“You ask a serious question,” said Ray, “and what do you get? Sarcasm.”
“Relax,” said Lisa with a smile, “you done good. And compared with the reporter and the local anchorman, you looked like the only real professional—they don’t seem to get majormarket talent up here.”
“It’s much better than it used to be,” said Marc. He continued, “You’re getting more TV time than you expected.”
“Too damn much,” said Ray. “It always gets busy in the summer, but never like this. We got a whole summer’s worth of death and destruction in a week. I hope this is the end of it, but you summer people just keep things hopping.”
“Something new?” asked Marc.
“No, just a complication of an old case. Remember that party we had to break up the other night? Did Marc tell you about it?” He looked at Lisa, and she nodded affirmatively. “One of the boys who apparently caused most of the destruction told the girl whose house they tore up that if she identified him, he and his friends would gang rape her. Her parents want her to name names, but she refuses to cooperate. She’s convinced that the guys are going to get her if she talks. Right now the parents are mad at me because we don’t know who the boys are….”
Marc interrupted, “I thought you caught a lot of the kids at the scene.”
“We did, those who were too drunk to run. The boys who did the real damage had cleared out before we got there. And if Mandy, that’s her name, would help, it would sure speed things up. But she is absolutely hysterical.”
Lisa began, her voice forceful: “You guys don’t understand how vulnerable women feel. And the fact that these boys would threaten her makes me furious.”
“You don’t take something like that seriously. They were trying to scare her,” said Ray.
“No, you don’t, men don’t take something like that seriously,” said Lisa with anger in her voice. “But women always have to take it seriously. Women are always vulnerable to attack—and their attackers are not other women. From the time I was a little girl, I learned that I had to be careful in ways the boys didn’t. When I was in college I had two friends who were raped. One by a hockey player who thought anyone accepting a date with him was giving consent. The other girl was grabbed walking back to the house from the library—they never caught the guy. If you could see what those girls went through, you would understand my anger.”
“Lisa, I didn’t mean to suggest that threats of this type aren’t serious. And if it sounded like that, I’m sorry. What I meant was that these threats are just a ruse to keep her quiet. Teenage boys often get swept away with their own bravado and say things they don’t mean. On the other hand, I would never dismiss a threat like this—there are too many sick people out there. But I would like to get the boys and nail them to the wall for these threats and the damage they did to that house.”
Lisa softened, “You didn’t deserve that much anger from me—I’ve just seen too many women damaged. I understand why that girl is scared. I hope you really get those bastards.”
“We’ll get them,” said Ray, “it’s just gonna take more timethan I hoped it would. We are questioning some of the other kids who were at the party. Some are willing to give us the names of the boys who did most of the damage. These guys and their parents will be real unhappy before we’re done. If we can leave this discussion of youthful violence, I want to pick your brains.”
“Another discussion of cunning campaign tactics?” asked Lisa, attempting to lighten the conversation.”
“No, this has to do with coincidences, too many coincidences,” said Ray.
“Go ahead, give us your coincidences. We need something in addition to the coffee to get our brains going this morning,” offered Marc.
“Well, last night I stopped to see the ex-wife of Arthur Bussey. Several sticks of dynamite were found hidden in the engine compartment of what was left of his sailboat. I stopped to ask if she knew of anyone who might want to off her ex. It seems that he used the stuff for fishing.”
“I don’t understand,” said Lisa.
Ray looked over at Marc with a knowing smile. “Marc does, ask him to explain it.”
“This one I want to hear about,” said Lisa.
“It’s not much of a story. It happened when we were about sixteen or seventeen. Ray borrowed—he used to say liberated— some dynamite from his uncle’s farm. His uncle used dynamite to remove tree stumps.”
“I like the way you tell the story as if I did all the doing,” said Ray. “You were with me every step of the way.”
“Let me correct the story. We borrowed some dynamite— two sticks, because we had heard that it was a good way to see how many trout were in a hole.”
Lisa looked perplexed, “I’m not following.”
“Well, the idea is that you throw some weighted sticks of dynamite into a deep hole, and the trout are stunned by the concussion and float to the surface.”
“Did it work?”
“We didn’t have the facts straight,” continued Marc. “The explosion turned out to be a hell of a lot bigger than we had planned. Water, weeds, logs, and sand went flying every which way. It scared the hell out of us. And if there had been any trout in that hole, well, they were paté after the blast. And the blast cured us of any further experimentation.”
“That’s a great story. You’re lucky you didn’t get hurt or killed.”
Ray nodded in affirmation. “I think that we both recognized that; although I doubt if either of us mentioned it. But let me get back to the widow, I mean, the ex-wife of Arthur Bussey. She said something that was very interesting. I guess that I had been thinking about it, but her talking about it really made me consider it again.”
“What’s that?” asked Lisa.
“Well, she mentioned that she saw the drowning story— Robert Arden who drowned over on Loon Lake. She mentioned that her ex and Arden had been friends up here when they were in their teens. She also said that when they and the Ardens were young marrieds, they had spent time together.”
“So what’s so remarkable about that?” Lisa queried.
