Dead Boogie

by Victoria Houston

  He might be a man of modest means but he lived a life rich with the outdoors: days packed with opportunities to capture eagles, foxes, loons, otters—even wolves—in the lens of the camera he carried in his tackle box. Each autumn a few of those photos would find their way to a local printer, who paid him ten bucks each for use on the calendars given away by local insurance agencies.

  His sister, a wealthy trial lawyer in Chicago, had tried to convince him that he had such a good eye, he might make it as a professional photographer. But that sounded too much like a day job to Ray. Only when Chief Lewellyn Ferris needed him would Ray—as he put it—“go pro.” The work for the Loon Lake Police Department was short term, paid well, and rarely interfered with his fishing.

  And if he was happy, Lew was more so. Deputizing Ray to photograph a crime scene allowed her to circumvent Pecore’s sloppiness—with minimal damage to the department budget. Better yet, it allowed her to tap into Ray’s talent for tracking.

  His instinct for light and dark and all the shades between made him an expert tracker. That, plus the hours he’d spent on water and in the woods since he was a kid. Unlike the boys from the Wausau Crime Lab, who worked best indoors (when she was able to twist their arms to drive sixty-seven miles north), Ray excelled in the forests, along the shorelines, down country roads and logging lanes. That’s where he could see what was missing, what was disturbed, what lay beyond the obvious.

  But it was never easy to persuade him to take the job. He was too accustomed to being on the receiving end of law enforcement. “Hey,” he would argue, “if I keep this up, my buddies’ll think I’m undercover—no one’ll fish with me.”

  “I need you, Ray,” Lew would counter, “you think like a criminal. Who else can fish private water and never get caught?”

  “Okay, okay, here’s what happened and it’s not what you heard on the police scanner,” said Ray, convinced at last that Robbie had no intention of letting him off the hook.

  “I was minding my own business and driving by the post office when I saw Sister Rita. As Doc here knows, every Friday I drop a string of bluegills and a couple walleyes off at the convent. The nuns love ‘em. And every Friday I try to explain how good those fish smell right after they’re caught. Which is true—right?”

  “Right,” said Robbie. Osborne nodded. That is true of fresh-caught walleye.

  “So happens this morning I had a couple walleyes that I’d just caught when I see Sister Rita in the parking lot of the post office. Right away I pull over, drop the gate on my truck, and just as I’m holding up a twenty-inch beauty for Sister Rita to smell, the damn state cop drives up—”

  “I don’t suppose you were wearing that stuffed trout on your head, were ya?” said Robbie, interrupting.

  “Yes, I was—but what would that have to do with anything?” said Ray, sounding hurt.

  “Well—the cop mighta thought you were full of baloney.”

  “You’d think he’d believe a nun! Sister Rita tried to tell him all we were doing was smelling fish.”

  “Ray—don’t ever change, man,” said Robbie, wide shoulders heaving as he chuckled. “I gotta tell ‘ya, listening to the scanner this morning made my day. Sure did. Oh, jeez.” He wiped a tear from his eye.

  “More fun for you than for me,” said Ray.

  “Ray—got the camera?” said Osborne. Enough time had been wasted.

  “Yep, right here.” He reached through the open window for his camera and the hat in question. “I was embarrassed, Sister Rita was embarrassed. The guy just didn’t get it. And he made an unkind remark about my hat.”

  Holding it with both hands as if afraid it might break, Ray set the stuffed trout on his head, then bent to check the angle in the truck’s side mirror. He tipped the fish slightly to the right then stooped to lean in for a closer look.

  “Drats …” He lifted it off, huffed on the silver lure that was draped across the trout’s neck, and with a gentle touch, rubbed the lure on his sleeve until it shone. Again he set the hat on his head, giving it a tip to the right. He winked at Robbie: “Just in case that story hits the networks.”

  “Ray, I really wish you hadn’t notified the TV station,” said Osborne, beckoning for Ray to follow him down the road past the tow truck. “Lew put a call in to the Wausau boys but I have no idea when they’ll get here. We can’t have anyone getting close to the victims and the wreck until they’re finished.”

