“Cassie?”
“Quinn’s dog.”
Burr didn’t know what to make of the dog. Did she figure into this somehow? Right now he needed to understand what happened on the river that night.
He swiveled in his seat and looked back at Lizzie again. The boat rocked. “Is this his boat?”
“No. The sheriff came and got it after they found the paddle.” She ran her hand along the rail. “He loved his boat. Traveler.” Lizzie looked up at Burr. “Do you know who Traveler was?”
“Robert E. Lee’s horse.”
Lizzie nodded at him. “Lee said that was the best battle horse he ever had. That’s how Quinn felt about his boat.”
“What do you think happened?”
“I think he must have slipped and cracked his head on the rail.” She ran her hand along the starboard rail again. “He must have been knocked out or at least dazed. The anchor chain got tangled on his ankle, and he fell over the side. Right about there.” She pointed off to her right. “The chain didn’t hold in the deep water, not with Quinn tangled up in it. The current dragged him and the boat downstream to the end of the hole, where the water shoaled.” She pointed downriver about fifty feet.
Burr could see where the water changed color from coffee to sand.
“The chain hung up there. That’s where they found him.”
“Who found him?”
“A fisherman. The next day.”
“How did he get in here?”
“He walked in from over there.” Lizzie pointed to her left. “A two-track comes in from the west. By the time it gets to the river it’s a path. There’s another way in over there. Downstream.” She pointed to the east side. “It’s just a path.”
Burr turned back around and looked at Lizzie. “How do you know he drowned?” Burr knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from Lizzie.
She took off her sunglasses. Burr thought her eyes looked a little puffy.
“There was water in his lungs.” She stopped. “It’s so awful. I can’t think about it.” Her hands began to shake again. “I loved Quinn. More than anything. He loved me, and he loved fly-fishing. I never asked him to choose.”
Burr needed to get back to what happened that night. “I assumed Quinn hit his head on the rail, but the transcript of your arraignment said you killed him with a canoe paddle.”
Lizzie’s voice broke. “Quinn and I had some problems, but I loved him. It wasn’t a perfect marriage.”
That was just about the most non-answer answer he’d ever heard. “When you got the boat back, was the paddle in it?”
“No.”
“Did you wonder where it was?”
“I didn’t really think about it. But it probably fell in the river and floated away. Things fall in every day, and nobody ever sees them again.”
“We’re going to have to think about it now.”
“This was called Dead Man’s Hole,” she said. “Now they call it Quinn’s Hole.”
Lizzie pulled up the anchor chain, and they floated on.
“This paddle is going to be a problem. We’re going to have to figure it out,” Burr said.
Lizzie ignored him. “Over there,” she said, “you can drive almost all the way in from there.”
Burr looked to his right.
They kept going. Lizzie pointed out more Hex holes, but they didn’t stop. A little further on, Lizzie pointed to the west bank. “There,” she said. “That’s Quinn’s father’s cabin.”
Burr looked downstream. The river straightened out, higher ground with hardwoods and pines. This didn’t exactly fit Burr’s definition of a cabin. A two-story log home with shiny, varnished logs, paned windows and a shake roof. There was no grass, the yard filled with ferns, myrtle and wildflowers. There was a boathouse built on the dock with living quarters above.
“That must be worth a fortune,” Burr said.
“Quinn’s father lives there during the season,” Lizzie said.
“With all that money, why was Quinn a guide?”
“That’s how he could afford to be a guide,” Lizzie said.
They drifted on. The river widened and flattened out. There were a few more cabins, but it was mostly wild again, low and swampy, full of willows, dogwood and tag alders. Smith Bridge lay just ahead. They drifted another hundred yards, then Lizzie leaned into the paddle and pulled them ashore.
“This is where we dropped off the trailer and where I left it that night. And this is where Quinn would have landed.”