“Nothing, absolutely nothing. But it got me to thinking. We have our share of people getting hurt and killed here. And in the summer it’s much worse because the population more than doubles. Every summer we have two or three drownings, a number of deaths with cars and motorcycles, and an occasional murder— usually the murders involve locals. But this year the summer barely is started, and we’ve already had two murders, Hammer and Holden, a drowning, a traffic death, and someone killed by lightning.
“Unusual,” said Marc, “but not statistically improbable.”
“Yes, but there is something unusual. The last four were all in their forties. They were all summer people, and they all spent time up here when they were kids.”
“It’s an interesting coincidence,” said Marc. “And given our age, gender and so forth,” he flicked his finger back and forth pointing at Ray and then himself, “a rather frightening coincidence. But it’s not like you have four murders. It is not like someone was out there knocking off forty-something fudgies.”
“That’s true,” Ray responded. “Only one of the four was murder. But….”
“What are you implying?” probed Lisa.
“I’m not sure I’m implying anything yet. But I was struck by the coincidences. We had one murder, right? Then we had someone die as the result of lightning hitting his boat—pretty hard to arrange, right? But look at the last two. A guy drives off the road in the rain, and another fellow falls out of his canoe and drowns.”
“What about the last two?” asked Marc. “I don’t see what you are getting at.”
“Let me give you this scenario. Let’s say someone wanted to kill a number of people. Using a gun, like the first murder, is highly effective and not particularly imaginative. Now take Roger Grimstock, the fellow who drove off the road. Let’s say someone wanted him dead. They could have run him off the road knowing that the chances of him gettin
g killed were pretty good. There’s no other place in the county where the sides of the road are steeper, and it’s about the only place where there aren’t adequate barriers.”
“I haven’t heard you say you have evidence to support this kind of speculation,” said Marc.
“Wait, there’s more. Grimstock was drinking at the Last Chance the night he died, he drank there every night during the summer. Jack Grochoski—he’s the bartender, owns the place— told me that the night of the accident Grimstock got a phone call. Jack says that’s the first phone call Grimstock’s gotten since his wife left him years ago.”
“Interesting,” opined Marc, “but it hardly proves anything.”
“And there’s one more interesting fact. The accident took place way over on Ely Road—that’s not on the way to the Grimstock cottage.
“But Ray, you have to admit that none of this is particularly unusual. There are, no doubt, perfectly logical explanations for these events,” said Marc, “and if you could only question the late Mr. Grimstock, I’m sure your suspicions….”
“Perhaps, but there is also the Arden drowning that has some strange circumstances. A guy buys an expensive canoe. His wife says she doesn’t think he’s been canoeing since he was a kid. And when does he decide to go for a paddle, in the middle of the night when the wind is up and the lake is rougher than hell. It seems damn strange, that’s all.”
“I think I’ve got it.” said Lisa. “A humanist interested in helping to control the over-supply of middle-aged, white males is doing some selective harvesting? Perhaps we just have a Darwinist trying to improve the quality of the breeding stock by eliminating some of the old bucks.”
“Careful, love,” said Marc, “you are getting too close to home. If your theory is correct, Ray and I could be next.”
“I am sure no one could feel that way about you or Ray. There’s always a need to protect rare vintages.”
“Here’s another possibility. Someone is trying to do something about the glass ceiling.”
“You’re a real wit, aren’t you?” said Ray. “I bring a complicated problem to a couple of old friends with the expectation that they will help me think it through, and what do I get—some smartassed….”
“Hold on Ray,” said Lisa. “I’ll be serious and talk this through with you. You’ve got four dead guys, all white, middle-aged, middle class, and college educated. What else would you want to know about them?”
“I would want to know if they had criminal records, their sources of income, net worth, whether they were involved in any civil actions, who they owed money to…”
“Mutual acquaintances, if any,” interjected Lisa. “That’s a good one,” said Marc. “Did they know one another?”
“Based on what Mrs. Bussey told me,” said Ray, “Arthur Bussey knew Robert Arden when they were in their teens and early twenties. And they came from families who had cottages in the area. Given that they are about the same age, it’s quite possible that they were all acquainted.”
“Did they go to the same colleges?” asked Lisa.
Marc offered, “Randy Holden went to Michigan; he was there at the same time I was.”
“Well,” said Ray, “Jenson’s ex said they went to Northwestern, and Arden’s widow said they met at Albion. Grimstock, I don’t know. I’ll have to check.”
“Have we helped?” Lisa asked.
“Yeah, I just have to do the leg work to see if any of the pieces fit.”
39
Nancy Arden met Ray at the back door and ushered him in. As they walked through the kitchen, she introduced him to her son, Robert Jr., and daughter, Amy, who were busy cooking hamburgers. Ray noted that the son was tall, thin and appeared to be in his early twenties. The daughter was the younger and, like her brother, also an ectomorph. There was a striking resemblance between the two children, their hair color, their eyes, their facial features, and neither looked very much like their mother. Ray assumed they looked more like their father, although he didn’t have a clear idea what the father looked like when he was alive, only the image of the body pulled from the lake.
