Dead Boogie

by Victoria Houston

  Lew nodded. “I had Marlene call out to Thunder Bay and Robbie was right—neither Donna Federer nor Pat Kuzynski showed up for work last night. She reached Pat’s mother, who was on the verge of calling us. Donna lives alone but Marlene put a call in to her father. I’ve arranged for them to meet us at the hospital to identify the bodies. But when it comes to Peg Garmin, I don’t know who we’ll call.”

  “Ray knows the family and—”

  “Family? I didn’t know she had family. After her husband died, I thought …”

  “Let’s ask Ray when he gets back here,” said Osborne. “He was pretty shook up, so I didn’t ask any questions. But his mother and Peg were close. Ray has known Peg Garmin since he was a kid.”

  Lew was astonished. “Are you serious? Dr. Pradt’s wife was a close friend of Peg Garmin’s?” As she was shaking her head in disbelief, the battered red pickup rattled into view.

  seven

  Better to return and make a net, than to go down to the stream and merely wish for fish.

  —Ancient proverb

  The pickup skidded to a stop in front of the Loon Lake Police cruiser. Ray slammed the gearshift into neutral and, leaping from the driver’s seat, shouted over at Lew, “Got it! Found the place where they were shot! Mile and a half down the road. You can see where they were run off. Even the tread marks of the vehicle that pulled ‘em over—”

  Lew looked up from her note taking. “You sure it’s the same cars?”

  “There’s more.” Ray’s expression was grim.

  “I’ll follow you,” said Lew, flipping the notebook closed as she jogged toward the police cruiser. “Doc, everything’s under control here—need you to help me out.” She motioned for Osborne to ride along.

  Tires spinning, she pulled onto the gravel road behind Ray’s truck, staying close to avoid the dust. About ninety seconds down the road, the pickup swerved to the right and stopped so fast Lew had all she could do to keep from rear-ending it. “Jeez Louise,” she said, rolling down the car window as Ray came running up.

  “Get out here,” said Ray. “Any further, we might mess up some of those tread marks. I want you to follow me up the hill there—we’re gonna circle back and around so we don’t disturb anything.” Ray spoke fast, his voice low.

  “You think anyone is hiding back in there?” said Lew.

  He gave her a quizzical look. “No. Oh no.”

  “Then can we slow the hell down and speak in a normal tone of voice? I almost took out your truck two seconds ago.”

  “Sorry,” said Ray, “I just—you’re right, no need to rush …”

  Lew reached through the window to lay a hand on his shoulder. “We’re all of us working this the best we can. Now settle down, will you?”

  “Sure,” said Ray.

  But before Osborne and Lew could close the car doors, he was gone. And while Ray could move through a wall of aspen and across boulder-strewn hummocks as smoothly as a trout in water, the best that Lew and Osborne could do was stumble forward hoping not to trip and fall. The hill that Ray took in two leaps, they crawled up—clutching at clumps of grass for support. Pausing at the top to catch their breath, they skidded sideways, feet fighting gravity until the only option was to sit down and slide.

  “Last thing I need right now is a twisted ankle,” said Lew, wiping at the sweat on her forehead as she got to her feet.

  “Or a branch in the eye,” said Osborne, wondering why he took the time to brush dirt from his pants before plunging ahead. Twice they lost sight of Ray, only to catch glimpses of khaki bobbing and weaving through slash and past dead stumps. Just when they thought they had lost him, they came around a stand of balsam to find him waiting.

  He pointed off to the right. “We’re not looking for a brain surgeon—whoever shot Peg and those other two women was dumb enough to throw their purses in the bushes over there.”

  “Dammit!” said Lew, hands on her hips. “I knew something didn’t fit when I was checking out that wreck. Just couldn’t put my finger on it—but that’s it: the purses. You don’t find three women and no purses. One of their bags, at least, would have been thrown from the vehicle when it rolled.”

  “Good work, Ray,” she said, emphasizing every word. “Assuming it was the killer who threw them, let’s pray for decent prints … and more dumb mistakes.”

