Osborne and Lew first got to know Gina Palmer several years ago when a young woman to whom she was close was murdered during a visit to Loon Lake. At the time, Gina was an investigative reporter on the Metro Desk for The Kansas City Star. She flew north to claim the body and ended up assisting with the investigation. She also fell in love with the northwoods and, on impulse, bought a cabin on Loon Lake not far from Doc and Ray.
“Better investment than my 401 K,” she would crow every time she sat on her dock with glass of wine.
In recent years, as the Internet changed the newspaper business, Gina moved on to specialize in “new media”—becoming an expert on using the computer, telecommunications and database research for investigative work. Fired up by the enthusiasm of young journalists, it was natural for her to migrate from the newsroom to the university classroom. Though academic life involved a lot of travel, she made sure the little cabin on the lake appeared on her itinerary every four months or so.
When in town, she always made it a point to update the computer techs servicing the Loon Lake Police Department with the latest online and database investigative tools—and never charged for her time. But the generosity went both ways, as Ray lent his services as caretaker of her property while Doc and Lew took turns educating her to the subtleties of fishing—on water and in water.
“I don’t understand,” said Osborne. “I thought that if you alerted your bank to fraudulent charges on your credit card, you weren’t liable.”
“You aren’t,” said Gina, “but the bank issuing your card is. And, in this case, Bank One branches are looking at a combined loss of three hundred thousand dollars over eighteen months and no clue as to who, where or why.
“They tried to see if there was any pattern to the stores where the cards were being used but it was happening all over Wisconsin and parts of Minnesota and Illinois. No defined pattern unless you call random a pattern.”
While she talked, Osborne got up from his chair, walked into the darkened kitchen area for the coffee pot and returned to freshen all four cups. Eyes riveted on Gina, no one stopped him.
“So next they looked at whether goods were bought online or by phone—hoping to find a shipping address, of course—but everything was purchased on-site and walked right out the door: no trail. And that is when they came to me.”
“How did they find you?” said Lew. “If we were dealing with the problem up here, I would never think to go to a university, much less a school of journalism for help”
“A former grad student of mine who had taken my data forensics course was working in their PR department. She suggested they have us do an initial analysis, which we did. And, boy, were the students were fired up, too. A real life situation? Man, they were so excited.
“We started by constructing a database of the cardholders allegedly making the purchases. These appeared to be real people but even as the names were real, the addresses were real and the Social Security numbers were real—the card users making these particular purchases were bogus. The crooks, who we think may be a ring operating out of Canada, are very adept at mixing legitimate and phony data on credit cards in ways that fool banks and retailers. What made it even more difficult was that there were never more than two or three charges on a card in a single day. That limited use made the card users virtually untraceable.
“Knowing that much, we conducted a telephone survey to determine any similarities among the legitimate card owners—recent travel, where they shopped, that kind of thing. And you’ll never believe what we found …” Gina pounded the table with her index finger as she enunciated each word: “Doc, Chief Ferris, Ray—every one of those people whose names were on those cards had vacationed or taken a business trip to Wisconsin within in the last two years.” She sat back, eyes sparkling with satisfaction.
“This far north?” said Ray. “You’re kidding, right?” Gina shook her head, letting her words sink in. “Ah,” said Ray, “so that’s why you’re in Loon Lake this weekend. And here I thought it was all about me.”
“You’re the icing on the cake, sweetie,” said Gina, reaching over to pat his arm. But as Ray opened his mouth to respond, she held up her right hand. “Let me finish. We went back to the bankers with a proposal to fund three months of work: get a year of card purchases into the database, do more phone surveys and see what we got. And what we got was so surprising that when the analysis came in this past Tuesday, I booked a flight up here right away.”
“Great,” said Lew with a snort of a laugh, “so I start my day with a homicide and end with grand theft. Any other good news?”