The boat nosed onto the shore. Zeke jumped out and found the nearest tree. Lizzie stepped into the river and pulled the boat over the bank. Burr stepped to the bow and onto the bank.
“How long would it have taken Quinn to get here?” Burr said. “In the dark.”
“It depends on how much you fish.”
“How about that night?”
Lizzie took off her sunglasses again. “That night, it took the rest of his life.”
CHAPTER THREE
At ten on June 15th, a week after he’d floated the South Branch with Lizzie, Burr sat at the defense table in Judge Harold F. Skinner’s courtroom. The air conditioning was working about as well as the last time he had been here.
Burr had floated the river. He’d seen where Quinn had drowned. He’d talked to Lizzie, Wes, and Thompson. He thought Quinn had drowned, but that’s not what Cullen thought.
Burr tap-tap-tapped his No. 2 yellow pencil. How did I get myself caught up in this?
Lizzie sat to his left, Jacob sat next to Lizzie. Eve sat behind them in the first row of the gallery. Wes, next to Eve, looked decidedly out of place in a gray suit. Quinn’s father, Thompson Shepherd, next to Wes, oozed money. The gallery was packed.
Lizzie had dressed as Burr had told her to—a black dress, knee length, no jewelry, no makeup.
The bailiff with the struggling mustache appeared. “All rise, the Court of the Honorable Harold F. Skinner is now in session.” Judge Skinner shuffled in and sat down.
“Be seated,” the bailiff said.
Skinner addressed the courtroom. “We are here today for the preliminary examination of Elizabeth Shepherd, to determine if there is enough evidence to bind her over for trial.” He looked at Cullen. “You may proceed.”
Cullen stood. “Thank you, Your Honor.” Cullen turned to the defense table and then the gallery. His toothy smile lit up his pockmarked cheeks. The prosecutor cleared his throat.
“Early on the morning of June 22nd of last year, the defendant, Elizabeth Shepherd, snuck onto the South Branch of the Au Sable, ambushed her husband and murdered him. With malice aforethought.” Cullen paused. “Not only did she murder him, she brutally murdered him. She smashed his head in with a canoe paddle. Then she…”
“Stop right there, Jack. Unless I am mistaken, this is a preliminary examination. There is no need for an opening argument,” Skinner said.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Cullen said.
“I suggest you call your first witness.”
“Yes, Your Honor. The State calls Brian Bilkey.”
After he was sworn in, Bilkey sat down and faced the courtroom. He had wire-rimmed glasses on a small nose, and his eyes were too close together. He was tan from his eyebrows to the tip of his chin, but his forehead was white.
“Another fisherman,” Burr said, under his breath.
Cullen approached the witness. “Please state your name and address.”
“Brian Bilkey, 530 Grosbeck, Lansing, Michigan.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bilkey,” Cullen said. “Would you please tell us what you were doing on the morning of June 22nd of last year?”
“I got up bright and early, and drove back to the Mason tract. I parked at the head of a two-track. Then I put my waders on, my vest, put my rod together and walked the two-track to the river. Then—
”
Cullen raised his hand, palm out, to the witness. “Thank you, Mr. Bilkey. When you reached the river, what did you see?”
“See?” Bilkey straightened his glasses. “Well, I saw the river. That’s where I came out. It was pretty clear, not too low. Which is good.” He smiled at Cullen, who was not smiling.
“Mr. Bilkey, what else did you see?” Cullen raised his eyebrows. “On the river.”
“Well, there was a nice seam in the current. Perfect place to float an Adams. I like a number ten.”
“Mr. Bilkey, we’re not here to talk about the kind of fly you used.”
Bilkey nodded. “There was a boat, an Au Sable riverboat, out there at the end of the hole. Which ruined the hole. With the shadows and breaking up the current and all.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bilkey. Was there anyone in the boat?”
“Not a soul.”
“What did you think about that?”
“I was mad. Dead Man’s is my favorite hole. I always catch fish there. Once in a while a chub but mostly browns.”
