Dead Rapunzel

by Victoria Houston

  “Do you know whom we should notify?” asked Lew. “Children, other relatives?”

  “Not sure,” said Osborne. “I do know that Philip and Caroline were summer residents for many years. They had a family compound up on Thunder Lake, just this side of the boundary between Loon Lake Township and Newbold. Generations ago the Tomlinson family made a fortune in barbed wire.”

  “I appreciate the history, Doc, but I need names and phone numbers. I’ve made a quick search of her wallet, which I found in the purse, but there’s nothing in it except charge cards and cash. I need next of kin.”

  “I realize that,” said Osborne, closing his eyes to think. “Bear with me. I’m trying my best to remember . . . Okay, I treated one of the Tomlinson daughters for a broken tooth and she had an unusual name like Sybil or Sinclair or . . . Look, I’m sure I have the family records at home, so I can check for those as soon as we are finished here.”

  “That may be the best we can do for the moment, but it will help,” said Lew. “One more reason to be nice to you.” She touched him lightly with her left elbow, so lightly no one else observing the scene of the accident would have noticed but enough that Osborne’s day brightened in spite of the grim business ahead.

  “If it’s okay with you, Chief Ferris,” he said, stepping into his role as deputy coroner and talking loudly enough for the half dozen bystanders to hear, “I’ll take that driver’s license and initiate completing the death certificate so the body can be moved. Damn cold standing out here.”

  Looking down at the information on the driver’s license for the victim, Osborne was surprised to see how young she was: only forty-seven? Maybe he was wrong about Philip Tomlinson. If he were still alive, that guy would have been in his late sixties. Could it be that she was married to a Philip, Jr.?

  As he recorded the details that an insurance company would need—location, estimated time of death—he could feel his fingers freezing in the stiff wind. He would leave it for a pathologist to make an official confirmation of the cause of death, which would be attached to the police report of the accident. Given the weather, he was thankful that the condition of the victim required only a visual exam.

  Minutes later he was able to join Lew and Roger in the warmth of the Grizzly Bear Café. Roger Adamczak was the older of Lew’s two full-time Loon Lake Police officers and not a man given to subtle observations.

  A struggling insurance salesman, Roger had been in his early forties when he decided law enforcement was the way to simplify his life. He made the mistake of assuming the toughest duty in a tiny town like Loon Lake might be writing tickets for expired parking meters: a no-stress guarantee of a nice pension.

  Then Lewellyn Ferris was promoted to chief and Roger got assigned to patrolling for drunk drivers. Too often the drunken motorists were former clients who did not appreciate Roger’s new role: raising instead of lowering their insurance premiums.

  But once an insurance salesman, always one. Whenever there was an accident—whether traffic, construction, or boating—Roger could be heard expounding on liability issues, which was what he was doing as Osborne walked up to the café counter. Like an excited grouse eager to attract the ladies, the officer had fluffed his feathers and was making loud noises.

  “Ah baloney, that driver is lying,” said Roger, his voice easy to hear throughout the small café. “He’s just saying that to avoid the logging company getting sued, Chief. Jeez, his family probably owns the operation, y’know. He’s got to—this could mean a million-dollar lawsuit. And it’ll take years to settle. You just watch.”

  “Roger’s questioning the driver’s story,” said Lew with one eyebrow up. Having inherited Roger from her late predecessor, it was only because she had a good heart and knew how critical the pension was to him that she hadn’t booted him from the force years earlier.

  She held a finger to her lips as a man emerged from the restroom and approached them. The driver was in his late twenties and wearing soiled, rust-colored Carhartt overalls under a beat-up, olive-green parka, with bulky driving gloves jammed into ripped pockets. His color was ashen, and Osborne could see his hands trembling.

  “Bob, would you please tell Dr. Osborne what you saw this morning—before the accident. He’s our deputy coroner and will need your information to complete the death certificate.”

  Osborne got the message: Lew wanted his take on what the young man would say. Previous collaborations had taught them that each listened to people with a different ear. Osborne’s years of practicing dentistry had trained him to listen for hints that a patient’s problems might originate somewhere other than their teeth. Lew listened with a woman’s intuition: a knack for recognizing the emotions underlying statements—or withheld to hide a truth.

