Dead Frenzy

by Victoria Houston

  “That may be what we’ve got here.”

  Lew opened the larger of the two manila envelopes. Inside was another packet, made of a heavier stock and taped shut. A note was scrawled across the outside. “According to this, Eversman assumes Pecore has requested permission from the family to keep this section of bone as evidence until the investigation was completed. He saved that and soil samples in here,” she said.

  “Nothing in the file about that,” said Osborne. “Shouldn’t there be a legal notice of some kind?”

  “Nothing, huh? Then he didn’t do it,” said Lew, shaking her head. “Why am I not surprised—Pecore is such a slob. He probably figured without an open casket who would know.

  “And this”—she laid her hand on the bundle in butcher paper—”this is the burlap bag. I’m not going to open these, Doc. Why contaminate what little we may be able to salvage.”

  Osborne looked at the second close-up. “Lew, this is an excellent shot of Thornton’s neck—and a hell of a bite wound. The detail is terrific. The forensic dental guy in Wausau will be very pleased with this.”

  He looked up at Lew. “I think we’ve got something here. May I see that report again?” Osborne scanned Eversman’s remarks. “Right, here it is. Eversman says that the husband of the family employing the victim, and we know that’s Thornton, had a severe laceration of the neck, below his left ear. Thornton alleged that he was adding a new section onto his pier and lost his footing, causing a dock section to gash him in the neck. Also, Hugh notes the man had scratches and cuts on his hands, wrists, and forearms. Gash, hell, that’s a bite.”

  “Based on what Eversman says here, I can’t believe Raske and Pecore dropped the case on the word of some young girl,” said Osborne. “It’ll be darn interesting to see what can be made of all this, Lew.”

  “So much time has passed, Doc. Think the DNA will be viable?”

  “I know it survives in teeth—they’re able to use mitochondria. That’s as much as I know. How soon does this go down to the crime lab?”

  “One of the boys from Wausau is sitting in on a hearing over in Rhinelander this morning. He said he would swing by on his way back—have it down there by noon. He also said they’ve got a new guy who loves working with old evidence. The older the better, he says.”

  Twenty minutes later, from his chair in the third row, Osborne looked around the college classroom. The motorcycle safety class was more of a mix of ages and sexes than he had expected. Cheryl, who had arrived before him, was seated in the very last row and wearing the same outfit as the night before, with the exception of her T-shirt, which was red. It matched the red in the tattoos on her arms.

  The sullen expression was fixed in place. She barely acknowledged Osborne, which he could certainly understand: how uncool to know the old fogey of the class.

  At least that’s what he thought until a couple in their mid-sixties strolled in. Seated around Osborne were five young men, all in their twenties or thirties. When the instructor asked the students to introduce themselves and say why they were there, the five turned out to be experienced riders who had had traffic citations and were required to take the course before getting their licenses back.

  Two young women, both quite a bit taller than Cheryl, looked as nervous as Osborne and said that they had never ridden a motorcycle either. And finally, there were three men in their early fifties, friends, who had decided to take the class together. All three had Harleys on order and were hoping to ride to Sturgis for the national rally in August—they were beginners, too.

  Osborne relaxed slightly. He wasn’t alone—trepidation was obvious on half the faces in the room. The first hour flew by, and all too soon it was time to get on a motorcycle for the first time. The instructor took them out to the parking lot, where each was assigned a bike.

  Osborne’s confidence level was rising. Yes, the motorcycle would require using both hands and both feet—but that’s exactly what he did fly-fishing. He cast with his right, stripped with his left, and used both feet to balance on slippery rocks. Maybe he was cut out for this.

  “Dr. Osborne, ready? Got it in neutral?” The instructor, a heavyset man in his early thirties with dark hair and glasses, stood next to Osborne. He waited as Osborne mounted the bike, then cautioned, “You’re tall and you have long arms. Be careful to keep your right wrist up or you’ll roll the throttle at the same time as you pull the hand brake. You don’t want to do that.”