“Chubs?” Cullen said.
“Yeah, I throw ’em on the bank for the raccoons. And the otters.”
Burr had had enough. “Objection, Your Honor. While I have a keen interest in fly-fishing, I don’t see the relevance.”
“I agree, Mr. Lafayette,” Skinner said. Then to Cullen, “You might pick things up a bit, Jack.”
Cullen scowled.
If Cullen rehearsed this with Bilkey, this isn’t going the way he planned.
“Mr. Bilkey, you testified that you didn’t see anyone on the boat. Did you see anyone on the shore?” Cullen said.
“No.”
“In the river?”
“No.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bilkey. Then what did you do?”
“Well, I’d come all this way, so I thought I might as well give it a try.” Bilkey rearranged his glasses again. “I waded upstream, then I drifted that Adams right through the hole. Nothing. So I switched to a Royal Wulff, then a Mickey Finn. There were a few fish rising, but I couldn’t get ’em to do anything.”
Cullen gritted his teeth.
“Then I switched to a Woolly Bugger. I cast it down and across and stripped it in. Three or four times. Then I got a strike. At least that’s what I thought. This is a big one. I remember I said that.”
“And?” Cullen said.
“It was a snag. A snag. But there’s no snags in that hole. Unless something drifted in since I was there last.” Bilkey stopped. He took off his glasses and studied them.
Burr saw Bilkey’s eyes sink into their sockets. Little beady eyes. Please put your glasses back on.
At last, Bilkey finished studying whatever it was he was studying and put his glasses back on. He looked at Cullen. “I figured that my fly must be hung up on the anchor chain of that damn boat, which of course is upstream from the boat. I could have broken the fly off, but I tied it myself. I was really mad at whoever left that boat there.”
Burr started to stand up and object, but he saw Cullen fuming. He thought it best to let the prosecutor stew in his own juices.
“Please continue, Mr. Bilkey,” Cullen said.
Bilkey looked at Cullen like he was ruining his tale of the snagged fly. “I knew I wasn’t going to catch anything there, so I thought I’d just wade out there and get my fly. I figured it was hung up on the anchor chain, and I thought I’d just reach down and get my fly off. And if the boat moves, who cares. There was nobody around anyway.” Bilkey stopped again.
“Please, Mr. Bilkey. Continue.”
“I waded out there. It was getting deep, almost over my waders. Finally, I got there. I looked down and the chain disappears, and I can’t see my fly. I reach down, but I can’t get reach down far enough without filling up my waders.”
“Mr. Bilkey,” Cullen said.
“So then I worked my way downstream along my fly line. Down to the leader. And then I had a hold of the chain. I got it up enough to reach my fly.”
Bilkey stopped again. There wasn’t a sound in the courtroom.
“I see it. There’s my Wooly Bugger. But it’s not caught on the chain. It’s hooked on a man.” Bilkey stopped again. “On his cheek.” Bilkey touched his own cheek. “Just below his eye.”
A woman in the gallery let out a little scream.
“The barb was buried in his cheek. His arms floated to the surface, and they’re waving in the current.” Bilkey waved his own arms like the body waved. “His eyes were bulging out of their sockets. And there were leeches on him. Leeches on his face but mostly on his lips. It was awful.”
Lizzie buried her head in her hands.
Cullen stood off to the side of Bilkey, pleased with himself. Skinner looked over the courtroom. “Mr. Cullen, do you have anything further?”
“Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Bilkey, what was the condition of the man you found?”
“He was dead.”
“Did you know the dead man?”
“No. Well, who knows? I might have, but he was so disfigured, I don’t think I would have known him if I’d known him.”
Cullen shook his head. “Mr. Bilkey, what did you do next? After you found a dead man in the river?”
“I got out of there as fast as I could. I ran to my car, went to a gas station and called the police.”
“Then what?”
“I waited at the gas station. Then I took them down to the river.”
