Dead Deceiver

by Victoria Houston

  The figure that climbed out of the pick-up was imposing to say the least: as tall or taller than Ray’s six feet five inches and well over two hundred pounds, though it was tough to tell as he was wearing insulated overalls and a filthy grey-green parka that hung to his knees. A full, unkempt grey beard under a brown hunter’s hat with a long brim and earflaps hid most of his face. Barely visible under the brim of the hat were eyes that were not happy.

  “You two don’t read?” he said in a thin voice that wheezed as he spoke. “This property is posted.”

  “It is?” challenged Ray in a calm voice. “I didn’t see a posting—last time I was out this direction this was all state land. Where is it posted?”

  “Maybe it came down in the wind. Who the hell cares? I said you are trespassing. Get outta here. Now.” He started towards them, his height and thickness menacing.

  “Whoa, is that an Artic Cat Sno Pro 500 you got in your truck there?” asked Ray, pleasantly ignoring the unspoken threat as he pointed at the back of the truck. “I hear that sled is one helluva racer.”

  The man stepped in front of the truck, barring the way. “You have a hearing problem too?”

  “Hey, wait just a minute, fella,” said Ray, putting a hand out defensively. “We’re deputies with the Loon Lake Police and we’re just here to ask a few questions. Only take a minute or two.”

  “No questions. Leave.”

  “You want to answer the questions at the station?” asked Ray. Now he took a step towards the guy. Osborne didn’t like the feel of the situation at all but he kept his mouth shut. Ray may have had plenty of experience with razzbonyas like this, but not Osborne. He began to hope they could get back in his car alive.

  “What is it?” said the man with a grunt.

  “Well, sir, first we’d like your name and the address …” At Ray’s cue, Osborne reached into his jacket pocket for a notebook and pen. The man just stared at Ray.

  “Forget it. What else you want?”

  Ray exhaled and said, “O-o-o-kay. If you don’t want to tell us who you are—”

  “Until you tell me why you’re here, I see no reason to. Got a badge?”

  “Not on me at the moment. We’re deputies,” said Ray, gesturing towards Osborne. The man threw up his hands and started to walk back to the truck.

  “I don’t have time for this,” he said.

  “Have you seen any people snowshoeing or skiing back in here in the last week or so?” asked Osborne. “We’re trying to locate a lost person—and one of those aluminum snowshoes, a red one. Seen anything like that lately?”

  The man stopped and turned. “Why didn’t you say so before? No and no. Look around—does this look like the county fairgrounds? This is the middle of a goddamn swamp. All I see out here are deer and rabbits. Now will you get off my property?”

  “Thank you, sir, that’s all we needed to know,” said Ray. “Sorry to have bothered you.” He turned to walk back to Osborne’s car, then stopped and pointed off to the left of the cabin. “I see you got a carcass hanging off that pine over there. Somebody forget to tell you deer season ended eight weeks ago?”

  “Ray …” Osborne warned.

  As they drove down the lane towards the town road that would take them back to the highway, Ray said, “That was a polite conversation. I’m turning that joker in to the game warden. What … a commode.”

  “He worried me,” said Osborne. “And he seems familiar. That voice. Does he remind you of anyone?”

  “Hell, he’s like every other jack pine savage who thinks they’re entitled to squat wherever,” said Ray. “And after I talk to the game warden, I’m calling the DNR and the Forest Service—get that guy outta there pronto.” Ray was quiet for a short morment. “Doc, I know that land is not posted. Our friend is squatting and boy is he irritating.”

  “Lew’s right about people with no fire numbers,” said Osborne. “Chances are they do eat their young.” As he turned on to the highway, he asked, “That was the last place where you saw lights, right? Because we should get you back to town.”

  Before Ray could answer, Osborne’s cell phone rang. He took the call then closed the phone. “That was Marlaine on the switchboard. Lew wants me at the Schumacher place—it’s been vandalized.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Osborne ran up the front steps onto the porch of the Schumacher house and banged on the door. When no one answered, he pushed his way inside. The living room to his right was dark.

