BLOOD RIVER (A Trask Brothers Murder Mystery)

by C. E. Nelson

  “Danny, you really don’t need to come out here every day. I have a phone,” said Dave as he turned from the front door and toward the coffee pot in the kitchen.

  “Yes sir, but I think your phone must be off sir.”

  Dave remembered he had turned it off after staying up past midnight reviewing the autopsy reports, the crime scene photos, and interviews. All he wanted to do was sleep. At least that part had worked until now. As he removed yesterday’s grounds from his coffee maker he froze before turning slowly toward his deputy who was standing at the counter. “We don’t have more, do we?”

  “More?” he responded without a clue as to what Dave meant.

  “Bodies, murders, killings.”

  “No sir.”

  Dave, holding the filter with grounds, watched as his deputy proceeded to take a seat at the counter. “Well?”

  “Oh, sorry. There’s a meeting at ten-thirty this morning at the Last Resort. Rosemary sent me out here to make sure that you knew. She said the public needs an update on what’s happening.”

  Dave had ignored the calls by Rosemary Theil yesterday but had listened to the messages last night and knew about Rosemary’s plan to have him give an update to the public. He’d hoped he could just ignore her but apparently that wasn’t going to work. He swore under his breath after thinking that if he had called her back he could probably still be sleeping now.

  “And why, if this meeting is at ten-thirty, are you here at seven?” queried Dave as he returned to the coffeemaker.

  “She wanted to be sure you had enough time to prepare your speech.”

  Dave laughed. “OK. You tell Ms. Theil that there is no way in hell we are going to have this meeting. We have only been at this a couple of days and a meeting is going to do nothing but get people more riled up and just cause the camps around here to have more cancellations. Plus, it will probably send our killer into hiding. This is a bad idea.”

  “Rosemary told me you’d say something like that,” Danny replied as he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his notebook and began reading. “She said to tell you that we need to be proactive in something like this and getting the word out will help reassure people that everything is under control and, at the same time, we can get the public’s help to solve the case even faster.”

  That was the second time his deputy had referred to the commissioner by her first name. He had no doubt Danny was sucking up to her, and probably feeding her information, likely in hopes that he could be the next sheriff. Dave cringed as he could feel the burning start in his chest. He turned away from Danny to look out at the still waters of the lake.

  In every lake home he had ever been in Dave had noticed that it was the living room that had the windows providing the best view of the lake. He had also noticed, that most of the time spent in those homes, or any home he had been in for that matter, had been in the kitchen. As a result, the kitchen in Dave’s home was easily the largest room in his house. It contained a large center island covered in granite with a sink where Danny now sat as well as an eating area with built-in benches. Birch cupboards lined the interior walls so as not to block the view of the lake through a wall of full-length windows. A sliding glass door led to a long, low cedar deck without railings, steps leading from the deck to the dock.

  “Alright Danny,” said the sheriff with his back still to his deputy, “please tell Rosemary that I have a previously scheduled meeting this morning and, as a result, I regret that I’ll be unable to attend her meeting.”

  Danny couldn’t believe what he had just heard. “But sheriff, she’s already invited reporters from Duluth and the Cities.”

  “You know Danny, I left my last job because some politicians thought they knew how to do it better than me and I’d have no qualms about doing it again. Tell her I’ll call a meeting when I damn well think it’s right.”

  A grin on Danny’s face told Dave that Danny was looking forward to Theil’s reaction. It also told him that Danny was likely thinking that the sheriff job would be his sooner than later.

  Dave asked Danny if there was any new information on the location of Billie Whitehead, which there wasn’t, and then asked that he check on John Bigeagle’s whereabouts the last few days and confirm it with his guests. He was going to share his thoughts on the autopsy results but, considering that his deputy would be talking to the commissioner, thought it best to hold those to himself.

  Meline left. Trask poured milk on a bowl of Cheerios and carried it out to the table on the deck. There was a whisper of wind from the south, leaving the surface in front of the north-facing deck smooth as glass. As Dave looked out at the water he noticed small disturbances on the water past the end of his dock, minnows being chased by a bigger predator below were being herded to the surface. An unseen wolf was on the prowl. This wolf killed with a purpose that was easy to understand – it needed to eat – and it had its prey on the run. Was the purpose of the killings as simple as that? But why did the killer want his prey, or in this case the lodge guests, on the run? He felt he was close to something when a large splash to the right of his dock broke his concentration.

  “Time for a meeting,” he said out loud as he got up from the table. His dishes rinsed and in the dishwasher, he quickly showered, dressed, filled his thermos with coffee, and headed to his boat on the lift to the left of his dock. Dave’s nineteen-foot Lund with a full windshield had a two hundred horsepower outboard and a twelve horsepower kicker motor. He lowered the boat to the water and then grabbed the rib on the roof of the covered lift to push the boat backwards off the lift. While the boat drifted out to deeper water he removed two spinning rods from his rod locker and walked through the windshield opening to the bow. He lowered his trolling motor in the water, turned on his depthfinder, and then selected an orange and brown plastic grub from his tackle box that he placed on a white jig already on the end of his line.