“Then?”
“Then they took down my name and address and said I could go.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bilkey. No further questions.”
Bilkey had taken the long way around, but Cullen had gotten what he wanted. Burr pushed his wobbly chair back carefully. He walked up to Bilkey. “Mr. Bilkey, what do you do for a living?”
“Objection, Your Honor. Irrelevant,” Cullen said.
“I’ll allow it,” the judge said.
Skinner turned to Bilkey. “You may answer the question.”
“I’m a pharmaceutical sales rep.”
“You sell drugs. Is that right?” Burr said.
“I call on physicians.”
“And what is your territory?” Burr said.
“Northern Michigan. Everything from Clare to the bridge.”
“So you have a full-time job?”
“That’s right.”
“But you were fishing on Monday, which is a workday. Is that right?”
Bilkey squirmed in his chair. “It’s on the way.”
“I wasn’t aware that the South Branch of the Au Sable River was close to a doctor’s office.”
Cullen popped up. “This has nothing to do with anything.”
“You may continue, Mr. Lafayette, but you need to show the relevance.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Burr turned to the witness. “Mr. Bilkey, you were playing hooky that Monday morning.” Burr paused, turned and looked at the gallery. “You went fishing and you snagged your fly.”
“That’s right.”
“You testified that you snagged your fly on Mr. Shepherd. You were too shocked to help Mr. Shepherd. You were too shocked to see if there was any life left in him. Instead you ran for a phone.” Burr paused and pulled his cuffs down again. “Is that right?”
“He was dead,” Bilkey said, squirming.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Bilkey sat stone still in his chair.
“Answer the question, Mr. Bilkey,” Skinner said.
“I went to get help.”
“Mr. Bilkey, did you get your Woolly Bugger back?”
“I did.”
“You didn’t have the presence of mind to try to help Mr. Shepherd, but you had the time to rip your fly out of Mr. Shepherd’s cheek.”
Bilkey squirmed again.
/> “Is that right?”
“Objection,” Cullen said.
Skinner pointed at Burr. “Approach the bench.” Then he pointed at Cullen. “You, too.”
Cullen stood in front of the judge. Burr joined him.
“What exactly do the two of you think you’re doing?”
Burr had learned from situations like this that it was best not to say anything. He was quite sure that standing quietly and looking at his shoes was the best strategy.
The prosecutor had another plan. “Your Honor. As you know, in a murder case, there needs to be a body.”
“Jack, you could have simply asked him if he found a dead man.”
“I was establishing where he was found.”
“And we didn’t need all the fishing,” Skinner said. “And you, Lafayette. What difference does it make what he does for a living?”
Burr looked up from his shoes. He thought it was time to answer.
“Your Honor, I don’t believe that Mr. Bilkey is credible. And he never should have disturbed the body by removing the fly.”
Skinner leaned over the rostrum to Burr and Cullen. “Listen to me, both of you,” he said in a gravelly whisper. “All that needed to be done was to show that Quinn Shepherd was dead. Nothing more. No two-tracks. No flies. No snags. No arm waving. No jobs. Just a dead man. That’s all we needed. You could have stipulated to it.” The judge sat back down in his chair. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Cullen said.
“Yes, Your Honor. I have no further questions,” Burr said. He walked back to the defense table and sat down. If there was a trial, and if Cullen could shorten Bilkey’s testimony without losing the leeches and the arm waving, Lizzie will be in serious trouble with the jury right from the start.
“Call your next witness.”
“The prosecution calls Sheriff Earl Starkweather.”
Burr watched a thick man of about sixty settle into the witness chair. He had on his uniform, a dark brown shirt, tan slacks, and a shiny badge pinned to his chest. What struck Burr were the Sheriff’s eyes. Or, rather, his eyelids. They were so droopy that they hung over the corners of his eyes. They made him look like he’d been sleeping.
The Gray Drake Page 4