  “Hello?” he shouted, standing in the foyer and uncertain which way to go. Just then Patience came walking towards him from the back of the house, unsteady on her feet. As she got closer he could see that her cheeks were tear-streaked and her eyes red and swollen.

  Throwing her body onto an armchair, which nearly tipped over as she landed, she shook her head in despair and said, “Things are out of control, Dr. Osborne. I don’t know what to do.” She gave a weak wave in the direction from where she had just come. “Chief Ferris is back in the den—but it has been destroyed. Just destroyed. My personal files ransacked. Our bedroom is a disaster. You won’t believe it.

  “I tell you,” she said, her voice shaking, “some evil, angry people—or person—tore through here. And why? My god, why? The things they did to my beautiful home? Oh, I wish Charles were here.” As she buried her head in her hands, Osborne gave her a swift pat on the shoulder and headed for the den.

  “Doc? Is that you?” called Lew at the sound of his footsteps. “Go slow coming in here so you don’t step on any glass …”

  Osborne entered the den to find Lew standing in the midst of a maelstrom of dumped file folders, strewn papers, torn books and shards of glass from lamps that had been smashed on the floor. The desk was the only bare space in the room and he saw why: Patience Schumacher’s laptop computer had been knocked onto the floor and bludgeoned to pieces.

  “Lewellyn—” Osborne paused, dumbfounded.

  “I know. What a mess, huh. Patience called me about half an hour ago. We think whoever did this had to have been in the house for at least an hour. Certainly not on the premises when she got home, which may have been a good thing.”

  Gazing around the room, Lew gave a heavy sigh as if the prospect of cleaning up—much less investigating—was too daunting.

  “Well, Doc, at least you got here fast and I thank you for that. Roger and Todd are so busy with the tournament that I have no other backup. And, frankly, I don’t know where to start except to be sure there is no way anyone touches a thing in here tonight. I want the Wausau boys in on this and, believe me—this is one time when I will not take ‘no’ for an answer.”

  “Is anything plugged in?” asked Osborne, looking around. “I’m worried about fire.”

  “I’ve checked for that. Unplugged the router and the modem, all the lamps, the computer of course. Even the phone. Boy oh boy, this is one hell of a mess. Hard to tell if someone was searching for something or just into tearing the place up. So far Patience isn’t sure if anything was stolen though her personal file cabinet was ransacked—all the contents dumped on the floor over there.” She pointed.

  “You think one person did this?”

  Lew shrugged. “Doc, I have no idea but I am beginning to think this has nothing to do with students from the college. This is rage, pure unadulterated rage. Wait ‘till you see the bedroom. But look here first,” she pointed to the damaged computer. “Whoever did it must have taken a sledgehammer—something heavy enough to destroy the hard drive.”

  Osborne followed her into the master bedroom. Dresser drawers had been pulled out and dumped on the floor. Closet doors stood open and piles of clothing had been strewn in every direction. Even curtains and wooden shades had been ripped from the window casings.

  Oddly, on the couple’s king-size bed, the bedspread, blankets and sheets had been piled up and left in a teepee-like heap in the middle of the bed. Osborne walked across the room towards the bed.

  “Doc, wait,” said Lew, handing him a p
air of Nitrile gloves, “we don’t want to touch a thing here or in the den without gloves on.”

  “This looks like there might be something hidden under here,” said Osborne, studying the strange mound. “A dead animal? Do they have a dog? I don’t remember seeing one.”

  “That’s why I called you,” said Lew. “I decided I’d just as soon find out what it is with you here.” She dropped her voice, “Forget Patience. She is just this side of full-blown hysterics.”

  “Where’s the husband?”

  “In Milwaukee taking an art seminar at the university. Supposedly.” Lew gave Osborne a knowing look. “Due back on Tuesday though I am sure that will change.”