  With the foot control of his trolling motor he began to slowly move his boat to the west as he cast toward shore. His jig made only a small splash as it hit the water. Dave let the lure sink until he felt bottom and then lifted his rod tip while reeling in line, dancing the bait up and down through the water and back towards his boat. On the third cast he felt the line move slightly as the jig fell and he set the hook. The line rose immediately and an eighteen-inch smallmouth bass exploded from the water. Just as quickly it dug toward the bottom, pulling line from the reel. His rod bent; Dave kept his line taught as he attempted to bring the fish to the boat. The bass broke the surface twice more in rapid succession and then headed to deeper water but Dave was well practiced in the struggle, and the fish was soon lifted from the water as Dave tightly clenched its bottom jaw between his thumb and forefinger. He quickly removed his hook from the top lip of the fish and then held it for a moment to admire its beautiful bronze colors before gently releasing it in the water.

  “Good way to start a meeting.”

  Dave was certain about three things when he went fishing. First, there was definitely a time warp that occurred. Hours went by like minutes. Secondly, he was also sure that God did not count his time on the water against him. Which was why it probably went by too fast.

  Finally, nothing allowed him to clear his mind to focus on a case like fishing. If anyone saw him out here fishing while a killer was on the loose he knew it wouldn’t look good. But he also knew that a couple of hours clearing his mind with a rod in his hand had been a good investment in solving cases in his past.

  Dave was about to make another cast when his phone rang. He looked at the number before answering. “What can you tell me brother?”

  “Not much. I got zip on the guys sliced up at Half Moon or on the lodge owner. No relation that I can find between any of them. And I’m still following up on the mining companies but my gut tells me that’s a dead end too. Oh, and nothing on Billie Whitehead.”

  “I’m going to send you the list of the guides and other guests in a bit. And see if you run into any killings with
knives at fishing or hunting camps in Minnesota or Ontario in the last few years.”

  “Listen junior, in case you didn’t notice I didn’t run for the sheriff job in Lake County and I’ve got my own damn job that used to be done by two people until they cut funding.”

  “Thanks Don.” Dave could hear his brother swearing as he clicked off.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The sand beach on Gull Island was a favorite shore lunch spots for the guides, protected and with easy access, so they scheduled who would use it each day. The sand bottom sloped gradually away from the island, rock free until a depth of almost twenty feet, allowing the guides to run their boats well onto the beach and the guests to wade if they desired. The sand ran about ten yards inland where it was met by a flow of rounded granite with scattered boulders large enough to serve as a perch for someone to sit and eat a meal.

  Seasoned walleyes filets turned golden brown as they sizzled in the oil of a cast iron frying pan. A larger pan next to it contained a mixture of chopped potatoes, carrots, and onions in oil that were flipped with a spatula to keep them from burning. A can of baked beans, open with the lid up, sat on the grate between the two pans. Two men in t-shirts, shorts, and caps, each with a can of beer in their hand, waved away black flies as they watched their guide prepare lunch.

  The Sentry did not care to be watched while he was cooking, but had learned at an early age that it made guests happy, and happy guests tended to be bigger tippers. He scooped fish and veggies and beans onto the paper plates they held out to him, plates he would burn in the fire when he cleaned up. They stood and watched him put more fish in the oil, eating as they stood, moaning in pleasure at the meal. They complimented him on his cooking, trying to remain by the fire and keep him company, but soon found it too awkward to keep reaching down to the ground to grab their beers and so they found boulders where they could sit and eat. As the next batch of filets were done he lifted the pan from the grate, holding the handle with an oven mitt, and walked across the beach to where the men sat.

  The men disgusted him. They were fat and soft and he guessed that they would be worn from a day on the water but would stay up until midnight drinking at the lodge. He lifted the last filet from the pan onto the plate of the man who was the larger of the two and briefly considered tossing the hot oil in his face. He smiled as he thought of it and the man, seeing his smile, smiled back and thanked him again. The Sentry nodded and then went back to the fire to quickly eat his lunch and then clean up so they could return to the water.

  He watched the men greedily shoveling their lunches into their mouths and thought of the pleasure it would give him to kill them. It would be so easy. And on this island he did not have to worry about others hearing or seeing. He could kill one and then he would laugh as the other tried to escape with nowhere to go. The fat man would try to run from him over the rock but he would fall and the Sentry would catch him as he kneeled on skinned knees. He would try to rise to run again but the Sentry would force him down with his foot, pull his head back, and cut his fat throat.

  But he would not do that, not now anyway. His disgust for the men and his desire to kill them was strong but he heard no voices. The ancients always told him what to do but now they were silent. Not even his grandfather, who often talked to him without the others, had words for him today. The men had pushed themselves up from their stony perches and approached him with their empty plates as he crouched by the fire. They would live for now.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “You and your thugs, you’re the ones doing this!” screamed Tom Rogers at Cleve Allen. “You think you can fucking run all of us out of business don’t you asshole!”

  Larry Nelson reached over and put his hand on Rogers’s forearm as he started to rise from his chair. “Easy boss. None of us want these killings.”

