The Wolf Lake Murders (A Bo Boson Adventure Book 1)

by Henri Jenkins

  The Nova crept along behind the van. He followed it to the south side of town, a mostly residential area. The van parked in front of a small row restaurant nestled among three and four story townhouses. Gunner grabbed a spot across the one-way street, two cars from the corner. The boys walked to the restaurant door, tapped, and waved to someone inside.

  Like a well-oiled and tightly wound cuckoo clock, their arrival set off a crew of white-aproned staff. One by one they walked from the building to the van, grabbed a box and made their way inside. This dance of the waiters repeated for what seemed like twenty boxes to Gunner’s rough count. With the van empty and closed, the street fell quiet.

  The front part of the restaurant Gunner could see was empty. The boys had gone farther back. For a neighborhood haunt to be empty on a Sunday evening was odd to Gunner. He put the gun in the glove box and climbed from the car. He walked to the corner. Bending to tie his shoe, he still could not see far enough inside.

  He turned right, away from the restaurant and quickly walked half a block. There he crossed and made his way back to the corner. The restaurant sat half a flight above the street. Gunner craned and bobbed his head trying to see within. From the scraps of what he could see, there was a group of people.

  A couple approached the restaurant from the right and climbed the stairs. The door rattled but remained closed. As the man started to turn away, the woman squeezed and tugged at his arm. He gazed to her, drew in a deep breath and knocked on the glass.

  A waiter came to the door and spoke briefly. The man’s hands rose as if in objection. The woman’s head fell. The waiter tapped at a piece of paper taped to the door and shrugged. He closed the door and locked it. The couple turned and sulked away. As they walked, the woman stepped closer and rested her head on the man’s shoulder.

  Gunner walked to the Nova and opened the glove box. He grabbed a pack of smokes and a lighter. Less than a habit, smoking was a prop. It could be a distraction, an introduction, a calming influence, and if the situation called for it a weapon.

  He walked to the corner and crossed the side street. Still across from the restaurant, Gunner lit a cigarette and leaned against the chiseled concrete of an art deco townhouse. More held than dragged, the cigarette burned slow. No one came or left.

  When the tobacco was gone, Gunner snuffed the butt with his shoe. He crossed the street and stopped in front of the floor to ceiling windows. At the back of the restaurant, multiple tables became one long setting.

  A feast of seafood heaped in mounds upon white linen tablecloths. He could easily see whole lobsters, shrimp, crabs, steamers and niblets of corn. In Chicago, it was quite likely ten grand worth of fresh seafood scattered like worthless trash. The vision took him to his younger home, to Boston and seafood boils. His mouth watered. He hungered for the food, family and friends of his birthplace.

  It also made him thirsty for a beer. He climbed the steps and read the note, the waiter pointed out to the couple earlier. “Closed for a private celebration,” it read. Through the window, Gunner noticed a long stretch of boxes wrapped in colorful paper at the far end of a bar. Closer, an elegant three-tier cake sat waiting for a song. A “Happy Birthday” banner hung above the presentation.

  A member of the wait staff noticed Gunner lingering at the door. He unlocked the door and pulled it open enough to speak.

  “Sorry, we’re closed for a private affair.”

  “I want a beer.”

  “We aren’t serving anyone else tonight.”

  “Is it someone famous?”

  “No. Goodnight.”

  “Hey, wait. Do you at least have a light?” Gunner pulled the cigarette pack from his pocket.

  “Here.” The waiter handed him a box of matches from his coat. “We’re closed.” He shut and locked the door.

  Gunner lit the match and held it to the end of the cigarette. He remained at the door studying the attendees, counting heads, and capturing images.

  The waiter stepped in his view. “Leave. Or we will call the police,” he said through the glass.

  He looked around the thin man and finished the task. He then glared at the waiter and drew his eyes in tight. Anger found his face. The waiter stepped away from the door, his hand at his chest. Gunner pulled his face right, into a leer. His left hand rose with a prominent middle finger. He turned and stepped down to the sidewalk.

