“Ross was just a kid that night and all he knew about what happened was what you told the boys afterward. He believed you; they all did. But you overplayed your hand with the postcard allegedly from one of the drowned boys claiming they’d survived and run away. According to Jon, the boy had never learned to write.”
“Rubbish! Still his word against mine. The word of a mean, spiteful brat.”
“There’s more. Another eyewitness, an adult who was there the whole time and knows what really happened that night.”
Sneider’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“Who?” Andrew let the word out in a whisper.
Cubiak kept his eyes on Sneider. “According to the witness, you did nothing to try and save them. You didn’t even send for help. The camp wasn’t far from the resort that replaced the old coast guard station. There were plenty of boats there and people who could have helped rescue those kids. But you didn’t want anyone to see what you’d done to them, did you? You valued your reputation more than their lives.”
“Oh, Dad, how could you?”
Sneider’s nostrils flared and the vein in his forehead pulsed. He pushed his son away. “Shut up,” he said for the second time, and then he turned to Cubiak. “You better damn well know who you’re dealing with and what the fuck you’re doing because this is slander and if you start spreading these stories, I’ll destroy you.”
Cubiak shrugged off the threat. “I’m just doing my job.”
Sneider breathed loudly. “I’ve got nothing more to say. No comment. Now get the hell out of here.” He puffed himself up with importance and glared at the sheriff.
The arrogance of power, Cubiak thought, allowing himself a quick smile. “I’m not finished with you yet,” he said as he stepped around to the side of the bed.
“What?” Sneider looked ready to spit.
Cubiak kicked the soft leather slippers out of reach and then took his time picking up the photos from the floor. As he slid the pictures back in the envelope he glanced from son to father, letting his gaze settle on the man whose silk pajamas had lost their elegant sheen.
Moments like this, he knew why he had become a city cop all those years ago, and why after abandoning the job, he’d later put on the badge of a county sheriff. To serve and protect the innocent, like the helpless boys in the rowboat.
In the charged atmosphere, Cubiak spoke calmly. “Gerald Sneider, I am arresting you on the charge of murder. Four counts in the first degree.”
Sneider turned to stone.
“You have a right to remain silent but anything you say . . .” Cubiak went on as he informed the Door County hero of his rights. The sheriff ’s pronouncement was largely lost in Andrew’s cries of despair and the sounds of shattering glass that erupted as he hurled vases of roses and lilies against the floor and walls of his father’s very special room.
ON THE PARLANDO
Cubiak trailed a tour bus full of senior citizens through Sturgeon Bay on his way to Hangar Number Three. The previous day, the FBI had taken charge of the human remains the sheriff had recovered from Baileys Harbor. And that morning a special team of technicians had arrived to handle the task of tagging and packing the bones for shipment to the agency’s forensic laboratory in Madison. Cubiak didn’t have to go there again. His work was finished. There was nothing, and yet everything, for him to do. Pay his respects. Say a final goodbye.
Agents Moore and Harrison were standing inside the door, as if they’d expected him.
“It’s done?” Moore said.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
For the first time that week, the three were a match, each of them in jeans and a black turtleneck.
Moore produced a bottle of brandy from his briefcase. “It’s not quite according to Hoyle,” he said as he filled the shot glasses Harrison had pulled from the leather tote bag slung over her shoulder.
“To justice,” Cubiak said, raising his drink to theirs.
The sheriff and the two federal agents downed the shots, and like a whisper, the moment passed. The bottle and glasses disappeared, and they turned toward the platform.
The skeletons remained intact. Nearby the recovery team had organized the shipping containers and the materials the technicians would use to identify and wrap each bone.
“They’ll be starting soon,” Harrison said.
They’d waited for him, Cubiak realized. After thanking them, he approached the platform for one last look. Bathard had talked about Milton’s concept of good and evil, but all Cubiak could think of were Dante’s nine circles of hell. Those who acted violently against others were consigned to the outer ring of the seventh circle, where they were immersed in a river of boiling blood and fire for eternity. A fitting punishment for Gerald Sneider, Cubiak thought.
The sheriff bowed his head and prayed to all the gods of the universe. Before them he vowed that he would do everything he could to see that the boys would not be forgotten and that the justice he had saluted a few minutes earlier would be done in their name. Whoever they were, they were legion, and like all the world’s suffering children they deserved better than what they got.
In the end, Cubiak uttered one word: Peace. Then he turned and walked away.
After he stopped in town for two coffees, Cubiak drove to the justice center for a meeting with Justin St. James. He found the young reporter pacing the lobby and led him to his office.
“You’re familiar with Gerald Sneider’s legacy on the peninsula, his philanthropic work, the camp for orphaned and needy boys,” the sheriff said, dispensing with the usual introductory small talk favored by locals.
“Sure, who isn’t, especially after this week. I knew some of the story before, of course, but now.” St. James popped the lid on his coffee and dumped in two packets of sugar. “Gerald Sneider’s a very famous man.”
“Who’s about to become infamous.”
The journalist looked up. “What’s going on? What’s happened?” He put a small recorder on the table. “May I?”
