Hook, Line, and Homicide

by Mark Richard Zubro

“I trust my gut instinct. I believe the kid. I’m also a cop.”

  “I’d trust your gut instinct more than a mountain of facts.”

  “Thanks. I’m sure, but…”

  Fenwick nodded. They watched the dawn for a few more minutes then Fenwick said, “You know what I liked about this case?”

  “Plenty of Timbits?” Turner said.

  “That, too. No, no paperwork, no bosses, no Carruthers, no cute cop talk with other detectives.” Back in Chicago Carruthers was the insecure nebbish on their squad. From what Turner could figure out, every squad and indeed every profession was cursed with at least one such.

  Turner said, “I thought you liked cute cop talk.”

  “I do, mostly, but it’s a strain being that witty all the time.”

  “If it was a real strain, you’d have died from the stress years ago.”

  They stood in companionable silence for some time, enjoying the Canadian morning.

  Fenwick said, “This is why I take vacations.”

  Moments later Paul touched Buck’s shoulder. “I’ve got to get some sleep.”

  Fenwick said, “I’m glad you’re my friend.”

  “Same here,” Paul said.

  When Paul and Ben were alone in their bedroom, Ben asked, “Are you going to tell Jeff?”

  “I’m not sure I have much choice. He’s old enough to understand.”

  “Is he old enough to not talk about it?”

  “I’ll have to find a way.”

  Turner lay down and shut his eyes. The events of the evening ran through his mind. The ghastly hand reaching over the side of the boat replayed over and over. Kevin’s story sounded absolutely true. He knew the boy. Paul trusted his own instincts.

  40

  Very late that afternoon all the Fenwicks and Turners, except Paul, headed out for a last bit of fishing. As prearranged, Paul was at the Naked Moose restaurant with Mavis Bednars.

  Bednars said, “Ralph Bowers came back with a passel of dead bodies. He said there was an accident on the lake. Looks like four drunken teenagers died.”

  “They were drunk?” Turner asked.

  “We’re waiting for tests. They were seen earlier drinking. They must have been racing around on the lake. None of them were wearing life jackets.”

  Turner said, “Stupid to race around at night.”

  “Lucky Ralph was there.”

  “Or unlucky.”

  “Ralph’s a good man. He says he was out there alone.”

  “Why would Ralph lie?” Turner asked.

  “I saw Ralph earlier. He said he was looking for you.”

  Paul said, “I hope we run into him before we leave.”

  Bednars said, “Billy Morningsky was released.”

  “Schreppel has seen the light?”

  “The Crown Attorney refused to press charges. He laughed at Schreppel.”

  “What’s going to happen?” Turner asked.

  “Scarth Krohn killed his girlfriend, Evon Gasple, while drunk and on drugs.”

  “The tests came back?”

  “Yes. He was both. Bits of one of his dad’s boats have been surfacing. He must have taken it out on the lake, run into a rock, and drowned.”

  “That’s the final official story?”

  “That’s the final official story. Mr. and Mrs. Krohn were in at the same time. I wouldn’t say ‘together.’ Mr. Krohn insisted that the case be closed. That he was going through enough grief. That he didn’t want his son’s name dragged through the headlines. Schreppel might not have believed anybody. He might want to defy the Crown Attorney, but he listened to the Krohns. It is officially over, right?”

  “Right.”

  Her eyes searched his. “Because if you knew anything else, you’d tell us.”

  He gazed back evenly. “If I had found out anything the police needed to know, I would want to do that.”

  She smiled. “You’re a good cop. I hope you and your family and friends come back.” She left.

  41

  The next morning amid a flurry of packing and last-day fishing rituals, Ian stomped on deck and strode up to Paul. He lifted his arm to point at Paul when his feet slipped from under him. He landed on the same pile of rods and reels as he’d done the other day. Ian swore. The St. Croix reel started tipping off the boat.

  “Get it,” Paul yelled.

  Ian snatched at it. He went halfway off the boat. The line swung out as the rod dipped halfway into the water.

  “Don’t let go,” Jeff said.

  Ian yanked at the rod with all his might. He flopped back on to the deck. With him came rod, reel, line, and a fish.

  Paul grabbed the rod. Jeff grabbed the fish. Brian rushed to help him.

  “Goddamn stupid fish,” Ian said.

  Jeff said, “It’s a big damn fish.”

  Paul said, “Language.”

