“I’m afraid I know nothing about these kinds of things,” he said. “Please keep it as basic as you can.”
“Don’t worry about that, Dr. Osborne,” said the priest, “but we thought you might like to see how Wally takes the original document, scans it with this penlike instrument, and—there—see all the information on the screen?”
“Very nice,” said Osborne. “Now, why are you doing this?”
“Oh. people call all the time for their baptismal records,” said Father Vodicka. “In some communities, you can’t get married in a Catholic church if you can’t furnish a copy of your baptismal records. Then, of course, years ago, many early residents never did file birth certificates. Often babies were born in the home, and they never thought too much about it, but they always had their children baptized. So we have calls from people looking for their baptismal certificate in lieu of a birth certificate. Very important, these. We used to have to spend hours looking through files, but now, if people give us a name or a date or even just the month, we can find the correct listing in seconds and print multiple copies instantly.”
“Father,” the student spoke up, “have you decided what you’re going to do about the fancy ones?”
“Oh, those. Look at this, Doctor.” The priest picked up a box from the floor and pulled open the flaps. “These are from the late 1800s.” He pulled out a sheaf of papers, many on parchment, some with delicate hand drawings and elegant script. “People drew up their own baptismal records in those days. Some are works of art. I’m not sure what to do with them.”
Osborne reached for one, but even as he looked at it, his mind was leaping ahead to a much more contemporary question.
“So, if I give you a date right now, maybe just a month, can you locate the records as we stand here?”
“If we have those years completed,” said Father Vodicka.
Osborne reached into his jacket pocket. He had slipped the folded dental record for the Bowers boy into his pocket early that morning to show Ray. He pulled it out. Yes, it had a birth date. What if Shanley were right? What if the boy had been born in the area? What if Ray was right, and the victim was connected to those triplets born so many years ago? It was a long shot, but anything is possible in a small town.
“Okay,” said Osborne, “let’s see March twenty-fifth.” Then he gave the year.
“Good,” said Wally, “I’ve got that year all done.”
His fingers danced over the keyboard and he punched lightly with his forefinger several times.
“March twenty-fifth?”
“Right,” said Osborne. His fatigue had disappeared. He felt wound up if not tense.
“Nothing for the twenty-fifth.”
“Oh.” Osborne’s disappointment was obvious.
“Now, wait,” said Father Vodicka, “that was a birth date, correct? Most Catholic parents had their babies baptized three weeks after the birth. Let’s move up two to three weeks….”
“We’re looking for triplets,” said Osborne.
“Triplets?” The priest’s head and the student’s eyes swung toward Osborne simultaneously.
“I know who you want,” said Wally. “Here it is.”
And it was: names, date, family.
“Now …” the student shifted forward in his chair, “here’s an interesting piece we added to this particular record. Father Vodicka and I decided that the entire file should be input. So see this box? I’ll move my cursor here and click on this like so. Voilà! Now you have the entire record that was attached to their certificates. Here, take my chair and sit down so you can read it.”
Osborne moved much faster to sit than he had twenty minutes earlier to kneel.
As he read, Father Vodicka leaned over his shoulder. “I thought everyone had forgotten about this,” the priest said softly. “Mother Superior kept it all quiet, you know. Only a few of us in the parish knew that the convent had taken in those children under such circumstances, but Mother Superior prided herself on running an unofficial adoption service that kept Catholic babies in Catholic homes. That’s why the records are here, she took responsibility for those youngsters.”
Sure enough, it was all there, straight from the nuns who’d brought the children to the priest for baptism. First, Mother Superior’s note stating the local superstition that these “poor babes were considered ‘evil angels’ by their late mother … because of that some rather outspoken and unkind members of the church are insisting they not be baptized because it can’t be proven that the deceased parents were, indeed, Roman Catholic … however, given their French-Canadian heritage, I believe there is no doubt of Catholicism,” the good nun had said.
