Dead Angler

by Victoria Houston

  “Cynthia, are you serious?” said Osborne, “this does not sound like the Peter Roderick I know.”

  “Isn’t it strange, Doc? I wasn’t going to say anything. I’m sure he’s harmless, but the more I thought about it, I figured you should know—”

  Just as she spoke, they heard someone running up the stairs at the far end of the hall. Quickly, they turned to leave the room. Cynthia pulled the door closed behind them and, as if conducting a guided tour, and made a show of ushering them into the nearest empty room. She positioned herself at a window, raising her voice and gesturing animatedly as Alicia appeared in the doorway. She pretended not to see her.

  “See over there, Chief? You can get a glimpse of the building from this angle,” said Cynthia, as Lew and Osborne made a show of crowding in behind her to see where she was pointing.

  “We’ve always called it ‘The Stone House.’ It cost a million dollars to build in 1929, which was a lot of money back then. My grandfather built it for old man Daniels after the big fire. He said they made it big enough to service a town the size of Loon Lake. He also warned us as kids not to play around there ever. Gases build up in the storm sewers that can kill you.”

  “Like the tragedy in Wausau last year?” asked Lew. “Did you hear about that, Doc? Two city workers went down to do a regular inspection of one of the city sewer mains and they were overcome like that,” she snapped her fingers, “dead in thirty seconds.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Osborne. “I never heard of such a thing.”

  “Chief’s right,” said Cynthia. “My dad drew Meredith a diagram so she could the vent the system properly. There are two separate drainage routes. All the toilets and sinks discharge into a septic system and drainfield, but the rest of the water—like from the laundry, the sprinkler system, the storm sewers—is carried separately. That water can be used for an emergency. Meredith had Clint get the system up and running. Right now, it’s used to water the landscaping that’s going in around the restaurant.”

  “That must explain why she got such a good deal on insurance,” chimed in Alicia from the doorway. “My god, what smells so bad?”

  “Hey—what’s Ray Pradt doing here?” Cynthia was still looking out the window. “He just walked down the walk towards the kitchen door.”

  “Ray Pradt? Why is he here?” Alicia echoed Cynthia. An unmistakable edge crept into her voice as she said Ray’s name.

  “I asked him to walk the property,” said Lew.

  “Ray Pradt?” Alicia sounded dumbfounded. She waited as if she expected Lew to explain this absurd directive.

  Lew ignored her as she strode hurriedly back into the hallway and headed toward the back stairwell to the kitchen. Everyone followed her. “Cynthia,” she asked as she ran down the stairs, “Why is the lodge room so crowded with furniture?”

  “That was the previous owner,” said Cynthia, “the Galvin estate sold The Willows in the early sixties. The new owners ran a hunting and fishing lodge up here until ten years ago. They packed this place with the junkiest furniture you can imagine, crap from garage sales, used furniture stores. The place looked like an attic upstairs and down. When they went broke, the bank took over the buildings and everything in them—”

  “I’m ready to show you around,” interrupted Alicia.

  “Not necessary,” said Lew, handing the checkbooks back to her. “Cynthia gave us a tour. I would like to look through your sister’s personal things and her bedroom but that may have to wait until tomorrow. Right now, I have to see Ray. Oh—Alicia, one thing. That second checkbook you handed me, that’s not a personal checkbook. I’d like to see the personal checkbook when you find it. Okay?”

  “But I won’t be here tomorrow morning—”

  “Cynthia, can you help me tomorrow?” Lew’s tone was brisk.

  “In the morning? Certainly.”

  If Alicia was planning to argue, it was too late. Ray was waiting for them, arms crossed, leaning against the baker’s table in the center of the room. His lanky form relaxed but his eyes serious over his tanned cheekbones.

  “Got a few minutes, Chief? Wayne and I found some eagle bait you need to check out.”

  “Another victim?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” he said, twisting a lock of his beard absently as he spoke. “It’s a lit-tle dis-turbing,” he enunciated his words with studied deliberation as he always did when he was in control of vital information. If Osborne found it frustrating when Ray pulled this, he knew it made Lew grit her teeth.