  “Walk slowly now,” said Ray, his hand up in warning as they neared the edge of a clearing surrounded by balsam, spruce, and Norway pine. “Stop right where you are … okay, take a look …”

  Pools of something bright and black caught the light of the lengthening sun: blood, tissue, flies. The bare trunks of three tall pines had served a purpose.

  “This is where it happened, all right,” said Lew.

  “Yes,” said Ray, his voice soft as a prayer, “three people died here … one was like a sister to me …”

  Neither Doc nor Lew spoke. There was nothing to say. And Ray was a changed man. Gone was the lighthearted, affable fishing guide of two hours earlier. In his place was a somber, tense figure. A man who looked older than his years.

  Osborne had seen this man before—the night of his initial visit to the room behind the door with the coffeepot on the window. It was the first of many nights that he would listen to Ray tell his story. Over time their friendship flourished and Osborne came to know a side of Ray that few people did: the side that was driven. The side that woke every day determined to substitute water, monofilament, a lure, and the repetitive motion of casting for a more dangerous liquid addiction. An addiction bequeathed by his mother.

  “I was walking over here—following the blood trails and taking photos—when I found the purses,” said Ray as he guided Lew and Osborne along the edges of the clearing. “The killer was standing near that fallen log when the bags were thrown, and the footprints I found at that spot indicate whoever it was wore boots. Boots that left well-defined impressions.

  “You can see for yourself the shine on the ground right there,” he said, pointing. “See where the sole and heel compress the earth? Oh yes, I got close-ups, “he said, answering the question he saw in Lew’s eyes.

  “Be nice if we knew what kind of boots,” she said.

  “Not a hiking boot, I can tell you that,” said Ray. “Most likely a cowboy boot but with a heel that left a distinct pattern. Over here and heading towards the clearing from the direction of the road, you can see tracks of four different pairs of shoes: two with heels, one without plus those boots.

  “Something else that you can’t see from here are long, chute-like impressions, which are hidden under that bank of ferns over there—”

  “Drag marks?” said Lew.

  “Yes. At least one body was dragged back towards the road—but some of the footprints in that direction, which are identical to the ones by the fallen log, are so well defined that I think the person walking was carrying additional weight. The odd thing about the boot prints is that they aren’t any larger than the others—the ones from the shoes the women were wearing.”

  “So … another woman maybe?” said Osborne.

  Ray shrugged, “Could be. So what I see here are the tracks of four people walking towards the clearing—then a separate trail back to the road. That trail indicates weight being dragged or carried by only one person, a person whose footprints are identical to those around the fallen log. Now, I left prints myself when I first got here but I was very careful not to step any closer to those tracks than I had to for the photos—”

  “You’re wearing moccasins, Ray. Bruce will know your prints from the others easily,” said Lew.

  “Right. One more thing—whoever left those boot prints has been here before.”

  Lew gave Ray a long look. “Are you saying the shootings were premeditated?”

  “Well, take a look over here and see what you think,” said Ray, motioning for them to follow him twenty feet to the right of where they had been standing.

  “Even though we haven’t had rain for over a wee
k, the forest canopy overhead protects the ground—allows it to hold moisture while the evergreens block the wind. I was able to find an older set of tracks leading back here, parallel to the paths taken by the three victims and the killer.” Ray motioned for them to halt, then pointed.

  “That trail. Even though I’m just eyeballing it, I’m positive those tracks were made by the same boots that—”

  “Okay, I’ve seen enough,” said Lew. “I better let those Wausau boys know they have to work this site ASAP. No rain in the forecast for tonight, I hope.”

  “Not that I’ve heard,” said Osborne.

  “Poor Bruce,” said Lew with a sigh. “There goes Shania Twain. Even if they tarp the site around the wreck, I doubt they can get enough done here in time to make the show. Doc, let’s head back up the road and deliver the news. You, too, Ray. We still need photos of the victims once they’re removed from the wreck …” She paused, her eyes searching Ray’s face. “Are you doing okay?” “Yeah.”

