by C. E. Nelson
Doctor Adams stood with his back to Dave, working on one of the victims of the killing, blue jeans and tennis shoes visible below his white lab coat. With the music blaring from two speakers mounted in the far corners of the room, Dave was sure the doctor did not hear him enter, and tapped him on the shoulder. Dave expected some reaction of surprise at the shoulder tap, but the doctor merely raised his right hand, pointed a finger in the air, and then went to a desk to his left and turned down the volume on the music.
“Welcome sheriff. I believe this is your first visit to our little facility?” he said as he turned to face Dave, peering over half-moon reading glasses.
“Hope you don’t mind me barging in on you like this?”
“Not at all. In fact your timing is very good. I was just finishing up with the second victim,” he responded as he picked up a clipboard on his desk. “I’m afraid I don’t really have much to tell you that you probably don’t already know. I believe that both men were killed with the same weapon, a knife with a heavy blade likely 8” to 10” long, and extremely sharp. There was a single very straight level cut used to kill each man and the killer was probably right handed. I have sent samples of the blood around the wounds from each victim to Duluth to be analyzed. I suspect we will find traces of the blood from the victim by the rock mixed with the blood from the one on the beach to confirm that the same knife killed them both. Obviously the victim on whom we find samples of both of their blood types will be the one that was killed last. I still suspect it will be the man at the fire.”
“So, you think it was one killer?”
“I would be greatly surprised if that was not the case. The manner in which both men were killed is just too similar.”
“Anything else?”
Adams tilted his head as he considered his response. “I was curious, as I’m sure you are, as to how the killer could have held the victims in such a manner as to cut so deeply and cleanly through each neck without putting himself in danger of being cut. There were no signs that the victims were held around the forehead.”
“I’m not sure I follow?”
“Let me demonstrate if you don’t mind,” replied Doctor Adams as he moved behind Dave after picking up a ruler on his desk. “Now, our killer needed to hold the victim’s head very still to make the cuts that he did. To do that one would think that he would put the victim in some type of headlock against his body with one arm like this,” said the doctor as he wrapped his left forearm around Dave’s head and pulled it back against his shoulder.
“Now, assuming the ruler in my hand is the knife, you can see this hold would have made it difficult to cut your neck so deeply without endangering me cutting myself or getting much force with my cutting arm, much less making a level cut,” said the doctor as he drew the ruler across Dave’s neck. “Also, we don’t know the height of the killer, but this approach would only possibly have worked if the killer was noticeably taller than the victim by the rock. As the victim that was standing was almost six feet three, this would seem even more unlikely.”
“I think you made your point Doc,” Dave managed in a strained voice, pushing the ruler from his neck.
“Oh, sorry,” said Adams in a non-apologetic clinical voice as he released his hold and walked back over to the table. “In addition, the man sitting by the fire was so low to the ground that trying to bend over him from behind and put an arm around his forehead would have been very awkward if nothing else,” he said as he turned toward the body on the table.
“Now, if you look at the top of this man’s head carefully, this is the man from the beach, you can see what looks to be a red area.” Trask moved over to the examining table to stand by the doctor, bending over to get a closer look, as he rubbed his neck. “I found that several hairs were pulled out here and others were damaged to the point of being broken or close to it. I found the same type of damage on the back of the head of the man killed by the rock. I can only surmise that the killer held each man by his hair. Would you like me to demonstrate?” asked the doctor.
It didn’t seem to Dave that Doctor Adams was kidding so he quickly raised his hands as he declined, taking a step back. “That would make sense. We found two caps on the rocks on the beach. I’m guessing they set them there when they landed. Nice work Doc.”
“Other than that all I can tell you is that the men died shortly after noon yesterday. Sorry I don’t have more.”
Dave was impressed with the Doctor’s observations. They hadn’t told him much he didn’t know, but the man obviously knew what he was dong. “You’ve done this before haven’t you?”