  When they compared what each had heard—or thought they’d heard—the results could be startling.

  “Of course,” said the driver, his body sagging into a chair at a nearby table. He ran his fingers through his hair and heaved a sigh as he said, “Dr. Osborne, I’m Robert Sittell but I go by ‘Bob.’ I’ve been driving for my father’s logging operation for ten years. Never had anything like this happen before. Never. We have our vehicles inspected annually, brakes are good—”

  His voice shook as badly as his hands. “I was coming down Main Street here, just like yesterday. Not going too fast ’cause it’s icy, w-a-a-y icy out there. I saw the woman standing on the curb just fine, y’know. Fact is, she’s been standing there every morning these past few weeks. I come through on the way to Wausau five days a week.

  “So this morning I’m like almost to her when this old guy comes from behind the building—on the south side by the driveway—and pushes her out in front of me. No way I could stop. Well, I could’ve hit the brakes, but I’d still never have been able to stop without hitting her. You know how long it takes to stop one of these mothers?”

  He gestured toward the front windows at the truck, which was now parked nearly half a block down from where he had hit the woman. “I pulled over as soon as I could without jackknifing and taking out the whole goddamn block.”

  “You saw someone push her?” asked Osborne.

  “I swear.” Off to one side, Roger gave a disbelieving shrug.

  “Officer?” A teenage boy wearing an apron who had been standing behind the café counter, listening to the driver’s story, raised a hand so Lew could see he wanted to say something.

  “Yes?” she asked, turning toward him.

  “He’s right. I saw an old man running in that direction right before the accident. Saw him out the window here. When I heard that truck’s brakes, I was sure it was the old guy got hit.”

  Lew sat quietly for a long moment. She turned to Osborne. “Doc, go stop the EMTs, would you please? Tell them no moving the body yet. Roger, you call the highway department. I want the road closed two blocks in both directions. They’ll have to reroute the traffic.” She punched a number into her cell phone.

  “Marlaine, please call Officer Donovan and tell him I’m sorry but he’ll have to come in now. We have a crime scene to work.”

  Chapter Four

  Lew was savoring a final sip of hot coffee when her pager buzzed. She reached for her walkie-talkie. “Yes?”

  “Chief, Officer Donovan just arrived. Okay for me to head out now?”

  Sitting beside Lew at the café counter, Osborne could hear the anxiety in Roger’s voice and he sympathized. Tasked with keeping cars away from the four-block stretch that Lew wanted cordoned off, Roger had to be freezing: Roadblocks do not come with space heaters.

  “If the DOT boys have the ‘detour’ signs up, you’re free to go, Roger. But before you do that, ask Todd to meet me here in the café, would you please? And thanks for putting in the extra time this morning.”

  A grudging “yep” could be heard.

  Within minutes, Todd Donovan, thirty years Roger’s junior and a dedicated marathon runner, appeared in the doorway of the café. In spite of his youth and health, and eve
n though the walk to the café was only a block from where he had parked his squad car, the officer’s cheeks were bright red above his buttoned-up parka. Lew beckoned for him to pull over a chair. “Need something warm to drink?” Todd nodded with appreciation as a cup of hot coffee appeared.

  After Lew had filled him in on the status of the victim and the truck driver’s allegation that the woman had been pushed, Todd asked, “And you believe him?”

  “I do,” said Lew. “The look in his eye, I believe him.”

  Todd glanced over at Osborne, who said, “I do, too.”

  “So I’ve been thinking,” said Lew, tapping her pen on the counter. “The snow and ice and the freezing temps make this not the easiest crime scene to work. So we’ll have to do the best we can. We’ll follow the usual protocols, but when it comes to photos, it is so cold that our cameras may not work very well. For one thing, the tracks left by the truck’s tires after the driver started to brake indicate he didn’t see her until the last minute. We need to document those, but I’m worried.