In addition to the note from the nun, the parents’ death certificates showed cause of death to be suicide. These were followed on the screen by medical records from the hospital detailing the health exams of fraternal triplets, two boys and one girl. The attending physician noted simply that the children were healthy and normal in every respect with the exception of both males having undescended testes.
Finally, the names of the adoptive parents. There were two family names—the Bowers took one of the triplets, a boy, and Ruth Minor took the other two.
“Ruth Minor?” Osborne was stunned. The names of the babies surprised him, too: Charles William Minor and Judith Benjamin Minor. “I never heard of Ruth having adopted a brother and sister,” said Osborne. “Never. She raised Judith Benjamin, and that’s the only child I ever knew her to have in her home. Whatever happened to the third child?”
“You know, I’m not sure,” said the priest. “This was Mother Superior’s responsibility, and she kept things very hush-hush always. Quite a few young women from the area were able to have babies placed after they got into trouble, thanks to the good nuns. It was a woman’s thing, and they didn’t share much with me. The last of the nuns in that group passed away a few years ago, I’m afraid.”
Osborne remembered Mother Superior well. She ran the convent and the priests with an iron hand. Father Vodicka had probably dedicated himself to staying out of her way.
“Let me try …” said Wally, punching the keys of the computer. He waited for a few moments, “No … these are the only records we have on those names,” he said.
“Now, the Bowers name …” said Father Vodicka, “I remember that well. Mother Superior was most pleased with that adoption. The Cantrell family felt quite badly about the situation. I’m not sure why, but Mrs. Cantrell inquired personally. As it turned out, her sister was eager to adopt one of the children. She was in her early forties, and in those days, you know, it was very difficult to adopt if you were older. That child went to a very good home—out of town, of course.”
Osborne decided to say nothing more. He had to get this information to Lew as soon as possible.
“We also kept this,” said Father Vodicka. From the box with the beautiful, handwritten records, he pulled a dingy envelope. It contained a scrawled note from Herman Ebeling.
“I know this man,” said Osborne. “We call him Herman the German. He’s a hermit, lives out past McNaughton. Hasn’t come to town in years.”
“Oh? He’s still alive?” Father Vodicka looked quite surprised. “I told someone recently that I was sure that person must be dead.”
“To whom did you say that?” asked Osborne. “Did you mention Herman’s name?”
Father Vodicka looked alarmed as if the tone in Osborne’s voice was alerting him to something amiss. He thought hard for a minute.
“Judith Benjamin asked about the old man,” said the priest. “At the time, I was standing outside the church, telling some folks about this fascinating discovery, but I couldn’t remember the old gentleman’s name. She didn’t seem to want to get in touch with him, it was more a question of whether or not anyone knew if he was still living. No one knew anything. She asked me to let her know if I heard anything. You know Judith Benjamin, Doctor. She’s at Mass every Sunday.”
“Yes, I know her.” Osborne decid
ed not to say more. He certainly wasn’t going to say another word about Herman until he knew what was going on.
“Father, if you don’t mind, I’d like to discuss this with someone—a friend of mine—in law enforcement before you say anything to Judith. I am not in a position to explain why that is, but could you extend this courtesy for a few days?”
“Of course,” said the priest, now clearly taken aback. “That was several weeks ago, and she hasn’t pursued the matter, so I feel no obligation.”
“Wally?” Osborne had noticed that the young programmer was all ears. “This entire discussion is confidential. Agreed?” Wally nodded, his eyes large and serious. Osborne patted him supportively on the shoulder.
The note from Herman said two things. It attested to the Catholicism of the parents, and it stated that Herman would accept the guardianship of the triplets’ older sibling.
“Do you have a record for this other child?” asked Osborne after absorbing the meaning of Herman’s note.
“We should,” said the priest, “since the nuns took the children in, all their records were kept—birth and medical.”
“Do you have a name or a date?” asked Wally.
“Let’s try the family’s name,” said Osborne.
The computer could find no more family members with the same name.
