Death in Cold Water

by Patricia Skalka

  And herein lay the challenge to the blessed, those with the higher intelligence and material solidity that allowed them to be spared the more sordid nature of the poverty stricken. To them fell the task of elevating the poor from their ignoble natural state, using whatever means necessary.

  In other words, boys were inherently evil and poor boys were the worst. Cubiak shook his head. It was not hard to imagine where this kind of sanctimonious demagoguery would lead. Who had written these diatribes and what was Verne Pickler doing with them? Cubiak walked out into the light and skimmed the pamphlets. On the back page of each, in a line of small print at the very bottom, he found the answer.

  The author was Gerald Sneider.

  LUNCH AT PECHTA’S

  The beige sedan was creeping down the wide open road when Cubiak closed in on it and swung into the other lane to pass. As he overtook the car, the sheriff glanced at the occupants. There were four people inside: a silver-haired driver and three elderly passengers, the lot of them gawking out the windows at a hillside of red sugar maples.

  In another two days, Door County would overflow with weekend tourists like this quartet, up for the late fall colors. The visitors would stay at the resorts, dine in the restaurants, and hopscotch through the autumn festivals scheduled in the waterfront towns and villages. The influx would be good for the merchants and artists who relied on the tourist trade to pump much-needed dollars into the economy, but it was also sure to slow traffic and could potentially affect how quickly his team or the feds could move around the peninsula. Heavy traffic might even help the kidnappers travel about unnoticed. Could it be, the sheriff wondered, that the people who were holding Sneider knew Door County and had factored tourist traffic into their scheme?

  Since Rowe had postponed the dive to Friday, Cubiak had time for his weekly lunch with Bathard. And after what Marilyn Ross had said and what he’d seen at Verne Pickler’s place, the sheriff was glad for the opportunity to confer with his friend. The retired coroner had a long history with Door County, and more than once his familiarity with the peninsula had proved helpful.

  Most Thursdays, the two men had Pechta’s pretty much to themselves. But that day Cubiak had to elbow his way through a mob of people waiting for tables.

  “Good thing I got here early or we wouldn’t be eating for another hour,” Bathard said when the sheriff reached their booth.

  “Who are all these people?” Cubiak said.

  “Some are locals but most are outsiders. I imagine they’re drawn by the lure of the lurid and the prospect of treasure. You didn’t hear? This morning Andrew Sneider announced that he is offering a reward for information contributing to the safe return of his father, and I’m guessing many of these people are hoping to sniff out the trail and get to Gerald Sneider before the feds do.”

  “But what are they doing here?” Cubiak hadn’t seen so many people in the Fish Creek tavern since Ben Macklin’s unofficial wake four years earlier.

  “It’s lunch time and people need to eat. They might also be hoping to pick up tips and leads.”

  “What’s next, a reality TV kidnap show?” Cubiak said as his phone chirped. “Sorry, I’ve got to check this.” He thought Moore was sending him an update on the drop, but the message was from Lisa’s husband: It’s a girl! Mother and child fine. Cubiak showed Bathard the text.

  “She didn’t need all that excitement,” the sheriff said after he relayed the story of the morning’s run-in with Bob Franklin.

  “Maybe she did. Babies can get rather comfortable in the womb. Sometimes a little excitement helps jump-start the process.” Bathard looked at Cubiak. “You worry too much,” he said.

  Cubiak shrugged. “So, what do you know about Pickler?”

  “Not much, other than that he runs a lawn and cottage maintenance business and there are signs up and down the peninsula with his name and number.”

  “I found out this morning that Pickler used to work for Sneider.” The sheriff spoke just as Amelia arrived with their usual order of Thursday’s specials.

  “Are you talking about Verne Pickler? Now there’s a name from the long lost past,” she said, sliding two baskets of potato salad and roast beef sandwiches onto the table.

  “You know him?”

  “Do I know him? Of course, I know him. I know everybody.” Amelia gave Cubiak a mock punch. Then she shuffled behind the bar to her collection of old snapshots and photos and lifted a framed photo from the wall.