“I’m afraid so. I used to work in Chicago and vacation here in the summer. Saw a ten-month old baby shot in the face about nine years ago and decided I’d had enough of the big city. There just happened to be an opening here at the time so that settled that. Didn’t really expect to run into this here, but who would?”
“Thanks again. By the way, who’s your receptionist?”
“Receptionist?” replied Adams with a puzzled look.
“Yeah, the redhead in the first office on the right?”
Doctor Adams smiled wide and released a brief chuckle. “My dear sheriff that would be Doctor James. She is easily my equal here and if you have any sense, which I think you do, you will never refer to her as my receptionist or anybody’s receptionist if there is any chance that she will hear you.”
“Got it. Thanks again.”
“My pleasure.”
Dave heard the music again as he made his way back down the hall, stopping to knock on the door of the woman he first talked to upon entering. Doctor James looked up from her computer.
“Thanks for your help Doctor James.”
“You’re welcome sheriff.”
“I don’t believe I caught your first name?”
“No, and I don’t believe I mentioned my last name earlier either.”
“Doctor Adams told me,” replied Dave.
“I see,” she said in an almost judgmental tone as she inserted the end of the pen in her hand between her full red lips and began to nibble on the end. Her brown eyes opened wide and stared at Dave.
Dave, never married and always uncomfortable around women, especially women as attractive as the doctor, felt as if he was being studied. “OK then. Um, maybe we’ll run into each other again?”
“That might be interesting,” she replied as she continued to stare.
“Yes, well, thanks again,” said Dave as he backed out of her office, nearly knocking over a plant inside the door. “What an idiot I am,” he said aloud to himself as he exited the building and went to his truck.
Chapter Ten
The bridge spanning the strait between Rush Lake and Cross Lake was 120 feet. Originally the bridge had been all cedar, but had been replaced in recent years by a steel structure, and a pedestrian lane added. In the spring, the strait became home to hundreds of walleyes moving between the lakes, shore-bound anglers dodging vehicles and hanging from girders as they tried to reach the fish. After two anglers fell from the bridge in one week, one breaking his neck by landing on a boat below, the bridge was closed to anglers although young boys and drunks still tried their luck some nights. Deer, raccoons, and an occasional wolf also used the pedestrian lane at times.
The Channel Inn sat perched next to the bridge. Ten floating docks accommodated patrons that came by water while a steep short drive off the county road widened into a potholed asphalt parking lot that had spaces for roughly twenty vehicles. The restaurant itself had two levels, a more formal dining room upstairs at parking lot level while downstairs there was a bar with seating and about half a dozen small round tables with room for no more than six at each. A deck with four redwood picnic tables with umbrellas was reached through a door next to the bar and sat above the boat dock outside.
Dave parked and said hi to the girl sitting on a stool behind the counter to his left as he entered. The counter had an enclosed glass case below filled with Channel Inn t-sh
irts, sweatshirts, and caps for sale. Although the merchandise was grossly overpriced, it was nicely done and of decent quality, none of which Dave noticed. He had looked over the dining room with a wall of windows facing the lake and then took a second look at the girl. The girl wasn’t a girl at all but a woman that looked to be about thirty. She had long strawberry blonde hair that cascaded over her shoulders and blue eyes that looked Dave over as he did the same to her. Her cherry red lips matched her blouse that was unbuttoned enough for Dave to see there was a lot more there to consider.
“Would you like to see a menu, or do you already know what you’d like?” she asked as she leaned forward making sure Dave knew what was on the menu.
“I’m looking for a group of guides.”
“I’m a good guide,” she replied with a seductive smile.
“Yeah, umm, I don’t doubt that but I’m looking for fishing guides,” replied Trask as his cheeks reddened.
“Too bad. They’re downstairs but I’ll be right here if you’d like something.”
“OK, thanks,” replied a slightly flustered Dave as he headed down the stairs.