“I don’t think you have to worry about this,” said Gina. “It’s not Loon Lake but the state and the county that’s our focus. Every cardholder we’ve spoken to happens to have bought a fishing license somewhere in this county. They might have been vacationing in the area, taking a break during the workday, up here for a fishing tournament. But the one thing they all did was purchase a fishing license.”
“That’ll take a few days to check out,” said Lew. “Think of all the Mom and Pop bait shops and gas stations that sell fishing licenses. We must have dozens. Are you planning to go door to door with a list of names?”
“We’ve got tracking software that should do it,” said Gina. “They all have computers that spit out the licenses after the data is input. We just have to find the right computer. So far the problem has been getting the ISPs on board.”
“ISPs?” said Osborne.
“Internet Service Providers. They can identify the computer used for specific fishing license registrations. Once we clear the formalities with the ISPs’ legal crews, it won’t take long for us to find what we’re looking for.”
“Jeez Louise, you’re going to put me out of the tracking business,” said Ray. “Between software and GPS, pretty soon no one will need eyes on the ground.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” said Gina. Then she slapped the table with both hands. “Enough about me, enough about my work. Tell me what’s happening in Loon Lake these days.”
Ten minutes later, having brought Gina up to date on miscreant hunters bagging too many ducks, over-served bar patrons and the investigation into the death of Nolan Reece, Lew sat back in her chair and exhaled. “We better call it an evening, folks. I have the Wausau boys arriving early tomorrow morning and a mountain of phone calls to make—starting with the people who were at that dinner party last night.”
“Would you like me to follow up with Frances and Josie Dark Sky?” said Osborne. “I know the girls. Not well but they were patients of mine.”
“That would be a huge help,” said Lew. “But I’d like to sit in. I’m still wondering how they fit in the picture, aren’t you?”
“Well, just before Karen offered to serve their Thanksgiving dinner at her own home—this was while you were walking Andy Reece through the lockdown of his property—Blue mentioned to me that
her mother had worked out an arrangement with Mildred.”
“Mind if I ask who you’re talking about?” said Gina. “Sorry to butt in. My reporter instincts—I’m always nosy.”
Osborne turned to Gina. “Mildred Taggert is an elderly woman who owns a small local grocery and has been the girls’ foster parent for the last four years. Apparently Nolan took it upon herself to sponsor the girls—offer them a second family, provide financial support, buy clothes, pay for tutors—even college. According to Blue, the girls spend their weekends at the Reece home but live with Mildred during the week.”
“Those sisters don’t really look like sisters, do they,” said Lew. “Frances is so tall and ungainly and that Josie is so petite.”
A trill rang through the room and Lew jumped. “Oh, shoot, that’s my cell phone. Has to be the switchboard. Let’s hope it’s nothing serious. I need some sleep.”
As Lew disappeared into the other room, Ray put an arm around Gina’s shoulders. “I’ll bet you didn’t know that Saturday is the last day of muskie season. Think you’d have time t
o join me in the boat? Get one more day on the water before it freezes over?”
Before Gina could answer, Lew charged into the room, pulling on her uniform jacket. Eyes dark with worry, she motioned to Osborne to grab his own coat. “It’s Mildred Taggert. A trucker stopping by for cigarettes just found her unconscious in the parking lot. An ambulance is on its way. Doc, follow me.” “What about the girls? Are they okay?” said Osborne. “Yes, according to neighbors at the scene. They may have been asleep before but they’re certainly awake now.”
“Well, Lew, if an ambulance is called is there really a need for you—”
“The guy who called 911 said she’s bleeding badly from the head. He thinks she may have fallen and hit her head or who knows? She could have been robbed. Either way, I have to go.”
“Right behind you,” said Osborne. “Me, too,” said Ray. “Gina, I’ll drop you off first.” “Are you kidding? You’ll drop me off after we see what the story is.”
CHAPTER 14
As Osborne and Lew drove their cars into the parking lot behind Mildred’s Food Shop, an SUV emblazoned with the insignia of the county sheriff pulled in behind and parked between Lew’s cruiser and the ambulance from Saint Mary’s Hospital. “We got your call for assistance, Chief Ferris,” said a young deputy sheriff as he jumped from his car and ran towards Lew.
