by C. E. Nelson
“What do you want me to do with the fan?” said Danny as he held it up.
“That should fit in the window I opened. Give it to me and I’ll set it up.” Dave took a deep breath and walked back in the cabin to the window he opened. He placed the fan on the sill and then pushed the window down to hold it in place. There was an outlet just below the window. He turned the fan on and made sure it was sucking air out of the cabin before exiting again.
The men walked back to the truck where the deputy removed his camera from the rear while Dave got in the passenger side and grabbed his phone. Dave dialed the coroner’s office and waited for an answer as he watched Danny walk back toward the cabin with the camera bag over his shoulder. A woman’s voice answered.
“Hello. This is Sheriff Trask. I’d like to speak to the coroner.”
“Oh, hello sheriff. Nice to hear your voice again. This is Doctor James. Can I help you or do you need to talk to Doctor Adams?”
Dave’s mind immediately flooded with an image of the red hair, large brown eyes, and a top he wouldn’t soon forget.
“Hello sheriff? Are you still there?”
“Yeah. Um, I don’t quite know who to talk to,” replied Dave as he tried to focus on his call.
“Well, why don’t you tell me what this is about and I can help you decide?” Her voice was comforting and assuring.
Trask explained the situation and the doctor said she would confer with Doctor Adams and that one of them would be there as quickly as possible and hung up. It took a moment for the sheriff to realize that he was listening to a dial tone.
Dave’s thought about calling his brother but decided it would be best to talk to the guides and other guests first. He grabbed his notebook and headed back to the murder cabin. Dave opened the screen door and observed Meline taking photos for a moment and was pleased to see him being careful where he stood and the fact that he was taking shots from different angles.
“Danny, when you’re done there, we’ll get statements from the guests. I’m going to talk to the guides.”
The deputy nodded his understanding and bent to take another image.
Trask watched him for a moment longer. “You notice anything in here?”
“The victim by the table had his front right pocket turned out and there seems to be blood on the lining. Our killer might have pulled something out, maybe his wallet.”
Dave had seen the same thing earlier but hadn’t mentioned it. “Good observation Danny. Anything on the outside of the cabin?”
“No sir.”
“OK, ME should be here in an hour or so.”
Meline nodded and went back to his photos. Dave was hesitant about leaving Danny alone and knew he would have to return for a closer look later, but he wanted his investigation to have as little impact on the camp as possible, meaning that the sooner he was through with the guides and the guests, the sooner they would be fishing. He flashed back to how he thought he had been understaffed in Maple Grove. What he wouldn’t give for that same number of officers now. Dave turned and walked off to the guides’ quarters. The rain was stopping.
Native Americans, mainly Chippewa, whose families had lived in the area for generations, dominate the fishing guide business in this area. In many instances, family members – father, son, uncle, and cousin - guide at the same resort and have done so for years. Fishing spots are held closely guarded among families and the guides take pride in producing the shore lunches that hold a special place in the guests’ memories.
In recent years, however, larger resorts have begun catering to corporate groups. These resorts have brought in their own guides, often from the Minneapolis area and central Minnesota, and most have been white. These guides are better paid, have nicer facilities, and run bigger boats than the guides from the smaller resorts.
It didn’t take long for animosity to develop between the smaller resorts and the corporate camps. The guides at the corporate camps were unfamiliar with the water and so resorted to ‘stealing’ the fishing spots of the guides from the smaller resorts when both fished the same water. The corporate guides had no qualms about running the smaller guide boats off of spots or commandeering and trashing shore lunch locations that had been used for generations by local guides and their clients.
Complaints to the owners of the large camps by the small lodge owners were ignored. When the actions of the corporate guides did not improve, the small camp owners took their complaints to the local authorities that would listen and nod, agreeing to talk to the corporate owners, but knowing there was little they could do. No real laws were being broken and, in reality, the authorities knew that the corporate business was a big part of what kept them in a job.
All of this was no secret to Dave who had been a guest at more than one of these camps. Was it possible that the large resorts were behind these killings in some way? Resort business had been especially hurt by the recession and clients were precious. It seemed unlikely that they would resort to murder but, where money and lifestyle was involved, Dave knew it was a possibility he had to consider.
The guides at Half Moon were all Native American and housed in a long cedar-sided building near the docks. Three men stood on the landing outside the only door to the guides’ quarters, two smoking, all in jeans and t-shirts, watching as Dave approached.
“Morning,” said the sheriff as he paused on the step looking up at the men. “I’m Sheriff Trask.”
“We know who you are,” said the largest man on the right as he leaned against the building.
Dave guessed the man was in his late forties. His black hair was streaked with grey and held behind his head in a ponytail. The man’s face was deeply weathered, his eyes only small slits. His muscles stretched his white t-shirt and he was tall, a few inches over six feet, with a thickness beginning to show in his belly. An eagle was tattooed on his right forearm.
“If you gentlemen wouldn’t mind stepping inside, I’d like to ask you all a few questions.”
