Dead Frenzy

by Victoria Houston

  “I’ll check on it.”

  “You didn’t hear what I said.” Lew stood up. “I said I want it in Wausau tomorrow. I will take care of sending it down. You have it on my desk by eight a.m. or my next budget will be minus one coroner.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “I can give it a damn good try.” And she could, too.

  Mrs. Pecore, during this exchange, never took her eyes off the TV, never stopped rocking.

  “Thank you, Lew,” said Osborne back at the car. “Jack’s suicide has always bothered me and I’ve always worried about his girls, especially Edith. She was such a sad little kid after all that happened.”

  “It’s easy, Doc, as long as I can keep it off my desk—and those Wausau boys owe me. I’ll just say I have a new witness and see if they can’t work this up on an urgent basis.”

  “What about the budget issue? Is Pecore right?”

  “He’s correct that the lab work costs money, but he was wrong not to have followed through. As far as I’m concerned, this is still an open murder case and that means the budget is there. That’s why I was happy for you to look into it in the first place.”

  She looked over at Osborne. “As far as questioning the daughter, do you think she’s up for it?”

  “I’m not sure. Guess I’ll find out soon enough. But with everything else you’ve got me doing, I doubt I’ll see her before Saturday.”

  “Saturday?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to tell you. Parker Steadman invited us to a dinner party he and his wife are giving Saturday night.” He did his best to sound light, happy, and hopeful.

  A long pause. “The thing is, Doc,” said Lew, her voice smaller than usual, “you need to know something about me. Especially after the other night.”

  Osborne’s heart fell to the floor of the car.

  “I’m a ‘sometime’ person and I don’t know if that can work for you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I like doing things with you—fishing, getting together like the other night—but not on a regular basis. I’m not couple material, Doc. I’ve learned that the hard way. And I just … I don’t want you to expect too much.”

  That wasn’t quite as bad as he was expecting. “Does that mean you’ll go to dinner with me … sometimes?”

  “Yeah, kinda…. The thing is, Doc …” She turned her head to look out the window as she spoke, “we have very different histories here in Loon Lake. Different lives. My little farm? I need that solitude. You have a lifestyle very different from mine, and a social life … I can’t fit into that. Frankly, I don’t want to fit into it.”

  Osborne thought of the chicken potpie in his refrigerator—he didn’t want to fit into it either.

  “Are you saying you don’t like my friends?”

  “Maybe it’s a bit of the reverse. But that’s not the point. I do want to see you … sometimes.”

  “So you will go fishing with me again.”

  “Of course. So long as you understand I like to fish with other people, too.”

  “And you’ll be my date Saturday night?”

  “I would like to, but that depends entirely on what happens over the next couple days. I’ll let you know Friday if that’s okay. What time does your motorcycle class start in the morning?”

  “Nine.”

  “How about stopping by the office for coffee around eight? We’ll take a look at what Pecore’s got before I have it sent down to Wausau.”

  Osborne pulled up at the back door to the jail and her office. She leaned over to leave a swift kiss on his cheek. “I’m tense, I’m tired, but I feel good about us. ‘Night, Doc.”

  “Good night, Lew.” He drove home slowly. Like a wild trout, Lew belonged free. Catch and release worked for fish. Could it work for humans?

  eighteen

  “Fishing, after all, is still a mind game.”

  —Roland Martin, champion bass fisherman

  “Pa-r-r-d-e-e,” Ray’s voice boomed through the phone.

  “What?” Osborne should never have answered. He was so tired, he hadn’t even called Erin to see how the evening with Mark had gone.

  “Saturday night, Doc. And you are talking to the Chief Cook and Bottle Washer! I have … persuaded—no, I take that back. I have demonstrated my talents … to the extreme—”

  “I think you mean ‘extent,’“ said Osborne. He knew he was being a little too curt but he was so damn tired.

  “Right. To the extent that those good people … are willing to let yours truly … orchestrate … the great Loon Lake fish fry … right smack in the middle of their million-dollar kitchen. Walleye, American fries, and cole slaw from the Colonel. Doc, this could turn into something, something big.”

