot prints. So stay right behind me, please. When we get to the site where Chief Ferris is waiting, we will take direction from her on where to park.

  “Doc, Ray, Mike—I know you know this but just a remi
nder that this is a potential crime scene so it is critical that we have just one route in and the same route out. Under no circumstances does anyone walk outside that route or go in any other direction unless you have permission. Everyone straight on that?”

  All heads nodded as Mike said, “Got it—no need to worry.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Just beyond the snow blowing into their faces, Osborne was able to make out the headlights of two snowmobiles parked less than a hundred yards down the trail. Terry slowed as they neared and the strong beam from their ATV picked up Lew’s black parka as she walked towards them with a wave.

  “Over there,” she shouted, a gloved finger signaling to a spot on the left side of the trail just before it curved.

  From where he sat, Osborne could see that the sleds ridden by Lew and the forest ranger had been positioned so that their headlights illuminated the dark outline of a handrail running along the top of a snow-covered wooden bridge just ahead. Under the bridge flowed a ribbon of open water no more than four feet wide. Just above the burbling water and tucked under the right side of the bridge he saw what looked like a small bundle the color of raspberries.

  After waiting to be sure Terry would give Ray a hand unloading his equipment, Osborne grabbed his flashlight and hurried over to Lew. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Chief,” he said.

  “Hey, that’s okay, Doc,” said Lew. “It hasn’t been that long and I’m just relieved I could get you and Ray out here. Damn that Pecore—though I know you two will do a better job anyway. Ready to follow me down?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she started along a path leading down the snow bank towards the bridge. The stream running beneath the bridge was quite shallow, only a few inches deep. Once there, Osborne knelt and sat back on his heels to study the scene in front of him.

  The victim’s red ski jacket had been pulled down over her bent knees and tightened. His first impression was of a small child lying on its side, legs tucked up to take a nap—as innocent as one of his grandchildren. The thought sparked a tremor in his heart, worry over what he would learn next.

  In life Kathy Beltner had been a small-boned, slender woman no more than five feet six inches tall. Death diminished her: she seemed tiny. Studying what was left of her face, he couldn’t help but recall her cheery smile and lively ways. She had always impressed him as an exuberant young wife and mother. So much life gone. A face destroyed. Teeth missing.

  This is what can happen to Lewellyn, thought Osborne, an unreasonable panic flooding his gut. One bullet can do this! Think of all the times she is called out on domestic disturbances where people have been drinking and guns are so easily accessed. Think of the vagrants high on drugs or alcohol—with a gun in their crummy car.

  One solitary bullet slammed the life out of Kathy Beltner. That is all it would take to kill or maim Lewellyn Ferris. He would rather die himself than lose her.

  Closing his eyes for a moment, he took a deep breath, then exhaled. Hey, stop thinking this way, he told himself. You have work to do, calm down.

  Osborne dropped his head to say a sad, silent prayer then reached over to set his mitts on the snow beside his medical bag. He pulled on a pair of Nitrile gloves.

  “You okay, Doc?” Lew laid a hand on his shoulder.

  Osborne raised his head and checked to see where Rob Beltner was. Good, he was up on the trail and talking to the ranger. Out of earshot.

  “This is not an easy one, Lew. I knew this woman. Rob, Kathy, their daughters—they were patients of mine. How’s Rob taking it? Or is that a stupid question?”

  “I don’t know that it’s hit him yet. You know how it is. People are so stunned the emotions come later.”

  “Is he a suspect?”

  “Has to be. But do I really think he shot his wife? No.”

  “Is it okay for me to—” Osborne indicated with both hands that he was ready to approach the body.

  “Please,” said Lew. “My feet are starting to freeze and this snow is covering whatever evidence we might have had so work as fast as you can.”

  Leaning forward, he reached the zipper on the red jacket, managed to unzip it and gently prod past the knees, disturbing the body as little as possible. Beneath the jacket was a black fleece vest and under that a turtleneck of some soft fabric. Starting at the waist, he slipped his hand under the turtleneck and let his fingers slide up along the ribcage to the armpit. The victim’s arms, which were folded against the chest, were not yet stiff with rigor.

  Noting the condition of the armpit, Osborne pulled his hand down and away. With fingers as gentle as if swaddling a baby, he zipped the jacket shut over the knees so that Kathy Beltner appeared exactly as she had before his exam. Osborne turned his head to one side.

  “Slight warmth in the armpit,” he said and reached into his medical bag. Using two instruments, he nudged first the head, then what remained of the jaw. Both moved.