  “You may want to limit the number of visitors until you have observed the situation,” he said, rolling his eyes towards the sound of shoes clattering down the stairwell to the kitchen.

  “Give me a clue, Ray,” demanded Lew. Osborne waited for Ray’s response to her obvious irritation. But you couldn’t hurry Ray.

  “One hundred sixty-five million.”

  “O-o-kay …” The testiness in Lew’s voice escalated another level. Someone was pushing their luck.

  “That’s the minimum number of dry flies you’ll be able to tie with what I’m about to show you.” Then he straightened up—”C’mon, you two.”

  sixteen

  As Ray pulled his truck over, Wayne stood up from where he had been sitting on an old kitchen chair that had been reincarnated as a deer stand. He walked towards them with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched, eyes drowsy. The summer heat had put a shine on his face.

  “Yo. Not a sign since you left,” he said to Ray, looking back over his right shoulder. Osborne followed his glance down the dirt path that continued past the clearing. Wayne seemed more than a little reluctant to move in that direction.

  “You two go on ahead, don’t wait for us.” As he waved them on, Ray busied himself with something in the back of his truck. A certain smugness in his manner made Osborne feel like he was on the wrong end of a poker hand. At the same time, Ray wasn’t his usual light-hearted self, which worried him. Plus the drive along the wide-cut cross-country ski trail that got them here had been made in complete silence. Another ominous sign.

  Osborne made sure to stay just ahead of Lew as they walked briskly down the dirt path. He felt in his bones an urge to protect her. Of course, if she knew what he was thinking, she’d probably kick him in the shins. He tried to be subtle, hoping his long legs would give him a good twenty-foot lead.

  He rounded a curve in the path. Just ahead, black with age, was an old log hunting shack. The path ran off to the right of the shack, leading up to huge old jack pine that towered over a dense stand of young aspen trees. Not until he was right in front of the trees could he see that they were hiding a shed cleverly constructed of wooden planks with the bark still on. Almost impossible to see against the heavily wooded forest.

  As he waited for Lew to catch up, the wind died so suddenly that the stench hit his face like a filthy rag. In the same instant, he realized the path at his feet changed color the closer it ran to the shed: grassy ruts turned to sodden black strips laced with ribbons of red glinting in the sunlight. Coagulated blood.

  “Oh boy,” he heard himself saying, “what do we have here?”

  The three-sided shed was floored with a concrete slab angled for run-off. Inside to the left stood a rusted oil drum stuffed full of severed deer limbs jutting out all directions. To the right of the barrel, against the back wall, he could see a heap of hides, crusted and bloodied along the edges. Overflowing from a small wooden bin in the corner were buck tails.

  “Pretty nasty, huh?” said Ray from behind. “I told Wayne we call this open-air taxidermy.”

  “Tell Wayne I call it poaching,” said Lew, “friends of yours?”

  “I don’t think so. My friends go for meat not mounts.”

  “Ah-h,” said Lew. “You’re right, Ray. Brother, talk about a license to kill … this may be the biggest poaching operation I’ve ever seen.”

  Wayne finally appeared, walking the perimeter of the path, careful to keep his shoes
out of the bloody muck. “Pretty recent butchering, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Recent and rushed,” said Ray. “I found hoses in the back, which makes me think they usually do a better clean-up than this. I think somebody was hard at work until daylight today. Skilled cutter, too. Very nice job on the hides. Been working their way through quite a few deer.”

  “I imagine they knew exactly what they were doing,” said Lew.

  “Oh yeah,” said Ray. “Feeding station and deer stand right behind the shack, drawing from a deer yard I’ll show you back there. This time of the year, the bucks still travel in groups. Easy pickings.”

  “Whew! That August sun doesn’t do this place any favors,” said Wayne. He looked nauseated. “If it carries like I think it does, this stench could be tough on the restaurant business.”

  “The smell isn’t from the shed,” said Ray, “I found some pits out back where they’ve been dressing the carcasses.”

  “The odor is being carried over to house,” said Lew. Cynthia said it’s been a problem off and on. I’ll have to find out when she first noticed it.”