  Osborne could see it now: an evening of Ray’s cooking seasoned with raconteurship and sprinkled with birdcalls.

  Some things about the guy never changed, but the ladies would love it. Tired as he was, he couldn’t resist. “Sounds to me like you’re auditioning for a show on that network of theirs—’First You Fish, Then You Fry.’“

  Silence for a beat, then Ray said, “Doc, that is not bad. Not bad at all. I need an angle, you know.”

  “Ray, I’m kidding. A title like that makes it sound like first you fish, then you burn in hell.”

  “True … I’ll work on it. Say, need you to help me out in the morning.”

  Switching subjects, Ray dropped the happy-talk cadence. “I’m not kidding about the fish fry. I’m cooking for the party. Parker said he had invited you. I figure if we’re on the lake early tomorrow and Friday, we ought to catch enough to feed twenty—”

  “Sorry, Ray, no can do. Lew’s got me in town for a crack-of-dawn meeting, then I start that motorcycle class.” He yawned.

  “Yo-o-okay—I’ll think of something.”

  Osborne knew he would. Worst case, Ray was intimate with a couple private lakes where he could poach plenty walleye in an hour or two. Trophy fish, ones the owners would have stocked, coddled, then wondered, “Where the hell did those go?”

  In spite of the fatigue pushing at the back of his eyes, Osborne made the effort to be pleasant. “How’s it going with Barbara Walters?”

  “Very nicely, thank you. Had a little something interesting happen today, though.”

  Osborne checked the clock on his chest of drawers. He’d give Ray five. Times like this, he had to remind himself he owed his neighbor. Owed him in ways he could never pay back: for his drive through the blizzard to save Mary Lee’s life; and later, for being patient and strong and willing to remind Osborne that the bottle held all the wrong answers. Five minutes of listening was the least he could do.

  “You know how our leading lady has been getting these threatening phone calls for the last three weeks—”

  “Only three weeks? I was under the impression this had been going on for some time.”

  “Nope. Started with this tour and always when she’s setting up to shoot B-roll: four tournaments, four threatening phone calls.” Ray had the lingo down. Rather than interrupt, Osborne assumed “B-roll” had something to do with background material. He could ask later.

  “At any rate …” Ray paused for effect. “The calls come only when she’s outdoors, which is why she was able to convince the old man she’s being stalked.”

  “Ah hah,” said Osborne. “Do I detect a hint of doubt in your voice?”

  “However … it so happens that Mr. Steadman didn’t make his millions being stupid. He didn’t hire just me, he’s also lined up this high-tech operation that does contract work for the government to track those calls.”

  “He mentioned something about that as we were leaving the airport. How’s that working?”

  “That’s what’s so interesting. They have a system that works like an electric vacuum cleaner. Locks in on incoming phone signals, selected by monitoring key words, then they can trace those signals. I don’t know the details but suffice it to say I think I’m being paid l
ess to protect than to pick up. I offered to wear a fish locator, told Parker it could do the job for a lot less money.”

  “I’m sure he appreciated that.”

  “Same principle, though. Parker’s had my belt rigged with a device like a pager that makes it possible for the tech guys to get the clearest possible signal. And he made it very clear I was not to say a word about this to his wife.”

  “She didn’t ask why you were wearing—”

  “Never noticed. The woman doesn’t notice much about other people, Doc. So I’m with her in that sardine can of a car, driving to all these locations where she thinks she wants to shoot this B-roll stuff when, boom, she gets one of these calls.”

  “While you’re in the car?”

  “Actually, no. We were standing in a crowd down at the boat landing where they’re setting up the tournament headquarters. A couple semis were unloading these big bass boats that are going to be used in the tournament. Man, those are nice boats. Forty thousand bucks for one of those damn things.”

  “Ray, it’s after eleven. Can we talk boats another time?”

