by Mary Logue
Amy didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t really thought about suicide that much. She just knew what her job was.
“I just wanted to tell you how it’s going with our John Doe. I checked the Wisconsin Missing Persons database and didn’t see anyone who resembled our guy. But if the medical examiner’s right about the date of death, he might not even be reported missing yet.”
“You know, Amy, I want you to run with this one. You’ve been working with me for a couple years now and I think you’re ready to take this one on. I’ll be here if you need me, but I need to focus on this case.”
“Really?” Amy felt pleasure and fear shoot through her system, kind of like the way she felt about skydiving, which she’d never done but thought about doing. “You think I’m ready?”
“Only one way to find out.”
“Can I ask you one more question? What if this guy’s from Minnesota? Is he still considered in our jurisdiction?”
Claire gave her a half smile. “Depends on where he died.”
CHAPTER 6
Claire walked down the hallway, hearing the hollowness of her own footsteps, and smelling the ammonia in the air, the constant scent of hospitals. She wasn’t one of those people who hated hospitals. She found them rather calming and reassuring, maybe because of a pleasant stay she had spent recovering from pneumonia when she was twelve. While being provided with all the chocolate milk she could drink, she read ten books in four days and thought she was in heaven.
She peeked into Chet’s room and saw him asleep in the all-white bed, his head turned toward the window, his mouth ajar. His body was sprawled on the bed as if he’d been tossed there. Even from across the room she could see the ligature marks on his neck.
Earlier that morning a doctor had called and said Chet would survive the suicide attempt, but they weren’t sure in what shape he would be, slight possibility of brain damage, a good chance of serious trauma to his esophagus.
Sympathy for him flooded Claire, but she pushed that feeling away. Unfortunately it was followed by guilt. She should have kept a closer eye on him. Her relationship with Chet had always been a little problematic. Rich so admired him—the
good farmer, the great hunter, the county official. Claire had always felt like he was a bit of a bragger and also a bit corny.
While she could tell that Chet adored Anne, he did it in such a sappy way that she found it slightly offensive. Which strengthened her sense that he might have killed her. With Chet, Claire had always thought that he was pretty controlling and if Anne had done something wrong, he might have gone off on her. Claire had certainly never thought that Chet would try to kill himself, because of how highly he thought of himself. That was her mistake.
She hadn’t officially put him on a suicide watch, which would have involved a more constant surveillance, instead of the hourly checking by the guards. On some level she had to admit she had failed Chet. What was she going to tell Rich?
Claire needed more information on Chet’s current status, especially on the possible brain trauma. She walked over to the nurse’s station and looked up at the board: Chet’s nurse was Jennifer. A dark-haired woman at the desk was filling out reports and didn’t even look up when Claire cleared her throat.
“Excuse me. Are you Jennifer?” Claire asked.
“I think she’s back in the break room.” The woman pointed to a small room behind the desk, still without looking up.
Peeking into the room Claire saw a young tow-headed woman sipping a cup of coffee and leaning against the counter. Claire asked if she was Jennifer. At the sight of Claire’s uniform, the young woman pushed herself up as if she had been caught at something, said she was Jennifer, and asked how she could help.
“I’m here about Chet Baldwin. Can you give me an update on his prognosis?” As Claire heard herself using the lingo, she
wondered if she had been watching too many medical shows on TV.
“Pretty good considering. You’re the first person to check on him, poor guy. Are you related to him?” the girl asked.
“Haven’t you been told about him?”
Jennifer gave her a quizzical look. “No, I came on an hour ago. Betty rushed out of here to do something and didn’t tell me much, just his status. But I did read over the doctor’s notes.”
“No, I’m not related to him. His wife—” here Claire stopped, thinking about the scene in their house last night. “She’s recently deceased. I’m not sure who else he has in his family. I know they had no children.”
Jennifer held up her cup. “Coffee?”
Claire said, “That’d be great. Long night last night.”
“I hear you. I’m working a double shift, came over from another floor.” Jennifer poured her a cup and Claire took it gratefully.
“Dr. Ramstad thinks he’s going to be okay. But he did a number on his larynx and he’s going to have a very sore throat. I think they want to do an endoscopy on him later this afternoon, just to be sure there’s no permanent damage. When I first got here, he was awake for a while, quiet but coherent—knew his name, knew what day it was, expressed his contempt of our current president—but he’s been sleeping the last hour. So doesn’t look like he has any significant brain damage. Exactly what happened to him?”
“He attempted suicide. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, Betty told me that. And there was some mention of it in his chart. Is he dangerous?”
“I think only to himself. But please keep a close eye on him. When will he be released?”
“Right now he’s sedated. Dr. Ramstad wants to keep him in overnight. Just to watch him. I’m sure they’ll want to do a psych evaluation. I suppose he might be able to leave tomorrow if they think he’s stable enough.”
“This gets rather tricky. We need to bring him in for questioning as soon as he’s able.” Claire gave the nurse her number. “I’ll check back in later today, but I want to know when he’s ready to leave.”
“For sure. I’ll make sure to pass on this information.” The nurse looked toward his room. “He seems like a nice man.”