“Wait,” interrupted Father Vodicka. “Look under Ebeling. I’m guessing that Mr. Ebeling might have had the child baptized in his name.”
“Good idea,” said Osborne, somewhat doubtfully.
The name came up instantly: Marie Ebeling.
“I wonder if that child has a medical record?” asked Osborne out loud, though the question was really for himself.
“Let’s check,” said Wally, clicking on a small box again.
“Sure enough,” said Osborne, his voice soft and wondering, “looks like they had all the children examined at the same time. This one is one year older, female. Isn’t this just the darnedest thing?”
“That’s not bad, Dr. Osborne,” said Wally, flipping his long hair out of the way and looking up at Osborne with wide brown eyes. “You should see some of the weird stuff in these records, like—”
“Now, now,” interrupted Father Vodicka, “we have to keep quite of bit of this confidential. Wally, you must remember that.”
Osborne looked at the priest.
“Oh, you can imagine,” said Father Vodicka, “we have illegitimate children, fathers with names different from the mothers—that kind of thing.”
“What about the baby that looked like a fish?” asked Wally. “That’s the weirdest. They even got a picture of it in the file!”
The priest tried to ignore his assistant. Osborne could see he was trying to avoid the impression that he and Wally had been more than a little taken aback with their discoveries. “I don’t think all the people in Loon Lake know exactly who their ancestors or siblings are … in all cases. And it is not our job to tell them.”
He was beginning to look a little flustered, and Osborne restrained a chuckle. The demonstration had gone further than good Father Vodicka had planned.
eighteen
See how he throws his baited lines about, And plays his mean as anglers play their trout.
O. W. Holmes, The Barber’s Secret
“What time is it?” said Lew to no one in particular as she glanced down at her watch. Osborne looked at the wall clock in the small Rhinelander airport. The morning sky was lightening with sun and it looked like a lovely day was on its way.
“Seven-thirty—that Northwest flight’ll be landing any moment now,” said an elderly man, leaning on his cane beside them at the windows. Lew, Osborne, and Ray were clustered together before the expanse of glass overlooking the landing strip.
Osborne noticed all three of them were inhaling strong black coffee from the hospitality pot. He set his down on the sill, aware his hand was beginning to shake. He’d started the day with a pot of his own that he’d drunk with relish, sitting on his porch, catching up with the Sunday paper as Mike curled up beside him. Constantly nosing his master, the trusty black Lab made it clear he felt neglected.
But that was two hours ago. Right now, the three of them were still digesting the news that Osborne had delivered over more coffee at McDonald’s an hour earlier. The meeting was the result of Lew refusing to let him continue when he’d called her at home late the night before.
“We’re not discussing this on your damn party line,” she’d said before Osborne had had an opportunity to pass along his discovery at the church. Following that, both of them heard two light clicks signaling guilty listeners. “Why on earth do you have a party line anyway?” Lew demanded. “That’s like having every one of your phone calls taped. Don’t tell me those old biddies down the road from you don’t eavesdrop all day long!”
Osborne sighed resignedly and repeated what he said to his daughters at least once a month: “The phone company won’t spend the money to rewire our end of the lake until every single household approves it. Right now, we have three of the thirty-five homes holding out because it’ll increase their phone bills by twenty bucks a month. Lew, that’s a lot of money for some folks, especially the retirees in the mobile home park over on Moens Lake.”
So instead, they’d arranged to meet early for coffee, and Osborne had walked next door to alert Ray.
McDonald’s was bustling, even at six A.M., but they were able to get a table apart from the crowd. Osborne delivered his news. It was quickly agreed that Lew would drop in on Judith Benjamin later that day not only to question her about Ted Bronk but see if she knew anything about Ruth Minor’s other adopted child.
“Not that she’ll enjoy chatting about Ruth,” Lew had chuckled. “There’s a few of us in town still think it was Judith who did the old lady in, even if she was only nine years old.”