  “Take a look at this,” she said and dropped the picture in front of them. It was a photo from the Forest Home. “Gerald Sneider, a bunch of spoiled rich kids, and Verne Pickler, that crusty old goat,” she said, pointing to a gangly young man with tousled blond hair. Amelia folded her arms and offered her version of a beaming smile. “We were kind of sweet on each other there for a while.”

  “Did Pickler live at the camp?” the sheriff asked.

  “You mean like those charity kids? No, sir-ee. My Vernie had himself a good job back then. He was camp director.”

  Cubiak sat back. “Which meant exactly what?”

  Amelia frowned. “That he did whatever Sneider told him to do.” She swiped at a crumb on the table.

  “Did Pickler like working for him?”

  “Yeah, sure, the job paid okay and so at first, he liked it plenty well. Times were pretty lean around here, and Verne wasn’t from the moneyed side of the tracks, as you probably guessed, so any job was a blessing. But after a while, he started resenting having to work there. Sneider was a hard nut, a real stickler for the rules. From what Vernie said, Sneider rode him pretty hard. Had rigid standards about work and life. A religious nut, too. He even came in here a few times preaching at my old man, trying to convince him to either close the shutters on Sundays or just sell soda pop to the folks. You believe that? Christ, I can tell you that went over like a giant balloon with a big hole in it.”

  Amelia slipped in next to Cubiak. “Look at Sneider smiling like that. You’d think he was a hell of a guy, wouldn’t you? Taking in all those poor boys? People couldn’t say enough about his good deeds and generosity. Some still hold him in high esteem, mostly because of what he did to help the Packers. But Vernie said Sneider had another side to him that he kept well hidden. He said he’d seen Sneider do things no one would believe. I asked him what he meant, but he wouldn’t tell me. He said he could hardly believe it himself, and then one day he said he was going to quit, that he’d had enough.”

  “And did he?”

  “Never got the chance. The camp up and closed and that was it.”

  “Did Pickler say why Sneider closed the camp?”

  “No, and anyway it didn’t matter. The place burned down not long after. There was nothing left but a few rotting timbers. Back then, there were summer camps all over the peninsula. Rich city folks wanted their children to enjoy fresh country air and good old-fashioned cooking. Most of the camps were adventure camps for boys but there were some for girls, too.

  “In fact, one of the largest and fanciest camps for young ladies was located on Chambers Island. More of a summer charm school than anything.”

  Amelia pushed to her feet. “Good manners, dancing, and such,” she said and twirled around twice before she stopped and steadied herself against the table. “Anyway, one by one they started closing so no one paid much attention when Sneider shut his operation.”

  She picked up the framed photo. “You gentlemen should eat. And I need to get back to work. No rest for the wicked,” she said with a harsh laugh.

  “That woman is going to work herself to death yet,” Bathard said, loud enough for Amelia to hear, and she laughed again, giving a backward wave to them both. The doctor waited until she pushed through the kitchen door. “Do you think the people who snatched Sneider grabbed Pickler as well?”

  “I doubt it, especially if the kidnappers are linked to terrorists. There’s no payoff in holding Pickler.”

  “He didn’t simply vanish. There has to be an explanation.”


  “Maybe he was scared and ran away. At this point there’s no reason to think that his disappearance is connected with Sneider. Unless Sneider’s kidnapping has something to do with that defunct camp. If that’s the case, it could be that Pickler has an inkling of who snatched Sneider—and why—and has gone into hiding because he thinks he might be a target as well. Remember, he was Sneider’s factotum at the camp.”

  Cubiak pushed his plate away. “Or Pickler is the one who grabbed Sneider. Why, we don’t know, but it could have something to do with the Forest Home. Except for the dog, the timing works.”

  “If Pickler’s involved, he wouldn’t be able to take the dog along and risk it barking and drawing attention to wherever they’re hiding out. Or maybe he figured he wouldn’t be around for a while and didn’t have anyone to take care of the animal. Rather than leave the dog home alone, he tied it up near the path along the shipping canal. Plenty of people walk the trail, assuring Pickler that someone would see the dog and take care of it, at least temporarily.”