  “I guess we’re talking some good money, here?” asked Wayne.

  “A mature mount with a 12-point rack will go for three thousand dollars easy,” said Lew. “If the poachers got a pipeline to dealers on the East Coast, they can get two or three times that.”

  “Wow,” said Wayne. “All because people love Bambi?”

  “Deer are beautiful animals,” said Ray, “now … my girl friend isn’t bad looking either but … I’m happy with photos.”

  “That’s an old joke, Ray,” said Lew. “Why don’t you work on your timing, y’know?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Ray waved his hands up by his head, “couldn’t resist.”

  “To answer your question, Wayne,” said Lew, “we get these jabones from the cities that like to think they’re big game hunters. Either they hunt on the game preserve with the prey driven smack onto their laps, or they buy their trophies like they buy their wives.

  “Just last month I arrested one idiot who shot a bighorn ram as it was standing in a pen. The poor animal had been retired from a zoo, and this jerk paid five thousand bucks to shoot it. Why not hunt cows in the barnyard?” Lew shook her head in disgust. “Maybe I shouldn’t complain—this is exactly what keeps us North Woods cops in business.”

  Wayne looked a little taken aback by her vehemence. Osborne just fell in love with her all over again.

  Lew walked the perimeter of the shed once more. Finally she spoke, “They’re certainly dropping these bucks at peak season. Their racks are fully grown, they can skin the velvet easily. If the area hasn’t been hunted for five or six years, they will be trophy-size racks. I’ll bet they took some beauties out of here. Where’s that feeding station, Ray?”

  Ray pointed, and Lew started towards the back of the log cabin. “What’re they using?”

  “Shotgun with deer slugs. You can do that when the poor suckers are fifty feet away.”

  “Great,” said Lew. “All we need is the gun, match ‘em up, and we got our man.”

  “Lew?” Osborne hurried after her, “I find it difficult to believe Meredith Marshall would sanction anything like this on her property.”

  “She would have been too busy with the restaurant to take the time to check it out,” said Lew. “This entire operation, including that shed, can be put in place in just a few days. And it isn’t exactly easy to see.”

  “But the smell,” said Wayne, “isn’t that a giveaway?”

  “Only if you have bad luck,” said Ray. “This time of year the wind generally blows out of the southwest. It’s a fluke to have it blowing towards The Willows.” He and Wayne shuffled along behind Osborne. “We didn’t find it by smell, did we?”

  “You spotted those turkey vultures,” said Wayne.

  “Yep. But first we headed this way because it’s the most remote section of the property, remember? No snowmobile trails. You and I figured if anybody had something to hide this would be the place. Then I saw six turkey vultures circling, and I knew we had serious carrion. Didn’t hit the smell till we were right on it.”

  “Brilliant, Ray. Brilliant,” said Lew, almost effusive with appreciation. The pleased smile on his friend’s face told Osborne Lew had just sealed a friendship for life. He wouldn’t be surprised if, in the future, Ray would pass on any lucrative guiding, grave-digging or snow-shoveling jobs if and when Lew needed him. Osborne sensed that Ray liked Lew Ferris almost as much as he did. For some reason, that made him feel good.

  “Whoa, look at that!” Ray pointed. Off to their right, less than twenty feet away, stood a bald eagle, unmoving on its golden claws. It was an old bird, nearly three feet tall. They advanced, but the bird ignored them, cocking its head arrogantly to pluck another strip of intestine from its prize. They were now so close they could see the elegant layering of each dusky brown feather: disk upon disk edged with silver, a pattern as delicate as the embroidery on a Japanese obi. Finally, disgusted with their insistence on interrupting his meal, the magnificent bird spread his immense wings to spiral up and away.

  “I’ve never been that close to an eagle,” said Wayne, mesmerized.

  “He’s not anxious to leave,” said Osborne, watching the bird circle overhead.

  Lew picked her way carefully in the direction of where the bird had been feeding. A cloud of black flies buzzed over the spot. Everyone else hung back.

  “Doc? Ray?” Lew called to Osborne. “Do you mind taking a look at this?