  Osborne replaced the instruments, grabbed his mitts and stood up. “Given the warmth in the armpit and the lack of rigor in the neck and the jaw, I would guess she was shot within the last three hours. But,” he raised a finger as if instructing himself, “with the amount of clothing the victim is wearing—and the temperature out here—that is a wild guess. Cold can delay the onset of rigor mortis by hours so you have many, many variables here, Chief.”

  “Thank you, Doc,” said Lew. “Ray,” she waved at the figure waiting by the ATV, his arms loaded with tripods and lights. “Your turn. Let me know what I can do to help. Oh, and Doc, the ranger standing over there with Rob Beltner is Lorene Manson. She knows you need time with him so don’t hesitate.”

  As Ray scrambled down the path along the snow bank towards the bridge, Osborne stepped to the side to keep out of his way, taking care to disturb the snow on both sides as little as possible.

  “Say, Chief,” said Ray as he neared Lew, “I saw those boot prints back by the access road. Got good shots of them walking away and returning. I see more in this area but we have enough close-ups. How ‘bout I shoot from a distance to show the range of activity around here. Need more than that?”

  “Problem is, there’s no sign of Mrs. Beltner’s snowshoes,” said Lew. “I was hoping you could take the time to search for them. Might give us some idea where she met up with the person who killed her because there is no evidence that she was shot anywhere around here. No blood spatter, nothing. And if anyone can find where it happened, it’s you, Ray.”

  “Yikes,” said Ray, “on a night like this that could take a while. It’s not the dark, Chief, it’s the snow that’s covering everything—I’d be better off searching in the daylight.”

  “Well, just so you’re in my office first thing in the morning. Got a call from Roger about you scattering someone’s ashes on private property without permission. You and I need to get that matter resolved—”

  “I know, I know and I’m sorry about that but I didn’t do anything wrong.” Ray set his tripods down and, hands on his hips, said in an exasperated tone, “I tried … to explain to those people that ‘wildcat … scatterings’ … are … legal. It’s a new and accepted practice in the burial business.”

  “A wildcat what?” Lew sounded incredulous. “But, hey, I don’t have time for this now. In the morning.”

  “Say … ah … Chief, I have a kinda life changing m-e-e-e-et-ing at nine?” said Ray, wheedling with raised eyebrows. He waited.

  “Yes, you do. In my office. It likely affects if I am able to deputize you again … ever.”

  Ray said in a chagrined tone: “I have an audition for that reality show … if you’re late, you don’t get another chance. The producers only got two days to do over a hundred people …”

  Lew hesitated a long minute then gave in. “All right but immediately afterwards, Ray. My office. I’m sorry but this ashes issue could involve the Mayor and the City Council. That was the Wheedon College president whose land you trespassed on.

  “Promise me that following our meeting you’ll
head back out here. Okay? Terry will cordon off the entire trail and the access road as we leave here tonight. No one will be allowed in until you have covered the territory.”

  “That works, Chief. That works great—and I promise I will search every inch of this place—north, south, east and west,” said Ray, waving his arms to include the universe.

  CHAPTER 9

  Back on the trail, Osborne walked to a spot about twenty feet from the west end of the bridge where Rob Beltner was standing with the forest ranger. Both were quietly watching Ray as he set up his tripods along the snow bank near the bridge. Figuring that for Rob, watching Ray shoot photos was kind of like watching his house burn, Osborne thought it wise to divert his attention.

  “Hello, Rob,” said Osborne, trying for the low, reassuring voice he had perfected for calming patients anxious over pending root canals. He reached to shake the man’s hand saying, “I believe Chief Ferris told you that I would be standing in as acting coroner due to Mr. Pecore’s accident?”

  “Yes, she did, Dr. Osborne,” said Rob, “not sure what you need from me, though. I’ll do my best.”

  “What you can’t answer tonight we can take care of in the morning, but it’s pretty boilerplate and maybe will take us less than half an hour at the most.”

  Looking over at the ranger, Osborne extended his hand again and said, “Lorene, we haven’t met. I’m Dr. Paul Osborne. Don’t know if Chief Ferris mentioned I would be filling in for Mr. Pecore?”

  “Lorene Manson, Dr. Osborne,” said the forest ranger. “Yes, Chief Ferris told me she was lucky to be able to bring you in on this tonight. I know you need to complete some paperwork so let me give you two some privacy.” She walked over to join Lew, who was deep in conversation with the EMTs.

  “This way, Rob,” said Osborne, motioning for Rob to follow him over to the large ATV, “let’s take a seat here.”

  They settled into the front of the four-wheeler and Osborne pulled a clipboard from his medical bag. Rob answered his questions in a voice that grew more clipped with each query. When Osborne had to ask for the names and addresses of Kathy’s parents, Osborne could see that the poor guy was barely holding it together. “That’s enough for now,” said Osborne, slipping the clipboard back into his bag.