  “Got it.” Osborne pulled in the clutch, pushed the ignition button, pressed down with his left foot to put the bike in first gear, then eased out the clutch as he rolled the throttle ever so slightly and … he was moving! Around the parking lot he went, then again and again. He shifted into second gear, then slowed. Finally the instructor waved him in. Osborne kept his wrist high as he braked with his right hand and foot, bringing the bike to a smooth stop.

  “Excellent,” said the instructor. Osborne swung his leg off to let the next student try. He realized he was pouring sweat under the leather jacket. Removing the jacket and the helmet, he stepped back to watch his classmates. Cheryl was having problems.

  For one thing, she was so short that she had to stretch to get her feet forward on the pedals. Then, for some reason, she kept killing the engine, which caused the bike to lurch forward, then quit. Osborne winced.

  “Give it more gas,” shouted the instructor. “You need momentum or the bike will fall over.” But momentum was what she didn’t want: For all her tough facade, Cheryl was frightened. The instructor finally got her going, but she resisted shifting into second gear. As she put-putted around the track, Osborne’s heart lifted. At least he was doing better than that.

  After another hour of instruction in the classroom, the teacher took them out to the bikes again.

  “Okay, folks, this time we practice our turns. I want you to get the bike into second gear, ride towards me, slowing as you look through your turn, then up and around again. Remember, slow as you shift into first and look through your turn.”

  That sounded easy enough. Osborne got going into second gear. Coming up on the instructor, he slowed, shifting into first gear. Off to his left he heard a frightening, grinding noise. Before he could figure out the source of the roar, his bike leapt forward, missing the instructor by a fraction of an inch. Up the driveway it lurched, moving as if under someone else’s control. He saw the chain link fence coming at his neck. Dropping his head, he took the chain with his helmet. A stand of birch trees was coming up fast. Too fast.

  No, this is not going to happen! Osborne leaned hard to his right. The bike went down and he felt himself land on his right side. The engine cut out. Osborne moved his right arm and elbow gingerly. It had taken the brunt of the fall. Felt okay. No pain, no break. The instructor loomed overhead. “Are you all right?”

  He grabbed the bike so Osborne could crawl out from under. “Are you okay?” he asked again as Osborne got to his feet.

  “Yes, I am—shaky, but I think I’m okay.” Shaky? His entire body was trembling.

  “Take a deep breath.” Osborne inhaled. “Take another one. You dropped that bike like a pro, you know.”

  “I did?”

  “Yeah, great job. Look, bike’s okay, too.” The instructor looked hard at him. “You don’t have to ride if you don’t want to.”

  “What did I do wrong?”

  “You dropped your wrist so when you applied the hand brake, you pulled on the throttle—then you yanked on your clutch but not enough to disengage—that was the noise you heard.”

  “Well, I won’t do that again.” Osborne looked across the parking lot to where his fellow students were clustered, all watching, all looking very worried. He reached for the bike, swung his leg over, pulled in the clutch, and pushed the ignition. Wrist up, way up, he took a deep breath and started back across the parking lot. As he neared his classmates, they burst into applause.

  Later, as they headed back to the classroom, Cheryl came up behind him. She reached inside
her vest for a pack of Camels and shook one out, offering it to him.

  “No, thanks,” said Osborne, “I don’t smoke.”

  “Paulie,” said Cheryl, pausing to light her cigarette, then inhale deeply, “I am so glad you got back on the bike. You know what they say—everyone who rides has one accident. You’ve had yours, you lucky stiff.”

  “Cheryl, this isn’t easy. I was terrified.”

  “I am so glad to hear you say that. Me, too.”

  Back in the classroom, she settled herself into the chair right next to his. Osborne looked down, aware for the first time that something felt strange on his right foot. No wonder—he had peeled back the entire sole of the heavy leather motorcycle boot.

  Cheryl saw it, too. “Holy shit,” she said, “I can get you a new pair of those cheap. I’ll bring ‘em tonight when I make my pickup.”