  Lew waited while Osborne finished pulling on the gloves. “Ready?” she asked, standing alongside Osborne. “Don’t be surprised if this is nasty.”

  “We’ll deal with it.”

  Gingerly, they pulled the sheets and blankets apart. The first layers exposed nothing. As they reached the lowest clump of sheets, Lew lifted the top sheet from the bed and they stared at a wet, viscous pool: small but potent.

  “At least it’s nothing dead … or worse,” said Osborne.

  “No. But why leave such a calling card?” asked Lew. “I mean—this is something I can work with—right now.”

  She leaned back against one of the dressers and pulled out her cell phone. “Bruce Peters,” she said, using the voice activation feature. She hit the speaker button so Osborne could hear the conversation.

  “Hey, Bruce, Lewellyn Ferris here,” said Lew at the sound of a cheery male voice. “Sorry to call you at home on a weekend but I have a serious situation up here.”

  Osborne crossed his arms settled himself against the wall to listen. He checked his watch and saw it was after five. Suddenly the prospect of not having to touch anything in the bedroom or den was a welcome one.

  “Chief! That’s okay. Good to hear from you,” said Bruce. “Hold on. Let me turn down the television—got the Packers on.”

  “Sure.” She winked at Osborne as she waited. Bruce was her buddy—he’d come through.

  Bruce Peters was in his early thirties, recently engaged and possessed of such a buoyant personality that Osborne wondered how he came to be so interested in forensic science: too often the study of bad things people do to one another. But then who knows how one finds their calling in life? How had Osborne come to love dentistry? Or fishing, for that matter?

  It was fly fishing that Lew counted on to lure Bruce north. Months earlier, and not long after he had been hired by the Wausau Crime Lab, Bruce was assigned to help the Loon Lake police with a murder investigation. On arriving in Lew’s office, he had noticed two artworks on the wall behind her desk.

  “Like those, Bruce?” Lew had asked. “I just bought them at the Trout Unlimited Banquet—the ones on the right are Ausable Wulff trout flies tied by Francis Betters, a very famous fly fisherman and fly tyer. The other holds two of his Haystack trout flies—unsinkable but I would never fish with those. Too beautiful.”

  After studying the framed trout flies up close, Bruce had said, “you know, I’ve always wanted to learn how to fly fish but I’ve never met anyone who could teach me …”

  “You have now,” said Lew.

  That plus his sunny manner and his impeccable forensic skills prompted Lew to take him under her wing. Evenings after a day’s work, she would drive him down to the Prairie River where she initiated him into the mechanics of casting, the challenge of “matching the hatch” by choosing the trout fly most likely to seduce a brook trout—and the sheer magic of an evening spent in whispering waters.

  So it was that Bruce Peters had never turned down a request from Chief Lewellyn Ferris. She did not ask often but when thwarted by his superiors on critical cases, she knew whom to call.

  After giving Bruce a quick overview of the computer issues at the college and the subsequent break-in at the home of the college president, she said, “this is not student vandalism. Someone with a sick agenda rampaged through here. The home office has been damaged and the president’s personal computer completely destroyed.

  “Bruce, I’ve seen vandalism by kids and vandalism by ex-wives and I would say this goes beyond either of those. The destruction, the anger, the force used to wreak this havoc—this is the product of a disturbed individual. But he did leave a calling card, which is why I hope you can help us out.

  “In the bedroom, after tearing things up—our visitor left a puddle of semen in the couple’s bed—”

  “Great,” said Bruce, “and not very smart. We may dealing with an idiot here.”

  “Now, Bruce, just so you know, I talked to your boss yesterday and asked for assistance on our investigation at the college and was turned down. But that’s when we thought we had a student hacker. He told me that was a matter for the Feds. I tried them but they blew me off, too, but that’s worked out okay. The college is paying for two consultants, experts in the fields of computer-assisted investigative reporting and digital forensics.”

  “Wow, I’d like to know what they know,” said Bruce.

  “But I need help with the results of this break-in. The nature of the vandalism makes me concerned for the personal safety of Patience Schumacher, the Wheedon College president.”