Claire realized she had to be clearer with this nurse. “Why don’t you call us when he becomes more lucid and we’ll send over a man to stand guard outside his door. Just in case.” Then she couldn’t stop herself from saying the next words. “But he is a nice man.”
* * *
“Then I threw up,” Claire looked a little nauseous, just at the thought. “Over the side of the boat. I mean it was gross, this big bloated body stunk to high heavens and all, but still, I haven’t thrown up in years.”
Bridget watched her sister Claire. Even though she saw Claire often, every few days since moving to Fort St. Antoine, she suddenly noticed that her sister looked older: dark patches under her eyes, an actual sweep of gray growing up from her temple into her dark brown hair, and a hunching of her shoulders.
Claire had called Bridget at the pharmacy where she worked in Wabasha and asked if they could have lunch. They had met at the Sunshine Diner and were halfway through their bowls of chili.
Claire continued, “So I’m worried. I mean, I haven’t had my period in nearly seven weeks, I threw up, I’ve turned into a bitch, I feel weird. What if I’m pregnant? Oh my god, Bridget, what would I do?”
“Calm down. Let me ask you a few questions. Are you sleeping okay?” Bridget asked.
“What’s that got to do with anything? Not bad, but I’m doing this weird three o’clock in the morning—bong—wide awake routine. Can’t go back to sleep. Toss and turn for an hour or two.”
“How’s your body thermostat these days?” Bridget continued her questions. “Hot? Sweaty?”
“Yeah, this weather seems to be really getting to me. Like right now, I’m drenched in sweat.”
“Well, I know I don’t need to tell you this, but you absolutely need to take a pregnancy test. However, what I’m thinking is it might be menopause.”
Claire wiped her hand across her face as if she could wip
e this possibility away. “You think? It crossed my mind, but I’m only forty-five. Mom didn’t go into menopause until her mid fifties.”
“Yeah, but she had two kids and a miscarriage. That can push it back. And everyone is different.”
“God, menopause.” A smile broke across Claire’s face and she looked younger. “That would be great. And it would explain everything. I can’t tell you what a relief that would be.”
“Well, first take a pregnancy test just to be sure. Then get your butt to your gynecologist and get checked out. Slight chance it could be a thyroid problem and that’s completely treatable. They can test your hormone level and you’ll know for sure what’s going on.” Even though Bridget knew Claire would not want to hear it, she couldn’t help adding, “You do look tired.”
“It’s been a crappy couple days. First the stinky bloated body, then Chet and everything I told you. You can imagine. And Rich and I aren’t getting along.”
“How long have you two been together now?”
“About seven years.”
“The magic number. That’s when Chuck and I split up. But that doesn’t mean you and Rich will … have problems.” Bridget thought back to her marriage. She saw Chuck every once in a while. He had remarried, a woman who liked cars and beer more than she had. She had to give him credit for being a good father to Rachel. He came and got her at least twice a week and now that she was older, he even kept her overnight sometimes.
“Don’t say that. It’s just that Rich thinks he can go barging into my business, telling me what to do …”
“Big sister,” Bridget shook her head. “You’ve always had to be right about everything. Maybe it’s time you learned to listen.”
“How can you say that?” Claire’s voice rose above the clanking sounds of the coffee shop.
“Because it’s true. And I’m telling you to take a pregnancy test. Come back to the pharmacy with me.”
As little as he wanted to go back to Chet’s farm, Rich knew he had to check on all the animals. Let the horses out to pasture. Feed the dog. Bentley had been Anne’s pride and joy, some kind of Australian herding dog. He wasn’t even sure it was really a breed, but the dog was smart as a whip. Almost pure black, it was a fierce fighter, which made it an excellent dog for watching over the barnyard.
After pulling into the driveway, Rich went right to the barn. No reason to go into the house, plus Claire’d probably have his hide if he befouled her crime scene any more than he already had.
Rich pushed open the door of Chet’s barn. Not sure where the light was, he started to walk across to the horse stalls, when a very low, very deep growl crawled across the floor and rode up his body.
“Bentley?” Rich said, not sure where the sound was coming from. “Is that you, buddy?”
The barn was dark and the dog, as he remembered it, was darker. Rich’s eyes were not yet accustomed to the gloom and he found himself standing in the middle of a mound of hay, turning slowly around, trying to locate the dog before it made any kind of nasty move.
The chainsaw growl stopped.
Rich waited, sucking in a lungful of damp air perfumed with horse manure and field clippings.
He took a step toward the first horse stall and the growl started up, louder than ever. The hair on the back of his hands felt tight, his jaw seized up on him like an old wrench that
needed oil. There was something about that sound that grabbed him in the guts and yanked.
Rich reminded himself he knew how to work with animals—talk to them, don’t let them know you’re afraid—but it might be too late for that. “Hey, buddy, hey, boy, are you hungry?”
Use his name, with a little sharper tone, commanding, not pleading. “Bentley, come.”
The dog’s growl rasped up a notch higher.
Just when Rich was thinking of backing out of the barn he saw Bentley. The dog was between him and the door, fear raising his long black fur on his back, his teeth shining in his huge muzzle.