  “You’re starting to think like a detective,” Cubiak said.

  “I think like a doctor faced with a situation that requires a reasonable explanation.”

  “Well, then, explain this,” Cubiak said and described Pickler’s shrine.

  “A heart stabbed with thorns? No wonder you had nightmares,” Bathard said. “What is it about religion that there seems to be so much focus on fire and brimstone and all the horrors that will descend upon humanity? I always thought the Christian God was supposed to be a God of love.”

  Amelia plopped two heavy steins on the table. “Sometimes he’s a God of money.” She gave them a knowing look as she wiped the beer that had sloshed out. “You don’t think so, turn on the radio Sunday morning. Or even better, go to church.” She tucked the bar rag behind the waistband of her apron and saluted. “See you gentlemen next week.”

  When they were alone again Cubiak laid the pamphlets on the table. “Then there are these,” he said.

  Bathard slid his reading glasses from his pocket. “I have the feeling I’m not going to like what I see here,” he said as he picked up the pamphlets. As he skimmed through the material his face clouded. When he finished, he remained silent for several seconds.

  “These represent an abomination of the highest order. Arrogance coupled with good intentions that move so far asunder they tip into perversity. A man bloated with self-righteousness who dares to pass judgement and impose his will on others, worse even, on innocent youth. It roils the blood to think of what can come of such twisted thinking. What the hell did that man do to those kids?”

  “That’s what I want to know. And how involved was Pickler?” Cubiak wiped his glasses against his sleeve. “After seeing his shed, I figured he was some kind of religious fanatic trying to purify himself for imagined sins, taming the flesh and all that.” The sheriff paused. “Of course, it’s also possible he was punishing himself for actual misdeeds, things he did even though he knew they were wrong. Things his boss Gerald Sneider ordered him to do.”

  UNDER THE CLOCK TOWER

  At the station, Cubiak found Agents Moore and Harrison huddled over a laptop in the incident room.

  The feds were both suited up. Another press conference? New developments? the sheriff wondered. The agents seemed surprised to see him.

  “I thought you were off dealing with a lost dog,” Moore said.

  Cubiak ignored the comment. “When’s the drop?” he asked.

  “We haven’t . . . ,” Harrison started to say but Moore interrupted. “Day’s not over. Plenty of time to go,” he said, and then he glanced at his watch as if looking for reassurance.

  Cubiak was enjoying the moment. “So nothing yet,” he said. He turned toward the window and closed the blinds against the bright afternoon sun. Cubiak suddenly was tired and wanted to sit, but the feds were still on their feet and he knew it was important to stay at eye level. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

  “Since we’re in this together, let me share what I’ve got,” he said.

  Moore picked up a stack of computer printouts. “Go on.”

  Cubiak hesitated. The feds had added more reports, newspaper clips, and coded entries to the incident board, bolstering their theory that a fledgling terrorist organization was behind the kidnapping scheme. Moore had already rejected the suggestion that the bones found on the beach warranted any consideration despite their proximity to Sneider’s camp for boys. He’d be as quick to dismiss Marilyn Ross’s suspicion about nightmarish events at the Forest Home as the ramblings of a grieving widow. If Cubiak brought up the possible link between Leeland Ross, the rope used to tie up the bag of kittens he’d pulled from the bay, and the rope found in Sneider’s home, Moore would say he was letting his imagination get the better of him.

  The sheriff had to give them something concrete. “Remember the dog that was brought in this morning?” he said.

  Moore skimmed the top sheet and gave it to Harrison. “That’s what you’re giving us, a report on a lost dog?”

  Cubiak bristled. “The dog isn’t lost. It belongs to a local man named Verne Pickler who for unknown reasons left it tied up along a popular walking path.” The sheriff sensed Moore’s growing impatience. “Indications are the dog was left on Sunday, which by itself isn’t of any importance. What might be significant, however, is that Pickler once worked for Gerald Sneider.”