  “I hear ya, Doc, and I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.” Ray slung the camera strap around his neck.

  “You and I have to be careful, too. You’ll see an entry path that I set up so we disturb as little of the site as possible.”

  “Okedoke.” Ray ambled along behind Osborne. It wasn’t until they had cleared the front of the tow truck that Ray got a good view of the suspended convertible and its occupants.

  “Wha—!” He gave a strangled bark of pain and disbelief—then yanked the camera from his neck and thrust it at Osborne. He dashed for the car. Two feet from the front of the wreck, he fell to his hands and knees and froze, eyes fixed on the body dangling from the driver’s seat.

  Osborne heard him gasp. “What? That’s a bullet wound!”

  “Yes,” said Osborne. He stopped a few feet back from Ray. “Three women were riding in that car. All three … executed.”

  Ray’s eyes raked the scene in front of him. At last he stood, his body stiff, his back to Osborne. “Why didn’t you tell me it was Peg?”

  Osborne threw his arms up. This was too much. For nearly two hours he and Robbie had been waiting—unable to do anything about a sad and gruesome reality until photos were shot and the team from the crime lab arrived—and now he was accused of doing something wrong?

  “Ray, I had no idea you know the woman well enough that it would matter.”

  Ray mumbled something.

  “What? I didn’t hear you …”

  Only then did Osborne realize he was weeping.

  “I said, ‘She was my mother’s closest friend.'” Ray stood up and turned around, eyes dull with grief.

  “How … what …” Osborne didn’t know where to begin.

  “They were friends for years … she was the first woman I ever loved.”

  Osborne was stunned. The Peg Garmin he knew was soft-spoken, gracious, and lovely in a pale, ethereal way—remarkable for a woman in her line of work. But the fact remained, she was a call girl. An expensive call girl. And a close friend of the wife of the town’s most prominent physician? Ray’s first love? Something didn’t fit.

  He was silent as Ray walked toward him, reaching for the camera.

  “I’ll take care of this,” said Ray. And Osborne knew he was talking about a lot more than just the photos.

  six

  I want fish from fishing, but I want a great deal more than that, and getting it is not always dependent on catching fish.

  Roderick Haig-Brown

  It was ninety-two in the shade and the cicadas were screaming when Lew’s cruiser finally cleared the hill. The team from the Wausau Crime Lab beat her by thirty minutes and had already roped off the area around the wreck. Right behind the police cruiser, fueling a block-long cloud of dust, came two ambulances.

  “Doc—” Lew slammed the car door behind her and shouted to Osborne, who, along with Robbie, was leaning against the his car, “Do you mind asking the EMTs to stay back until I can talk to the Wausau boys? Sorry to keep you waiting—be with you in a second.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” said Osborne. “Lew, don’t rush. A few more minutes won’t make a difference.” Not to him at least. And the EMTs were likely to appreciate the fact that the delay plus the heat was loosening the hold of rigor mortis on the victims, which would make their jobs a little easier.

  “Don’t worry about me,” said Robbie. With no calls for tows and the hours on this job adding up, he was happy. “The longer it takes, the richer I get,” he had confided in Osborne.

  With the long reporter-style notebo
ok that she favored in hand, Lew circled the wreck. She would take a few steps, stop to jot a few notes, then continue. Osborne watched from where he stood. As always, he found her easy on the eyes—particularly today as the heat had forced her to undo the top three buttons of her shirt.

  Osborne was always surprised by how strongly he was attracted to this woman who was the opposite of his late wife. Where Mary Lee would never think of leaving the house without a full-scale application of makeup and every strand of hair anchored with spray, Lew could care less. He doubted she owned any makeup, certainly no hairspray. The few times he had spent the night at her farmhouse, the closest thing to makeup that he could find in her medicine cabinet was sunscreen.

  And where Mary Lee had been small-boned and bragged of being allergic to any exercise beyond a short walk—Lew Ferris wouldn’t hesitate to load herself down with a fully inflated float tube, a fly-fishing vest with every pocket filled, a fly rod, and a backpack stuffed with waders, wading boots, sandwiches, fruit, nuts, and two bottles of water. That was before hiking in two miles to a secret lake for an afternoon of playing with brook trout.