Nancy led him through the cottage to the front porch that faced the lake. They made small talk for a few minutes as people invariably do when there are serious matters to discuss, but a reluctance to approach them.
Finally, Ray broached the subject for his visit. “I wanted to see you before you left. I think I told you I would call with the autopsy results, but I thought it better if I delivered them in person. You’re still interested in knowing?”
“Yes, please, go ahead.”
“Well, as expected, he had a lot of water in his lungs, but it doesn’t seem that was the cause of death. The pathologist said the immediate cause of death was a massive heart attack. Did your husband have a history of heart trouble?”
“No, not that I know of. There were a lot of things he kept from me, but I think he would have told me about any major health problems. I know he was concerned about his cholesterol, and he kept trying to give up smoking. But I don’t think he had ever had any symptoms. He just had the same health concerns other men his age have.”
“Well,” said Ray “this makes me wonder whether he had the heart attack and the canoe capsized, or if the canoe capsized and he had the heart attack trying to swim to shore. There was another interesting finding.”
“What was that, Sheriff?” “Well, he had a high level of blood alcohol, point one eight.
In fact, in Michigan that’s almost twice the legal limit.” “As I told you before, Sheriff, we had both had a lot to drink.” “I guess I was wondering whether that might have contributed
to the accident. Would Robert have gone canoeing in those conditions if he had been sober?” “I don’t know how to answer you. Robert liked to drink. I wouldn’t say he was an alcoholic, but he did drink. But then most of those in his circle of friends drank a lot. Even when he was drinking quite heavily, he was always articulate and seemed to be in control. I guess you would say that he could hold his liquor. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t cautious, sometimes too cautious I thought.”
“How’s that?” asked Ray.
“When he was drinking he made a point of not driving. There were lots of times when we left cars at restaurants and parties and took a cab home. It was real inconvenient. The next day he would take my car to the office, and I was expected to retrieve his.”
Ray paused a moment and looked thoughtful. “Given what you have just told me about his not wanting to drive when he had been drinking, I don’t understand why he would be out in a canoe at night in heavy winds.”
“He wouldn’t have thought about them in the same way. Getting charged with driving drunk would have a damaging effect on his career and be an embarrassment to the administration. Not the same thing.”
Ray couldn’t quite follow her logic, but he didn’t pursue the point. “How are your children dealing with their father’s death?”
“They are finding it confusing.”
“Confusing?” asked Ray. His expression showed that he didn’t comprehend her meaning.
“Yes, confusing. They haven’t ever been really close to their father. He was never around. Recently, their relationship with him became extremely tenuous. Last year my daughter was in Georgetown with some friends one Friday evening and spotted her father’s car in a parking lot; it was hard to miss, he had vanity plates with his initials. It was a new BMW, and she took her friends over to look at it. Robert was in the car with a woman. She would never tell me exactly what they were doing, but it doesn’t take much imagination. It was just awful for Amy. I guess she caused a big scene in the parking lot, and her friends had to drag her away. You can’t imagine how destructive that was. She’s been in counseling ever since, and I think only recently she finally started to get through it. Robert Jr. has hardly said a word to his father since he heard about it. That is why we came up here alone. The kids didn’t want to be any place where they have to be close to him. And now they’re
confused because he’s dead, and they don’t feel sorry. I guess Robert’s last act as a father is to make them feel guilty.”
Ray sat quietly. He wanted to respond but didn’t know quite what to say.
“Sheriff, therewas something else I wanted to tell you. I think you asked if anything was bothering Robert. It didn’t strike me as important at the time, but perhaps it was. The second or third day we were here there was a report in the paper about the man who was killed when his car left the road.”
“Yes, his name was Roger Grimstock,” Ray offered.
“Robert read the story and seemed bothered by it. I asked him if he knew the man, and he said he had years ago when they were teenagers. I asked if they had been friends. He said no, he didn’t really like him; he just knew him. But I do remember that the story seemed to upset him. He mentioned later that he hoped the fellow had been killed instantly because it would be awful to die alone. I guess it doesn’t mean anything. I just thought it was interesting.”
“It is, thank you for telling me,” said Ray.
“Sheriff, there’s one more thing.”
“Yes.”
“I wanted to thank you for having the deputy take me to the airport. I guessed you recognized I shouldn’t have been driving. I’m glad you did.” She looked out at the lake. “This all must be very hard for the kids; it’s confusing for me, too. I don’t know how to act at the funeral. I don’t want to be false.” She paused and looked at Ray. “You have helped a lot Sheriff. You’ve listened when I needed someone to listen. Thank you for that.”
“I’m glad we could help. If there’s anything else we can do for you and your children, please call.”
She walked him back through the cottage to the door. Robert and Amy were sitting at the kitchen table eating quietly as they passed.
40
The sign on the front of the Third Wave had three neon waves, royal blue with crests of white that blazed in slow succession to suggest the dance of whitecaps rolling to shore. Over the waves, hot pink neon letters in a stylized script proclaimed The Third Wave, each word flashing on as the wave below it illuminated until all three words were lit. The name would glow for several seconds after the last wave faded and then dim until the whole process began again moments later.
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