“Sure.” When the green light appeared, Cubiak went on. “This morning I arrested Sneider on four counts of murder.”
St. James let out a low whistle. “I don’t understand,” he said. The reporter was pale with excitement.
“You will.”
Cubiak started by laying down a picture of the bone Butch had discovered on the Baileys Harbor beach. From there he took St. James through the events of the previous week. He told him about the young Ross boys and Verne Pickler and about the boat filled with bones that had been recovered from the bay.
St. James blanched. “I grew up around there. I used to swim in that water,” he said.
Finally, the sheriff told the journalist what he’d learned about the role that Sneider had played in the tragedy.
“You’re getting all this?”
St. James shook his recorder. His hands trembled and he seemed to have trouble speaking. “I think so. But I just can’t believe it. Four boys left to drown?”
Cubiak wasn’t surprised by the young man’s reaction. This was not the kind of news St. James was accustomed to reporting.
The sheriff laid out the series of photos that documented the story.
“Oh my God,” St. James said. He studied the pictures, too overwhelmed to say anything further.
For several minutes, the room was quiet. Then Cubiak spoke.
“Later today the FBI will take the remains to a lab in Madison for DNA analysis. Most of the kids were orphans, but it’s possible that there are relatives around who heard family stories of nephews or cousins who lived at the camp. If there are DNA matches, then there’s a chance at least some of the victims can be identified.”
St. James nodded but it took him a moment to pick up the train of discussion. “How come no one asked about these kids before?”
“Maybe somebody did, but who was there to tell them anything? There weren’t any official records. The kids were gone; maybe they’d run away, like Sneider claimed. T
hen again, a lot of families had it tough back then and weren’t looking for an extra mouth to feed. They figured that if the kid grew up and went off on his own, everyone involved was better off.”
“You want me to write about all this?” St. James said.
“That’s right, and I’m giving you the exclusive.”
“But the others . . . there are reporters here with more experience . . .”
“This happened in your backyard. It’s your story.”
“It’ll get picked up . . .”
Yes, thought Cubiak. The national media will pick up the story. TV stations and newspapers in towns and cities across the country will retell the sad saga, which would help widen the search for people who could put names and faces to the dead boys.
“That’s the whole point,” the sheriff said.
St. James picked up the photo that showed the camp’s name on the side of the rowboat.
“Do you think the murder charge will hold after all this time?” he asked.
For a reporter about to break the biggest story of his career, perhaps the biggest story he would ever byline, St. James remained calm and focused. Cubiak liked that.
“Officially, yes, and it should. There’s no statute of limitations on murder in Wisconsin, but off the record, no. Sneider will hire a squad of silver-tongued lawyers that will probably get the charge reduced to involuntary manslaughter. They might even get it thrown out entirely. If the case goes to trial, it’ll come down to whom the jury believes: Gerald Sneider or Verne Pickler.
“But whatever happens, the deaths of those four boys will not go unnoted, and Gerald Sneider will be held accountable, at least in the eyes of the public, for what he did. I hope he serves time but even if he doesn’t, he’ll end up a prisoner in his own house, unable to show himself anywhere. Your story will tarnish his name and destroy his reputation. Gerald Sneider will no longer be known as a philanthropist and the savior of the Packers. He’ll be known as a sadistic tyrant who sentenced four boys to a cruel death. Sneider’s glass castle will crumble at his feet and he’ll be powerless to rebuild it.”
The sheriff looked at St. James. “Eventually, the truth comes to light. People like to think they can outmaneuver or outrun the past, but life generally doesn’t work that way. The past doesn’t stay behind lost in time. Sooner or later, it catches up.”
Cubiak was a mile from home when the clouds started to lift. As he drove into the yard, a patch of blue sky widened over the lake and a swath of bright autumn light spilled onto the water. It was probably one of the last really nice days they’d have that fall.
Cate was at the kitchen table filling in the crossword when Cubiak popped open the back door. “If we hurry we can take the Parlando out and get in a couple of hours. Bathard’s pulling the boat next week so it’s our final chance this year,” he said.
To avoid the tourist traffic, they came up the back way to the Egg Harbor marina. There was a concert in the park that overlooked the harbor, and strains of a familiar folk song drifted down to the docks. They’d stopped for groceries on the way up, and while Cate stowed their food and gear below Cubiak motored away from the dock. When they cleared the harbor, he cut the engine and they raised the mainsail.
The wind was light but strong enough to fill the sail. Minutes later, they reached the open waters of Green Bay. Cubiak pointed them south, and they sailed along the palisades that lined the shore.
The first time Cubiak went out on the boat with Bathard, he’d moved about clumsily and come close to getting sick. Within minutes of leaving land, he’d been overwhelmed. Everything he’d worked so hard to learn about sailing had blurred together and left him helpless, a true novice. But Bathard was patient, and gradually Cubiak came to feel more comfortable and competent on the water. After two summers of tutoring, Bathard had finally let him take the boat out himself.
On his first time sailing solo, all the old fears came back. The twenty-six-foot boat was quick as a flea and seemed to respond to the slightest twitch. When Cubiak finally docked, he was exhausted. But hooked. And things got steadily better from there.