  Nor was Lew Ferris a small woman but sturdy, trim, and strong and with a curve to her hips that was emphasized by the crisp tan pants that constituted half the summer uniform of the department. The uniform’s other half was a matching cotton shirt that, even unbuttoned, fit snugly across her breasts. Osborrne knew better than to tell her how good she looked in that uniform. God forbid she decide to wear a larger shirt!

  Lew edged her way around the overturned convertible and stooped twice to get a closer look at the victims. Walking back toward Osborne, she paused to converse in low tones with the two forensic specialists who’d driven up from Wausau. While she spoke, Osborne searched her face for signs of fatigue. The Country Fest crowd partied around the clock, which meant that even with help from neighboring police departments, Lew had been working sixteen-hour days. But if she was tired, it didn’t show. At least not to his eyes.

  What he saw was a frank, open face tanned dark by the summer sun. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat, her dark eyes serious and calculating. Dark brown curls tumbled across her forehead and over her ears as if uncaged by the humid air. As she spoke to the two men, she raised one arm to wipe away the perspiration gleaming on her forehead.

  “Whoa—this heat is something,” said Lew. “How soon before we can move these bodies?”

  “Give us a little more time,” said the taller of the two men. “We need to bag the hands of each of the victims and protect those door handles before letting anyone approach.”

  Osborne recognized Bruce Peters, who had managed a Wausau forensic team on a murder case for the Loon Lake Police the previous winter. A tall man in his early thirties, Bruce had friendly brown eyes and a large, square head that reminded Osborne of Mike, his black Lab.

  He was also an aspiring fly-fisherman who had been badgering Lew to help him with his casting. So far no date had worked for both parties and Osborne hoped it never would—or that he could maneuver to invite himself along. Bruce didn’t wear a wedding ring, and who knew how he felt about dating older women. Vigilance was merited.

  Lew motioned to Robbie to walk over to where she was standing. “Bruce, this is Rob Mikkleson. When you and your partner are ready, he’ll be towing the vehicle down to Wausau,” she said.

  “Chief Ferris—something you might want to consider,” said Robbie. “I’ve got a clean, open area—pretty well lit—in one of my garages. These fellas are welcome to work on the vehicle there. Might save the cost of towing it all the way to Wausau.”

  “He’s got a point,” said Bruce. “Hauling it sixty miles on the interstate might dislodge any trace evidence that could be critical.”

  “That’s fine with me,” said Lew.

  “How ‘bout the black box—will you guys be checking that?” said Robbie.

  Bruce gave the tow operator a puzzled look.

  “Late-model cars like this Chrysler have data recorders that record how the air bags work. Some can tell you if the cruise control, traction control, and the stability control were on. Might be worth checking—a buddy of mine who’s a mechanic for the Chrysler dealer over in Rhinelander has a diagnostic computer that’ll run that analysis if you want.”

  “What good would that do?” said Bruce, sounding peeved that a burly guy in a dirty sweatshirt and overalls might one-up their forensic results.

  “Can’t say exactly,” said Robbie, “but if I were you, I’d sure like to know what happened during those last five seconds before this vehicle rolled. You want my two cents, I find the setup here”—he waved an arm at the wreck—“to be damn peculiar. And I seen a lotta wrecks …”

  “Peculiar?” said Lew.

  “Yeah,” said Robbie. “Peculiar.” Everyone stared at the overturned convertible with its grim cargo for a long moment.

  “Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like it before myself—won’t hurt to check it out,” said Lew.

  “Robbie, you said something earlier that I think you should mention to Chief Ferris,” said Osborne. “About the gas tank.”

  “Oh, yeah, almost forgot,” said Robbie. “I told Doc here that tank is so full, I can’t believe it didn’t explode.” “Topped off?” said Lew.

  “Pretty close,” said Robbie. “They had to have filled that tank within the last thirty, forty miles I’d say.”