Rich checked his pockets, nothing. He was hoping he might find an old energy bar, something he could bribe the dog with.
Looking around the barn, he tried to find something he might use against Bentley, not to hurt him, more just to fend him off. He saw a broom leaning in a corner and decided that was the ticket. In the slowest motion he could manage, Rich backed up and put his hand on the broom and slowly brought it around to protect his front.
Bentley was on ready alert, too close to the door for Rich to try to get by him. With broom in hand, he knew he could do what he needed to do.
Incrementally inching around, Rich turned his back on Bentley and leaned on the broom as if he had absolutely nothing on his mind. He relaxed his shoulders, slouched comfortably on the broom handle and hummed a quiet song.
The growling stopped.
Rich kept up his charade of unconcerned farmer, completely ignoring the dark beast by the door.
Bentley unhackled.
Rich could see the dog out of the corner of his eye. Easing his weight down on the broom handle, he gently went down on his haunches to the floor, still humming.
Bentley took a step towards Rich. Then he lifted his head and sniffed.
As easily as he could Rich held out a hand in Bentley’s direction.
Bentley took another step, lowering his head as he came.
A few steps later and Bentley was sniffing Rich’s hand. After another few moments, Rich set the broom down, turned his hand up and rubbed the underside of Bentley’s jaw. The beast leaned into his hand.
“You hungry, boy?” Rich said in a low, clear voice.
The tail thumped.
Raising himself up while continuing to pet the dog, Rich stayed relaxed. He was pretty sure Bentley was won over, but didn’t want to startle him “Let’s go get something to eat, Bentley.”
At the word, “eat,” the dog’s big dark ears pricked up.
“Eat, Bentley,” Rich said, and slapped his other hand against his pant leg.
The dog moved in closer and wagged his tail harder.
“Where’s your food?” Rich asked and the dog barked an answer.
Chet had told him it was in the big galvanized steel garbage can, mouse-proofed. Rich saw the can in the corner of the barn
and the empty bowl next to it. There was a light switch right behind the can on a support beam.
As he took a step toward the can, Bentley swirled around him in happiness, a different dog.
Still being cautious to make no sudden moves, Rich turned on the light. He slowly lifted the top off the garbage can, found an old measuring cup half buried in the chow and filled the bowl with food.
Bentley dove into it when Rich set the bowl on the barn floor.
Hopefully, he wouldn’t need to feed him again. Hopefully, Chet would be home before evening.
CHAPTER 7
The Army Corps of Engineers maps were spread out all over the conference table. Amy was staring at them as if she could see the way the current would flow, the speed of the water, the underwater sandbars, and low-ebb pools that would influence how a body might move downstream. In fact, all she really hoped to see were the places where someone could easily dump a body.
What the medical examiner had told her was that the body could have been in the water anywhere from three to seven days. What the man from the AC of E told her was that a piece of wood would drift down the river at a speed of three miles a day. But the problem was that this body had been tied to some kind of weight and they had no way of knowing how long it had stayed tethered: In other words, the body might have been in the water for seven days, but only floating free for two.
Amy guessed that the body had been dumped in Lake Pepin and probably not further up the river. Looking back upstream to the curves of the Mississippi and the St. Croix rivers as they flowed into Lake Pepin, she just didn’t see any way that a body
wouldn’t get caught up on something before it entered the relatively open and free-flowing body of the lake.
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br /> As Amy perused the series of charts that showed the lake, the mid-channel sailing line, various buoys and landings, she noticed that the top of Lake Pepin was at mile-marker 786 and it ended at 765. The guide said that the mile-markers were measured from the Ohio River northward. An odd way to do it, she thought. She would have numbered from the source up by Lake Itasca, but she wasn’t an engineer.
So the lake was twenty-one miles long just as she had always been told. The Point No Point buoy was about at mile-marker 779, so that meant there were only seven miles above it where the body might have been dumped.
But it hadn’t really been dumped. It had been deposited relatively carefully. Probably using a boat. How else would they get it out far enough to make sure it wouldn’t show up if the water level sank? That meant that the body could have been carried by boat really from any place on the river. Certainly didn’t narrow things down. Amy looked up at the dotted acoustic-tile ceiling in the conference room, not sure that the maps were helping at all.
Just then Jeremy walked in. “Finding any good clues on the ceiling?”
Amy was very happy when Jeremy had joined the sheriff’s department a few months ago. His arrival made her no longer the youngest or newest kid on the block. Tall and lanky, wide-apart blue eyes with a sprinkle of blackheads along the lines of his nose, Jeremy looked like he was sixteen and not quite grown into his body, but he claimed to be all of twenty.
Only twenty-three herself, Amy wanted to separate herself from him so the two of them weren’t lumped together as the youngsters. She had mixed feelings about showing him the ropes.
“You heard about our floater?”
Jeremy nodded, then said, “I heard Bill found it.”
“With Claire,” Amy corrected, then continued. “Whatever. I’m trying to figure out where it might have gone in the water.”
His face lit up as he thought about what she had told him. “You mean, where it was dumped?”