  “Sorry,” Jeff said. “Look at it, Dad. It’s the biggest fish anyone’s caught all week.”

  Ian said, “I hate fish.”

  Fenwick leaned over from his boat. “What’s the excitement?”

  Jeff held up the fish. “Ian caught it.”

  Brian said, “More like it caught him.”

  Madge came up beside Fenwick. She saw the fish and the looks on their faces. She began to laugh.

  “It’s not funny,” Ian said. “I’m soaked.”

  “You’ll dry,” Paul said, “but we’re going to have to live with the fact that you caught the biggest damn fish.”

  “Language,” Jeff said.

  Ian exited mumbling. The others returned to whatever they could salvage of a day of fishing.

  About nine, Ralph Bowers appeared at the end of the dock. He approached Turner. “May I talk to you?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Turner said. They strolled toward the woods. Turner waited for Ralph to say what was on his mind.

  At the beginning of the woods, Ralph handed Turner a package. Inside was a miniature carving of a muskie. It was as beautiful as the one he’d seen at Beverly Fleming’s. Ralph said, “I want you to have this.”

  “Why?”

  “Kevin is my friend.”

  “Thank you,” Paul said.

  This time Ralph’s eyes met Paul’s and they did not waver. Ralph said, “I was there. That night. I had my boat in the lake. I watch when I can. I didn’t see what happened to Evon. I heard Kevin and Scarth in the water. I would have saved Kevin. Scarth was going to kill him. He said, ‘Die, faggot, die.’ Who cares if someone is gay? Kevin was lucky. Afterward Kevin cried a lot. I heard him. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t go to him. Kevin is a friend. I’ll never tell. Scarth is dead. I’m glad. I wish I had done it.”

  Paul thought, Kevin had a witness. The amount of relief he felt surprised him. One less thing to worry about. The last major thing was would all these people keep silent? He would have to trust that to the future. Ralph patted Paul’s shoulder and said, “You are a good man to worry so much and to take such care.” He gave an awkward smile then offered his hand. Paul shook it. Ralph said, “I gotta get to work.”

  42

  One of the final rituals they went through on their last day was that Paul and Jeff spent time alone. He directed Jeff ’s motorized wheelchair on the most level path to a small beach half a mile into the woods. Once they arrived Paul picked up some pebbles. He handed a few to Jeff. Father and son pitched them into the water seeing who could make the stones skip the most.

  After a few minutes, Paul said, “I’m a little worried about you.”

  “I’m okay. I guess.” He met his dad’s eyes.

  Paul said, “Some of this stuff ’s been a little scary?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” The boy got misty-eyed. He reached his hands out for his dad. The boy said, “I don’t want that ever to happen again.”

  Paul said, “We’ll protect you.”

  “I know.”

  The boy unclenched. Jeff asked, “Is Kevin okay?”

  “Yes,” Paul said.

 
Jeff said, “I hate bullies. A few kids pick on me because of my wheelchair so I understand.”

  “Did you want me to talk to the teachers or the principal?”

  “No, when they realize Brian is my big brother, they back off.”

  “You’ll let me know if there’s a problem.”

  “I will.” Father and son watched the sun rise higher and felt the heat increase until Jeff said, “I’m glad you’re not going to turn him in.”

  “How did you figure it out?”

  “You went tearing out of here looking for him with a whole houseboat. You don’t do that unless it’s serious. What’s the most serious thing that’s happened? It had to be connected to Scarth Krohn. And I listen to what you guys say. It wasn’t hard to follow.”

  Paul was reasonably sure he was happy he had bright children, and Jeff showed every evidence of being very bright. Sometimes he worried. Now, he smiled. He was proud of his sons.

  Halfway back to the houseboat, Jeff demanded, “How come Ian caught the biggest fish?”

  “Dumbest luck I’ve ever seen.”

  “He doesn’t even know how important it is.”

  “I won’t tell him.”

  “Me neither.”

  A few miles past Duluth, Paul heard Jeff and Brian wrangling in the backseat over who had used the best bait to catch the biggest fish. Both boys were adamant in their annoyance at Ian’s luck. The reporter had refused to return in his chartered plane. He took a bus from Kenora.

  The time for fishing had been far more limited than Paul had wished, but the amount of wrangling over useless issues his kids could do was about the same. That felt normal. So did Mrs. Talucci’s presence, far in the back, rereading The Princess Bride. She still claimed it was the funniest book she’d ever read.