  Not her husband, noted Osborne. Interesting.

  “Chief, I’ll be there first thing in the morning,” said Bruce. “Is the entire house a disaster?”

  “No, just those two rooms. I’ve checked.”

  “Good. Then here’s what I need you to do. Close down all access and don’t allow anyone to move or touch a thing. I may be able to get some prints. Let the semen stains air dry. If all goes well, I’ll get a DNA report on that ASAP. The good news is the state gave us the money to update our equipment and technology so it shouldn’t take long. And I have a few favors I can call in so we can have the DNA results run through the state and national databases pronto.

  “One more thing,” said Bruce. “How difficult would it be for you to get DNA samples from any other males that have access to that home?”

  “Would a toothbrush work? The husband is out of town right now—but he left an electric toothbrush behind. Would the brush section off that work?”

  “Toothbrush is fine. Meet you at your office at eight tomorrow morning?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Oh, Chief, one small favor to ask …”

  “Of course, Bruce. Shoot.” Lew grinned at Osborne. She knew this was coming.

  “Those Dead Deceivers you showed me last fall? Got any extras I might have? Hope to go north with one of my buddies this spring—fish steelhead.”

  “Tied some this winter, kiddo. Half a dozen are yours so long as you promise not to lose them on alder branches.”

  “O-o-h,” said Bruce with a wince in his voice, “I’ll do my best.”

  “Bruce,” said Lew, her voice serious, “I can’t thank you enough—”

  “Chief, you’ll pay,” said Bruce, chortling as he hung up.

  Just as Lew tucked her cell phone back into its holster on her hip, Patience entered the bedroom. Her shoulders were slumped and her face tear-stained. “I tried Charles but his phone must be off. I left a message.”

  “I don’t want you staying here tonight,” said Lew. “Let’s get you a room at the Loon Lake Motel. I have a forensic expert from the Wausau Crime Lab who will be working here in tomorrow morning. It’s critical that no one disturbs anything in the den or your bedroom until he is finished. Do you have extra clothing in another room, I hope?”

  “Yes, I keep my work clothes in the guest room closet. That won’t be a problem. I do think I’ll sleep better at the motel.”

  “One more thing,” said Lew. “We’ll be doing some DNA testing on the bedclothes that may help us identify who broke in. But I do need one of your husband’s used toothbrushes. Just a formality to rule him out—”

  “What? You can’t be serious. Charles is a suspect?”

  “Everyo
ne who may have had access to your home is a suspect,” said Lew. “Simply a formality that allows us to rule him out. That’s all.”

  But Patience was in tears again.

  As they were walking to their cars, Osborne said, “Lew, Ray and I had an encounter today that I need to talk to you about.”

  Lew paused, her hand on the door of her cruiser. “Please tell me we have a lead on the Beltner murder.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but we spent time with old Walter Frisch. He’s living in an old shack out near the swamp behind the Merriman Trail. He found a snowshoe in the road by his place that we think is one of Kathy Beltner’s.”

  “He found it in the road?” asked Lew, leaning back against the cruiser, her arms crossed and her eyes intent on Osborne’s. “That’s curious. As if it fell off a vehicle, maybe?”

  “So we went on down the road and back in to this place I knew as a kid—the old Russian camp. Do you know the place?”

  “Never heard of it. Is it like a holdover from the logging days? One of those strange old places you find in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Exactly. Only a very surly fellow is squatting in there. No fire number. No mailbox. From the looks of it, he’s been doing a lot of work on the place. But when Ray and I tried to talk to the joker, he ran us off the place. Insisted his property was posted, which it was not.” Osborne felt his anger rising again just thinking about the guy.

  “Ray is going to report him to the DNR or the Forestry Service, whichever one has jurisdiction over that land. I think we should have a search warrant to check the place out, Lew. Where he’s living isn’t far from where the old man found the one snowshoe.”

  “Did you ask him about it?”