  “Sorry. So everyone’s standing around watching the boats, watching them get outfitted with these Mercury outboards that you wouldn’t believe—probably another twenty thousand smackaroos. And they got the music blasting, brats cooking, people talking. All that’s happening when Hayden decides to walk over to one of the boats. Now she’s standing a good hundred feet from me, talking to one of the mechanics … and the call comes in.

  “I see her give me this terrified look and she’s waving like mad, so I run right over. And I’m looking around like crazy because, according to what I’ve been told by her, the caller always says he’s in the vicinity—that he can see her and blow her head off at any given moment.”

  “A little unsettling,” said Osborne.

  “But as I’m running over, I look down at that pager thing. It has an LED light that changes color when it locks in on incoming signals. And …”

  “And?” Osborne urged.

  “Doc, I stood five feet from that woman and nothing happened to that light.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No … call.”

  “So the phone never even rang?”

  “Hell, it was so noisy around there, I could never have heard it if it had. I don’t think she could have.”

  “Ah, she’s making it up.”

  “Parker wants me to keep checking on this, but, yeah. We think she’s lying.”

  “Why on earth?”

  “Get attention from the old man is what I think,” said Ray. “Trouble in Paradise.”

  “Good reason for you to keep your nose clean,” said Osborne. “That explains why she was all over you at the airport.”

  “Yep. But I got it under control, Doc.”

  “I’m sure you do, Ray.”

  nineteen

  “Some of the best fishing is done not in water but in print.”

  —Sparse Grey Hackle

  Osborne paused in the doorway of Lew’s office and peered in. The room was sunny and airy, the windows wide open to the morning breezes. Lew was seated at her desk, head down as she concentrated on some paperwork. Sensing his presence, she glanced up and he was happy to see she looked rested. In fact, she looked terrific.

  “What smells so good?” he said, walking in.

  “Me, of course,” said Lew with a spritely tilt of her head. “Just kidding. The lilacs across the street are in full bloom.”

  “What the hell did you say to Irv Pecore, Chief?” said a woman’s voice from behind Osborne. He stepped out of the way of a very amused Marlene. Reaching past him, she thrust two oversized manila envelopes and a larger package wrapped in butcher paper at Lew. “He stomped in here about two minutes ago and threw these on my desk. Hey, look at you, Doc! Whoa, turn a-r-o-und.”

  He followed orders. The two women checked him over, eyes starting at the thick-soled motorcycle boots, traveling up his chap-clad legs and ending at the collar of the heavy leather jacket.

  “What do you think, Marlene?” Lew’s eyes were teasing as she chewed lightly on the end of her pen. She obviously liked what she saw.

  “He needs one of those bad to the bone T-shirts.” The switchboard operator chortled. “Doc, you look the part, you really do. Oops, I hear my switchboard, excuse me.”

  “Yeah, well, let’s hope I survive this enterprise,” said Osborne, feeling a little silly all of a sudden.

  “You’ll do fine, Doc.” Lew got up from the desk and walked over to the little table in the corner holding the coffee maker. “And since you are doing me a big, big favor, let me at least pour you a cup of coffee.

  “By the way,” she said as she handed him the cup, “I was looking over some of the documentation they gave me in the meeting the other day. This update on Patty Boy Plyer is pretty darn amazing.” Lew looked down to read from the paper she had been studying when he walked in.

  “Turns out there is a federal grand jury inquiry into—get this list, now—credit card fraud, narcotics trafficking, loan sharking, and suspected murder of his former partner in an auto theft marketplace tied to the Chicago mob. Criminal record includes arrests on charges of robbery, assault, forgery, loan sharking, narcotics trafficking, and the aforementioned attempted murder. Never convicted of the latter. Has been known to use a number of aliases…. ”

  “What is an auto theft marketplace?”

  “Chop shop, so he’s got the résumé for that biz, that’s for sure.” She sipped from her coffee. “Loon Lake boy makes good.”