  No doubt about it, he was her buddy.

  twenty

  “Always it was to be called a rod. If someone called it a pole, my father looked at him as a sergeant in the United States Marines would look at a recruit who had just called a rifle a gun.”

  —Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It

  Lucy Priebe was waiting outside the UPS customer entrance when Osborne drove up. Leaning against the building, arms crossed and a grim look plastered across her face, she stayed perfectly still as he parked and got out of his car.

  “Jackpot, Dr. Osborne,” she said, pushing herself away from the building as he walked toward her. “You’ve got thirteen boxes for Webber Tackle and I’m out of here. My husband is picking me up. By the way, if you need a snack or something, we have a vending machine in the back.”

  “Thanks, Lucy. I had a sandwich on the way over.”

  A twenty-minute visit with Erin after the motorcycle class had given him just enough time to down peanut butter on wheat toast with a glass of milk. It hadn’t occurred to him earlier that between the time he left the motorcycle class and the time he was due to take over at UPS, he wouldn’t have time to drive home and grab a bite. All he’d had during the lunch break at the college was a cup of chicken noodle soup, so when he got to Erin’s, he was starved.

  Since the kids were playing outside, they had a few minutes to chat. Or at least she talked while he chewed. The good news was that Mark had agreed to see the therapist and they were likely to start marriage counseling the next week.

  “Mark hates his job, Dad. He’s been afraid to say anything because he thought I would think he’s a loser.”

  “And … do you?” Osborne watched his daughter’s face carefully, looking for that familiar twitch of annoyance that Mary Lee had used so effectively to convey what she thought versus what she said. But Erin’s expression was open and honest.

  “Maybe I’m the one who’s always wanted to be a lawyer,” she said. “I guess that’s why I pushed him that way. So, you may find this strange, but we’re talking about me going to graduate school and Mark staying home with the kids. You know how he loves to work with his hands. We could buy old houses, and while the kids are in school, he can fix ‘em up to rent.

  “Dad.” She leaned toward him as she spoke, excitement in her eyes. “You know I’d make a damn good lawyer. I would love trial law, I know I would.”

  “How would you swing that financially?” Osborne drank his milk quickly, checking his watch.

  “I can apply for some grants,” said Erin, a little wistfully. They both knew grants would hardly generate enough to pay for law school. Mark’s parents were hardworking people of modest means so they weren’t likely to be able to help either.

  “Mark’s determined to spend all that money on a motorcycle?”

  “Dad, he’s getting a fabulous deal. It’s not as much as I thought. He’s getting a brand-new Harley for like five thousand dollars. I want him to have it. After all the hard work he’s done on this house, after these months of torture working for those creeps. The one good thing to come out of that office is this bike deal.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Mr. Kasmarek’s the one who put Mark in touch with the guy who sells the bikes. He met him up at the casino a couple weeks ago. He’s doing some legal work for the guy, too. I think, I’m not sure.”

  “Mark is?” Osborne tensed.

  “No, Chuck, the boss.”

  “What’s the guy’s name—the one selling the bikes?” asked Osborne, keeping his tone casual. All that Erin knew was that he had signed on to help Lew police the motorcycle rally. She knew nothing about the chop shop, nothing about the Ecstasy. “I enjoyed the class today—might be interested in buying a bike myself.” As he spoke, he hoped she wouldn’t notice the shredded sole on his boot. He had pulled off the loose chunks and walked sideways on what was left, hoping to save his socks.

  “You’re kidding, Dad. That would be so cool. Guy’s name is Patrick Baumgartner. That’s who Mark wrote the check to anyway. Some woman named Cheryl is going to have it ready for us. We pick it up Sunday.”

  Osborne set the half-eaten sandwich down on the kitchen table and took his time wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. He had better check with Lew before saying a word to Erin. The last thing she needed was for something to go wrong before the DEA closed in on Patty Boy. But he sure as hell didn’t need Erin and Mark walking into a major drug bust either.