  “Well, that narrows our search to a forty-mile radius,” said Lew. “Little overwhelming with everything else going on in Loon Lake. Doc”—she turned to Osborne—“I’m hoping you and Ray can help out for the next day or two. Ray can’t be doing much fishing in this weather—”

  “I don’t have a problem with that,” said Osborne. He resisted the impulse to hold up his right hand for a congratulatory slap—just the way twelve-year-old Beth, his granddaughter, celebrated every smallmouth she caught off the end of his dock.

  Instead, he managed a mock grimace so the Wausau boys wouldn’t catch on to how pleased he was to be drafted as a deputy again. He had to be the only retired dentist who loved returning to work—work that might generate modest pay but offered the unique benefit of a boss he never tired of seeing. Crime may not pay for some folks, but it had a way of making Osborne’s day.

  Robbie glanced at his watch then over at Bruce, “How long you think before I can move this?”

  “Well …” Bruce gave Lew an inquiring look. “When’s showtime?” He winked and grinned like a little kid.

  “Hah!” snorted Lew. “No wonder you made such good time getting up here. No one pulled you over for speeding, I hope.”

  “Nah, we just hightailed it the minute after you called.” Lew gave a low chuckle. “So that’s the secret to getting you Wausau boys on the scene when I need you.” “Yep. Got the tickets?”

  “As promised.” Lew unbuttoned the shirt pocket over her left breast.

  “What time does she go on?”

  “They told me ten o’clock at the earliest.”

  “Plenty of time for us to get all the preliminaries under way here.”

  “What’s that all about?” asked Osborne as he and Lew headed over to where the EMTs were waiting.

  “Country Fest has been making up for all the extra hours we’ve had work with free tickets to the shows,” said Lew. “When I called down to Wausau and said I had tickets to see Shania Twain tonight—I had instant cooperation.”

  A smile of satisfaction crossed her face and Osborne knew why. This was a marked improvement in her usual relations with “those goddam Wausau boys.” The lead supervisor of the Wausau Crime Lab was not one of Lew’s favorite people—nor she his. Close to retirement age, Chuck Meyer was a former FBI agent who had little respect for women in the military or in law enforcement.

  Whenever she needed assistance from his lab—assistance for which Loon Lake had to pay good money—he found ways to make it clear that he considered Police Chief Lewellyn Ferris to be way out of her league.

 
It was always the same battle: He would respond to her request with a snide remark implying that a man in her position would be able to handle the situation, whatever it was. She would listen to his rant, and when he had finished, in a calm voice she would list the resources and manpower needed. She would then request that he fax her a proposed budget and timeline. Chuck would balk, insisting he needed at least twenty-four hours advance notice.

  “Fine,” Lew would say, “I’ll send down a few figures.” Which she would do within thirty minutes—but only after trimming the projected costs by thirty percent. This would send Chuck into a frenzy. Within fifteen minutes, he would fire back an adjusted budget, which Lew would walk over to the home of the Loon Lake mayor for approval. The routine was repeated every couple of months—and Chuck never caught on.

  Today, when Lew called in, he was on vacation and Bruce was in charge. Bruce, who was bored, a Shania Twain fan, and, Osborne suspected, pleased to be working again with Lew. She found him willing to negotiate without paperwork and—once the free tickets were mentioned—running for the parking lot.

  “Where’s Ray?” said Lew, looking around after instructing the EMTs. “He didn’t leave, did he? I’ll need more photos once they have those bodies ready for transport. Cost a bloody fortune if I have to have Bruce shoot ‘em.”

  “He drove up the road about forty-five minutes ago,” said Osborne. “I examined the victim who rolled out of the backseat and the pattern of postmortem lividity indicates she did not die sitting in the car. She died standing up—which may be true of all three. Ray wanted to backtrack the direction the car was traveling to see if he might find any sign of where they were shot.”

  “He’s been gone long enough, he must have found something,” said Lew. “Let’s hope anyway. Any idea when all this may have happened?”

  “Not with this hot weather,” said Osborne. “Afraid I have to defer to the pathologist on that.”