  She reached for one of the envelopes that Marlene had delivered. “I know we don’t have much time so let’s see what Pecore managed to dig up.” She chuckled, probably at the thought of Pecore cursing while frantically searching his property room.

  Opening the flap, Lew peered inside, then carefully slid the contents on to her desk: a series of black-and-white photos, a number of small glassine envelopes similar to the ones Osborne had used for sending teeth home after a youngster’s extraction, and a two-page typed report. Lew picked up the report, scanned it briefly, then handed it over.

  “Here, you read it. I can look at it later. Remember Hugh Eversman? He was a young police officer back then—looks like he was the investigating officer and completed this report.”

  “Whatever happened to Hugh?”

  “Married a girl from Milwaukee and went into the computer business. He was long gone when I joined the department. I’m sure he had aspirations beyond being the grunt in a two-man police department, which is all Loon Lake had twenty years ago. Not like four of us is much better, but at least the workload is spread around.”

  The report was meticulously typed and single-spaced. The man had done his homework.

  “The burlap bag in which the victim was found is our best piece of evidence,” wrote Eversman. “Even my unscientific eye can see blood and hair all over it—enough to convince me that the girl fought hard with whoever the assailant was. I think we should look real close at Mr. Bud Thornton, her employer, as a prime suspect. He had a laceration behind his left ear that resembles a bite mark (photo enclosed). Not being an anthropologist, I don’t know what forensics can do with fingernails, but if they have markings like you find in fingerprints or on bone, we might have a chance here as I found what looks like a good-sized piece of ripped fingernail stuck in the burlap. Because of that, I got nail clippings from the victim and from every individual who might have had contact with the victim in the twenty-four hours before her death. A long shot but worth checking out. The best likelihood of any matches with the evidence on the burlap will be the results of the blood tests from the same group of people.”

  Osborne looked down the list of people from whom Eversman got samples. They included Thornton and his wife and each of their three children, even the three-year-old. Also a teenaged friend of their oldest daughter who was staying with the family. Then there were samples from Jack Schultz and from Donald Bruckner, proprieto
r of the little grocery predating the Loon Lake Market. The baby-sitter had been seen in his store earlier in the day.

  Eversman went on to recommend an analysis of all the enclosed samples to be compared with anything the coroner might find under the victim’s nails or in her mouth.

  “Looks like he wasn’t able to establish the scene of the crime—only where the body was dumped or hidden. Did Pecore follow up on that?” asked Osborne.

  “As far as I can tell, the only thing he followed up on was Happy Hour at Marty’s Bar,” said Lew. “Check these out.”

  She slid the photos over to Osborne. The black-and-white enlargements were striking in their clarity. “Someone did a good job on these.”

  He handed the two-page report back over to Lew. “I’ll pick up a copy later if that’s okay.”

  Lew nodded. “I’ll meet you at UPS at six tonight and bring everything with me. I want copies of the photos, too. They are good, aren’t they. I’ll send the originals to Wausau but keep copies for us.”

  She scanned the report that Osborne had handed back to her. “No wonder the photos are good; Hugh asked Dick Elke to take those.”

  Dick Elke had been the resident Loon Lake photographer for many years, up until his death. Family reunions, high school graduation photos, and weddings were his specialty. This would have been a little out of his league, but he appeared to have done the best he could in order to shoot as much detail as possible.

  The first image staring up at Osborne was like the one they had seen that terrible day, the one that would live forever in Erin’s nightmares. The others were shot from different angles. And there were photos of the site where the body was found in spite of signs of trampling from onlookers, who would have included Osborne and the two Brownie Scouts.

  Then, two close-ups. Osborne leaned forward in the chair to study the first image. It was a chunk of maxillary bone with seven teeth visible against a background of pine needles, decaying leaves, and decomposing flesh. The teeth were startling in their whiteness on the page.

  Stapled to the photo was a typewritten note. “Listen to this,” said Osborne. “Animals had gotten to the corpse and Eversman found this section of bone a short distance from the body. He tried to preserve as much as he could, scooping it up with the dirt around it, for testing.”