  “Do I have to?” Osborne walked forward reluctantly. “Decomposing deer guts are not high on my list today.”

  But it wasn’t guts he saw. Lew stood over the rotting carcass of a doe and two young fawns.

  “Why on earth …?” she turned to Osborne with troubled eyes.

  Ten minutes later, after scouting the remaining clouds of flies, they added it up: for sport the poachers had killed at least three doe and five fawns. That wouldn’t include any wounded animals that might have run off to die in the forest.

  “Nothin’ like a guy who knows how to mix business with pleasure,” said Ray.

  “This is nauseating,” said Osborne. “Poaching is one thing—but what kind of person does this?” He had a hard enough time each year shooting one buck or doe for the venison, which he loved to eat. The death throes of the animals had often been so disturbing that more than once he had considered giving up the sport. This might just do it.

  Lew knelt over the last group of deer carcasses. “Ray, do you notice anything unusual with these fawns?”

  “Well … they’re all about three to four months old,” said Ray. “Oh, I see what you mean—no bullet holes. Now that is interesting.” Osborne stepped in to look. Sure enough, he could see no sign of bullets or slugs on the small decomposing forms.

  “The does were shot,” said Lew, looking around, her hands on her hips. “But these fawns—how did they die?”

  Wayne had been kicking around in the tall grasses along the edge of the woods. He paused and bent over. “I don’t know if this means anything,” he stood up with a sawed-off limb in his hand. “Somebody’s been cutting wood back here.” Ray walked over to where Wayne stood.

  “O-o-kay … so you cut down a stand of spruce, shave off the branches and chop it into four-foot lengths,” Ray observed outloud. “Now why would you do that? This wood is too green to burn but…,” he grabbed one length with both hands as if it was a baseball bat and swung.

  “Boom. Batting practice. You know what I think, Lew? I think this was used to kill those animals. The does were shot, maybe the fawns stayed with their mothers long enough for someone to come up from behind and break their necks.”

  Lew shook her head sadly as she examined one of the limbs. “Ray, you sure this is spruce?”

  Ray examined the chunk of wood he held in his hands. “Black spruce. Pretty sparse around here these days. Woodworkers keep an eye out for black spruce because it’s go
od for railings on stairs and balconies. It’s a pretty wood. Light-colored with streaks of brown, which is why it’s called black spruce.”

  He studied the trees along the edge of the field where they were standing, then pointed. “See that stand over there? The trees with the very slender, uniform trunks? Those are black spruce.” Ray walked in that direction. “Someone has really been cutting back here,” he said. “Here’s another stack. My guess is our poacher is also in the home building business. At least he knows good wood when he sees it.”

  “I’ll take one of those,” said Lew, reaching down to pick up one of the cut limbs. “Never know when it’ll come in handy.”

  Osborne reached to pick one up. “Gee,” he said, “this is surprisingly heavy, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” said Ray, “conifers are considered softwood, but black spruce is one of the denser, harder woods. It’s a good wood, Doc.”

  “And a weapon all right,” said Osborne, speculating on the miserable human beings who turn nature’s beauty against itself.

  “I guess we better scratch the fishing, huh?” said Osborne as they got out of Ray’s truck back at The Willows.

  “Are you kidding?” said Lew. “Follow me in your car.”

  “But I thought you said you want to see Clint Chesnais right away.”

  “I do, Doc. We’re going to scream back to Loon Lake for my truck, then up to the casino. We’ll hit the Deerskin on our way back.”

  Well, of course, silly me, thought Osborne as he pressed down on the accelerator. When she hit the highway, Lew turned on her siren and they did 75 MPH all the way back to town. While Osborne parked his car next to hers, Lew dashed into her office. She was back out in less than ten minutes, dressed in fishing shorts, a long-sleeved cotton shirt, and her fishing hat.

  “I got twenty-three phone messages that can wait until morning,” she grinned. “Except one. Ralph called in on his cell phone to say the tiny blue olive hatch is outrageous.”

  Osborne could feel her excitement as he climbed into the passenger seat of her truck. “I admire you, Lew. Very few people could run a police department and a murder investigation and still have the energy to fish.”