One older man with thin white hair and a wrinkled leathery tan in white shorts, blue t-shirt, and flip-flops sat nursing a drink at the heavily varnished bar to Dave’s left as he reached the lower level. A table of five men who appeared to be at or past retirement age sat at the table directly in front of him. Four of them were sipping beers while the other had a glass filled with an amber liquid, all of which made Dave thirsty. Each had a well-worn cap on their head, with tanned weathered faces; most had a two-day growth of beard. At the appearance of Dave on the landing the men stopped talking, as if they had been talking about him, which they had.
“Gentlemen, I’m sheriff Trask. Dave Trask.” Three of them nodded but there was no other response. These men had made their living, or more properly survived, in this area their whole life. Life here was tough and the seasonal opportunity to make money was short. Sometimes shortcuts, not necessarily legal, were needed to optimize what they made. These men had hoped for a sheriff from this area, one who would understand and look the other way when needed. They had not voted for Dave.
Al Mason sat to Dave’s left as he approached and did the introductions. With Al were Tom Rogers, owner of the Thunderbird Lodge on Crow Lake, his camp manager Larry Nelson, and two locals, Doug Speer and Pete Jacobsen.
Dave shook hands all around as he was introduced. “Thanks Al. As I’m sure you gentlemen know, we have an active murder investigation going on. Two of Al’s guests were killed day before last and I’m looking for help. Mr. Rogers, I hear you had to let a guide go last week. What happened?”
Tom Rogers was as much a part of the area as any landmark. His father had opened Thunderbird Lodge almost seventy years ago. Tom had worked there since he could walk. He finished high school because his dad had insisted but he knew from a young age all he ever wanted to do was to run the lodge. “Billie got pissed off about a light tip by one of the guests and let him know it. The guest apparently said something about Indians that set Billie off. He charged the guest but before anything happened a couple of other guests stepped in. The guest who Billie went after demanded I fire Billie so I really had no choice.”
“I see. And how did Billie take it?”
“Not well. He pretty much trashed his room and then took off in one of my boats.”
“What’s his last name?” asked Dave as he made a note.
“Whitehead.”
Dave asked for a description. “He’s a big guy, a couple inches over six feet. Wears his hair kind of shaggy. Tough looking,” answered Rogers.
“And had he caused any other trouble for you?”
Rogers took a sip of beer as he considered his answer. “This was his second year guiding for me. He knows the lake well but was a bit short on his social skills. I’d heard a few comments about him not being very friendly from previous guests. I told him he’d have to do better at the beginning of this season and it seemed as if he had improved some before this.”
“I already told Danny all this sheriff,” inserted Roger’s camp manager. Rogers and Nelson could have been twins, both just under six feet and kind of scrawny except for their waistlines. Angular, tired faces with bags under their eyes, scraggly grey beards. Like Rogers, Larry Nelson was a Lake County lifer. He had spent every day of his youth fishing or hunting, more than a few days when he should have been at school. He and Tom had been best friends growing up and remained so today.
“Thanks Mr. Nelson,” responded Dave as he looked carefully at the man. “I’ll be talking to Danny in just a short time. You think Billie could be involved in this?
“Like I told Danny, Billie had a short fuse. We’re his third camp. He won’t get another guiding job in Minnesota,” stated Nelson.
“Billie had been let go by two other camps before yours?”
“I knew about it,” responded Rogers as he gave a stern look to Nelson. “Billie’s cousin has worked for us for over ten years, so I said I’d give Billie a chance, but they both knew that any complaint and Billie would be gone.”
“What’s the name of his cousin?”
“Charlie, Charlie Raven.”
“Any idea where we can find Billie?”
“I found our boat at the landing but there was nothing in it but an empty beer can,” answered Nelson. “I told Danny he should talk to the other guides.”
“Thanks again, Mr. Nelson.” Dave guessed that Nelson wasn’t too fond of Billie and probably had not approved of his hiring. Was there more there? Probably, but he’d wait to talk to Danny before spending any more time on it.