  The car to his right, Gunner's head swept left to the van. He walked over. “Freeman Wholesale Seafood,” it said in large black letters on the side. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and the nub of a pencil. He started writing the name and address on the paper but nothing transferred. The lead was broken. Using his pocketknife, the pencil soon had an ample supply. He recorded the information along with the slogan, “Maine Fresh.”

  He returned to the Nova and cracked open a can of beer from a small cooler behind the passenger seat. Gunner waited. An hour and forty minutes passed. The gathering poured from the restaurant and scattered in the night. It appeared to Gunner the celebration had been for the taller, more muscular boy who he would later learn was Walter Freeman IV. The boys separated so he had to choose between following one and calling it a night.

  Gunner started the car and disappeared down the side street. He let Bo sleep.

  A compass is only beneficial to someone with direction.

  Monday morning found Bo at Ragatelli's Bakery early, passing time with an ice cold bottle of R.C. Cola. Two bags of holes waited on Bo with a cooling patience. Bo waited on Gunner. He had phoned minutes after six to provide the report Bo requested. It was Bo's idea to meet so they could talk face to face. The longer he waited the more he wished he had taken Gunner's route.

  The bottle had nothing left by the time Gunner arrived. He eased in, spun his chair backwards and straddled the seat across from Bo.

  "Let me guess," Gunner said reaching for one of the white paper bags, "Holes? Two dozen?"

  Bo chuckled and scratched at his jawline.

  Gunner peeked in the bag and smiled. He rolled the bag and pushed it back.

  Reaching inside his suit coat, Bo pulled a hundred dollar bill from his dress shirt pocket and tossed in on the table before Gunner.

  Gunner stared queer at the bill. "My old friend Ben - only had two years of formal schooling?"

  "Grab something," Bo said.

  Gunner swiped the hundred like a child snatching a candy. "This the smallest you got?" he asked as he stood.

  "Yes."

  Gunner considered the two bags of donuts and empty pop bottle. His tongue ran back and forth along the inside of his lower lip. "Mm-hmm."

  "Black coffee and a cinnamon roll - no dead grapes?"

  Gunner grunted. "Old habits eh. Want anything?"

  Bo lifted his empty bottle and wiggled it.

  Gunner walked away.

  Two minutes later, he returned.

  "Your drink Sir," he said imitating a waiter as he placed it before Bo.

  He sat. A bite missing from the cinnamon roll, he put the small plate and cup on the table. He dropped the change on the table.

  "Keep it. Gas and time."

  "Gas - and time? Wow. I need to up my hourly rate."

  "You need more?" Bo could not resist watching Gunner eat and not join in. He reached for a bag.

  "No," Gunner said, a sharp bit of anger in his tone. "I don't need it." He pushed at the money with the back of his hand. "It's not why I did it."

  Bo recognized the imaginary line. "Thank you for doing it. I appreciate it. Reimbursement for gas." He pushed the clump of bills and coins back to Gunner's side of the table.

  Gunner ignored the money. "Saw the news."

  "Hmm."

  "One dead rich kid is a tragedy, two's an epidemic."

  Bo nodded, agreeing.

  "Good time to own a travel agency and a country club membership."

  "Why so?"

  "Rich people will be hiding their kids away until you catch this guy. You could charter a 747 Jumbo fo
r an extended tour of Europe and fill it with little rich boys right now."

  "I don't see why it should come to that."

  "Rats don't wait until the ship is fully sunk to flee; they run at the first sign of panic."

  "You always were an optimist."

  "I know. It's a curse."

  "While we're on the subject of planes, what happened at the airport?" Bo asked wanting to move on.

  "Not much. The kids came back with a ton of seafood. Took it to a south side restaurant they closed for a private party. A birthday from the scenery. They pigged out, opened presents and went home."

  "Were both families present?"

  "The parents of the smaller boy with sandy hair were there. Everyone else I fingered for the other boy. Parents, two sets of grandparents, siblings, etc. I think he was the birthday boy."

  "No one else on the plane?"

  "Just the crew, two."

  "Did the boys leave the restaurant together?"

  "No, they both rode home with their parents."

  "You mean one."