  “You better listen to your manager Rogers. He’s got more sense than you,” spit Allen as he took another sip of beer. “I’m forking out big bucks to hire guards at my camp. You think I want to do that?”

  “He’s right Tom,” added Doug Speer. “I dropped off bait at Allens today and I seen the guards.”

  But Rogers had had one too many and wouldn’t quit. “That’s bullshit! That’s all for looks. He’s been wanting to run every other lodge owner in the county out of business since he got here!”

  He was about to get out of his chair when he felt a hand on each shoulder.

  “Gentlemen,” said Dave. “The meeting seems to be getting a little loud. What seems to be the problem?” he asked as he looked at Allen.

  “No problem sheriff,” responded Allen in a calm voice as he leaned back in his chair. “Seems Mr. Rogers here had a few cancellations and he’s decided to blame me.”

  “You smartass son of a bitch! I ought to…” Before he could get any more words out he felt a searing pain at the bottom of his neck as the sheriff tightened his grip.

  “I think you’ve maybe had enough for tonight Mr. Rogers,” said Dave as he loosened his grip. “Are you all right to drive Mr. Nelson?” he asked the man in the chair next to Rogers.

  Larry Nelson assured him that he was and got up from the table. Tom Rodgers reached into his wallet and angrily threw two twenties on the table. Nelson put his hand on Rogers arm as he got up, but he shook it off and headed up the stairs, but not before giving Allen a look that said he was not finished.

  Dave called after them, “By the way Mr. Nelson, how tall would you say Billie Whitehead is?”

  “It’s Larry, sheriff. I’d say Billie’s a little over six feet. Why?”

  “You better catch up with Tom. Thanks.”

  Dave watched the back of their shoes disappear up the steps and then turned back to those that remained. On either side of Allen sat one of his guides, Paul Reed on the left and Dan Rollins on the right. Al Mason, Pete Jacobsen and Doug Speer were at the table Rogers and Nelson had just left.

  “Everyone’s getting a little uptight sheriff,” said Speer. “You any closer to getting this guy?”

  Dave told them that they were working around the clock and that the BCA had been brought in although he failed to mention that the BCA was really just his brother doing him a favor.

  “You got to catch him sheriff.” It was Pete Jacobsen who spoke up. “People are scared and most of us ain’t even got a lock on our door!” Jacobsen threw down the remainder of his beer.

  Dave had checked on Jacobsen after their last meeting and was told by Danny that he lived at the end of a logging road two miles north of the Channel Inn bridge and had for as many years as anyone could remember. Jacobsen looked to be in his mid-sixties but Danny said he was just over fifty and that his grey hair and beard made him look old. Still, he was fit – wiry Don would say – and a bit over six feet. Danny was pretty sure Jacobsen was a poacher, but he said if he arrested everybody who did a little poaching he’d have to lock up half the county, and so had left him alone. Danny did add that Jacobsen was not happy with the competition of the guided hunting trips in the area and that there was a complaint against him that he had taken a shot at a guide and his client a few years ago but it was never proven.

  Dave was sure that a man like Jacobsen would be good with a knife, but he didn’t carry one like the blade still on Speer’s belt. What would he have to gain and why start killing now? Had the “ghost killings” not had their intended effect and so he was stepping up his campaign? Still, he seemed genuinely scared.

  Dave looked down at the questioning faces in the room. “Gentlemen, if you, your guides, your guests, anyone, sees something that isn’t right let us know. It benefits us all to stop this sooner than later.”

  “In other words, you don’t have squat,” accused Allen. “Maybe if you’d shown up at Rosemary’s meeting instead of going fishing you’d have learned something.”

  Reed and Rollins each had a smirk on their face as Dave stared down their boss. Dave had sensed he was being watched when he was in his boat but had not seen anyone.

&n
bsp; “Unless you have no concern about the guests at your camp Mr. Allen, I suggest you’d be better off spending your time on their safety rather than how many fish I’m catching.”

  The guides on either side of Cleve Allen looked to their boss for a response, but all they saw was a scowl below narrowed eyes. There was no mistaking the message in Allen’s eyes. He rose slowly from his chair and put his Allens Lodge cap on his head. “Come on boys. I guess we’d better go tend to our business.”

  Trask watched the men go up the stairs and then followed. By the time he reached the parking lot they were backing out. He considered following them but didn’t see where it would get him anywhere and returned home. He spent the rest of the day planning what he would do next on his house, fixing his front porch light, cleaning tools, and waiting for his brother to call.

  Chapter Twenty

  Dave talked to his brother in the morning. Allen was known in Minneapolis as a contractor who would do whatever was necessary to get a job, including accusations by other contractors that he had bribed city council members to get bids and had sabotaged equipment of competitors on jobs where he did not win the bid. Nothing was ever proven and no charges filed. Nothing on the guides or guests at Half Moon. Canada hadn’t got back to him yet.

  “I did get a little information on the mining companies and it seems that they are strictly in the area to prospect,” said Don. “That is, they were in the area. Their engineers have refused to return to your neck of the woods. Seems that more than a few went missing over the years. You may want to dig a little deeper into that on your end.”