  “Hate to shoot the scene and find everything blurry, which is what happened two weeks ago when I tried to take shots of an eagle that someone had poisoned. I thought I would ask Ray Pradt to help out with the photography. He’s shot winter scenes for his calendars, so he must have equipment that will work in cold weather—”

  “Not only that, Chief,” said Todd. “We have our cameras in our warm cars. I think it’s the temperature difference when it’s this cold that affects the lens. I’ll bet you anything Ray keeps his gear in that old pickup of his. And if that beater has heat, I owe you money.”

  “You’re right,” said Lew. She turned to Osborne. “Doc, can you try to reach Ray? He can’t be ice fishing on a day this cold. Tell him I need black-and-white as well as color. With all this snow, the black-and-white might pick up shadows. Tell him I want shots of the roadway as well as the street in both directions: the buildings, the sidewalks, cars parked nearby. If anyone walks by while he’s shooting, I want photos of them, too. This is hardly tourist season, so it will be good to know who’s crazy enough to be out and about when it’s this cold—and why.”

  “Another thing, Chief,” said Todd. “Checking the weather this morning, it’s going to warm up. If we have a melt, any evidence left in the snow, the tire tracks, any tracks left by the individual who pushed the victim, are likely to disappear.”

  “Good point,” said Lew. “Damn, it’s so overcast now and it’ll be pitch black by five. Whew—talk about a short window. Not sure if tracking will be of any value, but let’s start with the driveway. That’s where the kid saw the old guy running before the victim was pushed.”

  “What direction did he go?” asked Todd. “If we know that—”

  “We don’t. All we have is the driver insisting he saw a man push the victim before he hit her. His focus was on trying to stop his vehicle and avoid a further catastrophe.”

  “Look, Lew,” said Osborne, aware of her frustration, “I’ll take care of reaching Ray. I’ll tell him you need the photos and possible help with tracking if you and Todd come across anything. Does that sound right?”

  “It’s a start,” said Lew. “Doc, you can help by going through that woman’s purse one more time. I have to reach her next of kin, and no luck with that cell phone. I have Dani getting in touch with the provider in hopes they’ll give us the code. Until then the phone is locked. While I found the wallet with the license and credit cards, I haven’t had time to go through the rest of the stuff in that bag.

  “Looks like there’s a lot in there, too. Makeup, medications, who knows what else. If you would go through it and make a list of the contents, that would help. If you don’t find any more personal information, let me know. I may have to ask you to drive out to the address on the driver’s license and see if we can reach someone at the home or a neighbor—”

  “I’ll take care of it, Lew.”

  After Lew and Todd left the café, Osborne poured one more cup of coffee and settled in with his assignments. Any time spent in the warmth of the little café was fine with him. First on his list was to reach his neighbor. He punched Ray’s cell number into his phone and waited.

  When Ray didn’t answer, Osborne waited for his voicemail, wondering what he would hear this time, since Ray had a habit of recycling messages ranging from the insightful (“This is Ray Pradt hoping you ‘fish like it matters’—and leave me your number”) to the profane (a riff on “wedding tackle” that Osborne had learned to cut off before the ribald punch line). He wondered if Ray’s voicemail messages would have been different if the guy had been a responsible husband and father instead of a not-bad-looking, unattached fishing guide living in a trailer home painted to look like a fearsome fish.

  This morning the voicemail was one of Ray’s birdcalls—the trill of a spring robin (highly inappropriate in Osborne’s opinion, given that any bird outdoors would be a frozen specimen)—followed by “Yep, it’s thirty below and falling. This is Ray—leave your name and number. Will return from the Caribbean one of these days.”

  “Ray,” said Osborne, “I know you’re there and I need to talk to you ASAP. Lew’s got trouble—” Before he could finish, his phone buzzed with Ray calling back.

  “Got it. Be there in fifteen,” said Ray after Osborne had filled him in on the situation. “Tell Chief Ferris not to worry. Both my cameras work fine in weather this cold. Chances are I’ll have photos for her to review this evening—got everything digital now, y’know.

  “By the way, you say it was old man Tomlinson’s wife who was run over? I guided that guy a couple times back about ten years ago—Phil and a couple of his buddies. As I drive over, I’ll see if I can try to remember who else was there.”