  “You don’t look okay,” said Lew. “Ray,” she said, dropping her voice, “I have some idea of how you must be feeling right now. The night my son died was the worst of my life. It’s one thing when a stranger is murdered—it’s quite another when you know the person. Doc said Peg was a close friend of yours … maybe you know how I can reach her family?”

  She reached over to put her hand on Ray’s arm. “Would it help if you’re the one to call them?”

  “That I cannot do,” said Ray, moving away. “Sorry, Chief, I just … I can’t …”

  He started back through the trees to the road. Over his shoulder, he said, “If you call the Hugo Garmin main offices in Chicago, the people there should be able to put you in touch with her family. Hugo and his wife are dead but there’s a sister.”

  “Wait …” said Lew, astonished. Hurrying to keep up, she said, “Are you saying Peg is one of the Garmins? The grocery chain Garmins? That’s a huge company.”

  “Yep—she’s an heiress. Or she was before the old man excommunicated her—the sonofabitch.”

  “Hold on, Ray, this is hard to believe. Peg Garmin is connected to the Chicago Garmins?”

  “Their fallen angel.” His tone was dry.

  Lew’s eyes caught Osborne’s. “Did you know that?”

  “No—I’m as stunned as you are.” As they scrambled to keep up with Ray, Osborne was sure that he and Lew had to be asking themselves the same question: Known call girl, widow of a mob bag man, mistress of old Doc Westbrook, and heir to the Garmin fortune?

  “Ray? Ray!” Lew raised her voice, but the khaki shirt had disappeared from view.

  “Give him time, Lew,” said Osborne.

  eight

  Of the pike: it is a fish of ambush.

  —J. H. Keene, The Practical Fisherman

  “Here’s the stretch where Peg’s car was run off the road,” said Ray, pointing to variations in a patch of grass growing along the ditch. “And in the sand alongside you can see tread designs from two different vehicles.”

  “Sure can,” said Lew, dropping to one knee for a close look before quickly sketching each of the tread patterns in her notebook.

  She glanced up at the two men. “This is handy. May not be official but I’ll know the minute I’m back up the road if one of these matches the tires on Peg’s car.”

  With a look of grim satisfaction, she flipped the notebook closed, then walked slowly along the road, studying the grassy section and the numerous footprints that became obvious once you knew where to look. Osborne was relieved that she had decided to back off questioning Ray about the Garmin family—for the moment at least.

  “Honestly, Ray,” said Osborne. “I don’t know how you do it. Nothing about that grass looks all that different to me. It’s not as if it’s been chewed up or mowed down …”

  “No-o-o, but it’s been disturbed, Doc. Not bent or broken … just … disturbed. When I was driving down this way, my first thought was it looked like deer had been bedding down. Didn’t fit. When’s the last time you saw deer bedding down this close to a road? So I pulled over to check it out, and that’s when I spotted those tread marks.”

  “And thank goodness you did, Ray,” said Lew. “The Wausau boys may do good lab work, but they would never pick up on something so subtle as disturbed grass. I know I wouldn’t. And look how much we’ve accomplished here—from evidence of Peg’s car run off to the murder site—”

  “Yep. I got photos of every bit of it, too. While the sun was good and high so you’ll have the definition you need.” He looked at Lew. “If you and Doc are okay with this, shall we drive back up so I can shoot those last few photos that you need? I’ll get ‘em developed right away. Should have them for you later this evening.”

  “Thank you, Ray,” said Lew. “Oh, man,” she said as they trudged toward their vehicles, “at least we’ve got a start on this.”

  “Feeling a little overwhelmed?” said Osborne, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  “More than a little.” Lew gave a pained laugh. “Forget the razzbonyas at Country Fest. Now I’ve got three murder victims and where do I go from here? Do I assume they all died for the same reason? Or was one the target and the others in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  “Peg was the target,” said Ray, his voice flat.