  Gunner wiped his face and pushed his empty Styrofoam plate away. "No," he leaned toward Bo, "they each rode home with their parents."

  "What car did they drive from the airport?"

  "Wasn't a car. It was a van."

  "A van?"

  "Yeah a van. The one with the shitload of seafood from the plane."

  "A van."

  "Oh before I forget." Gunner reached into the lower right pocket of his fatigues. He pulled a piece of paper out and tossed it on the table.

  "What's this?"

  "The company name from the van."

  "Freeman Wholesale Seafood."

  "Maine Fresh," Gunner said as if part of a radio ad. He reached into Bo's bag, retrieved a hole and popped it into his mouth.

  "So they have someone flying seafood from Maine to sell to restaurants."

  "I'd imagine the plane is theirs too," Gunner smacked.

  "Why so?"

  "The tail number."

  "Tail number?"

  Gunner swallowed. "Yeah N-F-W-S-1."

  "All planes registered in the U.S. start with N and F-W-S for Freeman Wholesale Seafood."

  "I imagine the number means they either have more than one plane or expect to."

  "Right. Another cog in the Freeman empire."

  "A man after your own heart." Gunner winced as soon as the words left his mouth..

  The same way Gunner did not like Bo catering to his poverty, Bo never appreciated Gunner pandering to his fortune. He had stepped over the line. Bo grabbed his bags and drink bottle as he stood. "Thanks for the help."

  "Bo, I." A sorrowful hand rose attesting.

  Bo cut him off. "How can I find you if needed?"

  Gunner's eyes fell to the table. "Aunt Sharon."

  "I'll see ya'." Bo walked out leaving the change behind.

  He flew east to arrive five minutes late for the morning team meeting. From the empty conference room, he could have taken his time. In the squad room he found the Haverlys along with another couple he took for Mr. and Mrs. Kane. The four of them were speaking with Prescott and Commander Long. The Captain had six Mexican women in his office.

  Passing Patty's desk, he dropped the fuller bag of treats. A peace offering, plus he figured she could use a sugar rush.

  The Captain's door opened. Bo heard the tail end of the conversation.

  "Murders take priority over missing persons. As I've said I only have so much manpower."

  The Captain raised a hand to Dave calling him over. "Would you show these women out?"

  Dave escorted the six from the room.

  The Captain joined Prescott and Milton in speaking with the other parents. Mr. Haverly motioned Bo over.

  "Rupert this is Boson."

  The men shook hands.

  "Thank you for taking my call the other night," Rupert Kane said.

  "I'm sorry for your loss," Bo said. He turned to Mrs. Kane and took her hand in his. "I genuinely hoped for any other outcome." His free hand rubbed at his chest. Mrs. Kane sobbed. She turned and walked away. Mildred Haverly followed. Rupert's swollen face matched Horatio who at that moment was reliving Harold's death.

  "Patty," he called out as she sat at her desk watching. "Patty Jameson is the lead detective." He motioned for her to join them. She stood and walked over.

  Bo assured the men of the group's commitment. Rupert Kane said he would like to sit in on the team meeting. Horatio seconded the idea. Rejoining the group, the wives also wished to attend. Bo argued why, though he understood their perspective, it was a poor idea.

  "If you're present, we will," he searched for the proper wording.

  "Hold back," said Patty.

  "Right. We'll hold back, concerned about offending or upsetting you."

  "We don't want to do that," Patty said shaking her head.

  "No we don't. We want to go at this with as much speed and openness as we can. It's best for the investigation."

  "I guess I can understand your point Mr. Boson," Rupert said.

  "Believe me if we arrest someone, we will inform you as soon as we can," said Patty.

  "I hope you meant when Detective, when you arrest someone," Rupert countered.

  "Right. Sorry. When we arrest someone."

  Rupert stood contemplating Bo. "We'll let you folks get back to work then."

  "Thank you," said Bo.

  The parents left.

  "Have a hole," Bo said shaking the bag on Patty's desk.

  "Why? Do they taste like donut toes or is there a bear claw in there?"

  "Yours was the more honest answer - not the answer the parent of a murdered child wants to hear - but honest."