  After entering as much information on the death certificate as could be done with the information available, Osborne reached for the victim’s purse, which Lew had left on the table beside him.

  It was the type of bag that his daughters carried: roomy, with straps long enough to be slung over the shoulder. The black leather was of good quality and the interior held several zippered compartments. Opening the purse, he could not help feeling guilty. Years of living with his late wife and raising two daughters had drilled into him the horror of violating the privacy of a woman’s purse. Today was different: He had to hope the purse held secrets.

  Osborne settled the bag on his lap and pulled it open so he could see the interior. He pulled out a red mesh envelope holding a compact, a tube of lipstick, and one ChapStick. Also in the bag were two pens and a small comb. Loose in the purse were a hairbrush with a colorful cloth cover, a small flashlight, two packets of Kleenex (one opened), a case with sunglasses, and another case with what looked to be reading glasses.

  A zippered side pocket yielded a checkbook, a set of car keys, and a black leather card case. Cards that had been slipped into both sides of the small case included ones for a dry cleaner, a lawyer, a shoe-repair service, a building contractor, and three different individuals who appeared to be academics—one at Marquette University, another at Northwestern, and one at Yale.

  The last card belonged to an art dealer from Venezuela. Then, folded tightly and tucked behind the art dealer’s card was a slip of paper on which was written in longhand the following:

  “In case of an emergency, my primary physician is Dr. Jerome Grant at Marshfield Clinic. My oncologist is Dr. Fred Waring at Marshfield Clinic. My emergency contact is Judith Fordham . . . ” A cell phone number was included, as were phone numbers for each of the physicians.

  To be sure he hadn’t missed anything, Osborne reached back inside the zippered side pocket. Crunched into folds at the bottom was another piece of paper. Unfolded and smoothed out, it was a full-page listing of passwords for different devices and websites. At the bottom, as if it had been recently added, was the code for an iPhone.

  Osborne reached for his own cell phone to call Lew. “Lew, I think I found the code to unlock the cell phone. Also the name of
an emergency contact—do you want me to call that number?”

  Lew didn’t hesitate. “Yesterday.”

  Chapter Five

  “Hello. Who is this?” asked a woman’s voice.

  “This is Dr. Paul Osborne in Loon Lake, Wisconsin. Am I speaking with Judith Fordham?”

  “Yes. Why? How did you get this number?” The voice held an edge. Osborne hoped the call wouldn’t be dropped before he could explain himself.

  “I’m calling regarding Rudd Tomlinson—”

  “Oh,” said the woman, “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone asking for a donation. Let Rudd know I’m almost there. Maybe twenty miles away. But the roads are not great, so I’m taking my time. Please tell her I should be there before lunch and sorry I couldn’t return her call. I tried, but sketchy service out here—kept dropping me.”

  “I . . . um . . . ” Osborne wasn’t sure where to start.

  “Did you say your name is Osborne? You must be the new marketing director, but I thought we weren’t meeting until next week. I am sorry to be running so late—it’s the ice on these roads! Please tell Rudd she can start without me. A-a-n-d I can’t wait to hear more about her amazing purchase.”

  “That’s . . . ah . . . why I’m calling,” said Osborne, surprised to feel pressure against the inside of his eyelids. “Your friend is dead. She was hit by a truck this morning.”

  Silence on the phone. A long, long pause. “Say that again?” No edge in her voice—only the quiet that comes with disbelief.

  “I’m Dr. Paul Osborne—acting Loon Lake coroner. Our chief of police, Lewellyn Ferris, asked me to call you. We found a note in the victim’s purse listing you as the person to be notified in case of an emergency. So I’m sorry to be calling with bad news. Are you Rudd Tomlinson’s next of kin?”

  “No, I’m not. I’m her friend—the one she counts on.”

  “Can you help us reach her next of kin?”

  “Yes, of course. But can that wait until I get there? I’m her closest friend and I know the family well. They are not very nice people, and Rudd would want me to be the one to deliver the good news.”