  “Sunday, huh. Can I go along? I’d love to see what they’ve got available,” said Osborne. The next bite of his sandwich went down the wrong way and Osborne choked.

  “Are you okay, Dad?” Erin watched with concern from where she stood at the kitchen sink. “Need the Heimlich?”

  “No, I’m fine.” Osborne waved her off as he cleared his throat. “About going back to school, hon …” Osborne stood up as he wolfed the last quarter of the sandwich, washing it down with a huge gulp of milk.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Dad.”

  “If you and Mark are able to work things out, don’t let the money be a problem. I’ll help you with that.” He put his arm across his daughter’s shoulders and pulled her close. “Now don’t you two go without me Sunday—okay?”

  “Sure, that’ll be fun.” She walked him toward the front door. “I can’t believe you’re doing this, Dad,” she said. “That Lew person has really changed your life. Maybe …” Erin stopped at the top of the stairs leading down from the big yellow Victorian house. She cut her eyes sideways, giving him a sly look. “Maybe you ought to change hers.”

  “Now what does that mean?” He faked a grimace to cover his embarrassment.

  “You know what that means, Dad.” She grinned and sent him off with a wave.

  Osborne got into the car thinking how happy she looked. More than anything in the world, he wanted to keep her that way.

  He called the police department immediately after checking the shipment for Webber Tackle. “Thirteen boxes, Lew. Four rattle when shaken and they’ve all been shipped down from different locations in Canada. Overnight deliveries. Just what your DEA agents have been expecting.”

  “Is there room in that loading area for my cruiser?”

  Osborne looked over his shoulder into the dark area behind him. “Yep, plenty.”

  “Good. Have the door up and close it the second I’m inside.” She arrived within five minutes.

  At the sight of the boxes, Lew’s first reaction was consternation. “The Canadian angle complicates this,” she said. “I found out today that the reason the DEA hasn’t moved on Patty Boy sooner is they are in a major dispute with U.S. Customs over who has jurisdiction. Until they sort that out, neither agency can act.

  “It’s all politics,” she said as she studied the boxes stacked one on top of the other in the delivery bay. “On the other hand, when it comes to the Loon Lake Police Department, the fact is that Patrick Baumgartner and his Webber Tackle operation are located right here—no question who has jurisdiction.”

  “Lewellyn, you cannot take this on alone.”

  “If it were any other weekend but this
, I would not hesitate to move on that goombah as long as I had backup from Oneida and Vilas County, but I’ve got every extra officer of theirs already assigned to crowd control.” At the look on Osborne’s face, she raised both hands. “Don’t worry. I’m taking orders—surveillance only. Just pray the DEA and Customs guys get their acts in order before anyone gets hurt.

  “Speaking of which, we better hurry. What do we have? Thirty, forty minutes before they pick these up? Let’s open a couple before she gets here.”

  “Can we do that without their knowing?”

  “Probably not. We’ll make it look like they arrived damaged and you repacked the best you could.”

  And so they selected two boxes to open: one that rattled, another that was quite heavy. Lew sliced through the packing tape on the first box. Inside were six small Styrofoam packets wedged tightly together. She dumped out the packets, then stomped on one end of the outer box.

  Repacked, it would look like it had been squashed under something heavy.

  The Styrofoam units were taped shut. Dropping to her knees, Lew slit the tape across the top of one and carefully pried it open. Antique fishing lures, several in small boxes, were wrapped in plastic and packed tight inside. Lew removed the bubble wrap from around one box and read from the lid: “A Musky Wizard Minnow … and the dealer tag says it’s from the early nineteen hundreds.” She sat back on her heels as she spoke.

  “This is an old Pflueger lure—unused and in the original box, too,” she said. “I’ll bet that’s worth a couple hundred bucks.” Her fingers worked opened the small faded box with the same delicate touch she used to tie on a trout fly. She held the black lure with its treble hooks and propellers out for Osborne to examine. “You know it’s old when it has glass eyes.”