“Appreciate it. Not sure what we got here yet,” Osborne heard her say as he opened his car door and reached into the back seat for the medical bag that he was now happy he’d forgotten to drop off at his house earlier.
Lit by the headlights from four vehicles plus the back porch lights of neighbors on both sides, the parking lot for Mildred’s Food Shop and the old barn stood in relief against the November night. As he hurried to catch up with Lew, Osborne noticed that the wire cage in front of the barn looked different from earlier that day—now the door was wide open but the interior still empty.
Off to the left and close to the house lay Mildred Taggert: her body in its black tunic and loose black slacks sprawled sideways on the asphalt, her face a sliver of white. An EMT, crouched over the body, looked up as Osborne and Lew approached. He shook his head as he said, “No pulse, Dr. Osborne. Too late, I’m afraid. We got
here within four minutes of the 911 call, too. Take a look,” he said, pointing, “that is one nasty wound on the side of her head there.”
Osborne knelt over the old woman. Her neck was arched, the head thrown back as if reeling from a blow. Her lovely, long silver hair, knocked from its trim knot, spread like mercury across the asphalt, gleaming in the light—as did the blood. The blood black and moving, trickling along ruts and across clumps of loose tar.
After taking a moment to pull on a pair of Nitrile gloves, Osborne leaned forward to gently tip Mildred’s head to one side so that he and Lew, leaning over from behind him, could get a better look at what the EMT meant by “a nasty wound.” Osborne looked up at her. “Right,” she said in a grim tone as she nodded in agreement.
Mildred did not fall and hit her head nor was she bludgeoned. And it wouldn’t take an AWOL coroner or a retired dentist to tell a woman who hunted what she was looking at: a single bullet—shot at close range—had done the job.
“You think that’s an exit wound, Doc?” Lew twisted around, eyes scanning the house, the barn, the neighbors’ yards. “I’m wondering from which direction she was shot.”
“I’ll have to defer to the pathologist on that,” said Osborne. “Afraid I can’t hazard a guess even. The best I can do is record a bullet to the head as apparent cause of death.” Osborne pulled off the gloves. “Better send Ray home for his cameras before she’s moved.”
“Yep. Looks like we’ll be here awhile, doesn’t it? Are you okay with that, Doc? I can use your help with the girls. Find out what they heard or saw—the neighbors, too. Oh—and I’ll need to find a place for the girls to stay.” She gave a heavy sigh. “No sleep for the weary.”
He answered with a rub of her shoulder. “I wonder if Mildred even knew what hit her.,” he said, his voice trailing off as he stared down at the old woman. He wondered, too, if she had discovered the truth about Daisy. Had she suspected someone of stealing or killing her pet? One thing he knew for sure: Mildred would not have hesitated to confront the guilty party—and she would not have been nice.
“Lew—” Just as Osborne realized he better mention the dead animal, Ray came running up with Gina in tow.
“Oh, no—my poor friend,” said Ray, his face falling. “Poor, poor Mildred. This …,” he turned to Gina, “is so sad. Since I was six years old, I’ve been stopping by Mildred’s shop almost every day. I’ve always bought my fishing licenses from her. She’s an institution in Loon Lake.” He pressed his fingers against his eyes, then took a deep breath. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Lew patted his shoulder, her own eyes glistening. Osborne felt it, too. Sadness hovered like a silent prayer between the three of them. Each had known this woman in different ways and over many years. Mildred may have been gruff, she may have intimidated—but she was knit into the fabric of Loon Lake, into their daily lives. Lew broke the silence. “Whoever it was used a gun.”
“Yeah, I thought that might be the case,” said Ray, his eyes raking the parking lot and what could be seen of the shop and the house as if he expected the shooter to be watching them. “One of the neighbors over there by the driveway said he heard something about half an hour ago. Thought it was a backfire. Obviously not.”