  Moore looked up from the sheaf of papers in his hand. “Go on,” he said again. This time both agents were attentive.

  Cubiak told them what he’d learned from Amelia Pechta about Pickler’s job at the Forest Home. “Something happened that made him decide to quit,” the sheriff said. Then he walked them through Pickler’s house and shed.

  “What you’re telling us is that the man’s a religious fanatic. There are plenty of them around.”

  “Look what else I found there,” the sheriff said as he passed the pamphlets to Moore.

  “Pretty disgusting stuff,” Moore said, handing the material to Harrison. “But all this proves is that Gerald Sneider, the exemplary citizen, had some pretty extreme ideas and was a bigot from way back. There’s nothing here to connect Pickler to his disappearance.”

  “What about the neighbor’s suggestion that Pickler took off because he feared being a possible target himself?”

  “Why? Because of alleged misdeeds that occurred at the camp decades ago? An incident or incidents that no one has ever actually described? This is like one of those modern-day urban legends that spreads across the Internet. Everyone believes something to be true even though no one can prove it. Does that stop anyone from repeating the story? No. It’s taken as gospel when in fact it’s nothing more than gossip.”

  Moore pinched the back of his neck. “You think I’m being too narrow on this, focusing on the terrorist connection, don’t you? But you’re doing the same, refusing to see any possible solution that doesn’t involve the bones you found on the beach. Not far, as you’ve pointed out, from the former site of the Forest Home. But also not far from the site of half a dozen shipwrecks.”

  The agent looked at Cubiak and hardened his gaze. “And that’s not all. I’ve done my homework, too. Door County has been inhabited by one group of people or another for a very long time. Those bones you found could be the remains from a young logger killed in a drunken brawl or a fire that burned an old bunkhouse. They could be the bones of Native Americans who died before the first French trappers showed up. Tell me this, Sheriff, in all the time Sneider’s camp was operational, were there any complaints made to authorities, any reports of misdeeds or foul play?”

  Cubiak stiffened. “Not that I’m aware of, but . . .”

  Moore’s phone rang. “There you go, then,” he said as he tapped the screen and both he and Harrison turned their backs on the sheriff.

  Cubiak wasn’t sure which he found more irritating: his humiliation or the fact that Moore was right. They were both being stubborn. The problem
was that the federal agent had accumulated a good amount of hard evidence to back up his theories. And all Cubiak had was hearsay. Black and white versus gray.

  “Ultimately, it doesn’t matter who’s right. The important thing is to find Sneider,” he said. He was talking to Rowe, who stood in front of the sheriff ’s desk, unsure how to respond.

  Cubiak shoved a drawer shut with his knee. Who was he kidding? Of course it mattered. It was human nature to want to be right—at least some of the time.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if the whole thing blew up in their faces,” he said. Then, chagrined by his pettiness, he pointed to the stack of papers Rowe carried. “What’s the story out there?”

  “Front-page news,” the deputy replied, setting them on the desk.

  Cubiak skimmed the headlines. Five of the newspapers continued to give the Sneider story top coverage, but there was nothing about the missing man in the first few pages of the New York Times.

  When the sheriff looked up, Rowe was still standing in front of his desk.

  “We’re on for tomorrow?” Cubiak asked.

  “All set.”

  “Whatever comes down later today, we follow through on this.”

  “Right, Chief, as long as the weather holds.”

  Alone again, Cubiak combed through the Times searching for some mention of the Door County kidnapping. What he finally found was a brief paragraph in the Nation section, an item picked up from a news wire.

  What the hell was going on with Steve Ross? the sheriff wondered. He checked the time. It was a few minutes to four, almost five on the East Coast. Maybe he could still get a call through.

  It took Cubiak several minutes to negotiate the paper’s automated answering system, and even after he reached an actual person he was bounced from one desk to another before he finally landed in the news department. The woman who took the call said she was the assistant editor. She had a heavy New York accent and seemed amused to be getting a call from a sheriff in the Midwest. He could almost hear her saying, “Wisconsin, really? Now where exactly is Wisconsin?”—though she was too polite to actually voice the question.