The two who had not spoken looked to the larger man for direction. He dropped his cigarette on the deck, crushed it with the ball of his foot like he was signaling to Trask what he might do to him, and gave Dave a long smirk. The big man pushed off the wall and opened the screen door; the other two followed behind not bothering to hold the door for Dave bringing up the rear.
The room they entered was a combination kitchen, eating and gathering area with one large worn Formica-topped table at the center. Several tubular steel-framed chairs with ripped red plastic seats were at odd angles around the table and more were pushed up against the wall on Dave’s left. The walls were yellowed pine planking and the wood floor had been worn grey under the table, the slanted ceiling was covered with plywood. At the center of the wall on the far end of the room was an open doorway leading to a hall with bunkrooms on either side. To the right of the hallway entrance the door to the bathroom stood open.
The air was thick and warm. Oppressive. It smelled of the remnants of something fried in a dark cast iron skillet sitting on a stovetop that had been white at some time in the distant past. Windows on the walls to the left and right were open, a large fan next to the door sat motionless. No air conditioning. Updating the guide quarters was not the owner’s first priority.
Some guides sat around the table drinking coffee as the four men entered, while another turned from cleaning his knife in the sink, wiping the blade on his pant leg. Trask had heard some conversation when he was outside but there was only silence now.
Dave’s eyes moved around the room, seeing only the same defiance that was in the faces of the men he met on the porch. As an outsider, the sheriff knew he would have little trust from the people in the county, even those who had voted for him. That mistrust was nothing compared to the feeling he got from the guides in the cabin. There was no love of the police by the Native Americans in Lake County, especially when those authorities were undoubtedly looking to pin one or more of them with murder.
“As I said to the
men that came in with me, I’m Sheriff Trask and I’m looking into the murders that happened here as well as on Big Pine,” Dave announced. “I know how much the guide season means to all of you, so the more cooperation I get the quicker we can get this resolved.” Dave paused for a moment to take his notebook out of his back pocket and see if his short speech had had any effect. The faces in the room seemed unmoved.
“Are there any more guides at Half Moon besides you in the room?” There was no answer and Dave was about to tell them he would interview them one at a time when the big man from the porch answered.
“We’re all here.”
“And what is your name?”
“John Bigeagle.”
“Thanks John. Which one of you is Darrell Nelson?”
Before anyone could identify himself, Bigeagle asked, “Are you after Billie?” almost in a shout.
“If you mean Billie Whitehead, yeah, we’d like to talk to him. Do you know where he is?”
“Don’t waste your time. Billie is a troublemaker but he is no killer.”
“I’d still like to talk to him. Any idea where he could be?”
“He knows this area as well as any of us but I’m guessing he’d head to Canada. Get a guide job at a camp there. He’ll need to make some money for the winter.”
Dave was sure there was more he was not being told but he’d rather have some cooperation rather than none at all so decided he would follow up with Bigeagle later. “Thanks John. Now, who is Darrell Nelson?” asked Dave as he looked at the other faces.
A small, thin man sitting at the table with his back to the sheriff, not much over five and a half feet tall, turned his chair towards Dave. “I’m Darrell.”
Nelson looked to be in his late thirties and wore a camo marine tunic with his name embroidered on the front. Iraq or Afghanistan Dave guessed. He wanted to get Nelson alone but he didn’t think that the guide would agree while in the group, and wasn’t sure it would do much good anyway. He would try to catch him alone later.
“Mr. Nelson, when did you become aware that your guests were absent?” There was a snicker from a few of the others at hearing ‘Mr. Nelson’.
“We couldn’t get out this morning because of the weather so I wandered over to the dining hall to see what the radar looked like and then make plans with my guests. I didn’t see them there so I asked Brad if he had seen them yet. That’s when he looked out at their cabin and went to check on them.”
“And how long had you been their guide?” asked Dave as he watched the guide’s reaction to the question.
“I’d been assigned to them since they got here three days ago.”
“Any sign of trouble between the men or between them and any of the other guests?”
The guide was sensing that the sheriff was leading up to something and made his answer short. “No trouble between the two men. We don’t mix with the guests outside of guiding.”
It was easy to read that Nelson meant that the guides weren’t allowed to associate with the guests in off hours, and it was a sore subject among the guides. This was a standard camp rule, as camp owners preferred that the guests relax and spend as much money as possible eating and drinking in the main lodge. Also, many camps had strict rules against guides drinking while working at a camp. They did not want to chance that a guest would be without a guide, or with one that was drunk or hung over; at least that is how they justified the policy with the guides.
“Thanks. Anyone else hear or see anything that may have seemed unusual in the last day or two?” asked Dave as he surveyed the faces that showed no inclination of answering. “OK. If anyone thinks of anything, please give me or Deputy Meline a call,” said the sheriff as he closed his notebook and placed his card on the table. “Here is my card with the main number of the sheriff’s office and my direct number on the back. Thanks for your time.” He could feel the stares as he left the cabin.