“How fast can you get out to your place and back with those cameras?” said Lew.
“Twenty, twenty-five minutes. I better bring lights, too. C’mon, Gina—let’s go. I’ll drop you by your place.”
“What do you think, Chief?” said Gina. “Can I be of help here? I’m more than willing—”
A retching sound from the dark alley that ran along the south side of the barn caused them all to turn and peer into the shadows.
Osborne could barely make out the figure of Frances Dark Sky, one arm against the building for support, vomiting.
“Oh, the poor kid,” said Ray, his voice sounding as helpless as Osborne sensed they all felt. “That’s Frances … ”
“Gina,” said Lew, “would you mind—see if you can help? See if one of the neighbors will let her sit down inside? I can’t allow the girls into Mildred’s house until we secure the crime scene.”
Before she could finish, Gina had darted into the dark alley. She called out in a soft voice: “Frances? I’m Gina Palmer. I’m here with Chief Ferris and Dr. Osborne. Can I help you find somewhere to sit until you feel better? Okay?” But Frances shook her head and staggered further down the alley.
“Stay with her,” said Lew.
“I will. I can imagine how she’s feeling. I’ll stay close by until she’s ready,” said Gina. She watched Frances for a second then turned back towards the lighted parking lot. “Here,” she said, throwing her car keys at Ray, “you take my car.”
Ray grabbed for the keys but missed. He bent to pick them up, then dropped to his knees. His voice changed. “Chief Ferris—come here. Walk carefully.” The sheriff’s deputy started over but Ray waved him back. The deputy stopped but said, “If you need cameras and lights, I can have some rushed over.”
“If it’s okay with Chief Ferris, it’s okay with me,” said Ray, still poised over the keys. “Save us some time.”
“Yes, by all means, whatever you guys can spare,” said Lew.
“Chief, careful now—watch where you’re stepping,” said Ray as Lew approached. He pointed. Two brass casings from spent bullets lay on the ground. “Someone got sloppy with their ammunition—those are .223-caliber bullets. I’ve been seeing a lot of those around lately. They use ‘em with black rifles.”
“I don’t like black rifles,” said Lew.
“What are you two talking about?” asked Gina, listening but keeping an eye on Frances.
“Black rifle’s a modified assault rifle that some hunters like for
small game,” said Ray. “It’s got a scope that’s good at close range.”
“Ah,” said Lew. She glanced around. “Whoever shot Mildred could have been waiting for her right here. Or—” she looked skyward, “up in the barn maybe?”
“Or dropped these as they ran down the alley towards the field back there,” said Ray.
Half an hour later, with Ray busy shooting the photos necessary before Mildred’s body could be moved, Osborne worked alongside Lew, taking notes as she questioned the neighbors living on both sides of the shop and who were now clustered nearby watching the proceedings. With the exception of the man who thought he’d heard a backfire, everyone else had been asleep or watching television and hadn’t heard anything remarkable.
“My husband’s right. It’s those damn motorcycles,” chimed in the woman whose husband thought he had heard backfire. They lived on the other side of the Mildred’s shop and their fence ran along the shop’s parking area. “They pull into Mildred’s all times of day and right up to closing time, too. They make s-o-o much noise with backfires and those loud pipes—I make it a point not to pay attention. I’d be mad all the time if I did. Can’t tell you how many times I called city hall ‘bout it, too.”
“Y’know, that field back there behind the barn,” said another woman a few minutes later after introducing herself as Margie Cook and inviting Gina and the Dark Sky sisters—along with Lew and Osborne—into her kitchen to stay warm, “kids are out there with BB guns so often, tell you the truth I don’t pay much attention.”
“What about you girls? Did you hear anything?” said Lew from where she stood near the refrigerator in the small kitchen.
Frances, who had let Gina persuade her to come inside, sat with both arms splayed across the table and slumped back into her chair, her eyes closed. She was so pale Osborne was worried she might faint.
Dead Hot Shot Page 8