  43

  Paul Turner was in his son Jeff ’s bedroom. They’d gotten back to Chicago that afternoon. The boy had been quieter than usual on the drive back. He’d had only one helping of his favorite dessert at dinner. After going to bed, he had fallen asleep quickly.

  Paul saw his son’s copy of the book Freddy the Detective on his nightstand. Paul knew his son read numerous books over and over again. He also knew which ones the boy tended to read when he was upset. Freddy the Detective was always one of these. He sat for a while next to the sleeping child, kissed his forehead, and eased out of the room.

  Brian was in the living room watching their DVD of Casablanca.

  Paul sat next to him. Bogart was just refusing to help the Peter Lorre character. The last few pieces of a heaping plate of Mrs. Talucci’s fudge sat in front of him. The family had been gulping it down all day. Mrs. Talucci had many old-fashioned remedies for many things, but she always said chocolate was one of her greatest and most sure cures. Paul was not about to dispute such wisdom.

  Paul said, “Can we talk?”

  Brian hit Pause. “Sure.” He leaned back on the couch, shut his eyes for a moment, then looked at his dad.

  Paul said, “Are you okay?”

  “Mostly, I think. I’ve never known somebody who committed murder. He was a friend. Is a friend. I worry about what’s going to happen to him.”

  “They will do the best they can for him. Right now I’m worried about you.”

  “I’ve got a lot of stuff to think about. You know, I’m glad I made out with him. It wasn’t icky or anything. I’m straight, but I’m okay with what I did. It felt warm and friendly. Was I wrong? Did he think we’d have some kind of relationship? Did I screw up?”

  “You were kind to a person who needed kindness. If things had gone differently, you’d have had to discuss his and your feelings. It would be like the girls you’ve dated the longest and broken up with. You discuss your feelings. You work things out or don’t work things out. Sometimes friendships or relationships don’t work out. Kevin is a good man. So are you. You did your best. Kevin couldn’t help his past and neither could you your past. Sometimes events outside of us can be overwhelming.”

  “Will we still go fishing up there? I’d like to see him.”

  “That’s next year’s decision.” Paul added, “I got a call from Canada. Kevin was tested for STDs. He’s clean.”

  Brian smiled. “Without going into details, I can say that we were very safe. I like Kevin, and it felt good, but it wasn’t, you know…”

  “Passionate?”

  “More friendly and very safe. I do actually listen to you.”

  This confirmed what Kevin had told him.

  Brian shook his head. “The thing is, I wish I could have done something sooner, or maybe if he’d told me, we could have…” His voice trailed off.

  “Being abused is one of the hardest things to deal with. Kevin’s been pretty independent for a long time. You did your best. You did nothing wrong. I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks,” Brian said. He gave his dad a quick, fierce hug.

  Paul pointed to the television. “Why this tonight?”

  “Kind of puts my problems in perspective.”

  Paul sat down to watch with his son.

  Also by Mark Richard Zubro

  The Paul Turner Mysteries

  Sorry Now?

  Political Poison

  Another Dead Teenager

  The Truth Can Get You Killed

  Drop Dead

  Sex and Murder.com

  Dead Egotistical Morons

  Nerds Who Kill

  The Tom and Scott Mysteries

  A Simple Suburban Murder

  Why Isn’t Becky Twitchell Dead?

  The Only Good Priest

  The Principal Cause of Death

  An Echo of Death

  Rust on the Razor

  Are You Nuts?

  One Dead Drag Queen

  Here Comes the Corpse

  File Under Dead

  Everyone’s Dead but Us

  Acknowledgments

  For their kind and gracious help, I wish to thank Barb D’Amato, Jeanne Dams, Mike Kushner, Bob Beran, Joel Michel, and Vinnie.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  HOOK, LINE, AND HOMICIDE. Copyright © 2007 by Mark Richard Zubro. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Zubro, Mark Richard.

  Hook, line and homicide / by Mark Richard Zubro. — 1st

  St. Martin’s Minotaur ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN: 978-1-4668-0288-9

  1. Turner, Paul (Fictional character)—Fiction. 2. Gay police

  officers—Fiction. 3. Vacations—Fiction. 4. Canada—Fiction.

  I. Title.

  PS3576.U225H66 2007

  813'.54—dc22 2006052542