  “C’mon, Ray.” said Lew. “We don’t know that. Just because she was who she was, doesn’t mean a thing. We have no proof why any of the three died. Which …” Fatigue washed across her face as she paused then said, “Which is why there will be no fishing tonight, tomorrow night—maybe not even the next night. I have to talk to those families —the sooner I know more, the better.” She looked hard at Ray.

  His features tightened as he said, “I knew Peg—not the family.” Slipping into his pickup, he drove off.

  Turning the police cruiser around to head back up the road, Lew glanced at Osborne. “Doc, I am so short of manpower—I need Ray’s help, but not if he’s going to leap to conclusions that could damage the investigation. Until we know what was going on in each one of the women’s lives, how can we possibly know why they were murdered?”

  “He’ll come around,” said Osborne. “Right now he’s upset.”

  “You think he’s upset,” said Lew. “I know a few folks who’ll be plenty worried when they hear Peg Garmin is dead.”

  “Oh yes,” said Osborne. He could name a few himself. And that wasn’t counting the wives.

  Lew slowed as they neared the site of the wreck. Ray was already out of his truck and walking toward the area where the bodies were being readied for transport. On seeing his camera, the EMTs backed away. Ray moved slowly around each of the victims, leaving Peg for last. Osborne stood by in case he needed help.

  After shooting several photos from a standing position, Ray knelt over Peg’s body, camera in his right hand. He brushed the hair back from her face. Startled, he stared down. Then, turning his head to one side, he pressed the fingers of his left hand against his eyelids. The gesture seemed to work: He inhaled deeply and turned back to shoot the close-ups.

  When he had finished, he let the camera swing from the strap around his neck and, sitting back on his heels, covered his face with both hands. He stayed there, not moving. Just as Osborne started forward, anxious to help, Ray stood, gave a slight wave to the EMTs, and walked off. He couldn’t have gone ten feet when a cloud appeared on the crest of the hill: the van from Channel 12.

  Pulling up behind one of the two ambulances parked in front of the tow truck, a stocky figure in tan slacks and a short-sleeved green plaid shirt jumped out, flung open the side door of the van, and leaned in to reach for his equipment. Dave Schoeneck, red-haired and raspy-voiced, worked for a TV station out of Rhinelander that was so small he had to function as cameraman, sound tech and reporter—simultaneously.

  He spent so many hours covering high school sports and local social events that anything smacking of real news was heartily appreciated, which explained his behavior at the moment
. Arms and elbows flashing, he rushed to load himself down with equipment and sprint across the gravel road, face flushed from the heat.

  “Sorry, Dave,” said Lew, moving to block his way before he could get past the ambulance. “Until I have a chance to notify the families, I cannot allow the press anywhere near the scene of the accident.”

  “Oh, so it’s an accident?” Dave shouldered the camera as he reached for the switch on his battery pack. He thrust a mike at Lew. “Chief Ferris, are you saying no foul play is involved? We received a call that three women had been found shot to death—”

  “All that I can confirm is that we have a traffic fatality on a back road in the township of Loon Lake. No more information will be made available until the family or families of the deceased are informed. Now turn off that camera or you will spend the night in the brand-new Loon Lake jail—do I make myself clear?”

  “Sure.” Dave gave her a sheepish look. “Had to get something, Chief. I persuaded the news director to let me cover this instead of Shania Twain’s bus. Ray Pradt’s the one who called and insisted I get out there. I see his truck—is he around?”

  Just then he spotted Ray crossing the road toward the pickup. “Hey, guy!” said Dave. “Looks like I’m outta luck. Chief Ferris said no can do on this so-called accident. How ‘bout we shoot a quickie on that incident with the smelly fish this morning. That way at least I got something for the six o’clock news—where’s that hat of yours?”

  “Dave, I can’t do that right now. I just … I can’t,” said Ray, backing off.

  “Don’t do this to me,” said Dave. “Hell, you’re the one got me to drive all the way out here—”

  “I—I—” Ray couldn’t finish. Tears glistened on his cheeks. He ducked into his truck.

  The cameraman watched him, then turned to Lew. “That’s a first. You can always rely on that guy for B-roll. Well … now—why do I feel something big is happening out here?”