Instead of heading back to check on his deputy, Dave walked out on the dock in front of the guides’ quarters. There was still no sign of the sun but the rain had stopped and only a slight breeze rippled the water. As he looked down a large smallmouth bass swam slowly by, moving down the shoreline. One of the better-kept secrets of Minnesota fishing was the bass fishing. While the fish never approached the top-end size of those in the south, the quantity and average size of the bass, both largemouth and smallmouth, was hard to beat anywhere in the country. Tourists traveled from all over to catch the delicious walleye, or chase a toothy trophy pike or musky in Minnesota waters, but Dave loved to fish for bass. As far as he was concerned, ounce for ounce, no other fish fought like a smallmouth.
Dave looked at the guide boats neatly dragged up on the sandy shore with their outboard motors locked in the up position. The eighteen-foot Lunds looked new as did the Honda motors on each. Brad Owens had a significant investment in the boats and motors alone. Dave wondered how much the camp owners shared in terms of their finances. If someone knew Owens and other owners were on thin ice, a lost season could surely put them under and make it easier for whoever was left.
His thoughts were broken by the sound of a vehicle sloshing through the mud into the camp. Dave was somehow disappointed to see the same vehicle Doc Adams had driven to the landing for the murders on Big Pine. He put his eyes to the ground as he made his way back up the slippery bank to where the truck pulled to a stop.
“You ready for me Sheriff?” asked Doctor James as she stepped down from the cab. She gave Dave a smile he couldn’t forget and then turned to reach into the truck to retrieve something off the passenger seat. Dave couldn’t help staring at how well the jeans she wore hugged what was one of the nicest sights he had seen in a while.
Doctor James turned with a case in her hand and looked Dave in the eye. “Well Sheriff? What do you say?” He couldn’t take his eyes off the brown eyes that were staring into his. “You OK Sheriff?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I guess I was expecting Doc Adams.”
“Oh, we share duties so it was my turn to go on the call.”
“Alright, um, why don’t you follow me? Can I help you with your case Doctor?”
“I think I can manage. Lead the way. And why don’t you just call me Linda. We’ll probably be seeing a lot more of each other the way you’ve started.”
Dave was left with his mouth open, not sure how to respond, until he finally turned toward the murder cabin. The doctor fell in at his side. As they reached the porch, Danny stepped out.
“Hey Doc. You interested in a moonlight boat ride tonight? I found a spot just loaded with fish,” said Danny with a big smile.
“Gee thanks Danny, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be busy with this well into the night,” she replied. “I’ll be sure and get hold of you when I’m free, though.”
It seemed to Dave that the doctor was blowing Danny off, which somehow made him feel good, but Danny’s smile seemed to indicate that he didn’t notice.
“You done in here Danny?” asked Dave.
“Yes sir,” replied Danny still smiling while he looked over the doctor who was covering her shoes.
“Good. Now that it’s stopped raining why don’t you take one more look around the cabin and then meet me in the main lodge?”
“It’s all yours Doc,” said Danny as he bowed and then held the door to let her enter.
Dave reached out and grabbed her arm before she could move. “It’s not pleasant in there,” he warned as he looked in her eyes detecting a flash of resentment.
“I’m a big girl sheriff. I’ll be fine,” she stated bluntly staring back at Dave before moving her eyes to the hand that still held her arm.
Dave followed her look and quickly released his grip. “Sorry.”
Both of the men watched her go in and then Danny turned to Dave and winked before heading off the porch. Dave watched him move around the cabin to the north wondering if he shouldn’t conduct the outside search himself. He decided that there would be little if anything to be found, especially after
the rain, and made his way back to the lodge.
Brad Owens met him outside with printouts of the guests as well as his staff that included the guides and a maintenance man. “Here’s the information you wanted sheriff. I’m wondering if the rest of the guests can get out fishing now?
“Sorry Mr. Owens, but we need to talk to them before they go anywhere.”
“This is only going to make things worse. These guys pay good money to fish, not to sit in camp being questioned by the cops!”
“We’ll be as quick as we can. Tell your guides to get ready and we’ll let them go as soon as we can.”
The camp owner muttered a curse under his breath and went back into the lodge.
Dave felt the frustration of the owner. This was not what he had signed up for. All he wanted was a few quiet years to add a bit to his pension and keep the cash flow going while he finished his cabin. Now, he had no idea when he’d get back to working on his place and he was sure he’d be getting another call from Rosemary Thiel before dark. Hell, maybe he’d just tell her he was quitting. Of course that would leave Danny in charge and in good conscience he just couldn’t do that. Don had warned him and he had been right, and that was maybe the worst thing of all. He hated it when his brother was right.
Danny walked up as Dave studied the printout on the guests. “Should I tape off the cabin now?”
“Better wait until the Doc is done and the bodies are removed. Lets you and I split up this list and see what the other guests have to say.” Dave tore off the bottom half of a sheet and handed it to Danny. “See if anyone heard or saw anything last night or if they noticed any problems with the guests or the guides. Find out where they were between midnight and two. Make sure you confirm their contact information. Let them know they are free to go fishing when you are done.”