“And what about you two gentlemen?” said Dave as he turned to the two men across from him. “Anything to add?”
The obviously older of the two, Pete Jacobsen, shook his head ‘no’ and finished off what Dave guessed was not his first beer. Jacobsen was seventy but looked older, worn-out. His pale blue eyes were barely visible below his drooping eyelids, a faded two-inch scar on his left cheek.
“And you Mr. Speer?” asked the sheriff of the other.
Doug Speer looked like the tough old-timer you’d see in an old western. With his thinning hair he appeared to be approaching sixty but was fit, like he worked out regularly. Speer lived by himself on the far end of Pipestone Bay on giant Basswood Lake, the same lake where Dave had his home. He had trapped and sold minnows to the resorts and bait stores to scratch out a living for more years than anyone could remember. His confident blue eyes peered at Dave from under bushy salt and pepper eyebrows.
“Word is you’re chasing a ghost sheriff.”
“Ghost?”
“That’s what the Indians are saying. Same ghost that killed those prospectors. I’m sure Tom and Larry have heard it from their guides too,” he added nodding to the other men.
“And what do you think Mr. Speer?”
“When you’ve lived alone on this area as long as I have you see a lot of strange things. I don’t know that I believe in ghosts, but I do know that I ain’t taking any chances. Wherever I go, this knife comes with me – and I know how to use it,” he said as he patted the large buck knife in a sheath on his belt.
Dave glanced at the knife. Its blade was long with the point protruding from the bottom of the sheath. Dave was certain it was very sharp. “And where were you Monday about noon?”
Speer cackled. “You think I whacked those men? Sorry to disappoint you but I’m sure Brett over at the bait shop will tell you that he and I were having a discussion about when I was going to get paid for my last two bait deliveries. Besides, I rely on those tourists to buy as much live bait as possible. Too damn many of them using artificial bait these days.”
Dave thanked them for their time and climbed the stairs, getting a finger wave and a big smile from the hostess as he reached the upper landing. He could feel his face turning red again and made a quick exit. He made a note to check up on Doug Speer’s story, but he had no reason to doubt
it. No need to rub Speer the wrong way. A man that spent as much time on the water and in the area as he did could turn out to be a valuable resource.
Chapter Eleven
The deputies were already gathered around the conference table by the time Dave arrived, Danny munching on a bag of Cheetos, a Coke on the table in front of him. Dave wished he had stopped for something.
“Thanks for your extra efforts,” he began as he pulled out his pad and looked at his notes. “What can you tell me about Billie Whitehead Danny?”
The Cheeto in Danny’s fingers stopped just short of his mouth at the mention of Whitehead’s name. He knew he hadn’t mentioned it earlier in the day. Was the sheriff checking up on him? “It looks like Whitehead was not too pleased with the tip he got from one of the guests and tried to go after him. It never amounted to much but he was fired right there. He really ripped up his room in the camp and then took off with one of the boats. Nobody has heard from him since.”
“Did the guides have anything to add?”
“Not really,” Meline replied. “I talked to Billie’s cousin Charlie, but he had no clue where Billie might have gone. He figured he’d turn up soon if he was still in the area because Billie had no money and not much else.”
“What can you tell me about Tom Rogers and Larry Nelson?”
“They’ve both been here forever. Why?” asked Meline suspiciously.
Trask ignored his question. “How did they get along?”
“Good as far as I know. I never heard anything else.” The others nodded in agreement.
“Does Mr. Nelson have a financial interest in the business?”
Danny had no idea where Dave was going with his questions. “I think I heard that Tom gave him a cut a few years ago, but that was strictly talk.”
Dave made a note to check on the business and personal relationship of the two men as well as how the camp was doing financially. The killings at Big Pine would have an impact at other camps like Thunderbird, but who would benefit?