“You’re quite good at this,” Cate said as the Parlando sliced through the water.
“I’ve had a good teacher,” Cubiak said.
“Indeed.” Cate smiled and pulled up her hood. Hugging her knees, she leaned back on the bench and lifted her face to the sun. “It’s nice out here,” she said.
They continued like this for another half hour, Cubiak alert at the tiller and Cate immersed in her own thoughts. When they came within sight of Sherwood Point, she went below for the cooler. On deck, she poured two beers, filled a bowl with crackers, and then sliced salami and cheese on a square cutting board.
“A Wisconsin lunch,” she said.
As they ate, a two-masted schooner approached from the west. The vessel moved with a magical grace, its giant sails a blinding white in the afternoon sunlight as it flew past. It was headed into Sturgeon Bay, in the direction of the shipyards.
“Do you think they’re finished yet?” Cate asked.
They both knew what she meant. Cubiak checked his watch. It was nearly four. “Close to it,” he said.
It was their only reference to the day’s grim task at the Lakeside hangar.
The wind stayed with the Parlando a little while longer and then, as often happened that late in the afternoon, it died, leaving the boat adrift on the undulating water. Time had slipped by, and the giant orange ball of a sun was lower in the sky. The air felt cold.
“Should we take down the sail?” Cate asked.
There were strong currents in the bay and Cubiak kept a careful watch on the shore to see how far they were drifting. “Not yet,” he said.
Without warning, a sudden gust came up and tipped the boat. Cate lurched against the mast as Cubiak turned the boat into the wind.
“Let loose the sheet,” he said.
As she grabbed the line and released it from the cleat, the boom swung and they came around sharply. The canvas rippled and then sprang taut as Cubiak recaptured the wind.
“That’ll keep you on your toes,” Cate said as she picked the lunch things off the floor.
By the time she headed below, the wind died again and the sail went limp.
The click of doors opening and closing—the sounds of tidying up—came from the cabin, and then Cate reappeared, cocooned in a bulky red sweater. Tucking her feet beneath her, she curled up on the windward bench. A moment later she opened the conversation that Cubiak had been expecting.
“You’re still angry with me, aren’t you?” she said.
He hedged. “Why should I be mad at you?”
“You know why.”
And of course he did.
“You’re upset about Garth.”
Was it that obvious? Cubiak wondered. “Yes,” he finally admitted.
“You thought I was getting back with him when you saw us together at the Rusty Scupper.”
“You looked pretty cozy.”
Cate looked up and then laughed. “Cozy? It was so damn loud in there I had to practically sit in his lap to make myself heard.” She grew serious again. “Okay, I admit I wasn’t completely honest earlier. You asked if we’d talked about Ruby and I said we hadn’t, but that’s not true because we had and it was so hard trying to explain what had happened to her even while I was wondering if he had any right to know.”
“And that’s it? That’s all?”
An errant wave smacked the side of the boat and Cate started. “I never thought I’d see him again, and having him show up like that was, well, it was so unexpected I didn’t really know how to react. He didn’t come because of me. He came for the story . . . but still.”
Cate stared at the floorboards. Despairing of what she’d say next, Cubiak felt his chest tighten.
When Cate looked at him again, her eyes were soft. “The past has hooks that stay buried deep,” she said quietly.
Pained, Cubiak turned away. Her words echoed his own
self-righteous pronouncement to Justin St. James about the past never being left behind. He’d meant it in terms of others but knew it was true for Cate and for himself as well.
Cate started talking again. “I have so many reasons to despise him, but sitting there together brought back memories of the good times between us, and in a weak moment, I was overwhelmed with longing for the dreams we’d had and everything we’d lost. He said he’d changed. That he’d been immature and foolish when we were married. He begged me to give him another chance, and for a moment, I almost said yes. But even as I was thinking that maybe we could go back and make it work this time, I knew that it wouldn’t. I’d already given him so many chances and he’d messed up each time. He wasn’t going to change. It was just an illusion.” She paused. “I think we all have them.”
Cubiak forced himself to look at her. That last comment was for him.
“In the end, we have to learn to recognize the difference between what is possible and what is not,” she said.
Cubiak had spent four years clinging to the memories of a life that was gone forever. He understood that this comment also was for him.
Cate squeezed his hand. “Nothing happened between Garth and me. It’s you I want to be with.”
It was what Cubiak had longed to hear, yet he found himself unable to respond. The possibility of losing Cate had reminded him of how harsh life could be. There were no guarantees. To trust meant being vulnerable to the pain that lurked in the shadows.
“I know,” he said finally.
It was quiet on the water, the kind of quiet Cubiak remembered from childhood when he sat in the confessional and stared into the darkness, waiting for his turn. There were no secrets before God, the nuns had always said. If he loved Cate there should be no secrets between them. They weren’t in the clear yet. This was the moment he had dreaded ever since she had moved back to the peninsula and into his life again.
Cubiak gripped the wheel. “There’s something I need to tell you. It’s about Ruby.”
“My aunt Ruby.” Cate hugged her knees close. “My mother’s sister.”
“Yes . . .” Cubiak was about to go on when Cate continued.
Death in Cold Water Page 23