  The group congregated in the conference room.

  Patty read the Medical Examiner's report. Asphyxiation caused the death of John Henry Kane. The killer had displaced but not crushed the windpipe. It represented a measured application of force. Intent, not rage. As Bo had suspected, the head wound was post mortem. The acid, though of a consistent burn pattern with Harold, affected a larger area.

  Prescott reported on the valve handle found by Dave. Rather than blood, the lab determined it to be a red marine jelly. With another victim, the Behavioral Analysis Unit had begun piecing together a profile to cross-reference with known serial killers.

  In clearing Walter and Jay, the group had no specific direction. The surveillance of Cory Walker had also been dropped. They were expanding the search for the typewriter and paper. With a second body, the secret society hazing idea became less likely. The FBI worked with the Coroner's Office to collect samples of acid-burned tissue for further investigation. Everything else seemed a dead end.

  After the meeting, Bo walked Prescott to his vehicle.

  "Weren't you putting together an asset listing for the Fitzgerald and Freeman family members?" Bo asked.

  "Yes. Seems pointless now though."

  "Can I swing by and get it later?"

  "You can have them now, they're in my briefcase."

  "Great."

  "Where you going with this Bo?"

  "Following a hunch."

  "If you don't want to say that's fine." Prescott handed the files to Bo.

  "Thanks," said Bo.

  The meal of a starving artist balances commission and passion.

  Sitting at his provided desk, Bo searched the Freeman's report for the wholesale seafood company. There was no entry under either Walter Freeman III or his wife, Katherine. He found it on Junior's listing. Although he owned 100% of the stock, the report listed a pending transaction, a transfer of 10% of the stock to Katherine and 80% Walter IV.

  Bo figured it a present for his 18th birthday. The mother's share was likely for her assistance in managing the business. Bo thought of Principal Williams' comment about Four being like his mother. The transfer explained why the boys went to Maine to meet the suppliers - a change in management.

  "Walter Freeman's Grandfather is giving him 80% of a wh
olesale seafood company for his 18th birthday," Bo announced to the room.

  Patty turned and glared at him. "I hate rich people," she said.

  Dave watched expecting a response from Bo.

  Bo went back to the reports. He closed the Freeman file and opened the Fitzgerald's. In reviewing the holdings of Abigail Fitzgerald, he noticed she owned an interest in and sat on the board of a museum housing multiple private collections. He wondered what items were included. He called Prescott's desk and left a message asking if he could secure a copy of the collection's inventory.

  Prescott phoned an hour later. He told Bo he had contacted the museum directly and requested a copy of the inventory. In speaking with a woman there, he asked if the collection housed any antique typewriters. She said there were two Underwood Model 3 typewriters. He hadn't thought to ask about the paper but provided the woman's name and information.

  Bo reached out to Illinois State Police Detective Lancaster to see if he would accompany him to the museum. They agreed to meet at the museum after lunch. Bo headed west again.

  They were escorted to the Curator's office.

  "Mr. Boson," a middle-aged, fuller-figured woman said sitting at her desk, "Agent Farber said you would be coming." Her brightly printed silk blouse rustled as she stood. A gold and crystal elephant broach stood above her left breast. A navy blue a-line linen skirt anchored the blouse.

  "Miss Orgeron, sorry, Mrs. Orgeron is it?" said Bo.

  "My mother-in-law is Mrs. Orgeron and I can’t stand the woman. Please, call me Hilda."

  The men smiled. "Bo. And this is Detective John Lancaster with the Illinois State Police."

  "Detective."

  "Ma'am." Detective Lancaster nodded.

  "That is a beautifully tender ring," Bo surmised.

  "Oh thank you - you are a dear. Most folks around here think it should be part of the collection."

  Bo joined her in a pleasing smile. "Antique?"

  "I'd say so, my Great Great Grandmother's."

  "Really? How unique."

  "Indeed. So I understand you want to see a couple of typewriters?"

  "Yes ma'am, any Underwood Model 3 you may have," said Bo.

  "I have already printed the MCIS on each." She handed Bo two sheets of paper."