“Judith Benjamin is the only woman who ever beat me up,” said Ray between bites of an Egg McMuffin. “Boy, was she a vicious bully when we were kids. She jumped me on the way home from kindergarten one day and kicked the bejesus outta me.” Ray sat up straight, his eyes wide over his beard that held crumbs from the muffin. “I was only five years old. I think she was eleven or twelve. Boy, she was big even then. Was my mother mad! Whew!”
“Now, Ray. Tell us the truth. You had a reputation even at age five. I’m sure you gave her good reason, didn’t you?” Lew’s eyes crinkled with the tease.
Ray thought about it, pulling gently at his beard, finally tipping his trout hat back on his head as he thought her question over quite seriously. “I really don’t know. I think she did it for sport.”
“This is the flight she said to expect her on,” said Osborne, repeating himself for about the tenth time. They were all three very anxious to meet the lawyer, get over to Wausau, and get an official ID on the body.
Just then, from behind, an authoritative but feminine voice called out, “Dr. Osborne? Dr. Paul Osborne?”
The three spun around to see a young woman with a cap of naturally curly darkish blond hair, held back from her face by a dark green scarf. She wore no makeup. Loudly she repeated Osborne’s name. “Dr. Paul Osborne?” She had wide cheekbones in a squarish face, the cheekbones all the more noticeable because of the dark, serious eyes they emphasized. She was wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a forest green cotton duck jacket that featured more leather and brass knobs than Osborne had seen at the taxidermist’s.
“I’m Dr. Osborne.” Osborne stepped forward quickly, more than a little anxious. The woman spoke as if she might be a physician, some kind of professional. Had something happened to Erin or one of his grandchildren?
“Gee, that was easy.” The young woman relaxed and smiled broadly, reaching out a hand to pump his with firm enthusiasm. “I’m Julie Rehnquist—Robert Bowers’s lawyer. I’m so pleased to meet you. The people at the Kansas City Star couldn’t say enough good things about you.”
“But … Miss Rehnquist … I thought you were due in on this flight?”
Osborne took in her appearance again, the jeans, a T-shirt, and the heavy hunter’s jacket. This young woman a lawyer? He guessed her to be in her thirties, though she had a brightness to her eyes and manner that made her look even younger.
“I flew to Mosinee and drove up late yesterday afternoon,” said Julie, extending her hand to Ray and Lew in turn.
“Pleased,” said Ray, ducking his head to ceremoniously remove his stuffed trout, bow slightly, return the hat to his head, and then, with a bashful grin on his face that Osborne had never seen before, say absolutely nothing. Ray without a quip and a bad joke on meeting a new person? Osborne raised an eyebrow.
Lew was not so restrained. “Quite a surprise, Miss Rehnquist—or is it Mrs.?” She fired her words off in what Osborne now recognized was her getting-down-to-business style. “But it’s good you’re here and we’ll get the worst over quickly. But how did you get a flight so soon? Charter one? Those flights into Mosinee are always oversold.”
If Julie was taken aback by Lew’s directness, she didn’t show it. She chuckled instead, a disarming chuckle that made her seem instantly likable.
“I’m sorry, I’m one of those terrible type A’s that rise at the crack of dawn,” said Julie. “I like to get an early start. After I heard from Dr. Osborne, I thought I’d like to get this investigation underway ASAP. And since the weather was so lovely yesterday, why not just get going? I said to myself, ‘If they’ve got the nerve to call it God’s country up there, then get your rear in gear and see it in all its glory! So I corralled my trusty travel agent at home on Sunday and demanded she book me or lose the firm’s business.” Osborne assumed she was kidding, but he wasn’t sure.
As Julie talked, Lew marshaled the group out of the airport and down the road toward her car. The air outside was cool but continuing to turn into a sunny, crisply clear Monday morning.
“Oh, one other factor,” said Julie, “I really wanted to get the lay of the land up here, and I thought you all might be pretty busy, so I just figured I’d do it on my own. I found the neatest little bed-and-breakfast place as I drove in yesterday—”
Dead Creek Page 17
